TABLE of CONTENTS

THE ONUS OF THE CHARGE

THE CHARLATAN

THE MIDNIGHT CALL

THE BALANCE OF NATURE

THE LUCK OF THE GAME

THE BUFF GAUNTLET

THE WHITE SPOT

TREASURES THREE

AN ERROR OF JUDGMENT

THE FIRST STONE

THE ONUS OF THE CHARGE

First published in The Windsor Magazine, London, May 1906
This version appeard in The Metropolitan Magazine, Vol. 25, Oct 1906-Mar 1907, p 501-508

THE case was going dead against the prisoner; sanguine as he was, he could see that for himself. He was conscious of an odd feeling of unreality. For instance, it seemed almost absurd that those half-dozen portly, respectable, well-groomed gentlemen on the Bench should be trying him, when only a few days ago half of them had dined with him at The Towers. There was the chairman of the Bench, for example, General Owen Sexton. The General had regarded the dinner invitation as a favor. He had dined well, and had secured some valuable information as to a prospective investment into the bargain.

The Bench seemed to feel it, too; for when they looked at the prisoner, it was with a half-apologetic glance, as who should say: "Really, it is no fault of ours, but rather the outcome of a wretched system." On the whole, the embarrassment was on the side of the Bench.

Not so with the general public. It was not every day that the little Assize-town had such a treat as this. A millionaire, the great man of the district, charged with wilful murder! It seemed almost incredible that any body of men should dare to bring such an accusation against Wilfred Scanlaw. Why, the man could have bought up all Illchester and never felt it.

And yet there it was, and the case was going badly for the prisoner. The stately butler from The Towers was telling the story. The deceased, who had been identified as one John Chagg, had called at The Towers on the night of March 15 and had asked to see Mr. Scanlaw. The butler had informed the late caller that his master never saw anybody on business after dinner, and that it was as much as his place was worth to disturb Mr. Scanlaw. When alone, Mr. Scanlaw invariably slept for an hour after dinner. It was an early house usually, and the servants were in bed by half-past ten. The stranger, however, had been very persistent. He had induced the butler to take his card into the library and place it where Mr. Scanlaw could see it when he woke. He would stay in the hall—he was in no hurry. It sounded just a little odd, but the servants went to bed leaving John Chagg still waiting to see the master of the house. Nobody thought any more of the matter; it had passed out of the mind of the butler until the body of John Chagg was found in the shrubbery at the back of the house late on the following day. The police had been called in, and they had made certain investigations. Questioned, Mr. Scanlaw denied that he had seen the deceased at all on the night in question; he denied that the man's features were known to him. If the butler's evidence had been correct, then Chagg must have grown tired of waiting and gone away. Was the front door open? the police desired to know. Yes, the front door had not been fastened, as Mr. Scanlaw noticed as he was going to bed; and on coming down in the morning he had blamed the servants for their inattention.

This was all very well, but the awkward thing was the fact that the dead man had a letter in his pocket from Scanlaw — a curt letter in which Chagg was told that he could do as he liked, but not one penny of blackmail would be got from the writer. The body of the letter, the address on the envelope, were all in Scanlaw's handwriting.

All this was pretty bad, but there was worse to follow. A big stick in the hallstand was found to be slightly stained with blood, so also was a shirt that had been found pushed at the back of the wardrobe in Mr. Scanlaw's bedroom. It was all very well for the jaunty, well-groomed London solicitor who had the case in hand to say that a perfect answer to the charge would be forthcoming. The lawyer in question, the well-known Edward Coxley, had shrugged his shoulders and promised to outline the career of the dead man later on, and prove that he was a particularly pestiferous type of blackmailer. There were even two sides to the denial of Chagg's identity by Mr. Scanlaw.

And even this was not all. On the face of the dead man was a peculiar mark, an indentation, deep in the skull, that had evidently been the result of a severe blow. According to the theory of the prosecution, the mark had been caused by a ring that Scanlaw was in the habit of wearing, a cameo signet-ring with a very large, irregular-edged stone. If this ring had been produced, said the police, the stone would have fitted the mark. A heavy blow would have been required to make so deep and perfect an indentation; but the prisoner was a strong man, and the prosecution was prepared to prove now that Scanlaw in his early days in America had been closely connected with the prize-ring.

Strangely enough, the ring was missing. The police had asked for it directly they had got an inkling of the manner in which the mark had been made, but they were met by an assertion on the part of the prisoner to the effect that the ring had been lost two days before, in the woods, where he had been rabbiting. All these things gradually piled up a case against the prisoner; already he was condemned by those in court.

The case dragged on wearily till the light in the court began to fade, and people were beginning to leave, feeling that the sensations of the day were exhausted. The tense attention of the afternoon had relaxed; people chatted listlessly; only one man seemed to be deeply interested. He was a little man, with a clean-shaven face and the mobile mouth of the actor. His eyes gleamed and flickered; he constantly dried his moist palms on a pocket-handkerchief. Once his eyes met those of the prisoner, and Scanlaw felt that he would know that face again anywhere.

The court adjourned at length, and Scanlaw stepped out of the box. Since he was before magistrates, and the case not yet proved, he had managed to procure bail. For the last two days he had walked out of the dock with his head erect and his mouth as hard as a steel trap; for the last two nights he had not gone home to The Towers, close by; rather, he had preferred to stay at the Crozier Hotel, and dine in the coffee-room before the eyes of all men. The little man with the clean-shaven mouth followed, dabbing his moist palms all the time.

"I'll try it," he muttered. "It's a desperate chance, but I'll try it. Pity he had not gone home, and then I should have been in a position to see him as I am and save the cost of a dinner that I can ill afford. Lucky there is the wardrobe to fall back upon."

At eight o'clock, Mr. Scanlaw sat down to dine in the coffee-room of the Crozier Hotel. Five minutes later, a clergyman with white hair came into the room and, as if quite casually, took his seat at the same table. Scanlaw frowned, but the man opposite did not heed. He ordered fish in a calm, bland, incisive manner that impresses even a waiter. He was half way through his fish before he addressed Scanlaw. He spoke in a low tone, and did not look at all at the man on the other side of the table. His speech was peculiar.

"Would you give a thousand pounds to be out of your present difficulty?" he asked. "Don't stare at me like that. Go on with your dinner as if I had made a remark about the weather."

The words were spoken calmly enough, and yet there was a suggestion of nervous, eager haste about them. In a strange, uneasy way, a spark of hope shot up in Scanlaw's breast.

"You are either a lunatic or a very clever man," he said, "Mr.—"

"Call me Jones — the Reverend John Jones. What's in a name? The thing we call a rose — but I must drop shop for the present. You say I am either a lunatic or a very clever man. Please pay me the compliment of believing me to be the latter. I have been watching you all day."

"Oh, then you are disguised, Mr. Jones." Scanlaw muttered. "I recognize you now. You are the little man who was rubbing his palms all the time. Seemed to be in trouble, too."

"So I am," said the other, still bending over his fish. "Not as bad as yours, but bitter trouble, and possible disgrace, for want of a thousand pounds. That rascal Edward Coxley, your lawyer, is at the bottom of it all. He looks very smart and gentlemanly, but for all that he is one of the most poisonous scoundrels that ever disgraced a dishonorable profession. Because he is utterly unscrupulous, I suppose you decided to employ him."

"Being innocent of the charge against me," Scanlaw began with dignity, "I must say—"

"Innocent be hanged!" the other man snapped. "You are as guilty as hell! You killed that blackmailing rascal as you would do again; and you will hang for it. If I am going to save your neck, there must be no foolish allusions between you and me."

"For the sake of argument, we will admit that I killed John Chagg," said Scanlaw hoarsely.

"That's better. Nobody can hear us, so I can talk freely. Before I leave here tonight, I am going to give you a written lot of questions and answers that you are to commit to memory before you sleep. Early to-morrow you had better show those questions to your lawyer, and suggest that he should put the questions and that you should answer them — in the witness-box. All this does not tally with the most honorable procedure of the court; but Coxley will not hesitate, the blackguard!"

"But what are you doing this for?" Scanlaw asked.

"A thousand pounds," was the prompt reply. "If I succeed, as I anticipate, you pay me that sum of money. As I am an actor — and I should have been a great actor but for the drink — you need not fear that my side of the thing will fail. I want that missing ring."

Scanlaw looked doubtfully at the speaker. Visions of a police trap rose to his mind. If this man was an enemy in disguise, he was giving away a piece of evidence that would hang him to a certainty. The other seemed to read Scanlaw's mind, for he smiled.

"I can quite see what is passing in your brain," he said. "But if you don't trust me, I can do nothing for you. If my plot fails through lack of confidence on my part, you will hang. Besides, you have tacitly admitted to me that you are the culprit. If you had been an innocent man, you would not have suffered my impertinence, but have got up and flung me through the window."

The voice of the speaker was nervous and shaky, but the words were cool enough. The clear logic was not lost on a well-endowed mind like Scanlaw's.

"The ring is in my waistcoat pocket at the present moment," he said.

"I am glad to hear it," the other answered. "I began to be afraid that it had been lost. It is so like your mingled prudence and audacity to carry that damning piece of evidence within arm's length of the police. Hand it over to me, please."

Wondering at his own confidence in a complete stranger, Scanlaw did as requested. His sanguine temperament and bull-dog courage had kept him up for the time, but there were minutes, like flashes of lightning before sightless eyes, when he realized the terrible gravity of his position.

"You are going to take a terrible risk," he said.

"Of course I am. Did I not tell you that I was in dire need of a thousand pounds? I would sell my soul for that money. I would take any hazard under the sun for it. You trust me, and I am going to trust you. No papers shall pass between us; and when you walk out of the dock a free man — as you will to-morrow — you shall pay me that sum in gold and notes. No; I am a bit of a rascal, but I have not fallen as low as blackmailing yet; and after that you will never hear from me again. But there is one little point."

"Let me hear it," Scanlaw said eagerly. He was becoming absurdly dependent upon this stranger. He began to feel quite an affection for him. "What do you want to know?"

"I want to know if you keep a motor-car. I have built up everything on that?"

"Of course I keep a motor-car; keep two, in fact. No modern millionaire is held to be complete and genuine without keeping a motor-car."

The pseudo-parson rubbed his hands together in the old, nervous manner; yet his eyes gleamed.

"Good!" he said. "As agent in advance for a popular company that shall be nameless, I have had a deal of experience with automobiles. Now, you must send a message to your chauffeur and get him out of the way for a couple of hours. Better still, change your mind and sleep at home to-night. Contrive to have the key left in your garage about nine o'clock to-night, and leave the rest to me. But, above all things, keep your chauffeur out of the way till after midnight. Have you got a full and proper grasp of that?"

Scaniaw nodded. Usually he had a fine contempt for the intellect of other men, but he felt that he had met more than his match now. His pulses were beating a little faster, and a fine bead of perspiration stood on his forehead. Was he going to stand whitewashed in the eyes of his fellows once more? The sense of crime was not on his conscience at all — he had rid the world of a pestiferous reptile, and there was an end of the matter.

"I will do exactly what you require," he said. "I'll get a cab here and go home. But before I do so, I should like to have some inkling of the method by which—"

"Not one word," the pseudo-clergyman said fiercely. "My good man, that would be fatal. It would only make you nervous and restless. You would be continually looking for your cue, and then you would spoil everything. The great thing in this matter is spontaneosity. Take this sheet of paper, with the questions and answers on it, and commit it to memory. Only do as you are told, and I promise that you shall be a thousand pounds poorer to-morrow night."

Scanlaw rose from the table and lighted a cigar. The coffee-room was empty by this time.

"I am going home now," he said. "I have trusted everything to your hands. If there is some further deep conspiracy against me—"

He hesitated, and there was a threatening flash in his eyes. The man at the table, drinking his claret calmly and smoking a cigarette, smiled.

"I am a well-connected man," he said. "There remain to me yet a few gentlemanly instincts. In the eyes of the law I am doing wrong. All the same, I can see no great crime in ridding the world of a blackmailer. Besides, I am in desperate need of money. I, too, am the victim of a conspiracy; and your rascally lawyer is going to share the plunder. I can see my way to save you, to put money in my purse, and spite Coxley at the same time. To get a man like that under one's thumb is a pleasant thing. Now go and muzzle your chauffeur, as arranged."

Scanlaw walked quietly out and called a cab. A little time later he was at home, the old butler waiting his good pleasure. The butler was a well-paid servant, who deplored the grave condition of his master. He was too well paid to believe that Mr. Scanlaw would do anything of the kind.

"I have changed my mind and come home for the night, Stephens," the millionaire said. "It was a little too public in the hotel; and, besides, I have recollected some important papers that I have to go into. When this ridiculous charge fails, to-morrow—"

"I am glad to hear that, sir," Stephens said. "It always seemed to me—"

"Yes, yes, Stephens, I understand. Get me some brandy and soda-water and my cigars. You had better go to bed at the usual time, as if nothing had happened. By the way, is Gailand in the house? If so, I want him to go to Ford by the last train and see Maylor for me about those bearings. If everything goes well to-morrow, I shall go for a tour up North. I think that is all I shall want to-night."

The chauffeur came in obediently. The bearings had not come, he explained, a fact that Scanlaw was aware of before he asked the question. He seemed to be annoyed about something.

"Then you must go and fetch them to-night," he said.

"And come back here by an early train in the morning. Where are the keys of the motor-house?"

Gailand had left them in his bedroom over the stables. He would fetch them if his master required them. But Scanlaw waved the suggestion aside — he did not explain to Gailand that he had a master-key of all the locks about the house and estate.

"Never mind," he said. "It will do in the morning. Good night, Gailand."

It was a good hour before Scanlaw had a grip of the questions and answers that the pseudo-clergyman had written out for him. Even then he had only a hazy idea of what was the drift of the whole thing. It was like listening to a brilliant conversation on the telephone, when one side of the talk only could be heard — like an acrostic with an important link missing. Scanlaw abandoned the idea of solving the jumble at length.

He locked the paper carefully away and went outside in the silence of the night. His nerves were getting more frayed and ragged than he cared to admit; the dark silence was soothing. He passed onward to the back of the great house and alongside the new building where his two motor-cars were stored. One was all in pieces, as he knew, but the other was ready for use day and night — it was a whim of Scanlaw's.

He looked inside with a feeling partly of relief, partly of bewilderment. The door of the house was wide open, and the big car was gone!

The chairman and his brother magistrates came into court with an expression that plainly told that they wished the thing well over. The strong case for the prosecution was complete; it only remained for Scanlaw to reserve his defence and be committed for trial. Once that was done, there would be an end to Scanlaw's bail; he would have to go to jail, which was a most unpleasant course to adopt toward a man who gave such excellent dinners. The prim little barrister who appeared for the Crown looked at Mr. Coxley, the smart Bow Street attorney, as if conscious of the great social gulf between them, and intimated that he had no more to say. Mr. Coxley would pursue the usual course?

"Not on this occasion," Coxley said. "I propose to exercise the discretion vested in me and put my client in the box. I am adopting a most unusual course, I know; but I desire to save my client some weeks of anxiety and degradation. I shall try and prove the innocence of my client from his own story, and save the county the expense of an Assize trial."

The audience thrilled; they felt that they were going to get something for their money, after all. Scanlaw stepped from the dock into the witness-box; his hard, square face was absolutely devoid of emotion. He looked almost defiantly at his own lawyer.

"Let us go back to the night of the murder," Coxley said.

"Did you see the deceased man on that occasion, sir? Did you give Chagg an interview?"

"I did not," Scanlaw replied. "I did not, for the simple reason that I was not in the house between dinner and midnight."

"We will get to that presently," Coxley went on. "The prosecution has made a great deal of the fact that you denied all knowledge of Chagg, when at the same time you had written a letter to him telling him to do his worst. Can you reconcile those statements?"

"Nothing is easier," Scanlaw said slowly and distinctly. "I repeat that I never saw Chagg in my life. He wrote to me more than once, saying that he was in possession of certain papers, etc., relating to my past, and proposing that I should buy them for ten thousand pounds. He tried to see me, and I gave orders to have him kicked off the premises if he came again. Of course, I am speaking of my offices. Finally, I wrote the man the letter which was found in his pocket."

"What he suggested as to your past was false?" said Coxley.

"No, it was absolutely true," Scanlaw admitted with the greatest coolness. "My past is not altogether a blameless one — not that that has anything to do with the case. There are lots of people in America who could tell you a deal of my earlier life. Before Chagg came along, there was another man. I might have tried to buy his silence; only I felt that if I did so, others of the same gang would come along and try the same game."

"You feel quite sure that Chagg was only one of a set of fellows who—"

"I am certain of it, because I had had letters of the same kind before."

"Quite so," Coxley said with a smile. "A conspiracy, in fact. It is just possible that Chagg, after leaving your house, met a confederate, they quarrelled, and-"

"This is not a speech for the defence," the Crown representative said pithily. "If my learned friend will confine himself to the examination-in-chief "

"My learned friend" bowed and apologized. But he had made his point, which was the chief object in view.

"Let us get on," he said. "You say you were out all the evening. Please explain."

"The explanation is quite easy," said Scanlaw. "As my butler told the Bench, it is my custom when alone to go to sleep after dinner. I am never disturbed; the servants go to bed at the proper time and leave me severely alone. If Chagg was in the house, I did not know it. Soon after dinner I took a coat with a big collar — for the night was cold — and went out. My chauffeur was away, unfortunately, so I had to take my motor out myself. Without saying a word to anybody, I drove my car to Illchester and went to the Mitre Hotel there."

"Can you produce anybody to testify to that?" Coxley asked.

"I am afraid not," Scanlaw went on. "You see, it was Illchester Fair — pleasure fair; the hotels were full, and the streets crowded with people who came to see the show. I was muffled up, and my hat over my eyes. I went there to see a stranger who, curiously enough, had written me a letter relating to Chagg. The writer of the letter was a stranger to me, and he seemed to have a grudge against Chagg. He said if I would see him, he would tell me enough to get Chagg ten years. The address was 'The Mitre, Illchester,' a house of no repute, which was why I did not desire to be seen there. Hence I kept my collar up."

"This is getting very interesting," said Coxley. "You have kept that letter, of course."

"No," Scanlaw said sharply. "I handed it to you yesterday."

Coxley apologized and produced a letter from his papers. It was handed up to the Bench and passed from one magistrate to another. The letter was signed "ONE WHO KNOWS," the envelope, the date, the stamp, all appeared to be in perfect order.

"No signature, as your Worships will notice," Coxley said smoothly. "You thought it better to go and see the man than make an appointment which—"

"I acted, as usual, on the spur of the moment," Scanlaw proceeded. "I rather suspected another form of the conspiracy. It seemed to me if I took the writer of the letter by surprise—"

"And did you take the writer of the letter by surprise?"

"It was more or less mutual," said Scanlaw. "When I was going into the bar, a man accosted me and whispered my name. He did not give his, but suggested that he had written me a letter. The man in question looked like an actor in reduced circumstances."

"One moment," Coxley interrupted. "If you went over on your motor, and the streets were crowded—"

"I left my motor on the outskirts of the town, close to Illchester Priory, in the ditch on the left-hand side; it seemed best to walk. I sat in the bar talking to my man for some time. He gave me a great deal of information about Chagg — what, I will tell the Bench if they like — not that it would be of any assistance to their Worships. I was there from ten till ten minutes to twelve."

"After the house was closed?" a magistrate asked.

"Oh, no, sir," Scanlaw proceeded to explain. "Your Worships will recollect that during the three days of the Illchester Fair it is usual to extend the closing time till midnight."

The magistrate nodded; he had quite forgotten that. Coxley wanted to know if anything unusual had happened. Scanlaw's voice grew a trifle more husky.

"A very strange thing," he said. "The man I sat with knew a lot about me, because he, too, had passed a great deal of his time in America. A great deal has been made by the gentleman who appears for the Crown as to the mark on the forehead of the dead man Chagg, which mark, it is alleged, was made by my ring. My ring attracted the attention of the man in the bar at the 'Mitre,' and he told me that at one time it had belonged to his mother. He gave me the name of his mother, who had a second time married a man in America, who gave the ring to me."

"Did your friend in the 'Mitre' bar examine the ring?" Coxley asked.

"He did, he looked at it carefully. When we were talking, a man came in and had a hurried drink and passed out again. As he was going, my friend said it was Chagg. I got up on the spur of the moment and hurried after him. I was going to finish him off then and there. Unfortunately for me, a fight was going on outside, and the police intervened. Whilst I was in the press, the doors of the' Mitre' were closed, and I could not get back again."

"All this is a matter of common knowledge in Illchester," Coxley said suavely.

"Then I made up my mind to go home," Scanlaw resumed. "I went back home, and that is all I know of the matter. I did not worry about the ring, because I expected that my friend of the 'Mitre' bar would send it back to me."

"You produce the gentleman of the 'Mitre' bar?" the Crown counsel said.

"Not at present," Coxley was fain to admit. "But we are looking for him everywhere. He is agent in advance for a theatrical company, and therefore his work takes him into out-of-the-way places. He may not have heard of the case yet. If we can produce the gentleman in question, and his evidence is as my client states, then the prosecution falls to the ground."

The legal representative of the Crown stated that it did. According to the medical evidence, the crime had been committed between the hours of ten and twelve; indeed, the murdered man's watch, which had been broken in the struggle, had stopped at 11.25, to be precise. At that time Scanlaw was attempting to prove that he was fifteen miles away.

"Do you apply for an adjournment, Mr. Coxley?" the chairman asked.

"I am not quite in a position to say, sir," Coxley replied. "But I am going to place a policeman in the box who will swear that he tracked the wheels of Mr. Scanlaw's motor-car from the stable to the ditch by the side of Illchester Priory, and back again. That test was made and proved this morning, though Mr. Scanlaw's chauffeur was strongly of opinion that the big Panhard had not been out of the stables for three days prior to and following the murder. To go further, the state of the motor and the lowness of the petrol prove that. Beyond doubt Mr. Scanlaw was along the road and in the motor at Illchester on the night of the murder."

"But the murdered man was at Mr. Scanlaw's house?" the chairman suggested.

"We are not going to deny it," Coxley exclaimed. "He probably got tired and went away. Incidentally he took with him from a case in the hall a fine collection of old gold coins. I suggest that these coins aroused the cupidity of some confederate waiting outside, which led to the murder. Of course, it seems to me that if we could track those coins—"

A policeman stood up in court and held a handful of gold coins aloft. He had found them that very morning in a piece of tobacco paper, near to where the murder was committed. The packed spectators thrilled and rocked at the discovery. People there looked at Scanlaw's impassive face. The thin, hard features never changed a muscle.

The stir and fret was at its height when a little man, with the suggestion of an actor about him, bustled in. He had an air of agitation and fussy impatience. He apologized to the Bench for his want of ceremony.

"I have only just heard of this case, your Worships," he said. "My name is John Oliver. I am agent in advance for the Vestris Comedy Company. I am told that they are looking for me. I only heard of this case just now. But, seeing that Mr. Scanlaw was in my company on the night of the murder till nearly twelve o'clock, why—"

"Hadn't the man better be sworn?" the Crown counsel said tartly.

Mr. John Oliver wanted nothing better. He gave his evidence glibly, but to the point; in every respect he confirmed exactly what Scanlaw had said. The latter bent his head and covered his face with a handkerchief for a moment. He desired to hide the fierce delight in his eyes; he suppressed a strong desire to laugh and sing. As Coxley finished his questions, the little Crown lawyer shot up.

"About that ring," he said. "I am prepared to believe all that you have said, though, on your own confession, you are not a man of the highest integrity; but I am curious about that ring. Why were you so prejudiced against Chagg?"

"He was at one time a member of our company," Oliver said. "And a more thorough—"

"That will do. What did you do with the ring? That's the point."

"Upon my word, I forget," the witness cried. "When I pointed out to Mr. Scanlaw the man I deemed to be Chagg, I had the ring in my hand. To be perfectly candid, I had been drinking a good deal that night and I was a little muddled. I distinctly remember laying down the ring somewhere. If — if I could only recollect!... I've got it! We were sitting by the fireplace in the 'Mitre.' It is an old oak fireplace, with a fine overmantel carved with figures in niches. I put the ring in one of the little niches on the left-hand side of the fireplace in a vague kind of way. I suppose I must have had another drink and forgotten all about it. It is not a showy ring, and the overmantel is very dirty, I recollect. Unless the housemaids have been extra busy—which is not very likely, seeing that there would be a deal of pressure of work at the Fair time—the ring is very likely to be exactly where I placed it."

"We shall have to have an adjournment, after all," the chairman said.

"Not the least occasion for anything of the kind, your Worships," said Coxley cheerfully. "I would suggest that Sergeant Braithwaite go over to the post-office and telephone to the police-station at Illchester, telling them exactly what has happened. In less than ten minutes we shall know whether the story is confirmed or not."

The Bench nodded their approval of the suggestion. Excitement stood high; people were wiping their faces as if personally interested in the issue. Only the prisoner stood quite still and impassive all the time; he seemed to be the only one who took no interest in the proceedings. He gave the suggestion of regarding it all as a kind of farce, from which he was to be rescued by common sense and reason. The chairman on the Bench bent over and made some remark to him; possibly he was discounting the future and thinking of those little dinners. There was a general surging of bodies, a gasping of breath, as the sergeant of police came back into court, swelling with puffy importance.

"It seems, your Worship," he said, "as the witness is correct in that statement of hisn. The ring has been found by one of the ladies in the bar of the 'Mitre,' and has been handed over to the police at Illchester. If necessary, a special messenger "

"There is no necessity," the chairman said. "A full description of the ring has been in the hands of the Illchester police for some days, and they are perfectly well aware whether they have the proper ring or not. It seems quite natural that the pris— that Mr. Scanlaw should have forgotten his curious gem in that way, and that the witness should have left it on the mantelpiece. Do you propose to call any more witnesses, Mr. Coxley?"

Coxley smiling indicated that he was perfectly satisfied to leave matters in the hands of a bench of magistrates so singularly luminous-minded and clear-headed. Perhaps his friend who appeared on behalf of the prosecutor had a few words to say.

"I follow the same lead," the little barrister said politely. "I have no animus in the matter. I have simply to do my duty, and there is an end of it. The case has taken a totally unexpected turn in favor of the prisoner; and, so far as I can see, there is nothing more to be done besides look for the murderer of Chagg elsewhere." A loud murmur of applause followed the generous statement. The Bench put their heads together and whispered for a moment. Ten minutes later, and Scanlaw stepped out into the street a free man. An hour later, and he was lunching quietly at home with John Oliver opposite him. The door was closed, and the two men talked in whispers. From time to time Oliver fingered a thick pad of paper in his breast-pocket that crackled with a musical sound.

"A little imagination of the playwright, my dear sir," he said, "and a little good luck. You see, I did happen to be in the bar of the'Mitre' that night with a mysterious stranger whose collar was turned up. He was a friend of mine who had done something wrong, and I was smuggling him away. The inspiration came to me like a flash when I heard your case tried the first day. Then I worked out all those questions and answers between your lawyer and yourself. If I had not known Coxley to be a perfectly unscrupulous rascal, I dared not have tried that on. My next game was to get your chauffeur out of the way and make that very pretty confirmatory evidence as to the visit to Illchester and the motor left in the ditch by the Priory. That touch about the missing case of coins from the hall was also a pretty one, I flatter myself. As to smuggling the ring to the mantelpiece, that was quite easy. I placed it there myself before a full bar of drunken farmers and the like who were in from the Fair. Then I brought your motor back and lay low to wait for developments. I fancy I timed my dramatic entrance very prettily indeed. But all the same, luck was dead on your side—everything played into my hands. What a magnificent situation for a play it would make!"

"I trust the play will never be written," Scanlaw said hastily. "The mere hint of such a thing might mean ruin to me. You see the moral would be—"

Oliver chuckled as he helped himself to more champagne and took a fresh cigarette. He had a very pleasant and full-flavored turn of humor.

"The moral, my dear sir, is this," he said slyly. "That the average millionaire is always a lucky man, otherwise he would never be a millionaire. But there never was a luckier one than you."

THE END

THE CHARLATAN

ILLUSTRATED BY MAURICE GREIFFENHAGEN

Published in The Windsor Magazine, Vol. XXIV, Jul 1906, pp 231-240

I

THE extraordinary affair at 19, Grosvenor Gate, the town residence of the Duchess of Dumblane, occupied the public mind for at least three days—a remarkable testimony to the dramatic features of the case. The Duchess, as everybody knows, is a recognised leader of Society, very young and very pretty; also, according to her friends, who are capable of expressing an opinion, very foolish into the bargain. On the other hand, the Duke is a pillar of the Upper House, given to politics and striving to effect that economy which is necessary now with a nobleman who depends largely on his estates for his income.

The affair is briefly told as follows. The Duchess had been dining at a certain house where Royalty was expected—a dull, decorous, very full-dress affair—and for the purpose she had procured the family diamonds from the bank where they were usually kept. After the State dinner-party was over, her Grace had returned home and given the gems into the custody of her maid, afterwards going to a "bridge"-party in Stratton Street. The maid was told that she could go to bed if she liked, as her mistress would be very late.

At three o'clock the following morning, the Duchess returned home. The Duke was away in South Africa on some semi-political mission, so that the Duchess had the house to herself. According to her story, she had let herself into the house with a latch-key and had proceeded at once to her dressing-room.

A dreadful spectacle awaited her there. Helena, the maid, lay on the floor, absolutely unconscious, and bleeding from a wound on the face and another on the neck. The place was in great disorder—evidently a severe struggle had taken place. Greatly alarmed, the Duchess summoned the servants to her assistance, and the police were called in.

Helena was by no means so badly hurt as first appeared. Restored to consciousness, she had a queer, confused story to tell. She had put away her mistress's diamonds and had taken a book up which interested her.

That was about one o'clock in the morning. She had fallen asleep in the dressing-room, but was suddenly aware of the fact that somebody was in the room. Before she could jump up, she was grasped from behind; she struggled and called out; she was conscious of two blows, and then she recollected no more.

The natural inference was that the daring thief had come for the jewels. The thing had been carefully worked out by an expert gang, whom the police professed to know all about. Would the Duchess give them a minute list of the missing gems? And then came the most extraordinary part of the story. The jewels were not missing at all. The Duchess had gone through the cases, and they were all intact.

Harold Resbie had read all about it in the Daily Flash. The exceedingly popular novelist and social favourite smiled to himself as he read the story. Time was when it had been just on the cards that the Duchess of Dumblane might become Mrs. Harold Resbie. But the Duke had come along, and Harold had accepted the inevitable. It was not to be expected that Miss Florence Vane would resist a chance like that.

But that was two years ago, and Resbie had got over it by this time. He had so far got over it that he felt a little ashamed to think that he had ever given a serious thought to the pretty, silly, frivolous, and slightly selfish Duchess of Dumblane. They were still very good friends, as they had been for years; and when the little lady needed a tonic in the shape of a good scolding, she never sought it in vain at the hands of Harold Resbie.

He was just back from Monte Carlo now, where he had been dallying with the plot of a new novel. For the third day in succession the Daily Flash squeezed a column out of the Dumblane mystery, as they called it. The Duchess would be certain to be very piquant and very dramatic on the situation, and Resbie had made up his mind to call on her. A little note from the lady in question, imploring him to come round, as she was in great trouble, decided Resbie's mind for him. He would drop into Grosvenor Gate about tea-time.

The drawing-rooms were deserted as Resbie arrived. The Duchess, charmingly arrayed in a pink, silky wrap, awaited him. She could do no more than press the hand of the novelist and sink into a chair with a sigh of deep resignation. Four footmen contrived with great exertion to set out the tea, after which they retired, with strict injunctions to the effect that the Duchess was not at home to anybody.

"What is the trouble about?" Resbie asked.

"My dear Harold, don't you read the papers?" the Dnchess asked reproachfully. "Surely you know all about that most agitating affair which—"

"Well, you have forgotten that by this time, surely? Your nervous system—"

"Don't talk about nerves. I am a perfect wreck. When I think of that awful night—"

"But you haven't lost anything," Resbie said. "And as for nerves, that is all nonsense, thanks to the outdoor life you lived at the old Vicarage. If you had lost your jewels, for instance—"

"My dear Harold, that is exactly what has taken place."

Resbie's manner changed—he became interested instead of cynical.

"I don't understand. Of course, I read all about that mysterious outrage here. But you told the police that not so much as a finger-ring was missing."

"So I did, Harold; but it was not true, all the same. A heap of stuff was left, but all the fine family diamonds were gone. I dared not say a word about it, because I knew that Dumblane would be furious. He gave me the keys of his safe, and he made me promise that whenever I wore the diamonds, I would see that they were locked up personally. But it seemed to be all right, and I was dreadfully late for my bridge-party the other night. So I just handed the diamonds to Helena and went off."

"How long has Helena been in your service?" asked Resbie.

"My dear Harold, how suspicious you are! Helena is an absolute treasure. Besides, she came to me with a splendid recommendation from the Marquise de Boishardy."

"The Marquise being suspected of cheating at cards," said Resbie tentatively. "Lots of West End tradesmen are wondering where the Marquise has gone. This Helena—"

"Harold, I would stake my reputation on the probity of Helena."

"Very well; we will not pursue the investigation in that direction. What do you want me to do?"

"Really, I don't know," the Duchess said falteringly. "I confided in you because you are a novelist and have a strange gift for solving the workings of the human mind. Look how you prophesied that I should marry the Duke, even when you and I were practically engaged! I want you to take this case in hand and see if you can make anything of it. Of course, it's a dead secret "

"Really! Now, how many of your bosom friends know the truth?"

The Duchess was forced to admit that she had confided her story to a select few, but not more than twelve altogether. Those bosom friends were deeply interested. Resbie wanted to know if that was as far as things had gone at present.

"Almost," the Duchess said, speaking with a certain hesitation. "I almost wish now that I had told the police everything. But that is not the strangest part of the affair. When I mentioned the matter to Irene Charteris, she advised me to go to one of those marvellous creatures who look into crystals and keep black page-boys."

"So they did in the days of Queen Anne," Resbie said sarcastically. "You were to go and see this woman with a view to getting your diamonds back. If we read of these things in books, we laugh. Sane men and women consulting a vulgar charlatan who—"

"But she isn't," the Duchess exclaimed. "She really is marvellous. Why, she sent me her card the very day of my loss. When I saw her the day before yesterday—"

"She told you that there had been telepathic sympathy between you, eh?"

"My dear Harold, how did you know that?" the Duchess cried.

Resbie felt inclined to abandon the case as hopeless. And yet cleverer people than her Grace had believed thoroughly in that senseless tomfoolery.

"In the course of my profession I have met some of these people," he said. "This woman saw a possible chance of making money out of you. She gazed into the crystal and told you that you would get your gems back if you followed a certain course. Did she arrange for a séance at the house of that very foolish Mrs. Charteris, for instance?"

"Harold, it was absolutely wonderful!" the Duche§s cried. "When I got that card, I had vague hopes that something would come of it. I told Irene Charteris everything. She said that there was nobody like Madame Lesterre. A séance was arranged for the same evening—there were about a dozen of us present, all my dearest friends. It was a long time before the spiritual influence came, but it did come at last. Madame Lesterre is a lovely woman."

"They always are," Harold said cynically. "Otherwise they would never make salt."

"I declare she was beautiful; her face was inspired. She said that she saw a certain box, fitted with jasper and gold, with initials in the enamel on the lid. At once I recognised that she was describing the Louis Seize writing-table in my boudoir. She said she could see a drawer in this thing filled with cotton wool, and on the cotton wool was a case of shabby leather. Inside this case there were things glittering like fire."

"Well?" Resbie asked, interested in spite of himself, "and what happened then?"

"Why, I came home. It was vague, but soothing. I opened that particular drawer in my writing-table, and there was the very case that Lesterre had seen in her vision. When I came to look inside it, I found the diamond collar with the clasp that Charles I. gave to the family."

"Do you mean to say it was the grand collar that everybody knows of?" Resbie cried.

"Absolutely the same, Harold. Imagine my delight, imagine how cheerfully I paid Madame Lesterre's fee of a hundred guineas. In some marvellous way she had identified the thief in the crystal, and her will power had compelled the return of that collar."

"Wasn't her will power equal to getting all the swag back?" Resbie asked with a touch of the usual cynicism.

"No; I put that to Madame Lesterre. We have had two more of the séances since, and each time there has been a substantial result. Of course, those hundred-guinea fees are very trying, especially as I am so hard up just now. Of course, too, the story is sure to leak out when I have got all the gems back, and it will be the making of Lesterre. The thing will be in all the Society papers, and then she'll be able to charge what she likes."

"The most amazing thing I ever heard of," Resbie murmured.

"Yes, isn't it? Only I wish that it didn't cost such a lot of money. We're going to have a séance here to-morrow night, and quite lot of people are coming. They are all pledged to secrecy, of course. I hope they will find the tiara then—I'm very anxious about the tiara."

Resbie opened his mouth as if to say something; then he seemed to think better of it. He switched off the conversation slightly.

"I hope you will let me be one of the party," he suggested. "It's just possible that I may find a way of solving this wonderful mystery. But my selfishness causes me to forget the human side of the story. How is your maid?"

"Helena? Oh, she is getting on very well indeed. The wounds are more or less superficial, and the girl has a wonderful fund of nervous energy. She laughs at her adventure already."

"It's just possible that she is laughing at something else besides that," Resbie said darkly. "Don't keep her tied up to the house too much."

"My dear Harold, she was out the very next day. I wanted her to have assistance for the time, but she positively declined. Helena is a very remarkable girl."

"So I should imagine. Now, I've got an idea about this thing. It is the kind of idea that would only occur to a novelist, and in itself it would make a pretty plot for a smart story. Whether my theory will be supported by facts remains to be seen. You say you have a séance here to-morrow night. I shall come, as you have asked me; but I am to have a free hand in the matter and ask what questions I like. Also I am to dine with you here beforehand at 7.30. I flatter myself that I shall have a startling surprise in store for you."

"Are you not going to tell me any more than that?" the Duchess asked.

"Not a word," Resbie said firmly. "I don't want to have the whole thing spoilt at the start. Give me another cup of tea and let us talk about something else."

It was an hour later that Resbie left Grosvenor Gate and made his way eastward. His first stopping-place was at the offices of a well-known firm of private detectives, and for a little time he was closeted with the head of the firm. He did not want much, he said—only two persons watched carefully for the next four-and-twenty hours. He must have a full report from the agent delivered in person at his chambers by seven o'clock the following evening.

"There will be no difficulty about that," the inquiry agent said. "Anything more, sir?"

"No, Yes, by Jove! there is I was nearly forgetting the most important thing. I want one of your ladies to call upon me about five to-morrow. She must have plenty of pluck and be ready for a dashing adventure which, however, will only last a few moments. She had better be in some kind of disguise. Can you manage that?"

The head of the firm was understood to say that he could manage anything of the kind, and that it was merely a matter of money. Resbie went away %ell satisfied with his plans, so far as they had gone. There was only one other thing to do.

"It's a pretty scheme," he told himself, "and worthy of the brain of any novelist. It's all theory on my part up to now, but I'm ready to bet any money that my theory is the correct one. A pretty plot, and the credulity of fools! But when you find level-headed business men and prominent journalists dabbling in this sort of thing, what can one expect from a mob of Society women whose brains are represented by the letter X. Hansom!"

Resbie drove away to Bond Street, where he stopped at length and asked for Madame Lesterre. Madame was in, and she was at present disengaged. Resbie passed into the sacred chamber, furnished as such rooms always are. He saw a tall, graceful woman, with a sweet, sad face and dark, pathetic eyes. The face was right enough, he thought, but the mouth was thin, and the lines of it both greedy and ambitious.

"You came here out of idle curiosity, Mr. Resbie," the woman said.

"That's perfectly true," Resbie said candidly, though be was a little moved by the swiftness of the woman's intuition. "And yet my curiosity is not idle. Fact is, I'm casting about for a plot for a new story; and as I was passing here, something came into my mind that may do. So I paid my two guineas at the door so that I could renew my acquaintance with this kind of atmosphere. I always find atmosphere is wonderfully stimulating to the imagination."

"Then yau do not believe in this kind of thing?" Lesterre asked. "The psychological—"

"I'm not quite certain that I believe in anything," Resbie laughed. "Let me smoke a cigarette here and have a chat for a few minutes whilst I get my atmosphere. Really, I feel as if I were going to get very good value for my two guineas."

Half an hour later, Resbie was back in his chambers again. He took a sheet of thick paper, and an envelope to match, and dictated a letter as follows to his secretary. There was no address to it, and no signature besides the initials—

DEAR MADAME LESTERRE,—

I dare not sign my name, I dare not come and see you. I am in great distress. Will you help me? At nine o'clock to-morrow I shall be at the corner of Hilton Street, by the entrance to the Green Park. I hear you have a séance in Grosvenor Gate a little after that time. Will you ask your coachman to pull up at the spot I speak of, and I will tell you all I want to say through the window of your brougham. Don't fail; it is a matter of ten times your usual fee. Don't fail me. I.C.F.

"Post that. Miss Maynard, please," Resbie chuckled, "and say nothing about it. If you are a good girl, I'll tell you the original plot and its sequence, if all goes well."

II

What with police and pressmen and disinterested friends, the life of the Duchess was a burden to her. Also the excitement of the séances was getting on her nerves. She had a vague feeling that, piecemeal, she was going to recover the whole of her property; but, even then, the price she was paying for it was a high one. Also she was beginning to regret that she had taken certain friends into her confidence. She began to notice that people watched her suspiciously. A certain lady journalist had inserted a daring paragraph in a Society paper. To crown all, a leading official from Scotland Yard had inquired whether there were any truth in the persistent rumours that the stones had been stolen, after all.

Therefore it was that her Grace welcomed Harold Resbie to dinner with effusion. She declared herself to be utterly bored to death; she was nervous and uneasy. Resbie said something soothing. He looked very calm and confident as he came into the drawing-room.

"I'm sure some of those women have been talking," the Duchess said. "They all promised me most faithfully that they would not say anything to anybody. And yet people are actually hinting to me that for diplomatic reasons I am concealing the truth. A man who came from Scotland Yard to-day—"

"Oh, so they are getting hold of the truth also?" Resbie asked.

"It looks like it. Really, the number of falsehoods I have had to tell lately is enormous. And the daughter of a clergyman, too! If those people at Scotland Yard force me any further, I shall be really ill."

There was no exaggeration here, as the novelist conld see. The Duchess of Dumblane looked anxious and worried; there were dark rings under her blue eyes.

"You ought never to have kept the truth from Scotland Yard," Resbie said. "I have no doubt, had you wished it, they would have allowed the public to think that nothing was lost. As it is, you call them in to help you, and then you deliberately put them off the scent."

"I don't see what difference that could make," said the innocent Duchess.

"Why, it makes every difference, of course. It removes motive, for one thing; and it prevents the Yard people from looking for a confederate in the house. You may say what you like about your servants and their blameless integrity, but there was a confederate in the house.

"Now, I have taken this thing in my hands, and I am going to work it my own way. Unless I am greatly mistaken, I shall have the pleasure of handing all your jewels back to you in the course of the evening; but I must do it my own way, or not at all. In the first instance, it is imperative that I should have a few words with your maid. Send her into your boudoir presently for something or another, and I will follow. I came half an hour before my time for this purpose. There is no time to lose."

Resbie spoke sharply and sternly and in the voice of one who expects to be obeyed. A little later he strolled into the boudoir, where a pretty, dark girl with a vivacious face appeared to be looking for something. Resbie quietly closed the door behind him. There was not very much conversation, but it was mainly on the side of the novelist. All the same, the second gong for dinner rang before Resbie returned to the drawing-room.

"I was beginning to get quite alarmed," the Duchess said. "I do hope you have not upset Helena. She is by far the best maid that I ever had. If she gives me notice—"

"Oh, but she won't," Resbie said cheerfully. "One thing I can promise you with every confidence—if there is any notice given, it will come from you. Cheer up, your troubles are nearly over; you will sleep with an easy mind to-night. And now let us go into dinner. I shall not refer to the subject again."

It was an exquisite little dinner, and Resbie enjoyed it thoroughly in his critical way. He looked upon a good dinner as a distinct addition to the joys of life. The wines were poems in their way, and the subsequent cigarette had a flavour of its own. Resbie looked at his watch presently.

"We have been exactly an hour and a half over dinner," he said.

"Have you found it too long?" the Duchess laughed. "Personally, I look upon the time seated over dinner as so much hideous waste. All this fussy cooking is lost on me. I should like to go back to the soup and locally killed chicken of the dear old Vicarage days."

"No woman can dine," Resbie said thoughtfully. "It is an art that she never acquires. A bun and a glass of claret is what I saw a Princess dine off in Paris. What time do your people come?"

The Duchess remarked that the séance was fixed for a quarter to ten. She had asked some dozen of her bosom friends to see the manifestations. She was getting very restless and nervous again, as Resbie noticed from behind the pungent blue haze of his cigarette-smoke. She wished that the whole thing were over.

"Have half a glass of champagne," he said soothingly. "As you are never used to it, the wine will do you all the good in the world. I am glad to see that you keep your simple tastes. Drink that up and trust in me. I am not going to disappoint you."

The Duchess and her visitor had barely reached the drawing-room before some of the guests began to arrive. They were a smart, level-looking lot, as Resbie was bound to confess, so that their credulity over the powers of Madame Lesterre was all the more amazing. There are many remarkable things in the olla podrida called Society, but nothing more amazing than the belief in the charlatan who looks into crystals and foretells the future.

Resbie sternly repressed a desire to laugh at the whole thing, but he was not slow to see that the policy would be a mistaken one. The conversation turned on the occult. Madame Lesterre was a great favourite; but, on the other hand, there was a new star, in the shape of a mulatto, who was doing remarkable things. The atmosphere was false and meretricious, and Resbie began to long for a little fresh air.

Yet, on the face of it, Madame Lesterre had performed a wonderful thing. When the story became public, as it was bound to do, her fortune would be made; in future, she could always charge pretty well anything for a consultation.

Madame Lesterre was announced, and the audience fluttered respectfully to greet her. The dark face was a little pale, her eyes expressed both fear and indignation. She suffered herself to be led to a chair and surrounded by her admiring disciples.

"Your work has been too much for you to-day, Madame?" the Duchess said.

"My dear child, it is not that," Lesterre said, with a languid, insolent familiarity that roused Resbie to anger. If the woman had her deserts, she had been behind stone walls. "My friends, I have to-night been submitted to a most insufferable outrage. I received a note purporting to come from a client of mine who was in great trouble. I was to stop my brougham on my way here—give her a secret audience. I did so, and a woman in a veil looked into the window. Instantly she passed some pungent stuff on a handkerchief to my face, and I fainted. I could not call out, though I never quite lost my senses. I have a vague recollection of being searched, but fortunately for me I had left even my purse at home. Ornaments I never wear, as you good friends of mine are aware. Then the thief made off and was out of sight before I could recover my voice again. There is an experience for you!"

"You will place the matter in the hands of the police?" somebody suggested.

"No, I shall let it pass. The police say my methods are not legitimate, just as if I were a mere fortune-teller! We shall have the manifestations in here."

"Why not in the library?" said Resbie. "It is more spacious and more sympathetic."

Resbie's voice was low and level, so that nobody noticed the curious intonation of it except Madame Lesterre, who turned and looked at him sharply. Then she smiled, as one who recollects the face of a pleasant acquaintance. Resbie repeated his suggestion again.

"The library is certainly a more comfortable room," the Duchess said. "The dark doors have—"

"No, no!" Madame Lesterre cried. "In here, if you please! When I entered the house, I had no prejudices. But my temperament is a singular one and open to all kinds of passing influence. When I entered this room, I was in a state of nervous indignation. I was going to suggest that the manifestation be postponed to a future occasion. Then the charm of the room came over me, and my spirit was at rest. I feel that I am going to do great things to-night."

Resbie said no more. He had gained his point, though the others did not know it. He stood in the background, as if he took no further interest in the proceedings. Madame produced her crystal from her pocket and placed it on a little table. After that, in a deep, impressive voice she asked to have the door locked. Not only did Resbie lock the door, but he took the key from the lock and placed it in his pocket.

The lights were turned low, the manifestations had begun. For a long time the gazer looked into the glassy ball with a rapt attention. Her lips began to move, but no sound came from them; she grew rigid and stiff, she did not seem to breathe.

"I see something misty," the words came at length. "I see a soldier, a great General, dressed in the fashion of a bygone day. I see Eastern palaces and the hurry of fight. I see men fall; then I see the soldier with a magnificent diamond cross in his hand. It is set in gold snakes."

"Isn't it marvellous?" the Duchess whispered half-hysterically. "That is the Grand Cross that Lord George found at Delhi. Madame has never seen it, yet she describes it perfectly. She speaks again."

The march was going on. She told what she could see. She saw the cross suspended in mid-air; she saw it fall to the ground, and there it was picked up by invisible hands and conveyed to a black vase with gold figures upon it. Behind the vase was a picture of a child asleep.

"The Ming Cup," the Duchess cried. "The Ming Cup, in the far corner yonder, with the picture by Rubens behind it. Mr. Resbie, will you see what is in the cup? I am too nervous to look. It is possible that the missing Cross—"

The Duchess paused, unable to proceed any further. In a solemn, tense silence, Resbie crossed the room and lifted the cover from the priceless Ming Cup. He plunged his hand down until it touched some hard, brilliant surface. As he raised his hand again, and the electrics flashed up, a stream of fire, cross-shaped, struck the eyes of everybody.

"It is the Cross surely enough," Resbie said quietly. He was the only one there who seemed to have kept his head. "Madame has been wonderfully successful. I suppose this is the marvellous gem that I have heard so much about. Pray do another one."

But Madame Lesterre, half-fainting in a chair now, declined gently. The mental strain was too great; her poor frame could not stand two of these activities in one evening. Perhaps later on in the week, when she had recovered from the strain—"

Resbie turned away and looked into the crystal. His gaze grew grim and intent. He began to mutter. Madame Lesterre turned to him with an indulgent smile.

"Mr. Resbie is feeling the influence," she said. "The highly strung brain of the novelist will ever be a good one for the telepathic attraction. Do you see anything?"

"I see many things," Resbie said. "For instance, I see a plant, a very pretty plant indeed—"

"Eh, what?" Madame said sharply. "Do you mean to suggest that? But go on, go on."

"A plant," Resbie proceeded. "It grows rapidly and gives off seeds. One of these seeds bursts and turns into a bowl. It is like the great bowl with the Rose du Barri cover over there, on the top of the Chippendale cabinet. I dare not break the spell by going to look myself. But will somebody take off the cover and see what is inside? Unless I am greatly mistaken, it will be found to contain the Duchess's diamond tiara."

Madame Lesterre had grown strangely still and white. One of the elect crossed the room and took something from the bowl. It gleamed and glittered as it found the light. There was no question what it was, as the Duchess's delighted scream testified.

"I am getting on," Resbie said. "For a mere amateur, I am doing very well indeed. We need not go into details over the rest of the seeds, but keep strictly to business. Over there on the chimney-piece is an antique enamelled tea-caddy. If you will look inside there, somebody will find the necklace of pearls... Is that really so? Now please try that ginger-jar on the little pedestal... So that contains a breastplate of diamonds. As I am in form, and the strain not too much for me, I had better finish my innings. Try that Sheraton cabinet, under the big palm. Thank you... There, I fancy that is the lot. Really, I did not know that my powers were so wonderfully great."

Nobody spoke for a long time; they were all too surprised. But on a table before the Duchess stood the whole of the missing property. Madame Lesterre had risen to her feet and was looking defiantly towards the door. One or two of the sharper guests were beginning to get a grip of the truth. Then Madame turned and held the handle of the door. She was not well—she must get home. Without saying farewell to anybody, she waited till the door was opened and Resbie was escorting her down the stairs.

"I will see you off the premises," he said. "A wonderful manifestation, yours. It is a pity that you have made up your mind to leave England. I don't think I was misinformed when I heard that you were leaving for Paris to-morrow, with no intention of coming back to—er—practise here?"

Madame accepted her defeat gracefully enough, and Resbie returned to the drawing-room. He sat down under a perfect stream of cross-questions. He proceeded to explain when the babel ceased.

"It was quite an easy matter," he said. "When the Duchess told me, I regarded this as a put-up job between the maid Helena and somebody outside. When I saw the maid and recognised the fact that she was not in the least hurt, I felt certain of it. All that blood, etc., belonged to somebody else. I found the motive when I heard of that first manifestation. The whole thing had been schemed by Madame Lesterre, to give herself a unique advertisement. I worked the thing out like a story. The first thing I did was to set a watch on the maid Helena. I was not in the least surprised to find that she was in the habit of visiting Madame, nor was I surprised to find that Madame is her sister.

"Then I was certain of my put-up job. Robbery was not the motive; a marvellous new advertisement was. Helena had only to arrange where to hide the different gems, and there you are. That is what the novelist found out. Gradually the gems would be discovered, and Madame would stand on a higher pinnacle than she had ever done before. To make sure, I had her searched to-night. I did not care to take any risks. When I came here to-night, I took the liberty of seeing Helena and asking her a few questions. She confirmed it all; she told me how the thing was planned for to-night. So I decided to have my little surprise too. I got all the jewels from Helena and gave her instructions where to hide them in this room. No, I was not afraid of her going back upon me, for I took care to tell her, which is a fact, that I had a detective waiting outside the house in case there was any treachery. I worked my little surprise, and you thought it was Madame Lesterre. Like the shrewd woman she is, she gave in at once. I am afraid that none of you ladies will ever see her again, as she departs for Paris to-morrow, with no intention of returning to England."

THE END

THE MIDNIGHT CALL

ILLUSTRATED BY JOHN CAMERON

Published in The Windsor Magazine, Vol. XXIV, Jun 1906, pp 109-118

I

THE men stood facing each other, the one quick and eager, sanguine as to his eyes behind gold-rimmed glasses, the other bent and twisted with the reflection of some great tragedy on his face. A clock somewhere lazily chimed the half past eleven.

"What do I look like, Brownsden?" the twisted man asked hoarsely. "I know what a marvel you are in the indexing of the emotions. What do I look like?"

"Like a man who has done something years ago and just been found out, Ramsay," the other said. "It is almost a new expression to me, though I did see it once before in South Africa. He was a well-to-do, prosperous man, long married, respected, his crime twenty years old. And he was expecting hourly arrest Strange how those old things come to light. Make no mistake—yours is the face of an honest man. And yet!"

"Wonderful!" Ramsay muttered under his breath. "As a criminal psychologist, you have no equal in the world. It was your marvellous book on the ramifications of the criminal mind that first attracted you to me. And it was my privilege to do you some trifling service "

"To save my life and my reputation. If only I had your scientific knowledge!"

"Yes, yes," Ramsay said impatiently. "If ever I found myself in trouble, you promised to come and help me. Hence my telegram this morning. Brownsden, I am in the deepest distress—nobody but you can save me. Look round you."

The criminal specialist Brownsden looked around accordingly. Ramsay's dining-room in Upper Quadrant, Brighton, was an artistic one. It had evidently been furnished by a scholar and a man of taste. There was a marvellously carved oak sideboard, then a Queen Anne bookcase; a fireplace carved by Grindley Gibbons himself; the electric lights Were demurely shaded, only the flowers looked faded. The artistic reticence of it all struck the proper, soothing, refining chord.

"All mine," Ramsay said almost fiercely. "Gathered together bit by bit, pieced like some perfect old mosaic. It has been the one delight in a hard and gloomy life. All the house is the same. And the name of Dr. Alfred Ramsay is becoming known. Then it is all kicked away by a sudden and unexpected tragedy. Sit down."

Brownsden sat down obediently in a Cromwellian chair upholstered in speaking tapestry. It was his cue to get the other to talk. The deformed figure bobbed up and down over the soft red of the Persian carpet—words began to stream from him.

"I have been here now for four years," he began. "It was a hard struggle at first, but I had only myself to keep, and I managed to pull through. Then my books began to sell, but I did not get many patients—not that they mattered much. I kept to myself, with the result that I know nobody, and nobody here knows me except by name and sight. Yet I was not unhappy. I was making money until a month ago, when a sudden attack of nervous sleeplessness warned me that I was going too far. I decided on a month's cycling in the country—it has been very pleasant this Easter—and I went.

"A week before my departure it struck me as a good idea to let the house furnished, so I put an advertisement in the Morning Post. In reply I received a letter from a gentleman in London. I saw him by appointment, and—to make a long story short—he took the house for a month and paid the rent. Like me, my tenant was a man of the closet, an American, and he wanted a change. I was to leave the house just as it was, and my tenant would find his own servants. I gave my old housekeeper a holiday and started on my vacation.

"At the end of three weeks I was quite myself again, and longing to be in harness once more. Two days ago I was rather pleased to get a telegram from my tenant, saying that he had been called back to the States again by urgent business, and that he was leaving at once. He had sent the key to my agents. I telegraphed to my agents to send for my old housekeeper and explain to her what had happened, and to give her instructions to go home, saying that I would follow to-day. All this seems very bald, but I have not finished yet.

"I came back to-day, expecting no evil. I opened the door with my latch-key and came in here. To my surprise, I found the place dirty, the fire out, the flowers left by my tenant still in the rooms as you see them. Now, this is all so unlike my housekeeper that I was vaguely alarmed. I looked all over the house, finding nobody, until I entered my study and laboratory, which is at the back here. That was half an hour before I sent you my wire. As you are a man with no nerves, I will show you what I found. Come this way."

Brownsden rose and followed without a word. The laboratory and library had evidently been an artist's studio at one time —a large room with a dome-glazed roof. There was no carpet on the floor, the electric lights had not been turned on yet, so that Brownsden almost stumbled over some soft object that lay at his feet. He started back as the room suddenly flooded from the great arc light overhead and his eyes met the object on the floor. It was the body of an old woman in a neat black dress. Her silver hair was dabbled with blood; the scalp had been laid half open by a blow from some sharp instrument; the gnarled, knotted, hard-working hands were vigorously clenched. With an appearance of callousness, Brownsden bent over the body.

"This is your unfortunate housekeeper?" he asked. "How long has she been dead?"

Ramsay controlled himself with an effort; perhaps his companion's manner restrained him.

"I have not dared to. make a close examination," he said. "But there is little doubt that that brutal murder was committed between eighteen and twenty-four hours ago. Every symptom points to that being about the period of the crime."

"You have not discovered anything in the way of a clue, I suppose?"

Ramsay replied that he had not done so; in fact, he had not looked for anything of the kind. He had been too stunned at his discovery to be able to do anything logical. As soon as he had pulled himself together, he had stepped out and despatched his telegram to Brownsden.

"One more question," the latter said, "and that is an important one, as you will admit. Don't you think that it is a serious omission not to call in the police?"

"Well, yes," Ramsay said slowly, as if the words were being dragged from him. "Of course, I thought of that. A man like myself, who knows nobody, and who could not give anything very satisfactory in the way of a personal reference... But seeing that the crime is a day old "

"What does that matter?" Brownsden asked somewhat impatiently. "Of course, your hands are clean enough; one has only to look at the radiation of your eye-pupils to see that. But what with fools of officials and irresponsible cheap journalism--"

"I know, I know. But I wanted to have your views first. I could easily say that I got home at a later hour than was actually the truth; that you came with me--"

The old, strange terror was stealing over the man again, and Brownsden's manner changed. He was in the presence of no common fear; no ordinary case was here, he thought.

"All of which would be very unwise," he said. "Suppose somebody saw you come in? I dare say you rode from the station on your cycle? You did? Of course, you can get out of it by saying that you had no occasion to enter your study till a little time later. Also you would account for not seeing your housekeeper by the suggestion that she had mistaken your instructions. When did your tenant leave?"

"My tenant left at the time stated, or Mrs. Gannett would not be back at all. You need not speculate on my tenant, Brownsden. He was a man of standing; indeed, I met him to discuss terms, so he made the appointment at the American Legation in London. You may be sure that he does not count as a card in the game."

"Then we can rule that out," Brownsden muttered as he bent down to examine the body. "But one thing is quite certain—we must lose no time in sending for the police now. Hallo!"

The speech was broken off by the sharp intaking of the breath. As Ramsay drew near, he saw that Brownsden was gently opening the left hand of the murdered woman. A sharp edge of metal had caught his eye. Very gently he drew three coins from the knotted fingers, three half-crowns that seemed to be fresh from the Mint. On the face of it there was nothing unusual in their discovery, save that the suggestion that the murderer might have been fighting for some such small gain as that, for human life before now has been held more cheap. But there was a further discovery under the keen eye of Brownsden that gave the thing a deeper significance.

"This is very strange," he said, as he moved towards a shaded lamp on the table close by. "Here we have three brand new coins taken from the poor creature's hand, the bloom of the mould is still on them. Three perfect half-crowns with the head of Queen Victoria upon them. New coins fresh from the Mint, with the late Queen's head on them, and dated 1899!"

"Ring them," Ramsay burst out in a hoarse cry; "ring them!"

Brownsden proceeded to do so. But the coins rang true and clear—even the test by weight failed to prove them anything but perfect. Ramsay wiped his damp forehead and sighed in a kind of a subdued way. Brownsden's face was still corrugated in a frown.

"I don't understand it at all," he said. "These are genuine silver half-crowns, with never so much as a scratch on them, and yet dated nearly four years ago. Unless-- Ramsay, what kind of woman was your housekeeper? I mean as regards temperament."

"Hot-tempered and obstinate," Ramsay explained. "Inclined to have her own way. Very literal, too. You see, she had a lot of Scotch blood in her."

"I see. If anybody had come to her after your tenant had gone, to fetch some forgotten thing, she would not have given it without proof of the messenger's veracity, I suppose?"

"Indeed she wouldn't, not if it had been an empty sardine-tin."

"Um, that is quite what I expected. There is a pretty problem here, and I am already beginning to see my way clear. Your tenant departed in a breakneck hurry. Let us assume for the sake of argument that there was some pressing need for this. He either forgets something in his hurry, and somebody else who comes along is after the same thing. He tries to persuade your old housekeeper Gannett to part with that something, and she refuses. Hence the crime."

Ramsay nodded in a vague, unconcerned kind of way. Already Brownsden was on the way to the telephone that hung in a distant corner.

"The police," he explained tentatively. "There must be no hesitation any longer. You see--"

At the same moment the purring ripple of the telephone-bell rang out. Ramsay pulled himself together with an effort and took down the receiver. When he replaced the instrument, there was a particularly sickly green smile on his face.

"You ring up the police and explain for me," he said. "I have to go out at once. It appears that the East Sussex Hospital people are at their wits' ends for a surgeon for a case that came in half an hour ago. I must step round. Do you mind? I begin to wish I had never written that book on brain troubles."

Brownsden averred that he did not mind in the least. It was good to Ramsay to feel the fresh air on his face again. The house-surgeon apologised profoundly—he knew that Dr. Ramsay did not take cases like this as a rule; but operation-surgeons that were up to the particular case like this were few in Brighton, and unfortunately it had been impossible to get anyone of them on the telephone. It was a case of a motor accident. The gentleman had been driving his own car and in some way had come to grief. There was no wound to be seen, nothing to account for the deathlike trance in which the patient lay. Ramsay had forgotten his own troubles for the moment. He would be very pleased to see the patient at once.

The patient lay like a corpse on the bed— to all appearance he was dead. Ramsay's examination was thorough. He turned with a half -smile to the house-surgeon.

"No operation is necessary at all," he said. "There is nothing at all the matter with the brain. What the poor fellow is suffering from is paralysis of the spinal cord, due to the shock; I am prepared to stake my reputation upon it. An application of the battery will be all that is necessary. In three days your patient will be out again. Look here!"

Ramsay raised the lid of the sufferer's right eye. As he did so, he checked an exclamation. In an eager way he raised the lid of the other eye, and a half-puzzled, half-relieved expression crossed his face.

"You have run up against a stone wall?" the house-surgeon suggested.

"Indeed I have not," Ramsay said quickly. "I fancied that I had recognised the patient, but I appear to be mistaken. Try the battery, and let me know the result. Not that I have the least doubt what it will be, The spinal column is not injured; it is merely in a state of suspense. You will not mind if I run away now? I have a very unpleasant task before me."

Something like an hour had elapsed between the time that Ramsay had left Upper Quadrant and his return there. There were lights all over the house, and seated in the hall were two policemen, who sat stolidly nursing their helmets on their knees.

Inspector Swann was in the study, and he had many questions to ask. So far as Ramsay could see, very few of them were to the point. But to the relief of the doctor, no questions were put as to the time when the body was found in the house when the police were sent for. The inspector was puzzled over the matter of the half-crowns, which were apparently genuine. Brownsden stood alone, smiling grimly as Ramsay answered the flood of questions poured over him.

"And now as to this tenant of yours, sir," Swann said. "When did he go away?"

"Probably the day before yesterday," Ramsay replied. "He sent the key to my agents, as you will find on inquiry at their offices; otherwise Mrs. Gannett could not have made ber way into the house—I am quite sure that you will find that she called at my agents' offices and got the key. If you expect to discover anything in that direction, you will be disappointed. But perhaps I had better give you the letter which opened negotiations—I mean the first letter my tenant wrote to me."

Swann nodded approval. All the time a couple of detectives in private clothes were making a thorough search of the house. There was a long French window at the back of the study, leading into a square yard, and here a man was looking with the aid of a lantern. He tapped on the ground, and a hollow sound rang out. Swann's sharp ears caught the clang.

"What's that?" he asked. "Have you any well or anything of that kind?"

"Only the inspection-chamber," Ramsay said carelessly. "You could hardly expect--"

Something between a snarl and a cough came from the detective outside. He pulled up the cover of the chamber and dragged out a square box. It seemed to be heavy, for he staggered with the weight of it as he carried it into the study. Swann looked inquiringly at Ramsay, who shook his head— assuredly the box was no property of his.

"This grows interesting," he said. "I have never seen that box before. What have you there, officer?"

A box full of broken scraps of white metal, a box full of plaster moulds and files, and chemicals of various kinds, some iron discs, and a press were handed out, until the whole contents stood confessed upon the table. The detective grinned and wiped his heated forehead. "The finest coining-plant I've seen, sir," he said; " and I've had some experience, too. Never saw anything so perfect in my life. What shall we do with it, sir?"

Swann was of opinion that a cab had better be called, and the stuff carried away. He took his own departure a little later, with the suggestion that nothing further could be done to-night. He carefully locked up the study and sealed it. He hinted that there was a deeper mystery here than met the eye; he would come again in the morning. Ramsay closed the door behind him and then staggered like a drunken man into the dining-room. With a shaking hand he poured himself out some brandy.

"There is more here than meets the eye," Brownsden quoted from Swann significantly. "You asked me to come down and help you. If you will confide in me--"

"I am going to," Ramsay broke out hoarsely. "I am going to do so. But it is far worse than I anticipated. You spoke a while ago of a man in Africa who lived cleanly for years, and yet whose past rose up against him at a time when—my God! it is my own case all over."

"If you will confide in me," Brownsden repeated, " I dare say that "

"I am going to confide in you," Ramsay whispered. "Great Heavens! the ghastliness of it! For I have served my time—three years for counterfeit coining!"

II

"THERE you have it," Ramsay said, as Brownsden merely nodded. The half-defiant snarl in his voice was almost pathetic. "Here is my story in a nutshell. I am a gentleman by birth, by education, by instinct. Never mind what the temptation was—under the same circumstances I would do it again. After that I met with this accident, that has crippled me for life; but even that had its compensations, for it indirectly gave me a fresh start in life—under my proper name this time."

"I fancy I see what you are afraid of," Brownsden said.

"Of course you do. I am a solitary man; nobody knows anything about me. In any case, after the death of poor Gannett, my past would be dragged up. That is why I asked you to come here. But the thing is even more hideous than I imagined. The discovery of that coining-plant was a catastrophe that I did not anticipate. Questions will be asked. I shall be invited to clear myself. It is fortunate that owing to my accident that cursed Bertillon prison system cannot be applied to me. None of my old associates would recognise me. And yet the peril to my social and literary name is very great. Can you help me without—without--"

"Letting your name be mentioned?" Brownsden said. "I fancy so. To-morrow you must do nothing and leave everything to me. I am going to London, and you must give me the name of the man who took your house. Be guided entirely by me and think of nothing but your hospital patient. Is it a bad case?"

Ramsay replied that the case was not nearly so bad as it looked. His further services would hardly be required. He was more interested in the fact that the patient's one eye was a blue and the other brown than anything else. Brownsden smiled behind his cigarette.

"Different-coloured eyes, with largish red veins in the whites?" he suggested. "Ah! you need not be surprised. I have made eyes my study as much as anything else, and I have noticed that that peculiarity is common when the eyes are of different colour. Now you had better go to bed. And mind, you are entirely in my hands."

Ramsay gave the desired assurance. He was utterly tired and worn out, and he slept far into the next day. Brownsden seemed equal to the occasion, for he managed to get breakfast of sorts; and he volunteered the statement that he had been out since daylight. Pulling a blind back, Ramsay could see a couple of policemen outside, moving along the idle crowd of curious loafers that collected there from time to time.

"I suppose it is useless to ask if you have done anything?" Ramsay said moodily.

"Well, I have," Brownsden said. "For instance, I am every minute expecting the cabman who drove your tenant, Mr. Walters, to the station from here. Of the two servants who were in the house, I can hear nothing, not even from the domestics next door. It appears they kept themselves to themselves very much indeed."

The cabman came a little later with a little surprise in store. He had been called to Upper Quadrant two days before. He had been called by a grocer close by, who had been requested to send a cab from the rank near him by telephone from Upper Quadrant.

"I presume you went to the station?" Brownsden asked.

"No, I didn't, sir; I didn't go nowhere. I put two bags and a case that looked like one of them typewriters a-top of the cab, and I waited for the gentleman to come out. I hadn't any notion then what I was wanted for. Just as the gentleman got on the step, with his rug over his arm, a motor comes up—regular swagger affair--"

"Stop a minute," Brownsden asked. "Did she look like a racer? Tell me how many men were inside and how they were dressed?"

"She did look like a racer, sir," the cabman went on. "The gents inside had furs and goggles same as they most have on good cars... Recognise 'em again, sir? No, can't say as I could."

"Excellent idea for disguise," Brownsden said half aloud. "Quick way for a man who wanted to get about the country. What happened after that?"

"Well, a few words passed, sir, that I could not hear. Then the bags were transferred to the motor from my cab, and I was told that I wasn't wanted. I got a couple o' bob for my trouble, and there was an end of the matter as far as I was concerned."

Brownsden seemed to be satisfied with this explanation, but he vouchsafed no further information. He hurriedly turned over the pages of a time-table.

"So far, so good," he said. "Now I am going to London. If you take my advice, you will not stir out of the house all day, because I may have to telephone or telegraph you. And don't forget that you are entirely in my hands."

"I could not wish for a more capable man," Ramsay said gratefully.

It was nearly five before the telephone rang out in the startled house, and by instinct Ramsay seemed to know that Brownsden was calling him from London. Brownsden's voice was low and clear, but there was a certain pleased ring about it that the listener liked.

"That you, Ramsay?" the voice asked. "Very good. I'm calling you from an office in Hatton Garden where they deal in raw metals. Before you do anything else, call up the East Sussex Hospital and ask how your patient is. Don't go and see him in any case; even if they ask you to do so, make some excuse. Ring up the hospital now I'll wait."

There was some little difficulty with the Exchange, owing to the main-line trunk connection, but the voice of the house-surgeon was heard at last. His information was a startling confirmation of Ramsay's diagnosis on the night before. The electrical treatment had acted like magic. The patient had so far recovered that he had insisted on leaving the hospital an hour before, though, of course, he was still very white and shaky. The main point was that he had gone off in a cab, presumedly to the Hotel Metropole.

Brownsden heard all this subsequently with somethinglike a chuckle. He would like to know if the Hotel Metropole people had seen a guest arriving answering to the same description. An inquiry elicited the fact that the caravansary people had not.

"All this is excellent," Brownsden called down the long wire. "I was quite right to turn my attention in the direction of your late tenant, Ramsay. The address that your letters went to was merely a place where communications may be addressed at a penny each, and where they are called for. The American Legation has known nobody by the name of Walters. The apparent puzzle that you met him there is quite easy. Any American subject can see the Ambassador by waiting long enough in the anteroom; and your man probably knew that, hence he fixed a certain time to meet you there. After he had seen you, he had only to slip away, telling the porter that he would call again. There is no doubt that you have been the victim of a gang of swindlers."

Ramsay was of the same opinion. On the whole, it struck him that the counterfeiters had hit upon a most ingenious and original way of carrying out their work undisturbed. All they had to do was to secure some well-furnished house in a good locality and then go to work. Brighton was a large place, and the neighbours would not be too inquisitive; it was possible to live in Brighton for years and never know the name of your next-door tenants. There was only one thing that really troubled Ramsay—had those people by any chance got an inkling of his past? Or was it merely coincidence?

Brownsden came down by the last train, apparently satisfied with his day's work.

"It's all right," he said. "I am delighted. If the police have only kept their discovery as to the coining-plant to themselves, everything will work out splendidly. But I fear that I shall put you to a little inconvenience to-morrow."

"Anything so long as you solve the mystery," Kamsay cried. "What do you propose to do?"

"Well," Brownsden said slowly, as he flicked the ashes from his cigarette, "I am going to have you arrested for the wilful murder of Martha Gannett!"

Ramsay stared open-mouthed at the speaker. His face had grown a shade paler. He walked up and down the room as if he were the sport of uncontrolled emotions.

III

THE arrest of Alfred Ramsay the following morning on a charge of wilful murder of Martha Grannett caused a profound sensation. Not that the crowd overflowing out of the police-court at ten o'clock that day had much for their money. The police evidence was very brief and bald, not to say convincing, and after a hearing of a few minutes a remand was granted. A young advocate applied tentatively for bail for his client— the police had not even made out a prima facie case. After some discussion the magistrates agreed to allow bail in two sureties of £2,000 each, which was tantamount to a refusal.

"I have not a single friend in the world," said Ramsay. "I will go to prison."

"The bail will be forthcoming to-morrow," the lawyer said.

It was quite dark the same evening when two figures approached Upper Quadrant from the road behind that leads to the Downs. They climbed carefully over the wall, and one of them admitted his companion to the house by way of the French window of the studio laboratory, which had been left open on purpose. The figures proceeded to pull up the cover of the inspection-chamber in the yard and deposit a black box within. After that they wrapped themselves up in long overcoats and lay on the floor of the study. It was evident that they expected a long vigil, for one slept whilst the other kept an eye open.

It was past one before a slight noise in the yard attracted the watcher's attention. He reached out a hand and touched his companion, who immediately sat up.

"They're moving," he whispered. "Get as near to the door as you can, and switch on the light when I give the signal. I knew they would come to-night."

There was a sound of metal in the yard presently, and then the two watchers smiled. Then the gleam of a lantern flashed out, and a heavy footstep came into the room. Somebody was panting with the force of expended energy. Then the light showed the black box removed from the inspection-chamber by the police the night before, and just replaced by the two watchers in the greatcoats. The man pulling the box chuckled, but his chuckle changed to a snarl and an oath as another figure bounded out of the throat of the darkness and fell upon him.

"You dog!" a voice said. "So I have got you, after all. You escaped me two days ago by means of that infernal motorcar of yours; but it's my turn now. I knew you'd come back for this."

"I'll have a knife into you presently," the man underneath hissed.

One of the watchers gave the signal, and the room was flooded with light. Just for an instant the two men fighting like mad dogs did not heed; then strong hands were laid upon them and they were wrenched apart. They stood up sullenly at length, with the cool, blue rim of a revolver-barrel pressed to the temples of each.

"This is a pretty good haul, Mr. Brownsden, eh?" the second watcher said cheerfully. "No need to ask if you know me—Inspector Wallis, of Scotland Yard, at your service. I wondered what had become of you, Joe. And you, too, Pattison. So Joe had the best of you, and you had made up your mind to murder him. Afraid of him, ain't you, Joe?"

The man addressed as Joe said something to the effect that his soi-disant colleague was a most murderous ruffian. The other burst out into imprecations.

"I'd have done it, too!" he cried. "Who found all the money? Who got that plant made? Nothing like it has ever been seen before. And because I had to keep out of the way for a bit, Joe leaves me in the lurch and comes down here. But somebody got me on his track again, and he'd ha' died here instead of that poor old woman if he hadn't got away in time."

"It was you who killed the housekeeper, of course?" Wallis asked quite coolly.

"It was an accident," the man addressed as Pattison said sullenly. "I knew that Joe hadn't got time to get the plant away, so I called for it as if I came from him. And there was that old girl playing with a mould that had been forgotten by my dear friend Joe in his hurry, to say nothing of leaving some of the new-milled half-crowns about. So one thing led to another, and I hit the old girl harder than I intended. But I've said quite enough."

"Quite enough," Wallis replied grimly. "Go and fetch Dr. Ramsay in, Mr. Brownsden."

A cab stood outside at the corner of the road, and in it was Ramsay. By the time that he reached the house, the handcuffs were on both prisoners.

"I'll explain everything presently," Brownsden said hurriedly. "Will you look at this man, who seems to be known professionally as 'Joe'? Have you seen him before?"

"Of course I have!" Ramsay cried. "I saw him under the name of Walters at the American Legation. It was he who took my house. I saw him also last night and the night before, at the East Sussex Hospital, where he had been taken after a motor accident. I should have recognised him before by the different colour of his eyes, but the pallor of illness makes a difference."

"Do you remember the gentleman?" Brownsden asked of the man Joe. "Is his face familiar to you?"

"Only once," the other man said with a shifty grill—" when I took his house. But what is the use of all these fool questions? It's a fair knock-out, and there's an end of it."

It was a little later, and Ramsay and Brownsden were alone. For the first time for two days the former found zest in the food that Brownsden had prepared for him. When he had finished, he looked up eagerly and asked for an explanation. He was utterly puzzled, he said.

"And yet it's pretty easy when it comes to be told," Brownsden said thoughtfully. "From the very first it seemed to me to be inevitable that your tenant had something to do with it. When we found that coining-plant, I was certain of it. You were the victim of an ingenious and up-to-date scheme. The idea of getting into a house like yours was admirable. I surmised from the first that Mr. 'Walters' was the coiner. When he went off in such a hurry, I felt quite sure that it was a case of diamond cut diamond. There is no such thing as honour amongst thieves. But you, personally, gave me a pretty clue when you spoke of the man in the hospital with the different-coloured eyes who had had a spill from a motor. Your tenant had eyes of two colours he had gone off hot-foot in a motor. Therefore it was only fair to assume that here was the man we wanted. Wallis compared my suspicions, and told me that he was looking for a man with different eyes, and he proceeded to tell me the history of the fellow he called Joe.

"When I heard by the telephone that Mr. 'Joe' had left the hospital, I felt pretty certain that he would try and get that plant back. But you were in the way. That is why you were arrested, and bail for a preposterous amount fixed. I arranged to bail you out very late at night, so that not a soul outside the police-station should know. Therefore to Mr. 'Joe' the coast was quite clear, and he would rush to your house with impunity. You see, there was just the chance that you would get bail on the morrow, as your lawyer hinted, so there was no time to be lost. The task was rendered all the more easy by the fact that 'Joe' knew your house as well as you know it yourself. So he came for the spoil—which we replaced—and we caught him. The other man coming along was not quite the piece of luck that it looks, because there is no little doubt that he had been watching 'Joe' all day. The other man was rather bounced into confessing to the murder of the poor old woman; but it quite exonerates you."

"Only I shall have to give evidence," Ramsay said. "And it is just possible--"

"No, you will not be required. 'Joe' did not know you, because I asked him on purpose to see. Your fears are quite groundless, Ramsay, and I congratulate you on your escape. It would have been precious hard lines on you, after all these years, if--"

"I cannot sufficiently thank you," Ramsay said in a broken voice. "Some day I may be in a position to show my gratitude for your wonderful skill and kindness. But there is one thing that puzzes me. When we tried the so-called counterfeit coins, they rang true. What does that mean?"

Brownsden smiled as he took another cigarette.

"They are true," he said. "They are made from genuine silver. It is possible to melt silver and yet get, cent for cent, profit on it over the counter. Gold can be treated the same way. The coins we found were not quite finished—they had not been sweated to give them the appearance of having been in circulation. See how simple it all is."

"Ah, yes," Ramsay said. "And yet how simple it would have been to have fixed this on me if my past had come to light. Good night. And if any thanks of mine can--"

THE END

THE BALANCE OF NATURE

ILLUSTRATED BY GILBERT HOLIDAY

Published in The Windsor Magazine, Vol. XXVI, Jun-Nov 1907, pp 557-567

THE tragic circumstances in which Professor Egerton Street disappeared from London and the world of science, of which he was such a distinguished ornament, are not generally known to the public. Most people are under the impression that the eclipse followed as a natural consequence on the sudden death of Mrs. Street, but a few people knew that the tragedy was precipitated by the professor himself. He was supposed to have injected a certain serum—previously tried upon his own person—and the death of the lady was due to septic poisoning.

Be that as it may, the circumstances never became public property. Most people looked upon the whole thing as an accident. Anyway, Street disappeared from University College Hospital, and his place knew him no more. He was supposed to be pursuing a series of studies in West Africa with the view to the stamping out of malarial fever, but that, after all, was only a rumour. Street had been a rather dour kind of enthusiast, very secretive, and possessing practically no friends. Basil Warburton, the entomologist, had seen him once at Liverpool Street Station with a variety of cases that gave him the air of a travelling naturalist. The two savants had exchanged a few words, but Street had not been communicative. He looked lean and brown and hollow-eyed; he gave just a hint of certain new discoveries. He wanted to know if Warburton had heard anything of a certain new red spider—locally called the "Red Speck "—an account of which had filtered home from Madagascar. As it happened, Warburton had not only heard of the spider, but he actually possessed a few live specimens. He says that Street's face lighted up in the most extraordinary manner on hearing this.

"You will be doing me—you will be doing the world in general an inestimable service if you will come down to my place at Crawley and bring a 'Red Speck ' or two with you. Warburton, I am on the eve of realising a most stupendous discovery. If my deductions are correct, malarial fever is at an end. Those fellows are quite correct—the mosquito and kindred insects are at the bottom of the mischief. I've been digging at the remedy for two years, and I've touched bottom. It would be an insult to your intelligence to ask you if you have heard of insect grafting."

Warburton replied that he had experimented in that direction himself. Articles on the subject had appeared in several of the leading domestic magazines. The thing was a little flashy and meretricious, and no good was likely to result from it. Warburton proceeded to speak of a hybrid dragon-fly he had grafted, but the larvae had perished, probably had not fructified. Street's eyes gleamed.

"I've conquered that," he whispered. "I've reached the breeding stage of the hybrid. The thing is not ripe for the public gaze yet, but I'll show it to you. Come down on Friday and spend a week-end at Crawley with me, and bring your red spiders along."

The offer was too tempting to be refused. Besides, Street was no pauper genius, but a well-to-do man in a position to carry out his experiments regardless of outlay. Warburton found the house pleasantly situated, the long ranges of glass had been stripped of vine and fern and flower, and given over entirely to the breeding of insects. It was rather a chilly March day, with fitful bursts of warm sunshine, so that Warburton found the glass-houses unpleasantly warm ever and again.

Street had certainly mastered his subject. He seemed to have every kind of insect in his greenhouses. In one warm corner, behind a series of thin muslin cloths, a cloud of gauzy little creatures seemed to sing and buzz in the still air.

"Mosquitoes?" Warburton suggested. "Well, they could do very little harm at this time of the year if they escaped. But where did they come from? I could localise every mosquito known to science, but I never saw any that size before."

"I bred them myself," Street proceeded to explain. "The original stock was grafted. Watch, and you will see that the wings are different. There is a dash of the tsetse fly in those fellows. I've had an arm as thick as your thigh from a hite of theirs. What do you think of them?"

Street led the way into another compartment of the greenhouse. The heat was unpleasant; the floor was of sand with fragments of volcanic rock scattered here and there. With the aid of a stick, Street stirred up the stones, and immediately a colony of tarantulas straddled over the sandy floor.

"Nothing wonderful about them," the professor remarked. "But you will see presently why I need them. Roughly speaking, my idea is to kill malaria by a war of extermination. Devise or breed some insect that will prey on the mosquito et hoc. Of course, you will argue that the remedy is as bad as the disease. That we shall see. What I want to get hold of by grafting is a slow-breeding insect that will be easy to grapple with when he has done his work. But he is to be a ferocious, poisonous fellow, and to a certain extent a clean feeder. I mean he need not be wholly carnivorous. Now suppose we take the Mexican hornet, which is one of the most dangerous of his tribe. Then we want a little of the tenacious ferocity of the spider, and here the tarantula comes in. My ideal warrior must be strong of flight and quick on the wing, and here enters the dragon-fly. This element gives the slow breed—for dragon-flies only come to maturity at the end of three years. Does this sound very weird to you?"

"No," Warburton said thoughtfully. "Nothing sounds extravagant to the scientiflc mind. Yours is going to be by way of a water insect as well. Still, even if you have succeded in producing fruitful hybrids, the ideal insect is the work of a lifetime."

"It is the work of exactly three years," Street said quietly. "The problem is solved, and the warm bursts of sunshine the last few days have done it. I have never mentioned the matter to a soul before, but I am going to let you into my confidence. The third generation, the perfected thing, has hatched out in a glory that was beyond all my dreams. Come and see."

Street led the way to the far end of the greenhouse, where a part of the dome roof had been removed. The heat was tempered by the outer air, yet it stood well up to 80 degrees. In one corner was a large gauze wire cage, not unlike a huge meat-safe, and hanging from the far wall were a series of soft-looking balls that closely resembled the nest of the mason wasp, though they were on a much larger scale. The sides of the blotting-paper structures were honeycombed like a sandbank where a colony of martins had built their nests. There was no sound of life until the little terrier hanging on Street's heels snapped at a fly and struck the wire gauze with his paws. Then the unseen colony set up a short, pinging hum, something like the screams of a flight of rifle bullets. From a shelf behind him Street took a little brown mouse from its cage. Swiftly he lifted the door of the exaggerated meat-safe and deposited the mouse inside.

A moment later and an insect darted from one of the honeycombs. The darting beat of its red wings hummed in the silence of the greenhouse like a hawk. Warburton was loud in his admiration—he had never seen anything like it before.

The creature was some nine inches from tip to tip of those wonderful translucent amber and purple wings. They trembled and flashed like jewels in the light. The body of the insect was some five inches, marked like a hornet for half the distance, the tail being covered with fine, down-like feathers, and tinted from bright red to brilliant peacock blue. The eyes were of deep green, the long legs were curved as the talons of a hawk. Warburton's admiration was absolutely justified and sincere. He had never seen anything like it before. It was so beautiful and yet so repulsive, so soft and noiseless, yet so tigerishly suggestive.

"You have not boasted in vain," he said. "Your hybrid is perfect, if, as you say, this is the third generation. Born here from the parent stock? Then there is no limit to the monsters of scientific creation. Is—is he dangerous?"

By way of reply. Street pointed to the mouse huddled up on the bottom of the cage. The little animal seemed to be half dead with fear. The big hawk poised over him, swooped delicately, and his curved beak seemed to meet for an instant in the fur of the tiny rodent's shoulder. It was all in the twinkling of an eye, the brilliant fly was poising again, but the mouse was dead... Hardened scientist as he was, Warburton could not repress a shudder.

"They're hungry," Street said in his level voice. "What do they eat? Insects mostly. They are particularly fond of mosquitoes. Those fellows are going to exterminate them. They are only a means to an end. But they will eat honey and small grain and fruit. Mind you, there is a crumpled rose-leaf in every couch, and the poisonous quality of those fellows is a little beyond my expectation. I suppose it is the mixture of the acid poisons of the tarantula and Mexican hornet in their blood. Would their bite be fatal to man? Yes, it would. There are over ten thousand of those fellows in that collection of nests, though you would not think it. When I have succeeded in reducing their poisonous qualities, I shall export them to the mosquito swamps, and I'm much mistaken if they don't root out the mosquito and their tribe pretty quickly. Fancy that little beast getting loose in England at this time of year! Fancy a full nest of them in any hedgerow in the autumn!"

Warburton did not fancy it, and shuddered again. But the scientist was uppermost at the time.

"I should like to have a look at that mouse," he said. "I should like to know precisely the qualities and quantities of the poison that killed him. I'll take the body to Longstaff, and let him make an analysis, if you like. I fancy it would be worth while."

The idea struck Street as a good one. Very carefully he lifted the door of the cage and reached for the body of the mouse. But the little terrier was before him. The dog rushed in, banging furiously against the side of the cage. Street rose, unthinkingly, in his desire to recover the dog, so that the cage rocked and reeled, and with a scream as of a thousand flying bullets, the great quivering insects came pelting from the nests. How it all happened nobody knew. Warburton could never tell, but an instant later the cage was overturned, and the dome of the glasshouse was alive with a swarm of some thousands of the great insects. They rose higher and higher, darting and weaving in and out like a lovely pattern of perfect colouring. The humming scream of their anger was almost majestic. Faint and sick, Street was bending to and fro, holding his arm as if in some deadly pain.

"Quick!" he gasped. "I'm done for! One of them got me through the wrist. I had more or less been prepared for something of this kind. Look at the last few pages of Volume VI. of—"

Street collapsed on the floor, his sentence unfinished. Whether he was dead or alive Warburton did not know—he did not even seem to care. He was too fascinated to be frightened—he could not keep his eyes off that tangled, angry mass of lovely colour up in the dome. Death and destruction and hideous nightmare of terror lurked there. Then one of the amazing creatures darted through the dome light and poised in the air, the great purple and gold and amber cloud followed, and shone in the open air like some glorious rainbow of hues. And Street lay there dead and stark at the feet of his colleague.

Warburton crept outside, feeling sick and faint and shaky from the play of his imagination. Here was a deadly peril, such a peril as was sure to follow sooner or later upon the attempt to destroy the balance of nature. If a thousand or so of man-eating tigers had been let loose in Sussex, the effect, would have been less deadly and more paralysing than the escape of those beautiful insects. They were darting and playing now like a nimbus about the crown of a group of elm trees. Warburton could hear the pinging scream of their wings. They looked unutterably beautiful in the brilliant burst of sunshine, a thing of beauty terribly fascinating. But if they began to attack human life!

It would be impossible to fight the winged queens of the air. They could go like the wind whither they listed, bringing death and destruction everywhere. They were built for rapid flight—they might hold London captive one night and strike terror into Birmingham the next.

But Warburton had to pull himself together, he had to think of Street. The professor was dead enough, there were four or five livid red and white spots on his neck, as if the flesh had been cruelly gripped by a pair of pincers. The victim lay there quite peacefully, with a shadowy smile on his face. Death must have come very swiftly.

With the aid of a gardener, Warburton conveyed the body to the house. It was necessary to go through the formula of sending for a doctor, and that was a matter of time. Warburton would fetch his own man from town. This was outside the ken of the general practitioner. If only the trains had fitted in a little less awkwardly! Was there such a thing as a cycle about the house? The professor's motor-cycle was in its accustomed shed. Warburton grasped at the idea of action. He could ride to town on that. Anything to be doing something. Probably he would be back again before the local man arrived. Warburton sped along by way of Redhill and Reigate in the direction of London. It was borne in upon him presently that the roads were strangely deserted for the time of day. Nothing could be seen or heard for a long time, till the crest of a rise in the road disclosed a motor standing outside a blacksmith's shop. Warburton could hear the car humming as he raced along.

Two men coated in leather and hideously masked, racing men evidently, stood just inside the door. There was an air of excitement about them that Warburton did not fail to notice. One of the grotesque figures hailed him. From the Rembrandt shadows of the smithy a pair of hobnailed boots protruded, as if the rest of the owner had fallen there, overcome with beer.

"He's dead," one of the motor men jerked out. "Pulled up here just now for spanner, and found him lying like that. Have you seen anything of them?"

Warburton guessed what was meant. On the hood of the car he could discern a squashed yellow and red body or two, then caught in the sunshine the flutter of gauzy amber wings.

"Delirium tremens, gone mad," the other man said shakily. "What do you say to the car being attacked by a million of insects as big as a partridge and coloured like a poet's dream? Loveliest sight I have ever seen— at first. I made a grab at one, and he bit through my glove as if it had been a rose-leaf. Then the whole blooming lot made for us—quite a million of 'em. Frightened? Well, I should say so. But we were in armour, so to speak, and managed to beat them off. Got a couple of beautiful specimens, too, as dead as Queen Anne. And then we find the blacksmith dead, too. Perhaps they went for him.

Warburton fought down the physical sickness that seemed to hold him in a grip. As he dragged the dead smith to the light, he did not fail to notice the pincer-like mark on the flesh of the swarthy neck. One of the squashed hybrids was tightly grasped in his hand. Warburton asked feebly which way the swarm had gone. The motor driver pathetically requested to be given an easier one. Despite his forced hilarity, he was shaking like a leaf. He affirmed that he wanted London badly.

"And so do I," Warburton said between his teeth. "As it happens, I can tell you all about the business. Find the spanner and make your repairs. It sounds inhuman, but we must let that poor fellow lie there for the present. Get a move on you. I'll come along."

But the news had reached London first, the whole grotesque, maddening tragedy was being yelled by the newsboys along the Embankment. There was a telegram at his rooms waiting for Warburton from Crawley, saying that the inquest on Street would not be for a day or two, contrary to precedent. Before eight o'clock, the family of the unhappy smith had been interviewed; there was a column from an eye-witness, who had watched the attack on Mr. Cyrus A. Blyder's motor. A taxidermist in Holborn had a specimen of the deadly hybrid in his window, and the police were busy at the spot. Warburton himself was given over to the interviewers, who literally tore him to pieces. He had not meant to say anything, but he did not know the manners of the class. As a matter of fact, he told everything—and a great deal more.

The odd millions who had gone to bed overnight in ignorance of the new terror had it served up piping hot for breakfast next morning. A few more odd tragedies had dribbled in during the small hours. A rabbit-poacher at Esher had blundered into the clutch of a swarm sleeping on an elder bush, and his body, terribly distorted, had been found by a half-imbecile colleague in crime. Such is the effect produced on the nation by a cheap, pessimistic Press that thousands of people absented themselves from work during the day. But as the hours crept on, courage returned till midday, when the news spread like wildfire that a number of insects had been seen in a confectioner's shop in Regent Street. Curiosity overcame fear for the moment, and a rush was made westward. Surely enough, the news was true. Half-a-dozen pretty shop-assistants stood pale and frightened on the pavement, inside the shop something was humming and pinging and darting like a beautiful humming-bird poised over a vase of flowers. Presently something boomed overhead like the zipping song of many telegraph-wires in a gale of wind, and, as if by magic, the smart confectioner's shop was a veritable aviary of the beautiful hybrids. A thoughtless 'bus-driver made a slash at a darting insect with his whip, and instantly the gorgeous thing hummed at him and struck him in the throat.

With a scream of fear and pain, the man dropped from his box and lay writhing in the road. It was a crisp, clear day, but the unhappy driver was bathed in perspiration. He seemed to be frantic, half mad with the pain that he was suffering. He tore wildly at his collar, his lips were dripping with foam. But he did not die, as the professor and the smith had done, though the maddening pain was likely to produce complete physical exhaustion.

"He can't endure agony like that much longer," someone said, pushing his way through the crowd. "I'm a doctor. Bring him along to the nearest chemist's shop. This is a case for the hypodermic syringe and ether. It may be the means of saving the poor fellow's life."

There was no occasion to ask the crowd to stand aside. Fear had overcome curiosity, and the mob had melted into the air. The loot of the confectioner's shop was pretty well done by this time, the darkening air was humming again with the darting hybrids. Like wasps and bees, and others of their tribe, they might have been expected to seek some dark corner for shelter and rest, but possibly the glare of the electric lights had excited them. Never, perhaps, had the streets of the West End been so deserted as they were now. London had scuttled home like a colony of frightened rabbits directly darkness had set in; a creeping policeman or two along the Embankment discovered here and there a solitary hybrid banging his beautiful head against the arc lights, the buzzing of its wings making a weird sound.

All the same, the legislators of the country could not stand still merely because a brilliant and eccentric scientist had invented a new hybrid by the process of insect grafting. Most patriotic members of Parliament walked to their duties, for coachmen generally had flatly refused to turn out in the dark. The theatres might have closed their doors, for all the business they were doing; the music-halls were deserted. Some genius had suggested the arming of the police in Parliament Street with rackets, and this had been done. There had been up to ten o'clock a total bag of sixty hybrids. And there were still some ten thousand of them at large in London.

About ten o'clock the serenity of the House of Commons was marred by sounds of distress proceeding from the direction of the kitchen. A flying squadron of the hybrids had attacked the provisions there, and had been driven off by the pungent smoke of burnt brown paper. They came darting and hawking along the Corridor into the Chamber itself, poising high overhead like a flight of beautiful birds. The hum of their wings spoke of anger. An honourable member paused in his speech, and hastily made a truncheon of the newspaper from which he was quoting. Two of the gleaming terrors came in angry conflict, and dropped flopping and struggling on the table in front of the Speaker.

Dignity could stand it no longer. There was a mad rush from the Chamber. Outside, a big, sweating policeman was vigorously fighting off one of the foe with his racket. Professor Clements, member for St. Peter's, turned the collar of his coat up and called for a hansom. But no hansom was to be seen, so the savant had to make his way to Warburton's lodgings on foot. Warburton, tired and fagged, had just returned from Crawley. He had been down to the inquest on Street, he explained. Of course, the inquiry was adjourned, as it was likely to be many times yet.

"That's what I came to see you about," Clements said. "It is pretty fortunate that there is one man who can tell me the source of this diabolical invasion. What beautiful, Satanic things they are! And yet the whole idea is so disgustingly horrible. Fancy one of those things dropping on your face when you are asleep! The mere idea fills me with terror. Surely, Street must have been mad when he was inspired by this thing."

"I don't think so," Warburton said thoughtfully. "The root idea was logical enough—a way of exterminating the malarial insect with a slow-growing hybrid that man would successfully combat afterwards. I have no doubt that Street foresaw some such danger, and had schemed a way of meeting it. But, unfortunately, he had not time nor opportunity of telling me."

"Then you think that there is some way out of the mess?" Clements said. "If they were wild beasts, or anything of that kind , if they were merely malarial germs that we could fight with recognised weapons! But with those wonderfully flighted insects we are quite powerless. In eight-and-forty hours they will spread all over the kingdom. Having some of the habits of the wasp, they will break up into colonies and build nests. And what human agency have we to fight those nests? The loathsome, lovely creatures may take it into their heads to make an enemy of man. Good Heavens! the mere suggestion throws me into a cold perspiration."

"I dare say we shall find some way," Warburton began feebly. "And no doubt—"

"Yes, but the horror of it! You think that Street—"

"My dear fellow. Street was no blind enthusiast, who let his heart get the better of his head."

"Have you thought of looking amongst his papers and notes for anything likely to?"

Warburton jumped to his feet with a cry. A sudden light had broken in upon him.

"What a dolt I am!" he exclaimed. "I never thought of that. Why, as soon as the accident happened, Street turned to me and said something. What did he say? Ah, yes. 'Look at the last few pages of Volume VI. of—' alluding to his diary, no doubt. Come along, Clements."

"Where are you going at this time of the night?" Clements asked.

"Crawley," Warburton cried. "To inspect Volume VI. of poor Street's diary right away. We must get there at once, if we have to take a special train."

As it turned out, the special train to Crawley was necessary. It was no time for nice ceremonies, and Warburton ordered it without delay. An anxious superintendent stated that the enterprise would cost the voyagers nothing.

"Our directors ought to be glad to place half of our stock at the disposal of you gentlemen," he said. "Anything so long as you are trying to put an end to the state of terror. Why, since early this afternoon our main line of trains have been positively empty. Nobody is coming to London at present. A few insects holding up a big city like this! Seems almost incredible, doesn't it?"

It did, but there it was. Still, there was consolation in the idea that these two scientists were doing something as the special flew on into the darkness. There was a momentary stoppage at Three Bridges owing to a mineral train on the track; there was an unusual bustle going on in the small station, considering the time of night. Warburton leant eagerly out of the carriage windows. A couple of porters were busily engaged in pouring a stream of water from a hydrant into one of the waiting-rooms.

"We've got three of those beastly flies in there," the stationmaster explained. "We're trying to drown them out. There's a nice crisp touch in the air to-night."

Warburton started as a sudden idea came to him, but he said nothing to his companion. They were very silent until Street's house was reached. The place was absolutely deserted, for the servants had vanished. Nobody could be persuaded to face the hidden dangers of the house. Who could tell what dreadful monster would rise next? Street's body had been conveyed to an adjacent hotel, his own place was dark and desolate. Warburton settled the matter by breaking a window and entering the house that way. He fumbled about until he touched the electric switch, and presently the whole place way flooded with light, Street had had a full installation even into the greenhouses.

There were cases and cages all over the house. Even in what was the drawing-room Warburton and his companion could see those great safe-kind of arrangements from which the deadly hybrids had escaped. Clements idly rattled one with a stick, and instantly the whole structure hummed like a hive of angry bees. Quaint things like little flying lizards darted against the bars.

"This is as bad as delirium tremens," Clements murmured. "Now, what are those abortions, for instance? Are they intended to be for some good purpose, or are they as deadly dangerous as the hybrids? We dare not pry too far, because we don't know. And the only man who does know is dead. To clear the place and render it safe—why, good gracious! there may be thousands of eggs and larvse hatching at this house, not necessarily dangerous in their present condition, but—"

"I've found a way to deal with them," Warburton said hoarsely. "It's a desperate, not to say a drastic, remedy, but we shall have the approval of the State. Let us get this creepy business over as soon as possible, Clements. Come to the library and find the diaries. I am hoping that we may discover the balm of Gilead there."

The amateur housebreakers were only concerned with the sixth volume of Street's diaries. There was a mass of figures and calculations there that conveyed nothing to anybody but the writer, but towards the end of the paper-covered volume came something like a concise account of the apotheosis of the hybrids. At some length the origin of their being was set out, and then the measures by which they were to be successfully combated when their work was done.

"By Jove! the thing is fairly simple," Warburton cried. "I can see nothing here that speaks of an antidote to the bite of the creature. But they can be rendered harmless by the application of ammonia and eucalyptus to the skin—in fact, Street says that they will fly in terror before it, I should like to see the experiment tried. Come to the laboratory."

The necessary ingredients were found and mixed in the proportions set out, and then were rubbed by each man on his hands and face and neck. It was just possible that a close search of the greenhouses would discover another case of the beautiful hybrids. There were many cages picked out by the flare of the electric light, and many strange colonies of insects disturbed, before Warburton's eyes lighted on one of the zinc safes with a couple of the peculiar blotting-paper nests inside. A vigorous shaking filled the cage with a tangled, angry knot of dazzling colour. The screams of vibrating wings hummed in the air. Beating down the terror that possessed him, Warburton thrust his hand into the small door at the top of the cage. The insects darted back from him, one hit the top of the cage and fell back upon his sweating, pungent palm. It was all he could do to keep from screaming. It was hard to have full faith in the dead man's remedy.

But nothing happened. The great insect lay on the sticky palm, its wings palpitating gently. The long, beautifully marked body was bent backwards, then the wings were absolutely stilled. Warburton pulled his hand from the cage and dropped the hybrid on the floor.

"Dead," he said calmly. He was outwardly cool enough, though his lip was torn where the teeth had met it. "Dead as a door-nail. Paralysed by the odour given off from the compound, I expect. Clements, we've got to see this thing through now. You keep those diabolical flies stirred up to a pretty passion whilst I get a spray. We'll try it on the whole lot."

Clements nodded his approval of the suggestion. With a stick he kept the hive in a state of commotion. The wings of the creatures screamed angrily, the whole space was a dazzling flash of kaleidoscopic colour. It was very repulsive, and yet strangely, weirdly beautiful. Warburton came back presently with a fully charged bottle of spray in his hand. At a distance of a yard he proceeded to discharge the fine spray into the cage. The effect was like magic, the scream of those opalescent wings ceased, on the instant a cloud of insects sank to the bottom of the cage and lay there, a tangled heap of dead creatures. Warburton broke out into extravagant joy.

"Settled the whole business," he said. "In the cause of science, mind you, it is a pity. In the interests of humanity we should have preserved some of those creatures. But the country wouldn't stand it—the terror is too great. Still, if we can show the people quickly there is a sure and certain way out of the danger, why—"

Better not," Clements said thoughtfully. "No good ever came yet, and no good ever will come, by interfering with the balance of Nature. The demon that scotches the demon is always the worst demon of the lot. The winged terror has been bad enough, especially now that the master hand controlling it is no more. Street was thorough in his methods, he was a fanatic in the cause of science. And Heaven only knows what new horrors are concealed in those breeding-cages, and the larvae we found in those novel incubators in the boiler-house. Street knows, and he is dead. If we destroy everythinig—"

"We are going to," Warburton said grimly. "Let's go and find a bed somewhere— my nerves are pretty steady, but I would not sleep in this house for a V.C. Come along."

Warburton got through to London on the telephone early the next day, and the result of his interview with the Board of Agriculture and Spring Gardens was quite satisfactory. He would be back in town as earlv as possible, he said. But, meanwhile, there was much to be done. He was going to take the law into his own hands. A load or two of straw and a few gallons of paraffin were all that Warburton needed. Half an hour later, and Street's late residence, including his long stretch of glass, was a mass of calcined ruins. What secrets those grey ashes held would never be known...

It was late in the afternoon before Warburton and Clements reached London. There were more people in the streets than there had been yesterday, for the secret of the cure had been proclaimed, and some of the bolder spirits were venturing out again. The air reeked with the smell of mingled eucalyptus and ammonia. One of the evening papers had an account of the manner in which a County Council labourer covered with the mixture had tackled a score of the hybrids in a Mayfair house, and had overcome them with the greatest ease.

But there were nearly ten thousand of the insects to be accounted for, and people generally had not forgotten the horrors of the past few hours. A large concourse of interested spectators had gathered in the operating-theatre of the Metropohtan Hospital to see Warburton deal with a few of the hybrids taken in the butterfly nets for the special occasion. Half an hour later, an eager throng of men were scouring London, prepared to deal with the evil, when met. The run on ammonia and eucalyptus severely taxed the resources of the chemists' shops. Warburton looked thoughtfully contented as he walked to his rooms. He saw that the sky was clear, and that the sun was going down like a red ball in the west.

"The elements are coming to our assistance," he said. "If this weather goes on for eight-and-forty hours longer, the situation is absolutely saved. I'm sending a letter to the Central Press and Press Association to-night, asking them to see that it appears in every morning and evening paper in England to-morrow. See you later."

It was exactly how Warburton had hoped and asked for. His letter called attention to the fact that a severe frost seemed imminent, and that it looked likely to last for a day or two. If the frost maintained itself, it would be the duty of every householder to search his premises, and see that they entertained no specimen of the deadly hybrid. If they were driven out of doors, the first sharp frost would be fatal to them. They were bred practically from tropical insects, and therefore they could not stand cold. At the same time, it would be only prudent to see that the insects were quite dead, and not merely torpid. It was necessary, also, for everybody who found even one of the hybrids to report the fact to the Board of Agriculture. Not one of them must be left alive. An open window and the faintest touch of

ammonia and eucalyptus would be sufficient to drive the insects into the open air.

At the end of twenty-four hours the figures began to come in. Between London and Bedhill over eight thousand five hundred of the insects had been found, either dead or torpid, a great number of them being discovered clinging to the arches of the bridges over the river. The wave of terror rolled back, and London became itself again. To the satisfaction of everybody, the frost continued, so that on the morning of the second day over nine thousand seven hundred and fifty of the lovely hybrids had been accounted for. An odd specimen or two drifted here and there for the next week, and then eight days passed without further result. Beyond the few specimens kept and preserved at South Kensington, none remained.

"I fancy the danger is over," Warburton said to Clements, as they lunched together a few days later at the Athenaeum Club. "And yet it seems a pity, too."

"Great pity," Clements agreed, "It's a thousand pities, too, that Street died in so tragic a manner, for, unless I am greatly mistaken, a great secret perished with him. I would have given much to see the fight between the hybrids and the mosquitoes on the Gold Coast. And yet the situation would not have been without its terrors."

"What do you mean?" Warburton asked.

"Well, those hybrids would have increased in size in that congenial atmosphere. They would have developed habits of their own. And Street, after all, was working on a theory. Fancy a dozen of those hybrids as big as an eagle—"

"Don't!" Warburton shuddered. "The horror was quite bad enough as Street evolved it."

THE END

THE LUCK OF THE GAME

ILLUSTRATED BY GILBERT HOLIDAY

Published in The Windsor Magazine, Vol. XXVI, Sep 1907, pp 427-435

I

IT seemed to Jack Clifford as if a lid had been shut down somewhere and the noise and roar of London stifled out of existence. Everything was so quiet there, so different to what he had imagined the interior of a newspaper office to be. There was no bustle, no struggling or noise, merely a suite of silent, green rooms where men worked feverishly under the light of shaded lamps. Wickham, the editor of the Daily Herald, welcomed Clifford into his own sanctum and indicated a chair.

"I hope you don't mind," he said. "As a matter of fact, I have sent for you professionally. To put the case in a nutshell, we have been receiving from time to time exceedingly valuable pieces of news from a mysterious old man who calls himself Levetsky. I don't mind telling you that I regard this as a nom de plume. The man has been to see me more than once, and he always comes with something very startling in the way of news, especially news relating to the Eastern Europe problem."

"Your paper appears to be very well served in that respect," Chfford said. "On more than one occasion you have fairly startled London. That letter from the Kaiser, for instance."

"My dear fellow, that was no thanks to our enterprise. A verbatim copy of the letter was supplied by this Levetsky. He would accept no payment, he refused to give any account of himself, and left us to publish it as we liked. You see, we have always taken the side of the Progressive Party in Russia, and I understood Levetsky to say that be was merely showing his gratitude. I hesitated for a long time before publishing that letter, but, as all the world knows now, I was perfectly justified in doing so. On no less than six occasions we have brought off the most remarkable coups, and all owing to that extraordinary old man who comes and goes in the most mysterious fashion and who is never wrong. Which brings me to the point. About nine o'clock to-night, Levetsky called to see me, but I was busily engaged then and could not give him an interview. I sent a message down to ask him to come back about half-past ten, to which he replied that he might not be able to do so; at the same time he sent me a few lines in an envelope—I presume, as a guarantee of his bona fides. I tell you I fairly jumped when I read the contents of that note."

As he spoke, Wickham bent forward and whispered into Clifford's ear. His voice was low and impressive.

"I don't want a soul to know this," he said. "According to this morning's papers, the Czar was more or less a prisoner in the Kremlin Palace, practically owing his life to the courage of a regiment of Cossacks. That is what all Europe believes, but Levetsky tells me that the Czar is at present in England and is hiding at Buckingham Palace at this very moment. I tell you, Clifford, this is the kind of "scoop" that makes an editor's blood tingle. Common sense inspires me to trust Levetsky implicitly and make a blazing feature of his information in to-morrow morning's Herald. The man has never played me false yet, and I don't see why he should now, but I have got a fit of editorial stage fright upon me and I dare not risk it."

"I'm not surprised," Clifford said. "I can see your dilemma exactly. Here is a chance of a lifetime, and yet if the information proves to be false, you do your paper incalculable damage. But tell me, where do I come in?"

"Well," Wickham said, "you are the one man in London I can trust in a crisis like this. An old Secret Service man like you is better than half-a-dozen detectives. I quite expect that Levetsky will come back here about half-past ten, and I shall see him and get full particulars. I want you to wait outside in the corridor and follow Levetsky. Find out all about him, and according to your report, so I shall act in the matter of this exclusive information. It does not matter if you fail to make your report to me before half-past one this morning, as we don't go to press till after two,"

Clifford looked up eagerly with the light of battle gleaming in his eyes. Here was an adventure after his own heart—something dark and mysterious, and with a strong suggestion of danger about it. He nodded briskly.

"You can count me in," he said. "I only wish I was dressed better for the part. One does not generally go off on this sort of excursion in an opera-hat and a dress-suit. Still, I dare say I can manage to borrow an old overcoat from one of the staff."

The matter was arranged to Clifford's satisfaction. He waw still talking to Wickham when an assistant came up and whispered something to his editor. The latter turned immediately to Mr. Clifford.

"Here's our man," he said. "If you wait outside, you will get a glimpse of him as he comes up the stairs."

It was too dark in the corridor for Clifford to get more than a hazy impression of the visitor. He was of medium height, and would have looked taller but for a painful stoop in the shoulders. He dragged his left leg after him as if it had been maimed in some accident; altogether he suggested an old man who had suffered much by contact with the world. The slightly aquiline features were almost smothered with a mass of black moustache and beard, the eyes were hidden beneath the shadow of a large-brimmed hat; altogether the purveyor of exclusive information bore a strong resemblance to the typical Nihilist of the stage.

It was half an hour later before Chfford had an opportunity of shadowing his quarry. The old man passed down Tudor Street on to the Embankment and turned presently into one of the walks beyond Temple Gardens. The electric lights cast clean shadows of the trees on the gravel, beyond the shrubs where was an inky mass of darkness. The old man limped along for some time, with Clifford strolling some twenty yards in the rear, then he turned round suddenly and waited till the amateur detective was alongside. It was quite clear to Clifford's mind that Levetsky meant to speak to him.

"You will pardon me," he said, "but I am going to ask you to do me a favour. It is only a small matter."

Somewhat to Clifford's surprise, the speaker's English was not only correct and bespoke a man of education, but there was a ring in it which proclaimed the fact that Levetsky was accustomed to giving orders and in the habit of being obeyed.

"Certainly," Clifford said pohtely. The adventure was shaping after his own heart. "I shall be only too delighted. My knowledge of London, like that of a certain historic personage in fiction, is extensive and peculiar. My purse, alas! is not so extensive, though it may be equally peculiar. Still—"

"Mr. Clifford will have his joke," the Russian said, with a quiet smile. "I think you will admit, sir, that one good turn deserves another. I am not in the least annoyed that Mr. Wickham had me followed to-night; he has the interests of his paper to safeguard, and he was prudent to act as he did. My good fortune lies in the knowledge that Mr. Wickham selected Mr. Jack Clifford to play the part of his detective."

"This is gratifying," Clifford said. "This, if I may so put it, is fame. But I fail to see why I should go out of my way—"

"Precisely," Levetsky smiled. "A little time ago, you were interested on behalf of a certain Cabinet Minister who had become entangled with a lady whom we will simply speak of as the Countess. He wanted to prove what you suspected—that the Countess was no more than a police spy and an adventuress. In this case, luck stood you in good stead, for an anonymous letter which you received enabled you to persuade the Countess that the air of London was dangerous to a constitution like hers. Not to make too long a story of it, Mr. Clifford, I sent you that letter."

"Did you really?" Chfford exclaimed. "Now, that was devilish—I mean, exceedingly thoughtful of you. You may command my services in any way you wish."

Levetsky's manner changed; he became suddenly curt and stern. With a swift, flashing glance around him, he drew Clifford behind a clump of bushes and commanded him to take off his overcoat. Once this was done, Levetsky took a pair of scissors from his pocket, and, coolly untying Clifford's cravat and unfastening his collar, he proceeded to cut away the whole of the shirt-front and neckband, to which extraordinary proceeding Clifford acquiesced without a murmur. It was one of the strange, bizarre kind of things that he was accustomed to himself.

"This is all very well," he said, "but what am I going to do?"

"You are going to be me," Levetsky said. "See, I discard my coat and the scarf which is about my neck, then I place this apology for a dress-shirt about my breast, and tie the collar, so. Also, I take your opera-hat like this, then I slip on the overcoat, so, and button the two bottom buttons. In the darkness of the night I pass for a gentleman going home after dinner. Then I dress you up like this: I place over your face my ragged moustache and beard, then my wig and the slouch hat. When the man who is watching for me by Cleopatra's Needle sees me emerge from the Gardens, he says to himself: 'That is not my man'; then, when he sees you coming out of the Gardens, he says: 'Ah I here is the old fox! Let me follow him.' But I do not want to be followed, because I am going to your Buckingham Palace; on the other hand, I want you to be followed. You will walk straight from here down the Embankment and over Westminster Bridge. Your adventure will not be entirely free from danger, so that if you are afraid—"

"I am not in the least afraid," Clifford said. "On the contrary, I am looking forward to the adventure with great eagerness. If I am kidnapped—"

"Which is more than probable," Levetsky said coolly. "In that event, you must ask your captors to send for Colonel Azoff. Unless I am greatly mistaken, the gallant colonel is an old official acquaintance of yours, and it would be a great misfortune to him if anything happened to you at this moment."

"That is right," Clifford said drily. "A little matter of forgery which would be exceedingly awkward for a member of the Russian Ambassador's staff if the thing became public."

Levetsky smiled with the air of a man who knows all the circumstances of the case. He stood in the darkness; then, as he bent forward and a ray of light flickered for a moment on his face, Clifford could see that his aspect had entirely changed. He was no longer bent and old; he stood there alert and vigorous, his powerful face as if cut in marble. There was a long scar on the left cheek. All this Clifford noted in the winking of an eye. It was not for him to ask questions. He was ready to obey.

"What am I to do now?" he desired.

"Merely to carry out instructions," Levetsky said. "Now that you are figuring in my disguise, I see a resemblance to me which is remarkable. Unfortunately, my enemies have penetrated my disguise, and this is why you are appearing, so to speak, as a wolf in sheep's clothing. I dare say so clever a mimic as yourself could copy my slouch and my limp. All you have to do now is to walk along the Embankment and stroll across Westminster Bridge. As your bishop said in the story, we can leave the rest to Providence."

II

SOMEWHERE or another a clock with a remarkably sweet chime was striking the hour of eleven. Clifford sat up and began slowly to collect his thoughts and review the events of the past hour or so. He could distinctly remember limping across Westminster Bridge; he recollected that he had paused there to look down into the water; the bridge had been singularly quiet for that time of night. There were practically no passengers on foot, so that Clifford seemed to have London to himself. He was enjoying the adventure keenly enough; he half expected at any moment to be pounced upon by something weird in the way of a malefactor, so that he took no notice of two men who came along arm in arm, as if they had just left the Houses of Parliament. In a casual sort of way Clifford could see that they were in evening dress; just before reaching him, one of them paused to light a cigarette. The match went out, and Clifford understood the smoker to say that it was his last.

"You got a match?" he said, addressing Clifford as a man of that class would speak to the derelict.

Chfford fumbled in his pocket; he did not notice that the second man had dropped behind him, and an instant later a grip of steel was about his throat. Something sweet and pungent was crammed into his mouth and nostrils; the whole world fainted away into a kind of easy dream. Clifford's last recollection was the sound of a cab-whistle and the jog-trot of a horse on the roadway.

It had all come back to him now. He was feeling a little dizzy and sick from the effects of the drug, but his head was rapidly clearing, and his courage came leaping to his finger-tips. At any rate, he had not been decoyed into any loathsome den, for the apartment in which he found himself was a singularly well-furnished one, and could only have belonged to a house in the best part of the West End. From the absence of noise, Clifford guessed that he was at the back of the house. He saw that the three windows were shuttered and fastened with iron bars. A closer examination revealed the fact that the bars had been screwed into the shutters. Also the heavy door was locked on the outside. All this Clifford found out for himself with the aid of a box of vestas, then his eyes fell upon the artistic arrangements of electric light, there was the snap of a switch or two, and the fine room was bathed in a flood of subdued illumination.

Clifford surveyed himself critically in a fine old Florentine mirror suspended over the fireplace. Evidently his captors had handled him more or less carefully, for, beyond a slight disarrangement of his wig, his disguise remained intact. He had probably been brought here and placed on the couch to recover from the effects of the drug. The more he looked around him, the more convinced he was that he had been forcibly conveyed to the house of someone who did not lack means and whose resources were ample. A box of cigarettes, flanked by a pint bottle of champagne and glasses, stood on a side table which in itself was an admirable specimen of Chippendale's earlier methods. "This is thoughtful," Clifford murmured to himself. "It would be ungenerous not to accept such a delicate hospitality."

Clifford drank the wine and smoked a cigarette in ruminative silence. It was borne in upon him presently that he was not alone in the house, as he had at first imagined. It had occurred to him that those who were in search of Levetsky had probably hired a house for the purpose of spiriting their prisoner away. But presently Clifford could hear the ripple of an electric bell, the opening and shutting of distant doors, and then a man's voice laughing heartily. The man was not alone, evidently, for his mirth appeared to be shared by a woman, whose delicate treble mingled musically with the bass of her companion. So far as Clifford could judge, the sound came from an adjoining room. Then, as his upturned glance detected a large ventilator, Clifford understood. The ventilator was open, and by means of a trinity of chairs it was possible to look into the next apartment.

This room was furnished, if possible, more luxuriously than the prison-house. A couple of servants in livery were engaged in removing the remains of an elaborate supper, round a card-table by the fireplace two men and two women were seated. Clifford's features expanded into something like a grin as he noticed the face of one of the men there, but the grin became a chuckle as he took in the woman with the diamonds in her hair. Clifford had made up his mind what to do. He removed the chairs and, crossing over to the fireplace, coolly rang the bell.

There was a sound presently as if the card-party had been disturbed; there was a click in the lock, and the door opened to admit a figure, tall and well proportioned. The newcomer was in evening dress; Clifford recognised him for one of the card-players.

"What do you want?" he asked haughtily. "There is everything here that you can possibly require; if you are disposed to be quiet, you will come to no harm for the present."

"It is not the present that troubles me," Clifford said. "I am thinking of the future. What are you going to do with me? I cannot remain here."

"You are not likely to remain here," the other said with a grin. "The air of this country does not agree with you; besides, you are too busy with affairs which should not concern you. Once you are back in Russia, we shall know how to deal with you."

"Oh, indeed," Clifford said drily. "You are perhaps aware of the fact that there is no extradition for political offences in England. "If I choose to object—"

"You will not be in a condition to object," the other man said. "Pouf! The thing is as easy as kissing you hand. You are our brother—our poor brother who is sick unto death. A little more or less of that drug with which you became acquainted to-night, and you are in a condition of practical insensibility all the way from London to Paris. We travel with a doctor from the Embassy who is certifying as to your condition. A little more of that drug, and you wake to find yourself in St. Petersburg. You understand?"

"Oh, precisely," Clifford said. "From your point of view the programme does not contain a single flaw. But in the first place I will ask you whom you take me for?"

The other man bowed and smiled. There was a strange, meaning look in his eyes.

"In diplomacy it is always well to be discreet," he said. "If I ask for you at your rooms, I inquire for Levetsky. I know you by no other name. St. Petersburg will know you by no other name. To go still further, Siberia will know you by no other name; and when you tell the governor of Tobolsk gaol that you are not Levetsky, but —er—a much more important personage, he will laugh at you and place your petition to the Czar in the stove."

"I need not go so far to petition the Czar," Clifford said. "A hansom cab would take me to His Majesty in ten minutes. Pshaw! Do you think I don't know that the Little Father is in Buckingham Palace at the present moment?"

Clifford was enjoying his part in the comedy immensely. He had thrown himself into the part of Levetsky heart and soul. It was a pure pleasure to him now to see the look of amazement and alarm which had spread itself out over the face of his companion.

"What I say is evidently news to you," he went on. "It is probably news to the Embassy also—but send Colonel Azoff to me."

"Azoff?" the big man stammered. "I—I don't understand what you mean. Besides, he is not—"

"Oh, yes, he is," CHfford cried. "He is in the next room playing cards with Countess Czerny. Tell him that if he doesn't come to me at once, nothing can save him from standing in Bow Street dock to-morrow morning on a charge of forging the signature of—well, we need not mention the name of the nobleman."

The listener passed his hand across his forehead as if to gather together his scattered thoughts. He muttered something under his breath and cast a mclassant glance in Clifford's direction. Then he turned on his heel and left the room, carefully locking the door behind him. No sooner had he gone than Clifford buttoned the borrowed coat around him and removed every trace of his disguise, which he carefully stuffed away under the couch. He could hear the whispers and muttered conversation in the next room, but there was no more laughter and no further sounds of gay enjoyment. The key clicked in the lock again, and Colonel Azoff entered the room. Clifford was standing looking into the fireplace, so that it was impossible for the new-comer to see his face.

"What is the meaning of this?" Azoff demanded, "and who are you to send me so insulting a message, by—"

"Softly, my dear Colonel," Clifford said as he wheeled round. "You are always so headlong, so impetuous. You do not seem to realise that I have run a considerable risk, and incurred a considerable danger also, to see you to-night. But won't you sit down? It is so much better than standing."

No reply came from Colonel Boris Azoff, of the Czar's Household. He stood there gnawing at the end of his waxed moustache, his dark eyes fairly bulging from his head. He seemed utterly incapable for the moment of comprehending the fact of Clifford's presence. The latter lay back in an armchair in sheer joy of the situation.

"You are not well," he said. "Something seems to have upset you. You do not seem to understand why I am here—"

"But how did you get here?" the Colonel burst out at length. "We thought—we thought—that we had laid hold, but I must not mention that name. My dear fellow, you are in great danger here. You must get away at once. At any risks, I must clear you out of the house. This is no place for you."

"But where am I?" Clifford asked. "In what part of London?"

Azoff' made no reply. He seemed to be utterly lost in contemplation of a problem beyond his mental grasp.

"I must not tell you," he said presently. "I could not betray a confidence like that. There has been some terrible mistake here. In the exercise of our duty we have been endeavouring to lay hands upon—upon a man called Levetsky. I could have sworn to-night that I saw Levetsky carried into this room—"

"Impossible!" Clifton cried. "The man you call Levetsky is at the present moment at Buckingham Palace, where he is having an interview with your Emperor."

It was the crowning stroke in Clifford's little comedy. He saw Azoff stagger back as if he had been struck with a whip-lash. He saw the great drops standing out on the Russian's forehead. Then, with a wonderful effort, Azoff pulled himself together and threw the door wide open. Silently he beckoned Clifford to follow him into the great wide hall. A moment later and Clifford was pushed violently down the steps into the roadway, and the door was banged behind him. He could hear the shooting of bolts and the rattling of chains, followed by a long ripple of electric bells. Clifford could make out the outline of trees opposite, and a long row of fine houses stretching on either hand. It was just a moment before he could make up his mind to the exact locality in which he stood.

"Belgrave Square," he muttered. "795, Belgrave Square. I must not forget the number. I must find out who lives here. Hi, cabby! I want you to drive me as far as the office of the Morning Herald; an extra shilling if you get me there in twenty minutes."

The cabman grinned as Clifford jumped into the hansom, the horse's head was turned towards the East as they flew along.

III

WICKHAM was pacing restlessly up and down his office as Clifford came in and cast aside his slouch hat and cloak and demanded that someone should take a note to his rooms and procure him a shirt and collar.

"Oh, Heavens, yes!" Wickham said irritably. "You can have a whole hosier's shop if you like. But you look as if you have been having a good time of it. Only do get to the point."

"I have had an excellent time of it," Clifford said cheerfully. "But I know what you want. Our friend Levetsky has not come back, and you are worrying yourself into fiddlestrings as to whether or not you shall publish that important news about the Czar. Well, you can do it; it is absolutely correct."

"Is that really so?" Wickham exclaimed. "You are quite sure of it? But, seeing that there is plenty of time, you might just as well relate your adventures."

Clifford proceeded to tell his story at considerable length. He saw the face of his companion gradually clearing as he went on with his convincing narrative.

"Then I'll risk it," Wickham said. "There is only one thing wanted to round off the account perfectly. Of course, it is out of the question to believe that the man who calls himself Levetsky is no more than an obscure refugee who has suffered at the hands of the Russian Government. It is equally absurd to say that the Czar would come on a secret mission to England merely to meet this clever old man. If we could only get at his name—"

"I have," Clifford said coolly. "I am prepared to bet anything you like in reason that I can give you the proper name of the man who calls himself Levetsky. Mind you, it would be a distinct breach of faith on my part to do so without our mysterious friend's permission. But the first thing we have to do, it seems to me, is to find out who lives at 795 Belgrave Square. Just hand me over the London Directory, will you?"

The volume in question stood on Wickham's desk, and Clifford rapidly fluttered over the leaves. He was not a man usually given to the display of emotion, but his face was a study in astonishment as he bent down once again to read the figures.

"Well, if this doesn't beat me I " he cried. "Number 795, Belgrave Square, owner and occupier. Prince Boris Gassells. Good Heavens, Wickham, if you only knew what I know, what an eye-opener it would be for you! Of course, the name of Prince Boris Gassells is quite familiar to you?"

"Rather," Wickham said drily. "Why, he was the man who last year very nearly succeeded in bringing about a proper Russian constitution. If he had had his own way, Russia would have a parliament like England by this time. As it was, the old official party deliberately conspired to ruin the Prince, and he escaped with his life by getting away to England. I understand that when he arrived here he was practically penniless, for his estates were confiscated. Mark me, if that man had had a better chance, he would have saved Russia, and the official gang knew it. It is any odds, Clifford, that the Czar is here now with the sole intention of settling matters with the Prince."

"You've got it," Clifford said drily. "Wonderful what a grasp a journalistic mind has! At any rate, there is one thing you may be sure of—Levetsky will not return to-night, and you may set about preparing your big 'scoop' with an easy mind. I'll drop in and see you to-morrow evening, and I shall be greatly astonished if I am not in a position to afford you matter enough for one of the most sensational articles that ever bucked up the circulation of a newspaper. Good night."

London seethed with excitement next morning, once the true inwardness of page five of the Morning Herald was grasped. The air was full of rumours which were more or less dissipated as the day went on by an official acknowledgment of the fact that His Imperial Majesty the Czar had paid a flying visit to London for the purpose of consulting King Edward on matters of a private family nature. It was also intimated that the Emperor was already on his way back home, and that he was accompanied by Prince Boris Gassells, and that important constitutional changes were in contemplation. It mattered very little to Wickham what the evening papers had to say. They were welcome enough to their crumbs of late information, for the cake had been his. He was therefore prepared to receive Clifford in a genial frame of mind when the latter put in an appearance at the Herald office after dinner.

"I can tell you the story in a few words," Clifford said. "I gave you an elaborate description last night of what happened to me at that house in Belgrave Square. My main cause for astonishment was the audacious trick played by my friend Colonel Azoff and his companions on the man called Levetsky. Now, you told me that Prince Boris Gassells came to England a poor man. You had utterly forgotten that he used to spend six months of the year in London, and that he had a house of his own in Belgrave Square. After his disgrace he let the house furnished and thus found means to live. On this occasion the house was not let, and the Prince lived there in strict retirement with one old servant, occupying between them a small room in the basement. Colonel Azoff and the other man, whose name I cannot ascertain, wanted to get hold of Levetsky and take him back to St. Petersburg. I know how anxious they were to do that, or I should not have had so striking an adventure last night. But just mark the audacity of these people. They actually obtained possession of the Prince's house and conveyed Levetsky —that is, myself—there where no one would dream of looking for him. They were perfectly safe, as you will see quite plainly. But, mind you, they knew what I only discovered last night, and what you have suspected for some time—namely, that this so-called Levetsky was a man in a much higher position than he pretended to be. My dear fellow, you are very sharp as a rule, cannot you guess who our friend Levetsky really is?"

Wickham shook his head as if the puzzle was too much for him. He turned eagerly to Clifford for an explanation. The latter rose and walked excitedly up and down the room. "Why, the Prince himself, of course," he cried. "Azoff and his companions knew that all the time. They also knew that the Czar was in England, and they were perfectly well aware what he came for. As those people belong to the corrupt Court party, it was absolutely essential to move the Prince out of the way. Therefore they managed to get into his house and plant their own servants there. Then they, fearful perhaps that he should tumble to their scheme, set out to kidnap him and keep him a prisoner in his own residence. The thing was audacious and yet so absurdly simple. As soon as ever I looked at the Directory last night, I guessed exactly what had happened. I had my suspicions before, mind you, for I had a swift glimpse of Gassells when he was changing dresses with me. No wonder, my dear fellow, that this shabby old 'Levetsky' was in a position to come down to your office and give you these wonderful pieces of exclusive information. You will also see why he was so anxious for it to be known that the Czar was in London. Depend upon it, before many days are over, both of us will hear from St. Petersburg, from the Prince direct. And now, my dear chap, if you cannot make a really interesting column out of what I have just told you, why, you are not the brilliant and versatile journalist that I take you for."

Wickham grinned as he reached for a pad of copy-paper and a quill pen. The light of inspiration that gleamed from behind his golden spectacles was striking. He held out a warm hand to Clifford.

"I can't thank you now," he said. "I am going to be exceedingly busy for the next hour or two. Good night, my pearl of Secret Service agents, and pleasant dreams to you!"

THE END

THE BUFF GAUNTLET

ILLUSTRATED BY J. DA COSTA

Published in The Windsor Magazine, Vol. XXVI, Jun 1907, pp 81-89

I

IT was a bitter pill to swallow; still, there was grim satisfaction in the fact that the garrison had been a thorn in the side of Cromwell for three years past. But Basing House had fallen at last, and the great general had engineered the attack in person. The noise and roar of the fight had not yet died away, the chill October air rang to the clash of steel and the bursting of petronels, here and there the conflict spurted up again like a fire that is unquenched.

The rooms of the big house reeked with the smell of powder, on the walls the tread of heavy feet thundered, beyond in the darkness of the courtyard lay a huddled heap of the garrison. Cromwell had been in the thick of the fight a while ago, and now he was no more to be seen. Not that it mattered much, seeing that the house was won and the long siege ended. There was a high wind outside, and the hangings of the walls bellied fiercely to the draught. A woman came scudding across the great hall and ran into the refectory to the right. Colonel Barker's brows knitted as he noticed her beauty and the richness of her dress.

´

"This is no place for you," he said sourly. "You should have gotten away with the rest. Unless it may happen that you are a spy." "I am no spy," the woman said. "I am looking for my husband. If he is here—"

The girl—for she was little more—came to an abrupt pause, as if fearful that she was saying too much. She seemed to be timid and in great distress, though there was a suggestion of firmness in the little mouth, and the big, blue eyes did not lack courage.

"Who are you that comes here in a case like this?" Harker demanded.

"I am Sybil Harcombe, at your service, sir," the girl replied—"wife of Sir Walter Harcombe, who lies either dead or seriously wounded here. I came—"

"You came over here from Harcombe in the thick of the fight!" Harker exclaimed with uplifted eyebrows. "True 'tis that these children of evil do not lack courage. I must tell my Lord General of this. It may be no secret to you, madam, that Cromwell is anxious to meet your husband—a traitor like that."

"My husband is no traitor," Lady Harcombe replied hotly. "He came amongst you with his life in his hands to learn your plans. That he tricked and fooled your master I hold to be greatly to his credit. Do you call your creature Claypole a traitor? And yet he came into the garrison with the foul intent of betraying the house, as he has done."

"Claypole's service was rendered to the Lord," Harker said with a certain sour enthusiasm. "Your man serves the Host of Darkness. If he is here—"

Harker tapped the hilt of his sword significantly. Sybil Harcombe did not need to be told what would be the fate of her husband if he fell alive into the hands of the Roundheads. It was sufficient that he had weaned himself into the confidence of the Protector and gained more than one valuable secret. It was the kind of thing that Cromwell did not forget nor forgive.

And there was a new savour in the successful siege in the fact that Walter Harcombe was behind the walls of Basing House. A fresh blast of wind shook the arras again, a sound of strife burst forth, a man cut and bleeding staggered into the room. There was a sally of the garrison, a last despairing effort in the courtyard, he said. With something on his lips that would have passed for an oath from a Cavalier, Harker hurried away. The heavy door banged sullenly behind him, but still the arras stirred. Then a slim hand with rings upon it pushed the heavy stuff aside, and a voice whispered the name of Sybil. She crossed the floor as quickly as a fawn.

"Walter!" she whispered. "Walter! Surely God is very good to me to-night."

"My faith! but that is open to doubt, dearest," the man huddled on the floor behind the arras groaned. "Here am I with my sword-arm broken and a hole in my leg as big as a Roundhead's hypocrisy. I managed to crawl here with all the fight gone out of me, and old Noll standing there not ten yards away, looking as if he's lost his self-respect and found his true value. If he had only known!"

Sybil Harcombe shivered as she bent down and kissed the speaker. The spirit and flush of conflict had not yet quite died away, the clash of steel could be heard, and the sounds of musketry-firing. The sounds moved as the fugitives were chased from one part of the house to another. When order was restored, doubtless a careful search would be made, and the fate of Walter Harcombe was as good as sealed.

And yet there was a smile on his face, and naught of fear in those dark, insolent eyes of his.

"Cromwell will be back again," Sybil whispered. "'Tis said that he had raised the siege two days ago and pressed north, where he and his Ironsides are badly wanted, but for it that you were within the walls. Though why he has so fierce a hatred of you—"

"Because I know too much, sweetheart," Harcombe smiled. "There were private papers I became possessed of—the story of an early youth, none too well spent. Ecod, mistress, that man is at heart still one of us! Is he not the grandson of old Sir Harry Cromwell, of Hinchinbrook, who was the very pink of what a good Cavalier should be? Did not my father hide Noll himself at Harcombe Place what time—"

"Hush!" Sybil whispered. "We are burning the golden moments. They know not how I came here, they know nothing of the passage from here to Harcombe Place. Lie there till I see that the coast is clear. There is no time to be lost."

Sybil sped away, as if eagerly and piteously looking for some dead friend. The last embers of the fight had been stamped out under the heels of the Ironsides, the guard had been set in the big courtyard. Colonel Harker and the rest were making a hasty meal in the hall. Sybil came back presently with her finger to his lips.

"Come on," she said. "With the blessing of Providence, we shall reach the staircase. Lean on me, dear husband. Courage! You are worse hit than I thought for. But once at Harcombe Place, and you shall have all the attention possible—"

They crawled painfully across the hall and up the flagged staircase. Sybil had snatched off her husband's wig and wrapped him in a cloak that she had taken from a Parliamentary soldier, who had no need of such things in future. These were stern, hard times, and the girl's fingers did not so much as tremble. A big Puritan stood at the top of the stairs, with his petronel in the hollow of his arm. He would have challenged the couple as they came near, only Sybil signed for him to let them pass. Before the fellow could make parley. Sir Walter had tripped him neatly, so that he came clattering headlong down the stairs, and lay yelling and moaning there as if the Father of Lies were after him.

"Now quick!" Sybil cried. "You must make an effort, dear heart. Lean on me; let me bear the whole weight of your body. God be praised, we are here at last!"

With a desperate strength Sybil dragged Sir Walter into a little closet and closed the door behind. She was trembling and wet with her exertions. She fumbled along the wall till her hand touched an iron knob, and on this she pressed, with the result that the stone wall swung round, and a long, dark tunnel stood like the throat of a wolf. As the wall fell back again, there came yells and cries from the staircase. But the danger was past, and Sybil stood trembling in the velvet folds of the darkness, crying now like a very woman. Harcombe's uninjured arm was about her, and she was weeping on his shoulder.

"Come, mistress," he said, "do not give way yet. You are as brave as you are beautiful, and no man can say more than that. The danger is done."

"I am not so sure of that," Sybil said as she pressed forward. "Cromwell used to come here in the brave days—aye, and to Harcombe Place in your grandfather's time, too. Maybe he, too, had heard of the secret passage."

"Maybe," Harcombe said grimly. "But there is another secret at Harcombe Place that is known only to you and I and one other. If Noll comes there, you will know how to act."

"Aye, I shall know how to act," Sybil said with a certain fierce indrawing of her breath. "Whatever happens to me, you shall be saved, because the King has need of you. The knowledge that you possess may crown the King's troops with victory yet. It was a cruel, hard fate that shut you up in Basing House so long. If you had thought of the—"

"Dear heart of mine, I did think of it. But there were traitors in the house. I was watched night and day. And if those traitors had known, they had killed me treacherously and filled the house with Ironsides from Harcombe Place by means of the passage. I tried it once, but the danger was too great."

In the darkness the passage seemed to be interminably long, but the end came at length. Sybil had studied the place till she was as much at home in the pitchy darkness as she had been in broad daylight. Her slim fingers found the spring, a panel slid away, and a dazzling shaft of light came pouring into the tunnel from the hall at Harcombe Place. The old house, with its deep moat—the old house, part of which was below the bottom of the moat—seemed strangely, painfully silent after the turmoil of Basing. Harcombe could still hear the hum of conflict, like a revolving wheel in his brain.

"Get me a cordial, sweetheart," he said— "strong waters of some kind; and then old Andrew shall carry me to bed, for my arm hurts me grievously. It is good to get away from there—in the name of our Lord the King! what is that?"

Harcombe pointed with his long, buff gauntlet to a conical object lying on the oak, gate-legged table in the centre of the hall. It was nothing more nor less than a soft felt hat with a buckle at the side, a strange object to be seen in Harcombe Place, where everything that had the slightest savour of Puritanism was rigorously excluded.

"I am not suffering from any noisome vapours," Harcombe went on. "My mind is quite clear. So, therefore, that is the hat of an Ironside soldier, who is evidently making himself quite at home here in the house of my forefathers—some low scullion who should find a proper place in the kitchen. What has become of Andrew, that he—"

Sybil suddenly laid a finger on her husband's lips. For from the dimness of thestairway an aged servant was signalling violently. The house was strangely quiet. Harcombe caught the suggestion that there was danger of some kind in the air. Sybil crept up the stairs to the old servant, whose face was white and agitated. He looked like a dim vision of fear in the light of the torches in the corridor.

"Whatm is it, old friend?" Sybil asked. "Where does the danger lie?"

"There in the dining-parlour," the old man muttered. "Fierce men searching the house: a party there outside, so that retreat is cut off; and the devil himself in the parlour."

"The devil himself! Andrew, do you mean to say "

"Aye, indeed, my dear mistress. He came just in and took possession, for all the world as if he had been born to it. Nobody else but Oliver Cromwell."

Sybil could scarcely refrain a cry. Cromwell there in the house! How could he have guessed—how could he possibly have found out? Sybil was too astonished to do anything for the moment. Then the vividness of the danger came back to her with startling force. Cromwell was there; he had his bodyguard with him; and only the thickness of an oak door stood between him and the man he needed.

"Where are the servants?" Sybil asked. "Where are—"

"All taken away but me," Andrew said sadly. "I was too old and feeble, mayhap. But the others were swept off as if they had been chaff. Dear mistress, what is there for us to do? If my lord and master tries to escape by way of the open moor—"

"Your master is sorely wounded," Sybil interrupted. "It is only that great heart of his that keeps him going in the face of danger. Did he go far, he would die. And Cromwell may come out of that room at any moment. Get your master away, Andrew get him safe to the hiding-place, whilst I go and parley to gain time."

Sir Walter came very slowly up the stairs. His face was set and stern as he listened, yet his eyes were full of passionate affection as he talked to his wife. He would have said something, but she waved the speech aside.

"It is to be one or the other of you," she said. "I will go and reason with him. If he refuses to listen, which I expect, there must be no hesitation. There is the bare chance that you may get away yet. And if so, send me your gauntlet; let it be the message on the floor. If that comes down, I shall know that you are free. Praise be to God that there are none of our people in the house! It may be 'Good-bye'"

The door of the parlour creaked, and Andrew drew his master back. He snatched the hand of his wife and kissed it passionately. The next moment he had vanished in the darkness of the corridor. With a firm step, and a heart beating none the faster, Sybil slowly descended the stairs. She had her part to play now, and she was not going to flinch. There was desperate danger here, but at any cost the precious life of Sir Walter Harcombe must be saved. It mattered little how Cromwell had come to know that Harcombe had found his way back home, seeing that his danger was going to be as great, if not greater, than that of the master of Harcombe Place. If Walter succeeded in getting away, well and good; if not, the price would be a heavy one.

Quite ready for all that was going to happen, Sybil pushed her way into the parlour. The Protector stood there, moodily poking the wood fire with the toe of his riding-boot. The expression of his strong, heavy face did not change in the least.

"I sent for you," he said. "Why did you not come before?"

There was a harsh command in the question that brought the blood flaming to Sybil's face. Had this rude boor once been the close companion of gentlemen? she wondered. She had heard tales of Cromwell's early youth that did not tally with his middle age.

"I was abroad," she said. "I did not know of the honour before me, or I had been back sooner. Your courtesy and your kindness, sir, touch me to the heart. It is a sweet and blessed privilege that Harcombe Place boasts to-night."

The expression on Cromwell's face seemed unchanged. Sybil caught herself wondering whether or not there was a heart somewhere under that rugged breast.

"Shut the door," he said, unmoved. "Shut the door and let us talk."

"Talk by all means, because we must; but as to the door, shut it yourself, if such is your good pleasure. Have you consorted with kitchen-wenches so long that you have caught the manner of their lives? But I am wasting my time. What do you do here?"

"I came here on an errand that you can guess," Cromwell said. "I came here to seek your husband. How he escaped my men to-night passes my understanding. He was not with the dead nor with the wounded; he was nowhere to be found. That he had been sorely mauled, I had from one who was part of the undoing; and yet he has escaped me. The wounded fox creeps back to his earth. That is why I am here to-night."

"You expected to find my husband waiting for you with open arms?"

"Well, perhaps not that, mistress," Cromwell said, with a near approach to a smile. "If he is not here, then he is not far away. If he comes not here, then he goes to his friend Lord Mornington, at Carew Grange, where there are those who are ready to say 'Nay' to that."

"And if my husband does fall into your hands?"

"Then he will be shot," Cromwell said hoarsely. "An example to traitors, be it understood. We have been too easy with them in the past."

"Oh, yes, kindness of heart is ever your stumbling-block," Sybil said bitterly. "Man, have you no mercy, no feeling, no bowels of compassion? Here in this very house your own grandfather, then old Sir Harry Cromwell, of Hinchinbrook—"

"My ancestors are no part of me," Cromwell interrupted. "It was men like my grandfather, pandering to a profligate and wasteful What was that?"

II

IT was only a grating sound, like the turning of a key in a lock, but it brought the gleam of suspicion in the eyes of Cromwell. Sybil smiled as she saw his hand go to his side. It was good to know that this hard man had nerves and feelings.

"There is no cause for alarm," she said. "I am merely a woman, whose servants have been sent away, and your menials are close at hand. Do not be afraid."

"It sounded like something down below," Cromwell said. "My men are searching there in the vaults and passages in the basement of this old place. Mayhap they are on the right scent; but certain places here have been cunningly contrived. There is the iron cell, for instance."

"So you know of the iron cell!" Sybil cried. "But I had forgotten that you once enjoyed the full hospitality of this house. In return for all that kindness—"

"It is no time to speak of kindness," Cromwell burst out harshly. "When a kingdom as fair as ours is at stake, why— But how should a woman know anything of such matters? I heard a sound like the turning of a key in a lock—it seemed to come from below. I have a curiosity to see that iron cellar of yours."

Sybil smiled to herself. Her face was deadly white now, her eyes gleamed with some strong tenacity of purpose. There was a suggestion of the martyr about her.

"And also the contents of the chamber," she said sneeringly. "You hope to find my husband in hiding there. Well, I have nothing to conceal. Follow me, and you shall know all there is to know about the iron cell. This way, sir."

Cromwell followed, his iron heels clanging on the pavement. Presently Sybil led the way down a long flight of stone steps which gave upon a slimy passage, the walls of which were green with some kind of growth; great drops fell from the arched roof. They were below the level of the moat now, in the oldest part of the house. In times gone by, prisoners had been kept in those damp vaults, unseen and unrecorded crimes had taken place there; for there had been Harcombes in those days whose names were as a white terror to the whole countryside. There were tales and legends still half-believed; but they were being forgotten now, seeing that the head of the family was a popular hero with his people.

Most of the cell doors stood open, but one was tightly closed. The door was of iron, with great brass studs on it, the handle was stiff, and taxed Sybil's strength to the uttermost. Cromwell stood by, impotent to help, for the secret of the door lay in the turning of the handle. The big, iron sheet rolled sullenly back at last, disclosing a black interior. A clanking footstep came down the corridor, and a sour-looking trooper, with a lantern in his hand, strode along.

"Give me your light, fellow," Cromwell said. "There are plenty of lanterns among you, and we need one. Have you found anything yet?"

"It has not yet been vouchsafed to us, my lord," the man said with a snivelling drawl; "but our feet are on the right path, peradventure."

Sybil smiled with some contempt. She took the lantern from the hand of the trooper and, passing up the steps that led to the door, held it high over her head. There was no moisture in the iron cell save for the beads on the walls, and the place was empty.

"There is nothing here," Sybil said. "Had I told you my husband was not concealed here, you would not have believed me. So your memory is a good one, and you have not forgotten some of the secrets of the house. Do you know all about this iron cell?"

The question was put with such significance that Cromwell stared at the speaker. He replied sullenly that he supposed that nothing had been concealed from him.

"Then you are quite wrong," the girl replied. "This cell is sheathed with iron. Do you know why it is so sheathed, whilst the other cells are of plain granite? Do you know why you have to come up a flight of stairs to reach it from the corridor?"

Sybil pointed to the short flight of steps that she and her companion had ascended to reach the iron room. Cromwell nodded, with the air of a man who takes little interest in the proceedings. All he knew or cared to know was that an enemy was concealed here, and that enemy must be driven from his hiding-place and destroyed. The man was doubtless down here in this curious underground world, and the troopers would move him presently.

"I see you don't know everything," Sybil said, "so I will proceed to explain. First, I will shut the door, so that we need not be disturbed... There! Now you are a prisoner; and unless I chose to show you the way, you could never open that iron sheet. I could keep you a prisoner here as long as I liked. Do you understand that?"

"I understand that I have company; and that so long as one is a prisoner, he is not without a companion. Come, mistress, you are concealing something from me."

"Not for long," Sybil said in a hard, even voice; " am going to explain everything. Did you ever hear how the old house was raided by the Hoptons, and their terrible fate?"

Cromwell waved his hand impatiently. He had heard some century-old story of the feud between the Hoptons and Harcombes, and how the castle of the former had been destroyed.

"Ah! it is by no means a dull story," Sybil said in the same hard, even tones. "They came here treacherously in the dead of the night—one hundred and nine of them—and our people fled to the vaults, where they were followed. The foe fell into the trap. And what happened? Next day, one hundred and nine corpses, fair and dark, rich and poor, lay out in the courtyard, and our people buried them. The Hoptons were wiped clean out, and we pulled their castle down stone by stone. Have you heard of that?"

"In my youth," Cromwell said impatiently. "The silly lie of some kitchen-wench."

"It was not a lie; it is absolutely true. And the only loss our people sustained was a young girl who had a hopeless passion for the then ruling head of the family. Somebody had to perish to save the house, and that girl chose to do so. The fact that she was dying at the time made the story the more touching—to people possessed of feeling at all."

"Meaning that I have none," Cromwell said sourly. "What really happened, mistress?"

"Oh. I see that I interest you at last!

The moat was tapped. The moat can be tapped from here, and these vaults and passages flooded with a great rush of water. In time the water would rise until this iron room were filled to the roof; there would be no end to it, because the moat is fed from the lake on the high ground over against Basing village. It was the rush of

those cruel waters that wiped the Hoptons out of existence."

"But the girl need not have died," Cromwell protested. "If she had cut off the flow of water—"

"She could not," Sybil went on. "The pressure from without is too great. Our machinery is too imperfect for that. The raised gates have to be forced down from without. They refused to work on that fatal night because the lake was in flood—a fact that had been overlooked. And so the heroine died, and the Hoptons raided the land no longer. It was a brave thing to do."

"It was a brave thing to do," Cromwell echoed. "For a woman it was a noble act."

"It was. We all think so. She did it to save the house she loved, as I might do it to save the man I loved. What one woman can do, another need not shrink from."

Cromwell started. Moody and preoccupied as he was, the full significance of the speech was not lost on him. The sombre eyes sought Sybil's face keenly. He saw a deadly white face, with a pair of eyes gleaming dangerously; he saw resolution— almost inspiration—and the fact was borne in upon him that his life was in peril.

"Do you mean to threaten me?" he

"No," Sybil said gently. "I mean nothing of the kind. My husband's life is in danger; he is, as you say, sorely wanted. And he is not very far off. Your ferret instinct has not played you false. If my man is taken now, the King's cause would suffer. The King has need of him. His life or death may change the whole fortunes of the day."

"We will not argue that," Cromwell muttered. "Those despatches—"

"And your private papers. It is your pleasure to call Walter Harcombe a spy and a traitor, and proclaim the fact that you are going to shoot him. Now, if you will write a message to your men outside calling them off, and send these roundheaded, prowling rats of yours from the house, I may—"

"These be brave words," Cromwell cried. "Woman, are you talking to me?"

"Aye, I am," Sybil said between her teeth. "And I am going to play the woman to-night. My husband must escape, or I pay the penalty with my life. I did not bring you here to threaten or to abuse. If my husband does not go free under an order from your own hand, you and I die. I will play Jeanne d'Arc to you; I will rid England of a cold-hearted tyrant, who plays the tune of his ambition to the melody of religion. Aye, I am not boasting."

There was danger here, and the great Parliamentarian gripped it. They were locked there together, and the secret of the way out of it was known only to a woman who had lost her senses for love of her husband. Cromwell crossed the cell and gripped Sybil by the wrist.

"There is not likely to be any danger now," he said.

"You think not?" The girl made an effort to free herself. "You may go if you can find the way out. Presently, when the moat is at flood, a great log of wood will glide down past the spies as if the stream had carried it down, and on that log will be my husband. He will get away right under the eyes of your vigilants. If they shoot him down, should he attempt to lower the flood-gates, then your fate and mine is sealed. And I shall be a saint in the memory of my husband. I shall go down to posterity as the woman who rid free England of a tyrant. Let me go!"

Sybil wrenched herself away suddenly and jumped heavily on a square plate let in the floor. She laughed as a hollow clang rang out, and almost instantly the silence of the place was broken with a shock and a roar, as if the whole house were in the throes of an earthquake. Every stone and every stick of timber creaked and groaned; the roaring came nearer and nearer, till the rush of it drowned every other sound. Sybil had been as good as her word; she had tapped the lake, and the flood was streaming through the house already.

Then she crossed over and pulled back the iron door. Already the passage outside, at the foot of the flight of stairs, was a white, foaming torrent. As Cromwell looked, he could see that the seething stream was rising higher and higher.

"Can you swim?" Sybil asked, pointing to the shimmering force below. "You cannot? Well, it would make no difference. Nobody could live in that dreadful whirlpool—the fall is too great. It joins;the river in the water-meadows below the house. See how it is creeping up—up, still higher, till it reaches the floor where we are standing. Oliver Cromwell, if there is any sincerity in your prayers, you will need them now. Look!"

The girl pointed with a steady hand to an object that came turning and twisting with the flood. It was the dead body of a man in full uniform—the trooper who had provided Cromwell with the lantern.

"Aye, well, you have reason to be proud of your work," Cromwell said bitterly.

"I am not proud of the thing which is no better than murder. Yet there is no shame to me when I think of the murder that you have planned. Come, if I can yet save vour life, will you take terms from me?"

It was a long time before Cromwell replied. He did not do so until the shining flood had risen above his ankles.

"You are the stuff that heroes are born from," he said with a certain grudging admiration. "It is because England has need of me, because God has called me to right a great wrong, that I yield. I dare not go and stand in the presence of my Maker feeling that I have betrayed His trust to save my stiff-necked pride. Your husband is free of me if you can stay the crime that you have done."

"I may fail," she said; "but presently the flood will bring me a message. If my husband's buff gauntlet comes down, I shall know that he has got beyond the confines of the house. That was the signal that he promised me. If he has been taken, then you and I die together. Have you ink and powder and a pen in your doublet?"

Cromwell signified that he had writing materials about him. He watched the waters rising almost up to his knees, the fear of death danced before his eyes. Presently along the shining bosom of the floor came the signal in the form of a buff gauntlet. Sybil snatched it np and took a tiny scrap of paper from the bosom of her dress.

"Now write a message on that, and write quickly," she said. "There is no time to be lost. The glove will float down the stream and out on the margin of the water-meadows. Old Andrew will be waiting for it; for Andrew and myself have tried the scheme more than once before, little dreaming how soon we should make use of it... Is that writing done?.... There!"

Sybil flung the glove afar out into the stream, and it slid away beyond the circle of light made by the lantern. Still the water crept up, until it reached the deep chest of the soldier, and nearly to the shoulders of the woman. The flood was very cold; but Sybil made no sign, for within she glowed with the consciousness of a great victory.

The water was not moving now, it came no higher. Had the signal reached its destination? Cromwell asked himself. It was characteristic of the man that be displayed no kind of feeling, and yet his face lightened invisibly as he saw the horn buttons of his coat emerging one by one as the stream began to subside. There was a steady, sucking noise in the corridor, the steps crept in sight one by one, until the floor appeared once more.

"Now, sir," Sybil said. She spoke bravely enough, though a deadly fear was gripping her. "Now we can get to the level of the house again, where no damage will have been done, and you and I can exchange pretty courtesies by the side of a roaring fire. I take it that you feel a certain inconvenience from your adventure?"

"Some dry clothing?" Cromwell said.

"It shall be forthcoming. I pray of you to go upstairs and take the first room to the right. I go to change my own attire. Then perhaps you will permit me to extend my hospitality, seeing that the house is not strange to you. As a mark of my distinguished favour, I have shown you a secret of the house which is not revealed to every stranger. Ah! I hear Andrew."

Old Andrew had come back to the house, his withered face broken with many emotions. When the great Parliamentarian came down to the parlour, clad in dry clothing, he found Sybil awaiting him. Her face was flushed now and her eyes unduly bright. In a deep chair on the other side of the fire sat Sir Walter Harcombe. One of Sybil's hands was on his shoulder, the other he held proudly and lovingly.

"'Sdeath, sir!" he said; "but these be brave times. And so you have measured your wit against that of a woman, and gotten a fall, as many a better man has done before you. Presently, when you are gone, I shall try and tell this dear wife of mine what I think of her. Come, sir, you will drink a cup of the best to the sweetest heroine who ever risked her life for the sake of the unworthy fellow who was privileged to call himself a husband. As a courtesy, as a medicine, as a toast—call it what you will. And shake hands upon it."

"As a toast, then," Cromwell said in a deep voice, as he raised the needed cordial to his lips. "Madam, my profoundest respects to you. But the draught is a bitter one, and my stomach likes it not at all. So if you will suffer me to depart—"

He raised his fingers to his cap and saluted gravely. Then he turned on his heels and quitted the room, clanging the door sullenly behind.

THE END

THE WHITE SPOT

Published in The Western Mail (Perth W.A.), Saturday, 16 May, 1908.

Raybould bit savagely into his cigarette. It was hard work to choke down the words of passionate contempt that rose to his lips.

"Oh, I know," he said, "perhaps it would be better for us to be quite candid. I came to you a year ago with a patent for a new electric heating apparatus. I proposed to supersede coal altogether at a fifth of the price. You have stolen my idea, and now offer me a beggarly sum by way of compensation."

"Ten thousand pounds," the junior partner in the House of Merides said, softly. "A pretty price for a little more than a year's work!"

Raybould could not repress a smile. There was nothing subtle about the business at all. This precious pair were millionaires; both of them on the verge of the grave, and without kith or kin, were just as keen about this piece of robbery as if it had been of vital importance to them, and Raybould was perfectly helpless—he did not need these rascally Greeks to tell him that.

Raybould took another cigarette and sat calmly smoking and taking in the beauty of the place in which the interview was proceeding.

Perhaps their taste had been inherited from a long line of ancestors going back to the old days of Praxiteles and the like, for there was no denying the exquisite artistic feeling of those choice scoundrels. The house at Staines was a variable dream of beauty; not the least attractive portion was the Winter Garden, which was situated in the centre of Staines' Court. It was like some great glass house, with a huge dome in the centre. The whole had been filled with graceful and luxurious ferns gathered from all parts of the world. The scheme of decoration was something novel, for, as far as Raybould could see, the tender green foliage climbed riotously up the pillars and shafts which were raised to the roof, and just for a moment, Raybould could not see from whence the ferns derived their nourishment. To all appearances the delicate tracery climbed upwards of its own volition. The light from outside came filtered through as if the great dome had been covered with a diaphanous curtain. Peter Merides seemed to divine what Raybould was thinking about, for he began to speak of the Winter Garden in tones of almost tender enthusiasm. He must have a heart somewhere under his crust of worldly guile, or his little black eyes would not have become so distinctly and favourably human.

"How do those ferns live?" Raybould asked.

"It is very simple," Merides chuckled. "Our idea was to have a kind of bower of glass literally smothered with graceful ferns. If you examine those iron columns, you will find they are quite moist. They are hollow and slightly porous, so that by forcing water through them it is possible to keep the roots of the ferns wet. If you will look into the dome, you will notice that the lower surface is concave, thus forming a natural tank of water between it and the summit. As for the filtered light that is quite easy, seeing that the whole of the outside of the conservatory had been coated with paint."

"Which wants renewing, by the way," the younger Merides said. "The recent rains have washed some of the paint from the dome. But we are wasting time, Mr. Raybould."

"Are we?" Raybould said between his teeth. "I will come over here tomorrow just before luncheon and let you have my final decision."

With dogged determination and helpless rage in his heart, Raybould made his way the next morning in the direction of Staines Court. Those worldly old sinners had been quite right; he had to think of his debts and his wife, and after a sleepless night he had made up his mind to accept the ten thousand pounds in exchange for an idea that meant a colossal fortune.

Other inventors had suffered at the hands of unscrupulous capitalists, but Raybould found small consolation in this reflection. The bitter smile on his face deepened as he followed the manservant into a small office where Manfred Merides was seated. The latter looked up, and smiled shrewdly in the face of his visitor.

"I felt sure you would think better of our offer," he said. "I will go and fetch my brother. He is in the conservatory."

Raybould nodded as Manfred Merides left the room. The house was very silent: no sound could be heard but the twittering of the birds outside. A moment later and there arose a loud startled cry that ended in a piercing scream. It was worse than the call of a woman in distress, it was the hoarse cackling shriek of a strong man beside himself with terror. At the same moment the brilliant sunshine was wiped off the face of the landscape by one of the passing clouds. Raybould dashed off hurriedly in the direction of the unearthly sound. He could hear once again the hideous tumult which seemed to him to come from the direction of the Winter Garden. There he could see Merides bending over an iron chair, lined with cushions, in which reposed a huddled heap of humanity represented by Peter Merides. The whole place was filled with a sickening smell of burning flesh, a little cloud of blue vapour was curling up to the great dome.

"In heaven's name, what is the matter?" Raybould asked. "What dreadful thing has happened here?"

Manfred Merides staggered back, and would have fallen if Raybould had not caught him. His face was ghastly white, with eyes starting from his head in terror.

"Don't ask me," he whispered. "I do not know. I cannot tell, but I found him like this, my brother. You are a man of science—tell me what it all means."

Stifling a feeling of physical repulsion, Raybould bent over the body lying limp and lifeless in the iron arm-chair. It required no profound surgical knowledge to see that Peter Merides was dead. But he had not died in any way known to medical science. At the first blush it looked as if he had been struck by a flash of lightning, for the great dome-like head had been utterly denuded of all fleshy tissue, and the skull lay exposed. There was no face to speak of, all that had been burnt away, as was the clothing nearly as far down as the waist. If Peter Merides had been plunged headlong into some firey furnace he could not have been more horribly burnt and scarred than he was.

Raybould crossed the room and rang the bell. He gave an intimation to the servant who answered, saying that Mr. Peter Merides was ill and required a doctor without delay. The doctor came presently, but he was utterly unable to throw any light upon the manner in which the Greek financier had met his death. There was nothing for it, he said, but to remove the body to the house, pending the inquest which would have to be held. The doctor was still busy making his arrangements, so that Raybould had an opportunity of inspecting the scene of the extraordinary catastrophe. So far he could see, everything was exactly as it had been on the day before. The iron armchairs were scattered about the tiled floor, a pair of small tables stood there with cigars and cigarettes upon them. There was nothing here to indicate one of the most sickening phenomena that had ever taken place in the history of modern fatalities. Very carefully Raybould examined the seat in which the dead man had been reclining. So far as he could see, the cushions were intact, there was not the slightest sign of singeing or burning about them, and yet, the unfortunate man had been burnt to death beyond a shadow of a doubt. He had presented the appearance of a body so badly scalded as actually to remove the flesh from the bones. Raybould put aside at once the idea of personal violence. To begin with, there was no trace of anything whatever on the damp tiles. They were perfectly clean, and there was no hint of a footmark to be seen. Again, it was impossible to enter the Winter Garden except from the house. Raybould glanced up into the dome, but he could see nothing there besides the graceful feathery ferns climbing so luxuriously upwards. The whole thing was inexplicable, mysterious, horrible—a terrible visitation of God which would probably never be explained.

"I cannot grasp it at all," the doctor said, as he walked back towards Staines with Raybould. "Of course, the inquest to-morrow will only be a formal opening of the inquiry to give us time to thoroughly investigate this ghastly business. We shall want cleverer heads than mine before the affair is explained."

As Doctor Martin had forecasted, the tragic death of Peter Merides occupied public attention to the conclusion of almost everything else. The inquest on the body was a formal one, and almost immediately adjourned for further inquiries to be made. The Scotland Yard authorities frankly owned that they could find no trace of anything criminal in the matter. It appeared the Merides' domestic staff had been in the brothers' employ for some considerable time, and no possible suspicion could attach to them. The footman, who had admitted Raybould to the house gave evidence to the effect that he had answered his master's bell not more than five minutes before the discovery of the tragedy, and he was emphatically sure that there was nothing whatever the matter with his master at that time. He was also quite sure that no one besides himself had entered the Winter Garden. This simple and direct evidence only tended to deepen the mystery. There was nothing for it, the coroner said, but to adjourn the inquiry for a week, and invite the assistance of the College of Surgeons and other highly scientific bodies to aid in the solution of this terrible calamity.

"Nothing will be done, and nothing will ever be discovered," Martin said to Raybould as the two entered the Winter Garden together. "It seems strange to think that so lovely a place as this should be connected with so loathsome a tragedy."

Raybould said nothing. He stood looking upwards watching the play of the light filtering through the roof where the spot of paint had been washed off, and noting how the spot disappeared with the passing of the fleecy clouds. Just for a moment the white spot was almost blinding on the floor, then it vanished as quickly as it had come. In a mechanical way, Raybould proceeded to pick a handful of the choicer ferns. His wife was very fond of ferns, he explained to Dr. Martin, and some of the fronds would be quite new to her. As he said this he stood in the centre of the garden holding up the handful of graceful foliage, so that the sun might shine upon it.

"Are they not lovely," he said "Don't you——"

Raybould broke off, suddenly dazed and confused, for quick as a flash the great, green, feathery mass vanished, and but a few dried, blackened, stalks remained in Raybould's fingers.

"What is it?" he cried. "What devil's work is this? Come out of this, Martin—I don't feel safe here."

Raybould stood with his hands pressed upon the table and glaring at Manfred Merides opposite him. It was strange that both men should look as if they had been through come terribly trying crisis. For some time neither spoke. They seemed to avoid one another's eyes as if perchance they were sharing some guilty secret between them. It was Merides who spoke at length.

"Why did you not come before?" he asked. "It is five days since I wrote you a letter imploring you to come and see me, and yet you took no notice whatever. Why not?"

There was a curious hesitation about Raybould. He might have been on the verge of a confession by the way in which he averted his eyes from his companion. He could see that Merides was haggard and grey; the Greek did not fail to note how pinched and worn Raybould's features were.

'"We will come to that presently," Raybould said at length. "I stayed away because I was afraid. A fortnight has elapsed since the tragedy of the Winter Garden, and we are no nearer to the solution of the mystery than we were at the beginning. You have had the advantage of consulting some of the greatest scientists of the day—men whose opinion carried weight——"

"Scientists," Merides sneered. "Dolts, idiots, fools, they worry me with their jargon, they make calculations, and yet they tell me nothing that is material. I tell you the thing maddens me. I wake in the night, dripping from head to foot. I am giving way to a habit which I have never fallen into before. There is only one consolation, and it is there."

Merides pointed with a shaking hand to the sideboard on which stood a half-empty brandy bottle.

"Perhaps it is Fate," he said. "Perhaps it is a judgment upon us for the way we served you."

"A conscience," Raybould laughed, bitterly. "Another Daniel come to judgment. It is good to know that you realise how shabbily you treated me. But that is not why you asked me to come and see you. You have some proposal to make to me."

"Well, yes," Merides admitted. "The more I think of it, the more sure am I that it is a judgment. I am afraid to move. I am afraid to go into the Winter Garden where my brother perished so horribly. I look in there sometimes. I pause on the doorstep, and yet I dare not go inside. Mind you, I am no coward—ask any man in the City and he will tell you the same thing. Only yesterday I stood there and saw that accursed white spot dancing on the floor—the same white spot that you told me of in the evening of the day on which my brother died."

Raybould looked up with some show of interest. There was just a dash of colour on his pale, pinched face.

"So you noticed that," he said. "Strange that you should have seen it so recently. When the thing comes to be explained, that dreaded spot will be found to be at the bottom of everything."

"I believe you," Merides said. "I believe you have found it out. If you will name your price——"

"The price has already been named for me," Raybould interrupted. "Give me back the child of my brain, and I will ask no more. But you are to put it in writing, or I do not trust you. I would not trust you though you mean every word you say for the moment. Take your pen and paper and reassign to me my patent."

With trembling hands, Merides dashed off some sort of a document, which apparently satisfied Raybould, for he nodded curtly as he put it in his pocket. Merides turned to him with an eagerness that was almost childish.

"Now, come along," he said. "Come and show me at once how the thing was done. Mind you, I am not going to be satisfied with mere explanations—I want a practical demonstration. I shall know no peace till I have seen it."

By way of reply Raybould opened the window and looked out. A long, trailing cloud was passing lazily over the sun. With his watch in his hand, the scientist seemed to be making some calculation.

"You are safe for at least five minutes," he said, "probably more, but I see you are mystified. Still, there is no danger so long as yonder cloud obscures the sun. Now come along."

Merides seemed to accept the assurance, for he followed Raybould without further expostulation. There was nothing in the dim beauty of the Winter Garden to indicate the scene of an appalling tragedy. The graceful ferns twined upwards round the pillars, the subdued light filtered through on to the feathery fronds and trailing sprays. Raybould's quick eye noted a patch of brown stain near the centre of the tiled floor.

"What is this?" he asked. "It certainly was not here on the last occasion that I visited the place."

Merides shuddered from head to foot. He swayed like a man who suffers from some physical sickness.

"I had forgotten that," he whispered.

"It was my brother's dog. He used to sit here at Peter's feet. We could not keep him out after his master died. It was the fourth day after the tragedy that one of the servants heard the dog suddenly cry out and whine as if in pain. A few minutes later and the footman came in to find that there was no dog at all—nothing but a calcined bone or two and a tuft of singed hair. As the master had died so the poor dog had perished. It is horrors like these that take all the life and soul out of a man. I would give half my fortune to know how these things can be avoided in the future."

Raybould made no reply, he was evidently impressed by Merides' latest story, for his hand was shaking, and he looked up furtively from time to time as if foreseeing some danger in the dome overhead. Then again he consulted his watch and proceeded to measure out a circle in the centre of the floor with the aid of a foot rule. Around this circle he drew a thick, black mark with a carpenter's pencil. Merides watched with the most intense interest.

"What is that for?" he asked.

"That is the danger zone," Raybould explained. "Inside there is death, hideous, and instantaneous, outside you are as safe as if you were in your bedroom. But perhaps I had better make the circle a little larger in case of accidents. There, I think that is all right. Now I we have only to wait for the Sunshine. When the sun comes everything will be cleared before you."

Gradually and slowly the long trailing clouds began to slide over the face of the sun until the brilliant light burst out suddenly and the great glass dome changed from a dull pink to a vivid yellow. With the last vestige of disappearing cloud there appeared at the feet of the two watchers a great dancing white spot some ten inches in diameter which flickered and trembled on the tiled floor. It seemed as if the scientist had chained the spot there, for it did not move outside the black circle. Merides fairly clung to Raybould in his excitement and terror.

"I have seen that spot often," he whispered. "I mean often during the last two or three days, but never before my brother's death. Is it dangerous in itself or——"

"It is death," Raybould said, "yet so long as you stand even a hair's breadth outside that circle there is no danger whatever. In these circumstances, the white spot is like a cobra behind a glass case. See here."

Raybould took up an old newspaper from a table hard by and folded it into a square. Very cautiously he advanced the sheet in the direction of the glaring white, there was a little sobing puff, a pale circle of flame and the paper was no more. Just three flakes of white ash rose towards the dome, a second later and the white spot had vanished from the charmed circle.

"What is it?" Merides almost screamed. "What does it mean? And why has it vanished in that mysterious manner?"

By the way of reply. Raybould pointed upwards to the dome which had changed colour once more, and was now a pallid pink hue.

"I thought you would have guessed," he said. "The sun has vanished for a moment, therefore it is impossible to pursue our experiment until this cloud has passed away. Meanwhile, I shall be glad if you will procure me a block of wood—I mean a good-sized log, such as one uses in old-fashioned fireplaces. Do you think you could get one for me?"

"Certainly," Merides replied. His teeth were chattering, he was breathing hard with excitement. "There are one or two large logs in the hall fireplace. I will get one."

The log was procured at length and carefully laid by Raybould in the centre of the circle. He watched it closely until the sun flashed out again and the white disc once more danced and quivered within the prosaic ring of blacklead on the floor. Then he gripped Merides arm and pointed to the log of wood. As the white, dazzling light struck it, the Winter Garden was full of the smell of charcoal, the great log seemed to split and fly asunder, almost in the twinkling of an eye it was no more than a heap of powder.

"There you have it," Raybould said. He was quite himself by this time, calm and self-possessed. "There you have the whole thing in a nutshell. As you saw for yourself, that heap of black powder was a minute ago a sound honest English oak log, fourteen inches in diameter by eighteen inches long. It comes under the direct influence of the white spot, and in less than it takes to tell, it is reduced to nothingness. That is how your brother died, by sheer misfortune his seat was placed where the white spot could fall upon him—he was touched by the devilish thing, and his soul was shrivelled out of his body. Precisely the same thing happened in the case of the dog. After seeing how that log was wiped out of existence, you can understand not only the magnitude of the tragedy, but how it came about. You see how simple it all is."

"But I do not see how simple it all is!" Merides protested. "The effect of the thing is before me. As to the cause I know nothing. I told you a fortnight ago that this Winter Garden has been built for nearly three years. During the whole time there was no suggestion of tragedy, that white spot was never once seen. We have had days of sunshine—many, many of them without bringing a curse like this. You say it is necessary that there should be sunshine to bring about——"

"Yes—and powerful sunshine at that," Raybould interrupted. "You have just reminded me of how you described the building of this garden. Let me recall to your recollection my query to your brother as to how you get the soft, subdued light which is so essential to delicate fern-life. You will remember his telling me that the whole place was painted outside. Do you mind that?"

"Yes," Merides said. "But I fail to see what that has to do with it. A coat or two of paint could make no difference."

"It makes all the difference in the world," Raybould went on. "If there had been more paint there would have been no tragedy, and I should have been the poorer by an invention that means a fortune to me. Cast your mind back again to that fateful interview. When your brother told me the means by which you obtained the subdued light, you reminded him that part of the dome wanted re-painting. He demurred to your suggestion on the ground of expense. I presume he was a man who never wasted a penny where a halfpenny would do."

"He was very economical," Merides muttered.

"Precisely. He would rather have risked a score or two of ferns than spend a pound or two necessary to repair the damage to the dome, probably caused by frost and rain. If you will wait a moment I will show you exactly what I mean. Now is the time."

Once more the sun crept behind the trailing clouds so that it was possible to look upwards to the dome from whence the paint had been worn by time and stress of weather. The disc was perfectly round and exactly in the centre of the dome. It was possible, by looking upward, to see the trailing cloud across the sun.

"Now fix your eye well upon that," Raybould said, "for there is the cause of all the mischief. Three pennyworth of paint dabbed on that disc would make everything as safe as it was before. So long as the sun does not shine there is no peril. But gradually the elements have rubbed that disc smooth and clear, so that it forms the eye of a gigantic lens. Don't you see now that this black circle here is the focus of one of the strongest burning glasses in the world. In other words, the catastrophe——"

"I see, I see," Merides cried. "Everything is clear at last. In the dome is the concave tank of water which is forced up there to find its way down by gravitation to the left hand side of the Garden, and thus feed the pillars clinging to the right."

"That is it," Raybould said. "You have up there a huge lens some six feet in diameter and three feet thick. That is a lens about five times the size of any one used in modern telescopes. When you come to think of it a lens of half an inch diameter is big enough to light a man's pipe. What, then, would be the effect of a huge cylinder like the one in the dome? By some means or another the paint had worn away from the summit, and there you have your focus to concentrate the burning rays on the floor. Mind you, this could only happen during certain times in the summer when the sun is high and powerful. A month sooner or later and the angle of the sun would be different, and therefore, would only cast itself sideways on the big lens, and, consequently, would be harmless. It is a good thing, perhaps, that I hit upon this solution, for a few days later it would have been impossible to have put my theory to the test, and gradually the catastrophe would have been forgotten. Even now, so long as you keep the dome properly painted, no danger can arise. Still, in my case, I should have that deadly water tank removed altogether. And now sir, it seems to me that I have earned my reward. If you think——"

Raybould stepped back suddenly, for the sun had flashed out again, and he was standing unthinkingly within the blacklead circle. He shuddered as he looked upwards and remembered how near he had been to death himself on the day when he had gathered those few ferns. He turned to Merides, but the latter had disappeared. The Greek came back a moment later carrying a rifle in his hands. His lips were compressed and his eyes determined. Pointing the gun upwards, he pressed the trigger. There was a loud report following a blinding flash, and then the clattering smash of falling glass followed by a deluge of water.

"It was the best way," Merides said, "the only way to get rid of that white spot."

THE END

TREASURES THREE

Published in The Windsor Magazine, June, 1912.

TOM MACEY glanced across the room at his wife from under his thick eyebrows as if he were ashamed of something. He was not usually given to the things that men regret, and just at that moment his thoughts were none the less bitter because he really had done nothing to be ashamed of. And now he was actually hesitating at the very time when he ought not to have given the matter a single thought. He would have condemned this hesitation in any other man, and yet, and yet, and yet—

First of all, there was the child to be thought of. She was the only one—a little girl of some four years of age, and the apple of Tom Macey's eye. She ought to have been strong and healthy enough, seeing that both Macey and his wife were made of the stern stuff which has laid the foundation of the British Empire. They were willing and ready enough to share privations together, and they had done so more than once before now. But somehow the child was different. Most of the youngsters thrive in the keen, dry air there beneath the snows of the Colorado Rockies, but somehow or another it was not the same with little Vera. And the only doctor for a hundred miles around had told Macey that if his daughter was not taken away to a milder climate she would die.

It was easy enough to say this, but how was the matter to be brought about? Macey had been mining away up there in One Tree Gulch for the last two years with the most execrable luck. He had all the sanguine temperament which goes to the gold prospector. He was holding on desperately with a feeling that his turn would come at last. The man was not without imagination; he was more impressed by local traditions and Indian legends than he would have cared to admit. He had studied these until he knew them by heart. There were stories to the effect that here and there, on rare occasions in the past, diamonds had been found in some of the canyons away under the spurs of those everlasting hills. Certainly Macey had found here and there a deposit of blue earth which suggested the presence of the most rare of all precious stones. And then his luck had changed, and he found them.

And they were only three, but they were diamonds right enough; Macey knew that, for back in the years of his youth he had spent some time in the Transvaal, and he knew a diamond when he saw it. He found no more; he had not expected any farther dazzling luck like this; but he was well satisfied, for here, if he sold his stones to the best advantage, was a matter of twenty thousand pounds. It was not a large fortune, but, at any rate, it was big enough to ensure luxury and comfort in the future—big enough to enable Macey and his wife to get away farther South and save the life of the child. All these things Macey had talked over with Nell in the evenings. Their plans were fairly forward now. And then the doctor had stepped in with a peremptory command that the child was not to be moved until the weather got warmer.

Macey heard the news in his tranquil, emotionless way, but it hurt him all the same. He knew perfectly well what the doctor meant. It was going to be a close call with the little one. If they could tide over the next two or three weeks the balmy breath of spring would be here and the terrible danger might be averted. The doctor might come along at any time now and utter his final verdict.

But this was not the only trouble. Goodness knows how, but the rumour got abroad that Tom Macey had found some diamonds and that they were hidden in his hut. The arm of the law in those parts was fitful and feeble enough, and more than once during the past two days Macey had had a warning as to the danger of keeping those valuables in a log hut amongst the snows miles away from the nearest habitation. There were three lawless scamps hanging about the neighbourhood, and up to a certain point Macey had said nothing of this to his wife. But returning home that night in the dusk a revolver bullet had pierced a hole in Macey's fur cap, and he knew now that the time had come when he must either run or fight.

In the ordinary way he would not have hesitated for a moment. There was nothing of the coward about him, but he was a married man, and he knew well enough when discretion was the better part of valour. Here he was tied by the leg by a cruel fate; here he was waiting for the doctor's last words, and his life in danger all the time. He might have compromised matters; he might have allowed himself to be robbed; but the mere thought of that sent the blood boiling through his veins and brought his teeth together.

He sat there thinking the matter out. He had told his wife. It was almost impossible to keep anything from her, and, despite all Macey's assumption of cheerfulness, Nell had seen at once that something was radically wrong.

"And now you know all about it, little girl," Macey said. "It is very hard. I can't understand how those chaps got to know."

"You haven't told me who they are," Mrs. Macey said.

"Haven't I? I think you can guess. There's Dick Blake and Ned Carson and Long Jim. If you searched the whole of the American Continent you couldn't find three greater scoundrels than these. And, you see, they have got nothing to be afraid of. There's no law here. Why, those three scoundrels might raid this hut any time, and murder the lot of us. And they would, too, if they weren't just a little bit afraid of my revolver. It isn't for myself that I mind; it's you and the kiddie. Of course, I might go down to Dolvertown and lodge the stones there. I could get there in a couple of days; but, then, suppose the doctor comes when I am away; suppose he wants something in a hurry. You can't do it. I tell you when I think of it my blood fairly boils. If we could only get away and sell those stones we should have plenty of money in future. We could take the child with us away down South, where she could grow well and strong again. You see what a dilemma I am in now. If I go now, and there is no man about when the doctor comes, little Vera may die. If I stay here we may be murdered in our beds by those three ruffians. It is maddening to think that health and prosperity are so near and yet so far away. I have thought and thought till my head aches. And, so far as I can see, there is only one thing to do, and that is to grin and bear it."

"If you were to hide the stones," Nell suggested.

"My dear girl, what is the good of that? It wouldn't prevent those skunks from shooting me on sight, or you either, for the matter of that."

Macey sank into sullen silence. As his wife watched him anxiously a brilliant idea came to her.

"Tom," she cried, "why shouldn't I go? What is to prevent me from slipping away and getting as far as Dolvertown? I know the road well enough; it is only a matter of some twenty miles, and I could walk it between now and to-morrow evening. You know how strong and hearty I am; you know that nothing hurts me, and there is not enough snow to constitute danger. Give me the stones. Let me hide them. I suppose those three ruffians are watching the house all the time, and if they see you here in the morning they will naturally conclude that I am in the hut too. Now, don't say 'No,' Tom. Why, I have gone farther than this before now to help a neighbour in trouble, and you haven't been in the least anxious about me. Do let me go."

Macey shook his head resolutely. He would not hear a word of such a mad project. Besides, it seemed such a cowardly thing to send his wife away upon an errand which he could not or dare not undertake himself. He would have run the risk of a journey to Dolvertown and back, but when he thought of the child lying there restless and uneasy with the fever upon her, his heart turned to water within him and all his manliness vanished, leaving him trembling and nervous. And yet he could not find it in his mind to purchase life and peace of mind by the sacrifice of those stones for which he had toiled so hard and long.

"I don't like it," he said. "Besides—"

"There is no other way," Nell went on, breathlessly. "Think what it all means to us. If I am successful in my errand—and there is no reason why I should not be—we shall be rich, we shall be able to take Vera away, we shall be able to turn our backs on this hateful life for ever. And if we stay here we shall lose everything. What would it matter to me, what would anything matter, if the child were to die? And by this time to-morrow everything will be safe. You will be able to go about and say that you have banked your diamonds, and those three rascals will be powerless for further harm. Oh, you must let me go."

Once more Macey shook his head, but he was weakening now, as Nell could see from the look in his eyes.

"I don't like it," he repeated, dubiously.

He crossed the room and opened the door and looked out into the night. The air was soft and balmy; the cruel, cold breath of it had vanished before the oncoming of the spring. The earth smelt warm and damp. There was a subtle fragrance in the gently swaying pines. It looked as if no more snow was likely to fall. It looked as if the journey to Dolvertown would be safe enough, if only those three lurking demons were in bed and asleep. Beyond a doubt, if they had seen Nell Macey leave the hut, they would follow her, guessing easily enough what her errand was.

But there was no sign outside, nothing but the breath of the wind whispering to the pines that spring was at hand; nothing but the smell of the good red earth still crisp and firm under its thin powder of snow. And Nell was a good walker, too; she could hold her own in a long day's hunting and fishing; she would make light of a tramp as far as Dolvertown.

"You are going to let me go?" she whispered.

"God forgive me if anything happens to you," Macey said, under his breath. "I suppose it is all for the best. You ought to reach the new camp at Byson River by eleven o'clock to-morrow morning, and when you get there try and find Patrick Walsh. I know he is down there somewhere, and you can trust him, too. I met him once some three years ago, and I was in a position to do him a bit of a favour. If you do get into any sort of trouble there is no one man on the American Continent who can help you as Patrick Walsh can. But you know what he is like."

Nell nodded eagerly. Everybody on the Continent, from the Rockies right down to the Pacific Slope, had heard of Patrick Walsh. He was by way of being an adventurer, a miner, a prospector, anything where danger lay and trouble was to be found first hand. There were spots on the map of America, now prosperous towns, which Walsh had actually founded. With all his courage and resource, with all his infinite talents, he had remained a poor man, a typical instance of the rolling stone that gathers no moss.

But his reputation was clean enough. He was a terror to evildoers; there was not a bully or bravado in half-a-dozen States who would have dared to stand up to Pat Walsh single-handed. More than one unspeakable outcast and cold-blooded murderer had been tracked down by Walsh for the pure joy of the thing. He had broken up gangs with the aid of nothing but his own revolver, and with it all he was a quiet, civil-spoken little man, looking the very last person in the world to hold a reputation such as his. If Nell Macey could find a friend like this, then she was safe indeed.

The stars were shining overhead in great glittering clusters behind the belt of pines as she set out upon her journey. Here and there she could dimly make out the snow lying in white battalions above the murmuring belts of trees. Here and there was a stirring in the undergrowth, and something like fear filled her heart when she thought of her child and her husband. But she went on steadily forward through the dim blackness of the night, until at length the east began to grow faintly purple, then pink, then burning saffron, as the sun climbed over the shoulders of the great snow-clad peaks and cast long shadows across the plain.

It was nearly nine o'clock before Nell came, footsore and weary, to a little mining camp by the Byson River. A handful of little huts were dotted on the hillside. Some adventurous trader had set up a saloon; here was the inevitable 'store' from which the necessities of life could be derived. It was getting warmer now—so warm, indeed, that one or two of the miners were sitting outside the house breakfasting in the open. The pine-laden air reeked with the smell of frying bacon. They were not a nice-looking lot of men, not at all the class that Nell had been accustomed to, for they were beyond the borders of civilization here, and the sort of individuals who came and went for the most part bore names which would have conveyed nothing to their parents before them. It was not the sort of camp where it was safe to inquire too closely into the antecedents of one's next-door neighbour. The few men gathered there eyed Nell with languid and slightly insolent curiosity. She would have moved on, but she was not more than half-way on her journey yet, and she knew the necessity of rest and food before she proceeded farther.

It was no nice thing to have to push her way into the store to procure bread and biscuits and tinned meat, but it had to be done, and then she sat down by the wayside to eat. One or two of the miners gathered round her, staring at her in a long, cool deliberation, which brought the blood flaming to her cheeks. One, more hardy than the rest, ventured to address her in words which brought the blood to her temples again and caused the angry tears to rise to her eyes. She was looking round for something in the semblance of manhood who might drive these hideous wretches away and give her the seclusion which she so much desired. Then out of the saloon opposite came a slight, fair man, dressed in a somewhat superior manner to the rest, who took off his hat politely and asked in quite a small voice if he could be of any assistance. A chorus of raucous laughter greeted this unwonted courtesy. In spite of her anger and alarm Nell smiled. It was much as if some boy had chosen to defy all the weight and force of authority.

"You are vastly kind," Nell said. "I am on my way to Dolvertown. I suppose those men mean nothing offensive, but if you could persuade them to go away I should be obliged to you."

By way of reply the fair little man took a seat by her side. What he might have said Nell had no opportunity of judging, for at that moment there came the sound of hoofs beating on the hard road, and three horsemen came at a trot into the camp. At the sight of the foremost Nell's face turned ashy grey. She gave a little cry of dismay which was not lost upon her companion.

"You are frightened," he murmured, softly.

"Oh, yes," Nell said, hoarsely. "Those men are following me. I hoped that I had escaped them; I hoped that they had not guessed why I am on my way to Dolvertown. You see, I have valuables in my possession—diamonds."

The words slipped from Nell's lips unconsciously. It was madness, perhaps, to trust this stranger, but for the life of her she could not help it. And what avail would he be against the grinning trio who had already dismounted from their horses and stood regarding her with an evil smirk upon three of the most infamous countenances that the Continent of America might produce?

"I know," the slim stranger murmured. "You are Tom Macey's wife. Do you know, you are the pluckiest woman I have ever come across. So you are going to Dolvertown with those stones, are you? I guess a courageous action like yours is worth better luck than this. If I were alone I should know what to do. As it is—well, I'll try my best. Now, then!"

The last two words were flung contemptuously in the direction of the three horsemen. They came with a rasping sound from the stranger's lips. They were hard and clear and defiant, and so full of a certain concrete courage that Nell, despite her alarm, turned to her companion with a glance of astonishment.

The foremost horseman came forward; his long, muscular form seemed to tower above the two sitting on the pine-logs there. There was not much to choose between those associates, but Nell knew from common report that, if one was worse than the others, it was the same Long Jim who was now addressing the man by her side.

"Stranger," he said, with a sneering drawl, "I guess you'll find this atmosphere isn't conducive to the health of a little man like you. Now you just run away back to mamma and tell her that Long Jim sent you. Otherwise—"

A burst of ribald laughter came from the other two. The slight, fair man sitting by Nell's side never so much as changed a line of his countenance.

"I've heard of you," he said. "Perhaps you will be so good as to introduce me to the other gentlemen. I was told I should find some choice rascality in this neighbourhood, and it seems to me that I am not going to be disappointed."

"You do me proud," Long Jim grinned. "This gentleman is Dick Blake, and the nobleman masquerading with the black eye is Ned Carson. Perhaps you might have heard of us; most people have."

"Your fame has travelled," the little man said, imperturbably. His eyes had narrowed down now to long slits that seemed to emit flashes as if flint and steel were struck together. "And now, perhaps, it would be just as well if I let you know who I happen to be. But perhaps you are not curious?"

"It was always a weakness of mine," Long Jim said.

"It shall be gratified. My name, sirs, is Patrick Walsh. It is just possible that you have heard of me!"

Long Jim displayed the balance of a set of teeth in a snarling grin, like a dog worrying a wasp; the other two turned away as if the affair was nothing of theirs. It was plain that the three ruffians were taken aback by this unexpected announcement. It was not much on the face of the earth that this class of bravo feared, but the name of Patrick Walsh was one of them. For here was a man who was known right away from the Rockies down to the Pacific Slope. Wherever men congregated, especially men of the lawless type, there the name of Patrick Walsh was whispered in accents of admiration. There were countless stories told about him of his courage and fearlessness, of his utter indifference to death. Never once had anybody got the best of him, never once had he hesitated when he wanted to mark a point or avenge an insult. With it all, it was decidedly in Walsh's favour that his record was clean. If he won, as frequently he did, large sums at the gambling-table, his methods had never been questioned. That he had questioned the methods of others more than one so-called sportsman had found to his cost. Indeed, a book might have been written about Patrick Walsh, telling of his exploits and performances. There was not a man in that part of the country who did not remember the fate of Jake Monson.

He had been the terror of a whole handful of States—a man hated, and loathed, and feared—who had wound up his career with a crime beyond all words. And yet no hand had been stretched out for him. By sheer force of terrorism he would compel honest men to sit and drink with him, until the word went out from Patrick Walsh that the wolf must die. Walsh sent this message in a courteous letter, and for six months Colorado watched the duel with breathless interest. It watched Monson grow from the magnificent semblance of exuberant humanity to a trembling, broken wretch whose nerves were worn to fiddle-strings. And all this time Monson never saw the man who was upon his track. He lost an eye, an ear, the fingers of his right hand, whilst his antagonist remained absolutely invisible. And then, finally, after a heavy drinking bout up there amongst the hills, Monson turned his revolver upon himself and put a bullet through his own heart.

This, then, was the man that Long Jim and his companions had to contend with. He sat there quiet and almost listless, with his hands in his pockets. Nobody knew better than himself how tight a place he was in. These were no cowards that he had to oppose him, but reckless, desperate men, ready for anything. Still they hesitated. If they had turned their revolvers upon him simultaneously there would have been an end of Patrick Walsh, but the first man that produced a weapon was as good as dead, so that neither of them cared to make the first advance. They drew a little on one side and sat down to eat their breakfast. What was going to happen Walsh had already guessed. These ruffians would wait till he and Nell Macey had entered the long, wooded passes leading to Dolvertown, and there the trouble would begin in earnest. There was no doubt why Long Jim and the rest were here. They had followed Mrs. Macey for the diamonds. They would have owned it freely enough had they been asked, for they were three to one, and the Nemesis of the law in those parts was no more than a mockery and a shadow.

Nell looked at her companion with tears in her eyes. She had expected something more formidable than this. It seemed almost impossible that the little man with the white face and sensitive mouth should be the famous Patrick Walsh, but in some strange way she pinned her faith to him. She felt perfectly certain that despite the danger he would pull her through.

"I'll do my best," Walsh said, curtly.

"Oh, I am sure you will," Nell replied. "But how do you know what I was thinking about?"

"It wants no great foresight," Walsh murmured. "You are wondering how I am going to save your treasures and my own life at the same time. But I shall do it. Now, can you trust me—I mean, can you trust me implicitly?"

"I am certain of it," Nell said, impulsively.

"Very well, then. In that case I want you to do exactly as you are told. Now, you know what those carrion are here for; you know why they followed you. Despite their assumed indifference they are watching us as a cat watches a mouse. I want you to hand me those diamonds over openly and without any attempt at disguise I will see that you are not robbed. And then I want you to go right home again and tell your husband all that has happened."

"But," Nell protested, "it does not seem—"

Walsh turned his face in her direction. The features had grown hard and firm and merciless; the eyes were long slits of flame.

"You've got to do what I tell you," Walsh said. "Didn't I give you my word, and did any man ever know me to break it? Now hand those stones over. Give them to me so that there can be no mistake about those fellows seeing what you are doing. If this adventure comes off all right I will laugh those three ruffians off the Continent of America. Now, come."

In a dazed kind of way Nell handed over the jewels. Walsh took them out of their little envelope and examined each carefully between his finger and thumb. From under his brows he could see how anxiously the three men on the ridge were regarding him. Then he turned over on his side as if to light his pipe, but in reality he was doing something with the stones. Nell could hear a clicking kind of sound and the rustling of paper, but she did not venture to move because Walsh, curtly enough, bade her to sit exactly as she was and take no notice of what he was doing. At the end of a minute or two she heard a chuckle by her side, and when Walsh sat up again there was a grim smile of amusement on his thin lips.

"Now we are ready for the play to begin," he said. "And don't you be afraid. But, then, you are not that sort of woman. Go straight back home and tell your husband exactly what has happened. Tell him that if I am alive in a week's time he shall hear from me, and if I am dead he shall hear from me, too. No, you need not thank me. This is just one of the moments in one's life that is worth living. I wouldn't have missed a chance like this for ten thousand dollars."

There was nothing for it but for Nell to obey. She was ashamed of herself in a way, and yet, at the same time, she was carried away by the amazing force of this man's will. He rose to his feet. He offered Nell his arm with a gesture of almost exaggerated courtesy; he stalked gravely by the three men sitting there; he walked up the slope to the top of the bluffs whence they could see the long, sinuous road winding away towards One Tree Gulch, like a white parting in a head of black hair. And here Walsh held out a hand to his companion. He took Nell's fingers and held them to his lips. He swept off his big-brimmed soft hat, as one of the cavaliers in the old days might have done.

"There's your way," he said. "Now take it without hesitation. I will stay here till you are out of sight. Those three gentlemen down below can see me, and so long as I am in sight they will make no effort to follow. If I had a horse I should feel equal to the lot of them, but, then, on the other hand, the adventure would lose its piquancy. And now, good-bye."

For a long time Walsh stood there like a graven statue against the blue sky. Nell turned and waved her hand to him as she disappeared presently amongst the waving pines. Then Walsh strolled back to the camp coolly and casually, past the huts and the stores, and so away down the pass which led dizzily to Dolvertown. He had no friends there to help him; he was a stranger in those parts. Probably if he had mentioned his name people might have refused to believe him. His thin lips were pressed tightly together; his eyes flickered in a smile of slow amusement. No sooner had he turned the corner than he sprang nimbly to the summit of a rock whence he could command a view of the camp. The smile widened when he saw that Long Jim and his companions had already vanished. He stood there listening for the sound of a broken twig or the dull thud of a footstep. He took his soft hat from his head and held it above the bushes. There was the quick snap of a revolver shot and the sombrero fell at his feet. Walsh laughed softly. The game had begun in earnest now. He was ready and eager for the fray. There was nothing to be greatly alarmed at as yet. He knew those ruffians were afraid of him; he knew perfectly well that they would hesitate a long time before they came to close quarters. Of their intentions he had no manner of doubt. Those men meant to rob him and they meant to murder him, too.

So the game went on mile after mile, till the centre of the big belt of pines was reached. The bluff rose sharply here. Beyond it was a ragged slope of undergrowth with a stream of water hurrying along to its foot. Here Walsh halted. He knew that the men were on three sides of him now; he could hear their footsteps rustling in the dead leaves. And he was taking no risks. He knew the class of men he had to deal with. He knew that he was fighting with antagonists whose knowledge of woodcraft was almost equal to his own. Then just for a moment he exposed himself—only for an instant, but it was sufficient to draw the fire of revolvers from three directions. Then Walsh threw up his hands, and from his lips came that horrible bubbling scream which tells eloquently enough of a man who has been shot in some vital part. He lay prone on his face, his left arm outstretched, his right doubled up under him. There was a small ragged hole over his left breast from which the blood appeared to be oozing. He lay there so stark and stiff and horrible that the three men creeping over the dead leaves from different directions whistled and called simultaneously that the trouble was over, and that there was an end of Patrick Walsh, save for his glorious and romantic memory. For those three men were deadly shots. They wanted no flattery so far as their revolver practice was concerned.

Long Jim grinned as he rose to his feet, the others sniggered. For, apparently, Walsh had come to the end of his tether; apparently he had allowed himself to be driven into a corner whence there was no escape. He could not have doubled on his tracks, and no man really in his senses would have dared the leap over the edge of the bluff into those swirling waters below.

"Right through the heart," Long Jim said, hoarsely. "Jehoshaphat, ain't he bleeding! Now, then, boys—"

They came brutally, callously forward. Then, as if by magic, the prostrate figure moved an inch, and three revolver shots rang out in lightning succession. Long Jim staggered back with a bullet in his shoulder, screaming and blaspheming with pain; his two companions went foaming and writhing and holding a pair of trembling hands to the fleshy part of their thighs. It had all taken place in the twinkling of an eye, and before the three ruffians could recover themselves sufficiently to realize what had happened Walsh was rolling swiftly over and over towards the edge of the bluff. With a yell of defiance and an outbreak of derisive laughter, he bent himself backwards like a bow and flashed headlong into the yellow stream which lay thirty feet below.

He came up presently, gasping and panting and chilled to the very marrow by the icy coldness of the water; but his heart was light, and his lips were parted in a smile as he bent down and sped through the undergrowth with his white face turned in the direction of Dolvertown.

"That was a close call," he muttered. "I don't know when I have enjoyed anything so much. And unless you are greatly mistaken in your calculations, Pat Walsh, the next trick is going to be yours."

IT was getting dusk a week later when Walsh put in an appearance at Tom Macey's hut. His welcome was all that he could wish; in fact, Tom Macey, in his clumsy way, professed to be half jealous of the way in which Nell received her visitor.

"Oh, we're all right," he said. "And the kid is much better. I dare say we shall be able to manage till the end of the summer now. Seems ungrateful, don't it, to worry about those diamonds, and the kid's all right again? Guess you had to give them up."

Walsh smiled dryly.

"Well, not quite in the way you think," he said. "I expected to worry through that little trouble, and I did. But I had to take no risks. I wasn't going to go under with those stones in my possession, so I hit upon a little scheme of my own, which I will explain to you presently. You will laugh when you hear it, and you will be all the more amused because the laugh will be on your side. And if you want to see your stones again you will have to come with me this evening. Slip a brace of revolvers in your pocket. There is no great danger, Mrs. Macey. Tom will be home by midnight, and when he comes back you will be able to sit up and talk it over, and decide what you are going to do with your money. I can't tell you any more at present. I don't want to spoil the joke."

There were a couple of horses outside, and in silence the two men rode together up the rocky mountain passes, till they came at length to a little camp under the pines below the snow-line. It was a fresh camp, but already it boasted its saloon, where a score or more of men sat gambling and drinking. Beyond the thick haze of acrid tobacco-smoke Long Jim and his companions sat over a game of monte. They appeared to be none the better for their adventure. Their faces were pallid and lank under their mask of dirt. Long Jim's shoulder appeared to have been strapped up with some rude attempt at bandaging; the other two sat on a chair with a leg resting on another one. The forbidding assemblage looked up as Patrick Walsh entered. He had a revolver in his hand. The big, square frame of Tom Macey loomed behind him, his finger crooked on the trigger of another weapon.

"Now don't any of you move," Walsh commanded, crisply. "My business is with those three skunks in the corner yonder. Hands up, there! Now, Mr. Long Jim, get a move on you. Ah, that's better. Now let's see you smile."

An ominous growl went up from the motley assembly. The hand of more than one man strayed to his hip pocket, but somehow they hesitated as their glances fell upon that white, still face of the man in the doorway.

"I have warned you," he rasped out. "Perhaps you don't know me. My name is Patrick Walsh."

"By Heaven, it is, too!" a voice growled behind the tobacco-smoke. "Boys, this is no affair of ours."

The effect of the words was electrical. A dead, respectful silence fell upon the gamblers as Long Jim and his companions moved forward with their hands above their heads. They dragged themselves miserably into the outer air, no man following, for Walsh had been emphatic on that point, and he was, above all things, a man of his word. He stood there looking grimly on while Macey bound the prisoners together with raw hides, and presently they were fastened to the saddles of the two adventurers, and so the melancholy procession moved slowly down the mountain side. There was no word said, no sound but the regular tread of hoofs until the party arrived at length at something superior in the way of a ranch in one of the valleys lying there below One Tree Gulch. An alert man in spectacles came out and bade them welcome. He seemed to be expecting Walsh, for he bade the whole party to come inside. Here, laid out on the table, were surgical instruments, sharp-looking knives, and other terrors to the uninitiated.

"Friends of mine," Walsh said, curtly. "I am very anxious about their welfare. You see, they all met with a bit of an accident a few days ago. The estimable Long Jim has got a bullet in his shoulder, and Mr. Ned Carson and Dick Blake are suffering from the same inconvenience in the thick part of the thigh. It is a pity you haven't got anything in the way of an anaesthetic, but, Lord, what's a few moments' pain to brave chaps like these?"

"What's the pastime?" Long Jim asked, anxiously.

By way of reply he was jerked unceremoniously on his back and speedily stripped to the skin. He howled and writhed there impotently whilst the man in the spectacles probed scientifically in the wound. A moment later at the end of a pair of forceps he held up a round object triumphantly.

"Got him," he explained, "touch of dressing and you'll be all right in a week, my lad. Now, you others, come along."

Three miserable men sat round the fire presently whilst Walsh held in his hand the three pellets which the doctor had so successfully extracted. He wiped them with a piece of lint and handed them over to Macey.

"There you are," he said, quietly. "There are your diamonds back again. Now, perhaps, you see my little scheme. It was impossible for your wife to get to Dolvertown, and, as there were three of those ruffians to one, I wasn't going to take any risks. I couldn't hide the stones because if I had gone under you would have lost them, and so I extracted the bullets from three of my revolver cartridges and put the diamonds in their place. And for the last week or nine days these three beauties have been walking about with a diamond apiece under their skin and they none the wiser. I told the doctor here all about it. I tracked those chaps to their shanty up in the mountains, and the rest you know."

A stream of oaths broke from Long Jim's lips. His companions to the best of their artistic ability backed him up. Walsh turned upon them with a queer, dry smile.

"That will do," he said. "Now you can go. And the first man I meet within a hundred miles of this place I'll shoot on sight. But there's no reason to worry about you; you'll never stay here after this. Even the boys would laugh at you. Good night, doctor. Now let's get back and tell the story to your wife."

THE END

AN ERROR OF JUDGMENT

Published in The Star, New Zealand, 24 October 1908, page 2

KITTY DAVENTRY turned away with a flush of annoyance on her pretty face. There were more reasons than one for her anger, perhaps the chief of them being the knowledge that the man who was looking so steadfastly at her was merely a gamekeeper. It was true that he was a very gentlemanly gamekeeper. His manners were excellent, and his English left nothing to be desired. In addition to all this, the man was well set-up and distinguished looking, though, according to the strict letter of the law, he might not have have been called handsome."

It so happened that this was not the first time that Kitty Daventry had met Philip Lancaster. On two previous occasions he had warned her that she was trespassing in the woods, and that her ill-timed rambles were having a demoralising effect on the young pheasants. Kitty had replied haughtily enough that hitherto she had moved in her own sweet way through all the woods and pastures for ten miles around, and no one had ventured to say her nay. Lancaster had listened politely enough. He had even ventured to insinuate that Miss Daventry was getting a little too old for such childish escapades as these, and that, so far as he could gather, she had not benefited much by three years at a sohool in Germany. Perhaps the girl was not altogether to blame, seeing that her home life was so monotonous a one? She lived quite alone with an old uncle who was a scholar and a recluse, and so long as Kitty did not worry him with any of her troubles, Mr Daventry was quite content to leave the girl alone. As to the rest, he knew and cared nothing about his neighbours and their gossip; indeed, Kitty was wont to declare that her uncle would have been unable to tell the names of his own servants."

But here was quite an exceptional occasion. For the last four or five days it had rained incessantly, so that Kitty was only too glad of a chance to get out of the house, to mount her bicycle and skim away from home over the muddy roads. She had been warned once or twice on the way not to go too far afield, for the River Scour was coming down in flood, and the Scour at that time of year had an awkward habit of cutting off pedestrians from their base and leaving them stranded in out-of-the-way holes and corners. It was a treacherous, quick-rising river, and Kitty knew very well, but she was desperate now with the weariness and monotony of life, and she had come a great deal further away from home than she had intended."

And now the rain was coming down again in real royal earnest. A great ragged bank of clouds streamed up from the west. The landscape was fairly blotted out by the driving deluge, and Kitty, stood, disconsolately under a tree, a little uncertain as to what to do next, and quite hazy as to how she was to get home. It was, of course, in accordance with the eternal fitness of things that Philip Lancaster should put in an appearance at that moment. He paused and doffed his cap, much as if Kitty and himself had been on a perfect equality. He looked almost as pleased, too."

"What are you doing here?" he demanded."

"Waiting for the rain to go over," Kitty said haughtily. "I had a side-slip and nearly wrenched the front tyre from my machine.""

"But surely you must know how late it is," Lancaster replied. "It is long past five. Still, that is hardly the point. What I should like to know is how you propose to get back.""

Kitty froze the speaker with a glance."

"Does that really concern you?" she asked frigidly."

"Well, of course it does," Lancaster went on in the same cool, contemptuous manner. "So far as I know there is only one way back to Langdon Hall, and that is by way of the road over the great Scour Bridge. It may be news to you, of course, but I have just heard that the road is three feet under water.""

Kitty gave a little gasp of dismay. She had forgotten her dignity for the moment, nor did she doubt that Lancaster was speaking anything but the truth. She knew how quickly the river rose when it came down in flood, and now it had been raining for the last five days. Besides, she had had more than one warning before she had left home. Of course, it was very dreadful to find herself in a position where it became necessary to ask favours of Philip Lancaster. But so far as she could see there was no help for it. The rain was coming down in a steady, straight desolation, and already the faint spring light was beginning to fade. A little longer and a change of clothing would become absolutely necessary."

"What are you going to do?" Lancaster asked mercilessly."

"I—I don't know," Kitty faltered. "I am getting horribly wet and cold, and there is practically nobody in the neighbourhood whom I know. If you could suggest any way—"

The last remark was made almost meekly. The was the faint suggestion of a smile about the corners of Lancaster's mouth. If Kitty saw it she was diiscretely silent on the point. Besides, she was very wet and very cold, and, like most women at that hour, she was longing for a cup of tea. She made little or no protest when Lancaster took the matter in his own hands."

"There is only one thing for it," he said. "You will have to come along with me to my cottage. Now, what is the good of shaking your head in that silly way? Do you propose to spend the night under this tree? Oh, I know I am all alone yonder. I know it is very shocking and all that kind of thing. But for once in a way you will have to make the best of it. I do entirely for myself, but I am not quite so slipshod that I can't give you a good cup of tea and some bread and butter, to say nothing of a little honey of my own growing. A little later on I will go with you as far as the Hall, where, I am sure, the housekeeper, who is a great friend of mine, will put you up for the night. I don't think I can say any more than that. And now come along, let's have no more nonsense about it." "

Lancaster caught up Kitty's bicycle, and to her own intense astonishment she found herself following obediently behind, like an amiable lamb led to the slaughter. She found herself presently, too, making herself entirely agreeable to this handsome young gamekeeper, and if the truth must be known, thoroughly enjoyed her adventure. She was warm and comfortable by this time, for a bright wood fire crackled on the old pleasant hearth. She insisted upon making the tea and bread and butter, and before the meal was finished it seemed to her that she had known Philip Lancaster all her life. Who was he? Who could he be? she asked herself. Surely, he must be something out of the common, for no gamekeeper of Kitty's acquaintance ever talked like that. She was quite certain that not another one had such a collection of books or a finer edition of the early Latin poets in the original. Lancaster flushed and turned the conversation as Kitty pointed to these. "

"One half the world doesn't know how the other half lives," he laughed. "Besides, if you are destined to be poor and unfortunate, how much better it is to live in the country where you can have good food and pure air at a nominal cost. Now if you were in my position what would you rather do? Would you prefer to be a struggling clerk at a pound a week, or would you be a gamekeeper at the same money with a cottage thrown in to the bargain and two suits of clothes a year? But I am letting my tongue run too fast. I am forgetting that you are Miss Daventry, and I am merely a keeper. See the clouds are breaking now. Don't you think we had better run across to the Hall while we have the chance?""

Kitty responded somewhat frigidly that perhaps the speaker was right. All the same, she was still puzzled and bewildered. She wondered why the old housekeeper at the Hall received Lancaster with such deference and respect, and why, in the name of goodness, should she address him as Mr Philip. Kitty was not without her fair share of curiosity, and before she slept that night she had made up her mind to solve the mystery. Neither was Mrs Hartley in the least reticent in gratifying the seeker after knowledge. "

"Lord bless you, miss, I thought everybody knew. I don't suppose there is another young man in the world that is fit to compare with Master Philip." "

"Yes, but who ie he?" Kitty persisted."

"Who is he?" Mrs Hartley echoed. "There, I forgot you have been away to school for so long. Don't you know that the late Sir James Lancaster was one of the greatest spendthrifts who ever lived? When he died he left the estates in a terrible mess, and when the heir came into possession, which was nearly ten years ago, when you were quite a little girl, he made a vow to pay off every penny before ever he slept under this roof. He let the house for a term of years, and he let the shooting to another party; in fact, every farthing he oould save towards paying off those mortgages he scraped together. Why, he even went so far as to become his own gamekeeper. The people who took the shooting were Londoners, who asked no questions, and cared nothing so long as they had plenty of sport. Little did they know that the handsome young keeper who took care of their game so well was Sir Philip Lancaster, the owner of the Hall. Ah, well, it is all right now, and Sir Philip is going to reap the reward of all his care and economy. The place has come back into his hands now, and it is all going to be done up in the autumn. I don't suppose there are a score of people outside the parish who know what I am telling you now. When you come here later on you will find the Hall quite a different place.""

Kitty's face turned to a delicate pink as she listened. She was thinking of a good many rude speeches she had made to Sir Philip Lancaster from time to time in the faint hope that he had forgotten them. For a long time after she had been carefully tucked away in one of the principal guest-chambers she lay tossing about sleeplessly, wondering how she was going to make her peace with Sir Philip, and how he must have laughed at her every time they met. "

"Can you ever forgive me?" she whispered as she and her host stood together in the sunshine after breakfast. "I am so glad you came over to see how I was getting on. Of course, I had no idea of the truth till Mrs Hartley told me last night, and I-I don't think I have ever been so ashamed of myself in my life before." "

"There is no occasion," Lancaster smiled. "Truth to say, I have enjoyed our two or three interviews, and I hope a little later on, when things are settled down here, that you will induce your uncle to come over here and call. I do not want to forget that you were the first of my county neighbours with whom I have made acquaintance. Now let us shake hands upon and forget all about our past differences." "

There were something like tears in Kitty's eyes as she held out her hand. How could she have taken this man for anything but a gentleman, she wondered? Then the absurd side of the situation came uppermost and she laughed heartily."

"It was funny, wasn't it?" she whispered. And to think that I might have known nothing about it if I had not met you yesterday.""

"Oh, I think you would," Lancaster said meaningly. I should have found some way to let you know. And now, we are going to be good friends, are we not? I see your answer in your eyes."

THE END

THE FIRST STONE

ILLUSTRATED BY ARTHUR GARRATT

Published in The Strand Magazine, October 1908

THE woman sat there, flirting her fan to and fro listlessly, her dark eyes bent upon the stage as if she were absolutely lost in the brilliant new comedy which was being presented for the first time by the great actor-manager of the Comus Theatre. She lay back in her stall, haughty and listless and indifferent, as if compelled to admiration in spite of herself. She looked every inch the grande dame going through a round of pleasure and accepting it all entirely as a matter of course. She was beautifully, naturally dressed; diamonds shimmered in her dark hair; there was around her that nameless atmosphere which seems to always go with wealth and breeding. She might not have had a single care in the world; she might have been one of those spoilt darlings of society for whom, presumedly, Providence has intended the universe, to the exclusion of all others. Despite her coldness and her beauty and her air of absolute aloofness, there was now and then a flicker of the delicate nostril and a tightening of the haughty mouth which told of pain, either physical or mental. She laid her fan down upon the vacant stall on her left and clasped her long-gloved hands together.

There were several people in the theatre who had regarded more or less curiously this dark, stately beauty sitting there all alone. It was possible to speculate as to the meaning of the empty stall by her side. There was admiration as well as envy and sundry glances cast in her direction, and yet at that moment Stella Clinash would have been perfectly willing to have changed places with the humblest little domestic servant perched up far above in the roaring red atmosphere of the gallery.

She was glad now that her husband had not come. She was fiercely glad that Clive Clinash had stayed away. He had meant to come with her, of course, for the Clinashes were alone in London. They were only over from Buenos Ayres for a short stay. They had intended to get back to South America in the course of a day or two. Almost at the last moment there had come a telegram from Clinash to the Dominion Hotel, where they were staying, saying that he had been detained on important business and would probably join his wife in the theatre a little later on.

She had been rather glad to get this message. Sooth to say, she was a little tired of sight-seeing; she would have preferred an evening at home in her own sitting-room. But, then, there was the chance that Clinash would go straight to the theatre, and he would be greatly disappointed to find his a wife absent. Therefore she had gone alone, with that strange feeling upon her that something was going to happen. It seemed to her that she had never hated London so much as she did at that moment; it seemed to her that it would have been far wiser to remain at Buenos Ayres, but Clinash would not hear of it. Besides, they had only been married a few months, and Stella Clinash had always been a solitary woman, and when she had come to find a home and husband she clung to both with a tenacity and passion which, at times, fairly frightened her. Like most people who pass for being cold and self-contained, she had depths of feeling and emotion of which Clinash, with all his love and admiration for her, knew nothing.

And he had taken her on trust, too. He had found her eighteen months before, getting a precarious living in London as an addresser of envelopes. He had fallen in love with her on the spot, and had, in his impetuous way, asked her to marry him. Just for the moment she had hesitated. There were reasons why she should have refused. And yet, when she came to think of the drab monotony of the life that lay before her, she hesitated no longer. She wanted someone to lavish her affection upon, and here she found him. For Clinash was rich and prosperous, he was young and fairly goodlooking, and—well, there was only one end to a struggle like that.

And now all the misery and unhappiness had gradually faded like an ugly landscape blurred in a cloud of mist. The ice had gradually melted from round Stella's heart until she could stand there in the sunshine of her own happiness and wonder what she had done that God should be so good to her as all this.

That was up to a few moments ago. And then she had seen him standing there by the entrance to the stalls, glancing casually round the theatre as if he were in some way connected with the management. He stood there neatly dressed in a dark frock suit, a glossy hat was perched upon his head, and his round, hard face and keen grey eyes seemed to be taking in the whole audience. Stella Clinash recognised him at once. She would have recognised him anywhere and in any circumstances. There were no delusions in her mind on the score of his failing to remember her. She felt his eyes running the measure of the rule over her, she saw him turn and say something to a theatre attendant, then presently he vanished and another man suspiciously like him took his place. There was no facial resemblance between the two, but they were both cast in entirely the same mould, both of them trim and clean and reserved, both of them speaklng of the Criminal Investigation Department of Scotland Yard to anybody who had ever had any contact with that dread institution. And although the second man never for one moment looked in Stella Clinash's direction she knew perfectly well that he was waiting for her, and that she would have to speak to him before the performance was over.

Well, the thing was finished now. She had had more than a year on the other side of the golden gates, and now the barriers of desolation yawned before her. And the strange thing was that she was not frightened, she did not seem to be in the least alarmed, or angry, or unhappy. She had been the sport of Fate too long to accept a blow like this with anything but resignation.

Clive would have to know. Indeed, she blamed herself now for not telling him before. But she had been afraid to do so; she had been afraid to risk the happiness which had suddenly opened before her in such dazzling splendour. She had temporized, and the time was lost, and now it was too late. Still, she must let her husband know, she must prepare him for the inevitable. It would never do for her to bring disgrace upon his honoured name. He must abandon her to her fate, he must never see her again; no one must know that guilty secret but themselves. And perhaps, when she had served her sentence out, he might be disposed to remember that for over a year she had been a good and faithful wife to him. He might be willing to make some provision to save her from want in the future. Fortunately, they knew nobody in London; it would not be an easy matter to trace her back to the Dominion Hotel, and Clive would be clever enough to hide all her tracks. Of course, he would be sorry, for she knew how genuinely fond he was of her; but at the same time his good name must not suffer, and in that respect she would help him to the best of her ability. Why, oh, why had she returned to England at all? Clinash's own call had been imperative—a business crisis that demanded his presence in England. Most men have these moments of commercial peril. And she had risked it all to be with him—not to lose a moment of her glorious happiness, as a love-sick girl might have done. Oh, the incredible folly of it!

She ·had thought it out now. She waited till the curtain fell on the third act, then she beckoned a programme-seller in her direction. From her purse she took out a half-sovereign and placed it in the girl's hand.

"Don't ask any questions," she murmured. "Procure me at once a sheet of paper, an envelope, and a pencil. I am going to write a note which I want delivered at the Dominion Hotel at once. If you can manage this for me the half·sovereign is yours. All I ask you to do is to be silent and say nothing of this."

The girl nodded. Perhaps the request did not strike her as being particularly strange. She came back presently with writing materials, and Stella Clinash wrote her letter. It was characteristic of her that her handwriting was firm and neat, that the letter was perfectly coherent and collected.

"There," she whispered; "will you take that now?"

"At once, madam," the girl replied. "You can rely upon me. Besides, I am going that way."

The comedy was drawing to a close now. Stella Clinash looked at the watch on her wrist, and saw that it was half-past eleven. No doubt Clive had received her letter an hour before. He would have made up his mind by this time exactly what to do.

Already some of the audience had begun to leave the theatre. She rose calmly and drew a wrap round her shoulders and over her head. Then she walked quite steadily and collectedly through the vestibule up to the folding doors, where the man with the hard, keen face appeared to be awaiting someone. Stella drew a little quick breath, and her lips quivered as she touched the man on the shoulder.

"I think you are waiting for me," she said, quietly. "I don't happen to know your name, but you recognise me."

The man turned and smiled good-naturedly.

"Detective-Sergeant Swift," he said, tentatively. "You are Stella Treherne. Rapson asked me to wait here. He recognised you, though, as a matter of fact, he was looking for somebody else. Hard luck, isn't it?"

The man spoke in a friendly enough tone. There was nothing of the traditional man-hunter about him. He was merely a machine cut and drilled and polished to a diamond hardness. Possibly in private life he was as generous and good-natured as other people. But he had his duty to perform, and he meant to do it.

"I don't want any sympathy," Stella said, coldly. "I am quite prepared to take the consequences. And yet, if a thousand pounds would be the slightest good to you, I am prepared—"

Swift turned aside apparently unheeding.

"Don't say that," he whispered. "Because you see, it would make no difference. And if I mentioned it to the magistrate tomorrow morning— But perhaps I didn't exactly catch what you said. Would you like a cab?"

"That is kind of you," Stella said, in the same strangely even voice, "I suppose I ought not to blame you so much as the iniquitous system of which you are at once the slave and tool. Of course, I must have a cab. I could hardly walk through the streets to the police station dressed like this."

"Of course not," Swift agreed. "But wouldn't you like to go anywhere first? Would it not be as well to get as far as your hotel or your rooms, where you can procure a change of clothing? Of course, it is no business of mine to pry into your present position, but, judging from what one can see, matters appear to have gone very well with you of late. I presume you are married?"

The blood Hamed into Stella's face.

"Is that necessary?" she asked.

"Well, of course not," Swift said, with some sign of confusion. "But we flatter ourselves we can always tell the difference between the woman who—well, you know what I mean."

"I am obliged for your good opinion," Stella said, calmly. "Married or not, at the present moment I am a woman who has to face a trouble entirely alone. And I have done no wrong; or, at least, if I have, I have paid for it dearly enough, God knows. Why do you hunt us like this? Why don't you give us a chance to lead a clean and honest life? Why should we be dragged month by month to report ourselves at the nearest police-station? You know it always results in the same exposure. Our employers get to hear of it, and the same weary struggle begins over again. I am sure that two-thirds of the criminals on ticket-of-leave find their way back to jail again simply because of this cruel system of yours. It would be far kinder to keep us under lock and key till the sentence is worked out. As a sensible man, you must know I am speaking the truth."

Swift shrugged his shoulders. It was not for him to question the iconoclast* methods of his department. He was a mere pawn in the game of diabolical chess which the police are unceasingly playing with the criminal classes. And, besides, he had expected some sort of passionate outburst like this. They mostly behaved in the same fashion. The people were beginning to pour out of the theatre now. Stella standing there, tall and slim in her white dress, was attracting attention. A cab came up, and Swift stood aside for Stella to enter.

[ *"iconoclast" (sic) - perhaps a typographical error for "iron-clad." ]

They drove along silently through the well-lighted streets. They passed the portico of the Dominion Hotel, where the porter was standing with his hands behind him. As the great front of the building stood out red and bold Stella caught her lip between her teeth and blinked the tears from her eyes. But she was not going to give way, she was not going to pity herself. She had played her game and she had lost it, and she was prepared to pay the price. Still, she turned cold and faint and dizzy as the cab pulled up presently outside a police—station. There was something horribly familiar about the place, something so repulsive about the whitewashed walls and the bare, clanging passages. A couple of policemen sitting there in the charge-room, stolidly eating their suppers, looked up with a certain languid curiosity as Swift and his prisoner entered. But they were too used to these fiery, dramatic entrances and exits to do more than take in the details of the woman's dress and the cold, proud frostiness of her face. An inspector sitting behind the table glanced interrogatively at Swift.

"Stella Treherne," he said. "Charged with failing to report herself. Released on licence about twenty months ago and only been heard of once since."

The inspector bent over the table and scribbled something on a sheet of paper. From his point of view it was all a matter of business. Had Stella appeared there either in rags or in silken attire he would have displayed the same lack of interest or emotion.

"Want to send for your friends?" he asked. "You can't appear like that to-morrow morning, you know. What is your address?"

"My address is refused," Stella said, quietly. "You know my name, and that is sufficient. As to the rest, I must make the best of it. There are reasons why I cannot give you my address—imperative reasons why my present friends must not know what has happened to me. I have money in my purse. I suppose I can keep that, and perhaps one of the female warders will get me something from one of the adjacent shops in the morning. As there is no charge against me, except for failing to report myself, I must ask you to let me retain possession of my money."

The inspector scraped his jaw thoughtfully.

"Seems reasonable" he said. "Very well; we will do what you require. Is there anything you would like before morning? Perhaps you would like to send out for some food?"

Stella fairly shuddered at the suggestion. The mere notion of food filled her with loathing and disgust. There was absolutely nothing she wanted, she said. Her one desire was to be alone. In a dreamy kind of way she followed a policeman presently along an echoing flagged passage. She heard the quick turn of keys in well-oiled locks, she was once more back in those horribly suggestive environments where life has lost its savour and where the word "hope" becomes no more than a mocking, empty sound. All that banging of doors and clicking of keys seemed to be superfluous; such a waste of strength and tyrannical grip to hold one so small and crushed and miserable in durance vile. She had no inclination to shirk the inevitable. Had all the doors been thrown wide before her she would have made no attempt to escape now. For what good would such a thing have been? By this time her husband knew everything and he would act accordingly. Already she was beginning to think of him less now as her husband than as Clive Clinash. She would never see him again. It did not seem to her that she wanted to. At all hazards now, she was going through with it to the bitter end. She would be sent to one of those dreadful convict prisons, there to serve out the rest of her sentence. But, at any rate, after that she would be free; her term of imprisonment embraced no subsequent police supervision. Once it was over and done with she could go where she liked and do as she pleased.

She sat down there with ber head in her hands on that cold, hard travesty of a bed, the like of which she knew only too well. From time to time she could hear the heavy tramp of feet along the corridor; from time to time some drunken woman prisoner burst into horrible screams. Now and again from a cell close by a man was singing a snatch of comic opera in a pleasant tenor voice. Then gradually the sounds died away, and in an uneasy manner Stella slept.

She woke presently chill and cold in the grey dawn, and the whole thing came back to her with overwhelming force. She was hungry now, and yet the mere thought of food was repulsive to her. Gradually the atmosphere grew warmer. She could hear sounds of life and movement about the place. A little later the door of her cell opened and a hard-featured woman looked in. She threw a bundle on the floor, with an intimation that everything necessary was there, and withdrew. · Here was a chance to do something, however trivial, to pass away the time. Stella's rings and jewellery had been taken possession of the night before, but her dainty dress looked hideously grotesque in the pale light of the morning. She stripped it off and cast it aside as if it had been some loathsome thing. She was almost thankful to find herself in coarse, ill-fitting black garments, with a plain straw hat. At any rate, there was no chance of any acquaintance recognising her now. There would be no opportunity for the sensational joumalist to make half a column of copy out of her story.

The time had come now. She was walking across the courtyard. She stood presently in a dreamy kind of way with her hand clasping the dock; she heard her name mentioned, then the magistrate appeared to be asking her a question.

He was a kindly-looking man, and Stella took fresh heart of grace.

"Come," he said, "I am waiting for you to speak."

Stella looked up dreamily. The question seemed to be floating around the roof of the court before it reached her ears. She had been watching a bee climbing up one of the windows, fighting angrily for liberty; she was intensely interested in the efforts of the little insect. Would it manage to reach the ventilator or not? she wondered. She was more concerned with this now than with her own future. She was quite anxious about it. She gave a little sigh of relief, at length, when the bee reached the opening and sped away into the open air. Then it was that Stella came back to herself, and the knowledge that the grey-haired old gentleman opposite to her was asking her questions, and looking at her not unkindly from behind his spectacles.

"I don't know," she murmured. "I beg your pardon; I was not listening."

"What have you, then, to say?" the magistrate asked.

Stella shook her head wearily. What was the use of saying anything? She knew perfectly well that any plea for mercy on her part would pass unheeded. After all said and done, the police were doing no more than their duty. It was all part of the diabolical system, part of the constant warfare which went on between the law and the criminal. She would have to go back and finish her sentence. She had been warned on the first day of her liberty that there would be no trifling in this matter. She had lost everything now, position, reputation, husband, all at one feel swoop. There was nothing more to be said or done.

The magistrate still paused. So far as Stella was concerned, she had lost all interest in the proceedings. Somebody had jumped up in the well of the court below the dock and commenced to address the magistrate. He spoke clearly and well; evidently he was quite at home with this kind of work. In the same dreamy, half—blind fashion Stella could see that his shrewd, clean-shaven face was kindly enough. She gathered that he was saying something on her behalf. She heard this advocate of hers addressed presently as Mr. Hallam. She wondered in the same dull, groping way where she had heard the name before. Then it flashed upon her that this was a famous barrister whom she had read of over and over again. She knew that he was a man at the head of his profession; she realized that he would not have left other and more important work had not his fee been a handsome one. There could be no question as to who had procured the services of Mr. Hallam, K.C. Her husband must have sent him, and in a way Stella felt grateful.

She glanced wearily round the court to see if she could see Clive anywhere, but he had not put in an appearance. He would never forgive her, of course, he would never want to see her again; but that would not necessarily prevent him from acting a noble, manly part, and doing everything he could to lighten her sentence. She was more interested now; she began to follow eagerly and carefully what Hallam was saying.

"With all due respect, sir," the advocate said, in his smooth tones, "with all due respect, I urge this as an exceptional case. As to the facts stated by the policel have nothing to say. My unfortunate client was certainly convicted at the Old Bailey four years ago on a charge of fraud and conspiracy under her maiden name of Treherne. As a matter of fact, there would have been no sentence of penal servitude if the prisoner had not been identified by the police with a certain notorious woman criminal whose name it is not necessary to mention. That was quite a mistake, and would have been shown at the trial had my client been properly represented. I appeal to Sergeant Swift, who has charge of this case, to confirm this statement. It was only after my client disappeared that these facts came to light."

"That is so, your worship," Swift admitted.

"An unfortunate mistake was made. We did our best to find the prisoner after she vanished, but without effect. But that does not touch the present charge—the charge that the prisoner failed to report herself and rendered herself liable to arrest and to be conveyed back to prison, there to serve out the balance of her sentence."

"Oh, I am not contesting the point," Hallam cried. "I am entirely in the hands of the Court, but I have proved that a cruel mistake has been made, and that my client ought never to have been sentenced to penal servitude at all. It is not for me to question the system which compels criminals on licence to report themselves to the nearest police-station, but I do say that in certain cases it is harsh and unnecessarily brutal. Take my client's position as an instance. For a year after she came out of jail she had an exceedingly bitter struggle to live, but there was nothing against her, and when the opportunity came for turning her back upon England, when she had a chance of a happy marriage and a new life in a foreign country, the temptation was too much for her. My client is well-born, she was carefully brought up, and yet she knew what it was more than once to spend the night out of doors. Think of the temptation, think of the opportunities! How many women would have hesitated? I venture to say, not many. She never told her husband. It is only within the last few hours that he has made this terrible discovery. And he is is man in an exceedingly good position in South America; he is rich and respected. He would have been here to-day, but he is utterly overcome by this unexpected revelation, and unfortunately he cannot get here. If your worship likes, I will hand the name up to the Bench. You will quite see there is nothing to be gained by making my client's husband's name public."

"Is this a fact, Mr. Hallam?" the magistrate asked.

"I give you my word for it, sir," the barrister responded. "My statement will probably be confirmed by the circumstances in which my client was arrested last night. Now I am going to ask you, sir, to exercise your discretion in this case and allow this lady to be released on her own recognisances. When you have read the name which I propose to write down for you—"

"No," Stella Clinash cried, suddenly, "I implore you not to do anything of the kind. I would rather suffer any humiliation than allow my husband's name to be dragged into this business. I am quite prepared to face the consequences of my folly. I shall never see my husband again. He will never want to see me. I greatly regret that he should have sent this gentleman here to-day. Oh, can't you see that I wish to get this over as soon as possible? Can't you see what an unspeakable humiliation this is to me? Send me back where I came from. At least I shall be beyond the reach of starvation there. I was not so guilty as they said; I was the tool of others, though I do not want to shirk my responsibility. I deceived my husband, and that is the knowledge that hurts me most."

The passionate words rang through the court; the few reporters and the handful of the public present followed with breathless interest. Here was an unexpected human drama unfolding itself before them—a story more profoundly tragic than anything ever yet seen upon the stage. Stella ceased to speak; a silence fell upon the Court. It seemed to her that she had the sympathy of everyone present.

"This is unusual," the magistrate murmured. "I am sure this unfortunate lady will think better of what she says when she has time for consideration. I cannot blind myself to the fact that had the true facts of the case come out during the trial she would not be here at all. Also, I have not overlooked the inspector's statement that there is nothing against the prisoner since she came out of jail. After all said and done, it is merely a technical offence which has been committed, and I think the interests of justice will be served by a nominal sentence of a day's imprisonment—in other words, the prisoner is free to leave the dock now."

Stella seemed barely to comprehend. There was something like a murmur of applause from those present in the court. A warder touched her on the arm and intimated that she might go. She did not seem quite to understand what the sentence meant. She stood there dazed and confused in the body of the court, trying to collect her scattered senses. Her advocate was still addressing the Bench. He wanted to know if this persecution was to continue. He desired to know whether application would be made to the Home Secretary to remit the inconvenience of these periodical calls upon the police. The magistrate shook his head doubtfully.

"That will be in your own hands, Mr. Hallam," he said. "I presume the police would raise no objection. They have no desire, of course, to turn this into a persecution."

"I am obliged to you, sir," the barrister said. "I may assume, therefore, that so long as my client is outside the jurisdiction of the Court no steps will be taken."

The magistrate shook his head with a smile.

"Ah, now you are assuming too much," he said. "I think you have no cause to be dissatisfied. Next case, please."

Stella wandered slowly out of court. She stood in the open air, undecided as to what to do or where to go next. She seemed to understand that Hallam wished to speak to her. He was asking her to wait for one moment, and then he had certain things to say.

Stella murmured something; she hardly knew what it was. She was free to go now. She had all the world before her. There were just a few shillings in her pocket. All she wanted now was to be alone, to get away from all who knew her, to start life afresh. She turned and' walked rapidly down the street until she came into the thick of the traffic; then she drifted on the breast of the tide—a human derelict, alone and friendless.

"I shall manage," she murmured to herself. "It can be no worse than it was before."

It was a warm night, fortunately, so that it would be no great hardship to sleep out of doors, and anything was better than the foul, horrible den in which Stella Clinash had passed the last two nights. Her money was all gone now, with the exception of one solitary sixpence, to which she clung tenaciously. She was tired and worn out. Her one desire was to fall down somewhere and sleep. She walked along the Embankment, looking in vain for a quiet corner where the lynx eye of the law might possibly overlook her.

The clock at Westminster was striking ten, the Embankment was more or less deserted, save for a hansom cab or two taking more fortunate people to some place of amusement. Here was a seat at length where Stella could sit down and rest her weary limbs. She lay back there drowsy and half unconscious. She wondered vaguely what this man was doing, this man who was moving from seat to seat closely scrutinizing the miserable outcasts who were resting there. She could see that he was well dressed, that he was wearing a light coat over his evening clothes. Then something rose in her throat and her heart gave a great leap as she recognised her husband. She bent down so that he might pass. Surely he would never recognise her in the ugly black garments which she wore. But all the same he paused before her, and then, as if sure that he had come to the end of his search, he laid his hand upon her shoulder.

"Thank God!" he murmured. "Thank God I have found you! I have been searching high and low for the last three days. It is only by a mere accident that I have come across you now. Come along."

"Come," Stella asked, vaguely, "where?"

"Oh, not here; this is no place for explanations. Good heavens, do you suppose I am so black and hard as to desert you like this? When you know everything you will see I am more to blame than yourself. But come along, everything is ready. I have moved to another hotel. Nobody knows that you are the wife of Clive Clinash. Directly I got your note I sent your maid away on a pretext. A telephone message will fetch her at any moment. I have moved everything to the Blenheim Hotel. They think I am expecting my wife every hour. Come, you can change and dress, and we can have supper. Oh, my poor child, how white your face is! What awful rings you have under your eyes! Why, you are starving."

All this in a voice of infinite tenderness and feeling. Stella had risen to her feet. She could see nothing of her husband's face because her eyes were blind with tears. She wanted to run away; she wanted to leave him there and hide herself once more under the cover of the darkness. But she was too weak and spent for that—too tired and worn-out to make even the semblance of a struggle.

When she came to herself again her head was on her husband's shoulder; she could feel his strong arm about her. She was being half led, half carried. She was in a hansom presently; she could hear the click-clack of the horse's hoofs on the asphalt. Then she was passing through the brilliantly-lighted vestibule of an hotel. She was in a luxuriant bedroom with all her own things about her. Here were her jewels and her silver toilet accessories. Here was the warm bath that she needed. Then presently, in the same aesthetic dream, she found herself looking at her own slim, graceful prcsentment in a looking· glass.

The diamonds were in her hair again, a bunch of yellow roses nestled at her throat. There was a smile on her trembling lips now, the dark eyes were liquid with happiness despite the black rings below them. And yet Stella was full of contempt for her own weakness, half ashamed of a resolution she had made because she knew that it would never be carried into effect. It was good, oh, so good of Clive to treat her like this, to say nothing of the past, never to allude even by so much as a look to the disgrace which she had brought upon his good name. And here he was again with his arm about her waist gazing fondly into her face. He was seated opposite to her now at the supper-table, and Stella was eating as, it seemed to her, she had never eaten before. The events of the last three days seemed to be disappearing like the mists of some hideous nightmare, they seemed to be drifting into space.

The table was cleared presently and they were alone in that luxuriously-appointed sitting-room, where the lights were discreetly shaded and the soft gloom invited confidence and the opening out of hearts.

"Aren't you going to scold me?" Stella whispered. "Do you know what I meant to do? I meant to go away and never see you again. I meant to disappear and fight my own battles in the future, because I have treated you abominably, Clive, and I am not worthy to be called your wife; but the temptation was so great, the life I had led so awful, and—well, I really and truly loved you, and I can think of no better excuse than that. You may think that I was cold and reserved, but behind it all—"

She paused, and for a moment it seemed as if she had no more to say. What more was there to say?

"I know, sweetheart," Clinash murmured, "I know. I heard all that happened in court the other day, and I believe I read your mind then as if it had been an open book. And because you are so weak I love you so well. It is good to know that you were so ready to come back to me. Perhaps the knowledge of it flatters my vanity. But that matters little or nothing, because from the very first you never deceived me at all. When I married you in London eighteen months ago I knew the history of your troubles as well as I know it now. I was aware even then of the cruel injustice of your sentence. But I did not tell you I knew, because—well, why should I torture you? Perhaps I thought that if I let you know you would have refused to become my wife. But if I had foreseen this I would have sacrificed everything rather than imperil your future. I know that that was a mistake now. But you longed to come, and I—well, every man in love is a fool sometimes."

Stella looked into her husband's face wonderingly.

"You knew?" she murmured; "You actually knew? Oh! you are not deceiving me, Clive? You are not trying to make the way smooth and pleasant for me?"

"My dearest, I am telling you no more than the truth. The first time I ever saw you was in court on the day of your trial. I think I fell in love with you then. It might have been love born of pity, but it is none the less true and sincere for that. And I felt then, as I feel now, that you are the victim of circumstances, and that the man who was really behind that conspiracy took advantage of your lack of knowledge to get you to alter the date on those telegrams for him. Of course, you were not blameless, but you were more of a child in the matter. And in the interest I had in watching your case I forgot for a moment my own troubles."

"Your troubles," Stella murmured; "what were they?"

"Well, simply that I was practically a prisoner, too. I was out on bail; I was waiting to be tried. My case came actually next to yours. Oh, it was a bad business, and I am making no attempt to palliate it, but it was the only slip I ever made in my life, and I registered a vow there and then that when I came out of jail I would seek you out and make you my wife. It seemed to me that we had much in common, that we should have nothing to reproach one another with. And when I did come out the struggle was too hard for me to think of anything but bare existence. Like you I felt the iniquity of that reporting system, and like you I deliberately broke it. I had marvellous luck abroad, and in a few months I came back a rich man. The rest you know. And you know now why I dared not appear in court the other morning, why I had to keep out of the way for fear that I should be recognised too, and for fear that our happiness would collapse altogether. For your sake I had to take risks. But it turned out for the best. Luck was on our side for once. And, you see, I must get back to Buenos Ayres without delay. My whole prosperity turns upon it. And now I must ask you to forgive me."

"Is there any question of forgiveness between us?" Stella said. The tears were running down her cheeks now. "Do you know, I am almost glad. It seems a strange thing to say; but I am. And now, when do we sail? I shall know no happiness while I remain in this country."

Clive stooped and kissed his wife.

"To—morrow," he whispered. "I have arranged that. And all our future is bound up in that word—to-morrow."

THE END