TABLE of CONTENTS

THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS

THE UNEXPECTED

THE COURAGE OF DESPAIR

AFTER REYNOLDS

THE SALMON POACHERS

A RECORD ROUND

SUB ROSA

THE WATERWITCH

A ROPE OF SNOW

THE GUIDING STAR

THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS

ILLUSTRATED BY ALEC BALL

Published in The Windsor Magazine, Vol. XXIX, Apr 1909, pp 647-654

THE true story of the loss of the great pearl necklace has yet to be written. Of course, at the time it occupied the gossipy Society papers almost to the exclusion of everything else. Many journalists of the paragraphic type professed to give the authentic details, but as every paper varied in these matters, the general public felt that it had yet a good deal to learn. And the general public was right, because in no instance had a single one of those veracious journals come anywhere near the truth.

Of course, everybody knows the parties concerned in the story. For instance, there were Sir David Cordy and his daughter, together with Mr. George Goldsack, the wealthy American who subsequently married Miss Maud Cordy, but of Peter Prouse no mention was made. And as he was practically the hero of the romance, it will be seen at once that any true history of the missing necklace must be incomplete without him. But it was to Peter Prouse and nobody else that the whole merit of the scheme was due. But it will be just as well at this point, perhaps, to recapitulate the main facts, for the public has a short memory in these matters, and is apt to forget one sensation in the presence of another.

As everybody knows, Sir David Cordy is an exceedingly rich man. It really doesn't matter very much how he got his money, seeing that he was in absolute possession of it, and that he was the owner of one of the most magnificent houses in London. He was the owner, too, of many houses elsewhere, which embraced some of the finest partridge and grouse shooting in the country. He also possesses a steam-yacht which is a perfect dream in its way, and as he is inclined to lavish hospitality, he has a large and increasing circle of friends. In public, at any rate, nobody would venture to speak of Sir David as an unscrupulous and cold-blooded scoundrel, but there are a good many hard business men in the City of London who would not have the slightest hesitation in applying that epithet to him. Still, he has always managed to keep within the limits of the law; in fact, he employs half-a-dozen tame lawyers whose business it is to find out exactly how far he can go without bringing himself within reach of the lasso of the law. He is an exceedingly rich man, he gives great entertainments, and therefore he has no trouble whatever in finding himself welcome everywhere. There are a score of such men to-day, and some of them are not without honours, parliamentary and otherwise.

It was about this time that the announcement of the engagement between Miss Maud Cordy and Mr. George Goldsack was announced. Apart from the importance of the affair and the prominent position of the engaged couple, there were novel features which appealed to the Society press. For instance, Mr. Goldsack was one of the richest men in America, and for once he was reversing the programme. He was the rich American who was seeking a wife in England. He had just pulled off some big scheme of a corner in food of some sort; in fact, he had been successful in one of those rascally operations in which a certain type of American business man seems to delight. But as he had been succeasful, instead of emerging with disgraceful bankruptcy, Society clutched him to its bosom, and he found himself made much of. This was going to be the plutocratic marriage of the Season, and Sir David expanded accordingly. It was his bounden duty to give his daughter a present the like of which had never been seen before. There was no doubt from the first as to what form the present would take, seeing that a man of Sir David's antecedents and instincts can never possibly soar outside the regions of costly jewellery. Finally it was decided that the gift should take the shape of a pearl necklafce. Sir David had been dealing in pearls lately, and by means of a peculiarly sharp "spec" he had managed to get possession of some sixty pearls of remarkable purity far below their market value. They were honestly worth a thousand pounds apiece, even at their wholesale price, which fact Sir David did not conceal from such journalists as came along and asked personal questions. Long before the wedding-day everybody knew that Miss Cordy was going to have this unique thing amongst necklaces, and, indeed, it had been exhibited in the window of a Bond Street jeweller. It had been photographed too, for some of the illustrated papers.

In his dingy lodgings out Soho way, Peter Prouse read all about these things. He was getting on in life now, and his prospects were not so good as they might have been. He was a brilliantly clever man in his way, but like so many other brilliant men, he had managed to make a failure of his life. Incidentally he had been in jail, where he had served three years' penal servitude for a fraud in which he always argued he had been little or none to blame. One or two of his intimates were told that the real culprit was a man now rolling in wealth and luxury. And though he discreetly mentioned no names, there were certain people who knew quite well that Sir David Cordy was the man aimed at. And though it doesn't matter for the purpose of this story how far this is correct, it may at once be said that this was substantially true, and that, but for Cordy and certain forgotten transactions, Prouse would have probably been moving in very different circles to-day. As it was, he had a precarious and doubtful existence, more or less connected with advertisements and the cheaper press. Sometimes these led to comparative affluence, sometimes they left Prouse stranded on a very barren shore indeed. These adventures necessitated a constant change of address and a modest concealment of name under initials and other aliases of that sort. But for the last ten years Prouse had managed to evade the police, and at the time the story opens he was in a position of comparative affluence.

He sat there reading the papers and smoking cigarettes and discussing matters generally with his wife. She was considerably younger than himself, rather dainty and refined and innocent-looking. But it must not be inferred from this that she suffered any pangs of conscience or passed sleepless nights thinking of the ill-spent life of the man whom she was supposed to love, honour and obey. On the contrary, she was proud of his talents, and on more than one occasion §he had proved exceedingly useful in Prouse's little schemes of relieving the general public of the necessity of looking after its superfluous cash.

"What a world it is!" Mr, Prouse said. "Now, if this chap had his deserts, he would be in jail long ago. Instead of which, he's got more than he knows how to do with, and now he's going to marry his daughter to a man richer than himself. And he's going to give her a present which will be worth £60,000. Like to have a look at it, Maria? Here's a photograph of it in The Looking Glass. There's going to be a big reception in Park Lane next week so that the girl's friends can inspect the presents, and I see about sixty favoured guests are dining afterwards. I should like to get hold of those pearls! Why, they'd sell for a thousand pounds apiece anywhere. If I had that little lot, I could make at least £50,000, and then we could go and buy ourselves a little place in the country, same as you're always talking about. Upon my word, Maria, if I could do that man out of that necklace, I'd feel inclined almost to give it away. I'd like to get even with him. It's a different man I'd be if I had never come in contact with David Cordy."

Mrs. Prouse murmured her sympathy. She had heard this story a score of times before. But the prospect of comparative wealth and the little place in the country appealed to her. She recognised the fact that Peter was getting on in life, and that as yet he had made no provision for his old age.

"I'm afraid that's out of our reach," she said regretfully. "Besides, it's altogether too big a thing."

"I'm not altogether sure of that," Prouse said thoughtfully. "I was thinking about it last night. They say that hatred sharpens one's wits. Not that I am much of a fool at any time. How much money do we happen to have?"

"Oh, we haven't been lucky lately," Mrs. Prouse replied. "I suppose I've got a matter of about seventy pounds upstairs."

Prouse smiled approvingly.

"That's good enough," he said. "I suppose I can count upon you if you're wanted?"

Mrs. Prouse's pride was properly up in arms. She wanted to know if there had ever been a time when her husband could not count upon her. She reminded him pungently of the one or two occasions upon which her courage and resource had been the means of averting considerable trouble. Prouse duly apologised. He surveyed his wife's dainty prettiness and demure innocence with approval. Should he tell her his scheme or not? he asked himself. Perhaps it would be just as well not to trust her too far, for even the cleverest of women are apt to develop hysterical symptoms in moments of crises.

"All right," he said, "you shall know all about it later on. Meanwhile, I shall want about forty pounds of the money you've got upstairs, and if that forty pounds don't multiply itself by a thousand before the week's out, then my name isn't Peter Prouse. It's the right time of the year, too, and, so far as I can see, everything is in our favour. Now, don't ask a lot of questions, because I'm busy. All you've got to do is to act just as I tell you, and you shall have your little place in the country yet. As for me, I'm going down to St. Albans this evening, and I mayn't be back till to-morrow morning. Let's have the coin, old girl."

Mrs. Prouse fetched the money without protest, and discreetly refrained from asking unnecessary questions. Prouse duly returned from St. Albans the following day, apparently on the best of terms with himself. He asked if a big parcel had come for him, and Mrs. Prouse replied in the affirmative. She saw her husband leave the house presently neatly dressed and clean shaven, with his eyes smiling blandly behind gold-rimmed spectacles. He looked for all the world like a shopwalker or gentlemanly assistant in a West-end business, as his wife did not forget to inform him. The remark seemed to please him, for he muttered something to the effect that that was exactly what he meant to convey.

Sir David was busy, as usual, and he was slightly annoyed to be stopped in this way at the moment when he was leaving his house for the City. But possibly this smooth-spoken young man represented some West-end establishment, and Sir David was graciously pleased to give him five minutes of his time.

"My name is Balin,sir; I represent the firm of Messrs. Larkspur and Son, of Paris," the discreet young man murmured. "No doubt. Sir David, you have heard of Larkspur. The famous Paris florists, you know. We've just opened a branch in London. I thought, perhaps, if you haven't given your orders for the flowers for Miss Cordy's reception next Thursday—"

"I can't be bothered with that," Cordy grunted.

"Pardon me just for the moment, sir. You see, we work on different lines to the English florists. We supply flowers of an infinitely superior quality, and we make arrangements to take them back again. I can assure you, sir, that we can do you at half the price you paid Collins and Sons for the flowers for the big dance which you gave last week. I believe the scheme then, sir, was roses, was it not? For less money than that we will undertake a scheme which calls exclusively for the use of orchids. You see, sir, we could use the orchids again, as they are flowers which last a wonderfully long time, and nobody would be the least the wiser, if you care to favour us."

Sir David was just a little impressed. In spite of all his money, he dearly loved a bargain, and he would have gone a long way to save a sixpence. And the suggestion of the scheme of orchids appealed to him.

"I don't dislike your idea," Sir David said patronisingly, "but unfortunately my arrangements—"

"One moment, sir, just one moment. We are exceedingly anxious to get the custom of anyone like yourself. If you will permit me, I shall be exceedingly glad to decorate the tables where Miss Cordy's presents appear entirely with the green and gold orchids which created such a sensation last week in Paris, when the President was entertaining his royal visitors. These orchids are quite new, and cannot be bought for money. If you will permit me, I will decorate the tables with these flowers, and subsequently they can be moved to the dining-room for your dinner-party. I will send one of the cleverest of floral designers in London, and we shall be only too pleased to send the flowers and fetch them away without any charge whatever. The advertisement will more than repay us for the trouble we are taking."

Sir David promptly closed with the offer. It was one that appealed to his business instincts. It would cost him nothing, and it would be quite a piquant little item for the newspapers afterwards. He stood there chatting on the steps with the gentlemanly representative of Larkspur and Son for quite a long time. It was arranged, at length, that the flowers should come in the following Thursday, the day before the wedding, about three o'clock, so that there would be plenty of time to get the scheme properly set out before Miss Cordy's guests began to arrive for the inspection of the wedding presents. As it was cold March weather, the orchids would be sent in specially constructed vans which the firm always used for that purpose.

"I am greatly obliged to you, sir," Mr. Balin said. "Perhaps you might be good enough to drop a hint to your detective. I mean, sir, to the man from the private inquiry agency who always attends these functions to keep an eye on the presents."

"Oh, I haven't forgotten that, you may be sure," Sir David said. "Yes, my good man, you are quite right. My detectives on these occasions always come from Parker and Lee, of Charing Cross. I generally have the same man—a most reliable creature of the name of Taddy. Perhaps you have met him?"

"Oh, yes, sir," Balin said. "We have frequently met in great houses in the West End. And I am really most grateful to you, sir. You may rely upon my absolute attentions."

Cordy went his way with the air of a man who has done a good stroke of business. He was not quite so pleased, however, when he reached home early on the following Thursday afternoon to find that as yet there was no sign of the gentleman from Messrs. Larkspur or the deft-fingered young lady whose business it would be to arrange the orchids. Sir David fretted and fumed, for a man in his position naturally resents these little pin-pricks on the part of Providence. As a rule, they do not come into the scheme. But as the guests were beginning to arrive, and the dainty Society butterflies began to hover round the Empire tables on which the presents were laid out, Sir David was forced to control himself. The huge drawing-room was one blaze of electric lights now, the room was gradually filling with a chattering mob, and on the centre table furthest from the door lay the great pearl necklace. It was not much brighter than the many bright and envious eyes which were turned upon it, and as Sir David began to realise the importance of the occasion he expanded visibly. At the same moment half-a-dozen gorgeously attired footmen came in solemn procession bearing on silver salvers a really unique and beautiful collection of orchids. There was something so fine and distinguished about these gorgeous flowers that even the presents were forgotten for the moment. Behind the glittering cavalcade came the gentlemanly manager of Larkspur and Son, followed by a shrinking, modest-looking girl dressed in black, and apparently frightened and bewildered by the scheme of splendour in which she found herself.

"It is quite the fault of my assistant, Sir David," Mr. Balin said. "She foolishly forgot my instructions. Now, Miss Gordon, please get to work at once."

With this explanation, Mr. Balin vanished, and the shrinking girl proceeded to lay out her lovely flowers to the best advantage. She was dexterous enough in her work, and with a deft touch here and there proceeded to beautify the tables beyond recognition.

Sir David looked on approvingly. So also did the dark, clean-shaven man in the frock-coat and black tie who hovered near the table with the air of a waiter who is not quite sure that his handiwork will meet with complete approval. He was disguised as a guest, of course, but obviously enough he was a man sent there by Parker and Lee for the purpose of keeping an eye on the presents.

"Yes, they really are marvellous flowers," Sir David said pompously to an admiring guest. "I understand they were imported by my people especially from Paris. The collection originally belonged to an Oriental monarch. They tell me that this lot is worth a fabulous sum; that mixture of green and gold is superb. I understand they look far better on the dining-table. But you will have an opportunity of seeing that for yourself, my dear fellow. I must confess, for my own part, that I like something out of the common. If these things don't run to too great an amount, I think I shall buy them."

The demure little assistant smiled. She quite appreciated the situation. It was so like the man there to boast that he had another collection of these famous orchids besides the glorious wealth of bloom on the table. At this moment the crowd surged back from the tables, for another set of gorgeous footmen came in with the tea. It was at this point, when the scene was at its best and brightest, that the light suddenly went out and the brilliant assembly was plunged in darkness.

"Shut the door, sir," a voice said. "It's Taddy speaking to you. Sir David. I don't say it isn't all right, sir, but it's just possible that this is an impudent dodge—"

Cordy waited to hear no more. He plunged headlong across the room and closed the door with a bang. Some man in the crowd produced a box of matches from his pocket, and one of the gorgeous footmen remembered the gas which was in the drawing-room besides the electric light. It was never used, but still the brackets were retained in case of accidents. But it was a minute or more before the flickering lights faintly illuminated the big saloon, but in that moment the mischief was done. Taddy gasped in dismay as he pointed to the centre table, where the big pearl necklace was now conspicuous by its absence.

It is impossible adequately to convey the scene which followed. It was impossible too, to accuse anyone of the theft. For the next half-hour the bewildered guests huddled together, exchanging glances. And when the police, who had been frantically telephoned for, put in an appearance, they were equally at fault. As for Mr. Taddy, he could tell them nothing. The demure florist, standing by the table where she had been putting the finishing touches to the work, had seen and heard nothing whatever. Indeed, she seemed too utterly bewildered to understand what had happened. The sudden change from the brilliant light to the pitch darkness had had its effect on everybody there, but it was useless to stand idly discussing this great calamity. The thing was done, and there was an end of it, and the authorities were plainly of opinion that Miss Cordy would be lucky if she ever saw her necklace again. In the language of the paragraphists who pursued her so unceasingly, "she was utterly prostrate with grief." One or two intimates stayed to administer what consolation they could, but save for the idea of immediate bed and eau-de-cologne, no practical balm for Miss Oordy's stricken feelings emanated from that frivolous crowd.

"What's the good of that?" the demented young woman asked. "Besides, we've got a dinner-party to-night, and if those dreadful people have taken my necklace, why, then, my father must buy me another one. But please tell that young woman to take those dreadful orchids away. I shall never see an orchid again without thinking about this terrible afternoon."

The pretty little assistant stood there, blushing and trembling. She glanced appealingly to Sir David, who very naturally demurred to this exhibition of sentiment on his daughter's part. The orchids had cost him nothing, it is true, but then he had been looking forward to boasting and swaggering about them at his dinner-table later on, and this was one of the things which he enjoyed above everything. But for once in his life he had to give way.

"Better remove them," he muttered. "At any rate, I suppose I can have them on another occasion. Here, one of you men, go and order a cab and bring this young woman's baskets back. Pack them up and get them away at once. I can call round to your shop in the morning and explain."

It took some little time to pack the flowers, for the room was mainly occupied now by the police force, who were searching everywhere for the missing pearls. The little florist appeared to watch them with dazed fascination. Presently she realised that her curiosity was out of place, so she proceeded to entwine the stems of her flowers with cotton-wool, and to place them in their mossy boxes with almost loving care. It was really marvellous to see in how small a space those long trails and clusters of blooms folded when they were handled by expert fingers. A detective, evidently with a passion for flowers, watched the work with frank admiration.

"I didn't think you could have possibly done it, miss," he said. "Why, when we came in, those tables were one mass of glorious blooms, and now you've got them all packed away so that they would go into a good-sized dressing-case. They are very light, too."

"Yes, aren't they?" the assistant said, with a shy smile. "And I wonder how I managed so well, because I've never known my hand shake so much as it did just now. And I do hope that pretty young lady will get her necklace back again. It seemed such a horrible trick to play upon her. Do you suppose it really was a planned affair? Isn't it just possible that some guest took advantage of the accident?"

The speaker pulled up as if ashamed of her audacity in making such a suggestion. The detective shook his head meaningly. He was bound to admit, he said, that he had heard of such things. The little assistant sighed as she demurely left the room and made her way into the street. She was infinitely obliged to the gorgeous footman who had called her a cab, but really, she didn't want one, she had such a little distance to go, and she much preferred to walk. She disappeared down the street, and presently was crossing the Park in the westerly direction. Almost at the same moment one of the leading lights from Scotland Yard arrived at Park Lane with the demand to see Sir David at once.

"I am afraid it is a put-up thing, sir," he said. "I've been down to Parker and Lee's making inquiries. The man you had here just now was not their man at all. They couldn't send you Taddy, because he met with an accident, but they sent you another man equally reliable, who had instructions last night to be here at three o'clock. We have just found out that he never went home last evening at all. You may depend upon it that he has met with foul play. Probably he was lured into some den and heavily drugged. The man who came here and personated him, beyond all doubt was the thief. Of course, we can't tell quite how he managed it, and up to now we have found nothing wrong with the main switches of the electric light. But no doubt he managed to establish a short circuit somewhere, and directly the light went out he popped the necklace in his pocket."

"The scoundrel!" Sir David groaned. "I suppose you'll manage to get hold of him. He is sure to be some well-known criminal."

"Oh, of course," the inspector said soothingly. "We shall lay hands upon him right enough. I know it must have been intensely dark for the moment, but it's rather odd that the assistant from the florists didn't notice anything. She was actually arranging the flowers at the time. I don't suppose she can give us any information, but I should like to speak to her."

"You don't mean to suggest," Sir David cried, "that—"

"Oh, dear, no, sir. There's no shadow of doubt in my mind as to who the thief is, but one never knows."

"The girl's gone. I wanted her to rearrange the flowers in the dining-room for to-night's dinner, but my daughter wouldn't hear of it."

The inspector murmured that the matter was of little importance, and meanwhile the innocent florist was making her way by the circuitous route to the obscure lodging in Soho where Mr. Peter Prouse lived. He smiled largely and blandly as he saw the parcel which she was carrying in her hand.

"This is better luck than I expected," he said. "I thought we should have had to wait for those flowers at least till to-morrow morning. I thought we should have had to fetch them."

"Oh, the girl took a dislike to them," Mrs. Prouse explained. "She said she never wanted to see an orchid again, so Sir David told me to pack them up and take them back to the shop, and here I am. And now I am dying with curiosity—"

"Right you are," Prouse said immediately. "Unpack the flowers; do it carefully and lay them on the table."

"Just as if I should do it carelessly. I am too fond of flowers for that... There, now. And now tell me what possible connection there can be between these blooms and the disappearance of Miss Cordy's pearl necklace."

"That's quite easy enough," Prouse said. "Now, just pass me those three large sprays of blooms. Thank you. Now, I take this pair of tweezers and insert it in the gold and green cup at the base of this flower, which looks so exactly like a mouth—or, rather, like a glorified snapdragon. And from it I produce this pearl, which is worth at least a thousand pounds. You see, I go on doing this with the tweezers till I remove all the pearls which you see before you. See how beautifully they fit into the receptacles and how utterly impossible it would be to guess where they were. My idea, of course, was that the flowers would be removed by you to the dining-table, and when all those swells were discussing the loss of the pearls, they would be under their very eyes all the time. Then you would have gone round to the house to-morrow morning to fetch the flowers away, just as if they really did belong to Larkspur and Son, and as if you were an assistant in the shop. It was a million to one against Cordy's suspecting that there was anything wrong as far as you and the orchids were concerned. Now, I didn't tell you what the game was as far as you were concerned, and what risks you had to run, because it would have made you too horribly nervous. You would never have got out of the house all right if you knew you had the pearls in your possession. I wanted you to think the flowers were only part of the blind."

"I did think so," Mrs. Prouse said. "And you are quite right, Peter, I'm glad I didn't know."

"Oh, that's all right," Prouse said. "The rest was quite easy. You see, I had to get that private detective out of the way, and that was no great trouble. I managed to drug him all right, and then of course I had to take his place. It was easy for me to pose as the representative of Larkspur and Son, but it was not quite so easy to take you into the drawing-room of Park Lane and then to slip out of the house again and come back five or ten minutes later freshly made up to take the part of the Parker and Lee's detective. But I had been there in that role in the morning, so that the servants might get familiar with me. Still, an old hand at the game like myself managed to slip into a lavatory when all the servants were busy and alter my make-up a little. When I came back into the drawing-room, I studied exactly how the land lay, and almost before the lights were out I had my hand upon that necklace. I had only to cut the string, and all the pearls slipped into my hands. It didn't take me long to feel for the orchids and slip the pearls into those little green and gold mouths."

"But the light?" Mrs. Prouse asked.

"Oh, that was the easiest of the lot. When I was in the drawing-room early in the afternoon, I took one of the lamps off from a cluster near the table. When the time came, I had only to take my knife out of my pocket and touch the negative and positive poles in the lamp-socket with the steel blade. That short circuited it at once, and blew out the fuse. The rest was quite easy. But it's a pretty little scheme altogether, and I am quite proud of it. At any rate, I'm even with Cordy now. The only thing I regret is that I can't tell him whom he had to thank for the loss. But you can't have everything."

THE END

THE UNEXPECTED

ILLUSTRATED BY ALEC BALL

Published in The Windsor Magazine, Vol. XXIX, May 1909, pp 803-810

BY and by the two men would be making Empire. Later on, with any luck, that unknown portion of Africa would be added to the map and duly painted red. Then, perhaps, in the fulness of time, Stanning and Ridsdale would be largely in the newspapers, with C.B.'s after their names, and possibly fat commissionerships in the not remote future. It is a fascinating game, and has been played with brilliant success ever since the days of Drake and Frobisher and Hawkins. If the thing is successful, then these adventurers are patriots and explorers; if the thing fails, then they are no better than pirates, and are treated accordingly. And nobody understood the rules of the game better than Stanning and Ridsdale. They had gone into it with their eyes wide open; they had tired of the ordinary amusements of an effete civilisation, and, besides, they were both getting on in life. There were wrinkles under their eyes and grey patches on their temples, and a peculiar, nervous jerk of their hands which told its own story.

There were about two hundred and fifty of them altogether. As to the natives, they didn't count at all. They had been more or less pressed into the service; they were so many black cattle in a country where it was impossible to obtain mules. The Europeans were a mere handful, and of them the less said the better. For the most part, they would have preferred it that way. They were all in possession of antecedents, of course, but on this head they displayed a unanimous and striking modesty. Probably most of them had been in jail, and they all deserved to be, but they were just the sort of men that Ridsdale and Stanning wanted, for they knew no fear, and adventure was as the breath of their nostrils. It looked like being a big thing, too.

In the first place, no white man had ever been here before. The country was rich in produce; there was ivory to be had for the asking, and if the stories told by the natives were true, there was indiarubber back yonder behind the place where the chief of the tribes lived. Of course, there was the awful climate—the hot, steamy days and the heavy nights, when the fog fell like a blanket, and perspiring humanity shivered under its cold touch. There were fever and dysentery and all the rest of it, and no man knew what to-morrow would bring forth. But it was beautiful in its way, too. There were orchids here hanging from the trees, which collectors away in England would have given an ear to call their own. Provided the little force was not wiped out prematurely, then Stanning and Ridsdale began to see the outline of great possibilities. Probably, later on, they would reap their reward for all this; there were no newspaper correspondents present, so that they might carry out the campaign in the usual way. It is an axiom in the making of geography that dead men tell no tales.

And yet, somehow, things were not going quite so smoothly as they might, for here was a tribe that refused to come in. The men of it were not to be moved by blandishments or glass beads or biscuit-tins, and Winchester rifles appeared to have no terrors for them. More than one brush had ended in an undecided fashion, and progress was getting slow, until it began to dawn upon the leaders of the expedition that they were in a tight place. Their sentries were picked off at nights, and though they had every intention of moving in one direction, it gradually began to dawn upon Stanning and Ridsdale that they were being shepherded into quite another place. It was all very well to try and believe that their movements were made for strategic reasons, and because of the force of the foe who kept at respectful distance. But these two leaders had been in South Africa, and they recognised that there was method behind all this. There was something almost murderously civilised about it. The lesson had come right home that afternoon, when an advance party had been fallen upon and cut off to a man in a little ravine leading out into the plain. And when the advance party came to be buried, Stanning stood there whistling softly and scratching his head with a ruminative fore-finger. He was the more observant of the two, and he was seeing things now which were lost upon Ridsdale. When the two sat down gloomily to smoke, it was Stanning who pointed out certain things of moment.

"This is a serious business," Ridsdale said.

"My boy, it's more serious than you think," Stanning replied. "Now, just look at this. I picked it up this afternoon—in fact, I picked up a couple of dozen of them. If those chaps of ours find any of them, they won't move another yard."

"What is it?" Ridsdale asked languidly. He lay there half suffocated by the moist heat; his face seemed to be bathed in a kind of yellow varnish. "What have you got there?"

Stanning passed over a little, shining, brass cylinder for his companion's inspection.

"No reason to ask you if you know what this is," he said. "You've been through the Boer war, and you've seen the thing for yourself. It's the shell of a Mauser cartridge, my boy, and I've got a score more in my pocket. And every one of those poor devils we buried just now was shot with a No. 2 Mauser rifle of the very latest pattern. Why, it hasn't been out more than six months. Lord knows how it was that those chaps didn't notice. I suppose they thought that our little lot was picked off by a lot of old gas-pipes just in the usual way. I tell you, I don't like it, Ridsdale. I could have sworn that we were the first white men here, and yet that's impossible. Fancy coming across niggers in the middle of Africa armed with Mausers! And that's not the worst of it. Here's another shell. I picked it up quite by accident. You won't want to run your eye over it more than once to see that it's a Maxim cartridge. Fancy a nigger chief right off the map here with a force behind him armed up to date in this way! No wonder he refused to come into treaty with us. And the beggar's clever, too. He's running this little scrap quite on European lines. He's a kind of Cronje in the bud. And instead of us being marching on to Maryland and all that sort of thing, we are in a devilish tight place. I only began to realise it yesterday, and that confounded nigger knows it, too. If something out of the common doesn't happen, your mother and mine will never see their blue-eyed boys again."

"So you've spotted it, too?" Ridsdale asked. "I didn't like to say anything about it till I was certain. And so far as I can see, there is only one thing left to be done."

"'The good old rule, the simple plan,'" Stanning quoted—"the great game of bluff which has built up the British Empire and made it what it is. We shall have to wave the flag, my boy. We shall have to pose as a British force, and offer this mahogany Napoleon here the protection of the Union Jack. It may come off all right; on the other hand, it mayn't. If it does, then we shall get our little reward later on, and if it doesn't, then Portland prison may be our portion for some little time to come. We will send our friend an ultimatum. We will send something neat and not too gaudy in the way of a mission, asking the chief to come and see us. You write it—you are better at that sort of thing than I am—and make it flowery, old chap, whatever you do. Throw in a lot about the Empire on which the sun never sets."

Ridsdale dragged himself wearily in the direction of his tent. He sat down, and at the end of half an hour had evolved something satisfactory. It was finely decorated with some imposing looking pictures taken from packets of cigarettes. It was just the sort of thing to fill the heart of a simple savage with wonder and delight.

"I think that will do the trick," he said. "Those regimental colours from the cigarette packets come in fine. It looks like the work of a boy in a Council school. And now, I suppose, the best thing we can do is to send it off. With any luck, we ought to get some sort of a reply before sunset."

It was not a particularly easy matter to procure volunteers for the proud position of bearing the proclamation. But the thing was accomplished at length by a judicious admixture of threats and bullying, together with a couple of bottles of something peculiarly atrocious in the way of whisky. The deputation started presently under the guidance of a big ex-convict, who had, amongst other talents, the gift of tongues. He swayed slightly in his walk; he was filled contemporaneously with the importance of his mission and the lion's share of the aggressive whisky. The little company departed presently, and Ridsdale and Stanning sat down to await events. Even their spirits were damped by the outlook. The heat beat down upon them furiously; they lay there groaning and sweating, anxious to be up and doing something, and yet held in the grip of that enervating moisture. Presently it became too hot to smoke; they could only lounge there half torpid and almost too listless to fight the flies which hung round them in black, humming clouds. It was nearly sunset before a solitary native came in sight, the only one of the deputation, apparently.

"Where are the rest of them?" Stanning demanded.

The native made a motion by drawing his hand across his throat. He was absolutely livid under his black skin, his yellow eyeballs rolled in a fine frenzy of fear.

"All gone, master," he said—"all done for. I saw it. First one, then the other, and the lord of the black beard last of all. Me they spared, me they sent with a letter."

This was the gist of the story he had to tell, told in his own words. It was adorned with wild gesticulations and a certain fluency of description from which the listeners picked out the prominent features. Apparently, without waiting for any explanation, the native chief had had the deputation promptly murdered, with the exception of the fortunate individual saved from the holocaust to bring back a reply to Ridsdale's work of art.

"Did it seem to annoy him?" Ridsdale asked.

"He read," the native said. "He put up the one glass to his eye, same as my lord here--"

"What?" Stanning cried. "Here, steady on! Do you mean to tell me that this nigger wears an eyeglass like mine? Oh, the man's mad—frightened to death!"

But the native stuck stoutly to his story. He had gone alone into the presence of the mysterious great chief, all dressed in his feathers and his paint, and the great gold ring through his nose, and the great chief had read that illuminated address, and he had laughed and laughed till the tears ran down his face. Then he had summoned a woman, who came muffled to the eyes, and she had read and laughed, too, in tones like those of the bell-bird when he is calling to his mate. And after that the big chief had written something with a pen on a sheet of paper, and he had tossed it to the messenger, bidding him contemptuously to be gone and take it to the white men who had dared to send him there.

"Oh, tho man's raving!" Ridsdale said. "He's either that or he's a born journalist without knowing it. I suppose you could find novelists in this part of the world even. If this chap were only educated, he would knock some of those writing chaps at home silly. Still, it's clever. He's a humorist. Just think of a nigger with a ring through his nose and an eyeglass! And that touch about the fair female with a voice like a set of silver bells!"

"And the pen and paper," Stanning said. "Now, my son, produce the love-letter. Let's have the cream-laid note and the violet ink. Hand it over—the letter, you fool, the letter!"

The anguished native promptly dived his hand into his loin-cloth and produced a note. Surely enough it looked just the sort of letter to come from any civilised being with a nice taste in notepaper and a firm, neat handwriting. The letter was addressed to the commander of the British force, and inside was a short and pithy message couched in ironical phrase in an absolutely perfect grammar. Stanning gasped as he read it.

"The gist of it," he said faintly, "is: 'Don't you wish you might get it!' And it's written in French, of all languages in the world! Oh, we've gone mad, old chap! This infernal climate has been too much for us, and, for the time being, Reason totters on her throne. The dusky warrior who murders the envoy in cold blood is all right enough, for we've met him before, but the savage chief who has an eyeglass and writes letters upon notepaper with the Army and Navy Stores' imprint on the flap of the envelope must be a creature of imagination. He couldn't exist; the whole thing is impossible."

"Well, there it is, anyway," Ridsdale said. "I suppose we don't happen to have blundered on a tribe of white men who have been lost sight of for a few generations? No, that's quite impossible. I don't think a white man would have an embassy chopped up in that cold-blooded way. Still, the thing's pretty weird, old man. It gives me a queer sensation down my spine. I'd give something to get out of this!"

Stanning was emphatically of the same opinion. There was nothing for it now but to await the course of events. The darkness fell presently, and with it the night became sensibly cooler. It was possible to stand up now and to think and to act energetically. For an hour or more the two friends debated the matter, at the end of which time they decided that it would be better to fall back the way they had come. A long night march might take them outside the zone of danger. But here they were mistaken. A murderous fire broke out presently from both sides of the ravine, and the small advance guard fell back in confusion. Evidently it was too late to do anything now, and the only thing left was to concentrate forces and await the onslaught, which Ridsdale and Stanning knew now would come before morning.

They could only hope for the best. They could only clench their teeth with the determination to fight it out to the bitter end. It was a couple of hours before the dawn when the attack broke upon them from all sides with startling suddenness. A great searchlight flared amongst the trees; the wood seemed to be alive with black figures, some of which were armed with a Mauser rifle. Their fire was concentrated and murderous; they closed in more fiercely, till at length Ridsdale and Stanning and a couple of natives alone remained. A gigantic black figure came bounding through the undergrowth, and pointed a revolver at Ridsdale, but at that very moment another huge figure appeared from out the gloom, and snatched the weapon from the big fellow's hand. In the same instant a hoarse command rang out from somewhere, and the firing ceased and the searchlight died away. It was impossible to see a yard ahead in the intense darkness.

It was no time to wait and argue what this policy meant. Stanning clutched his companion by the arm, and together they staggered on through the night. They fought their way steadily with a grim courage and despair, knowing little where they went and what lay before them. But presently it seemed to them that the noise was dying away, and that for the time being, at any rate, they had reached a haven of safety. The first glimpse of the dawn was coming up now as they threw themselves down, spent and exhausted, upon the thick herbage.

"We've done it now!" Stanning gasped. "I should say that we were the only two left. So far we are lucky to be together. But where's it going to end? How are we going to find our way back again? Why, we haven't got so much as a revolver and a cartridge between us!"

Ridsdale had no suggestion to make; he was too utterly tired and worn out. Stanning's eyes were closing, too, and they lay there in a deep sleep of utter exhaustion hour after hour, until, when they woke again, the sun was beginning to slope behind the dim outline of the distant hills. So far as they could judge, according to English time, it must have been about six o'clock. And then came the knowledge simultaneously to both of them that they were ravenously hungry. Still, they had to get on, and that speedily. They were far enough away from their own camp, even if they had known the direction in which it lay. But by this time, no doubt, the camp had been wiped off the face of the forest, and little trace of it would remain. They had nothing beyond what they stood up in, no arms, and no provision to make a fire, even if they possessed the food to cook.

"We shall have to manage it somehow or other," Stanning said. "We can't sit quietly here and starve. What do you say to prospecting around till we can find a village? We can't be so very far away from a human habitation."

"Come along," Ridsdale said. "Anything's better than this."

It was a difficult and a hazardous matter, but they managed it at length. They found a village presently, lying on a high plateau of land, and in the background an imposing group of buildings—quite a small palace in its way—which evidently was the residence of the chief of the tribe. So far everything had gone well, and there was nothing for it now but to possess their souls in patience until such time as the village slept, and it would be possible to steal into one of the huts and procure food. It might be possible also to assimilate a rifle or two and a box of cartridges.

The darkness fell presently, and dim lights began to twinkle out in the village. Then the open windows of the imposing palace in the background burst into scores of points of gleaming flame. Ridsdale clutched his companion's arm.

"It's a land of magic," he whispered. "Electric lights, as I'm a living soul! Oh, there's no doubt of it! Look and see for yourself. Why, you can see the clusters on the ceiling! What on earth does it mean?"

"Come and see for yourself," a quiet voice came out of the darkness. "Now, don't move, gentlemen; I've got you covered with my revolver. I've been watching you for some time."

Ridsdale and his companion resigned themselves to the inevitable. They were too dazed and bewildered to make any resistance; besides, this was emphatically a case where discretion was the better part of valour. They walked circumspectly and discreetly, for on that point their guide was emphatic. They came presently to the outer gate of the palace, which was immediately closed behind them. Once inside, they gazed round them with a feeble mixture of admiration and surprise. Here was a large, wide hall furnished in luxurious fashion, perhaps a little reminiscent of Tottenham Court Road, but with an absolute eye to comfort for all that. The electric lights gleamed everywhere behind the yellow silk shades; there were pictures on the walls, and oriental vases and bowls filled with masses of white and gold and purple orchids. The feet of the weary adventurers sank luxuriously into thick carpet; their tired eyes turned wearily from the splendour and the luxury of it all. Ridsdale turned recklessly to his guide. The man was a European like himself, with the suggestion of a Frenchman about him.

"What's the name of this hotel?" Ridsdale asked. "I say, you might show us where the bathroom is. And if you can give us a pick-me-up before dinner, we should be obliged."

"A little patience," the guide said calmly. "Perhaps you would like to see the bathroom first. This way, please."

They followed, still marvelling, across a wide passage with many rooms leading out of it. The adventurers could see that there was a well-filled library as they passed, and further on a billiard-room, and again a music-room.

They were alone together presently in a large apartment lined with white tubs and fitted with two baths with silver appliances. They stood and grinned at one another.

"The Arabian Nights, by Jove!" Ridsdale cried. "Where's the one-eyed Calendar with the scented soap and the hot towel? Upon my word, if they give us a good dinner and show us the nigger with the eyeglass afterwards, I shall be quite prepared to die happy. Pity we didn't bring our dress-clothes with us, wasn't it?"

Stanning responded in a reckless mood. He was feeling now as if he cared little what happened; after this, life could possess no further surprises for him. They fairly revelled in the luxury of a bath. They came out presently, to find razors and shaving tackle awaiting them. Then their guide reappeared and conducted them down to a drawing-room which would have been worthy of Belgravia. And here, awaiting them, was a tall, graceful woman in evening-dress. She was dark and handsome enough in a way— she might have been some five-and-forty years of age—and she had a fascinating smile which rendered her face extremely youthful.

"I am very glad to see you," she said. "Which is Mr. Ridsdale and which is Mr. Stanning?... Oh, yes, it is quite delightful to see a white face again! It is thirteen years now since I spoke in English or French to anyone but my husband. I see you are wondering who my husband is. He was a little late in going to his dressing-room this evening, but he will be here presently to explain things for himself. He is the chief of the tribe, you know. I fancy one of you gentlemen owes his life to the prompt intervention of my husband last night--"

Stanning started and stammered something. Usually he was cool and collected enough, but he looked flushed and uncomfortable now.

"I—I don't understand," he blurted out.

The dazzling vision smiled sweetly.

"Oh, there are lots of things you don't understand," she said. "But you will get over your surprise in time. Of course, if you will come here, you will have to put up with the consequences. If you had both perished last night, you would have had nobody to blame but yourselves. Why can't you English leave people alone? Surely, if one likes to come all this way from civilisation, one has a right to a little peace and quietness. Oh, I don't blame you, but I know exactly what you were after. In a short time you find some excuse to quarrel with the natives, then you run up the British flag and build a light railway, and then you go home and write a book, and your Government gives you a knighthood and perhaps makes you a governor of some important island. I never pick up one of the English society papers without reading some charming little biography of this kind. It is only when you fail that you are called a thief and an adventurer. Still, I bear you no grudge, especially as you are going to make no geography out of this little affair. And it really was good of you to come all this way and give us a little variety in our monotonous lives. Now, I haven't the slightest intention of telling you who we are, and what strange freak of fortune brought us here, but there was a time when I knew the Park and Ascot and Cowes quite as well as you do. And I should be frightfully interested after dinner to hear all about my old friends. But here is my husband."

There came into the drawing-room at that moment the striking figure of a man in evening-dress. He was splendidly proportioned, a veritable mass of sinews. His face was burnt almost black, his blunt, short nose and somewhat sensual lips had a suggestion of the negro about them. Dyed and stained and dressed in the appropriate feathers, he would have passed even in the searching daylight for the very model of a negro chief. Looking at him carefully, Stanning could see where the nose had been pierced, and where on occasions this amazing specimen of humanity wore the heavy gold ring which the native envoy had spoken of. But there were no signs of it now, for the strange host carried his glass in his right eye as if to the manner born. Just for the moment a flicker of malicious amusement fell on his face, and his eyes grew hard and merciless. Beyond a doubt, this man had been reared in civilisation, but, all the same, he was a tiger. And at that moment Stanning could read clearly enough what was likely to happen. They had been brought here to amuse this savage and his wife, but that they were likely to return to civilisation to tell their story was a contingency so remote that it was not worthy of thought.

"I am exceedingly glad to meet you, gentlemen," the chief said in a harsh, grating voice. "I managed to save you last night at some little risk to myself. To a certain extent I am like the man in the Scriptures who spared Agag and the best of the spoil. Still, it was worth taking the risk. I knew it would amuse my wife and afford her a pleasant change. But, really, I owe you a grudge for coming here like this, because for many reasons strict privacy is essential to us. We won't talk about that; let us go in to dinner. We can play at society, at any rate, for the time being."

It was an excellent dinner; indeed, it seemed to Stanning and his companion that they had never sat down to a better. Here were the same luxuries which they would have found at the Carlton or the Savoy, here was the finest of champagne, the most curious thing in the way of liqueurs, and cigarettes which had been expressly manufactured for Royalty itself. And the table left nothing to be desired. There were three or four well-trained servants who did their work excellently.

"Ex-convicts," the strange host explained, when the coffee and cigars had circulated. "They are French, for the most part. And three out of the four have escaped from Toulon. But they serve our purpose excellently well, and for obvious reasons they are quite content to stay here. Of course, I need not tell you that the tribe which I have the honour to reign over does not dream of the way in which its chief spends his evenings. No nigger of the lot of them has ever been in here. But that only adds to the mystery and gives me greater hold upon them. Now, what do you gentlemen say to a game of billiards? We can talk and play at the same time, and I can give you any information you need. Not that it is likely to be of any service to you, but, still, out of courtesy to my guests--"

The smile was pleasant enough, but the tone none the less menacing. And, on the whole, it was a pleasant evening. The dramatic, unexpected suddenness of it alone gave it piquancy and charm in the eyes of the guests. It was only later on, in the seclusion of the bedroom, that the grimness of it appealed to them.

"Where's this going to end?" Ridsdale asked gloomily.

"It will end," Stanning said grimly, "when that tiger and his mate have had enough of it. It will end on the knot of a rope or at the impact of a bullet. You don't suppose that chap's going to let us get back to civilisation, do you? Not a bit of it, my boy. Do you know who he is? Because if you don't, I can tell you. He's George Templemore. I found that out last night. Of course, I should never have guessed if we hadn't got that letter which our envoy brought us. And when I saw the little exploit last night, it flashed upon me like a shot. You remember Templemore, don't you? He used to live in Paris years ago. One of the most awful blackguards I think I ever came across. But you seem to have forgotten the scandal."

"By Jove!" Ridsdale exclaimed. "Do you mean to say--"

"I do, my boy. And the charming lady who has been entertaining us to-night used to be known in the world of fashion as Marie Chesterton. Templemore robbed Chesterton of all he had, and then finally murdered the man who had been such a friend to him. And to make the thing all the more horrible, that fiend of a woman fled with her husband's murderer. They took any amount of loot with them. And they vanished in the most extraordinary manner. At any rate, although the police of Europe were looking for them everywhere, they were never found. And this is just the sort of wild, mad, plucky sort of thing that Templemore would do. Why, that chap would have walked into a den of lions if he had been dared to do it.; After seeing him, you can quite understand how he managed to get his influence over this tribe. You see, they didn't know anything about Mauser rifles when he came here first. And, mind you, he was perfectly safe here so long as the gangs of pirates like ourselves, masquerading as the forces of civilisation, did not come too far. In any case, we're not safe here, and the sooner we get out of it the better. I don't suppose our friend will get tired of us before the week's out, but I managed to find out where the arms were kept, and I know where the stables are, too. There are rifles and cartridges in the little room off the billiard-room and some really good horses in the stable. Now, is it good enough to stay here on the off-chance of that blackguard changing his mind at any moment, or would you like to make a move in the direction of England, home, and beauty without delay? It's very nice to sit down to a good dinner and to enjoy a good bath—and though we are pirates, we know it—but it isn't quite good enough to sit down again with a cold-blooded murderer."

"Soon as you like," Ridsdale whispered.

It was an hour or so before the dawn that they crept cautiously through the house, after helping themselves liberally to the chief's weapons. Then presently they led two horses out of the stables, making a detour of the village, after which they rode on hour after hour, till the sun was high in the heavens and all chance of pursuit was at an end.

"I think we can stop now," Stanning suggested, "and perhaps we are safe, after all. There's one thing in Templemore's favour. When we get home and tell this story, nobody will believe us. I know I shouldn't if anybody told it to me."

THE END

THE COURAGE OF DESPAIR

Exact date of first publication not ascertained
Appears in the Auburn NY Weekly Bulletin, 1910-1911, www.fultonhistory.com
(Document title: Newspaper Auburn NY Weekly Bulletin 1910 - 1911 - 0743.PDF)

THIS thing was horrible, incredible! At first everybody refused to believe it. Men whispered it going up to business in tram and train: nobody seemed to be quite sure. It was as if some great royalty had been suddenly stricken by the hand of death. Such things happened, even to kings. But nobody had ever associated Lena Mars with a tragedy like this. She was a veritable queen of lightness and laughter, the acknowledged comedienne of two continents. There had never been anybody like her before; she was all the great ones in her own charming person. Only last night she had raised her audience to the wildest pitch of enthusiasm in her new comedy.

And now she was dead. She had been picked up dead, murdered, in the street!

By midday all the evening papers had it. Certainly here was a most amazing state of affairs. The great actress had left the theater shortly before midnight. She had managed to shake off a wild crowd of admirers on the plea that she was supping with a friend at the Olympic. A taxi had set her down before the doors of that famous restaurant, and subsequently she had been seen to enter. But no friend awaited her there, and no supper had been ordered. Lena Mars had vanished from the Olympic in the most mysterious manner. The hall porter who had admitted her was prepared to swear that she had not quitted the place.

Two hours later—to be precise, at 2:16 a.m.—the policeman on duty in Lanchester square found a huddled heap of humanity lying on the pavement at the corner of Lanchester place. He had noticed nothing a quarter of an hour before. He was surprised to find a woman richly dressed, her evening gown being covered with a long black cloak. A black lace mantilla had been pulled over her splendid hair. The diamonds in her corsage, about her throat and on her hands were untouched.

Clearly robbery was not the mainspring of the tragedy. There was no weapon to suggest suicide. X 75 bent down to examine the body more closely.

He was not new to the force; he had seen many strange things in his time, but he caught his lip between his teeth and wiped his forehead. There was a tiny blue stain in the center of the white brow, a wet crimson mass at the base of the scalp where the fair hair was all bedabbled. The woman lying there had been shot through the brain. X 75 blew his whistle, and presently there appeared a sergeant and two constables.

"It's Lena Mars!" X 75 gasped. "Dead. Killed the last quarter of a hour. Shot through the brain. And robbery's got nothing to do with it"

The sergeant muttered something not complimentary to his subordinate. A moment later he had cause to change his opinion.

"You're right," he whispered. "Clutter, fetch the ambulance."

Half an hour later Captain Trevor Heaton was on the spot. The chief commissioner was away on sick leave, and Trevor Heaton was taking his place. It was the biggest case he had tackled single handed, and he realized his responsibility. Unpleasant things had been said on his appointment, but the chief was satisfied. He had no love for amateurs, as a rule, but Heaton was something more than that. He was a born criminologist.

"This is really an awful thing, Robertson," he said to the detective to whom the details had been delegated. "I was in the theater tonight. A marvelous triumph. Never saw anything like it in my life before. Got any details yet?"

"A few, sir," Robertson explained. "Miss Mars had no appointment at the Olympic. No supper was ordered for her. Impossible that any friend of hers could have forgotten."

"Quite," Heaton agreed. "People don't forget appointments with celebrities like Lena Mars. What a sensation this will create tomorrow! Besides, if this friend had been detained he or she would have been certain to send a message. How long did Miss Mars stay at the Olympic"?"

"The hall porter doesn't know, sir," Robertson explained. "She went there all right. He didn't see her go out"

"Was she carrying anything at the time, Robertson?"

"I asked that question, sir," Robertson went on. "Miss Mars appears to have had a heap of some kind of wraps in her hand. Naturally the hall porter"—

"Quite so, Robertson," Heaton Interrupted. "He wouldn't notice. Miss Mara had those wraps in the taxi with her. There were the cloak and the lace mantilla. They would squeeze up to nothing in the hand, though they were capable of enveloping the unfortunate lady from bead to foot. Palpably they were her disguise. Her visit to the Olympic was a mere blind. She wanted to throw people off the track and keep some appointment that it was imperative should remain a secret. She probably turned into one of the ladies' dressing rooms at the Olympic and waited her chance. Muffled from head to foot, she walked out of the place without being recognized. She went on to the appointment that led to her death. She must have been shot point blank as she turned out of Lanchester place. Did the constable who found the body happen to hear any report?"

The constable had heard nothing. For the present there was no more to be done. It remained now to find the enemy who had done this thing. Who was it who had gone so far to get Lena Mars out of the way? And why? Lena Mars was at the head of her profession; she was running her own theater to enormous business; she had heaps of admirers ready to gratify her lightest whim. And, so far as Trevor Heaton knew, the breath of scandal had never touched her; it was very hard to assign a motive for this terrible tragedy, to imagine the kind of enemy who had done this thing.

Had Lena been afraid of anybody? Certainly there was one person in the world who could compel her to keep a secret assignation. Perhaps she had a blackguardly husband in the background, or perhaps some early letters in the hands of a scoundrel. But these people do not kill the goose that lays the golden eggs; besides, Lena Mars' famous diamonds had remained intact. Certainly it was a baffling mystery.

London talked about nothing else all the next day. The inquest was formally opened and adjourned for a week. The medical evidence was of little use. Lena Mars had undoubtedly been shot through the brain by a small-caliber revolver bullet, and the missile itself was not to be found. The greater part of the afternoon Heaton spent at the dead woman's flat looking over her private papers. He might have spared himself the trouble, for there was nothing here likely to be of the slightest assistance to him.

The only thing was a puzzling telegram from Paris containing a date and an hour, also the signature "Zora." Heaton wondered where he had heard the name before. It flashed upon him presently that this was the name of a famous agent connected with the French secret service department. He folded ap the telegram thoughtfully and placed it in his pocket. It might possibly be of use to him later on. The only outstanding feature of his search had been the amazing number of bills he had found. The whole place was littered with them and many clamoring for payment Later on in the afternoon Heaton went down to the theater and sought an interview with the manager.

"I am going to ask you a pointed question, Mr. Rosscommon," he said. "Is it a fact that Miss Mars was heavily in debt?"

"Lord bless you. they all are," Rosscommon said cheerfully. "They wouldn't be happy without it. I should say that the poor girl was up to her neck in it. It makes me tired to think of the way the money was squandered. It gives me many an anxious moment, I can tell you. Of course, there are always plenty of people to help—princes and dukes and cabinet ministers, even men like Sir Charles Scarborough—"

The manager pulled up discreetly and coughed. He had forgotten for the moment that his visitor had of late had his name coupled with that of the daughter of Sir Charles Scarborough, Minister for Foreign Affairs. Heaton appeared not to have noticed the indiscretion; his face was sternly thoughtful, but he was startled all the same. Here was one of the illuminating flashes that frequently burst from the darkest clouds.

It was rather a shock to find that the grave and reserved Foreign Secretary was on such familiar terms with Lena Mars. Sir Charles Scarborough came of a Puritan stock and professed a dislike for the frivolous side of life. It was a mild grievance to him that his only child, Constance, was so devoted to field sports. She was a beauty in her way, very clear-minded and possessed of the reputation that she would have cheerfully faced death before disgrace.

No words of love had, passed between Heaton and Constance Scarborough yet, but there was something like an understanding between them. Heaton found himself alone in the drawing room at 7:30 o'clock. He had come a little early, more or less by arrangement, to get a few quiet words with Constance. She came in presently, a tall and graceful figure in her somewhat plainly cut evening dress. Heaton was struck by the pallor of her face, the sparkle of her eyes. It seemed to him that she was keeping a certain guard upon herself.

"I hardly expected you tonight," she said.

"Why?" Heaton asked.

"Well, I thought that you would be too busy. Haven't you got this dreadful Mars business in hand? The papers say so. They are full of it."

"Oh, well, I have done all I can for the moment" Heaton explained. "If they want me at Scotland Yard they know where I am to be found. What do you think of it?"

"Dreadful, of course. I suppose you haven't found any clew?"

"Nothing that you might call definite. But I begin to have an idea. It is only pure theory so far, of course, but it looks like working out correctly. It's a little strange that the poor woman should be found so near here."

The strange gleam came into the girl's splendid eyes again. Heaton could read fear and defiance there, and withal a certain wilful tenderness.

"That woman had an enemy," she said—"a bitter enemy. You may laugh at me, but I feel quite sorry for the author of the crime. Oh, it sounds wild and emotional, I know, but I am—"

"You are justifying a murder," Heaton said coldly. "Do you understand that?"

Constance laughed. There was something hard and bitter in her mirth. She passed her hand across her splendid eyes as if to wipe out something. Heaton could see that she was trembling; there was a curious sensation at his own heart, a throbbing in his throat.

"Oh, I understand," the girl went on. "Don't you believe that crime is justifiable at times? Can't you conceive a murder that might be condoned? I don't want you to think as a policeman now, but as a mere human being filled with the courage of despair. If the case were yours—"

"You mean that possibly for my sake—"

"I do. Trevor. Suppose I loved you. Well, I do. Trevor, you are making it very hard for me. You should not have kissed me—yet. Suppose you were in bitter trouble. Suppose that a woman had caused it—she threatened to ruin your career—and I knew it, I would not hesitate. To save you I would kill her. I would, I would, I would!"

The last words came in a faint whisper. Constance's face was deadly pale: out of the set whiteness of it her eyes gleamed like stars. Just for a moment Heaton was conscious of a sensation of giddiness. He had the strange feeling that he had gone through all this before. He ought to have been surprised and shocked, but he was conscious of nothing of the kind. The wild delirium of possession was uppermost in his mind. This splendid creature was his. She had confessed her love for him. She had held ont her hands to him, and he had kissed her on the lips. Nothing else In the world seemed to matter now.

"Perhaps you are right," he murmured. "It is not one of the doctrines of my profession. I ought not to be here at the present moment: I ought not—oh. I ought not to do a hundred things. If your father heard you talk like this, Constance—"

Heaton stopped suddenly, for Sir Charles Scarborough was in the room. He came forward in his grave, impressive way and shook hands. A monument of impeccable respectability, Heaton thought The square face, the firm jaw, the patch of gray whiskers— all engendered confidence. The man's air would have inspired trust in the Bank of England. Yet there was a certain twitching of the lips, a suggestion of horror and sorrow in the deep set gray eyes. Sir Charles looked like one who had lost that which is very near and dear to him. His manner was oddly absent. It seemed strange to suggest furtiveness in connection with Sir Charles Scarborough, but it was there. And all the time Constance was watching him steadily.

"I had forgotten that you were dining here tonight" he said. "You are very busy."

"With the Mars case?" Heaton asked. He saw the dull, ashy gray creep over the Foreign Secretary's face. "For ths moment there is not much to be done. They know where to call me on the telephone if they need me. A strange case, Sir Charles."

"Very," Scarborough said. "And nothing stranger than the absence of motive. That I apprehend, will be one of your greatest stumbling blocks?"

Scarborough was speaking in his slow, incisive way, yet his eyes gleamed as he asked the question.

"Have you ever heard of a man called Zora?" Heaton do* manded suddenly.

The Foreign Secretary started. His face turned a shade grayer.

"A spy." he stammered. "In the pay of the French government A most remarkable man, whom our authorities would give much to lay by the heels. I have heard of him."

"I thought that in your official capacity you would," Heaton went on. "If we could catch Zora he would get at least twenty years. He could tell us much about Lena Mars."

A clock on the mantelpiece chimed half past 7 on a peal of silver bells. A solemn butler announced that dinner was served. Scarborough stood there as if he had heard nothing. He came to himself with a start as Constance laid a hand on his arm. He walked into the dining-room with the air of a man who dreams, he ate fitfully and in silence. He started at sounds that came in from the street; the ripple of the front door bell brought him to his feet The butler came in with a square package, heavily sealed, which he laid by the side of Heaton's plate.

"I was to give you this at once, sir," the butler said.

"Would you mind if I opened the letter now, Sir Charles?" Heaton asked.

Scarborough nodded. The table was cleared of all but the wine and fruit; the silver cigarette box stood before the host. Heaton waited till the door was closed. He read his letter in silence. From the bulky envelope he produced another packet jealously sealed. Sir Charles gazed at it with fallen jaw and eyes that seemed to be held by some nameless fascination. His face gleamed moist in the lamplight.

"One of my men brought this to me," Heaton explained. "I am going to tell you something in the strictest confidence, Sir Charles. You were speaking just now of the absence of motive in the Mars case. The absence of motive was terribly against me, but by good fortune I found the motive. It was in the form of a telegram from Zora that I found among Lena Mars' papers. Zora is a spy in the confidence of the French government. That being so, what did he want to make an appointment with Lena Mars for? What had she to do with international affairs?"

"It seems rather a difficult question to answer," Sir Charles said.

"On the face of it, yes. But having once got my clew the rest was easy. Lena Mars was up to her neck in debt and difficulty. She was lovely and fascinating, and she had a fine courage. She was just the woman that Zora might use for his purpose. He got hold of those papers relating to a proposal for an understanding between this country and Germany as to a settlement of the armament question. At that delicate stage it was essential that France should know nothing. Zora decided otherwise. He picked out Lena Mars as his intermediary. Probably he promised her £100,000 for those papers. And she got them."

"Certain documents are missing," Sir Charles said hoarsely.

"Yes. I was only certain of this when the letter came. We laid a trap for Zora, and he was arrested at Dover this afternoon. He was watched and tracked to a certain place where I imagined the papers were dispatched in waiting for him, and so it proved. It was theory on my part, but my deduction was correct. Zora was arrested with the papers in his hand before he had broken the seal. He knew that his government could not interfere. He knew that that was part of the game. He knew that for the next twenty years he would be an inmate of an English prison. That is why he committed suicide. He took prussic acid before the police could stop him. Perhaps it was as well."

"And—and those papers?" the foreign secretary stammered—"

"Are yours," Heaton said coldly. "I am asking no questions. No harm has been done, and there need not be any gossip. I am not asking how Lena Mars obtained possession of them."

Scarborough grabbed for the papers with a trembling hand.

"It is impossible to say," he murmured. "But you have done me a service I can never repay. If you will be good enough to excuse me for a moment—perhaps I had better go as far as my office. Constance will look after you. There are one or two things I wish to compare—"

Sir Charles hastened from the room. Constance rose from her chair with a challenge in her eyes.

"Come into the drawing room," she said. "I have something to tell you. Please close the door. Trevor, you know exactly how and why Lena Mars died. Tell me the story."

"It is largely a matter of construction," Heaton said. "Your father came under the fascinating sway of that woman. He did not guess what she was after—he thought she loved him. With her beauty and her devilish arts she fooled him. When a man of his type gives way to a passion of that kind he surrenders everything that men hold dear—ambitions, career, honor itself. All was sacrificed to the glamour of the moment. He met her in secret. She came here when the house was asleep, is not that so?"

Constance bowed her bead silently.

"The thing was found out," Heaton went on. "Someone to whom the honor of Charles Scarborough was very dear discovered everything. It was another woman, of course. Seeing how matters stood, she did not disclose anything. She did not plead or scold. She could see how useless it all was. She knew that sooner or later there would be a terrible scandal and that Sir Charles would lose his honor and position. She guessed nothing of the real reason why Lena Mars came here; she only saw the moral side of it. So far as she could tell, there was only one way out of it. Lena Mars must die."

Constance looked up from the seat she had taken with a certain dull approval in her eyes.

"You are a wonderful man, Trevor," she said. "And it is all as you say. Then you did not suspect that my poor unhappy father had any hand—"

"No. He was too far gone for that. And on the night of Lena Mars' death he was from home. It was the—the woman I have spoke of who telephoned to Lena Mars to come here. She came expecting to see Sir Charles, but the—the woman I speak of saw her instead. And the woman followed her into the square and shot her with one of those new air pistols. The woman I speak of is quite a good shot. It was all quite easy, though the crime would be difficult to prove."

"What do you think of that woman?" Constance demanded.

"We will discuss that in the years to come," Heaton said. "In the old days she would have been a heroine; poets would have written epics in her honor. But she took her life in her hands for the sake of her home and those she loved. Perhaps in some fascinating—"

"Trevor," Constance gasped, "Trevor, you don't mean to say that you—"

"Indeed I do," Trevor went on. "Before I came out I wrote my resignation to Scotland Yard. I am pleading my old lung trouble to make an excuse for going to Texas to settle. I couldn't go on with my profession after this. And I couldn't give you up, Constance. Now perhaps you can understand my sympathy with your father. Say I am mad if you like, say that I am wanting in my duty. Constance!"

He held ont his hands to her, and she flitted into his arms.

"I am a murderess," she said firmly—"a murderess! Do you understand?"

"It is all the same," Heaton said a little wearily. "And I love you all the same. I am blinded to the horror of it. And just because I love you, dear, why—"

THE END

053-AFTER REYNOLDS

ILLUSTRATED BY HOWARD SOMERVILLE

Published in The Windsor Magazine, Vol. XXXI, Jan 1910, pp 279-286

THE affair had developed rapidly, of course, as such things always do.It had been fed on moonlight, as usual, and watered by dewy nights under the shade of the awnings to the accompaniment of music. And, as usual, she was beautiful, and he was a young man going back home again after four successful years spent in quite the approved fashion, restoring the fallen fortunes of his house. And he had done it, too, which is a way they have occasionally, both in real life and in the pages of fiction. It is possible, of course, for a man to spend a few years on the west coast of Africa and come home again little the worse in health and considerably benefited in pocket. Thus Gerald Eversleigh.

He was not thinking now about the old house and all the improvements he was going to make, because his mind happened to be full of Miss Flora Canning. He knew perfectly well that she was the daughter of a rich American, who was on his way to England for a visit. He knew perfectly well, too, that Mr. Canning was quite different from the ordinary Yankee who has made his pile in the ordinary way. He was perfectly well aware of the fact that Canning was proud of the English blood in his veins, and that he was really descended from a good North-country family. This, of course, was all by the way. That was not the point which puzzled and slightly irritated Eversleigh. He could not get over the feeling that he had seen Flora Canning before. Of course, it was absurd, because he had never been in America, and, with the exception of one brief visit, Miss Canning had never been in England. And even if they had ever met, she must have been a mere schoolgirl when that one visit was paid.

In the first moment that Eversleigh had seen her on the boat he had been filled with this haunting feeling that he had seen her before. He could not understand why it was that the girl should instantly remind him of his old home. He could not understand why, directly he saw her, his mind was filled with visions of old oak and Jacobean furniture and quaintly carved picture-frames. Behind all this was a background, faint enough, of laces and silks, and large picture hats with suggestions of Gainsborough about them. It was certainly very strange that whenever Eversleigh saw Flora Canning, she seemed to be reminiscent of the seventeenth century. And yet she was modern and up-to-date enough, though she certainly might have made an exquisite picture for Reynolds or Romney to paint.

And so things went on till the boat was due at Madeira. So far, Eversleigh had been content to take the romance as he found it. So far, he had not even informed the Cannings that the name of Eversleigh was merely a Christian name, and that he had adopted it for commercial purposes.

It was the night before the boat reached Madeira, and he got some sort of a clue to the mystery which worried and at the same time fascinated him. For once. Flora Canning was not on deck, so, on the principle of being near the rose in the absence of it, Eversleigh was smoking his cigar with her father.

"No, I shan't be in England very long," the latter was saying. "Really, I am going there for more or less sentimental reasons. I shouldn't have mentioned it if I hadn't found out quite by accident that you know so much about the early English school of portrait painters. Now, I am a collector. What I particularly favour is the work of Reynolds. I am more especially attracted by him because at one time or another I have happened to pick up a good many specimens, mostly representing the women of my own family. When my grandfather came to grief, his collection was disposed of, and it was always a sentiment of mine to get those pictures back if ever I made money enough. And now I really have got most of them at my place in Philadelphia; but there is one that I am particularly anxious to buy, and I have had a terrible difficulty in tracing it. And now, by good fortune, I've got the chance of buying it. The picture is at a place called Morton Dene, in Derbyshire. I believe the real owner has let the place, and has authorised the tenant to sell any of the pictures if they happen to go at a fair price. It isn't a bad chance of getting the picture."

"I suppose not," Eversleigh said thoughtfully. "In fact, it's rather cute. They would probably fetch a lot more money if they were seen by wealthy collectors on their native heath, so to speak. And it so happens that I know something about Morton Dene. I was born in that neighbourhood myself. Doesn't the house belong to a man called Edenbridge?"

"I believe that is so," Canning said. "But, at any rate, I shall know all about it at Madeira. I expect to meet Denham-Carter there, and he will go back on our boat."

"And who is Denham-Carter?" Eversleigh asked.

"Well, I understand that he is the tenant of Morton Dene. Edenbridge let him the house furnished. I understand from my daughter that the Denham-Carters are none too well off, and that they take paying guests in an exceedingly superior way. But that doesn't concern me. What I am going down to Morton Dene for is to see this particular Reynolds, which I intend to buy even if I have to give a fancy price for it. And thereby hangs a tale. At the same time Reynolds painted two portraits of two distant connections of mine. These girls were sisters. One of them was fair and small, and I have her portrait. She is the very image of my second daughter, May, making allowance for a difference of costume, etc., and the strange part of the whole thing is that the other portrait, now at Morton Dene, is the exact likeness of my daughter Flora. I know that, because Denham-Carter sent me a photograph. So now you will see why I am so anxious to have the picture. It strikes me as a very strange and fascinating thing that, after the lapse of a century and a half. Nature should reproduce two girls in the same family so exactly resembling their famous ancestresses. I hope you won't think I am sentimental."

"Oh, the contrary," Eversleigh said warmly. "And now I begin to understand why Miss Canning reminds me of someone. I begin to understand why it is that when I see her, my mind is full of Old Masters and early Georgian painters. Seeing that I am acquainted with Morton Dene, I must have seen that portrait, and it must have impressed me more than I was aware. And so Edenbridge has let Morton Dene to your friend Denham-Carter? If he takes paying guests, as you say he does, I should very much like to go down there. I have very few friends in England, for I have lost touch with most of them; indeed, I expect I am so altered that they would hardly know me."

"I dare say that would be all right," Canning said. "I'll introduce you to Denham-Carter to-morrow, and then you can make arrangements."

Eversleigh remained on deck for some time, sitting silent and thoughtful under the stars. He had a good deal to think about, and his musings appeared to cause him considerable satisfaction.

He had the opportunity the next day of seeing the tenant of Morton Dene and being introduced to him. Denham-Carter looked like a gentleman; indeed, he suggested a naval officer of distinction. He had the easy, natural manner of one accustomed to good society, and the determined face and firm-cut mouth of a man who knows how to get his own way and perhaps is not altogether too scrupulous in his methods of doing so. He stared hard enough at Eversleigh when the introduction was made, and just for the moment he changed colour. But it was only for a moment, and then his easy, natural manner returned. Still, for the next day or two, it seemed to Eversleigh that Denham-Carter was watching him closely, and that he was puzzled as to his ability properly to place his new acquaintance. He had an expression in his eyes such as may be seen on the face of a poker player when big stakes are on the table, and he knows that he has an adversary worthy of his steel. But before the English Channel was reached, all this suggestion of suspicion had vanished, and Denham-Carter was the easy, fascinating man of the world again. Indeed, he seemed to go out of his way to make liimself agreeable to Eversleigh. He had known what it was, he said, to drift abroad for years and lose sight of old friends, and if Mr. Eversleigh liked to come down to Morton Dene with the Cannings, he was quite sure Mrs. Denham-Carter would be delighted to see him.

Eversleigh murmured his thanks; the offer was too tempting to be refused. And Flora Canning seemed to be pleased, too.

"I'm so glad you are coming to Morton Dene," she said. "And then, of course, you know the place."

"I know the house," Eversleigh explained. "It's run on rather novel lines, isn't it?"

"Oh, quite. You see, it's such a splendid idea to entertain guests in a charming old bouse which is a perfect specimen of Tudor architecture, full of old furniture. Of course, the Denham-Carters don't call people 'paying guests.' They entertain a carefully selected house-party, and I believe that when you are there, you would not know it from an exclusive gathering in any great country seat. You don't pay so much a week, or anything of that kind, nor do you see a bill. You go when you please and leave when you please, then you write the usual letter of thanks afterwards, incidentally enclosing a cheque at the rate of a good many guineas a week. You see how delightfully simple it is, and in what good taste."

"Magnificent," Eversleigh murmured. "Does it go on all the year round?"

"Well, except from Christmas to March, when the Denham-Carters go to Monte Carlo. Mrs. Denham-Carter is by way of being an invalid. But you shall see for yourself. I am quite sure you will be grateful to me for my discovery."

Eversleigh admitted enthusiastically that it was no fancy picture which Flora Canning had drawn of the delights of Morton Dene. He had been there just four-and-twenty hours, and he and his companion were pacing up and down the terrace in front of the house before tea-time.

"Now, didn't I draw a fair picture of the place?" Flora asked. "I ask you if I exaggerated in any particular. There is something so Tennysonian about the house. Look at the long, grey front, the moss-clad pillars, and the pigeons up in those gables, and the peacocks flaunting their plumes in the sun. Wouldn't a poet such as Austin Dobson love to describe this place?"

"It is certainly charming," Eversleigh said.

"Oh, that's a poor way of describing it. Do you know it is the dream of my life to have a house like this for my own. Most Americans rave over old places, but I don't think they really appreciate them, unless they happen to be really English at heart, as I am. I shall really have to find Mr. Edenbridge and make love to him. I believe I could love any man who could give me a home like this."

"There's no knowing what may happen," Eversleigh smiled. "I have just been looking at the Reynolds which your father is so anxious to buy. It is a beautiful piece of work, quite in the master's best style, but I understand that Denham-Carter's asking a fancy price for it."

"But he's not selling it for himself, you understand."

"Oh, I quite appreciate that fact. But our respected host is not without an eye for the main chance, and the bigger the price, the bigger the commission. Still, your father is keen ou having the picture, and I suppose the four thousand guineas he is paying for it are no great matter to him. It's a pity, all the same, your father can't get the shooting he wants later on. Still, even that might be managed."

"Do you really think so?" Flora asked.

Eversleigh refused to say more, and together he and his companion returned to the house. The light began to fade presently, and a couple of decorous footmen came into the hall with shaded lamps in their hands. It was a charming scene altogether, the half light, the great wood fire on the hearth, the broken shadows falling on the old silver on the tea-table, upon pictures and statues and the dusky gleam of armour. Mrs. Denham-Carter, perfectly gowned and full of small talk, presided at the tea-table. About her a score of guests were gathered. There was absolutely not one inharmonious note, no sharp tone of colour to suggest that the whole thing was being run on a commercial basis. Eversleigh stood contemplating the picture critically and talking in a desultory sort of way to his host. It seemed to him that Denham-Carter was not altogether easy in his mind; the strange look of suspicion was back in his eyes again, and there was something almost combative in his manner. In an odd sort of way Eversleigh felt that his host was waiting for something. It came presently through the medium of one of the decorous footmen and a telegram on a silver salver. Denham-Carter took up the envelope carelessly enough and proceeded to open it. Then his expression changed, and his wife looked up at him swiftly.

"I hope there's nothing the matter, dear," she said. "Oh, George, don't tell me that Emily is worse!"

"It's very sad," Denham-Carter said, "but your sister has had a relapse, my dear. She has been ordered out to Madeira again, and she wants you to go with her at once; and, under the circumstances, I don't see how you can possibly refuse. It will be very awkward, of course."

A murmur of sympathy went round the table. Mrs. Denham-Carter applied a few inches of exquisite lace to her eyes and sobbed. Denham-Carter was understood to say that these things were all for the best, and that the trouble might not be so serious as it seemed.

"Our guests will quite understand," be said. "But I hope they won't let this unfortunate message cast a gloom upon them. It will be time enough to think about trains and Bradshaws and all that sort of thing in the morning. I hope you good people will make yourselves quite at home till to-morrow, at any rate. I shall have to leave you men to your claret and cigarettes after dinner, because, naturally, my evening is likely to be a busy one. It will take me all my time to get the servants out of the house and the caretakers in before we leave for Southampton to-morrow. By the way, Canning, we can settle our little business before bed-time, can't we?"

"Isn't it sad?" Flora murmured to Eversleigh.

"Yes, it is a good joke," Eversleigh said absently. "Oh, I beg your pardon! Most sad, really."

It was very unfortunate, of course, and Denham-Carter and his wife came in for a good deal of sympathy. The former appeared to take it philosophically enough. There was a great deal to do, and directly dinner was over he disappeared in the direction of the library. By way of consolation to his male guests, he left out something exceedingly particular in the way of claret, and also a cigar the like of which is not met every day. It was getting rather late before the company in the dining-room broke up and the men began to scatter over the house. Eversleigh strolled into the hall to ascertain whether he could see anything of Miss Canning, but she was not there. He was moving in the direction of the drawing-room, when one of the decorous footmen stopped him.

"Would you mind going as far as the library, sir?" he said. "Mr. Denham-Carter would like to see you before you go."

"Go where?" Eversleigh asked.

Apparently, the question was a natural enough one, but it seemed to puzzle the servant. He looked at Eversleigh stupidly enough, but the latter asked no further explanation. Possibly the man had managed to blunder over his message, but the gist of it was clear enough. Denham-Carter wanted to see him, and, as a matter of fact, he was equally anxious to see Denham-Carter.

He made his way at once along the corridor which led to the oldest portion of the house, where the library was situated. This portion of Morton Dene dated back to the time of the first Henry.

The old, solid masonry still remained, the thick, stone walls had suffered little from the ravages of time. Here, in the old, turbulent days, had been a kind of monks' room or sanctuary, where more than one conflict had taken place. There was a sort of secret passage leading down beneath the moat, whereby anyone bold enough to take the plunge could dive under the water and come up on the far side. This fact was known to few people, but, at any rate, Eversleigh had heard it, and the thought was uppermost in his mind as he made his way to the library. The room was lighted only from the roof, the heavy walls were lined with books, and, indeed, the only modern innovation there had been the comparatively recent installation of the electric light.

Denham-Carter looked up from the table where he was writing as Eversleigh entered, then he rose from his chair and walked over to the door, which he proceeded to lock. Then he put the key in his pocket. The thing was so coolly done that Eversleigh could not but admire its quiet determination.

"No reason for us to be interrupted," Denham-Carter said. "Would you mind sitting down, Mr. Edenbridge?"

"I beg your pardon," Eversleigh said.

"Really! I thought I spoke plainly enough. Still, I don't want to have a misunderstanding with you. Of course, I know that it pleased you, when you came here, to call yourself Gerald Eversleigh, but that's not your name. I am quite sure that you will not deny the fact that you are Mr. Edenbridge."

"I will let that pass, if you like."

"Quite so. I thought you would take a sensible view of it. You are a man of the world, with plenty of natural courage, and I have no doubt that in the course of your wanderings you have been in a good many tight places."

"I have," Edenbridge said, "and I am not blind to the fact that I am in one now. But that's no reason why we should quarrel over things. Pass me those cigarettes, will you?"

"With the greatest pleasure. I am glad you are taking so common-sense a view of the matter. I suppose you don't know who I really am. You don't know my real name?"

"What does it matter?" Edenbridge said indifferently, "The point is that you are a cool, audacious scoundrel, and I have been fool enough to put myself in your power. I must congratulate you upon the neat way in which you have managed things. The message you sent me by your footman was quite a diplomatic model in its way. You must have thought it out very carefully."

"Well, I did. You see, it wanted a certain amount of consideration. You see, I have to be most cautious. When I joined the boat at Madeira, it was an unpleasant surprise to me to recognise you. I shouldn't have done so, only, when I was making arrangements with one of your trustees to obtain possession of this house, I happened to see on his desk an amateur photograph of yourself taken somewhere in Africa and sent home by you. That was a bit of luck in its way, which I didn't quite appreciate at the time. But I appreciated it right enough when I met you at Madeira, and I saw the danger in a moment. I hope I'm not boring you?"

"Not at all," Edenbridge said politely. "On the contrary, I am most interested. Pray go on."

"Well, you see, that meeting was most awkward for me. In the first place, it looked like upsetting all my arrangements. I had no idea that you intended coming back to England so soon. One of your trustees is now mentally unfit to take any part in business, and the other one is a careless sort of man who never troubles about anything. That is why I had no difficulty whatever in producing certain documents which satisfied him of my bona fides, and that I had made arrangements with you to rent Morton Dene furnished. And, on the whole, I made a very good thing of it. But, you see, there was always a certain amount of danger, and I always made up my mind that if I could get out with a few thousand pounds, I would do so. I began to see my way to this when I heard from Mr. Canning on the subject of the Reynolds. It looked such good business that I went to Madeira to meet him. And there I met you, too, and not being quite a fool, Mr. Edenbridge, I saw at once that you were up to every move on the board. I was prepared to bluf it out, but I saw that you were a man with a sense of humour, and that you were going to see the game through to the finish. Well, that suited me very well. I saw in a short time that you meant to keep your end up till Canning was ready with his cheque, and that then you would step in and spoil the show. Isn't that what you came down here to do?"

"Your instinct is marvellous," Edenbridge said. "That was my precise intention, and I was going to do it to-morrow. But don't you think you are carrying matters with rather a high hand? I am afraid that, physically speaking, you would be more than a match for me, and I see that you have something neat in the way of a revolver on the table there. But how do you propose to get rid of me? Awkward questions may be asked."

"Oh, I don't think so," Denham-Carter said thoughtfully. "Nobody knows that you are in England. You have never approached any of your friends yet, and you are always spoken of as 'Eversleigh.' You haven't been in this neighbourhood since you were a boy, so there is no chance of anybody recognising you. Now, by to-morrow afternoon we shall have cleared out of here, and when I go away, I shall take the Reynolds with me. I propose to lock you in here and leave you to make your way out as best you can. It was done once, a century or two ago, as you are quite aware. An ancestor of yours, who was confined in his own house, managed to make a hole in the floor by using his broken sword as a tool, and subsequently dived into the moat. It took him four days to do it, and by that time he was more or less of a wreck, but he managed it all right, as the records of the family show. I don't see why you shouldn't do the same thing, seeing that you know exactly how to go about it."

"It is a pleasing programme," Edenbridge said, "and it does you credit. But pardon me if I am dense enough not quite to understand. For instance, Mr. Canning will wonder what's become of me. That is one point."

"Oh, not at all. You are supposed to have left the house already. The telegram I received after tea-time was really addressed to you. At the present moment it is lying on the mantelpiece in your bedroom, and anybody who reads it will come to the conclusion that it indicated danger to yourself, and that you should be in London without delay. Within an hour's time I shall be on my way to the station, made up to look as much like you as possible, and my own chauffeur will drive me there under the impression that he is driving you. I shall take a first-class ticket to town, and I shall be seen to enter the train, but as it is only a single line here, I shall quietly creep out from the other side, and in an hour's time I shall be back again. That will dispose of you. And you've only got yourself to blame. You deliberately chose to pit yourself against me."

"It was foolish, wasn't it?" Edenbridge said drily. "But I've enjoyed it, and I don't regret the fact at all. However, there are flaws in even such a perfect skill as yours. Now, I take it that you are going to put me to all this inconvenience, not to say danger, so that I can be kept out of the way till you have negotiated your little matter with Mr. Canning and cashed his cheque. At the end of four days you ought not only to have done this, but you ought to have reached a place of safety. I see you follow me now. And now I am coming to the first flaw in that little scheme of yours. Mr. Canning is quite prepared to pay the price you ask for the Reynolds, but being a business man, he declines to part with his cheque till a well-known expert has reported favourably. Is not that so?"

"The point is conceded," Denham-Carter said.

"Very well, then. Now I am going to tell you something. It so happens that my grandfather was a great spendthrift, He had many ways of raising money, and one of them was by selling the family pictures. Amongst these pictures he disposed of the Reynolds which is the cause of our present little argument. He sold the picture, and to prevent awkward questions by Courts of Chancery and trustees and other painfully suspicious people, he had a copy of it made by a clever artist, for which he paid a sum of five hundred pounds. My grandfather was a cynical old man, and he kept the receipt for the double purpose of showing his sense of humour and preventing complications later on. You see what I mean, Mr. Carter. And if you don't believe what I say, you will find the very evidence in this room. I will procure it for you if you like. It is in the bottom drawer of that quaint, old secretaire over yonder, which opens by means of a concealed spring. But perhaps you would like to see for yourself.... There, now, there's no getting away from that, is there? Then, if that doesn't satisfy you, I will produce the letters which passed between my grandfather and the man who bought the original Reynolds. Now, come, Mr. Carter, you are a man with a brilliant and original mind, and you would be one of the first to admit that this is a serious flaw in your little scheme. Of course you might murder me and burn these documents, and I know you are perfectly ready and willing to do it. But, really, would it be worth while? You would gain nothing by such an unnecessary risk. Yon see, you can't deceive the real picture expert. He would be certain to pronounce the picture a forgery, and therefore your chances of getting Mr. Canning's cheque would be remote. You will fail to gain anything by all your cleverness. And if you do cause me any further inconvenience, then I promise you, when I am free, I will hunt you from one end of the world to the other. In the language that you are fond of using in your circles, the game is up, Mr. Carter."

The easy smile faded away from Denham-Carter's face. He turned the faded yellow papers over in his hand and examined them carefully. There was no doubt in his mind that they were absolutely genuine, and there was no doubt in his mind either that Edenbridge was presenting a perfectly unanswerable case. Denham-Carter picked up the revolver from the table and dropped it into his pocket.

"I give you best," he said. "You have been too many for me, and I always know when I am beaten. It would be folly on my part to push this thing any further if you are ready to make terms."

"Oh, I don't mind," Edenbridge said. "You're an infamous rascal, and I ought to prosecute you, but I have had a lot of fun out of this thing, and I am not disposed to be hard. Unlock that door. That's the first condition."

Denham-Carter unlocked the door calmly. It was a sign of a complete and absolute surrender.

"That will do," Edenbridge said. "Now you can go and tell your charming partner exactly what has happened. And you are not to see any of your guests again, mind. You and Mrs. Carter will go to London by the first train to-morrow morning, and the rest you may leave to me. Now go. Go straight to your own room and stay there. I think that's all."

* * * * *

"It seems to me that I am under an obligation to you," Mr. Canning said. "At any rate, you may have saved me the loss of a good deal of money. Picture experts are not always right, you know. Sometimes they err."

"They wouldn't have done so in this case," Edenbridge laughed, "because the picture is perfectly genuine. I didn't tell Denham-Carter so, for obvious reasons. I proved to him beyond a demonstration that my grandfather sold the picture and had a copy painted, but I didn't tell him that when the trustees found it out, they compelled my grandfather to buy the Reynolds back again. You see, I forgot that."

"How perfectly splendid!" Flora Canning cried. "How clever of you! But I suppose now that you won't part with the picture?"

"I expect not," Canning said regretfully.

"Oh, I think we shall be able to come to an understanding," Edenbridge laughed. "There is more than one way of managing this kind of thing. For instance, we might make an exchange."

Canning looked inquiringly at the speaker. He did not seem quite to follow, but obviously Flora did, for she looked down at her feet and a little colour crept into her cheeks.

"Perhaps I had better explain," Edenbridge said. "Now, suppose you take the picture and I take the copy. You are bound to admit that when your daughter came into the world, Nature obviously copied her from Reynolds. And, in any case, an arrangement like this will keep the picture in the family, and when you are away in Philadelphia, you will have the consolation—"

"Oh, it's like that, is it?" Canning asked.

"Indeed, I hope so," Edenbridge said quietly. "We will leave it to Flora to decide."

"It seems a good arrangement." Flora said demurely. "And dad will get his shooting at Morton Dene, after all."

THE END

THE SALMON POACHERS

ILLUSTRATED BY ALEC BALL

Published in The Windsor Magazine, Vol. XXXII, Jul 1910, pp 235-240

THE girl seemed to be controlling herself with an effort. The look on her face was half angry, half scornful. And a very beautiful face it was, in Stephen Sherlock's opinion. A little hard and haughty, perhaps, but there was a reason for that.

"It is rather difficult to follow you, Miss Llewellyn," he said. "I should be guilty of lamentable weakness if I adopted your suggestion. Besides, those fellows are deliberately breaking the law. If they were permitted to do so in the old times—But I beg your pardon."

"Oh, you had better say it!" Ethel Llewellyn cried. "You were going to remark that, in my father's time, the tenants did as they pleased. When I was a child, there were salmon poaching riots on the upper reaches of the Wye very often. Once a river-bailiff was killed."

"Precisely," Sherlock responded. "After that the poachers did as they liked for ages. They have been doing pretty well as they liked ever since, only they don't call themselves 'Rebeccaites' now. They prefer to speak of their rights. They are backed up by certain irresponsible agitators. When I bought this property, I was led to believe that a little firmness on my part would turn the Elan into one of the best salmon catches in the kingdom. To my mind, it was one of the most valuable assets to the property."

Miss Llewellyn's sense of justice struggled with her annoyance. It was exactly as Sherlock had stated. After Captain Llewellyn's death there would have been little or nothing for her from Cwm Place had not Stephen Sherlock had such grand ideas on the subject of the fishing. In ordinary circumstances the purchase money had hardly cleared the mortgages. As it was, she had a few hundreds a year, and Sherlock had allowed her to retain the old mill house. It would have broken her heart to have had to turn out of Cwm altogether.

She had done her deliberate best to try to dislike this man. Had he not made money in trade, and had he not invaded her ancestral home? He was always doing things that jarred on her. He had a way with him which the tenants, for the most part, found it hard to resist. At any rate, they had comfortable households now, and barns capable of keeping out the rain. From Llewellyn they had had none of these things. Still, there were prejudices to be overcome, notably as to the right to net the Elan for salmon. Every loafer on the waterside claimed that. Sherlock had promptly taken the case to the courts, and a decision had been given in his favour. Custom was one thing, and legality another altogether. And Sherlock was not disposed to be puffed up over his victory. A certain amount of legitimate fishing would be allowed, but the idle and imprudent were not going to fill their pockets at his expense. There was a deal of muttering and one or two threats of personal violence, for the hillmen were a wild lot and none too civilised. A poaching affray had been followed by a prosecution and conviction, and it was freely stated that Sherlock would take his life in his hands the first time he ventured on to the hills.

"You don't appreciate the feelings of the people," Ethel said. "How should you?"

"Being all my life in trade and in sympathy with its views?" Sherlock asked.

"I did not say so," Miss Llewellyn said. But we will let it go at that."

Sherlock smiled just a little bitterly.

"I thought we should get to this in time," he said. "Quite in accordance with the best traditions, isn't it? New men and old acres. You may not be aware that my father was Sherlock of Mannergride. You will admit that the family was at one time as influential and powerful as your own. My traditions are exactly as yours, and my training has been very much the same. My father preferred to work instead of loaf on the heavily mortgaged family acres. And he had his reward. He made me work pretty hard, too, for fifteen years, and I am all the better man for it. You are all going to find that out in time. And those poaching fellows are going to find it out, too. They shall have a lesson to-night which they will remember for many a long day to come."

Ethel Llewellyn stood there under the shadow of the old waterfall tapping her foot thoughtfully. It was very difficult not to like this man, with his direct method and sterling integrity of purpose. And to the good things that he did there was no end. Nobody on the estate who really needed anything asked for it in vain. If only Sherlock could have got his tenants out of sympathy with the salmon poachers, all would have been well. But then this sort of thing had been going on for generations...

"You will need a strong force behind you to-night," the girl said.

"Indeed. Then you know something about what is going to happen?"

"Mr. Sherlock," the girl said earnestly, I am bound to. Rightly or wrongly, those hillsiders—who are your tenants, mind— have been netting the Elan. They are liberal with their catch, and therefore the bulk of the more respectable tenants are on their side. It is a tacit support they get. They will 'play the game' and lie for them in the police court. This is part of their code of honour. These things are hinted to me because I am supposed to be your bitter enemy."

Sherlock turned a little white under the healthy tan on his face. The slanting March sun was shining in his eyes. It was hard for any girl to regard a man like this as an enemy.

"If I thought that," Sherlock said slowly, I would go away."

"I hope you won't," Ethel murmured. The glint of a smile danced in her eyes. "Let me be quite candid. You have done far better here than I had expected. I was jealous of your success and now that I have made this confession—I feel jealous no longer. And I am glad that you are—well, one of the Sherlocks. It is hard to get outside that kind of thing, naturally, when you have struggled like we did to keep the old place together. And I'm glad you bought it."

She held out her hand wath a frank gesture, a warm smile on her face. She stood with her back to the waterfall, with the salmon ladder by the side of it and the black-beamed old house beyond. It was here that she lived alone with two faithful servants who would have followed her to death. She slept to the lullaby of the waterfall, and the river was the only music she knew. The lovely desolation and wild beauty of the spot appealed to Sherlock now as the sun glittered upon it. Here was the place where the poachers were wont to gather vicariously. Here was the salmon ladder and the long silent pool below, where the fish lay before going on to the spawning beds. The pool lay black and still under the tail of the waterfall, and here salmon could be seen sometimes by the score. All that was necessary was a dark night, a Dutch oven filled with blazing pine knots, and a spear. The poachers came with blackened faces and speared the helpless, fascinated fish as they lay there, a mass of blue and silver.

"This is very good of you," Sherlock murmured. "If you think that I ought—"

"No, I don't think so," Ethel laughed. All the time I knew that you were right. What business have those people to destroy the salmon so recklessly? The whole thing leads to idleness and crime. Besides, I have a horrible feeling that I have taken your money under false pretences. And I'm going to ask you to be very cautious to-night. They will be in a strong force—a score or more."

"Oh, we shall be sufficient for them," Sherlock replied carelessly. "We have light on our side. They are going to get a proper lesson to-night. Don't be afraid for me."

Miss Llewellyn turned away only half convinced. She knew those men far better than Sherlock did, and she was quite aware what they were capable of when their blood was up. They had not forgotten, either, that one of their leaders was in gaol for this very poaching. The resources of civilisation conveyed little to a descendant of the old Rebeccaites.

Sherlock returned to Cwm Place in a curiously elated frame of mind. He had established something like amiable relations with Miss Llewellyn at last. For the most part she had been cold and distant with him. She was bound to accept his money, but all the same she had always treated him as an intruder. It was terribly unjust, of course, but then, in the girl's case, it was more or less natural. And she had never been able to disguise from herself, even from the first, that he always did the right thing. Most of the scandalous abuses on the estate had continued to exist simply because they had become traditions, but Sherlock was stamping them out. Whether he would be able to stamp out the salmon poaching was quite another thing. There was danger in the air, though Sherlock did not appear to recognise it. And the trouble was fast approaching.

It was dark and still as Sherlock set out that same evening for the salmon ladder. He had made his plans with great prudence and caution. He had with him three experienced water-bailiffs who knew every inch of the river. There was another man in the party who had gone out of his way to learn the plans of the poachers. Sherlock's idea was to take the gang red-handed and hold them up till the police could be sent for. If there was a certain amount of violence, so much the better—so much more severe would the sentences on the poachers be. Sherlock pushed along by the side of the river, his head held high and his lips compressed. He was going to put a stop to this kind of thing once and for all. Those fellows should learn that he was master; he would teach them that poaching did not pay. A certain amount of legitimate fishing they should have. When the fame of the Elan as a salmon stream was established, the poachers would find it far more remunerative to act as gillies to the crowd of honest sportsmen who would flock here.

They came at length to the salmon ladder, with the deep black pool where the fish lay below it. There were scores of great silvery monsters waiting for the spate to come down thick and brown over the ladder, so they might go on to the spawning beds. Sherlock had counted a hundred of the long slim shadows there the day before. These were the fish that the poachers were after. They would come down presently with their spears and their lanterns, and in half an hour there would not be a single fish in the pool.

But they would find Sherlock and his bailiffs awaiting them. They were under the impression that the watchers had gone miles down-stream; even the servants at Cwm Place had been led to believe that much. In a clannish place like this no risks could be taken. There was a fringe of bushes here where Sherlock and his gang could hide. By the side of the ladder was the waterfall, and high over it the old mill house, where Ethel Llewellyn had taken up her abode. It looked a dark and forbidding place enough as it loomed out of the shadows.

"What sort of a place is the mill house, Jenkins?" Sherlock whispered to the man next to him. "What did they use it for in the old days?"

"Well, sir, they called it a mill," Jenkins responded. "A certain amount of corn used to be ground there, but in the old days it was used by smugglers. The Ap Griffiths family had it for three hundred years. Millers they called themselves. They did no milling whatever, sir. There was brandy and tobacco came over from Cardigan Bay, and the place used to be full of it. And the squire of Cwm Place for the time being, he knew all about it. So long as he had his brandy and tobacco free, it didn't matter to him. A rare wild lot the Llewellyns used to be, sir. They do say as there's a secret way up the pool and behind the waterfall to the mill house. If that's so, sir, you see a lot of stuff could come by water. But I've never seen the way myself, nor anybody who has seen it. I dare say it is an old woman's tale, after all."

"A poor house, I suppose, Jenkins?"

"Oh, no, indeed, whatever. Beautiful rooms are some of them. My lady furnished them from Cwm Place. Some of the summer visitors rave about the place."

Sherlock asked no further questions, but the romance of the situation was not lost on him. He had a great curiosity to see the inside of the old house where Ethel Llewellyn had made her home. Possibly she might give him the opportunity one of these days. At the moment there were sterner things to occupy his attention. The poachers would be here soon, and...

Jenkins grabbed him excitedly by the arm. Down the sloping path leading to the river half a dozen figures loomed hazily through the gloom. They came quietly enough, one behind the other, with the easy confident tread of men who knew every inch of the ground. It was easy to see that this was by no means their first expedition of the kind. They came presently to the side of the black and silent pool, where the oily ripples lapped the stones. The light of a match flared out, then a stronger gleam as the pine knots in one of the lanterns burst into a blaze. In the ring of flame five men stood with blackened faces, grim, resolute, ready for anything short of murder, and not afraid of that when their blood was hot. Another and yet another lantern danced and flickered as the poachers prepared to wade out into the stream. They moved now without the slightest caution; evidently they feared nothing. A spear was thrust down deep into the darkness of the water, a great bar of clear silver came headlong to the bank, flapping in the light like a mass of gold.

"A present for the Squire," somebody laughed, "and another to keep him company."

With blood aflame and face hot with anger, Sherlock strode from his hiding-place. The electric torch he held in his hand cast a flame of brilliant light into the darkness—picked out the five figures there in the water. In the background the waterfall rained down a white angry mass. The five figures in the glare turned like one and hurled defiance.

"You're welcome to take us, if you can, Squire," one of them said defiantly.

"You scoundrels!" Sherlock cried. "You infernal midnight thieves! Come out, every one, and give yourselves up. I have plenty of help behind me. Come out of it!"

A laugh followed, a jeer of voices, and then a chattering in the language of the Celt, which was lost on Sherlock altogether. It seemed to him that he was in for an easy victory, after all. A certain sense of disappointment filled him as the poachers stepped solemnly shorewards. Perhaps he was thinking about Ethel Llewellyn. He would have liked to figure as the central character of a romance before her eyes. He had not expected these fellows to play the game like this.

"I thought you would find it better to take it lying down," he said. "If you care to—"

Something seemed to stir in the bushes behind him like a sudden rush of wind. The air was full of oaths and curses and the noise of struggling bodies.

"Look to yourself, sir!" Jenkins yelled. They've got us tangled in their nets. Stepped into a regular ambush whatever! Just as useless as a lot of cats in a bag!"

It was even as Jenkins had said. There were other poachers concealed in the bushes behind the hiding-place of the bailiffs. The nets had fallen on them; they were being tugged by cunning hands so that the bailiffs were swept off their feet and dragged along in the string meshes as helpless as if they had been a catch of salmon. They lay there, a struggling mass of humanity, tightly bound together and watched over by a couple of men armed with cudgels. There was the sickening impact of a blow, followed by a groan, and a silence broken only by the heavy breathing of stricken humanity.

So these fellows really meant mischief. Sherlock could see that in their threatening aspect as they advanced towards him. He noticed uneasily, for the first time, that they had been drinking. He had the comforting assurance that he was armed.

"I can swear to three of you, at any rate," he said grimly. "Evan Evan, John Rees, and Joseph Morgan—"

A howl of rage drowned the rest of the sentence. Heedless of the gleaming barrel of the revolver, they rushed on Sherlock. He fired two shots at point-blank range; he saw one man's arm drop useless to his side ; he saw one of the others fall on his knees. If they closed in on him now, he was doomed. The revolver was wrenched from his hand and flung far over the deep side of the pool. Somebody clutched him from behind; strong arms swung him to and fro; then the hands released, and Sherlock dropped like a plummet in the centre of the pool. He came up again with the yells of rage and ribald laughter in his ears.

"Throw a net over him!" somebody yelled. "Drown him like a water-rat in the nets!"

A yell of applause followed. A big pocket-net cast by a skilled hand skimmed over the water and dropped plump over Sherlock's head. A second later and he was fighting for his life. Down he went again and again, till his lungs were bursting and his heart was beating like a drum. It was only now and again that he contrived to snatch a mouthful of air. The water was roaring in his ears, deepened by the yells of the fiends on the bank, who were sapping his life in this cold-blooded fashion. They were beyond all control now; the lust for blood and slaughter was on them; they would never release their grip so long as there was a spark of life in Sherlock's body. What would Ethel Llewellyn say if she knew?

Somebody was whispering something in his ear. In a dreamy way he seemed to see a boat come, like a brown shadow, from the side of the waterfall; somebody was leaning over the stern of the boat, and somebody was slashing at the net with a knife. Then, as the dream grew clearer and more concrete, Sherlock found himself sitting in the stern of the boat gasping for breath, and somebody who looked like Ethel Llewellyn was addressing the mob on the bank. She had a gun in her hand. Sherlock could see the shining barrel as it lay across the knees of this angry young goddess.

"Go home, all of you!" Ethel cried. And release those "bailiffs first. Understand, this business can't stop here. This will be the last time any poaching is done in the Elan. I can swear to every one of you. I can send every one of you to gaol, and I will!"

The figures on the bank melted away, the night was wrapped in silence once more. In the same dreamy way Sherlock found himself behind the waterfall and climbing a set of sloping steps till he stood in a great stone-flagged hall with Ethel by his side. A little later and he was in an oak-panelled dining-room, clad in a set of clothing supplied by Ethel's old man-servant.

"I suppose you know that you have saved my life?" he asked.

"It was like that," Ethel smiled. "I was afraid that there would be trouble. I could see something of it from my bedroom window, and that is why I got the boat out. Oh, there was no danger so far as I was concerned. I could do anything I like with those people. But you have got your own way, Mr. Sherlock. There will never be any more poaching in the Elan. If you see those men—"

"I am going to see them all to-morrow," Sherlock said. "I bear no malice, and it seems to me that I have got the game in my own hands. A policy of the sleeping dog seems to be the programme."

Ethel smiled approvingly. Her glance was warm and soft, the colour was in her cheeks.

"I am glad that all this has happened," Sherlock went on, "because we understand each other now. I shall never have any more trouble here so long as you are on my side. Won't you always help me, Ethel?"

"What do you mean by that?" Ethel asked.

"Oh, I think you know. I have always admired you. And it is one of my dreams to see the old place managed between us. Don't laugh at me. If I could some day speak of you as, say, Mrs. Llewellyn-Sherlock..."

Ethel smoothed her hair presently, as well as she could with Sherlock's arms about her.

"You are a far better manager than I ever should be," she whispered. "But I will come and help you if you like. And—how natural it all seems, doesn't it, Stephen dear?"

THE END

A RECORD ROUND

ILLUSTRATED BY SYDNEY SEYMOUR LUCAS

Published in The Windsor Magazine, Vol. XXXI, Mar 1910, pp 563-570

THE old fakir held out an arm picturesquely dingy with the dirt of many wanderings. On the stringy muscles stood a pink and angry lump, where the skimming "Colonel" had made impact with his holy flesh. Altamount was moved only to passion.

"Serve you right, you filthy old rascal!" he roared. "You were right in line with the hole. Why didn't you clear out when the boy called you?"

The fakir drew himself up rigidly. Two electric points of fire seemed to dazzle in his weary old eyes. He muttered shibboleths the while, only adding to Altamount's rage.

"Look at the old blackguard!" he spluttered to the Commissioner. "Cursing me by his tin gods, I suppose. Why do they allow such cattle to stray about the finest golf links in India? I've a good mind to have the ruffian flogged. Hang me, if I don't have him flogged if he spoils my round! Do you hear that, you rascal? If I don't put in a record round to-day, I'll have you flogged! What is the record of the course, Challoner?"

Challoner replied curtly that the record was 69, made by an Olympian travelling overland home from Australia. Challoner was a bit of a radical in racial matters, and deeply versed in the lore of the East. He was a little disgusted at Altamount's outbreak, especially as the latter's drive at the first hole had lost little distance by the accident. The fakir smiled in a dry way, with a smile like that of a face which is seen shimmering behind a haze. He took from his rags a scrap of papyrus and a stump of red pencil looted from somewhere. On the papyrus he drew two figures roughly—68—and handed the paper to Altamount. The flickering smile was on his face still, the needle points of wrath in the pupils of his eyes.

"It is no new thing to me, sahib," he said—"no new thing, this game of the long shaft and the little ball. Three hundred years ago even here they played it. Me, Rana Sani, who cannot die till the curse is worked out, saw them—short men with breeches such as the sahibs wear, only larger, and hats sloping like the peak of Pindi yonder. Oh, yes!"

"What is the maundering old fool talking about?" Altamount asked impatiently.

"He is telling you something like the truth," Commissioner Challoner said gravely. The old fakir had passed on towards the jungle grass with his head buried in his beard. "There is little doubt that the Dutch played a species of golf here three centuries ago. Funny how history repeats itself. Do I believe the old chap saw it? Well, frankly, I don't know. 'There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio.' Shakespeare must have had the purple East in his mind when he said that. I'm a student of the cult, you know. Sometimes I get up against things that fairly frighten me... Come along. And don't—don't despise that talisman. It's going to give you a record round."

Altamount laughed scornfully. After all said and done, his ball lay in an excellent lie, though not quite so close to the first hole as Challoner's. It was just possible to reach the green with a full mashie* shot. Altamount gripped his club with a certain nervous confidence. He seemed to feel that his stance was correct. The ball described a perfect parabola, and, landing on the edge of the green, trickled up to the lip of the hole. It was a good shot for the striker's medal round. Challoner gravely recorded a 3 on his partner's card.

[* mashie - a now obsolete golf club corresponding to the modern 4-iron. ]

"On the top of your game to-day," he said. "That's a bit too good for a five-handicap man."

Altamount replied that he did not feel in the least fit; on the contrary, he was shaky and nervous. He nearly as possible topped his next tee shot, but not quite, so that the consequence was a long, fine, raking ball, quite a professional shot, in fact. It was a long hole, a 6 bogey, but Altamount was on the green with his third shot holing a long putt for a perfect 4. It was a fine effort altogether, and the Commissioner remarked gravely that the spell was working. Altamonnt did not even swagger, a habit of his that did not specially endear him to the members of the Kalpore Club; on the contrary, he looked white and shaken. He was feeling the confounded heat, he said. But for the fact that they were playing a medal round, he was disposed to chuck the game altogether.

"And yet I'm playing the game of my life," he muttered. "That old fakir seems to have brought me luck. Of course, that papyrus was all rot. By Jove, that's a long drive!"

It was a beautiful, long drive, a superlative effort quite. Altamount grinned in spite of himself. There were two holes here—the sixth and the seventh—that always spoilt his round. But he negotiated the two in seven strokes, bringing off marvellous putts at each green .

"Naylor did this hole the day he made his 69 in 2," the Commissioner remarked, as they stood on the ninth tee. "Took a cleek* for his drive, and played for the run over the shoulder of the hill. Better try it, as you are doing so remarkably well."

[* cleek - an obsolete golf club with a very narrow face and little loft, roughly corresponding to the modern 1-iron.]

"So I will," Altamount said recklessly. "Give me the cleek, boy. A very low tee."

The cleek came through with a rushing sweep, and the ball flew straight and true for the angle of the hill. It hung just for a moment, and trickled over the sloping green close to the pin. Altamount laughed, but there was no triumph in his laugh. Challoner totalled up the score for the outward journey.

"3, 4, 5, 4, 5, 4, 3, 4, 2—total 34," he said. "Nothing like it has been done on the Kalpore links before. Naylor's score for the outward half was 35. And, so far as I can see, there is not a semblance of a fluke in it at all. I should like to make you a large bet that you will not do the homeward journey in the same score. But the thing is impossible."

"No, it isn't," Altamount burst out. "You may laugh at me, if you like, and say that I am swaggering, but I feel certain that I shall repeat my performance home. And yet I feel shaky and jumpy as a 'sub' before his first mess dinner. A fiver I get home in 34!"

Challoner accepted the bet with a mental reservation that the discipline would be good for Altamount. It was annoying, therefore, as hole after hole reeled off, to realise that the discipline was not there, and that the Commissioner was going to lose five pounds which he could ill afford. Eight holes produced a score of 30, but the last hole was an exceedingly difficult 5, and there was hope yet. Surely, in his eagerness, Altamount would spoil this. He was looking very white and shaky; there was an ominous quivering of the muscles of his mouth as he took his driver.

"Play short and make a possible chance of it," Challoner suggested, in a fine sportsman's spirit. "There are only two men in the club who can carry that bunker. If you get in it, you lose your money for a certainty; whereas, if you are just short, why--"

"As if I didn't know that," Altamount responded. "I tell you I'm going for it. I know it's a good hundred and sixty yards' carry, but I shall get there to-day. Tee it low, boy."

It seemed to Challoner that Altamount snatched at his ball in a jerky sort of way. The ball was half topped, too, but it was exactly what was necessary. The new "Colonel" flew straight as an arrow well over the other side of the bunker, and a rasping second laid it on the green. A long putt lipped the hole, and Altamount was down in 4, giving him a record of 68 for the course. It was a fine performance from first to last, and without the semblance of a fluke in it. And not the least remarkable part of the whole thing was that Altamount showed not the slightest inclination to swagger. The fact would go to the golfing world; it would be recordcl in the sporting papers; from St. Andrews to Melbourne men would talk of this wonderful thing. The committee would assuredly bring Altamount down to scratch, which was a calamity that all good Kalporites prayed against steadily. And yet the hero of the affair hardly smiled. He thoughtfully placed three balls on a spare tee by the side of the last green, and drove them in the direction of the club-house. They were execrable shots, that any 18-handicap man might well have been ashamed of.

"Overstrung," Challoner murmured in sympathy. "Funny thing how often one goes to pieces after a really tight round is finished. Let me congratulate you, old chap."

Altamount took his honours with amazing meekness. In the club-house he allowed Challoner to tell the story of his prowess; his modesty was phenomenal. Plainly, it was his duty to gather all the club-house about him and tell step by step, Homerically, how the thing was done. That is the penalty which the mediocrity pays for golfing greatness. But Altamount did none of these things.

"I'm ill," he said. "I feel so sick, so dreadfully faint, so sure that something awful is going to happen. It all seems like a dream to me. Bring me a large brandy peg, waiter, and not much soda. Put those balls in your pocket, Hicks; the sight of them makes me shudder. Think I'll turn in for a spell."

"Well, there's one thing certain," remarked a scratch player jealously; "he'll never do it again. These perfectly amazing flukes come off sometimes. As a matter of fact, I'm Altamount's partner in the Regency Cup to-morrow, and I shall keep a close eye on him."

Members present grinned. Hassall was a martinet in the game, also a gambler. Most listeners hoped that Hassall would spoil this particular Egyptian. After his performance to-day, Altamount could do no less than play Hassall for his usual pound per hole and a fiver on the match. There would be fine sport for the gallery on the morrow.

Altamount turned up for his match looking terribly ill and shaky, so ill, indeed, as to gain what his clubmates had never expended on him before—sympathy. He was very sick, he explained; also, he had not been able to sleep a wink all night. Only the iconoclastic Hassall refused to recognise anything but the exigencies of the game. He made his offer of a pound a hole, and Altamount snarled an affirmative.

"Make it two, if you like," he said. "I'm more fit for bed than anything else, but I'm going to give you a proper beating to-day. Two pounds per hole and ten on the match, and the same on the bye, if you like. Is that good enough for you?"

Hassall grinned that it was so. His was the lower handicap, so the honour was his. The man of iron nerve drove a perfectly straight long ball, and then, to the surprise of the gallery, Altamount outdrove Hassall.

Somebody muttered that there was a chance for a half in 4. Altamount smiled as he announced his intention of doing the hole in three. Hassall snapped at him with the offer of a fiver against it, and Altamount nodded. He proceeded to lay his next shot on the hp of the hole, and won in 3 to 4.

His face was deadly pale now, great drops passed off his forehead. With something like a snarl, he turned to Hassall, whose light operatic whistle was woefully out of tune.

"You love a bet," he said. "Well, I'll make you a sporting one. A fiver each that I do the next four holes in 4, 5, 4, 5 respectively. No money to be paid unless I do all the holes in the exact score that I mention. If I do, you pay me twenty pounds. Are you on?"

Hassall nodded with the air of a man who feels that he is decidedly favoured by fortune. But the stolid Scotchman's face fell as Altamount reeled off the 4, 5, 4, 5, as he had forecast, without the shadow of a fluke or the semblance of a mistake. From the point of view of fine golf, it was perfect—long, raking drives, perfect brassie* strokes, and equally perfect approaches, followed by putts of deadly accuracy.

[* brassie - an obsolete golf club corresponding to the modern 2-wood. ]

Challoner, who followed silently behind, grew grave. He could see something hidden from the crowd of excited golfers. Hassall was only alive to the fact that he was 3 down at the fifth hole, and that he had lost twenty-six pounds. With a quivering lip and a ghastly, twitching eye, Altamount announced that be was prepared to nominate his score for the next four holes for money—a most absurd thing to do, as everybody there knew. And yet there were no takers of the tempting offer, Hassall grunting that this was his unlucky day.

"Isn't there one of you who has pluck enough to take an offer like that?" Altamount snarled. "Come, isn't there one of you who will bet me twenty pounds that I don't do the last four holes of the outward round in 4, 3, 4, and 2 respectively. No takers, eh?"

But Hassall shook his head. He played his own steady game, doing wonderfully well, with a very few mistakes; but then, on the other hand, Altamount was making no mistakes at all.

"Never saw anything like it in my life," he said to a neighbour. "Altamount only wants two more 4's to equal his score of yesterday. But he is not likely to get the eighteenth score with this gentle breeze against him. Ah, that was a fine drive!"

"Can't make a mistake!" Altamount yelled. "I should have done it with the putter. A million to one I get a 4 here and equal my score of yesterday!"

It was even as the speaker said. A brassie laid him on the green, and two putts completed the hole. For the second afternoon in succession, Altamount had equalled the score of the links. He burst through the knot of yelling partners, and fled as if possessed to the club-house. He glanced furtively over his shoulder to see if be were pursued. The crowd would have dragged him back and plied him with many pegs, but Altamount was not to be found. It was certain that he had not returned to his own quarters. The only man who mastered his coolness was Challoner.

"A touch of sunstroke," he suggested, "and the excitement has done the rest. Altamount has gone somewhere where he can be quiet for a turn, and it will be a kindness of you fellows to leave him alone. No wonder the poor chap is upset after two such rounds."

Ohalloner's words were words of wisdom, and the clamour gradually subsided. He walked thoughtfully home a little before dinner. A native was waiting in his compound with a note for him. He recognised Altamount's handwriting, shaky and sprawling as it was. It was only a short note.

"I am at Belcher's," it ran, "keeping out of the way. Belcher is away from home. For Heaven's sake, come over and see me as soon as you can! This thing is killing me!"

"Tell the Captain Sahib I will come to-night," Challoner said quietly.

But Challoner had his journey for his pains. The Captain Sahib had dined at the bungalow of Belcher Sahib, so the butler said, but after that he had departed hurriedly for Kamadi, saying that he would be there for a few days. With the knowledge of the East full in his eyes, Challoner decided to wait. He could guess pretty well what had happened, though he said nothing to anyone; nobody would have believed him. It was soon after daybreak on the fifth day that he was disturbed by the presence of Altamount in his bedroom. The latter looked brown and lean and scraggy, and there was a wild gleam in his eyes, a nervous plucking of the fingers that suggested a man on the verge of delirium tremens.

"It isn't that," Altamount muttered, as he followed Challoner's inquiring gaze. "I am prepared to swear that I haven't touched a peg for a week. It isn't that—it isn't that!"

Altamount fell into a chair and rocked himself in a slow abandonment of grief.

"I couldn't stand it," he said. "It was bad enough when I beat you, but after I did Hassall down, there was a feeling like death at my heart... A cold sweat and the presence of some unseen thing behind me. I could feel it gripping my hands as I held the clubs. If I had told the other chaps, they would simply have laughed at me. You can imagine the hoary old chaff, and I going mad all the time!"

"You made a pretty good fight for it, all the same," Challoner said quietly.

"Of course I did," Altamount went on, in the same vague, distant way. "I meant to tell you because I felt sure that you would understand; then I changed my mind, and went off to Kamadi. If the same thing happened there, I knew that the cursed thing had mastered me. I couldn't give up the game; it seemed so cowardly... There were very few people at Kamadi, and I played three times a day—not with anybody, mind you, because that would have given the whole thing away. I went alone, for the most part without a caddie. And played! Jove, what a game I played!"

The speaker paused and wiped his damp forehead. It was no cue of Challoner's to interrupt.

"But you can guess—you know. I started the first morning at daybreak. Guess what my round was?"

"Sixty-eight," Challoner said softly. "This is a most interesting case, by far the most--"

"Quite so. Now, doesn't it strike you as being something more than a coincidence? Listen! My hole scores on both occasions were 3, 4, 5, 4, 5, 4, 3, 4, 2 out, and 3, 4, 3, 4, 5, 3, 4, 4, 4 home. Heaven knows, I can repeat that from memory fast enough! The thing was on my nerves. It came to me that I should go on doing the same thing all my life. Think of it, man, the maddening monotony of it! Impelled by some hidden fate to play a game I loathe, doomed to play the same score in every hole for evermore! No mind could stand the strain; gradually one would grow mad, and take one's own life. Something said that that was what the old fakir had done for me! The second night I could not close my eyes... I started to play at Kamadi as soon as I could see. Challoner, I went round in 68! I played every hole with exactly the same score that I played here; for the life of me, I couldn't vary it. I tried to make 4's into 5's, and 5's into 4's, but all to no purpose. There was no possibility of making any mistake. For five days I have been playing two and three rounds a day at Kamadi, with the same result. You may say: Give the game up. I can't! I am impelled to go on and try and break the spell. If I admit failure, I feel that my brain will give way. And I can't possibly go on playing alone. See how solitude increases the torture. On the other hand, look at the result of my making matches."

"You've made a pretty big reputation, anyway," said Challoner.

"Well, I'm not afraid of that. So far as that goes, I could tour the world and win everything. I should be fêted and flattered; my style could be copied everywhere. And the discovery would be made at once that I always did a round in 68. This would be followed by the further discovery that I also do every particular hole in a certain number of strokes. And the thing is absolutely true. It's the curse laid upon me for interfering with the fakir. When I think of what I have to go through, I could yell and dance and tear my hair. I sat up all last night and thought of my razors. But I daren't do it, Challoner; there's a little girl waiting for me in England.... Could you find the old rascal for me?"

"I dare say," Challoner said. "You see, I am pretty friendly with all the wandering vagabonds who come this way. I can speak their language, there is always a handful of rice for them at my bungalow, and in return they tell me many things. I can trace your old man of the sea, beyond doubt. You think that--"

"That it may be possible to propitiate him. Yes, I was foolish to lose my temper. It seems wildly ridiculous to a Western mind, but I should like to see the old man muttering some shibboleth over that scrap of papyrus, and destroying the spell. I was going to chuck that piece of papyrus away, but after my experience with Hassall, I decided to keep it... Try to find the man, old chap."

"I will. I will set the ball rolling tomorrow. Is that all you want?"

"Pretty well. There's just one more thing. I dare say you will laugh at me. Perhaps, after all, I have been merely overcome with something that gives me absolute accuracy, but I am going to make certain. Both of us know the links pretty well, don't we?"

"Walk round in the dark," Challoner said, "and never make a mistake."

"Well, I am going to play round them in the dark. At any rate, you are going to accompany me whilst I play a game in the pitch darkness. All we shall want is a box of vestas to locate the exact spot where the ball lies. We shall walk it up without the smallest difficulty. And if we do find the ball as easily as I expect, why, the sooner the fakir is unearthed the better."

"You can count on me," said Challoner. "Really, this is the most interesting experiment-- I beg your pardon, old chap. And now I'll go and make a few inquiries as to the whereabouts of the fakir."

Altamount wrung Challoner's hand in silence. There was a more hopeful expression on his face now, but the twitching of his lip still betrayed the agitation that moved him to the soul.

It was a perfectly dark and moonless night as the twain moved in the direction of the first tee. Altamount carried his own clubs. In a spirit of fatalism, he had come with only one ball—a new one. He never doubted for a moment that it would not be lost. Challoner had a box of matches. There was a swing and a crack, a swinging rush through the silent darkness, and Altamount strode forward.

"I shall find the ball to the left of a patch of sword grass near the hole," he said. "My second will lip the hole, I know it as well as if I could see the whole thing."

It was even as Altamount said; there lay the ball in exactly the same spot as it had fallen on the two previous drives. A second shot in the direction of the green lipped the hole. The same thing happened as the couple moved from tee to tee, Altamount prophesying the lie of the ball to an inch. They were half way round, and Challoner had not used more than two matches.

"We'll sit and smoke a cigarette before we turn," said Altamount. "Now you understand the full curse of my torture, Challoner. It will be the same wherever I go. I am bound to try on and on in the hope that time will break the spell. It would be the same at St. Andrews. After I had been once round the links, I should know where to look for my ball for ever. To preserve my reason, I should have to go wandering from link to link for the sake of half a day's variety. I should be known as a moody man, the Wandering Jew of the golf world, who never rests and who does the round in 68... Let us get along."

It was just the same on the way home again. At the fourteenth hole a sloping patch of jungle grass had to be negotiated, with a stone quarry on the left. With a sudden spasm of rage, Altamount smote his ball away to the left clear of the line. The impact of the ball on the rock could be heard distinctly. Challoner smote his companion on the back wearily.

"Broken the spell!" he cried. "You're miles away with that shot from the hole. We'll call that pill well lost, and go back for a peg and cheroot in an easy-chair."

"Not yet," Altamount said between his teeth. "Let's go and have a look at tbe hole. After all, I should not be in the least surprised to find my ball lying on tbe spot designed for it—a pit of gravel past the bole, with a mimosa bush on the right."

Challoner strode through the tufts of grass with an impatient curiosity that he made no effort to conceal. He struck a match, and the blue flame twinkled in his fingers. Even with the light in his hand, he could see nothing of the ball. Altamount worked unerringly across the grass down the rugged scarp to a patch of grass with a mimosa bush on one side. With a groan, he bent down and touched something round and gleaming.

"What did I tell you?" he said. "Hold the match down here. This is my ball right enough. No use pretending that it might have been lost by somebody else, because I see my brand upon it. I did pull it to the left, but it struck the rock in the quarry, and after that it took a course to the right, and landed in the place where I expected to find it. Challoner, in all your experience, did you ever see the like of this before?"

Challoner was bound to admit that he never had. Altamount picked up his ball and pocketed it. He refused to play out the other four holes; it was merely prolonging the torture.

"I'll go home to bed and try to sleep. Find the fakir as soon as you can, for poor human nature could not stand much more of this. Good night."

Challoner went thoughtfully homewards. He paused at the club for half an hour on the way, for he felt in need of the tonic of human companionship. A light was burning in his sitting-room, the blinds were open. It was a little unusual, seeing that the servants had all retired. Standing quietly before the table was the fakir. He raised both hands to his forehead in a profound salaam.

"Because the sahib is good to us, and you need me, I return," he said. "I go to a far country, to Thibet, to look for the death that is mine before I am born again, and I depart, as is necessary, without blackness of soul against any man."

"Not quite," Challoner said quietly. "There is my friend who hit you with the golf ball, for instance. You are going to take that spell off him before you go."

The fakir smiled until the countless wrinkles in his face expanded like a cobweb that lengthens in the wind. It might almost be said that he winked.

"There are mysteries and mysteries," he said slowly. "Many are known to the sahib, and many there are that can never be known till all things are finished. It was a small matter, and in the great holy time I had forgotten. And because you have been very good to us, yes, it shall be done. Three centuries ago there was something like it before. I was young then, and the men with the hats like the peaks of the hills yonder, they threatened me... And they came no more because they held the spot to be accursed... Your friend has the papyrus?"

Challoner explained that the talisman had not been destroyed. At sunrise the following morning the fakir would meet Altamount at the spot where the indignity had taken place. With an eagerness at which he would have laughed at any other time, Altamount was there. It was not pleasant to feel small in the presence of a native, but there are things that come like that.

"I was wrong," the fakir said. "I was wrong even because I have lived before, and seen big men as children, giving the gifts of the great God to the pursuit of the ball. It was of feathers and leather then, and it hurt not as the ball of the sahib. The papyrus?"

The last words came in a commanding tone of voice, the pin points of flame gleamed in the old man's eyes. With a hand none too steady, Altamount produced the scrap of paper. The figured 68 danced before him. Already the cold numbness seemed to be leaving his heart, the humming wheel in his head was slowing down.

"Reverse the paper," the fakir said, " and what do you see now? 68 no longer. You cry and whine to do one thing for a few days. What of me, who am doing the same thing since the world began? Yes, you have paid the debt, for your eyes tell me so, and the twitching of your lips. Not for your sake, but for the Challoner Sahib, who is good to us. What do you see?"

"It was 68," Altamount muttered. "But now it is upside down; it is 89. Does that mean—mean, hang it, you can't mean that number 68 is going to be 89 evermore?"

The fakir shook his head grimly; there was a glint of a smile amongst his wrinkles.

"Not so," he said. "I have seen this before, and I know. I ask questions of your servants, who sometimes carry the long clubs for you, and they say that the greatest of the sahibs who play golf vary between 68 and 89. It is a matter of eye, of temperament, of the dinner the night before, or the extra peg at luncheon. As for me, it is as a child playing in the gutter. But never shall it be less than 68 or more than 89, for the papyrus says so."

The fakir turned on his heel and vanished in the scrub. A great revulsion of feeling had come over Altamount. In the first place, the spell was broken. The curse had been removed, and he was a free man again. And never was he going to play outside 89 again, never more inside 68. The former reflection was most pleasant. People would call his achievement of two days a great fluke, if they liked. They would also in future learn to regard him as a most consistent player.

"I'll have a go and see now," Altamount told himself. "Shouldn't be surprised to find that I get round in 89 exactly. That means putting an extra stroke in each hole. Here goes!"

To Challoner, at breakfast, Altamount burst in excitedly. The flame of health was on his face, the look of power in his eyes, the healthy beads had gathered on his forehead.

"It's all right," he panted. "I saw the fakir, and he made the thing right by the simple dodge of turning the papyrus upside down—from 68 to 89, you see. When I started just now, I was delighted to find myself playing just good average stuff. When I got up to the eighteenth, I had 5 for the hole for an 86. And, hang me, if I didn't get into a rut and take 8 for the hole, doing the round in exactly 89! But the spell is broken, and I'm going to play between 68 and 89 for the rest of my life. It doesn't sound much to an outsider, but the infinite variety of it, Challoner!"

Challoner nodded. As a golfer, he perfectly understood. He did not profess to explain; he had been too long in the East for that.

"But you'll always look back with pleasure to your two rounds of 68," he said.

"Nothing like the pleasure with which I look back on my 89 this morning," Altamount said fervently.

THE END

SUB ROSA

ILLUSTRATED BY STEVEN SPURRIER

Published in The Windsor Magazine, Vol. XXXII, Sep 1910, pp 605-610

PEGGY CLIVE struggled back to consciousness out of a dream involving the marvellous recovery of Lady Lucy Tennant's emeralds. She had found them herself in a loaf of bread stolen from a baker's cart by one of the Bedlington terriers just at the moment when she was being hauled off to prison by two members of the judicial bench. It was the sort of stuff that dreams are made of—ridiculous, with a touch of the horrible grotesque in it.

In a way the dream was natural enough. For the emeralds had been stolen, and most of the house-party had sat up half the night looking for them. It was a dramatic finish to Mrs. Olive's fancy dress ball, to which half the county had been invited. The discovery was made soon after supper by Lady Lucy herself. The emeralds were family jewels with a history of their own. Of course, it was a careless thing to leave the case on a dressing-table, but then prudence had never been one of Lady Lucy's virtues. Besides, her maid had only slipped out of the dressing-room for a moment...

The emeralds were gone, and that was the one certain fact. At half-past three, weary and worn out, Peggy had gone to her own room, closing the door carelessly behind her. She was no more than a simple pierrette herself, so that her dress was of the plainest. She dropped into a chair for a moment and closed her eyes. When the dream had cleared away, she came back to the knowledge that she was cold and stiff, that the fire had burnt out, and that it was past four of that wintry morning.

It was very stupid of her, of course, but then she had been very tired. Now, with the contrariness of things, she was exceedingly alert and wide awake. Every little noise was exaggerated—the creaking of her chair and the rustle of the trees outside. The door of her room was slightly ajar, and she could see down the long oak corridor, where one of the electroliers was still burning.

Into the long focus of it presently there moved a figure. It was a furtive, slouching figure, light-footed and noiseless. Peggy caught just a gleam of a white set face and a pair of glittering eyes. Then the vision vanished into one of the dressing-rooms. Peggy should have been wildly alarmed, she should have rang her bell and screamed for assistance, but then Peggy Olive was not that sort. She was very pretty and very dainty, and withal feminine, but she loved the outdoor life, and her nerves worked with the regularity of a chronometer. And, being a woman, she was curious.

She weighed up the whole thing carefully. She dismissed the idea that here was the thief who stole the emeralds back again, thirsting for further plunder. The house was full of guests, so that the exploration of the bedroom was a dangerous matter. Making a rapid calculation in her mind, Peggy concluded that the invaded dressing-room was the one occupied by her brother Ted when he was at home, and he happened to be laid up in London just now. On the other side of the dressing-room was the bedroom occupied by Mrs. Oakley-Murray. Strange that Granville Oakley-Murray and his wife did not hit it off well together. Nobody knew what the quarrel was about; nobody knew how they managed to keep up separate houses on their slender resources. It was very awkward that they should have met at the dance that evening. Oakley-Murray had not been asked simply because his wife had. But he had come over with the Worthingtons, and—well, it really was a little awkward. Still, Olive Old Hall was a big place, and two hundred guests had gathered there for a dance. In society—

Peggy pulled herself together. Why was she dwelling on this paltry scandal at such a moment? She must really be doing something—give the alarm to the household. On the whole, she preferred to have the adventure to herself. Where was that case of ivory-handled revolvers that Ted had given her on her last birthday? She had done a lot of practice at the time. Yes,

here was the revolver, with the six chambers still loaded. Peggy slipped out into the corridor and waited. She was not in the least afraid. In the hall the electric light still burned; it had been left on in most of the rooms. It was not the fault of the servants, but the matter had been overlooked in the general uneasiness that had followed the disappearance of the emeralds.

Of course, it was a very nasty business altogether. The same thing had happened in one or two country houses lately. In each case the robbery had been found out almost immediately, and in each case there was absolutely no clue to the thief. Certainly the dressing-room had not been entered from the outside of the house. And people were saying nasty things. It was not nice to think that amongst the general body of guests there lurked a thief who—

The door of the dressing-room opened noiselessly, and the intruder came out. He was wearing a plain evening suit, with the traditional white tie and glossy shirt-front. Beyond the fact that his hair was cropped close to his head, there was nothing in his appearance to offend the most fastidious critic. If this man was a thief, he had certainly graduated through the medium of public school and Varsity. He was very nice-looking, too, though at the moment he presented an appearance of embarrassment.

"Who are you, and what are you doing here?" Peggy asked. "If you dare to move "

"Not for a moment, Miss Olive," the intruder said. "Don't—don't you recognise me?"

The little silver-plated weapon fell to Peggy's side. Her lips trembled. Just for a moment the tears came to her eyes—tears of mingled pity and anger.

"Have you no sort of shame at all, Mr. Faversham?" she asked.

"Indeed, I hope so. Miss Peggy," Faversham replied. "It is my earnest desire to convince you of the fact. I did not expect to meet you like this; I did not expect to meet you at all. A man fresh from a gaol, with the prison taint upon him, is not the kind likely to find an entrance at Olive Old Hall. And yet I was a welcome guest here once."

"You were a friend of my brother's," Peggy said coldly.

"And, I venture to say, a friend of yours also. Oh, yes, I was. A brainless idiot who wasted all his money without any heed for the future. When he realised what his possibilities might have been, it was too late. He told you so, and you were sorry for him. He might have told you more, but he was not quite so bad as all that. He was up to his eyes in debt and difficulty; he did not know where to turn for money. That was easily proved against me at my trial."

"You were found with the diamonds actually in your pocket."

"I was. What is the use of denying it? A pretty scandal for a big country house! There was not a person in the whole court who doubted my guilt. The only point in my favour is that I was quite willing to be searched with the rest of them. I dare say you will call that pure bravado."

"What are you going to do now?" Peggy asked incontinently.

"Now? Oh, I'm all right financially. My uncle, General Faversham, didn't have time to alter his will, and I got all his money. Ironical situation, isn't it? An outcast, a pariah, with possession of ten thousand a year! Nobody will speak to me, and I am expelled from all my clubs. I merely tell you this fact so that you may see for yourself that I didn't come here to steal. There is an utter absence of what the law calls 'motive.' I came for quite another purpose."

"But suppose you had been found? Suppose that anybody but myself—"

Peggy paused, and the warm colour stained her cheeks. The inference of her question was obvious. Peggy did not need to see the gratitude leaping to Faversham's eyes to realise that.

"I quite understand what you mean," he said quietly, "and from the bottom of my heart I thank you for it. You are not going to alarm the household, and you are not going to give me up. And now I will tell you why I came here. I came to try and prove my innocence."

"You were not dressed as you are a quarter of an hour ago, Mr. Faversham?"

"Quite correct. I found my way into the house by means of an unfastened window. Your servants appear to be terribly careless, Miss Olive."

"There was every excuse for them to-night," Peggy said. "Please go on."

"I waited till the whole house was quiet. I only came out of gaol this morning. I had no time to spare if I wanted to settle the matter at once. When I got here, I recollected Ted's dressing-room. I have worn some of his clothes before, and I am doing so now. You see, if any early rising housemaid happened to see me now, she would conclude that I was a guest staying in the house. And there are certain reasons why I must remain in the house an hour or two longer. There are reasons, too, why I cannot explain in this corridor. Can't we talk in the hall or one of the living-rooms?" Peggy flushed slightly. There was something about this man that fascinated her—there always had been. And he did not talk in the least like a guilty person. Anyway, she had started on a conversation, and she would see it through now. If anybody came along—

"Quite right," Faversham said, reading her thoughts with a startling clearness. "You can hold your revolver to my head and ask for a policeman. You won't regret it, Miss Peggy. And if I can prove myself, even by inferences, to be a deeply wronged man, you will be the first to rejoice with me."

"I would give everything that I possess to know it," the girl said quietly. "It shall be as you suggest, Frank. I suppose I ought not to use that name, but it slipped out."

Peggy walked down the stairs into the drawing-room on the right of the hall. With a gesture Faversham indicated an easy arrangement of screens and palms near the door.

"This will suit us admirably," he said. "I must be somewhere so that I can hear everything that is going on. I shall be greatly disappointed if I don't show up something startling presently. Would you mind if the rest of the conversation is conducted in whispers? Now look at this."

He took from his pocket a newspaper cutting from a local paper. It contained a preliminary account of the great festivity about to take place at Olive Old Hall, together with a list of the invited guests and the house-party assembled at Mrs. Olive's for the occasion.

"This conveys nothing clear to me," Peggy said.

"Perhaps not, but I can imagine that it will before long. I have other cuttings here procured for me by a friendly warder. I have been watching the various social functions in this locality for the past few months—I mean the places where the robberies of jewels took place. In each case the names of the house-party are given. Now see if you notice one name that appears in them all."

Peggy ran her eye over the names eagerly enough. She was interested now, and in sympathy with her companion. It was utterly wrong and illogical, but then she was a woman, and the man was asking for assistance. Already she had half perceived herself that there was a hideous blunder somewhere. And now one name out of the list was beginning to turn in her brain.

"I don't like to say it," she murmured; "it does not seem fair. But if you ask for a reply—"

"I don't," Faversham said eagerly. "Keep the name to yourself. I don't suppose I should have suspected but for something I heard in—in gaol. Convicts have a way of talking to one another. It is a kind of language that one soon picks up. I had to take an interest in something, or go mad. So I learnt the patter. There are one or two mysteries that puzzled the public on which I could throw a light. One man was a notorious receiver of stolen goods. I gathered that he had clients in all walks of life. And I more than gathered that the Grantham pearls found their way into his possession. You remember the affair of the Grantham pearls, Miss Peggy? They were the proceeds of the first robbery that startled this county. And I found out who sold them to the receiver." "Somebody we know?" Peggy asked eagerly. "If you will tell me——"

Faversham laid a sudden grasp on Peggy's arm.

"Be silent," he whispered. "You are going to see for yourself, unless I am greatly mistaken. Don't move. If luck is on my side—I think it is—she is coming in here."

Assuredly somebody was coming down the stairs. Peggy's quick ears caught the swish of a woman's skirt. The door of the drawing-room was pushed open, and a woman came in. Without looking to the right or the left, she crossed over to one of the long French windows and pushed back the catch. The figure of a man emerged out of the darkness and stood by her side.

"I began to think that something had gone wrong, Laura," he said. "All right, I hope?"

"Oh, it's all right," the woman said impatiently. "I thought that they would never go to bed. Up to half an hour ago I heard voices outside my room door. And those Scotland Yard people will be here quite early. You can imagine how anxious I was to get rid of the things."

"A fig for Scotland Yard!" the man said. "We can afford to laugh at these idiots. What a game it is, Laura! And who would possibly suspect what is going on? The man and his wife who have had a deadly quarrel, and are pledged never to speak to one another again! Sometimes it is me, and sometimes it is you. Those chaps know that this is a double-handed game, but they'll never spot the combination in a thousand years."

"They very nearly spotted it once," the woman said meaningly.

"You are alluding to the affair when we had to make use of Frank Faversham? I was sorry for that, but the danger was too close for me to be particular. And Frank happened to be handy."

"It was a hateful thing, all the same," the woman said. "How much longer is it going to last? We can't go on like this for ever, Granville. We ought to make ten thousand pounds over to-night's business, A man with your brains and audacity ought to be able to turn that into a million."

"Plenty of time to talk about that, my dear. Hand me over the stuff. I must get back to Marton Manor before daylight, so as to make it appear that I slept in my bed."

The woman turned so that her pale weary face could be seen by the watchers behind the bank of palms. She took from under her cloak a shabby green case, which she handed to her companion. At the same moment Faversham snatched the revolver from Peggy's hand and strode into the room.

"Put that down, Oakley-Murray!" he said. "Put it down, or I fire! And be so good as to ring the bell on the left side of the fireplace—the communication with the butler's quarters."

With a snarl on his lips, Oakley-Murray strode forward.

"So it's Faversham," he said—"Faversham, the gaol-bird. Where did you come from?"

"You have asked me a very pertinent question," Faversham said coldly. "I came out of gaol to-day. I came on here in consequence of something I gathered from a fellow-prisoner of mine called Cutty Parsons, a well-known receiver of stolen goods. He seems to know you, though you may not be aware of the fact. In happier circumstances he expected to blackmail you later on. As it is, you will probably face him at Lewes instead. I should drop that blustering swagger if I were you. I have heard everything, including the confession that you put those stones in my pocket. Directly I read in the local paper that your wife was here, I guessed that something of this sort would happen. Are you going to ring the bell?"

"Why should I?" Oakley-Murray asked. "Why should I not say that I caught you here with the emeralds in your possession? My wife will swear anything I ask her. You are just a little bit previous, my friend. On second thoughts I think I will ring the bell. Let me see. My wife sent me a note urging me to see her, with a view to a reconciliation, and I came to keep the assignation."

A warning glance from Faversham kept Peggy in her hiding-place. She checked the burning impulse to dash out and lash those miscreants with her tongue. With a smile on his face, Faversham approached the open window and whistled softly.

"An excellent programme from your point of view," he said. "But, unfortunately, you never can quite tell what the enemy's programme is. I laid certain facts before my solicitors, and they agreed to a certain course that I proposed... These are two London detectives, who probably have not only seen everything, but heard it as well. They didn't want me to take an active part in the campaign, but I insisted on that. And now, if you will be so good as to ring that bell for me—"

Oakley-Murray made no effort to move. He gazed from one to the other of the two men standing there; a lump seemed to be working up and down in his throat. Mrs. Oakley-Murray dropped into a chair and covered her face with her hands. A half-awakened butler surveyed the scene with sleepy astonishment.

"We need not disturb your mistress to-night," one of the officers explained. "We have arrested Mr. Oakley-Murray and his wife on a charge of stealing Lady Lucy Tennant's emeralds. Might go so far as to say that we caught them red-handed. Knock up one of the men and get a motor ready to take us to Lewes. And see if you can find Mrs. Oakley-Murray's maid. She may want some things got together."

The whole thing was over in less time than it takes to tell. The household, for the most part, was still sound asleep as the big car purred on its way down the drive with the prisoners inside. The sleepy butler went yawning back to bed—the story was too good to be wasted at this hour. That would be all told with variations in the servants' hall later on. The house dropped into the pit of silence again as Peggy came out of her hiding-place with wet cheeks and blazing eyes.

"How can you possibly forgive me?" she asked.

"We'll talk about that later on," Faversham smiled. "I shall have to attend and give evidence to-morrow against those people at Lewes. Now you see the advantage of borrowing Ted's dress-clothes. I'll get you to steal one of his overcoats for me as well. Why didn't I go back to Lewes with the others? Well, it's no great way, and I shall enjoy the walk. Besides, I wanted to have a word with you first."

"Is there anything that I can possibly say?" Peggy whispered.

"There is a good deal that you can say," Faversham replied. "Oh, you need not tell me you are sorry, for I can read deeper than any words in those beautiful eyes of yours, Peggy. It was you who first made me ashamed of myself, and filled me with the idea of leading a new life. How could a poor wretch like me tell you what I felt? I knew that you liked me "

"It was a little more than that," Peggy confessed.

"Well, I didn't like to say so, but I felt it. What a dreadful business it was—for "

"For both of us, Frank. The most awful year I have ever passed. And I asked Ted to meet you and bring you here to see me, only he was laid up in town, and—"

"And there is no more to be said," Faversham replied. "Give me a kiss before I go, dear. Let me feel that this good fortune is more than a dream

THE END

THE WATERWITCH

ILLUSTRATED BY ALEC BALL

Published in The Windsor Magazine, Vol. XXXII, Sep 1910, pp 479-484

HATCH sat on the bank watching the yellow waste of water swirling by, wishing to Heaven that he was well out of it. He was down to his last tin of cigarettes, the soda-water had petered out long ago, and there was no quinine. The hideous silence of the swamp was getting on his nerves. From a spot of sand in mid-stream a crocodile winked a grim yellow eye at him—the crocodile belonged to the fortunate order of those who can afford to wait.

Two handfuls of dry tuberous chips represented six months of grim hard work. There are purple patches in the life of an orchid hunter, and there are other patches. Bernard Hatch was up against one of the others. It was all very well for his partner, comfortably ensconced in Covent Garden, to write in optimistic vein. Doubtless the Waterwitch existed, seeing that the traditions of the Gold Coast were pretty deiinite, but Hatch had not found it yet.

The main thing he had done up to now was to come in contact with Van Voarst. That oily Belgian rascal had greeted him with large enthusiasm, but forewarned was forearmed. There never had been a more successful orchid hunter in the coast than the Belgian, and certainly never one with a less savoury reputation. The man was a braggart and a bully; nevertheless, he had a pluck of his own. For the most part he hunted alone, and this from compulsion as much as choice. Wanless, of Mason's, of St. Albans, had gone out with him, and Wanless had never come back. Mansfield the same, and others. And Van Voarst's theatrical explanation had not been deemed satisfactory.

The only satisfactory feature of the whole case was that Van Voarst was sticking to Hatch like a leech. Evidently Hatch was getting "warm," and Van Voarst knew it. The man who laid predatory hands on the Waterwitch could retire permanently from the business. His tubers would fetch ten thousand pounds each in the open market, and no question asked.

Now, Harry the Buck had seen the Waterwitch. Harry the Buck was black and faithful, otherwise Hatch had not slept soundly at night with the great rotund carcase of the Belgian snoring so near. The Waterwitch was more or less of a sacred flower, the emblem of a great chief back of beyond the Indu Mountains. When one of the chiefs died peacefully—or otherwise—a flower from the Waterwitch was laid on his grave. It was death for anyone but a high priest of Mumbo Jumbo to touch it. There were dark sacrifices too horrible to mention. And Harry the Buck had seen all this. He told of it with grotesque gestures and volcanic squints. In the ordinary way, and in his ordinary vernacular, he was not taking any. But he happened to want a gun and a supply of cartridges. These he valued a little higher than his own life. Therefore he was on his way to the Indu Mountains, and it was at this part that Van Voarst had joined the expedition.

Nothing short of personal violence would have choked him off. That he guessed exactly what was in the wind Hatch perfectly well knew. The search was getting hot, too, and a couple of days in the canoe would bring the seekers to their destination. It was here that the accident happened to the quinine and soda-water, and Van Voarst apologised for his clumsiness. He took the matter so lightly that Hatch was forced to the conclusion that the big rascal had a private supply of quinine of his own. He could only make the best of it, and look the spectre of fever gloomily in the face. If he got down now, with no quinine at hand, he would never get up again.

Heavens, how hot it was! Harry the Buck, busy getting the canoe loaded, shimmered in a violet haze. His black skin glistened in the sunshine. He beckoned presently with the intimation that all was ready. Hatch called to Van Voarst huskily. From the high bank of the stream the Belgian responded.

"Just for one moment," he said, "then I come. Here is a plant that me puzzles— one of a family that my knowledge eludes, get into the canoe, and I drop down on you from the branches. It is only the matter of a little delay."

Hatch crawled down as far as the canoe and dropped wearily into it. There was a crackling of branches, and a fragment of rock some two hundredweight or so splashed into the water, missing the canoe by inches. Two pin-points of flame sparkled in Hatch's eyes. Harry the Buck grunted. Apparently the Belgian had been afraid to trust his aim, or possibly he was short of revolver ammunition. It was just the sort of cowardly thing he would do. Hatch jumped from the boat and scrambled up to the spot where Van Voarst was still busy digging. Another stone lay quivering on the balance.

"You shark!" Hatch shouted. "You murderous dog! Take that!"

Half unconscious of what he was holding in his hand, Hatch brought the butt of his revolver down with a crash in the region of Van Voarst's left ear. The Belgian grunted placidly, and lay on his back contemplating the hard sky with the whites of his eyes. He never moved again. From the stern of the canoe Harry the Buck softly applauded. In his eyes it was an exceedingly neat and workmanlike piece of business. He knew nothing of the horrible nausea at the pit of Hatch's stomach. Even when you take a life in self-defence for the first time the feeling is there.

"Get out of that," Hatch commanded. "Come and bury the swine; I can't do it."

Harry the Buck responded cheerfully. He came back in half an hour, lying glibly that the thing was done. As an economist in words with a limited vocabulary, he omitted the fact that he had pitched the fat body into a heap of mimosa and left it there. He took his seat and the paddle, and pushed the canoe steadily up-stream till the dusk shut down and the night closed in. They were under the shadow of the mountains now, and the atmosphere was sensibly cooler. Hatch shuddered slightly. With a grin Harry the Buck drew a square tin box from his tattered linen coat.

"By the gods, quinine!" Hatch cried. "Where did you get it from, Harry?"

"Belgian elephant," Harry grunted. "In um's belt. So this watch, and this revolver— gold. Took um all off Belgian elephant when buried um."

Hatch nodded. He was feeling in no critical mood just now. So Van Voarst, as he guessed, had had his own supply of quinine all the time. Well, he could not trouble anybody in future. And as to what was going to happen in the early future— why--

Hatch slept—for how long he could not say. His slumber was disturbed by strange dreams of Van Voarst. He had the Belgian by the throat, and he was yelling for mercy. In the distance somewhere a band was making hideous music. The blare of brass and skin became more pronounced, until it dominated everything and brought Hatch sleepily to his feet.

"What, in the name of all that is hideous, is the matter?" he asked.

Harry the Buck made a hissing noise with his teeth. The canoe lay half hidden in a tangle of mimosa scrub by the flat bank of the river. On the slanting plain beyond, a yelling mob of blacks had assembled. They were marching in the rude formation of a column, headed by what, in happier circumstances, might have been a brass band. The serene beauty of the night was stricken by the hideous din. In the centre of the procession was a huge catafalque affair surrounded by a body of men clad in white cotton garments.

"What's it all about?" Hatch asked.

"Big buryin'," Harry explained. "Dead chief. Bury 'em at night—chief. Dem priests. And dere's Waterwitch flowers on top of the body. Sure."

Hatch caught his breath sharply. Luck seemed to be coming his way at last. Some of the stragglers were so near that he could have touched them with the canoe paddle. With a certain vague alarm, Hatch noted that they were all armed. Presently the hideous din ceased and the column became more compact. From the slope of the silent hills there came another sound, full-throated and ripe of menace. A long scattered line of torches flared out; the yellow flame swept down the slope like a torrent of falling stars.

"What's this all about?" Hatoh asked.

"'Nodder tribe," Harry grunted. "Going to be what ye call barney. Old enemies. Hillman, he claim right to make chief in place of un dead. Others say no bally fear. They come take dead chief—hold um ransom till they come to der senses. Seen it done befo'."

Hatch was getting a grip on the situation. There was something rudely strategic in the way in which the column was forming in a solid phalanx around the sarcophagus containing the body of the dead chief. They faced outwards with defiant cries, brandishing their spears over tbeir heads. Down came the other yelling mob, with their torches aflame, till they were within striking distance. Then with one accord, or so it seemed, the flaming sinking torches were hurled into the phalanx, where they roared and spluttered with spitting cracks that added to the hideous din.

"Now, that's not a bad idea," Hatch said admiringly. "Quite a smart dodge."

"Himshi Don, the great chief, great warrior," Harry explained. "Cunning as the serpent. Um planned out this thing. And he will what you call wipe the floor. Bet you a dollar."

"No bet," Hatch smiled. "By Jove, they are at it in earnest."

They were. Taking advantage of the momentary confusion, the attackers sprang forward with the force and fury of a mountain torrent. The defenders swayed and bent before the shock, they reeled backwards, screaming as they went. Then, with a grim silence that was in marked contrast to the roar of battle, another force arose in the rear from the big tangle of scrub, and fell with incredible force and fury on the rear of the funeral party.

In a wonderfully short space of time the defenders faded away like a dream. The din of battle died out, the big crowd departed in the direction of the hills, and as the moon rose slowly over a snow peak. Hatch could see a struggling squad of figures removing the dead. As a matter of fact, the slaughter had not been great—the onslaught had been too impetuous and headlong for that—and in a short time the plain was cleared. Almost immediately afterwards a great bank of flame and smoke burst out from the shadow at the base of the hills, followed by a wail of voices so plaintive and melancholy that Hatch could feel it to the roots of his hair.

"What new devil's work is this?" he asked.

"Burn um village," Harry explained. "Burn um huts. Always de way. No matter. Dey go away to-morrow and build some more in some odder place. Watto!"

Harry turned over on his side and composed himself for sleep. So far as he was concerned, the whole thing was at an end. Doubtless he had witnessed many a scene like this before; no doubt he had been employed as an actor therein himself. It was one of the common objects of the country, so to speak. But Hatch lay awake there, looking up at the silent stars. How far was the Waterwitch off now? he wondered. Harry had declared that some of its mysterious flowers had lain on the breast of the dead chief. And Hatch was wondering what the flower was like, if he did find it. There were all sorts of stories told about this wonderful water orchid, and all kinds of fancy prices had been offered for it. An orchid that bloomed or had its growth in water was a thing calculated to send collectors mad. But how was it grown and how was it to be acquired? Harry the Buck professed to know, but Harry was fast asleep and snoring peacefully. Perhaps the daylight would tell.

Breakfast was ready when Hatch awoke. For once in a way be was ready for the meal. Perhaps the snow breeze from the hills was responsible for the unusual appetite. So far as could be seen, there was no sign of the contending hosts of the night before, nothing but some thin spirals of blue smoke in the distance. It was towards this distance that Hatch's thoughts were wandering. Somewhere amongst the ruins yonder must be the remains of the dead chief's palace, and if Harry the Buck was right, the Waterwitch must be there, too, unless the fire had destroyed it. If this was the case, then it would be his luck all over.

"I'm going to have a squint round that place," he said. "I suppose it's safe?"

Harry the Buck entertained no doubt whatever on that score. The tribe had been beaten, their huts had been burnt, and they would fly further for safety. In Harry's opinion there was not a living soul within miles of the place. If Hatch doubted his word, he could go and see.

"Oh, I'm not afraid," Hatch grinned. "I'll come along. And if I find what I hope to find, the gun is yours, and as many cartridges as you like, when we get to Toparo. I'll leave an order for you to be supplied with a store of cartridges every year of your life. Get a move on you."

They set out across the plain in the direction of the smouldering village. The land was low and flat, and intersected here and there by pools and drains formed by the melted snow on the mountains on its way to the yellow splurge of the river. Harry stopped before one of these and pointed.

"Whatum say?" he demanded. "Here's um Waterwitch. Same as I saw befo'."

With a heart beating fast, Hatch bent over the shallow little pool. A flower broken off short at the head of the stem had fallen there and balanced on the puddle by its own weight. With all his wide experience in the beauty of the orchid, Hatch had never seen anything like this before. The bloom was some five inches in diameter, in the shape of four separate Maltese crosses. And each was a different colour—deep red, a lovely blue, saffron, and rose-pink, with a wide undercup of white shot with rose. The green foliage was veined with gold, exquisite feathery foliage wandering over the bloom and half hiding it from the eye. Hatch fairly gasped as he held it in his hand.

"Good Heavens!"he muttered. "Oh, good Heavens! And to think that I should be the first white man to bump up against this amazing flower! No description could picture its marvellous beauty. But the tuber? What is it like, and where shall I find it? All this is distinctly encouraging, but it doesn't help me much. Just my luck to find everything yonder done to a cinder, and not one of those tubers left."

Hatch pushed on fervently. It was quite late in the afternoon before the ruins were sufficiently cool to allow a proper search being made. In the chief's "palace" was an old chest, oak and brass bound, containing such odds and ends and cheap adornments as savages love—glass beads, some old cigarette tins, and a packet of post-card photographs. Hatch tossed it away gravely.

"Now, where in the name of fortune did all this come from?" he asked. "How did this chest get here? And what is all this tangle of fibre, with tiny clay marbles attached? Here are some things that look like orchids, but I shouldn't mind betting that they are nothing of the kind. Shove 'em all in the bag, Harry, and let's be off. We'll have another day here to-morrow."

Harry placed the tangle of fibre, with the little clay balls attached like beads irregularly threaded on a string, in a box lately containing cigarettes. This he tossed, a little later on, into the canoe. Hatch took one of his precious cigarettes after supper, and then turned in for the night. In a moment he was fast asleep.

The moon was sliding down behind the mangoes as he woke with a sound like the bursting of a shell in his ears. Harry was kneeling in the canoe with a smoking revolver in his hand. It was the same weapon that he had looted from Van Voarst. In the distance a bulky figure was running towards the watery slope. A groan came from the obese runner; something dropped from his hand and tinkled on the stones. Hatch took in the whole situation at a glance.

"That was that infernal Belgian," he said. "I thought you had buried him for me?"

"Same thing," said Harry. "Bury him or flung him in the bushes, all the same. Give the kites a chance to get a good meal. Not kill, only stun him by blow on head. See canoe move and his hand after stores. Little tin can with the marbles in it. I hit him on the hand and he drop it. Not trouble us any more. Bet you a dollar. Righto."

"Well, righto or not, don't you go to sleep again," Hatch commanded. "Keep your eye skinned till daylight. If it's worth while, we can find the tin box to-morrow."

"Find it to-night," Harry volunteered.

"No, you'll not find it to-night," Hatch retorted. "You'll just stay here and keep a bright look-out for that infernal Belgian. He'll murder us both to a dead certainty if he gets a chance. Don't risk your life for the residuary legateeship of a tin cigarette box."

Hatch turned over on his side and went to sleep again. All these things were merely incidents in the life of an orchid hunter, but, all the same, he was not going to spare the Belgian the next time they met.

He woke presently to find breakfast ready. There had been no further signs of Van Voarst, but doubtless he was somewhere amongst the ruins. Fortunately, he had lost his revolver, so that he was comparatively harmless in the daylight. Hatch was feeling on pretty good terms with himself as he set out for the blackened village. Harry lingered behind on the edge of one of the little pools.

"Oh, come on!"Hatch said impatiently. "Never mind that beastly little box."

"Found the box," Harry said calmly. "Lid off. All um strings and marbles in de water. Look!"

A great cry burst from Hatch's lips as he looked down at his feet. Van Voarst had dropped the little tin box in his flight, and the lid had fallen off. The little string of marbles had dropped into the pool, where they floated with the marbles here and there covering the whole pool. But where each of the marbles had been was a magnificent flower, making the most magnificent display of floral colouring that Hatch had ever seen. The secret was out now—the secret of the Waterwitch and how to grow them. Each of those tubers could be detached, and each grew into a family of lovely blooms. Directly they touched the water they began to expand into glowing loveliness; directly they were removed they would shrivel up to a dirty fibrous root. It was a Rose of Sharon glorified, the very best thing in the way of an orchid.

Hatch removed the whole tangled mass tenderly and placed it in the tin again after the lapse of an hour or so. By this time it was rapidly drying, the bloom had gone, and nothing remained to show what a few drops of liquid could do for it. Hatch drew a deep breath as he turned his face towards the south. The danger and trials of his life were over.

"Let's go back," he said. "Let's spend the night on the river, so that by Friday we can touch something in the way of civilisation again. Leave him to his fate."

He pointed to the blackened ruins of the village. A little black dot was moving from place to place as the Belgian sought patiently for what he would never find.

THE END

A ROPE OF SNOW

Published in The Brisbane Courier, 16 December, 1911.

Raymond Nodes turned away from the contemplation of the snowy landscape, and the 'Telegraph' fluttered from his hand. He did not doubt the evidence of his senses; he did not clasp his hand wildly to his brow and ask himself if he were the victim of some strange hallucination. He was too cold-blooded and unimaginative for that. There must be some practical explanation to account for the man sitting opposite to him in the first class carriage. He had not materialised a fellow passenger.

To begin with, though it was Christmas time and the train was consequently full, the compartment had been reserved for him. As a man of means and local influence, he could command that sort of thing. He was going on to the Gate House to dine; he had been detained till the last moment by important business, and his idea had been to dress in the train. He had telephoned to his man to meet him at Whiteley-road with his kit bag and evening clothes. The man was to see that a carriage was attached to the train at Whiteley-road, and the Stationmaster had given the desired assurance. They usually had a spare coach or two there. It was no trouble, and Nodes had more than once done the same thing. He had everything he needed in his bag, even to his safety razor, but that would not be needed, as he had shaved closely that morning.

All the same he wanted to be a little particular, especially as he was going to meet Mary Glynn at the Gate House. He had never been there before—the invitation had come through Mary Glynn's host, Reginald Norfolk. There was no definite engagement between Mary Glynn and Raymond Nodes, but her friends expected her to marry him. Most of them thought she would be a fool if she didn't.

Nodes was not hurrying. The train was pretty sure to be late, as the snow lay so deep along the line. He had the best part of an hour before him yet, and he knew that he should find everything ready, down to the stud in his buttonhole. He did not want to lose the freshness of his toilette; he would leave it till the last moment. There was a lavatory with hot and cold water leading from the carriage. These are the sort of little luxuries that money can buy.

Then Nodes turned to find himself no longer alone. For seated opposite to him was a man about his own size and build, grim, determined, and dirty, and evidently in considerable trouble. He had a wild and hunted look; he suggested many sinister things, accentuated in his case by the queer garments that he was wearing. They consisted mainly of a horrible yellow jacket and knickerbockers, heavy woollen stockings and clumsy boots. Beyond question, the man was an escaped convict.

Nodes did not need anybody to tell him this. By some means or other an escaped convict had found his way into the carriage. The train had been stopped by the deep snowdrifts more than once. It was quite the old-fashioned Christmas weather. This must be the escaped Bransby convict. No doubt he had found his way into the carriage by way of the lavatory during one of the stoppages. He was going to ask Nodes to help him. He smiled at the thought. There was nothing feeling or sentimental about Nodes. He respected the conventions of society too sincerely for that.

"What on earth are you doing here?" he asked. "How did you get here?"

"We will come to that presently," the convict said. "Is it possible you don't recognise me?"

Nodes shook his head. He was not exactly frightened, but the back of his throat was dry. He did not like the grimness of the other's manner. He had expected an appeal to his better nature. Apparently, that formed no part of the intruder's programme.

The convict strode across the carriage in the direction of the lavatory. He was not away long enough to give Nodes a chance to press the alarm bell.

He came back with a wet towel in his hand. He rubbed it vigorously over his face, and turned to Nodes again. A cry came from the latter.

"Good Lord, it's Summers!" he stammered. "Rick Summers! What does this mean?"

"We will come to that presently," the man addressed as Summers said again. "Give me a cigarette. I was lucky enough to get both meat and drink today, and now I fancy a smoke. A merry Christmas to you, dear sir."

Nodes passed over his cigarette case with a shaking hand. Of all the men on the face of the universe at that moment, Richard Summers was the very last he wanted to meet. There were reasons why his heart turned to water; and his tongue clave to the roof of his mouth as he looked at the other.

"I am not here by accident," Summers went on. There was a hard, dry grimness in his voice that caused Nodes to wriggle about uneasily on his seat. "I came to meet you. I dragged myself hungry and tired across a whole county to see you. My intention was to call upon you last night. I was actually in the house when Henderson called on business, and you had him in the library. I heard your conversation there. I heard your plans for to-day. I changed my mind. An excellent idea occurred to me, if I could only put it in practice. If possible, I wanted to get on the train with you to-night. As I had heard all your plans discussed, the matter was not quite so difficult. If I could find my way in safety to Whiteley-road Station the thing might he managed. The dark and gloomy time of year was distinctly in my favour. I managed to get to the station and hide myself in the goods shed. How I got here you can easily guess."

"What do you expect to gain by this? Sooner or later you will be—"

"Sooner or later the truth will come out. A man in prison without friends or influence has a poor chance with a man like yourself. But things happen—unexpected accidents take place. A week ago it seemed to me that I had lost everything that made life worth living. I did not care for the future. I was quite resigned to serve my ten years' sentence out. But we hear things even in prison, we get scraps of news, we even see papers sometimes. That is what happened in my case. I saw in a paper that Tom Glynn was dead, that he had died in Paris after a long illness, following on an 'accident.' The 'accident' happened six months ago."

Nodes shivered. Words were precious with him just for the moment.

"I got ten years for the manslaughter of Wilfred Catling," Summers proceeded. "It was a bad case, and the judge was accused of erring on the side of clemency. I killed the best friend I ever had. I killed him because I was desperately hard up for money, and because I knew that he had made a will in my favour. And I killed him so that he should not discover that I had forged a cheque upon his banking account for £500. The jury were induced to believe that there was a violent quarrel, and that blows were exchanged. There was just a possibility that I did not really mean to kill the man whom I loved as a brother, and that saved my neck. But you know all about that, because you gave evidence at the trial. I was duly convicted, and there is an end of it—or rather, there was an end of it. And when my time is up, and I come out of gaol, I shall be free to enjoy the fortune of the man whom I am supposed to have murdered! But it will be too late then—long before that time you will become the husband of Mary Glynn. I could have hanged for all you cared. And I am going to hang you, my friend, hang you with a rope of snow."

"Miss Glynn and myself are not even engaged," Nodes stammered.

"That I am quite prepared to believe," Summers went on. "In the light of recent illumination, I am prepared to believe that she does not know what has happened to me. After the 'accident' to her brother, she went over to Paris with him to see a specialist. She probably made a devoted nurse—whilst she had Tom to look after she could think of nothing else. Very few people knew of the relationship in which we stood to each other. I knew none of her friends. I waited for her to come forward till it was forced upon me that she had turned against me. I had no idea that she had hurried Tom off to Paris. I only gathered that from the newspaper paragraph I was telling you about just now. A lot of things came clear to me as I sat in my cell the last few days. I wrote a letter or two, but no reply came. I decided to try to escape. Luck came my way—and, in short, I am here."

"What do you expect that I can do for you?" Nodes asked timidly.

"Not more than you can help," Summers laughed. "If I had found you alone last night, I might have done something to justify my sentence. I rather fancy that I should have killed you, my friend! But as I listened to your conversation with Henderson, and learnt the facts you told him, another idea occurred to me. I learnt, for instance, how it was that Mary Glynn never came near me. I became quite sure of the way in which poor Wilfred Catling came by his death. Then, as I gathered how you intended to spend this evening—this typical Christmas Eve—and how you were going to get to the Gate House, the whole thing came upon me like an inspiration. Get your kit bag down—it is time you began to dress."

Nodes proceeded to obey. There was something grimly determined about his companion, some suggestion that there was unfortunately worse to follow than this. With a shaking hand he turned kit bag and dressing-case out on the seat. Summers nodded approval behind his cigarette.

"Very good," he said. "Here we have everything that may become a man of fashion. You have prudently brought your dressing-case, and possibly you may stay the night. I am delighted to see that you use safety razors. My hair is fortunately about the right length, but I sadly need a shave. Do it!"

Nodes started. Summers' request was stern and threatening.

"Well, get on," he snapped. "Here is the shaving stick, and the brush and the razor. Get hot water and another towel. You are going to shave me. You can't cut my throat with that razor. But you can shave me, and the jolting of the carriage makes no difference. Get on with your work."

Nodes complied. It was just as well, perhaps, to humour this desperado. On the whole, he made an exceedingly good job of it. With Nodes close under his eye, Summers made something like a bath. Then he proceeded to turn over Nodes's evening kit.

"Everything here," he said. "An entire change from head to foot. Silk socks and underwear, pearl stud, half a dozen dress ties in case of accidents. We are about the same size—in the days when we were friends we borrowed one another's collars."

"What on earth are you going to do?" Nodes stammered.

"Why, put your dress clothes on, of course. When the operation is completed I flatter myself that I shall look very nice. I shall still have ten minutes to spare when I have finished. I won't put the coat on yet, because I have a little work to do first. Really, it was very good of you to make up your mind to change in the train. My little plan would have been a complete failure otherwise."

"But you cannot possibly gain anything by this," Nodes protested.

"Think not? But you are not altogether behind the scenes, Mr. Nodes. I am not going to ask you to pass me off as a friend of yours, so that I can leave the train in safety. I am not going to ask you to lend me your dress clothes and make an apology for turning up at Gate House in a morning suit. In that case I should simply have borrowed the clothes you are wearing at this moment. As a matter of fact, I am not asking any favour at all. I am simply making use of you. Take your things off!"

Nodes protested. But he was past all resistance now. What little courage he had possessed had left him. Very slowly and reluctantly he divested himself of his garments. It was none too warm, and he shivered. He waited with sickening anxiety for the next scene in the drama. Summers indicated the hideous covering he had so recently discarded. He pointed to this sternly.

"Put them on!" he said. "If you decline I shall force you to do so. You were always afraid of pain, but you are going to experience it now if you don't do as you are told."

There came something like tears in Nodes's eyes as he compiled. He demurred bitterly to the command that he should remove all his underclothing.

"Can't be permitted," Summers said curtly. "It would spoil all my carefully-laid plans. It is absolutely necessary that you should be dressed exactly as I was. Ah! that is better. You will see in a moment why I have not yet donned your dress-coat. I have some work to do first. Now, you are probably aware of the fact that this train slows up for a few hundred yards this side of Formgrave Station. It is at a point where the line crosses the marshes. At this critical moment you are going to leave the train. I am going to throw you into one of the deep drifts of snow by the side of the line. A typical Christmas, is it not? There is no danger; you will not be a bit hurt, though the odds are that you will be exceedingly damp. All you have to do afterwards is to crawl out on to the line again and make your way to Formgrave. You will tell your story there, and when you do so, the betting is that nobody will believe you. They will refuse to credit so preposterous a tale. You look a pretty disreputable object now, but nothing to what you will appear when you have emerged from that snowy ditch. You will have no proof of what you say, and you will probably be detained till the police have been sent for. I should say that a good twenty-four hours will elapse before the authorities are satisfied that a mistake has been made. Meanwhile, I shall have succeeded in my scheme, and—"

"For Heaven's sake, Summers," Nodes gasped, "be careful. This mad business will be the death of me. And I utterly fail to see why you should hurt me in this revolting fashion."

Summers' face grew dark. For the first time, there was hatred as well as contempt in his eyes.

"Ask yourself a question or two," he said. "Cast your mind back to the events of six months ago. But for you I should never have been in my present unhappy position. At my trial you could have told the story of that forged cheque, had you liked. But you wanted me convicted, you wanted me out of the way. And as things turned out I did not mind. I was deserted by everybody I cared for, and the rest mattered nothing. Come this way—the train is slackening speed."

Nodes crept unwillingly across the floor. His legs were shaking under him. Peering out into the darkness, he could see dimly a flat country, with great drifts of snow gleaming here and there. The footboard of the carriage overhung what seemed like water. Without another word Summers caught his companion by the collar and swung him clear of the train. He dropped like a plummet up to his waist in the feathery white mass. Cold and tearful, but quite unharmed, he crept on to the line again, forlornly watching the tail lights of the train growing fainter in the distance. Summers closed the door of the carriage, and took another cigarette from Nodes' case.

Reginald Norfolk's guests had assembled for dinner in the drawing-room. The circle of diners was complete save one—they were waiting for Raymond Nodes. The host looked at his watch.

"I expect the train's a little late," he said.

"I've sent the car to meet it. In any case, your friend can't be very long now. I hope you are not feeling anxious about him, Mary."

Mary Glynn shook her head. She only half comprehended what Norfolk was saying. Her mind was very far away at the moment. There were one or two women there asking themselves why it was that men voted Mary Glynn to be such a pretty girl. She looked horribly white and aged; the black dress she was wearing merely served to throw up the unhealthy pallor of her cheeks. True, she had had a good deal of trouble lately—she had lost her brother, but that did not account for everything. She was trying to say something appropriate now, when the door was flung open, and the butler announced Mr. Raymond Nodes.

He came forward, coolly and easily, and shook hands with his host and hostess. He said just the right thing. Then he lounged across the room towards Mary Glynn. She had not even glanced up at him, she was contemplating the floor in the same abstracted way.

"I know you will be glad to see me," Summers said in a thrilling whisper.

Something like a cry escaped Mary's lips. A clatter of conversation was going on all round. As Mary looked up the deadly pallor of her face grew ghastly. Then the blood flashed to her cheeks again, there was something in her eyes between joy and fear.

"Be brave," Summers whispered. "Nobody has noticed anything. I was fearful lest you should betray yourself. But luck has been on my side all through, and it is not going to fail me now. This is not a nice thing that I have done, Mary, but practically there is no other way. Everybody says that Reggie Norfolk is a real good fellow, and I am sure that he will forgive me when the time for explanation comes."

"But I thought," Mary gasped. "I thought that you were—you were—"

"In prison. So I was. And, what is more, I had no desire to get away until I discovered that Tom was dead. Then I knew that the time had come when I could speak. The strange part of it is that I should not have been here at all had it not been for Nodes. I found out that he did not know Norfolk; I found out that you were here. Nodes was going to dress in the train, and he engaged a compartment to himself. I'll tell you presently how I managed to get on to all this. Anyway, I boarded the train, and compelled Nodes to change clothes with me. Somewhere about this time he is telling his story to a set of people who will not believe a single word that he says. They will naturally take him for the escaped convict, and detain him for the police to make inquiries. Long before his identity is established, and the authorities are after me, I shall have proved my innocence."

"I know that you are innocent," Mary murmured. "Will you believe me when I tell you that not till the day before yesterday did I know that your friend, Wilfred Catling, was dead? That you had been convicted on a charge of killing him came as a terrible shock to me. But—"

"Presently," Summers whispered. "We shall have our chance after dinner. Meanwhile your hostess is making signals to the ladies. I take it for granted that I am going to be your escort. Of course, I am not exactly so fascinating as Nodes, but still—"

Mary squeezed her companion's arm. Nobody could say that she was pale and cold now. She was trembling between fear and joy. She was longing for the meal to come to an end, so that she could hear the much-needed explanation. It was maddening to sit there with the lights and the chatter, the gleam of the silver, and the din of voices about her. She played with the food on her plate, she toyed with her glass. It was with a deep drawn sigh of relief presently that she saw her hostess rise.

"There is a little conservatory at the end of the hall," she whispered. "When you have finished your cigarettes, you will find me waiting for you there. And for heaven's sake, don't be long, Rick."

Summers slipped away at the first favourable opportunity. In spite of everything, he had enjoyed his coffee and cigarette, the refined surroundings, and the talk of his fellow-men. He made for the dim little conservatory, where Mary was waiting for him. He flung himself down by her side, and attempted to draw her to him. She placed a trembling hand on his shoulder.

"Not yet," she said, "not yet, Rick. You must hear what I have to say first. I must tell you of a dreadful thing that only came to light the night before my brother died. There was really no hope for him from the first, but I did my best. For six months I saw nobody over there in Paris: I had no time to look at any English papers. All I knew before I went to Paris was that my brother and Wilfred Catling had been in an accident together. But I did not know that Mr. Catling was dead. I did not know that you had been charged with taking his life. But Tom knew. He read the papers that he never gave me to look at. And the night before he died, he told me why he had been so depressed. It was he who had forged the cheque that was the cause of all the trouble."

"I knew that all along," Summers said quietly. "And what's more, Catling knew before he died. If Tom had not been your brother, I should have spoken long ago. But it seemed to me that it did not matter. Yet, when everybody appeared to have deserted me, I could see how foolish I had been. Still, it was too late to speak then, and I was too desperately miserable to care what happened to me. It was only when I found out that Tom was dead that I decided to clear my character, and make some sort of an attempt to restore myself in your eyes again. I thought, of course, that you knew all about it. It was only when I escaped and attempted to see Nodes that I learnt pretty well everything by listening to a conversation between Nodes and his friend Henderson. I believe that I should have killed him had we met a few moments before. As it was, I thought of a much better plan than that. I worked out this scheme to see you this evening, and it has proved absolutely successful. We need say nothing—"

"Yes," said Mary firmly, "we need. The whole truth must be spoken. And the part that Mr. Nodes has taken in this vile conspiracy must be public property. And after that, if you still care to—to—"

"My dearest girl, how can you doubt it? If the circumstances were reversed, then—"

"Well, a girl is different from a man. You see, I always loved you Rick, and I was so hurt when I got no letter from you in Paris. Probably you wrote to me. Probably Tom suppressed the letters."

Summers preferred to ignore the point. He turned to Mary, and kissed the tears from her eyes.

"What difference does it make?" he asked. "Tom's folly cannot touch you. There will be a few days' gossip and scandal and then everything will be forgotten. And you and I together, my dearest—"

Summers stopped suddenly. His host of a night stood in the doorway of the conservatory, with a queer expression on his face. Two police officers were in the library, together with a strange gentleman. They had had an amazing story to tell. Would Mr.—er—Nodes be so good as to—?

Mary grasped her lover's arm. The happy colour faded from her face. He touched her tenderly.

"It has come," he said "I shall be very happy to give you the explanation you need, Mr. Norfolk, and the sooner the better. I shall tender you an apology later, and that, I hope, you will accept. And now I am anxious to see the gentleman in the library. Mary, I shall not be long."

The bells were chiming from the village church across the snow. Under the porch of the house a troop of children were singing a carol Mary listened to it all dreamily.

"Oh, yes, Rick would not be long. And to-morrow was Christmas Day!"

THE END

THE GUIDING STAR

Published in The Kalgoorlie Western Argus, Tuesday, 14 November, 1911.

I.

"You'll not do it," the big woman said decisively.

Ethel Carne merely smiled by way of reply. And yet she had lived long enough in that wild North West to know that a warning like this was not to be disregarded. Perhaps it was the fitful spurts of sunshine which gave her courage. Perhaps she derived the strength and inspiration from the steely blue of the sky, bent like some metal dome above her head. Already along the fainter blue of the horizon a few pallid stars were powdered, shining dimly like jewels upon the neck of beauty in the dawn.

"You'll not do it," the mistress of the stores repeated, with finality. "You'll never reach the Spurs before dark. And the snow will be up in an hour, happen though it does look so bright and cheerful now. Far best stay the night."

The big woman with the kindly eyes and shrewd face was speaking no more than the truth, and very well in her heart of hearts knew it. They stood together in the doorway of the log store, looking up the sweeping mountain paths which led by zig-zag stages to the Spurs. It was no far cry on a summer's day, being a matter merely of a few miles. But when the snow came down and the north-easter swept across the valleys, then the swinging pine trees spoke of danger and told of disaster dead and gone. Away up to the left the dark woods lifted their shoulders high, the great massed battalions of the pines stood like grim sentinels watching and warning. Just for a moment they lay like a sombre flash against the steely blue, steadfast and immaculate, then a flying squadron of the coming gale beat them almost flat till they roared again with heads bent over against the fury of the wind. The cold, icy breath came down the pass, sweeping in through the open door. A million sparks, crimson and purple and gold, roared up the stove through the hot chimney.

Ethel Carne set her little white teeth together. "It's very kind of you," she said, in a low-pitched, modulated voice, so different from the hard, nasal tones of her companion. "I know you mean well; but I must get back to the Spurs to-night. I am quite alone. My help left me yesterday unexpectedly, and my little girl is alone in the house. Oh, I couldn't rest here, knowing that she was all by herself, and the Christmas Eve, too. Think of the disappointment! And then she might be frightened."

The speaker touched the square parcel which she carried under her arm. She had been down to the Fort making her slender purchases for the festive season, for it is a poor heart that never rejoices, and it was one of Ethel Carne's boasts that so far she had lost neither her self-respect nor her courage.

Who she was and whence she came people neither knew nor did they seem to care. That she was English went without saying. That she was a lady was patent to the meanest observer who frittered away his weekly earnings in the many saloons which tempted miners to forgetfulness and destruction. All that most people knew was that George Carne had vanished mysteriously two years before and that he had never been heard of since. He was by way of being a gentlemanly adventurer. But, then, they were all adventurers at the Spurs for the matter of that, where each man at any moment might "make his pile," alluvial gold mining, or incidentally sweat out the last years of his life for a mere pittance of bread and shelter. For the most part the latter was the lot of the majority of them, though occasionally one or two, more fortunate than the rest, drifted West with their pockets full of money and their heads humming with the poison--miscalled whisky in that remote spot.

There was no scandal or outcry when George Carne was seen and heard of no more, for it was part of the unwritten etiquette of the Spurs to ask no questions when some gentleman of fortune disappeared as mysteriously as he had arrived. Few men there were properly entitled to the names they bore, and biography as a pastime or relaxation was sternly frowned upon by the community who made up the settlement.

And so long as Ethel Carne made no sign it was nothing to anybody else. There were other women in the settlement, and in their rough, sympathetic way they were not unkind to the gentle stranger, whom they recognised as one made of far superior clay to themselves. Gradually, and by degrees, Mrs. Carne drifted into the position of dressmaker to the settlement. She had good taste and a deft needle; also, she was the possessor of a sewing machine, which was an object of interest, not to say awe, to her sisterhood at the Spurs. As a matter of fact, Ethel Came fitted into the picture. She learnt to shift and do for herself. She acquired a strength and reliance which was as unexpected as it was pleasing. And if down in her heart she felt all the bitterness and grief of a woman deserted in the full floodtide of her beauty she made no sign. The blue eyes were as clear and serene now as they had been in the early days. The mouth was as sweet and tender. There was just a thin, drawn line between the brows and no more: for Ethel had her child, who was growing up in that clear mountain air as strong and erect as one of the pines which tossed its plumes against the everlasting snows. There were a comfortable home and many friends waiting for Ethel in England had she but chosen to hold up her little finger. But for the present she preferred to obliterate herself. She wanted no sympathy and no pity. Her proud soul would have revolted against the slightest touch on the edge of the wound which had never yet healed, and never would.

"I tell you I must go," she said. "I am merely wasting the precious moments here, and that child all alone in the cabin...... with nothing but the light of the stove......And presently it will be dark."

She turned abruptly away, and grasped the parcel all the more firmly. She was not in the least tired. Her stride was free and elastic as she wended her way up the path towards the Spurs. It was curiously still in strange weird patches. At times she could actually hear the bleat of sheep and catch the distant voices. Then for a moment the stinging fury of the gale broke out again, like the headlong charge of white cavalry, and she bent her supple body, whilst the cold wind seemed almost to stop the beating of her heart. As she struggled up the path the intervals of ominous quiet became less and less. A thin, filmy powder came in whirling drifts across the steely blue of the sky. There was a sting like whip-lashes on her cheek, and behold, here and there as if in the twinkling of an eye snowdrifts in the road and white caps weighing down the soughing branches of the pines. A few more scuds like this and the path would be wiped out, leaving but the sombre fringe of the trees on either side. The danger yet was vague and intangible; but Ethel Carne had lived there long enough to know how real it was.

And yet she was not afraid, though she knew that the mile or so would tax her strength to the uttermost. But she was not thinking of her child or herself now, she was not feeling the weight of the white scud beating freely upon her neck and hair. Her mind had gone back into the past. The faint, intangible spirit of Christmas was upon her. It was just about this time two years ago that George Carne had gone off hotfoot and at a moment's notice, westward. He had left a note to say that he had been called away imperiously, and that there was no time to be lost. He had hinted vaguely of some good fortune looming in the distance which he would keep to discuss with Ethel when they met again.

And from that day to this there had come no sign. It had been very good of Raymond Raife to stand by Ethel as he had done, for he had been George's chum, who refused to believe anything but the best of his old partner. And then, almost unexpectedly, Raife himself had been summoned home, and from that moment it seemed to Ethel that she was absolutely alone in the world.

She never stopped to analyse her feelings. She had not dared to ask herself whether her prevailing emotion was one of contempt or despair. Commonsense told me that she had been deserted, and she was content to let it go at that. But she had made no sign. She had known how to take her punishment.

But now everything seemed to be different. Now she caught herself wondering for the first time if Raife had not been right. Raymond Raife had never told her in as many words that he cared for her. A woman's instinct had filled her with that consciousness. But that was a matter that would not bear analysis.

She struggled on and on against the increasing fury of the gale, white and battered from head to foot now, breathing slowly and painfully, with a prayer on her lips that she might win through and reach the little log cabin at last. She thought of its warmth and comfort. She thought of the clear glow of the wood stove, of fragrant coffee and hot cakes, of all the pleasant things that make the chill blast of the open air a comfort and a consolation. She thought, too, of the child waiting so patiently there with her handful of cheap toys and wondering how much longer mummy was going to be. Then the white fury of the gale came down with a snarl and a roar, and just for the moment the woman stood there dazed, beaten and half unconscious. She wiped the white stinging powder from her eyes. She beat her chilled hands to her breast. She staggered forward again, peering through the thickness for the first sight of the dull glow that would show her that home was close at hand. Then, just for a moment, the white, howling veil lifted, and the hoarse singing roar of the pines ceased. High on the shoulder of the hill a tiny red glow shone out; the core of the flame seemed to find its way straight to Ethel's heart and warm her as some generous spirit might have done. There was a fresh strength in her limbs now, for she knew that she had won through and that the goal was reached, She staggered up the narrow path leading to the cottage, she fumbled for a moment with the latch then the door gave and she stumbled inwards. A moment later the murderous breath of the night was shut out, a delicious sense of warmth and drowsiness overcame her. She sat down to the table with her head on her hands. She was just conscious of a pair of soft arms about her neck.

"All right, dearie," she said hysterically, "I shall be myself in a minute or two. Then we shall have some delicious hot coffee and cakes, and I will tell you all my adventures. Do you think you could get the lamp for me?"

The child came back a moment or two later bearing two lamps in her hands. The mother looked at her interrogatively.

"You have forgotten," the child said gravely. "Surely you have forgotten the beacon lamp which we always put out for daddy on Christmas Eve. You light the two, mummy."

"Yes," Mrs. Carne whispered, "I'll light the two."

II.

The beacon light stood in the little window with the curtain half drawn. The soft hiss of the snow drifted against the panes, and Ethel smiled at her little one's suggestion. After all said and done, it was impossible that the beacon light might be of advantage to some belated wayfarer struggling up from the Fort, though few of the miners would risk the white peril to-night. The stove gave out a cheerful heat. The coffee and cakes were things of the past, and already Ethel was busy decorating the walls of the little sitting-room with such evergreens as she had gathered the day before. She was quite herself again now. There was a deep, abiding thankfulness in the knowledge that she was safe at home and that all danger had been left behind. The brown-paper parcel had been hidden judiciously away with a promise that its many wonders would be displayed on the morrow. It was getting late now and the mists were beginning to dance in little Ethel's blue eyes.

"Just a little longer," she pleaded at the mother's suggestion of bed. "It isn't Christmas Eve every night, and, really, I am not a bit tired. I want to wake up in the morning and help you."

Ethel Carne yielded weakly enough. She felt a strange desire for human companionship to-night. She knew how recently she had been face to face with death and she could not forget it.

"Very well," she said. "But you mustn't dance about any longer. Come and sit on my knee and let me tell you a story." The child came obediently enough:

"Please," she asked. "But let it be a real story--one of the things that used to happen to you when you were a girl at home in England. I like those stories better than the book stories."

And so it came about a few moments later that Ethel Carne in the spirit was wandering about English meadows, under the shade of cool trees, and picking primroses by the brookside. The story came to an end at length, and with it a sound from without as if someone were knocking feebly at the door. Just for a moment it occurred to Ethel that her imagination was playing tricks with her, then came that uncertain sound again, as if some exhausted animal were scratching for admittance. Ethel put the child off her knee and drew back the latch. There was a burst of murderous cold air, a rushing whirl of snowflakes, which came hissing and spitting as far as the stove, then a form half rose from the doorstep and staggered into the room. It all happened so quickly, so dramatically, that for a moment Ethel could only stand there, the air cutting like knives across her face, her hair dishevelled in the wind. Then it was borne in upon her that the place was getting icy cold and that the figure of a man lay there on the floor chilled, unconscious, it even might be, exhausted to the verge of death. It was a fight to close the door, to shoot back the bolts into their places, and draw the heavy portiere of bearskin across the panes. The child stood there open-mouthed and waiting, but yet not alarmed, for accidents were frequent in the hard life of the Spurs, and it was not the first time that Ethel had looked death in the face.

"Get me the brandy bottle, dearie," Ethel murmured, as she raised the man's head from the floor. She chafed his cold hands vigorously. She dragged him nearer to the stove by sheer personal strength, so that the grateful warmth might thaw the cuirass of snow which had frozen on his breast like armour. She managed at length to coax a few drops of spirit down the man's throat. He shuddered convulsively, and his eyes opened. Then he glanced round the room, not vaguely nor confusedly, but with the air of one who had been there before.

"Ethel," he whispered, "that was a close call."

The woman recognised him. She had recognised him almost before his grey eyes were turned to the light. She seemed to take it as coolly and collectedly as possible. Now that he was once back again it seemed the most natural thing in the world. There was no wild fluttering at her heart, no overwhelming joy, no contempt, regret, or any other gamut of emotions which ought, by all the rules of the game to have gripped her at that moment.

"Yes," she murmured, mechanically, "How was it?"

The man had risen to his feet by now. Every passing instant seemed to add to his stature and his manhood. The glow crept back to his cheeks now. His eyes were clear and bright. He stripped off his furs and stood before the stove, the picture and embodiment of perfect humanity. He did not seem to see that the child was dancing about his knees now that she had recognised him, and that she was calling him by name. Without knowing it he lifted her in his strong arms and kissed her tenderly.

"I always knew you would come back," she said.

"Of course, dear," he said gravely. "I never meant to do anything else, only I have been a little longer than I expected. And now, don't you think you had better go to bed. I have much to say to mother, and to-morrow I shall show you all the presents I have brought you. Oh, I have heaps and heaps of presents for both, only I had to hide them by the wayside or else I should never have got here at all. Put the child to bed, Ethel. As for me, I daresay I shall know where to find something to eat. I feel as if I hadn't had a meal for years."

The man spoke cheerfully and naturally enough, and yet there was a certain constraint in his manner which Ethel did not fail to notice. Her lip curled somewhat contemptuously, but she obeyed the suggestion without demur. And then, when once the child was between the blankets, a certain demure shyness came upon her and it was a long time before she had the courage to return to the sitting-room. George Carne was seated by the stove, his head in his hands, evidently deeply immersed in thought.

"Come and sit down," he said. "We have a good deal to say to one another. There is so much to explain. And yet I don't think you would blame me if you knew everything."

"Perhaps not," Ethel said mechanically.

"No, we had better go back for a bit. You will remember the day I went away. You were away from home for the time, and I had not a moment to spare. It was Raymond Raife who brought me the news--- a cablegram from home, saying my father was dying and desired to see me without delay. I can never understand--in fact, I shall never understand--my father's bitter opposition to our marriage. I suppose we were both too proud to ask for explanations, and that is the real reason why we drifted apart. But when Raife brought me that cablegram I began to see hope ahead. It seemed to me that I was going to be taken back into favour again, for my father would hardly have sent for me all that way if it had not been to give me his forgiveness on his deathbed. Then we would go back to England again and renew our proper position in society. I was more glad, I think, for your sake and the child's sake than my own. I did not hesitate a moment. I went off there and then. I made up my mind to say nothing to you till I could send you some really good news. My idea was to get matters settled in England and then come and fetch you two home again. I hope you won't think I am hard and callous; but I have never ceased to regret what I brought you to here, all the more so because you were always so brave and uncomplaining."

Carne paused, but no reply came from Ethel.

"And when I got home I found, to my surprise, that my father had been dead for the last year or more. He had made no sign. He had made no attempt to communicate with me, but, at the same time, he had made no alterations in his will, so that I found myself master of the whole property. They had been advertising for me everywhere, and it was only by pure good fortune that I discovered the truth. But the strange part of the whole thing was this:--I could find nobody ready to admit the dispatch of that cablegram. I was too busy to write to you. I was saving it all up for a glad surprise later on. I never dreamt for a moment that anything was wrong. I never dreamed that I was the victim of a false friend who had played the vile conspiracy on me. How should I know that the cablegram had been deliberately concocted by Raymond Raife to get me out of the way! How could I guess it?"

A sudden, leaping crimson flamed into Ethel Carne's face. In an illuminating flash she saw the true inwardness of many things now. Burning letters of flame scorched on the arch of memory which had been so many trivial words in the twilight of innocent misunderstanding. For the first time Ethel saw.

"Is this true?" she stammered.

"Oh, it's true enough. I was to be got out of the way and it was to be inferred to you that this action on my part was nothing else than a cold-blooded desertion. But Raymond Raife found you impervious. He recognised the hopelessness of his ambitions and he came back to England to find me. As a matter of fact I found him lying in a hospital with a broken spine, and on his deathbed he told me everything.... Well, I forgave him everything, for I could do no less. Still, I grudged the wasted years.........Ethel, surely there is no occasion for me to say any more. You believe me?"

The woman rose tremblingly from her seat beside the stove. Then she crossed the floor, and her arms went like two white wreaths round her husband's neck. She wanted no more. She was content to know. And in that instant it seemed to her that she had never doubted George Carne's return. For a long time there was silence between them, a blissful silence filled with a pleasing spirit of the happy Christmastide. Neither wanted more than that.

"My word, it was hard work to get here," Carne said more cheerfully, as he stretched his long arms out to the blaze. "They warned me down at the Fort that I couldn't do it. But I laughed at them and pushed on my way. I would have come to-night if all the powers of darkness had barred my path. But I don't mind confessing that I was beaten more than once. In the ordinary way I should never have managed it. And I struggled on and on, dazed and half-blinded by the snow, until at last the beacon light shone out clear and bright, like a guiding star to beckon me on. I tell you it was like new blood--like sparkling champagne in my veins. And yet even then it was a close call. But for that light and the grace of God I should be lying out in the snow now stark and stiff."

Ethel Carne colours guiltily.

"Let me make a confession," she said, in a whisper, her head close down to her husband's shoulder. "I had forgotten all about it. For two years I have been growing more and more callous and forgetful. For two years I have been steadily losing the hope which I tried to stifle. It was little Ethel who brought me the lamp, little Ethel who reminded me that I always lighted it on Christmas Eve. And now, if you can only forgive me----"

"Forgive you what?" Carne asked. "My word! if you can take me back to your heart again like this it is little I have to complain of. But, all the same, it is going to be a really happy Christmas for us three, sweetheart."

THE END