TABLE of CONTENTS

HIS MAJESTY'S MAILS

THE PARDON

NERVES

THE DESERT SHIP

LADY MARY'S BULLDOG

THE SIXTEENTH CHAPTER

THE LEFT HAND

A GAMBLE IN LOVE

THE HAND INVISIBLE

AUTUMN MANOEUVRES

HIS MAJESTY'S MAILS

Published in the Barrier Miner (Broken Hill, N.S.W.), Wednesday, 20 December, 1911.

I.

The journalist moved a little nearer to the man by the fireplace. For the journalist was interested, and the man by the fireplace had let drop certain hints and insinuations which seemed to have behind them the making of a story, and the journalist was not only a writer of paragraphs per se, but a fairly well-known writer of fiction besides. He laid a half-crown on the table.

"Will you have another?" he said persuasively. "Didn't I hear you say something just now about the mailbag robbery at Silvertown Post Office some two years ago. So far as I recollect, the matter was never properly solved."

The man in the corner grinned. Up to a certain point he had been spinning out his glass of vitrolic whisky with the faint hope that someone might come along and replace the potent fluid and here was an obvious angel unawares. Properly told, the story might result in the aggrandisement of the journalist's entire half-crown.

He was a seedy, sodden, savoury little man, with swollen features picturesquesly adorned with pink spots. His nose was red and damp, and deflected corners of his mouth twitched convulsively. A broken down man is a pathetic figure enough in any case, but a broken down rascal is one of the saddest sights to be sifted out from the scrap heap of humanity. The journalist's instinct spotted right enough. He had unerringly spotted the little man as one who, in his time, had been looked up to as one of the captains of crime.

"You were talking of Silvertown robbery," he said huskily. "So happens, guv'nor, I can tell you a good deal about it. I reckon, you are one of those writing chaps. Is that so?"

The journalist admitted the soft impeachment.

"Very well, then," the little man picked up the thread again. "It was just like this. Mind you, what I am telling you now I have never mentioned to a soul before." Prefixing the whole thing with a question. "Did you ever hear of Martin Stryde?"

The journalist nodded. The name was familiar enough to him. Stryde had been a well-known figure in certain circles a year or two before, but of late he had been lost sight of, and he was troubling the police no more.

"I thought you had heard of him," the little man said with a certain air of pride. "Well, about four years ago Martin Stryde was sitting in this very bar waiting for business, so to speak. He had not had much luck of late, for one or two things had gone wrong, and he was getting pretty short of the ready. He was thinking of moving on when a man that he knew came in and asked for a drink of whisky. You see, you can never tell who you are going to pick up a valuable tip from, consequently Martin Stryde was pretty free handed in the way of little treats of that kind. Just casual like he asked the other if anything was going on. Then Stryde's friend, he leans across the table and says with a wink of his eye:

"'What's the matter with Silvertown Post Office?'

"'I don't quite catch on, Jimmy,' says Stryde.

"'Well, it's this way, Mr. Stryde. The Silvertown Post Office is a small one--practically a sub-office for the dispatch of mails. There is a postmaster there and two clerks. I went in there the other night to get a stamp or two, and they were that busy they kept me waiting nearly twenty minutes.'

"'Selling stamps, do you mean, Jimmy?' Stryde asks.

"'Stamps be blowed! I tell you, Mr. Stryde, thousands of pounds' worth of parcels go through that office every day. Did you ever hear of a firm called Morgor and Enrstine?'

"'One of the biggest jewel dealers in the world, Jimmy.'

"'Well,' Jimmy goes on, 'they're making up a case for some foreign exhibition, and one of these cases will be dispatched some evening next month by registered parcel. Here's a chance for a man with a head on his shoulders. Only two small bags to pinch and two clerks and a postmaster to deal with.'

"Stryde, his eyes glistens. Then he laughs in a careless way.

"'Have you examined the back premises, Jimmy?' he says.

"'There ain't no back premises, Mr. Stryde. There is no outlet behind at all. The post office used to be a shop at one time, and over it are flats let out to men by the week. It would all have to be done by the front door. The post office people ain't quite fools, either. It's an understood thing that the parcels to be registered should be left as late as possible, so as to have them on the premises no longer'n is necessary. A special van comes for them at ten minutes to 6.'

"'Quite dark at this time of the year, Jimmy,' says Stryde.

"'Yes, sir. Well, those chaps locks the door of the counter, and as the parcels are registered they are dropped into two bags on the inner edge. Do you follow me, sir?'

'"Upon my word, Jimmy, I am quite interested,' Stryde says presently. 'Is it a narrow counter one could reach across and lift the bags in case anything happened to the gas, for instance?'

"'No it ain't,' Jimmy he says emphatically. 'There's a strong brass grating like a metal summer house all along the edge of it.'

"After that Stryde he has no more to do with it. He says to Jimmy as the thing is impossible, and of course Jimmy takes this for granted. Jimmy finishes up his drink and drifts out of the bar, and out of the story, too, for that matter; and Stryde he sits there until he begins to see his way pretty clear.

"Somehow or another a lot of information concerning the Silvertown Post Offices comes along in Stryde's direction the next two or three days. On one or two occasions he found it necessary to register a small parcel there. At the end of a week he posts a letter to a certain Mr. George Tatton, asking the pleasure of that gentleman's company to dinner at Hendon on Sunday evening. For Stryde he has a weakness, a little place in the country, and a nice snug shop he had of it, too. Ah, those were good days."

The man by the fireplace sighed and reached his hand out mechanically for his empty glass. The hint was not wasted.

"Well, George Tatton he turns up in due course--solemn, undertaking looking chap he was, dressed from head to foot in sober black. Sort of man who would have passed for a lay-preacher or street missionary anywhere.

"'And now, Martin," he says, 'what's your little game?'

"Stryde he goes on in great detail to speak of the information what he has got from Jimmy. There was a good deal more which might have caused Jimmy to prick up his ears if he had been present.

"'That brass trellis work is a fair knock-out,' Tatton he says, after a long pause.

"But Stryde, he doesn't seem to think so. When he had finished speaking, Tatton, he so far forgets himself as to smile.

"'You are a genius,' he says. 'Why, with an intellect like yours you might be Prime Minister. There ain't a flaw anywhere.'

"Well, for a day or two this same publichouse, where we are seated now, and where I don't mind having another, as you so kindly suggest, plays an important part in this little comedy. From this 'ere desirable establishment two evenings later there emerged a certain ship's fireman, Ben Barnes by name, in that state of silly drunk that leans towards a single-handed defiance of the law. Tatton was with him, and Tatton was trying to keep the fool quiet.

"'You let me alone,' says the fireman. 'I've got money in the Savings Bank, and I mean to get it out.'

"Saying that he lurched breezily into the Silvertown Post Office. A rare bit of luck it was getting hold of Ben Barnes, who really had money in the post office, and about as much to do with the story as you have. A puppet in the game, sir, no more.

"'I want,' he says, lurching forward, 'I want my money.'

"'You can't have your money without notice,' the clerk says curtly. 'Go away, or I'll whistle for a policeman.'

"Ben Barnes he loses his head at that. He clutches at the grill, shaking it backwards and forwards, for he was a pretty powerful man, then down comes the whole thing, together with the cast iron standards supporting the railing, and a moment later the police step in and take a hand in the game. Finally they gets Barnes down on the floor and straps him to a stretcher. Tatton he discreetly disappears, and by a strange coincidence runs against Stryde, he happened to be at the end of the street on business.

"'Well,' Stryde says, 'and how did it go?'

"'Beautiful,' Tatton explains. 'Real artistic, I call it. Barnes fell into the trap, never suspecting anything, and there's a fine specimen of modern brasswork to be sold cheap at the post office. They'll probably fine Barnes a couple of pounds in the morning, and compel him to make the damage good, so you had better hang about the court to-morrow and offer to pay the fine. Also you can find Barnes an expert workman who will repair the mischief in little less than no time. You don't want me for anything else, do you?'

"It turned out just like that. Ben Barnes he has nothing to say for himself except in the way of gratitude for Tatton, who pays his fine, and not only that, produces the workman to make good the damage. And then Barnes, like Jimmy, goes his own way, and he drops out of the story and there's an end of him."

II.

"The same evening a new tenant moves into the industrial flat over the Post Office. A quiet looking chap he was, who appeared to have seen trouble in the past. Come to think of it, I fancy he called himself an insurance agent, and his little bit of furniture was hired from a small shop close by on the instalment system. Reuben Taylor we'll call him--not that it matters. At midnight of the first day, in his now house, Taylor, he has a visitor. I won't deceive you, sir, when I tell you that the visitor was Stryde.

"'Have you found out the lie of those pipes yet,' he asks.

"Tatton had wasted no time. Of course, you will have guessed by this time that the man Taylor was only Tatton in another name. He removes a short board from the floor, and with a candle shows out a mass of pipes below. It was a bit puzzling to Stryde, but plain enough to a skilled mechanic like Tatton.

"'I hadn't no difficulty in locating the pipe,' says he. 'I knew they were under this floor, and that's why I took this particular room. The finding of that short piece of board was a rare slice of luck. It fits so tight that I have only to stamp it down, and no one could possibly know that it had been moved.'

"'Very good,' Stryde he says. 'All you have got to do is to wait for the signal. Count twenty slowly, very slowly, mind, and then manipulate the pipes. The point is, are you sure you have got the right one?'

"'Of course I am,' Tatton says contemptuously. 'That's the one with the bit of red lead dabbed along the top. Loosen that head with a spanner, then comes a gush of gas into this room that will put the post office lights out like a shot. Then I'll tighten up the thread again, stamp this board down once more, and the whole blooming thing is done.'

"'Good again,' Stryde says. 'And after that?'

"'I'll have a cab waiting for me at the corner of the Street. Directly the gas business is manipulated I am to get to that cab as quickly as possible. You'll bring me the bags, and then you'll make yourself scarce as soon as I have them. Then I'm to blind the trail as well as I can, and get to Hendon without delay.'

"'Mind you get a four-wheeled cab,' Stryde, he says.

"Tatton, he wants to know what the four-wheeler is for. It did not take Stryde long to explain his reasons.

"'What a chap you are,' Tatton says. 'Seems to me there's nothing you don't think of.'

"If you listens to me carefully," Stryde goes on. "I can show you a way of blinding your trail so as to make everything perfectly safe. You mustn't forget that it is you they'll look for. And now the less we are seen together for the next two or three days the better. Good-night and good luck to you."

Nothing happens for a week or more till about six o'clock one evening when the Post Office is at its busiest and the small registered letter bags are nearly full. A loafer looks into the office curiously, waiting as if hesitating till the last of the confidential clerks had registered his precious packet. Then the loafer he steps into the road and sneezes two or three times violently. A second later some body closes a window over the Post Office very gently, and at the same time a most strange and unexpected thing happens. Like a flash out goes the gas in the Post Office, and the whole place is plunged into darkness. You can imagine the clerks looking at one another and wondering what is wrong. You can imagine, too, them having their suspicions aroused, but they are not particularly brilliant youths, and it never seems to occur to them that anything has gone really wrong. When you come to think of it, there is nothing unusual in gas going out. Anyway, those clerks were not a bit alarmed, not even when a slide and rattle as of a gate being opened struck upon their ears.

"'Funny thing,' says one clerk to another, 'funny that the gas is out again. Can't you smell it?'

"'Rather,' says the other one. 'Got a match?'

"'There's one in my overcoat pocket hanging just past the desk yonder. You'll find a box of vestas there.'

"Of course it takes a little time fumbling about in the dark, even when you know a place, and some two or three minutes passed before the matches were produced and the gas brackets over the counter lighted again. It didn't seem to strike those chaps as at all funny that the gas should play them a trick like that. They just looked at one another a moment, then one of them, who happened to be a bit sharper than his pal, he staggers back against the counter with his eyes fairly bulging out of his head.

"'Good heavens, Summers,' he cries, 'the mail bags have gone!'

"Summers he says nothing. He can only stand there gaping with his mouth wide open, till presently there comes a sound of wheels outside, which means as the Post Office van has come along and the postman is waiting for the registered letters.

"'I am a bit early, gentlemen,' he says, 'anything wrong?'

"Then those two clerks come to their senses at the same time, and begin to explain simultaneously. Of course, all this takes time, and a good five minutes pass before the post messenger makes a dash for the street, yelling at the top of his voice for the police. One or two of them come along presently, and at the end of half an hour some of the Scotland Yard Division begin to drop in. I believe it was Sergeant Denton who had the case in hand. It is long ago, and I forget. But, anyway, the sergeant comes along and clears the office, except for the frightened clerks and the postmaster. At the end of an hour that shrewd detective officer makes one or two what he calls important discoveries. There was a boy in the neighborhood who happened to have seen a tall stranger with a long coat, a seedy-looking chap, came out of the Post Office with two bags on his arm. Then somebody else professes to have seen the same man give the bags into the custody of somebody else, who was waiting at the top of the street in a four-wheeled cab.

"Then the inspector he strokes his big moustache and looks like a cat after a saucer of cream. Of course, he's got an important clue.

"'I shall lay those fellows by the heels yet,' he says, 'and now I'll go off and find the cabman.'

"Of course, they finds the cabman easy enough. But if they expected him to tell them anything they were mistaken. As a matter of fact he hadn't got anything to say but the truth.

"'It was just like this,' he explains 'the man comes along and orders my cab off the rank by St. Peter's Church to be at the corner of John-street by five forty-five sharp. He gets into the cab, and just as he is going to start a moment or two later another chap comes up with a couple of bags on his arm, a tall, surly-looking man, he was, wearing a shabby ulster. Nothing passes between them except that the bags were transferred to my cab, and then I was told to drive to Piccadilly Circus sharp. Not as I ever did get to Piccadilly Circus by a long chalk. When we were passing the Swan, in Ford-road, my man tells me to pull up, and we goes inside together leaving another party to hold my horse, and we had a drink. Then my party, out he goes, saying he has forgotten something, and that he'll be back in about ten minutes. Seeing as he had pitched half a quid on the counter to pay for the drinks, and hadn't picked up the change, why I didn't feel particularly troubled about being bilked out of my fare. 'Specially as he tells me, in a laughing sort of way, to keep the change if he doesn't come back. Well, I waited for half-an-hour or more and he didn't come back, and I did keep the change and that's all I can tell you about it.'

"But nobody knows, sir, till this day, and nobody will know, what Stryde was doing while the cabby waited in the public-house. But I don't mind telling you. He just goes back to the cab again and practically changes all his clothes. From under the ulster he produces a collapsible portmanteau, into which he empties the mail bags and the clothes he has just taken off. Then he fills the portmanteau with every blessed thing and steps out of the cab door, and not a blessed soul to notice him. It is an easy matter, after that, to stand at the corner of the road as if he had just come off a 'bus, and hire a hansom to take him to Baker-street Station. Once at Baker-street, he makes his way round to Charing Cross, and before morning he is on the night boat making for Calais. Before twenty-four hours are over his head, he is in Amsterdam; but I don't think there is any necessity for me to tell a smart gentleman like yourself what happened to the contents of those mail bags before Stryde turned his back on Holland. And that's the true story of the Robbery of the Silvertown Post Office."

"So that was the reason why he wanted a four-wheeled cab?" the journalist asked thoughtfully.

"You've got it first time," the man by the fireplace said. "He wanted a dressing-room. No, Stryde didn't leave anything to chance in those days. You see, he hadn't taken to drink then, and always kept a clear head. If he had only kept off that accursed stuff he might be a rich man now, and I know for a fact he was very well off at one time."

"The curse of so many geniuses," the journalist said gravely. "I am greatly obliged to you for your most entertaining story, but there is still one point which seems to me to need elucidation. I presume from what you say that the ship's engineer, Barnes, was quite an innocent party. I suppose he was what you call kidded on to make that disturbance at the Post Office. It was probably Stryde's brilliant suggestion that he should pull the railing down. But why?"

The man by the fireplace chuckled. A look of almost intelligence flashed into his bleared and watery eye.

"That was the gem of the whole thing," he said. "You see, we--I mean, they--could put the gas out, but there was the grating to be dealt with. So when Barnes pulled it down, and Tatton so generously repaired the mischief for him, the grating was fitted with a kind of hinge over the near end of the counter behind which the bags of the registered letters were hanging. Nobody suspected, and nobody could have found it out, unless some meddlesome person happened to raise one of the standards slightly. At any rate, there it was, and directly the gas was put out, all that was needed was for someone to sneak quietly into the Post Office, push a part of the railing back, and reach over for the letter bags. I know it sounds difficult, but, bless your soul, it was easy enough."

The journalist had no further questions to ask. He looked at his watch and rose with an explanation that he had overstayed his time already. At the same moment a detective, in plain clothes, glanced into the bar and nodded at the journalist, whom he knew slightly. Then he followed into the street, and the two walked along side by side for some little way.

"Who was my friend in the bar?" the journalist asked. "He told me a very entertaining story, just now."

"I daresay," the detective said drily. "At one time he was quite in the first criminal flight. The name by which we knew him in those days was Martin Stryde."

THE END

THE PARDON

Published in the Western Mail (Perth, W.A.), Saturday, 12 August, 1911.

Mistress Marjory Fothergay rode astride like a man, for the chase was a stern one, and she was measuring a human life against the pace of her nag. She hugged the precious pardon to her breast as she swept along through the night in the direction of Mapleham. It was there that Guy Foster lay a prisoner in the hands of Colonel Clifford, and there he was to be shot at eight of the clock in the morning. The mere fact that Colonel Clifford hated him and would have watched his end with equanimity, not to say satisfaction, was the spur that pushed Marjory on.

Oh, she had had her luck--there was no doubt about that. It was sheer luck that flung her in the path of the King on his way to York. Perhaps if Nell Gwynn had not been there----What a pretty woman she was and how her eyes had sparkled as she handed the swan-quill pen to Charles. People might say what they liked about Nell, but Marjory had loved her at that moment. Guy Poster had been a fool--it was so like him to fling himself in the teeth of authority over so simple a matter as the rights of forestry over Cadham Forest, but really he had gone too far. They had caught him with arms in his hand and, well, he was going to be shot in the morning at Mapleham.

Now hanging or shooting is the poorest use you can put a man to, especially if he be a man like Guy Foster. For he was tall and strong and clear of eye, so that the women in these parts looked on him sweetly, and Mistress Marjory accounted herself the most fortunate of girls when he came wooing her and dropped his glove at her feet. And Colonel Clifford hated him from the bottom of his heart. There never had been any chance for the colonel, had he only known it, but then he was a bit of an egoist in his way and did not know it--a black man with a brooding eye and a furtive glance with venom in it. And he would have cheerfully committed murder for sweet Mistress Marjory's sake.

He was going to commit murder now with all the precedent and authorities on his side.

Guy Foster had been taken under arms and the penalty was short and to the point. He would be shot at daybreak and all Marjory's tears and pleas had moved him not at all. She was indiscreet, perhaps, in adding certain accusations of a more or less personal nature, but they left him cold.

Marjory had flung out of the presence of Clifford hot, flaming and tearful. She rode wildly out of Mapleham at odds with all the world and burning for a rescue. A couple of score of stalwarts well armed and the thing was done. It was to the full measure of her wrath and, in the full swing of her gallop that she came plump upon the cavalcade of the king on the way to York. And Charles, always with a keen and discriminating eye for a pretty girl, demanded speech with her. He got it.

"I am Mistress Marjory Fothergay of that house, sir," she said. "There is not a man left in the place for they have all died for you and yours. And the man I love is to be shot in the morning."

"That is a sorry use of good material, child," the King said. "Give him a name."

Marjory poured out her trouble. There was no more loyal lot than the Fosters. But they hated tyranny, and that edict as to the right of forestry over Cadham Forest was sheer tyranny and his majesty should know it. Then there came up something dazzlingly fair with blue eyes full of demure mischief, with a gleam in them that touched Marjory on the spot. Here was Mistress Nell Gwynn, of course, and Marjory felt the blood flaming into her face. Still, she was a woman and she was beginning to feel the sore need of one. And here was a woman, good luck, with pity and sympathy in her face.

"Now, what's to be done with this pretty thing?" the King laughed.

"What does one do with all pretty things, Charlie," Nelly said. "Give 'em a sugarplum. You're not going to let Clifford waste a good man like that."

"Do you know aught of Colonel Clifford, child?" the King asked.

The blood flamed into Marjory's face again and her eyes flushed. Nell of Old Drury watched her critically. She had a fine scent for a dramatic situation and here was one ready to her hand. She bent over and whispered a few words in the King's ear. He threw back his head and laughed.

"Say you so, Nell?" he asked. "Lord, how you women smell out a romance! Trust you for seeing the beauties of a situation! So it is like that. Mistress Marjory, you can dry your pretty eyes. Bring me a pen and ink so that you can set your heart at rest. Quick there with you."

And there under the amazed eyes of Mistress Marjory the pardon was signed and handed over to her by the King himself. Nell looked on with a smile.

"I have you to thank for this, Mistress Gwynn," Marjory said.

"Oh, la, la," Nell cried. "What a patter about a little thing like a lover. Maybe the time will come when you will hold this thing a grudge against me. But, thank me if you like."

"I--I should like to kiss you," Marjory flamed out.

"Odds bodkins, dearie, but you shall," Nell said. Her face had flamed scarlet, too, and her eyes were wet. "This Guy Foster of yours is a lucky man. And I am the happier for assisting you. You can tell your children when the time comes that Nell of Old Drury was not all bad."

"I shall tell them that she was one of the best and kindest of women," Marjory cried. There was a crimson stain on her checks; her voice shook strangely. "Farewell and God keep you, sire, I have no time to lose."

Marjory turned in her saddle and plunged into the forest. There was no time to be lost if she were to reach Mapleham by daylight. That would not give her more than an hour at the outside.

She came to Mapleham in the grey dawn dazed with the need for sleep and giddy with fatigue. The sentinel of the gate challenged her sulkily.

"You know who I am well enough, fellow," she said haughtily. "This is not the first time, you have been face to face with Mistress Marjory Fothergay. Look here."

She drew out the pardon and thrust the King's signature under the varlet's nose.

"Go and call your master," she said. "Drag him out of bed if you will. Tell him I am here and that I have a message for him from the King. And see to it that this is done at once. Conduct me to a place where I can remove the traces of my journey."

Another man at once came out and presently Marjory found herself in a private chamber more or less ready for the use of travellers. There was clean linen and fair water and a comfortable armchair, into which latter she dropped presently and closed her eyes. She must not sleep, she told herself, she would just rest there for a little while and recover a little from the deadly tiredness that numbed her brain. Her long lashes swept her cheek and she slept, slept in utter exhaustion.

Colonel Clifford stood biting his thumbs at his retainer. There was something in the back of his mind that prevented him from looking the man-at-arms in the face.

"What do you say the lady wants?" he asked.

"She came here demanding speech with your honour," the soldier said. "She has a message from the King."

"So. What have you done with her?"

"She is at present in one of the retiring rooms. She was there till your honour is ready. At present, so a kitchen wench tells me, she is asleep."

Clifford motioned the fellow away. He had learnt all he needed. Mistress Marjory was here with a pardon from the King. It would be a fare triumph for her lover and herself. She would ride out with him presently and they would laugh at him as they went. And she was asleep.

Colonel John Clifford had never loved before--he had no time for that sort of thing he told himself impetuously. And being a dark man with a sombre spleen, when the fever came it filled his blood with madness and blinded his eyes to aught but the demon of desire. And when fate had delivered Guy Foster into his hands it seemed to him that the path was smooth at last.

Mistress Marjory had come with a pardon from the King and she slept. She had travelled through the night, and was utterly worn out. And Clifford had no official knowledge of anything. Nobody would blame him if Foster was taken out and shot in an hour's time. And Mistress Marjory slept.

Marjory came to herself in an hour's time with a start. The dawn was breaking now and a golden light filled the east. She could not have slept long, but was it too long. She could hear the clash of arms and the tramp of feet outside, a hoarse command and the rattle of weapons. With a great fear in her heart, she crossed the flag-red floor and tried the door. It was locked.

Somebody had fastened the door on the outside, or perhaps there was some trick with the bolt. Mistress Marjory tugged at it desperately. She raised her voice in a cry and smote passionately on the oak panels.

The full glare of the truth was dawning upon her. Clifford had been told why she was here, he had grasped what her errand meant to him. And he would be able to say that he had no official cognisance of it. A message brought to him through one of his men-at-arms that Mistress Marjory Fothergay had a letter from the King meant nothing. She had not spoken of a pardon.

Clifford had locked her in. He would keep her a prisoner till the execution was over. She looked round for some means of escape. The windows were high and narrow, but there was chairs that she could pile one on top of another. The hazard of it troubled her nothing. A moment or two later she was on the broad stone ledge looking into the courtyard below. There was a lead roof opposite from which she could easily reach the ground. And on the far side of the courtyard half a dozen men lounged with petronels in their hands. A door opened somewhere in the distance, there was a harsh sound of command and the men with the firearms drew up to attention.

Marjory measured the distance with her eye. It would be a desperate effort, but she would manage it. She drew a long breath and launched herself from the window ledge. She jumped just a little short, falling heavily on her hands and knees, shaken and breathless, but with a savage exultation at her heart. As she dropped, still panting and shaken, into the courtyard, Guy Foster came along blindfolded and led by two men-at-arms. As they placed him with his back to the wall, Marjory took the King's letter and fastened it to his heart.

"Send Colonel Clifford to me," she cried. "Where is the black-minded traitor?"

The words echoed across the courtyard. Clifford came forward.

"You have a message from the King for me," he said.

"I have his royal Majesty's pardon," Marjory cried. "See it is on the breast of your prisoner. Take the bandage from his eyes, and let him go, murderer."

Clifford started as if he had been stung. But his eyes dropped before the gleaming orbs of Marjory. He saw in that instant that the girl had guessed everything. It was only for a moment that he hesitated, and then he was himself again. With his own hand he slipped the bandage from Foster's eyes, and released him.

"You are free," he said curtly. "You can go. You are a fortunate man, my friend. And if you will permit me to offer you my hospitality----"

"My horse," Marjory commanded. "My horse. This place is offensive to me, I would stifle here."

Without another word Clifford turned on his heel. Foster caught Marjory in his arms.

"Sweetheart," he whispered. "How did you manage it? Tell me, dearest heart."

"Catch me," Marjory whispered, "for I am going to swoon. No, it is the joy that never kills."

THE END

NERVES

ILLUSTRATED BY ALEC BALL

Published in The Windsor Magazine , Vol. XXXIII, Jan 1911, pp 295-300

REX BRUNELL drummed on the table with carefully polished fingernails.

"Pinero," he said, "has aptly described a capitalist as a pawnbroker with an imagination. Now, I regard that as essentially true. I have had considerable experience with the fraternity in question, and incidentally I have been ruined by one of them. I can afford to tell you men this now, because I am about to get my own back—and more. I never met a capitalist yet who was not a nervous man, or one blessed with a good digestion. Goldmark is no exception to the rule."

James Goldmark smiled. The great man was entertaining a select circle of friends in his suite of rooms at the Majestic Hotel. There were four of them, all intimates of Rex Brunell, all of them with fingers more or less scarred by contact with high finance. "A fool and his money are soon parted," Goldmark said cynically. "Brunell was bound to lose his money. It struck me that I might as well have it as anybody else."

A laugh greeted this sally. It was quite characteristic of Goldmark. He grinned behind his glasses, his teeth were taut over the inevitable black cigar. A waiter came into the dining-room and laid a card on the table before Goldmark.

"I'll get you to excuse me one moment," the capitalist said, and vanished.

The smoke-laden air seem to clarify as the door closed upon Goldmark. Three pairs of glittering eager eyes were turned upon Brunell. He waved his hand carelessly.

"Patience," he said. "No explanation is needed. That man was going to make our fortunes. Instead of which he has practically beggared the lot of us. He is not in the least ashamed of himself. He has used us as a blind to deceive others. In a less effete civilisation than ours we should shoot him and pitch his black, attenuated carcase into the Thames. Now we dine with him instead. After all, it is only a question of financial methods. Goldmark adopts them and we don't. Therefore he gets the best of us. Now, I object to be ruined on principle. We all do, in fact. Therefore we are going to adopt his methods. I have thought it all out, and that is why we are here to-night. Watch me, play up to my lead, and all will be well. Hush! For the moment let us dissemble."

Goldmark returned to the dining-room again, followed by a dapper little man with a waxed moustache and a wonderfully groomed exterior. He brought the genuine Parisian flavour with him.

"It was not me, but you, that this gentleman wanted to see, Brunell," the financier explained. "The waiter delivered the card to me by mistake. I explained to Dr. Chassier that any friend of yours was a friend of mine. Doctor, a glass of champagne?"

"This is a pleasant surprise," Brunell cried. "Regan and Powell and Hartigan, this is my friend Dr. Chassier, of Paris University. I need not remind you that he is the great authority on the eye. Of his reputation I say nothing, because it speaks for itself. Now, this is kind of you, Chassier. I hope you have not come merely because I mentioned that certain unpleasant symptoms of mine "

"Well, partly," the doctor admitted with a smile. "The astigmatism you mentioned—nothing serious, of course, but still... I am glad to hear that you have dropped the cigarettes."

"Tobacco is bad in certain circumstances?" Goldmark asked. "Do have a glass of champagne."

The expert began to talk, at first quietly, till he warmed to his subject. It was "shop" of the kind that this neurotic age takes to so kindly. He spoke of the marvels of his branch of surgical science. He had them all quivering before long as to what particular form of ocular weakness they were suffering from. Goldmark sprawled across the table, puffing at his black cigar.

"Ugh! How it gets on one's nerves!" he shuddered. "I hope you chaps won't laugh at me, but those funny little globular discs that come flashing before one's eyes at times—"

"A pawnbroker with an imagination," Brunell murmured. "My dear fellow, I don't feel in the least like laughing. Anything wrong with the eyes— To think of it! And Chassier told me that I should lose my sight if I didn't chuck the cigarettes."

Goldmark laid down his cigar, gazed at it, and took it up again.

"Of course that is all bosh," he said uneasily.

"By no means, my dear sir," Chassier said gravely. "Cases of smoker's blindness are by no means uncommon. I had one case the other day—a man retired from your Guards. He came to me so far gone that I nearly paralysed him with strychnine. I had to. There were times when he could not rise from his bed. It was a long struggle, but I cured him. Another week later—"

Chassier shrugged his shoulders. The room had suddenly grown strangely silent. Goldmark pitched his cigar into the fireplace. He was pale and anxious; a little bead stood on his forehead.

"You could tell the symptoms at a glance?" he asked. "In my case, for instance?"

The specialist nodded. He crossed the room and touched Goldmark on the forehead and chin with the tips of his long white fingers. The gesture was typically professional. The sleek dark head of the capitalist was turned up to the light as Chassier lifted an eyelid.

"Heavens!" he muttered under his breath. "Man alive, but there is—Still—"

Goldmark caught the whispered words. They gripped his heart; he was suffocating. The room swam round him, the damp beads broke out on his face like a gentle rain.

"A pawnbroker with an imagination," Brunell repeated.

"Nothing of the sort," Chassier said drily. "There is no imagination here. Monsieur Goldmark, I should like to make a little test. There are certain things— drugs—that I always carry with me... Just a spot or two in a glass of water. No ill effect, I assure you... Merely to exaggerate certain features, so that I may be better able to judge of your—er—"

Goldmark watched the clear yellow drops measured into a champagne glass like a man who dreams.

"Is it as bad as all that?" he asked piteously.

"I have expressed no opinion," Chassier said professionally. "Please to drink this."

When Goldmark came to himself again, he was in a darkened room. He was conscious of the fact that he was still in possession of his sight, much as if he were seeing things under water. Everything was waved and blurred; stagnant things seemed to be in slow motion. In a way his surroundings were familiar; he was in his own arm-chair in his sitting-room at the hotel; he could dimly make out the outline of the table. This gripping paroxysm of fear passed presently; his scattered thoughts were growing coherent. What were they saying about all this in the City?

"Is there anybody here?" he asked.

"I am here," the voice of Chassier responded. "There is nothing to be alarmed about."

"I must have fainted," Goldmark groaned. "What is the matter with my eyes? And where are the others?"

"Well, they went home last night, of course. I asked them to leave me here. Your eyes will be quite normal, say, in a day or two. I had to use belladonna at once. Not a whisper of this has got out, of course. We thought that you would prefer it. But you'll have to cut those cigars off altogether. Another week or two, and you would be beyond my assistance. A pipe , now—"

"Never mind that," Goldmark cried. "I gather that I have been here all night. What time is it now?"

"About two o'clock on Wednesday afternoon."

"Good Heavens! I should have been in the City at ten. My people there will think that I have gone mad. Have they been here? Are any inquiries being made?"

"Your secretary called you up, of course. Several other inquiries, as a matter of fact. It seemed to me to be discreet to put them off. You are supposed to be suffering from acute gastritis brought about by eating some impregnated oysters. The people here are under the impression that I am a doctor who was specially summoned to attend you. I have had great financiers in my hands before, therefore I have taken special pains to disguise the truth. If your enemies in the City get hold of this—"

"By Heavens, I should be ruined!" Goldmark groaned. "They'd be at my throat in a moment. If anything happens to the Santa Anna group of mines just now, I'm done. I may not be able to see, but, by Jove, I can do business! Push my chair over to the telephone, please. I must call up Gregory."

Chassier raised no objection. So long as the patient made no use of his eyes, all would be well. Possibly they might have to be bandaged for a day or two, but, at any rate, they would be saved. Goldmark worried at the handle of the telephone savagely, and the reply came at length.

"Give me 99976 London Wall," he said. "What? Oh, yes! Is that you, Gregory. Here's a precious nice mess. Something gone wrong with my eyes. What? Told me I was smoking too many cigars. Well, that's just what Dr. Chassier, of Paris, says. Lucky thing for me he happened to be in London. I've got to stay in a darkened room for a day or two, though nobody knows it but yourself. Supposed to be suffering from acute gastritis. For Heaven's sake, keep this to yourself! What? What? Rather serious this is. I can only just hear what you say. See Razuli as to those mines. You might get 'em up at least two points before closing-time. Keep the game going till Saturday, when that matter over the Mexican concession is settled. Mind I am posted from time to time during the day. And tell everybody that I shall be in the City certain to-morrow."

The slow day dragged on, with frequent calls on the telephone. A nurse appeared presently and brought Goldmark food. She read the City article from The Times to him in a clear pleasant voice; she put him to bed in due course, with the intimation that she was close at hand in case he needed anything.

"It's all very good of you, doctor," Goldmark groaned. "You won't find me haggling over your fees when the time comes for payment. What a lucky thing it was that you happened to look up Brunell! Another week, and it would have been too late!"

"Another week, and it would have been too late," Chassier said gravely.

"Well, I am grateful," Goldmark replied. "On the whole, I'm not doing so badly. I never appreciated the telephone as I have done the last two days. Keeps me in constant touch with Gregory. Rather bad instrument, but I can just make out what he says. Odd thing is that he can hear me distinctly."

"A not uncommon peculiarity of telephones," Chassier replied. "Anyway, you can comfort yourself with the assurance that you are making rapid progress towards recovery. When you wake up to-morrow morning, you will be able to make out objects in this room quite distinctly. I shall come and ser you before the evening. I have another delicate operation to perform."

The telephone went utterly wrong about five o'clock, and Goldmark grizzled for the rest of the evening. It was quite early when the nurse insisted upon putting Goldmark to bed, followed by the administration of a medicine that filled him with a feeling of sublime contentment. He turned over contentedly and fell asleep. What did all the mines in the world matter to him just then?

A golden bath of sunshine filled the bedroom as Goldmark awoke in the morning. The blind was up as Goldmark turned round with a clear view before him. The queer sensation had gone from his eyes; familiar objects had assumed their proper proportions.

As a matter of fact, there was not one familiar object to be seen. Here was a strange bed in a strange room sparely furnished. On a chair Goldmark's clothes lay neatly folded. Here were his boots and frock coat and top hat together with a change of linen. On the dining table was all that was necessary for the toilette, including one of his own clean collars. Here also was his breakfast flanked by a Thermos flask of hot coffee. On the bed lay a copy of The Times as yet unfolded.

In his pyjamas Goldmark sprang from the bed and rushed into the sitting-room. There was nothing there but a table and arm-chair, together with the telephone in the corner. The rest of the house was empty. Down in the basement was the other end of the telephone into which Goldmark had been speaking for the past two days.

Now, what had happened to him? How had those fellows managed it, and why? How had they contrived to move him from the Majestic in the dead of the night and bring him to this desolated house?

Possibly that day's Times might throw a light on the darkness. It did.

THE STRANGE DISAPPEARANCE
OF MR. JAMES GOLDMARK

Little doubt is now expressed that Mr. Goldmark has been the victim of some accident, or that he has deliberately made away with himself. Since he so mysteriously vanished from the Majestic Hotel on the night of Wednesday last, nothing has been seen or heard of him. Nobody saw him leave the hotel, and no letter has come from him. It is hardly necessary to say that this remarkable mystery has created something like a panic in the City, especially in the mining market. Taking advantage of Mr. Goldmark's absence, the bears for the last two days have kept up a vigorous attack on the Santa Anna group, so that the stock was quoted yesterday as low as 11 3⁄4, after which it suddenly declined to 7 3⁄16, which price was freely offered by the bears—a striking contrast to the prices of Monday last. Scotland Yard is silent in the matter, and up to the time of going to press has nothing to communicate.

Jabez Goldmark was a man of nerves and imagination, nevertheless he kept his head at that crisis. He shaved, in cold water, without so much as a scratch, and partook of an excellent breakfast. He was so far awake to the situation that he subsequently took his cigar-case from his pocket and lighted one of the big black weeds.

He would very much liked to have met Dr. Chassier at that moment. He stifled his regrets as he stepped into a taxi and drove Citywards.

The cool and immaculate Gregory nearly fell off his padded chair as Goldmark strode into his office. The latter poured out a tornado of questions.

"Tell you all about it later on," he said. "Call it one of my little games, if you like. This affair is going to cost over half a million, but it can't be helped. "We've got to get those shares back to par again, and a few points over. Please 'phone our bankers to come here at once. I'll give the bears something to chew before four o'clock."

Friday, October 19, 19—, was a day long remembered in the City. The sight of Goldmark, cool and stern and immaculate outside the Stock Exchange, gave the bears cold fits. Then there were excursions and alarums, followed by a battle which lasted till three o'clock, and a subsequent flight of the bears, leaving their dead and murdered on the field. Goldmark figured it all out on the back of an old envelope.

"Cost me half a million, all the same," he said. "Only nobody need know that. And it's nobody's business where I have been the last two days. Gregory, ring up Mr. Brunell, and ask him where I can conveniently see him this evening."

"That's all right, sir," Gregory said a few minutes later. "Mr. Brunell will be very pleased to see you at his rooms to dinner this evening at eight o'clock."

Goldmark nodded his approval. At eight o'clock he strode into Brunell's room, to find himself confronted by Regan and Powell and Hartigan, as well as his host.

"I should like," he said quietly—"I should like a little explanation."

"Only natural," Brunell said politely. "I ordered dinner for 8.15 on purpose. We are not going to quarrel over this matter, my dear sir. And you are quite at liberty to make it public if you like. But, unless I am greatly mistaken, you will do nothing of the kind. The last thing in the world you want is for people to laugh at you. Now, you robbed me quite in the way of business, and no doubt enjoyed it. Anyway, I didn't. So I decided to fight you with your own weapons. It seemed to me that if it came to scheming, I could scheme as well as you can. That is why I invented a double for Dr. Chassier, and very well he acted his part. He came on the scene in the most natural manner in the world, and he frightened you very nearly to death. As I am fond of saying, a financier is a pawnbroker with an imagination. You have a most vivid imagination, and I played on it. When the sham Chassier gave you those drops to take, he drugged you. 'Chassier' had a room at the hotel close to yours, and we carried you there. You were placed in a big packing-case and smuggled over to Charing Cross, whence you were fetched to the house where the comedy was played out. Hartigan, who is great at theatricals, acted the part of your nurse. We had only to keep you quiet for a day or two, and the thing was done. As you may imagine, your disappearance created the wildest excitement. All sorts of things were said. You had committed suicide, you had absconded, you could not face your creditors. Your mines hardly needed the efforts of the bears to send them down with a bump. At the lowest point we all bought steadily. We knew that by to-day everything would be up again, and we bought till we could buy no longer. No, you are not going to teach us a lesson, as that flash in your eyes indicates, because we have unloaded already. By the way, how are your eyes feeling? Quite all right again?"

"You are a clever lot!" Goldmark sneered.

"I flatter myself that we are," Brunell said coolly. "That little artistic touch as to the telephone was quite smart. Gave you a telephone, and you could be more or less content. Regan fitted the 'phone, and added a few thicknesses of flannel over the transmitter so as to deaden the voice of Powell, who successfully played the part of your man Gregory. All the time you thought that everything was going well, Gregory was in a cold bath of perspiration over your disappearance. We got our knowledge of the drug business from a doctor whom we carefully pumped for information. I put the belladonna in your eyes, and the sham Chassier—whom you do not know even by sight, though he is one of your victims—administered the sleeping draught that put you all right again. Now, you must admit that all this is infinitely more artistic and civilised than taking you by the scruff of the neck and giving you the thrashing that you so richly deserve, Goldmark. We have got our own back, and a lot more. We have fined you half a million, and, so far as we are concerned, we are quite prepared to let bygones be bygones. What do you say?"

"I could get you five years if I liked!" Goldmark muttered.

"Precisely. The facts are beyond dispute. But are you going to do it? Are you going to let the whole world know how delightfully you have been fooled?"

Goldmark capitulated at discretion.

"Let us go in to dinner," he suggested.

"By all means," Brunell smiled. "Pawnbroker with an imagination, proceed. I've got some special cigars for you to try presently —very strong, but, in the circumstances, I know you won't mind that."

THE END

THE DESERT SHIP

ILLUSTRATED BY ALEC BALL

Published in The Windsor Magazine , Vol. XXXIII, May 1911, pp 805-810

JELTHAM smote the chart lying on the bark of a fallen mimosa angrily.

"We've made no mistake, Hilton," he said; "it's that infernal chart that's wrong. I'll back my instruments against any that ever came out of Greenwich. I've figured out our position to an inch. According to mathematical formula, we should now be sailing over eighty fathoms of water. We should be within a mile of the treasure ship. As it is, we are two leagues from the sea, and on firm, hard ground whichever way we go." "It's certainly very exasperating," George Hilton murmured.

"It's maddening!" Feltham went on. "Who ever heard of a ship in the middle of an island? These treasure ships are never found except in a boy's story, though a good many fools like ourselves have sunk hard money looking for them. But, dash it all, one does expect to find the ocean where the ship has gone down—not a solid chunk of land like this!"

Hilton murmured something to the effect that he gave it up. He and Reggie Feltham had been unfortunate from the first. They had embarked every penny they could rake together in this venture of the sunken treasure, inspired in the first instance by an old chart and cipher, which had originally been in the possession of Admiral Sir Amyas Feltham, in the good old days when the Spanish Main had been the field, so to speak, of considerable profit to Elizabethan commanders. The founder of the Feltham fortunes, regarded in the light of romance, was a picturesque figure enough, but he had been a murderous old pirate, all the same. He left behind him considerable property, and inter alia the cipher and chart that was the cause of all the present mischief.

Unhappily, the march of civilisation was responsible for a generation that looked coldly upon the profession of buccaneering, and of recent years the Feltham fortunes had waned. There was very little now beyond the old family mansion and the old family pride. So when it had occurred to George Hilton to ask the head of the house for the hand of his daughter Alys, there had been what the early dramatists called "alarums and excursions," followed by the disgrace of a young couple and a tearful parting under one of the hundred and fifty oaks in which Charles II. is supposed to have hidden himse lf upon occasion—not necessarily Boscobel.

George Hilton was young, he was in love, he had the command of two thousand pounds, plus expectations from a distant—a very distant—relative. Here was a chance to show Alys and Sir Gregory Feltham what he was made of. He had seen the cipher and the chart, to question which, at Feltham Court, was flat blasphemy. The mere suggestion of the scheme was sufficient for Reggie Feltham. Anything was better than loafing about at home with hardly the price of a gun licence in his pocket. It was all very well to have the old house and all that lovely furniture, to say nothing of the pictures, but it was impossible to live on the contemplation of those treasures.

They started out filled with ambitious dreams and high spirits. They had learnt everything there was to learn, short of experience itself, but misfortune had dogged them from the first. They had been robbed right and left, and finally deserted by a rascally crew. Within a few leagues of their destination, their cutter had drifted on to a reef and became a total wreck, and they had been hard put to it to save their skins. And here they were on the very spot at last, only to find that, in the place of eighty fathoms of water, they were practically in the centre of an island!

"There is only one plausible explanation, so far as I can see," Hilton suggested. "The islands here are largely volcanic. There has been an earthquake here within the last century or so, and this island is the result. We shall be able to put the Admiralty chart right, anyway. And no doubt the treasure ship is here all right, only there are about a million tons of solid island on the top of it. We shall shut down the lid on our hopes in that direction. The question is, how are we going to get out of this?"

The prospect was not altogether alluring; the Robinson Crusoe element was too strongly marked. There was nothing the matter with the island; the climate was perfect, there were fish and game and fruit in abundance. They had tobacco in their patent collapsible lifeboat, a couple of shot-guns and sporting rifles; their wardrobe was more than sufficient for the moment. Sooner or later a ship would come along and take them off, but that would probably be a matter of months.

"Let's make a survey of the island," Feltham suggested; "we might find gold here."

It was something to do, any rate. Apparently there was no gold, but there were orchids of price, had they only known it, brilliant tropical birds, and plenty of fish in the clear streams. For a mile or two back from the sea, the luxurious vegetation rioted, but beyond that was a strange, arid plain of dry, hot sand, practically covering the whole of the island, giving it a grotesque resemblance to a bald man with a fringe of hair. The sun beat down mercilessly on this forbidding-looking waste, where the sand rolled away to the horizon in long, irregular hollows. A mile or two distant the limb of a dead pine stood out erect and stark, like a warning signpost. The blinding sand radiated heat so that the grey landscape was all quivering. There was no sign of life here; no bird passed in the sky overhead; the whole place was one vast, oppressive silence. Feltham turned from the contemplation of it with a shudder.

"I should go mad if I looked at that for long," he said. "Fancy a desert like that in the midst of a jewel of an island like this! You're right about the earthquake, old chap. That stuff is all baked pretty fine, but it's volcanic, all the same. The whole desert must have been thrown up by some big volcanic disturbance. But how, in the name of Fate, did that solitary pine tree get there? I'd like to find that out."

2Better leave it at that," Hilton suggested —"too much of a nightmare. Look here!"

He strode a step or two across the sand, and turned over a log of wood with his foot. Three or four forbidding-looking land-crabs scuttled out, followed by the shining blackness of a scorpion.

"You can bet that the sand is full of those loathsome beasts," he said. "Still, I am going some day when it is cloudy. We shall be safe with a pair of sea-boots each.

I'm not sorry, on the whole, that we've got the island to ourselves; it is just as well. The devil!"

A rifle-shot rang out clear and crisp, and Feltham's panama fell over his left eye. With one accord they dropped flat on a heap of long, dry grass.

"Bit abrupt," Feltham said coolly. "No, I'm not hurt, but it was a pretty near thing. Rather lucky that we brought our guns with us."

They lay there snugly for a moment or two, discussing the situation. Locomotion was not a healthy form of exercise just then. Clearly there was somebody here who resented their intrusion on the island. Hilton began to grow restless.

"Stick up your hat again," he suggested. "Let's try and draw his fire and locate him. If there happens to be more than one of them, I guess and calculate we're in a tight place. If we can get back to the boat in safety, I vote that we change our diggings."

Feltham elevated the perforated panama on a stick. A second later the rifle rang out again, and Hilton popped up his head swiftly. Like a flash he was down again.

"He's over yonder by the mangoes," he said. "You stay here and lie low whilst I stalk the beggar. It's a bit of a risk, but something has to be done. If we stay here, we shall be potted like so many little rabbits. When I tip you our whistle, stick up your hat again. If I can draw his fire, I shall be able to open diplomatic relations with him."

Feltham lay there sweltering on the grass. The blistering heat seemed to be seething his brain. It seemed a long time before he heard the peculiar whistle that he knew so well. He lost no time in lifting his panama; the rifle spoke almost on the instant. Before the echo of it had died away, Hilton stepped from behind a tree with his gun to his shoulder.

"Put up your hands!" he said. He repeated the command in Spanish, and immediately a tall figure rose from a kneeling position and confronted him. There was a rapid motion of the stranger's arm, the hint of a blue-rimmed revolver barrel, but Hilton was too quick for him. His gun spoke, and the right arm of the stranger dropped to his side. Dropping the revolver, he turned, writhing with pain; he showed a fine set of white teeth in a convulsive grin. Strangely enough, his aspect was not wholly unfriendly.

"Call up the rest of the party," Hilton commanded. "Summon the balance of the garrison."

"I am quite alone, señor," the other said in passable English; "I have no friends here."

"Ah, a passion for solitude—the last thing in the way of Selkirks," Hilton responded. "Passion evidently developed to the verge of monomania. This accounts for your hospitable reception of self and partner. I shouldn't have winged you only you brought it on yourself. I'm afraid I've broken your arm."

Feltham came up at the same moment. He took in the situation at a glance.

"I had to do it," Hilton explained. "Our friend says he is quite alone. Let us introduce ourselves in due form. Reggie, this is Señor Alexander Selkirk."

"I understand," the Spaniard said. "Let the name pass. I prefer it to my own. I came here hoping to be quite alone. For four years nobody has come. To the world I am dead. If they find me, they will put a rope about my neck. In the eyes of the world I committed a great crime; in my eyes it was an act of vengeance. For it I forfeited my good name, my position, my friends. When I saw your boat, I thought that you were the representatives of the law. I said to myself: 'They are from Brazil.' That is why I tried to kill you. I bear no malice."

"That is uncommonly good of you," Feltham said. "We are English, as you see. To be quite candid, we came here hunting for a treasure ship, only to find that this island is unfortunately on the top of it. But you are in considerable pain. Let me help you as far as your house."

A significant smile played over the face of the Spaniard. In spite of his pain he was interested. It seemed almost impossible that he had heard of the treasure ship before.

"I shall be obliged," he said. "You are very kind. I have rude appliances in my hut. My wrist is merely broken, and only needs warm water and a bandage—a splint. Señors, I am in your hands. You are English gentlemen; my secret is. safe with you. I am going to show you my hiding-place. Will you be so good as to give me your arm?"

They came at length to a thicket of mimosa, a bush of which the Spaniard pushed aside, and revealed beyond a hut apparently built of ship's timbers. The glass in the windows had undoubtedly been taken from an ancient wreck. Inside was a large sitting-room, with a bedroom beyond. The whole place had a curiously home-like suggestivness to the Englishmen. There was a tall antique cabinet filled with china, a carved oak sideboard unmistakably Elizabethan, a brass lantern clock on a bracket. The Spaniard appeared to take all this for granted. He produced bandages and a splint. Hot water was to be had from a spring by the side of the hut. Here was proof of the volcanic origin of the island.

"I am obliged to you," the Spaniard murmured, when the rude surgery was finished. "I am feeling a bit faint, so, with your permission, I will retire till the mid-day meal. Meanwhile, it will be a gratification to me that you make yourselves at home here."

"Polite sort of assassin!" Feltham murmured, as he sauntered round the sitting-room. "Equally charmed to bury you or ask you to dinner! Now, I wonder where this fine old furniture came from? It's pretty certain that our pal didn't bring it with him, as he seems to have come here in a hurry. Just cast your eye over those sea-chests. And look at this old compass! It must have come out of a Spanish galleon. Those windows came from the poop of a privateer, I'll swear. It's a million to one that the Spaniard found these things on the island. Did he find the Sir Amyas as well?"

Sir Amyas was the missing treasure ship. Hilton replied flippantly, but he was deeply interested, all the same. He stopped suddenly before an ancient brass-bound mirror on the wall, and took from it a miniature. It was the miniature of a girl, painted on ivory with a crystal face. The setting was plain silver, and fitted tightly to the edges of the glass.

"In the name of Heaven, how did this get here?" he said excitedly. "A year ago I saw it at Feltham Court—in the east drawing-room, on the big buhl cabinet. Reggie, it's Alys!"

Feltham turned the miniature over in his hand. The face of his sister was smiling up at him; there was no mistaking her blue eyes and fair, w avy hair. She had a cap upon her head, a wrap of rose-point lace was about her shoulders. Something seemed to grip Feltham by the throat.

"You're right," he said huskily. "It's Alys, painted as she appeared dressed for that big fancy dance at the Chantrey two years ago, and in the same old frame I found in one of the attics. Pinch me, George, and let me make sure that I am awake!"

"Oh, you're awake, right enough," Hilton replied. "I almost wish it was a dream! Now, who is our host, when all is said and done? And why did he lie to us in this way? He must have been in England the last year or so; he must be acquainted with Feltham Court. It is out of the question to suppose that Alys gave him that miniature; he stole it. He—he fell in love with Alys. Reggie, we must force him to explain."

It was certainly a strange situation; there was something almost uncanny about it. Hilton put the little miniature back in its place, and strolled into the open. He was trying to persuade himself that his thoughts were entirely free from jealousy; he was trying to find some logical explanation of this amazing turn of affairs. It was three days later before he got his chance. Feltham was after some rare bird he was anxious to shoot; Hilton and his host were smoking in the shade.

"I am going to ask you a personal question," Hilton said. "You may answer it or not, as you feel inclined. When were you in England last, señor?"

"I have never been in England at all," the Spaniard said quietly.

Hilton lost control of himself for the moment; the hot blood flowed into his face.

"Oh, well," he said, "if you are going to tell me a deliberate lie, I'll go no further! I dare say I can—"

"Stop, señor!" the Spaniard commanded. "You are my guest, and that being the case, why—"

"I beg your pardon," Hilton forced himself to say. "But the proofs of your—your mistake—are so strong that—Oh, come, señor! If you have never been in England, where did you get Miss Alys Feltham's portrait from—I mean the miniature on the old brass mirror? You have a portrait of Feltham's sister there. We both recognised it instantly. Feltham recognised the old frame as one that he had found. A year ago that miniature was in a drawing-room at Feltham Court."

The Spaniard showed no sign of embarrassment. On the contrary, he was all polite incredulity.

"Is it possible?" he asked. "It is amazing—extraordinary! So the lady is in the flesh? She actually has an existence after all these years? You are jealous of me, señor?"

"I am engaged to the lady," Hilton said, with a touch of red on his face. "Look here!"

On the impulse of the moment he took a metal case from his pocket and opened it. Inside was the cabinet portrait of a young girl with blue eyes and fair, wavy hair. The Spaniard examined it long and carefully. There was something almost tender in his smile.

"You are quite justified," he said at length; "I can pardon your strong language now. And from the bottom of my heart I congratulate you, my friend. It is, indeed, a charming face, with a charming soul in those blue eyes. And behind it is the same lovely creature as the lady who presides over my household. Do you know that I value that miniature highly? I hold conversations with it; I stand the picture on the table as I eat. That beautiful face has a softening influence on me. But I have never been in England, all the same, and my picture never stood in an English drawing-room. It was painted by a man who has been in his grave over three hundred years."

"Still, it is Miss Feltham's likeness," Hilton persisted. "Feltham recognises the frame."

"I am not prepared to deny it," the Spaniard said. "If you compare your portrait with my miniature, you will not find one single point of difference. And if you could take wings and fly back to England now, you would see the miniature you speak of in its place. This is another one."

"But the thing is amazing—inexplicable!" Hilton protested.

"On the contrary, it is capable of the simplest explanation," the Spaniard said gravely. "Now, you and Mr. Feltham are gentlemen. You are out here on some adventure. What that adventure is I am beginning to guess. Mr. Feltham is a man of good family—he comes of a military stock?"

"Naval," Hilton explained. "The founder of the family was Sir Amyas Feltham, a sailor who did some heroic things in the reign of Queen Elizabeth."

"Oh, precisely! We Spaniards suffered at the hands of the English admirals in those days. Did this fine old sailor possess a ship that he called after his own name? Is there no story connected with a wreck and some buried treasure?"

"So you know all about it?" Hilton asked. "As a matter of fact, we are after the treasure. If it belongs to anybody at all, I suppose my friend Feltham has the first claim to it. But this island is on the top of the treasure, and there is an end of it."

"I fancy not," the Spaniard smiled. "Nature has her own way of arranging these things. Oh, it is a pretty romance altogether! It only needs the touch of the poor but gallant lover and the stern old Puritan father to make it complete."

"Those elements are not lacking," Hilton said grimly. "The Felthams are poor and proud. I also am proud—and poor. But the finding of the Sir Amyas is not likely to help us."

The Spaniard rose from his seat and tossed away his cigarette. There was a friendly light in his eyes.

"Come with me," he said. "Put on your sea-boots, and I will don mine. We are going to cross the belt where the scorpions and land-crabs are, to that solitary tree yonder. You will see what the tree really is when we get there. It is not more than an hour's walk."

With the spirit of adventure strong upon him, Hilton strode across the valley of sand. As he came near to the solitary tree, he could see that it was the mast of a ship. In a deep, billowy hollow a quaint old timber ship lay heeled over to starboard. The standing gear had gone years ago, the deck was bent and split, a family of scorpions had taken possession. Down below was all dust and mildew and decay, but the stout old furniture was as good as ever; the brasswork gleamed here and there where the passing dust-storms had scoured it. The figure-head, carved in the form of an admiral in full uniform, grinned down. Some of the carved lettering could still be read. With some little trouble, Hilton could make out the name of Sir Amyas .

"There is your treasure ship," the Spaniard said quietly. "Soon after it sank, some great upheaval of Nature lifted it from the bottom of the sea on to this immense area of sand. Gradually the coral island was built up around it. Nobody ever came here. If they did, they would never trouble to investigate this hideous desert. You have solved the problem, and found a ship in a desert. I cleared out most of the sand personally; it found me something to do when I first came here. Bit by bit I furnished my hut from what I found here. Amongst other things I found that miniature. It probably was the wife or daughter of that eminent buccaneer, Sir Amyas Feltham. In old families Nature reproduces herself, and that accounts for the lady of your choice being the image of her ancestress. I can quite imagine your astonishment when you picked up my miniature. If you had not seen it, you would have gone away from the island, and the treasure would have remained hidden."

"So the treasure really exists?" Hilton asked.

"Oh, the treasure is there, right enough," the Spaniard said. "There are gold plate and some gems to the value of perhaps a quarter of a million of your money. It is all yours. I have no need of it; money is a thing that I shall never require again. Only leave me in peace and keep my secret, and there is nothing else that I can ask you. I shall never go back to civilisation again."

"But this is very princely of you," Hilton protested.

"Not at all. I have no need of money. It may seem a strange thing to say, but I am quite happy here, or, at least, as happy as I shall be on earth again. There is only one favour I have to ask, and that is your permission to retain the miniature. When you come to tell the story to Miss Alys, I am quite sure that she will be pleased for me to retain the picture of her ancestress as souvenir of a most remarkable romance. I am sure that is what she will say."

The Spaniard spoke no more than the truth. The story is known only to three people, and, naturally enough, Mrs. Hilton is one of them.

"I am glad you gave him the picture, George," she said, "and I hope that no harm may come to him. Some of these days, when we get a little tired of our pretty house here, and want a change, I'll get you to take me out there and see the noble Spaniard."

"I'll do it with the greatest possible pleasure," Hilton said promptly.

THE END

LADY MARY'S BULLDOG

Published in The Daily News, Perth, W.A., Friday 5 May, 1911.

Business was not all that it might be, and Mr. John Lenham, sole surviving partner in the firm of Mayfield and Co., of Bond Street, sat in his private office pondering over the problem of cutting down expenses. Really, nobody seemed to want anything in the way of expensive jewellery, for times were bad, and even the foreign colony in Park Lane was feeling the pressure. No doubt the demand for fine diamonds would revive some day, but, meanwhile, the house was hardly paying its expenses. Mr. Lenham thought of his expensive stock and sighed. He sighed for the good old times when--but it was no use to think of that.

From where he sat he could see into the street. He was not to busy that morning, and he was interested to see a carriage and pair of horses draw up before the palatial establishment. Really this looked quite like the old thing. A property turned out equipage before a Bond Street shop was getting as rare as a black swan.

And there was something out of the common in this particular equipage. It had an air of distinction about it, a flavor of old times; not exactly unique, perhaps, but suggestive of the old nobility before Park Lane came into existence and the governing classes took to dabbling on the Stock Exchange. Mr. Lenham was a well-read man, and he instantly thought of Thackeray.

There was nothing shabby about the carriage, though it was mounted on leather springs. The paint work was quite fresh, the varnish glittered in the sun, the harness on the big grey horses was of silver. The coachman had that subtle blend of bishop and prosperous hotel proprietor that coachmen used to have in the days before Shoreditch invaded Belgravia. The footman was only a little less dignified. Mr. Lenham was interested. He was reminded of the stories that his father used to tell.

He was not in the least surprised, therefore, to see descending from the carriage a most delightful old lady in a drawn silk Victorian bonnet. Her hair was beautifully white, her cheeks glowed with a fine healthy red. For the rest, she was clad in satin. She looked very sweet and amiable and refined, and yet withal surrounded by an atmosphere of the most tremendous dignity. It seemed rather incongruous that she should be followed by an immense black-muzzled brindled bulldog.

"Now I wonder who she is?" Lenham pondered. "Aristocrat to her fingertips, quite a survival of the good old school. Mr. Hoggenheimer doesn't dine with her."

Mr. Lenham had not long to wait for enlightenment on the point. A natty, frock-coated assistant rapped on the office door.

"Lady Mary Mountroyal would like to speak to you, sir," the assistant explained.

The name struck a familiar chord. The head of the Mountroyals, of course, was the Duke of Ravenspur, who had many relations. Rapidly Mr. Lenham fluttered over the pages of his Debrett. Lady Mary appeared to be the aunt of the present Duke, and her residence was Strathallen Castle, in the county of Inverness. She appeared to live there with her sister Susan. Here was some of the very best blood in the kingdom.

Mr. Lenham came in with his most grave and courteous manner to the counter. The dainty old lady seated there smiled quite pleasantly.

"It is very many years ago since I was here last, Mr. Lenham," she said. "Really, I am almost afraid to count them. It was in your father's time."

"We have been favored with much Mountroyal patronage, my lady," Lenham said.

"Yes, so my sister, Lady Susan, reminded me. She insisted that if we were to buy this present we should come here. For the bride, you know."

"I am afraid that I don't quite follow, my lady," Lenham murmured.

"Now, that is very stupid of me," Lady Mary replied. "That which is a great event to us is merely an incident in your large business, Mr. Lenham. I am not going to say that we altogether approve of the match; but there it is. My great-nephew, Lord Hindhead, is going to be married, you know. He is at present in America with his father."

Lenham had grasped it now. Lord Hindhead was the future Duke of Ravenspur, and latterly he had become engaged to a great American heiress. Unless the papers were greatly mistaken, he was about to marry a hundred million dollars. The ceremony was to take place in New York in the course of a few weeks.

"Lord Hindhead is a customer of ours," Lenham said.

"Quite so. Now, I may tell you, Mr. Lenham, that Hindhead is a great favorite of ours. The dear boy spent a deal of his youth with us at Strathallen--he was delicate in those days. We should have much preferred to see him marry at home, but we are getting old-fashioned, and, really, nobody takes any notice of what we say. We have sounded our great nephew and he does not seem to want anything for himself. He would much prefer that we sent the bride something. We thought that was rather nice of him."

"A very proper sentiment, my lady," Lenham murmured.

"So that is more or less decided. The question is, what shall we send? I confess that Lady Susan and myself have a little difference of opinion in that respect. The present must take the form of stones, of course; and there we part company. I came to you, Mr. Lenham, without saying anything to my sister. I thought that perhaps with your good taste you could help us a little in the selection."

"It would be a great pleasure, my lady. But, first of all, I should like to have some idea as to the amount you are desirous of spending."

"The amount?" Lady Mary asked, vaguely. "Of course. The amount! Well, let us say something in the region of five or six thousand pounds. I fancy my sister will be ready to meet me to that extent. Might I trouble you for a little water for my dog? I fear that poor Captain feels the heat. Lady Susan insisted upon his coming to town with us."

"A remarkably fine specimen of his kind," Lenham said. "So gentle, too."

"Up to a certain point, yes. We have a score or two at Strathallen. Most of the best bulldogs in England trace their decent back to Strathallen blood. It is really very kind of you to take all this trouble, Mr. Lenham. And now, as we have come to town on purpose to buy this wedding present, I should like to see some choice articles of yours. Lady Susan must be consulted in the final choice, but, unfortunately, she has a slight touch of her neuralgia, and cannot get out."

Lenham proceeded to give certain instructions, and speedily the glass counter was strewn with velvet-lined cases in which gems flashed and dazzled. There was nothing in the least common there, everything was of the best. There were necklets and pendants, and strings of glittering stones until Lady Mary was fain to place her hands to her face and protest that the display was too dazzling for her poor old eyes.

"You have really shown me too much," she said. "Even if it were left to myself, I could not possibly make a selection now. I feel as if I should like to take the whole lot. I could hesitate all day between that pendant and the parure of pearls and rubies. It has always been a weakness of mine that I couldn't make up my mind. I begin to feel sorry now that I didn't leave everything to Lady Susan. Perhaps if I saw one of those lovely things by itself I could make a selection. Those emeralds, for instance. My heart goes out to them. If, when my sister comes, you would produce the emeralds and nothing else it is just possible that----"

Lenham smiled to himself. There appeared to be a good deal of guile, after all, in this exquisite old lady, who bore such a strong resemblance, to one of Cosway's miniatures. But in spite of his amusement Lenham kept an eye to business. There was a chance here of selling two wedding presents instead of one.

"I shall be pleased to do as your Ladyship wishes," he said.

"Now that is very kind of you, Mr. Lenham. A little idea has just occurred to me. Could you come round to our hotel about four this afternoon and bring a lot of those lovely things with you? Or you might only bring the emeralds. On second thoughts I should prefer that you only brought the emeralds. I will tell my sister what I have done, and I am quite sure that she will approve of my choice."

Lenham would be delighted, of course. But he was not going to content himself with the emeralds alone. It was just possible that Lady Susan loathed emeralds.

Lenham knew human nature pretty well, and felt certain that Lady Mary was taking advantage of Lady Susan's neuralgia to steal a march on her. Even sisters who are devoted to each other are guilty of these little diplomacies. When Lenham called at the hotel that afternoon he would have a bagful of other stuff with him.

"I will do as you suggest, my lady," he said. "Where shall I call?"

Lady Mary gave the address. The name of the hotel suggested respectable dinginess, but doubtless it had been exclusive enough half a century ago. But then Lady Mary belonged to the type that never changes. She would probably have repudiated the Carlton or the Ritz with scorn. And in any case it did not matter.

At half-past four the same afternoon Lenham found himself in a sitting-room, furnished precisely as it had been furnished any time the last half century. It was on the first floor, and looked out upon dull red brick houses on the opposite side, which, like itself, were a miracle of ugliness. There were the Brussels carpet with the cauliflower roses on a red ground, the crystal chandeliers on the cold white marble mantelpiece, the chairs upholstered in some alleged velvet material. A large circular table in the centre of the room was littered with a mass of shimmering material that was obviously intended for use by the dressmaker. The table was smothered with it, the clinging folds reached to the floor. Before the fire the bulldog Captain lay licking his black muzzle and turning what seemed like a sour bloodshot eye on the intruder. Lenham felt a creeping up his legs.

A few moments later Lady Mary came in smilingly. "You are very punctual," she said. "My sister and I have a bed-room below this, and I heard you walking about. I have just been giving Lady Susan something for her neuralgia. It makes her very restless and a little ill-tempered. I told her about the emeralds. I am sorry to say that she does not approve of emeralds at all. Still, I am sanguine that when she sees them she may change her mind. If not----"

Lenham signified that it was of no consequence whatever. In any case, he was pleased and proud of the chance of waiting upon Lady Mary. He said nothing as to the contents of the black bag that had been placed on the floor.

"And, besides, there are other things besides emeralds," Lady Mary smiled. "I shall persuade my sister to come and see some of those other lovely things if she is better to-morrow. Still, I have quite set my heart on the emeralds."

"Your Ladyship could not make a better selection," Lenham said. It was time now to unmask his batteries. "I ventured to bring with me in case the emeralds did not----"

"Oh, I am sorry," Lady Mary cried, "That would defeat--but my sister is coming. If you have anything in your pocket that----"

"Not in my pocket, my lady," Lenham explained. "In that little black bag----"

"Then you will be so good as to hide the black bag. How fortunate it is that all this stuff, is littered about. Push the bag under the table. Quick."

Lenham complied discreetly. He laid the bag down carefully in the centre of one of the cauliflower roses and dropped the drapery over it. At the same moment the door of the room opened and Lady Susan came in. She was the exact counterpart of Lady Mary, though her features were a little more commanding and firm. She held a handkerchief to her face, and seemed to be suffering some amount of pain.

"My sister had been telling me what she has done," she said. "It is a great matter of regret to me that Lady Mary has set her mind upon emeralds for this auspicious occasion. In a general way we are devoted to each other; we hardly ever have a difference of opinion. But there are reasons, strong reasons, why I cannot associate myself with a gift of emeralds. If you have anything else with you, Mr. Lenham----"

"But, my dear Susan, surely you will look at the stones!" Lady Mary protested. She spoke just in time to present an indiscretion on Lenham's part. "Without the slightest desire to hurt your feelings, I am sure this prejudice----"

Lady Susan turned with a pallid smile, and said. "For my part, I plead guilty to the charge of prejudice. All the same I am sorry that you should have a wasted journey, Mr. Lenham, and I shall be glad if you will show me the emeralds. I am sure that Lady Mary will never be satisfied till I have looked at them."

Lady Mary checked what was evidently a strong inclination to tears. An unsteady little smile played about her lips. From his pocket Lenham produced the offending case and displayed the beautiful stones on the table. They certainly were very beautiful and very tempting. But Lady Susan's face never relaxed its grimness.

"I have not a word to say against them," she said. "The workmanship is perfect, but I have a strong dislike for emeralds. I am sure, my dear Mary, that you will not make a personal matter of this. We have never had a quarrel yet----"

Lady Mary took a filmy handkerchief from her pocket and pressed it to her eyes. She stood for an instant as if struggling with her feelings, and then with the scrap of lace still to her eyes left the room. Lady Susan sighed.

"An extremely sensitive nature," she said. "Sensitive and tender-hearted from a child! I fear that I have been somewhat hard upon my sister. It is very difficult to know how to deal with her sometimes. Still, I cannot give way on this matter. There are so many lovely things that we might select for Hindhead's bride. If you will excuse me for a moment I'll speak to Lady Mary."

"By all means," Lenham said politely. "Don't let me detain your Ladyship."

A moment later and Lenham had the room to himself. He was feeling quite easy in his mind. He began to see that he was going to sell the emeralds after all. In any case, he was going to sell something. The sisters would probably make up their quarrel, and in the exuberance of their emotion might probably select something valuable from the black bag. But, all the same, the little difference of opinion was some time in healing, for the clock ticked off half an hour and Lady Susan had not returned.

Lenham was beginning to get just a little uneasy. He could not, of course, put his hand on anything wrong. The ladies were here, and under the table was his black bag. Still, the frauds of jewel thieves are many and peculiar, and Lenham felt a strong desire to have a look at the little black bag just to make sure.

With this purpose apparent in his mind he took a step towards the table. As he did so a deep, angry growl burst from the bulldog standing before the fire. The bloodshot eyes gleamed murderously, the animal advanced on tiptoe. It seemed to Lenham as if he were suddenly turned to stone. A profuse perspiration stood on his forehead. With a certain desperate courage he advanced a hand in the direction of the bell. Another angry snarl and a flash of white teeth warned him to be careful.

Lenham took a pull at his courage. So long as he stood perfectly still nothing appeared likely to happen. Meanwhile the clock was ticking on towards five o'clock, and there was no sign of Lady Susan or her sister. Lenham could hear people moving about the house, and this was some sort of consolation to him. He ventured to call out presently; but then every move on his part affected the dog to still deeper animosity. Once more there was the deep growl and the flash of those great white fangs.

There was nothing for it now but to possess his soul in patience. But Lenham felt that he must know something of the fate of the black bag or perish in the attempt. With his muscles set and stiff he shuffled along by inches still he could touch the table. Very slowly and cautiously he managed to remove the black material, and, with his head on one side, look under the table.

He did not cry out; he did not give vent to any display of passion. For some little time now he had known exactly what had happened. At least, he had felt it in his bones that the black bag had gone. And the bag had not only vanished, but under the table was a large circular hole where the floor had been cut away and bodily removed, the carpet with the cauliflower roses into the bargain.

It was quite dark before anybody came into the room and flicked on the electric light. A waitress stood there regarding Lenham with suspicion and astonishment.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded.

"Get that dog away first," Lenham said, hoarsely. "I'll explain afterwards. If I move an inch that brute will fly at my throat."

But, strange to say, the bulldog had already vanished. Probably, from his canine point of view, his task was finished. He wagged his fragment of a tail at her and trotted heavily from the room. Lenham wiped the moisture from his forehead, and passed his tongue over his lips.

"Now, listen to me," he said. "I am a jeweller, and I have been robbed by two thieves staying in this house and passing themselves off as Lady Susan and Lady Mary Mountroyal. If you look at that hole in the floor you will see how the thing was done. I suppose it's no use to ask if these women are still in the house?"

"Gone an hour ago," the girl explained. "Sent off their luggage in advance this morning, and left in a taxi about three-quarters of an hour ago. I suppose they forgot the dog."

"No, they didn't," Lenham said, bitterly. "Nothing of the sort. That confounded dog was part of the programme. I daresay the brute knows exactly where to find them. If you have a telephone in the house, ring up Scotland Yard, and say that Mr. Lenham, of Bond-street, is here, and that he has been robbed in this house of some thousands of pounds' worth of jewellery. Of course, you people don't know anything about it; but the fact is there. I suppose that the ladies' bedroom was immediately underneath this?"

The scared-looking waitress responded that it was. At a sign from Lenham she went off in the direction of the telephone. Half an hour later Lenham, the manageress of the dingy hotel, and Inspector Farrow of Scotland Yard were discussing the situation.

"I'll do my best for you, sir," the latter said. "But I'm afraid it's not much good. The whole thing has been too cleverly planned for that."

"You'll not catch the women?" Lenham asked.

"Well, I'm not quite sure that they are women," Farrow replied. "I don't suppose that women could have cut through the ceiling like that, it looks to me as if you have been made the victim of two exceedingly clever actors. We might manage to get a clue by means of the dog, who is doubtless, back with his masters again by this time. On the other hand, they might have destroyed the dog. He served his part, and is not likely to be tried the same way again. They hired the horses and the carriage, and probably paid for them. In a quiet place like this it would be easy for those people to impersonate Lady Mary and Lady Susan Mountroyal, especially as the ladies never came to London from Scotland. On the whole, it's one of the smartest jewel robberies that ever came under my notice."

"And that's about all the consolation I shall get," Lenham groaned.

"I'm afraid so, sir," Farrow responded. "I can't hold out any hope to you; all I can do is to promise that I'll do my best."

The inspector from Scotland Yard is still doing his best.

THE END

THE SIXTEENTH CHAPTER

Published in The Daily News, Perth, W.A., Wednesday 9 August, 1911.

The evidence had been dead against the prisoner all day. He sat in the dock listening to the damning testimony like a man in a dream. To all practical purposes he was a man in a dream. The whole thing was a hideous nightmare from which he would awake, presently, sweating and trembling as one does on these occasions. It was all terribly real and grimly true to life, but still——

Otherwise—well, otherwise he was the victim of some insidious form of madness. He was suffering from the same kind of mania that impels law-abiding citizens secure in the affections of wife and family to rise up suddenly with uplifted weapon and red tragedy whispering in his ear. Perhaps he had been mad during the last few days. Perhaps he had forged that cheque for 2,000 and got Markwick to cash it in Liverpool. It was possible, after all, that the evidence of the doctor was true.

"I think we will adjourn on this point," the magistrate said. "Bail? As a matter of public duty, I ought to refuse bail. After listening to Dr. Swayland's evidence—yes, I quite recognise the state of the prisoner's health. But simply because he happens to be a morphiamaniac, I cannot see——"

The inspector in charge of the case did not oppose bail. Masters fumbled his way out of the dock and thence into the street. He did not fail to notice the grave look on his lawyer's face. The evidence had been terribly strong.

"You're lucky," the lawyer said. "Now the case is adjourned till Monday. That gives us two clear days to prepare our defence. But you will have to be more candid with me, Masters. You told me distinctly that you had not been to Liverpool——"

"I told you the truth," Masters said doggedly. "I have not been in Liverpool. I have not been out of London for the last three months."

The lawyer shrugged his shoulders. He was a little annoyed, too.

"How long have you been taking that infernal drug?" he asked. "I'm told that morphia plays all sorts of tricks with a man's memory, produces hallucinations, and so on. You may honestly believe that you have not been to Liverpool, and yet——"

"I've thought of all that," Masters smiled bitterly. "I'm either hopelessly mad or I am the victim of the vilest conspiracy ever invented. Consciously, I've never taken a grain of morphia in my life."

"But you heard what that Liverpool doctor said? Man of the highest standing, too. He swore to-day that he was called in to attend you in Liverpool on the evening of the day on which the forged cheque was cashed there. He found you in a state of coma induced by a heavy dose of morphia. Everything pointed to the fact that you were habitually given to the drug. Swayland swore to you in the most positive manner. So did the landlady of the house in Liverpool where you stayed."

Masters locked his hands together. He trembled with a sudden gust of passion.

"I give it up," he said. "I swear before heaven that I know nothing about it. Never in my life have I touched a drug. I have been before the magistrates every day this week; I have gone home at night, to my lonely quarters. Come and stay with me if you like; lock me in a room and see what happens. If I were a drug-fiend I should go mad before morning. But what is the use of talking about it? I want sleep—a good long night's rest to get my head right. I tell you those few days were all of a blank to me. I am still suffering from that infernal drug, but I never administered it to myself. Perhaps to-morrow I shall be able to recollect something."

Pannett, the lawyer, was fain to let it go at that. Masters had better come and see him to-morrow morning; meanwhile he would be wise to retire to his lodgings and keep as quiet as possible. With this resolution uppermost in his mind, Masters made his way home. He was an ambitious young man, with a fine prospect before him, and he was saving money with a view to getting married. The big farm where he was engaged had a warehouse out Marylebone way, and in one of the upper rooms there Masters had established himself. There was no rent to pay, which was a consideration, and the furniture would go presently to garnish the house he had in his eye when the right time came. An aged caretaker dusted the rooms and made the bed, and as to his meals, Masters got them all outside. There was no meanness on his part; it was merely prudence. Some of these days he was pretty certain to be asked to join his firm, and the more money he could bring in the better for his future prospects. The money was not quite what it had been, for Masters had been dabbling on the stock market, coming in at the wrong time for him, unfortunately. His shares would be all right presently, but just now they were depressed, and could only have been disposed of at a great sacrifice.

Masters came moodily into his room. There was nothing inviting about the place to-day, though usually he was rather proud of it. The furniture was frankly after the pattern which is spoken of as Tottenham Court Road, the carpet a 'Turkey,' the engravings on the walls after Sant and others of the same school. The paper was a self-colored green, with just a suggestion of art about it. The bed was folded away in a recess behind a curtain. Clearly in this respect Masters had a good deal to learn from an artistic point of view.

His moody face cleared as he saw who it was seated there in the saddle-back armchair. The atmosphere was flavored with cigarette smoke.

"Now this is really kind of you, Roscoe," Masters exclaimed. "I was just telling myself that I hadn't a friend in the world. I don't say I had quite given you up——"

"I owe to you too much for that," Roscoe replied. "You helped me when my trouble came, and I have not forgotten it. Had it not been for you, I should still be slaving at a desk instead of being a free man with a decent reputation as a writer."

"You mean a distinguished novelist," Masters smiled faintly. "You need not shake your head. Your last book, the 'Primrose Path,' has established your reputation. By the way, I have to thank you for getting your publishers to send me the book on the day of publication. I got it on Monday week. After that strange fainting fit of mine on the Wednesday before, my people insisted upon my taking a few days' holiday. They wanted me to go away, but really I could not afford it. I read your book for three evenings instead. I can't say how much I liked it."

"Despite the missing chapter?" Roscoe asked.

"What missing chapter?" Masters inquired. "My copy was complete."

"Indeed, it wasn't, if you got it from my publishers on Monday. As a matter of fact, a whole sheet of type was missing. There was an extraordinary blunder on the part of the binders which was discovered early on the aforesaid Monday. Only about six copies were despatched, and yours must have been one of them. It was Wednesday afternoon or Wednesday night that the bulk of the copies left my publishers. I am perfectly clear on this point. Your copy was incomplete, and it's very strange that so careful a reader as yourself should have overlooked the fact."

Masters shook his head obstinately.

"I didn't," he said. "Now, tell me what really was missing."

"Well, perhaps the most important chapter in the book. It was a very long chapter, and the whole story turns on it. It is where the hero meets 'Abergoyne,' and he tells him that the engagements to 'Nancy' cannot possibly——"

"But I remember that," Masters cried. "Your heroine overhears the conversation, and decides that it is her bounden duty to stand aside and——"

"But all that was not in your copy," Roscoe shouted.

"If it wasn't, then how did I manage to read it?" Masters retorted. "Let's clear up this mystery, at any rate. I have enough one way and another to madden me. There is my copy of your book on the shelf yonder. See for yourself."

Roscoe took down the volume eagerly. His restless fingers fluttered over the pages. He turned with an air of triumph to his companion.

"What did I tell you?" he demanded. "Pages from 120 to 152 are missing. You have only to look at the numbers and see that for yourself."

Masters appeared to give up the unequal contest.

"I am mad!" he said. "Either that, or I am the only sane man now left on the earth! The pages are clearly missing, and yet I have read them despite the fact that they are not in the book! Now, will you kindly explain how such a thing could possibly happen? After my illness, I slept all day on Monday and woke in the evening feeling better. I took up your book and read some ninety pages before going to bed. All Tuesday I was more or less in a state of coma, and again I came to in the evening, and ate some food that my old charwoman had apparently laid out for me, and I went on with your book. I have the most vivid recollection of this missing chapter sixteen, because to my mind it is by far the best part of the story. And yet you prove to me absolutely beyond a demonstration that I couldn't have read it, because it wasn't there! I haven't seen you for months, so there is no question of our having discussed your plot. And I don't for one moment believe that there is anything occult in this business. I am quite sure that it is capable of a plain explanation. Now, you are a man with a vivid imagination. Let us go over the thing from the start. You know the charges against me."

"Of course I do," Roscoe said. "You are accused of forging a cheque on the Liverpool bankers of your firm for 2,000. You went secretly to Liverpool when you were supposed to be lying ill here, and got Markwick, the cashier of your Liverpool office, to negotiate the cheque. It was an idiotic thing to do, because the forgery was bound to come out almost at once. It did come out, and one or two of the notes received, in change for the cheque were found here. You swore point blank that for the first three days of last week you were here in London, and that you had not left your rooms. On the other hand, Markwick swears that you called upon him at that time in Liverpool and got him to change the cheque. A respectable woman swears that you had her rooms for a day or two, and a doctor of repute who attended you proved your identity beyond question."

"Did you hear all the evidence today then?"

"Certainly I did. I attended the Court on purpose. I have been away for some weeks in Wales, and only heard of your trouble last night. In all the course of my experience I never heard anything so profoundly interesting. I have been turning it over in my mind ever since. I could not make head nor tail of it, and I was still absolutely in the dark when I came here. But I begin to see a little light now."

"Do you?" Masters sneered. "To me it is blacker than ever. This business of the missing chapter fairly dazes me."

"Well, so it did me for the moment," Roscoe said candidly. "But it fired my imagination, and I begin to see my way. I'm working the thing out as I should work out the plot of a story. What sort of a chap is Markwick?"

"Markwick? Oh, well, not particularly fascinating, suspicious and moody."

"Jealous of any change. Likely to benefit by your, er, trouble?"

"Probably. We are rivals, you understand. I got the post he expected to have. He did not like being moved to Liverpool."

"Oh, oh," Roscoe purred softly. He moved about the room restlessly, his eyes gleaming. "Two thousand pounds is a deal of money. If a man could possess himself of that and get rid of his most dangerous rival at the same time, it would be worth a little risk. And the thing could be done without a confederate. Upon my word, Masters, I begin to see my way. I want to be certain of one thing first; but there's little doubt about it."

"And what might that particular thing be?" Masters asked.

"Why, that you were in Liverpool on that eventful Tuesday. And you were. I have no more doubt of that than I have of my own identity."

Masters spread out his hands with a gesture of despair.

"Have it your own way," he said resignedly. "I am entirely at your disposal. You will go on to tell me presently that I am a morphiamaniac—say that my moral nature has been totally undermined by the drug and that I have committed forgery unconsciously."

"My boy," Roscoe said solemnly; "you did not commit the forgery at all. Now you have two clear days before you in which to make inquiries. That should be ample time. Let us go to Liverpool together this evening. You'd better let the police know that you are going, or they may be disposed to make trouble. Liverpool is a port, remember! We will go and see Dr. Swayland in the first place and ascertain from him the address where he called to see you. Then, we will go to that address and interview the landlady there. We may have some little trouble after that, but every criminal is a fool in some matters, and I don't suppose that we shall find our man any wiser than the rest. I have studied this subject pretty carefully, and I always find that your criminal commits some act of amazing folly. Even the most brilliant of them is tripped up by some puerile stupidity that the average schoolboy would have foreseen. It's the sanguine temperament that does it. And now what do you say to my suggestion?"

Masters caught at it eagerly enough. Anything was better than eating his heart out in the seclusion of his room. It was ten o'clock on the Saturday morning that Masters found himself face to face with Dr. Swayland. Roscoe had asked for a few words in private beforehand, and to this suggestion the doctor had agreed. Much to Masters's surprise, he came forward with extended hand.

"I am glad to see you again," he said. "You must believe me when I say that this is not the first time we have met, Mr. Masters. The evidence I gave against you yesterday was true in every detail. Frankly, I deemed you guilty. But Mr. Roscoe has propounded a theory so extraordinary and so ingenious that I began to have my doubts. Naturally, I took you for a morphiamaniac, and when I was called in you were suffering from that drug. Allow me to see your tongue—your pulse. Now if I may be permitted to look at the inside of your eyelids. No signs of a drug victim here. Somebody must have been administering some pretty severe doses to you surreptitiously. And yet they were careful not to give you more than your system could stand. When did it begin?"

"On the Friday before I was supposed to be in Liverpool," Masters explained. "I had gone back to the office after a light luncheon, and I collapsed at my desk. On the Sunday I was all right; but for the next three days I was unconscious till nightfall."

"You will please make a note of that, doctor," Roscoe said. "Till nightfall!"

"I did not call in a doctor because I hoped to get better," Masters went on. "I felt so much better up till bedtime. I think that is about all."

"Enough for the present," said Roscoe. "Now, doctor, will you please give me the address where you found my friend here on that eventful night. We will come back later in the day, and report progress. Let us be moving, Masters."

They came presently to the address given by Swayland, a small respectable house, the door of which was opened by a neat-looking, elderly woman of the housekeeper class. She started as she caught sight of Masters, and seemed inclined to close the door.

"You must really allow us to come inside," Roscoe said. "We particularly desire to see the room occupied by my friend here last week."

"Oh, well, there is no harm in that," the woman said grudgingly. "The room belonged to a lodger of mine who has gone away. He was only here for a little time, and, as the work took him about the country, he allowed me to make a few shillings when I got the chance of letting his apartment."

"Did he furnish the room himself?" Roscoe asked.

"Well, he did, sir," the landlady replied. "He was rather particular. It was a bed-sitting room and when he brought his own things here I stored my bits of sticks elsewhere. Mr. Claytor promised to have his stuff taken away, but he hasn't done it yet."

Roscoe's eyes sparkled. He stepped briskly along the passage.

"I'm glad to hear that," he said. "Come along, Masters. We need not trouble you my good woman. You need not be afraid that we shall steal anything. My dear Masters, we are very near to the end of your trouble. The amazing carelessness of the criminal, however clever he is, comes to our assistance. The ruffians have gained their end, and they have not troubled to take away the apparatus. Look at this."

Masters stood in the little sitting-room with a puzzled expression on his face. Roscoe stepped across to a book case on the wall, and took down a copy of the 'Primrose Path.' With an air of triumph he handed it to Masters.

"There is one mystery explained," he said. "You began my story in London with the incomplete copy, and you finished it here, with the amended edition of the book. Those cunning rascals foresaw everything. They knew that you would look for the book, and perhaps seek it outside the room. If you had done that you would have discovered that you were not in London, as you imagined, but in Liverpool. By Tuesday evening, they would have procured a proper copy of my story here, and that is the copy that you hold in your hand."

"I begin to see," Masters murmured. "But look at this room. It is the exact copy of mine in London! Pull down the blinds and light the gas, and it is the same room!"

"Precisely," Roscoe smiled. "By some cunning means yet to be discovered, you were dosed with morphia every morning early. For three night's you woke up with the impression that you were in your own room. You had food to eat, and you thought that your landlady had provided you with it. Besides, you were so dull and stupid with the drug that you had not the energy to ask anything. Of course, it was that business of the missing chapter that first set me on the right track. It would be so easy to get strong evidence against you by calling the doctor in. That was a stroke of genius. When we come to inquire we shall find that you were brought here by some stranger in a motor, and that the said motor conveyed you from here to London. You can see for yourself how careless the knaves have been. They got the money, and no doubt they intended to remove their goods and pictures, but probably they are too busy enjoying themselves instead. They fancy that the rope is round your neck, especially as some of the notes the cheque was exchanged for were found in your room. In your lonely quarters it was so easy to get at you, to convey you here, and take you back to London again. Of course Markwick is at the bottom of it—he and somebody called Claytor. The latter was the genius who furnished these rooms like yours. Now give me the address of your firm here, and I'll wire Markwick in the name of Claytor to meet us here at once. It is long odds that Claytor is away spending his share of the plunder, and, naturally, Markwick will be in a fright lest anything is wrong. Let's have the address."

An hour later the door of the room opened, and Markwick came in. He gave one glance at Masters, and another round the familiar apartment, and retracted his steps. His dark face grew pale and moist as Roscoe tackled him.

"No, you don't," he said. "You'll just stay here until I have finished talking to you. Now listen carefully to my story, Mr. Markwick, and correct me when I am wrong. I shall not be wrong very often, because I'm rather good at telling stories."

Markwick dropped sullenly into a chair. He nodded his head from time to time, but on the whole he had few corrections to make.

"What's the good of going on?" he muttered sullenly.

Roscoe smiled as he rang the bell.

"Not the least," he said. "Sorry to trouble you, my good woman but will you kindly call in a policeman. This gentleman needs his services."

THE END

THE LEFT HAND

Published in The Rodney And Otamatea Times, New Zealand, 18 September 1912, Page 6

RODNELL strode across the room and looked out into the garden. Those strong hands of his were clenched, and his teeth were closely set together. He was a man of strength in more ways than one—the kind of man who knows how to suffer in silence. As his gaze wandered over the garden, the brooding shadow in his eyes deepened. Seven hard, honest years lay there; he had found the place a wilderness, he had turned it into the semblance of a smiling paradise. A bad nervous breakdown had caused him to sever his connection with the Press and start in a small way as a gardener with a capital of a hundred pounds and what experience he had picked up from casual observation.

Well, at any rate, he had managed to live. It had been a hard struggle, but the open air life had made another man of him, and he had decided to go on with the fight. There had been times when it was necessary to borrow money, but the garden had grown and grown, the shining rows of glasshouses had expanded, the returns were better every year. Yet, despite this fact, Dick Rodnell owed James Cartright four hundred pounds and the knowledge troubled him.

Cartright's reputation was a sinister one, and many were the tales told of him in Little Mersham. He called himself a lawyer, but practically no business passed through his hands, and the fortune he had scraped together had come to him in the form of usury pure and simple.

He had been pressing Rodnell of late. He had found out by some means that the latter expected to do great things with a new carnation that he had discovered. Before long the Rodnell carnations would be the talk of the horticultural world. Already one of the greatest nurserymen in England had offered Rodnell a thousand pounds for a half interest in one of the new plants, and the settlement of this deal was only a matter of time. But the big florist was in South America, and nothing could be done till his return.

Rodnell bitterly regretted that he had ever mentioned this to Cartright. He had done so more with the intention of gaining time than anything else. Unless some unforeseen event occurred he would be a comparatively wealthy man in a year's time. Cartright had shared this optimistic opinion, and on the strength of it had advanced a further sum of fifty pounds. Just as a matter of form, the precious pots of carnations were added to the security.

And now Cartright had shown his hand. He had had losses, and needed his money at once. One legal process after another followed in startling rapidity. He had done it all himself in his furtive and secretive way, and probably was the only man who knew that Rodnell had had a bankruptcy notice served on him.

Rodnell was not blind; he knew exactly what this meant. Cartright was after those carnations, and unless some miracle happened they would be his in a week's time. It was no use appealing to any of the other great florists, seeing that the carnations had finished blooming, and the great man in that line was the only member of his firm who knew anything about them. Rodnell cursed himself for his folly none the less heartily because he had been conscious of it from the first.

Why should be be robbed of all he had in this way? Cartright was just as much a thief as if he had picked his pocket. And nobody knew anything of j the story beyond the two men concerned. All the papers and documents were in Cartright's safe in the library of his house. Rodnell knew the house and its garden quite well. Cartright's niece Jessie, who lived with him, was a great gardener, and Rodnell had spent many happy hours helping her. She was a flower herself, and Rodnell often wondered how it was that she could flourish in that uncongenial soil.

As he stood there staring moodily at his own garden he could picture Jessie Cartright working in hers. He had promised to go down this evening and give her some assistance with the chrysanthemums, but he shrank from it now. He did not feel like facing James Cartright just then. Up to that moment he had had no quarrel with the money-lending attorney, whose manner was just the same as it always had been. Business was business, he said, and there was no reason to make a personal matter of it.

Rodnell could see everything quite clearly. He knew the interior of Cartright's house perfectly. He could have found his way about tEe garden blindfolded!. He could picture Cartright sitting up late as usual working at his accounts long after everybody else had gone to bed. He knew that this was Cartright's custom. Hardly anybody in Little Mersham was up after ten o'clock. Cartright would be working away there, with his papers littered all over the big table, the safe door open. Suppose he were to surprise Cartright, to gag and bind him, and take his securities and make off with them! He would pay his just debts after the matter of the sale of the carnations was effected—he had no wish to be a thief. It would be only his word against Cartright's, and people would prefer to believe him. All he needed was time to save himself from the clutches of this miserly rascal.

For half an hour Rodnell stood there brooding over this idea. He was a desperate man in a desperate mood. And these carnations were as the apple of hiw eye. His whole life's work was in them—they would give him an established reputation amongst gardeners. He had other discoveries that he would work out as soon as he had the money and the peace of mind necessary for their development.

He put on his hat presently, and went down the village street in the direction of Cartright's house. It was a warm evening in early September, and the gardens were still gay with flowers. Out at the back of the old-fashioned house Jessie Cartright was working. Her eyes brightened, and a color rose to her cheeks as she saw Rodnell coming.

"I began to imagine that you were not coming," he said. "I was conceited enough to go on with these cuttings in your absence, Mr. Rodnell. Now, have I mixed enough sand with this mould?"

Rodnell sifted the soil through his fingers thoughtfully. He held it up to the light between his fingers. Across the palm was a rough white seam, a little hard and ragged at the edges. "Yes, I should think that your proportions are quite correct," he said "What are you looking at?"

"Well, I was looking at your hand," Jessie confessed. "How did you manage to do it?"

"Oh, that is an old story," Rodnell said, lightly. "I did that five years ago. I was hacking away at a rose briar with a pruning knife, and the blade slipped and gashed my left hand. It was rather a nasty business at the time, but it is all right now, as you can see. I should add just a shade more of that peat if I were you. And push the cuttings down more firmly—so."

Jessie Cartright watched him admiringly. She made a pretty picture as she stood there, her face shaded by her big garden hat. Perhaps Rodnell's eyes told her this, for the color crept into her cheeks. She did not fail to notice that Rodnell was a little more quiet than usual. In her quick, observant way she saw most things. She had a more than vague idea as to the way in which Cartright made his money—she had not been living with him two years for nothing.

"You are very quiet to-night," she said at length.

Rodnell aroused himself from his reverie with a start. "Am I?" he said. "Well, we all have our little worries at times."

"I hope you have not been disappointed over those carnations of yours?"

"Well, not exactly that," Rodnell admitted. "They are all right. If I can only manage to hold on for a month or two longer, Waterton's people—Mr. Waterton himself But you don't understand these things. I mean it's a question of money."

Had Rodnell glanced at his companion just then be would have seen that she understood a good deal more than he gave her credit for. They had often discussed the great things likely to result from the sale of the new carnations, but as to their being pledged to Cartright nothing had been said.

"It must hare been hard work at the start," Jessie said.

"It was," Rodnell said, grimly. "I had only about a hundred pounds, and I was further handicapped by poor health and utter lack of experience. I had to pay pretty dearly for my experience; and yet I fancy I enjoyed the struggle. It was something to fight for, you see. I don't mind confessing to you that I should have had to abandon it altogether if it had not been for those carnations. And to lose them just when fortune is in my grasp is hard. I daresay

"Dick—Mr. Rodnell," Jessie whispered. "If it so bad as that? Won't you tell me?"

Her eyes were full of sympathy; the little red mouth quivered. In the impulse of the moment she laid her hand on Rodnell's arm. He took the fingers in his and kissed them; then in some vague way he found himself kissing the quivering red lips as well.

"I ought not to have done that," he said; "but I was so lonely, I had nobody to confide in. And when you looked on me as if—as if—well, as it you cared

"Of course I care," Jessie whispered. "Haven't you known that for a long time, Dick?"

"But I am a pauper," Dick groaned. "What right has a pauper to love a girl like you?"

"Well, tell me all about it," Jessie asked, impressively. "What have you been doing with the carnations—my carnations now? Please to tell me the story at once."

In a tame and halting way Rodnell complied. The carnations were in pawn to a man who had made up Ms mind to possess them. Dick mentioned no names. He had a certain delicacy in disclosing the fact that t"he Shylock in question was Jessie's own flesh and blood; and, strangely enough, she did not seem to be in the least curious on the point. Her face was hot with indignation, but all the same she seemed anxious to avoid Rodnell's glance.

"A man like that deserves any treatment!" she exclaimed. "You are justified in doing anything to thwart his plans. And you can pay him before long. If I were a man I should not hesitate for a moment. We must discuss this again, Dick; we must talk it over, and find some way to overcome the enemy. I must go now and look after my uncle's supper. Good-night."

She lifted up her face to he kissed in the most natural manner, and vanished. As a rule she asked Dick inside but she seemed averse to doing so this evening. He walked across the lawn to a gate that led into a lane, now quite dark and deserted. The oLd woman who "did" for him did not sleep in the house. She usually put out his supper and cleared it away in the morning. She had the key of the back door, and came and went as she pleased. Nobody would be able to prove that Rodnell was not in his cottage all the evening.

The more he thought the matter over the easier it looked. It was as if the Fates had gone out of their way to make the path easy for him. He was convinced now that he was justified in taking the step that he was going take, and Jessie had shared this opinion. If he only took his courage in both hands now he could be free. In a few months' time he would have ample means. He would take that dear little girl to share his cottage with him—the dream of his life" would be realised. He would do it; he would hesitate no longer.

He lay there in a dry ditch on the far side of a hedge till the clock struck eleven. By this time the whole of the village was fast asleep. There was not a light to be seen anywhere, save the one that gleamed dully from the window of Cartright's study. It was an easy matter to find his way across the lawn to the house.

There was a ragged edge to the blind, and Rodnell could see into the study. An oil lamp was on the table, and behind it sat Cartright busy at his books. Rodnell could see that the safe door was open.

Rodnell was breathing a little more quickly now, but there was no hesitation in his mind. He was going to get those papers. He knew that it would be no difficult matter to gain access to the house. Fortunately for him he was wearing tennis shoes, so that his footsteps made no sound. Ho crept round to the back, and tried the scullery window. With his thin-bladed grafting-knife he pushed back the latch. A moment later and he was creeping along the passage leading to the hall.

So far, so good. The house was absolutely silent. In his rubber soles Dick made his way to the study. The door was wide open, and as he looked in he could see the safe hospitably open. Half in front of it was a big screen fashioned out of the colored plates of bygone Christmas numbers. It might be just possible to reach the shelter of the screen without being observed. Once this was done the contents of the safe would be clear to any average pair of eyes. It was a risk, and a big risk, for once he was discovered Dick was lost. Still, Cartright's back was to him, and the miser was deeply engrossed in his papers. On all fours Dick commenced to enter the room.

He hardly dared to breathe now; the sweat was pouring down his hot face. He wriggled along like a dog until he stood in the shelter of the screen, gazing into the safe eagerly. There were rows and rows of papers, neatly docketed and arranged on shelves. Rodnell was amazed to read the names on some of them. Evidently Cartright had most of his neighbours under his thumb. His heart beat a little faster as he recognised his own name on one of the packets.

So far everything had been in his favor. He had only to snatch the packet, drop it into his pocket, and retreat by the way he had come. At any moment Cartright might rise from his chair and come over to the safe for something' or other. And if that happened—well, Dick did not care to think of it.

He grabbed the packet and thrust it into his pocket. As he did so a grunt came from the table. Cartright dragged himself heavily from his chair and rose to his feet. Rodnell watched him breathlessly through one of the folds of the screen. There was nothing for it now but to resort to heroic measures. If Cartright came as far as the safe Dick would stun him by a blow on the side of the head before his precious host could discover the identity of his visitor. This was the way that some men went headlong on to murder, Dick thought. He was living his life over again in those few seconds. Cartright came along muttering and coughing. He came nearer and nearer to the screen.

With clenched teeth and heart beating like a drum, Dick waited. Then there was a cry and an oath and a snarl, and the lamp went out with a crash, leaving the room in total darkness. Dick's fists unclenched, and he rubbed his eyes in amazement. Was it possible that he had had anything to do with this? Had there been one brief moment of madness when he had attacked Cartright openly—a terrible struggle, in which the lamp had been extinguished? It did not seem to him that he had moved; he could feel the sharp edge of the screen when his forehead had bumped against it.

And the din was still going on. Dick could hear yells and screams and the rustle of struggling bodies, than a loud cry for help, and a body crashing down the flight of stone steps that led from the passage to the door leading to the back garden. Somebody groaned again, and all was still.

A dog barked somewhere in the house, the bells began to ring, and Dick could hear footsteps outside Then somebody seemed to stand by him and fumble for his hand. A small hand grasped his and pulled him in the direction of the door. He was too dazed and stunned to ask any questions; he could only obey meohanically. Before he could realise what had happened he was outside the front door, which was quietly closed behind him raced down the little drive, and fled mechanically along the road, it seemed to him that he had gained his house without a soul being any the wiser.

He lighted his lamp and stood gazing at it, regardless of his supper.

"Now, what does it all mean?" he thought. "Am I a coward that I turned my back upon trouble in that way. And what would Jessie say it if she knew? Did I kill Cartright, or shall I wake presently and find that it has all been a hideous dream ?"

He locked the papers carefully away in his own little safe and wont to bed. He would hear all about the trouble in the morning. After breakfast ho found the village to be full of it. Somebody had broken into the house of Mr. Cartright the night before and had attacked him at hit work. A lot of books and papers seemed to be missing, but whether or not any valuables had been taken it was impossible to say, as Mr. Cartright was still unconscious. He was not dead, or anywhere near it, and probably he would be himself again in a week. He had had a nasty blow on the head with a jemmy, which had been found at the bottom of the stairs. The miscreant had got clean off, but h e had been 'badly torn by the Bedlington terrier that Cartright always turned loose after the house was closed. Dick blessed the fact that ho and the Bedlington were good friends.

It seemed a plausible story, but it puzzled him. He was still half under the impression that he was the author of the mischief. He would have to go up to the house, of course, and inquire after Cartright. It was late in the afternoon when he summoned up the necessary courage to call and ask for Jessie. She came down to the long, oak-panelled drawing-room a little pale and. tired-looking, but otherwise quite herself. Just for a moment he hesitated to kiss her.

"What is all this I hear?" he asked. "Have you found anything out,"

"I don't think we ever shall" said Jessie. "The man must have been concealed in the study. One of the side-tables has a long cloth over reaching to the ground. The French window in "the study was open till long after it was dark; in fact, I closed it myself. The man was there waiting his chance. Possibly some movement on his part betrayed him, and there was a struggle. We shall know all about it when my uncle gets better."

"It must have frightened you terribly," Dick muttered.

"To a certain extent, yes. I had not gone to bed. I was writing in my room at the back of the house. I went downstairs first and made my way to the library. I—I was suspicious about something. I may confess at once that I was not thinking of my uncle for the moment."

"Oh! Now, there is somebody else in your mind, then?"

"Yes, Dick. I was thinking of a story I heard earlier in the evening. It was a story of a man who had pledged all that he held dear to another man who was trying to rob him of it. And it occurred to me that my uncle was a man like that. And it also occurred to me that I had suggested a way in which that one man could get back that which he had been robbed of. The burglar had gone when I got to the foot of the stairs—gone by the back door, with the dog after him. I—I was thinking of the other man. And I found him, Dick—l found him and showed him how to escape. I took him by the hand, and when I felt his hand—there was a scar upon it I knew —I knew Jessie paused as if unable to proceed. Dick caught his breath as he looked at her. He could see that her eyes were full of tears, that her face was flushed and smiling. He caught her in his arms and kissed her passionately. It seemed to him that there was no further need for explanation. "I expect that man felt an awful coward," he said. "He was a coward to leave you here all alone."

Not at all, Dick. He did exactly what I wanted him to do. I was quite safe. And that man was justified in what he did. When you fight a rascal you fight him with his own weapons. And if the man I mean was in love with a girl like—me, for instance—he is all the more justified because he is taking steps to get me out of a hateful place like this. Do you believe in the truth of what are called dramatic coincidences, Dick I do, and we had one of them last night. And, Dick—whisper—did you get the papers?"

Dick smiled down into the flushed, happy face. "I did, darling," he said. "I got them before the row began. I was hiding behind the screen. If you had only seen me sneak into the study and hide myself—"

"I did," Jessie said, dreamily. "I was looking over the stairs. We are a wicked couple, Dick, and I—well, I love you all the better for it. So there!"

THE END

A GAMBLE IN LOVE

Published in The Windsor Magazine, June, 1912.

If Lord Rupert Tintagel had not put into the harbour of Minchin, the true story of Montague Disney would probably never have been written. Disney says himself that he could not have held out much longer, and that he was fed up with it, which, being translated into the English of his clan, means a dark hint to the effect that he would have blown his brains out. And when you come to hear what happened to him, you will be inclined to extend to him a certain measure of sympathy. As a matter of fact, the port that Tintagel put into was not really called Minchin, neither was his patronymic Tintagel. For the matter of that, the Right Hon. Sir Eben Aza, with half the alphabet after his name, is a nom de plume also. One has to tread lightly in these troublous political times, especially in view of the fact that the Right Hon. Sir Eben Aza was, and is, a pillar of a great political party, and an Empire builder of the first rank.

Now, Tintagel put into Minchin for the sole purpose of procuring a certain herb, without which the 'morning glory' cocktail is a delusion and a vain thing. The herb in question can only be obtained in its virgin sweetness from the mountains behind Minchin, and this important truth had been impressed upon Tintagel by his friend, Bill Venables, who had come out yachting in those seas on the distinct understanding that he wasn't expected to rough it.

"Not that I can't," he said. "But hang me if I see any reason for being put on rations when there's no occasion for it. If you're out for a scrap, then you can count me in it. But this is a pleasure cruise, and I'm not hankering for anything picturesque in the way of Oriental surgery."

So the 'White Woman' put into Minchin, and the lamentable hiatus was duly filled. As most people know, Minchin is a town containing nearly a million souls, and boasts the most cosmopolitan population in the world. It is a delightful, beautiful, utterly wicked and alluring city, as Venables knew; and as Tintagel had never been here before, it was only natural that he should suggest a round of sight-seeing. For the next day or two there was no break in the flow of Tintagel's education, and by the end of the week his clean mind began to hanker for the pure atmosphere of the sea—a little Minchin goes a long way.

"Don't you think that we'd better chuck it?" he suggested.

"There's one more place you've got to see," Venables said. "Now, we're simply bound to look in for an hour or two at Sin-Li's. In a way, it's as good as Monte Carlo."

Tintagel was fain to admit that he had forgotten Sin-Li. Every traveller in the East knew the place by repute, and many thousands of them had visited the shrine. That most of them bitterly regretted the visit afterwards does not in the least matter. It was useless to complain that the odds in favour of the bank were sinfully long. It was also childish to say that Sin-Li was making the income of a Queen of Sheba, and to contend that the authorities ought to interfere. The fact remained that Sin-Li was making that princely income, and the authorities did not interfere. No doubt Sin-Li could have explained their exquisite politeness so far as he was concerned.

The Casino, so called, was situated in the Chinese quarter. It was a long, low building, cunningly surrounded with an air of mystery, and impossible of admission without the token and the password and all the rest of it. There were secret passages and hidden doors and villainous-looking janitors, all calculated to thrill the traveller and fill him with the wine of adventure. It never occurred to him, in his bland innocence, that Sin-Li's tokens might be obtained from any loafer along the beach. The little game was to impress every traveller with the pleasing delusion that he himself was exceptionally favoured, and cause him to be swindled out of his money joyously and without complaint.

Therefore it was on a Saturday evening that Tintagel and Venables found themselves in the big room, where a form of roulette was being played. Down both sides of the table twenty or more people were seated. They represented every nationality under the sun. Taking out some half-dozen of them, it might have been fairly assumed that there was not an honest sixpence in the room. But Sin-Li was too wily a bird to judge by appearance, and many a battered-looking wayfarer there had left the nucleus of an income in the Chinaman's pocket.

"Pretty thick lot," Tintagel whispered.

"Oh, they've got the rocks, all right," Venables muttered in reply. "Look at that chap yonder in the blue overalls. He hasn't been washed for a week, but his pockets are full of dust, all the same. And that little Jew opposite—you wouldn't think he's one of the biggest bill-discounters in Europe. But look here—we shall have to have a dash, you know. Sin-Li's got no use for mere spectators. Put your money down."

Tintagel carelessly covered a number with a few sovereigns. It was a matter of indifference to him whether he won or lost. He did not doubt for a moment that the roulette wheel had been the subject of some ingenious mechanical manipulation. He was more concerned with the hebdomadal crowd about him. At the top of the table, raised above the floor, sat the cashier, who seemed to combine that duty with that of a croupier. His long, thin hands extended through the bars of a veritable cage, wherein he sat like a dangerous animal that it was necessary to keep from contact with the gamblers. He paid the winners and collected the losses of the losers by means of an expanding rake capable of reaching to the far end of the table. On the little desk in front of him lay a pile of notes and gold. With his dead-white face and bald head, with his absolutely expressionless eyes, he reminded Tintagel unpleasantly of a trained ape rather than a human being. The man appeared to be devoid of emotion of any kind; his mask-like face was as blank as that of a statue.

"Is the chap dangerous?" Tintagel asked.

"No, but the gamblers are sometimes," Venables said drily. "This place has been raided by desperadoes more than once, but Sin-Li doesn't mind that much, because it is an advertisement for the house. Sometimes the police come here, but it's only a dress rehearsal, after all. At the first sign of trouble, the lights go out and the cashier lowers himself into a sort of vault down below. He's in a kind of lift, as you see for yourself, if a revolver appears, he presses a button, and he's not there any more."

Tintagel was barely listening. The white-faced man in the cage fairly fascinated him. He paid no heed to the fact that his third venture at the table had won him a small stake, and then on his little pile of sovereigns the man in the cage had deposited a clean, crisp Bank of England note. The face of the note was folded inward, but it was impossible to doubt what it really was. Venables brought his elbow sharply into Tintagel's ribs.

"Don't you want that fiver?" he asked. "That little Kanaka boy in the canary-coloured waistcoat will nick it to a certainty if you don't pick it up. Don't scatter it, my boy. If you get a reputation of that sort, you may find a knife in your ribs before morning. Pick it up, you ass!"

Tintagel pulled himself back to the affairs of the moment. He reached out for his gold and paper with the intention of cramming them carelessly into his pocket. His glance fell upon the clean white bank-note, then his teeth came together with a snap. Just for an instant there was a startled look in his eyes as he folded the note and deposited it with more than usual care in his cigarette case. Venables smiled at the action.

"Keeping it as a souvenir?" he asked.

"You can put it that way, if you like," Tintagel replied.

He turned away, as if still deeply interested in what was going on around him. But the only really fascinating thing there was the man in the iron cage. He seemed to see everything without looking; he appeared to do everything like one in a dream. Every now and again he swept the table with his almond-shaped eyes—eyes that had no vision in them, or so it seemed. The atmosphere was getting oppressive—a longing for fresh air came over Tintagel. He turned eagerly to Venables.

"Let's get out of this," he said. "It's pretty vulgar and commonplace, after all. I've had far more fun than this at San Francisco. What do you say to a supper at Pinsuti's, on the balcony?"

"And some of those little green oysters done in cream," Venables suggested. "You can count me in."

They sat presently on the flower-decked balcony in front of Pinsuti's, lingering over their coffee and cigarettes. It was a glorious, scented night, with a great moon like a silver shield hanging in the blue, and a powder of diamond-pointed stars gemming the heavens. At their feet lay the city, picked out with a thousand points of orange-coloured flame. It was a night to sit silent and at peace with all mankind. But Tintagel was restless and moody, so that the easy-going Bill noticed it at last.

"Not feeling up to the mark, old chap?" he asked.

"Oh, I'm all right," Tintagel replied. "I was thinking. Did you ever hear the story of poor old Montague Disney, and his strange disappearance from London three years ago?"

"Oh, nothing but club gossip. I was away shooting in the Rockies at the time. I never knew much of Disney, but he always struck me as being a particularly good sort. A fine sportsman, too. Not the sort of chap you'd expect to commit forgery, and all that kind of thing. Didn't he rob the West Asian Bank of a lot of money? Had a post of trust there, hadn't he?"

"Well, that's what they said," Tintagel went on. "One fine morning Disney suddenly vanished, and from that day to this no soul has ever seen or heard of him. His father, old Sir Thomas Disney, was terribly cut up about it. He always swore there was a misunderstanding somewhere. But the money was gone, and Disney was gone, too, and there was no other conclusion to come to. The Right Hon. Eben of that ilk was chairman of the bank, and he did his best to hush the thing up. I understand the old man behaved very well, especially seeing that he was not at all on good terms with Disney. You see, Disney and Beatrice Aza——"

"Oh, I remember now," Venables interrupted. "Lady Frances Aza told me something about it. Weren't Disney and the girl secretly engaged, or something of the sort? I know that Lady Frances liked him, but old Eben had a German Prince up his sleeve for the girl."

Tintagel rose from his seat and began to walk up and down the balcony.

"There's something infernally wrong about the whole business," he said, "and, so far as I'm concerned, I should like to hear Disney's side of the story."

"You'll never do that," Venables muttered.

"Now, there, my dear chap, is where you're wrong. I'm going to hear Disney's story if I stay here a month to get it."

"Do you mean to say he's here?" Venables demanded.

Tintagel came back to the little table with the shaded lights, and laid his cigarette case on the cloth. He took from it the folded bank-note and handed it to his companion.

"Your winnings." Venables smiled. "Is there any particular virtue about that fiver?"

"Turn it on its back," Tintagel said curtly, "and tell me what you think of what you find there."

Venables fairly started as he looked at the paper.

"It reads like a message," he said. "'If you have any spark of the old friendship left, for Heaven's sake get me out of this. Prisoner. Caution. Dangerous.' Now, what on earth does it all mean, Rupert? Do you mean to say that Disney——"

"Wrote that message on the back of the note," Tintagel said firmly. "My old pal, and the one-time lover of Beatrice Aza, is the poor devil in the cage at Sin-Li's. There can be no question about it. And now what are we going to do?"

"It seems incredible. Why, the man in the cage looked a Mongol to the life! It can't be Disney."

"I'm equally convinced that it is, Bill. He's been cleverly made up for the part, and he's a prisoner, too, if that message means anything. I wonder how long the poor wretch has been there? Just think of his agony of mind, waiting day by day and month by month for the sight of a friendly face and the chance of communicating with the owner of it! We've got to get Disney out of this, my boy. There's an ugly story behind it all, and I'm going to get to the bottom of it, or perish in the attempt. I need not ask if I can count upon you, Bill."

Venables smiled. It was the kind of invitation that specially appealed to him.

"Oh, rather!" he said. "But how are we going to work it, old son? We can easily kick up a diversion in the gambling saloon, but that chap's in a cage for all the world like a captive tiger."

"We shall have to try and communicate with Disney in some way. I don't see why we shouldn't send him a message in the same way as I got mine. If we go back there, he will be certain to know that we have returned for the purpose of giving him a hand. How long does the gambling go on?"

"My dear chap, practically it never stops. I believe at three o'clock in the morning, for a couple of hours, things are slack. Now, the best thing we can do is to sit down and write a brief list of questions on another bank-note, so that we can get Disney to answer them. He'll tumble at once to what's going on, and he'll take precious good care that you back one winning number, at any rate. When shall we start?"

"Why not now?" Tintagel asked.

An hour later and the two were back in the saloon again. The plot called for caution, and Tintagel lost three mains running before he ventured to put the bank-note on the number he was backing. A weary half-hour passed, then the rake shot down the table, and Tintagel eagerly grabbed at the piece of paper. There were but a few words scribbled on it, but they sufficed——

"Make a disturbance—the message ran—both stand close to cage. When lights go out jump on top."

Venables nodded approvingly as Tintagel whispered the words in his ear. To stroll to the top of the table was an easy matter and devoid of suspicion, but to get up an altercation was a different thing altogether. An inspiration came to Venables. He turned and caught the eye of the man in the cage for an instant. His lips framed a word or two, the left eye of the man in the cage drooped slightly, and then deliberately the rake placed a pile of gold on a wrong number. Instantly the hairy claw of a pirate in a red cap reached for it, only to meet the fingers of a gaudy Malay, who was, in truth, the rightful owner. Like a flash, the whole room rose in confusion. A sea of angry faces was turned in the direction of strife. A knife flashed out, there was the quick crack of a pistol-shot, and instantly the place was in darkness.

Not a moment did Tintagel and Venables hesitate; they reached for the cage, and climbed like cats to the top. The cage gave a convulsive jerk, and, as they sank into the unknown, they could hear the tornado of cries and yells. Revolvers were being used freely now.

"I guess those chaps will be busy for a bit," Tintagel said, as the cage stopped with a jerk. "This looks like our opportunity. For Heaven's sake, light a match!"

The little spot of flame flared out in the gloom and fell on the face of the man in the cage. He was striving with all his strength to force back the grating.

"Give me a hand!" he whispered hoarsely. "Pull at the third bar. This infernal thing opens from the outside."

Tintagel needed no further bidding. He laid his hand on the bar and wrenched the door of the cage open. The man inside fairly tumbled into his arms. Overhead the hideous din was still going on.

"Now, then, wake up, old man!" Venables cried. "This glorious chance can't last much longer. I suppose that rascal Sin-Li and all his gang are upstairs by this time. The question is, do you know the way out? It's no use asking for trouble. Do try and pull yourself together, Disney."

Disney checked a sob in his throat.

"I'll try," he whispered. "I'm just a bit dazed by this good fortune of mine. I can't tell you how good it is of you to come and help a poor devil——"

"Oh, forget it!" Tintagel snapped. "Do you know the way out, or not? And shall we manage to get into the street without appearing unduly offensive?"

"I know the way," Disney explained. "We shall have to fight, though. Sin-Li's not the man to keep all his eggs in one basket. If we had a revolver amongst us——"

By way of reply, Tintagel pressed a neat little Webley into his hand. Disney reached for a switch, and instantly the narrow passages were flooded with light.

"This way," he said. "Come quickly."

They emerged presently into a wide corridor, where two coolies lay on a mat smoking. Before they could rise, Venables had dashed forward. He caught each by the nape of the neck, and brought their heads together with a smash. A snore from one, a kind of whine from the other, and the figures lay there as if asleep. At the top of a flight of stairs a Chinaman strutted. As he looked down and opened his mouth to give the alarm, Tintagel fired. The man threw up his arms and rolled down the steps. It was no time to stop and inquire what had happened to the Chinaman, for here was the door leading to the street, and safety was beyond. The lock gave at the third revolver shot, the door fell back, and the sweet, cool night breeze came refreshingly to a trio of heated foreheads.

"My word, it's like Heaven!" Disney said. "But what are you fellows going to do with me? I couldn't show up at any decent hotel in this plight; and even if I did, Sin-Li would have me in his clutches before night. The police? They are all in his pay. If I could find a hiding-place——"

"I've got the yacht here," Tintagel exclaimed. "I came on shore with Venables in the dinghy, and she's now tied up at the wharf. As they will all have turned in by this time, it won't be a difficult matter to smuggle you on board. Then you can have a bath, and we'll fit you up in some Christian clothes. By this time to-morrow we shall be far enough away from Minchin."

An hour or so later, Disney emerged from his cabin, clothed and in his right mind. It was not till he had supped and drank some champagne that he began to talk.

"Well, it's a long tale," he said, "and perhaps you'd better let me tell it in my own way. I'm not used to sympathy and kindness, and, when I think what you chaps have done for me, I am inclined to feel a bit hysterical. Now, don't you run away with the impression that I was hiding in that devil's parlour where you found me, because I wasn't—I was a prisoner there. Neither did I run away from England when that money disappeared, because I didn't. I was sent here on a secret mission by Sir Eben Aza, and no one was to know what had become of me. Now, tell me, how is that moon-faced son of a Pathan getting on?"

"Still high in the councils of the nation," Tintagel said drily—"still one of the pillars of his party. But you must not sit there uttering libels against so distinguished a philanthropist as the Honourable Eben."

"A greater rascal never drew the breath of life!" Disney said vehemently. "Oh, I know he's as rich as Croesus, I know he's the respected chairman of a dozen prosperous companies, and I also know where he started the nucleus of his fortune, and from whence he derives a princely income to-day. Sin-Li is only a paid servant—a mere blind. The owner of the place we've just left is Sir Eben Aza, and I can put my hand on three men who remember him when he first started.

"Now, I found this out three years ago. I was always fond of fiction, and I used to go pottering about down Shadwell way, getting local colour from the sailor scum from all over the world. And that's the way I tumbled upon the story of Eben Aza's early history. When he tried to prevent me from marrying his daughter, I was fool enough to tell him what I knew. I admit it wasn't playing the game exactly, and if I did wrong, Heaven knows I have suffered for it. The old blackguard behaved all right at the time—at any rate, he thoroughly deceived me. Fancy that man being the husband of Lady Frances and the father of such a girl as Beatrice! Well, he laid a pretty trap for me, and I walked into it with my eyes open. When I realised the truth, I was stranded here absolutely penniless, my good name was utterly gone, and no one would have believed my story. What was the good of going back to a certain term of penal servitude? At any rate, I would spare the old people that indignity. I suppose I lost my nerve—anyway, I sank till I was literally starving. One of Sin-Li's blackguards gave me a meal one night and a drink, and when I came to my senses, I was in that den, where I have remained all these years. And Sin-Li had the audacity to tell me that he kept me there because I was the only cashier he could ever trust with money. Just think of the irony of it! There I was, day by day, hoping against hope, and praying for some friendly face under the lights of the tables! It was that hope alone that saved my reason. Then at length you two good fellows came along, and I took my chances. If I could once get away from that den, my idea was to make my way back to England and tell my father everything. I've got a weapon in my hand now, and every word I say I can prove to be true. Heaven knows I have suffered enough, but it isn't vengeance I want. For the sake of the girl I love, and who loved me, I am prepared to keep her father's shameful secret. But he must wash his hands of that gambling den, and he must give my good name back to me. And that's about all. I needn't insult two real good fellows like yourselves by suggesting that this is a sacred matter between us, because it would be merely wasting my breath to do so. All I ask you to do is to lend me a bit to go on with, and land me at some port from whence I can get a quick passage home. And I won't try and thank you, for, when I think of your kindness to me, it makes my eyes feel queer and—oh, dash it, you chaps know what I mean!"

It was six months later, and the 'White Woman' was sunning herself off Corfu, and Venables and Tintagel were sprawling on the deck to the accompaniment of post-prandial cigarettes and coffee plus some recent newspapers. A queer little chuckle broke from Tintagel's lips, and Venables looked up inquiringly.

"Anything special in the paper?" he asked.

"Well, what do you think of this?" Tintagel responded. "Give me your ears. 'An engagement has been announced, and a marriage will shortly take place between Miss Beatrice Aza, only child of Lady Frances and the Right Hon. Sir Eben Aza, of 725, Grosvenor Square, and Marion Castle, Bucks, and Mr. Montague Disney, son of Sir Thomas Disney, of Tower House, Devon.' What do you think of that, my friend?"

"Then that's all right," Venables said lazily.

THE END

THE HAND INVISIBLE

Published in The Windsor Magazine, June, 1912.

FLEETWOOD stumbled across the gangway of the Sheffield and staggered into the arms of a purser. Just for a moment he was on the point of collapse. By the time he had caught his breath again, and a little colour was beginning to creep into his cheek, the boat was slowly beginning to make its way out of the dock. It was yet very dark and still, for the dawn was a full hour off, and the decks were deserted so far as every passenger was concerned. The purser grinned good-naturedly as he steadied Fleetwood on his shaking legs.

"That's a pretty near shave, sir," he said. "Did you manage to get your baggage on board?"

"I have no baggage," Fleetwood explained. "I have practically nothing besides my kitbag, and someone on the quay kindly threw that after me. I hadn't even time to get a ticket. An hour ago I had not the least intention of leaving England to-day."

The purser ceased to smile. Fleetwood had spoken candidly enough, he had a frank, open way of looking the world in the face, but these little things do not always spell honesty, and the purser had seen enough of men and things not to take everything absolutely for granted.

"I think you had better see the captain, sir," he said.

"That's precisely what I want," Fleetwood replied.

Half an hour later he found himself closeted in the cabin of the Sheffield with the captain. And Captain Butcher made no secret of the fact that he did not like it at all.

"You must see for yourself that it is very unusual," he said. "Of course, there's no help for it now. But if you had come to me half an hour before, I might—"

"But, my dear sir," Fleetwood expostulated, "is it an unusual thing for a business man to find himself compelled to catch a boat a moment's notice? As I explained to your purser, I didn't know an hour ago whether I should be leaving England to-day. It's a matter of life and death. You've got me here for a fortnight—I can't run away—and you can keep as close an eye upon me as you like; and, as far as my passage is concerned, I can pay that ten times over. How does that strike you?"

Fleetwood took a sheaf of notes from his pocket-book and laid them on the table. Butcher's face relaxed a little.

"Oh, well, we must make the best of it," he said. "I'm glad you recognised my position in the matter. And now you'll be wanting a cabin. By the way, you haven't told me if you intend to go the whole way with us."

Fleetwood's face grew a little grim and hard.

"That I cannot say," he said. "Possibly my business may be finished by the time we get to Madeira. I suppose in your time, captain, you have seen many a drama played out with this ship for a background? And, unless I'm greatly mistaken, you're going to watch one now. But that is entirely between you and me. And now may I ask to be shown to my cabin?"

A day or two passed pleasantly enough, and gradually the Sheffield's passengers began to shake down together. She was not a great boat, and the saloon boasted no more than forty all told. For the most part, they were Colonials, and not at all difficult from a social point of view. There was a frankness and directness about Fleetwood that won for him a certain degree of popularity. He had travelled widely—indeed, his profession of mining engineer had enabled him to come in touch with many countries in the world—he was a good talker and bridge player, so that he was speedily on the best of terms with everybody. Captain Butcher had long since forgotten his suspicions, so that Fleetwood's position was quite a pleasant one.

There was only one passenger who appeared to hold aloof from the rest. He was a dark, rather taciturn man, who had given the name of Cree. For the rest, he was supposed to be a merchant with interests somewhere in Rhodesia. There was something attractive and yet repellant about the man, and on more than one occasion Fleetwood made an attempt to draw him out. But, according to his own account, Cree's time was too occupied to enable him to join in the festivities of the ship. He spent most of the day in his cabin, and the only time he showed himself was after dinner in the smoking-room, when the other male passengers were more or less occupied with their bridge.

On the fifth night of the voyage the bridge play was over earlier than usual. Fleetwood rose from the table with two companions, and made his way over to the remote corner of the smoking-room where Cree was pulling at his pipe in moody silence. He would have escaped if he could, only just at the moment that the bridge was finished he had ordered another whisky and soda, and one of the late players had insisted upon Cree joining them, so that there was no help for it. It was not the first drink by a good many that Cree had had since dinner, and the fact had not escaped Fleetwood's attention.

Just for a moment or two the talk was general, then it veered gradually round to the occult as understood by travellers who had studied the subject in the East. Fleetwood spoke freely and well, for he knew Tibet, and the ways of the Mahatma were familiar to him. His hearers followed him with interest, and one of them, a tea-planter named Stephenson, had a strange story, too, to tell. It was an interesting conversation, and not the less so because Cree sat there nursing his long peg glass with a shaky hand and openly sneering at Stephenson's yarn.

"Do you honestly believe all that nonsense?" he asked.

"Oh, you call it nonsense, do you?" Fleetwood said quietly. "I could tell you a story which you'd have to believe. I suppose your opinion is formed by what you read in the newspapers. They are not all to be laughed at, you know, and I'd like to have a sporting bet with you, Mr. Cree. I'll bet you a five-pound note that I can give you a demonstration of occultism that will keep you here till I've finished. All I stipulate is that you should listen for a quarter of an hour, and, if at the end of that time you like to leave us, then the fiver is yours. Now, come, is it a bet or not?"

An ugly sneer crossed Cree's face.

"I'll take you four times the amount," he said. "Now, what's it to be—hypnotism or blindfold thought-reading, or that crystal-gazing humbug? I've seen them all myself in different parts of the world, and, if I had my way, I'd clap all those rogues in gaol. Here, waiter, bring me another drink, and see that you put in some whisky this time that I can taste."

"Which do you consider the cheapest form of humbug?" Fleetwood asked. "I want to give you every chance."

"Oh, crystal-gazing," Cree muttered contemptuously.

"Then crystal-gazing it shall be. Didn't you say that you had got a crystal somewhere, Stephenson?"

"I believe I have," Stephenson replied. "I've got the whole bag o' tricks in my cabin."

Stephenson returned to the smoking-room a few minutes later with the globe of glass in his hand. Fleetwood turned it round thoughtfully, holding the sphere so that the rays of the electric light fell on it. Then he placed it on the table and gazed long and earnestly at it, until he seemed utterly lost to all surroundings. Cree would have uttered some jibe had not Stephenson checked him with a warning glance. A moment or two later, and Fleetwood began to speak. His voice sounded distant and hollow, his eyes appeared to have lost their expression altogether.

"What do you see?" Stephenson asked.

"It's all blurred and indistinct at present," Fleetwood said. "Wait, and it will grow clearer presently. Ah, I begin to make it out! Here is a room—a room barely furnished, with no carpet on the floor; there is only a table and a chair or two, and a roll-top desk between the two windows. The room is a large one, the panels of the walls are of oak, and the ceiling is the work of Inigo Jones or one of his pupils. It can be nothing but a London house in a suburb which at one time was fashionable. Now it is surrounded by slums and workmen's tenements, because I can hear the shrill voices of women and the crying of children. Though the room is so barely furnished, the two candelabra on the writing-desk are old silver, and the clock on the mantelpiece is genuine Sevres. It is just like the scene in 'Les Cloches de Corneville' where Gaspard is discovered counting over his money."

"This is devilish interesting!" one of the audience murmured. "All humbug, though, I suppose, Stephenson—eh?"

"I've seen too many strange things in the East to disbelieve, Maple," Stephenson whispered. "At any rate, our cynical friend yonder is not altogether indifferent. Look at him."

Maple glanced in Cree's direction. His white, set face was twitching, and his teeth were bare in an unsteady grin. As a waiter hovered near, he indicated his empty glass. All this time Fleetwood was going on in a steady monotone.

"The miser must be somewhere, though I cannot see him yet. His desk is open, and in the light of the candles I can see some bags of money and piles of bank-notes. Ah, he's beginning to come at last! He is a little, dried-up man, with a black velvet skull-cap on his scant and silvery hair. He closes the door behind him and looks about him fearfully as if afraid of being seen. Despite his years and the yellow parchment of his face, his black eyes have all the fire and vivacity of youth. See, he is seated by his desk, turning over his money and counting it again and again. The door opens, and a young girl comes in. She is dressed as if she had just come out of the street; she is clad in shabby garments, and her pretty face is pinched and wan. She looks as if she knew what it was to go without proper food. Directly she comes in, the old man pulls down the lid of his desk and turns towards her with an angry frown upon his face. The girl is pleading for something, for she holds out her hands to the old man, she falls on her knees at his feet. Then very reluctantly and slowly he takes from his pocket a small silver coin, and hands it to the girl with an expression of resignation on his face. But what have we got here? The corner of the ragged blind is on one side, and the pale outline of a face can be seen beyond the grimy pane. It is a white, set face with dark, restless, greedy eyes, and a mouth slightly twisted on the left side."

"So's mine, for that matter," Cree laughed.

No one else spoke—they were all deeply interested in following Fleetwood's strange story. He did not appear to hear the interruption, for he went on steadily.

"The girl vanishes, and a young man takes her place. He is a fine youngster enough, with a bronzed face and blue eyes. But the bronzed face is convulsed in rage now, and the blue eyes are blazing. Just for the moment it looks as if the old man went in peril of his life; then the young man throws himself down in the chair and begins to take his boots off. He leaves his boots by the side of the fireplace, and produces a pair of carpet slippers from a cupboard in the wall. It is plain that the young man lives in the house, for he leaves the room presently, and a door bangs sullenly in a bedroom overhead. The Sevres clock over the mantelpiece strikes the hour of twelve. It is impossible to tell the time by the face of the clock, because one of the hands is missing."

"Waiter," Cree cried hoarsely, "more drink!"

"The white face disappears from the window. The door of the room opens, and the white face and the uneasy, glittering eyes come in. The old man turns from his desk, and for the first time his eyes are full of fear. He crosses over to lay his hand upon the tattered bell-pull, but the other man bars the way. The old man struggles. For his age, he is marvellously strong and active, but at last he staggers and falls, and a cry for help breaks from his lips. There is an open knife on the mantelpiece—the sort of knife that sailors generally use. The knife has probably been left there by the young man who is upstairs in his bedroom. Oh, it is horrible to watch what follows! The old man lies there in a pool of blood on the bare floor. He is dead. He has been murdered by the man with the white face and the restless eyes."

"Upon my word, it sounds quite real!" Maple whispered. "I say, Mr. Cree, you've lost your bet. It's quite half an hour since the seance began—what?"

But Cree made no reply. He sat there absolutely engrossed in what was going on. At every pause that Fleetwood made, he wriggled with an impatience that was almost painful to witness.

"The knife lies on the floor by the dead man's side. Evidently the murderer is no stranger to the house, because he knows exactly what to do. He takes off his own shoes and picks up the pair of boots belonging to the lad who is asleep upstairs. He dips the soles of the boots in the pool of blood and slips them on his own feet. Then, snatching one of the candles from the stand, he makes a series of red footsteps on the bare boards leading into the hall. He is concocting evidence against the innocent boy upstairs. He crosses to the desk and places everything he can find there in a bag. There are a good many thousands' worth of property—twenty-three thousand seven hundred and fifty, to be correct; a memorandum in the old man's handwriting shows that. All grows indistinct for a moment."

"You've lost your bet, Cree," Maple chuckled.

"It is all coming distinct again. And here is another man—a man who gazes with horror at the object on the floor. This man pulls violently at the bell, the young man from above comes down, the room is full of people, and the police are here. They ask questions, they clear the room, they find that knife and those tell-tale footprints. But they do not find a pocket-book and a cake of tobacco manufactured by a firm in Cape Town, which the man who discovered the body picked up, for the simple reason that he has hidden these things in his pocket. Then the young man with the blue eyes goes off in charge of the police, and once more the crystal grows blurred and misty."

No word was uttered as Fleetwood rose and stretched himself. Apparently Cree had forgotten all about his bet, for he sat there white and rigid, his eyes strained and full of a certain awe. But Fleetwood had not finished yet. He bent once more over the crystal, and began to speak again.

"I see many pictures now. I see keen-eyed men bending over the pocket-book and cake of tobacco. In some way I know that they are detectives from Scotland Yard. The man who discovered the dead body must have sent the evidence on to them. I see them comparing those boots with the footprints; I see them examining the grease stains from the candle across the floor. They are asking themselves why a young man who knows the house so well should need a candle. They have found out all about the owner of the pocket-book; they have discovered that he only landed in England four hours before the murder, and they are after him before he can leave the country again. But they are too late—he has already vanished. Still, he is not destined to escape. For the man who discovered the body is after him; and the pursuer has the advantage of having seen a photograph of the murderer, and this advantage is all on one side. It comes to me in some way that the murderer is a ne'er-do-well nephew of the poor old man, who has come home on purpose to rob him.

"And then I see long, black buildings and a forest of shipping, and I see a vessel leaving the docks, and a man gain her decks just in the nick of time. And I see myself at this moment with this crystal in my hand."

A strange, strangled cry came from Cree's lips as he rose unsteadily to his feet. The empty glass fell from his hand and crashed upon the floor. He seemed to be struggling hard for some form of collected speech.

"It's all arrant humbug!" he said hoarsely. "Did anyone ever hear such a farrago of nonsense? How you men supposed to be possessed of common-sense can sit down and listen to it, I don't know. For me, I'm going to bed."

"Oh, that's all very well!" Maple protested. "If it's all nonsense like that, why did you stay so long? You've lost your bet, though you seem to have forgotten it."

"I was thinking of something else," Cree muttered. "I had actually forgotten all about the bet. Still—"

He plunged his hand in his pocket, but Fleetwood shook his head. His face was grim and hard now.

"And if I refuse to take the money?" he asked. "It is morally and legally wrong to bet on a certainty, and it was a certainty from the first that Mr. Cree would stay and hear every word that I had to utter. We will defer the question of the bet till to-morrow morning. Meanwhile I have to wish Mr. Cree good night, and may his dreams be as pleasant as he deserves."

Without another word Cree turned on his heel and left the smoking-room. He was followed a few moments later by Fleetwood, who declined to carry the matter any further just then. He was tired and exhausted with his mental effort, and, if the audience had anything further to say, he would rather it was deferred till the next morning.

Maple and Stephenson followed him quietly and thoughtfully out of the smoking-room.

"There's something devilish queer about this," the former exclaimed. "Made me feel quite creepy. And did you happen to see Cree's face? Never have I seen such abject funk in my life before. The chap was absolutely livid. Now, what do you make of it, Stephenson? If it was humbug—"

But Stephenson declined to be drawn.

"Oh, it's no humbug," he said, "and, incidentally, it's no business of ours. Keep your eyes open and ask no questions, and you'll see things before long. Good night, old chap."

But Fleetwood had not retired to bed. He sat there smoking till far into the night; his electrics were burning, and he seemed to be waiting for something. It came presently towards morning; there was a timid tap on the door, and a white, ghastly face looked in. The ghastliness of feature and the glaring, tired eyes were in almost amusing contrast to the gaudy suit of pyjamas that Cree was wearing.

"May I come in?" he stammered.

"I've been waiting for you for hours," Fleetwood said quietly. "Sit down and tell your story in your own way."

But Cree paced up and down the cabin.

"I can't sit down," he whined. "Fleetwood, you are the devil! I've heard of these things before, and I've never believed them; and yet I cannot doubt the evidence of my senses. What brought those pictures in the crystal? Why, out of millions of people, was I selected as the victim?"

"Oh, it is a picture from your own life, then?" Fleetwood asked.

"Oh, you know it you devil," Cree screamed, "and yet, as far as I know, you were on this boat before the murder was committed."

"The murder of Stephen Syme, you mean?"

"Why should I deny it? Do you know, till to-night I never discovered that I had left that pocket-book and that packet of tobacco behind me. I could have screamed aloud when you got to that part of the story. If you have tricked me—"

"Keep to the point," Fleetwood said sternly, "and remember that I never asked you to make a confession."

"But the police are after me," Cree whined; "you told me all about it when you were reading the crystal. And you had got it as clear as if you had been there and seen it all yourself. I came back from South Africa on purpose to see the old man and get money out of him. I didn't care much how I obtained it, and nobody knew that I was coming. It was no difficult matter to get into the house. When I saw the old man sitting at his desk, with all that money about him—well, I am a desperate man, and the temptation was too much for me. He was a miserable old miser. I have known his own daughter appeal to him—"

"I know," Fleetwood said quietly. "I am engaged to Mary Syme, and I came back on purpose to marry her. But I am saying a little bit too much. You go on with your story."

"There is no more story to tell," Cree resumed. "The temptation was too much for me. Within ten minutes I was out of the house and on my way to the docks. I had all that money with me, and the comfortable assurance that I should be on the 'Sheffield' before anybody knew that I was in London. Oh, I'm not defending myself! It was a blackguardly thing on my part to try and throw the blame on young Matthew Syme. Anyway, I shall know how to meet my punishment when the time comes. You'll find all that money in my cabin, and, as for the rest, it must take care of itself. I can't sleep, Fleetwood—I dare not be alone!"

Cree clasped his hands to his eyes and rushed from the cabin. A moment later there was a cry and a noise overhead, and a hoarse voice yelling that a man was overboard.

"Of course, he was utterly puzzled," Fleetwood told the captain. "He died a firm believer in the dark mysteries of the crystal. You see, I had chapter and verse of the things that happened, a day or two after the 'Sheffield' left port, and Cree knew that every item was correct. I was going to see old Syme, and I practically met Cree on the doorstep of the miser's house as he was hurrying off after the murder. I knew him from his photograph, but he did not know me. I heard him ask a boy to get him a cab; I followed and heard the address given. Then I found the evidence of the crime, and ten minutes after I was on Cree's track, only just in time. Sentiment is all very well, but I was anxious to save the money for the family. That is why I played that theatrical game and frightened a confession out of him. If he had landed in South Africa, he would certainly have got rid of the money, probably feeling that there was a chance of being arrested. It sounds cheap, but it was very effectual."

"Not so clever as he thought," Butcher smiled.

"No, or he would have guessed," Fleetwood replied. "And now I shall be obliged if you will tell me what I owe you for all those expensive marconigrams?"

THE END

AUTUMN MANOEUVRES

Published in The Windsor Magazine, September, 1912, Page 408.

There was a sound of revelry by night, and"—and Marlshire's chivalry had gathered at Hilsdon Place for much the same purpose as Belgium's chivalry had come together on a more historic occasion. In other words. Sir Geoffrey Hilsdon was giving a dance, and a good many of the officers of the Blue, or attacking, force were present. The country round had been chosen as a mimic battleground, and a great engagement might be expected at any moment. Therefore Madge Hilsdon had seized the opportunity of emulating her Grace of Richmond on the eve of Waterloo.

The dance was in full swing now, and the guests were visibly enjoying themselves. The fine old rooms were looking their best, the famous conservatories had been ransacked, and the floral decorations were in their way a triumph. It wanted an hour to supper-time, a waltz had just finished, and Madge Hilsdon was enjoying the luxury of a whole five minutes to herself. It was a warm evening in September, clear and fine overhead, and most of the windows had been left open for the sake of the grateful breeze. Madge slid across the refectory, where the dancing was in progress, and strolled into the cloister beyond. Here was a grand old quadrangle with a fountain in the centre—a veritable haven of rest in the languid summer days.

It was blissfully quiet there, and Madge was in the mood to go a little further. As she turned to the right, a figure emerged suddenly out of the shadows and grasped her by the arm. She had a fleeting glance of a dilapidated nomad clad in greasy cords, a dim outline of a mahogany-coloured face surrounded by a mass of ragged black beard and whisker. Before Madge could cry out, a hand was clapped to her lips, and she was lifted from her feet as though she had been no more than a feather.

"Don't make a noise!" the assailant whispered. "If you are quiet, you will be perfectly safe in my hands."

The hand was taken from Madge's lips, and she was set gently on her feet again. She was too indignant to be frightened, too absolutely enraged to be conscious of any other emotion.

"How—how dare you?" she panted.

"Well, it was a bit thick, wasn't it?" the miscreant remarked. "If you had only seen yourself standing in the cloister, looking like a ravishing angel in pink chiffon——"

"Jim," Madge cried—"I mean Mr. Sutton, this is a distinct outrage! You have dared to presume upon our—our——"

"Engagement," Lieutenant Jim Sutton said coolly. "You might just as well say it. Oh, Madge, if you only knew——"

"I'll not hear another word," Miss Hilsdon said icily. "I am returning to the house at once. And if my brother Tom imagines that your sister Connie is any less determined than I am, he will find himself bitterly mistaken."

"I can explain," Sutton said eagerly.

"There can be no explanation, Lieutenant Sutton. Gentlemen don't break appointments with ladies, and take chorus girls on the river instead. And, besides, gentlemen would not be hanging about a house at this time of night in a—a beastly disguise like yours. We were under the impression that you were both with your regiment. I suppose this is some mad escapade on Tom's part."

"He was always worse than me," Sutton said magnanimously. "Look here, Madge, I can put that river business right in a minute, if you will only listen. You see, poor old Billy Lushington got engaged to one of them, and he was in a pretty considerable funk about it, so Tom and myself thought——"

Madge stamped her little satin-shod foot impatiently.

"I decline to discuss it," she said. "What are you doing here like a tramp? You might be some vulgar poacher."

"Oh, I am!" Sutton said cheerfully. "As they say in the melodramas, my lips are sealed. Now, you might do me a little favour, Madge. It may be the last that I ever ask at your hands. With all my faults, I am not lost to all sense of feeling."

Madge's blue eyes softened ever so slightly.

"You don't deserve it," she murmured, "but if——"

"That's right," Sutton said encouragingly. "Now, does Captain Algy Traske happen to be shaking the light fantastic toe with you to-night? If so, I would have speech with him."

Madge repressed an impulse to laugh. Not that she felt in the least mirthful. This man was incorrigible. It seemed impossible to believe that she had ever loved him, that she had suffered his caresses. And that day in Dovedale, under the shade of the trees, with the stream at their feet——

"I must get back to the house," she said coldly. "I will speak to Captain Traske, and tell him you are here, though why you should have assumed this loathsome disguise——"

"Pearl of the Andes, you will do nothing of the kind," Sutton said hurriedly. "By the love you once bore me, I implore you to be discreet. The fate of a nation may hang upon your silence. Tell Traske nothing. So long as you get him outside, I shall be satisfied. The mere fact that he is my hated rival does not mean that his life is in danger. Not so much as a hair of his precious eye-glass shall be injured. Is it a bet?"

"I detest the man," Madge whispered.

Sutton held out his hands to her. She turned and fled. She stood just inside the ballroom, panting and quivering from head to foot. There was a beautiful tinge of wild rose in her cheeks, her eyes gleamed like the reflection of stars in a forest pool. She posed there, such a vision of dainty beauty, that for two whole minutes Captain Algernon Traske was actually thinking about something besides himself. He came across the room, prim and immaculate, not one line or hair a fraction of an inch out of place. He always reminded Madge of a starched doll. Some inanity in the way of a compliment was on his lips.

"This is our dance, I think," he said. "I ought not to be here at all, don't you know. I've got pressing business on for the general commanding at Farnborough, but, when I received your invitation, I really couldn't refuse. Must be off in an hour, all the same. A sort of Adam turned out of Paradise—what?"

"Then come and get it over," Madge said unkindly.

Meanwhile, Lieutenant Jim Sutton had made his way through the shrubbery in the direction of the big wood, where a gipsy caravan was standing. Here was no pampered home of peripatetic luxury, but the genuine thing as seen where the children of Bohemia mostly do congregate. The caravan was exactly as it had been taken over from its previous owners, save that it had been cleansed and sweetened, and the bedding freshly obtained from Tottenham Court Road. Inside the caravan a second swarthy ruffian was lounging, with a clay pipe between a set of beautifully even white teeth.

"What ho, my noble redskin!" he said, as Sutton entered. "How progresses the campaign? You have been so confoundedly long that I began to think that you had fallen into the hands of the treacherous foe. The point is, have you done any good?"

"I don't think," Sutton laughed. "I've seen Madge, my boy. Regularly abducted her, Tom. She was pretty haughty, and all that, but on the whole charming. Would not hear a word about Billy Lushington, all the same."

"Oh, confound Billy Lushington!" Captain Tom Hilsdon said impatiently. "We'll put that matter right when we've got time. Did you say anything about Traske?"

Sutton's eyes glowed, but that might have been due to the reflection of the match as he lighted his pipe.

"She hates him, my boy," he said rapturously.

"Now, what have I done," Hilsdon asked piously, "to be tied up in an important mission with an idiot like this?"

"Oh, all right, old chap—don't be ratty! You'd feel just the same as I do if you had a rival hanging about my sister Connie. You can take it easy, knowing that you can go in and win when Connie simmers down, as she's sure to before long. So far as Traske is concerned, I regard him as a danger."

"What—a sister of mine marry that?" Hilsdon cried. "But go on. Did you do any good at all?"

"I did. You've only got to wait, and the immaculate Traske is our very own. Heaven only knows what Madge took me for!"

"Does she know I'm in it, too?"

"Of course she guessed it. Was there ever a gorgeous spree going that we weren't both in? I believe Madge is under the firm impression that this is a poaching affray. Now, come along and let's hide somewhere near the house till the time for action arrives."

Hilsdon carefully closed the door of the caravan, and a moment or two later the adventurers were hidden in the shrubbery, from whence they could command a view of the cloisters. Presently there emerged the slim, dandy form of Captain Traske, accompanied by a radiance in pink chiffon. Traske was bending over his companion, who seemed to turn away from him with shy bashfulness.

"What are your teeth chattering for?" Hilsdon asked.

"They ain't chattering," Sutton said curtly. "I'm gritting 'em. By Jove, Madge has gone back and left that last rose of summer all blooming alone! He evidently thinks she's going to return. Now, then, it's a case of 'Up, Guards, and at 'em!'"

A pair of arms were wound kindly but firmly round Traske's shoulders, and a gag was thrust in his mouth. Without a word being uttered, he was carried to the caravan and there deposited on the floor. He protested loudly, but his threats apparently had no effect upon the miscreants who had dared to inflict this indignity upon him. That he had not the slightest notion of their identity did not in the least detract from the humour of the situation.

"He's beginning to sit up and take notice," Hilsdon grinned. "Traske, my son, you are the victim of a woman's perfidy. You are not the first brave soldier who, for the sake of a pair of blue eyes, has—well, made an ass of himself, so to speak. Product of an effete civilisation, do you realise that you have fallen into the hands of the foe?"

"Oh, speak in a language the child can understand!" Sutton said. "Algy, dear old son, we want that from you which is dearer than your life, even dearer than your eye-glass. Will you kindly cough up those dispatches which you are taking to the general at Farnborough."

"A joke, isn't it—what?" Traske asked feebly.

"On the part of your general—yes," Sutton grinned. "To pick you out the bearer of dispatches was a stroke of absolute genius. That prince of detectives, Lupin himself, would never have dreamt that you could have been chosen as the bearer of important messages. But you talk, dear boy, and our spies in your camp conveyed the news to us. Did you but know it, we are here officially with the full connivance of our illustrious chief. Like Autolycus, we are snappers-up of unconsidered trifles. In this guise we are going through your lines, gathering honey on the way. For the next day or two, at any rate, you are our prisoner. No clean collars, my boy, no purple and fine linen, not even a bath unless you like to take it in a brook. Will you kindly oblige with those dispatches?"

"I—I haven't got them on me," Traske stammered.

"Always obstinate, even as a child," Sutton said sadly, "and greedy, too. I am very much afraid that we shall have to resort to one of the fine old Eton methods of extracting information."

"I swear I haven't got them," Traske protested. "I only came to the dance for an hour. I arrived at Hilsdon Place in my uniform, and Sir Geoffrey was good enough to let me change there. The dispatches are written in cipher, and are concealed in the lining of a cigarette case. If you will let me go——"

"Not once," Hilsdon said firmly. "Tell me which bedroom you are occupying, and that will be good enough for me. No, you need not go into details. Seeing that I was born in the house, I shall be able to find the room easily enough."

Very reluctantly Traske gave the desired information. He protested loudly against the indignation of fetters on his feet and being tied up so carefully that it was barely possible to smoke a cigarette in comfort. The two adventurers left him there, and made their way back to the cloisters.

"We shall be sure to see Madge presently," Hilsdon said. "She can't help being curious as to what is going on. And it's any money that she tells Connie."

Hilsdon's prophecy was fulfilled to the letter, for a few minutes later two slim, graceful figures flitted like butterflies along the cloisters.

"Well, you girls," Hilsdon accosted them cheerfully, "and what mischief might you be up to?"

"We're not punting on the Thames," Connie Sutton said severely, "and we're not poachers, either."

"Now, that's very unkind," Hilsdon said plaintively. "This is all the thanks we get when we tear ourselves away from the society of these cruel girls in the hour of our country's need. We are not poachers—we are officers in disguise. If we are arrested, we shall be shot as spies. To make the matter plain, we are after some dispatches which Traske is conveying to the officer in command at Farnborough. We are supposed to be gipsies, and if you've got five minutes to spare, we will show you the jolliest little caravan——"

"Keep to the point," Sutton said sternly.

"The fact is, we've got Traske a prisoner, and he has confessed to possessing the dispatches, which are in his cigarette case in his bedroom. If one of you girls will only nip along and get it."

"I'd love to see that caravan," Connie said rapturously.

"Darling, you shall," Hilsdon said with equal fervour. "If Madge will cut in and get that cigarette case, you shall come down there now. We can easily put Traske to bed for an hour or two in the bracken. But we must have those papers first. Now, Madge, do be a sportsman for once."

Madge laughed, a spirit of mischief dancing in her eyes. She turned and disappeared like a shadow down the cloisters, only to return five minutes later with something dainty in the way of a cigarette case in her hand.

"There!" she said breathlessly. "But I thought you two people were alone in this business?"

"So we are," Sutton explained. "Why?"

"Oh, only because there are two other men in the house dressed very much as you are. They had the audacity to make their way into the corridor upstairs. I caught a glimpse of one of them turning into one of the rooms. It seems to me, Tom, that your intelligence department has taken the precaution of having two strings to its bow. I suppose anything is justifiable in war-time, but I thought it rather cool on the part of those men to enter the house and go upstairs. I suppose they are aware of the fact that every servant in the house is fully occupied with what is going on on the ground floor."

Hilsdon looked at Sutton and whistled softly.

"You may bet they were," he said drily. "Now, you girls, get back in the house, or you will be missed."

"What about the caravan?" Madge protested.

"Come back here in half an hour," Hilsdon went on. "Now, go back, or you will spoil everything. Ah, that's better! This is going to be a great night, old man. You tumble, don't you?"

"I tumble," Sutton said briefly. "But what's the next move? It will never do for us to disclose our identity, especially considering the fact that the house is fairly bulging with Johnnies attached to the battalions of the foe. And if, on the other hand, we do nothing——"

"Oh, come along!" Hilsdon said impatiently. "I know exactly how those chaps got in, and, therefore, it stands to reason that I know how they will come out. They must have been pretty sure of their ground for both of them to enter the house. We will go round to the side entrance. Ah, this is just as I thought!"

Hilsdon stooped and called Sutton's attention to a strand of wire running between two pegs on the grass. The entanglements were carefully skirted, and the spies came presently to a side entrance over which was a balcony facing a large casement window. By the side of the porch a short ladder was standing.

"Up you go," Hilsdon whispered. "We'll wait for our friends here. I don't suppose they will be very much longer. You stand on one side of the window, and I'll stand on the other; and when the first artist comes out on your side, drop him without the slightest hesitation. They won't have much plate on them, because most of that will be in use downstairs. But I've no doubt these chaps have laid their hands upon a tidy amount of jewellery, seeing what a crowd of women there are staying in the house."

They were quite ready, not to say eager, for the fray, but the waiting was weary work, and they were both getting a little jumpy when a long shadow crossed the window. There was a pause for a moment, and then a burly figure emerged as silent and noiseless as a shadow. His pockets appeared to be bulging, a small sack was slung over his shoulder. He gave a grunt of relief as he turned his face to the open. A second later a smashing blow on the jaw laid him out puffing and blowing on the balcony. The second man, hearing the fall, doubled on his tracks and raced along the corridor. But physical culture is not an art in high favour with the predatory class, and a neat trip brought him headlong to the ground. He found himself dragged along backwards until the balcony was reached, and the window closed carefully behind him.

"How are you getting on, Jim?" Hilsdon panted.

"Oh, I'm sitting on his head," Sutton responded cheerfully. "Most obstinate beggar he is. I had to jolt him considerably before he consented to part with his revolver. It's any odds your bird's got one, too. You'd better argue the matter with him."

Hilsdon promptly turned his man over and rubbed his face on the cold, unsympathetic lead casing of the balcony.

"Hand it over," he said between his teeth. "If you don't, I'll spoil those pretty features for you."

The burglar wriggled an unsteady hand behind him and contrived to extract an ugly-looking Colt from his hip-pocket.

"So far, so good," Hilsdon said. "You go down the ladder first, Jim, and these chaps will follow you. I'll bring up the rear, and we'll take them as far as the caravan. We can search them quietly there. Now, drop that cursing, my man. If you only knew it, you are two of the luckiest rascals in England."

"I'm afraid they are," Sutton muttered mournfully. "We are bound to let the brutes go when we've done with them. We can't appear in the matter without disclosing our identity. Now, then, squad, by the left, march!"

The caravan was somewhat crowded a little later. Traske viewed the new-comers through his eyeglass with a kind of mild, resigned astonishment. His own abject misery and utter melancholy won a smile even from the burglars.

"D'yer mean to say, guv'nor," one of them asked, "as wot' e's another of us? D'yer know 'im, George?"

George shook his head gloomily. He was engaged in the horribly uncongenial task of emptying his pockets. With a heartfelt sigh, George's companion in misfortune was doing the same. It was a fine, glittering heap of stuff that presently littered the caravan floor. Sir Geoffrey's male guests had not been selfishly forgotten, for the heap contained watches and pins and sovereign purses, to say nothing of a little heap of cigarette cases. As one of these, a platinum and gold affair set in diamonds, was produced, a queer sort of a cry broke from Traske's lips. It was only for a moment, then he became wooden again, but, all the same, his passing agitation had not escaped Sutton's notice. He laughed drily.

"So that's the lot," Hilsdon said. "And now you two artists can go as soon as you like."

A fine perspiration bespangled George's brow.

"You're joking, guv'nor," he said hoarsely.

"Oh, no, I'm not," Hilsdon went on. "Make the most of your luck when you get the opportunity. There's the door, unless you prefer the more congenial exit of the window."

The space recently occupied by George and his companion resolved itself into thin air. Sutton bent over the glittering heap of gems, and picked up the resplendent cigarette case.

"Those chaps have done us a fine service," he said.

"In what way?" Hilsdon asked.

"Why, don't you see, Mad—I mean your messenger—brought you the wrong cigarette case. Dear old Algy here is just the sort of Johnny to carry two. And didn't you notice how he cried out when George produced that Solomon-in-all-his-glory box? George and Co. are evidently much better finders of valuables than we are. Now, come, Algy, aren't I right? If you don't agree, we can easily cut the cigarette box open."

"Don't do that!" Traske groaned. "I hate to see beautiful things spoilt. I'd much rather show you how to open the case."

"Good boy!" Hilsdon said approvingly. "What an ingenious arrangement! And now, Algy, we are going to look after your health a bit. It is absolutely necessary that you should have a little fresh air before going to sleep, so we are going to deposit you outside for half an hour on a comfortable bed of bracken. At the end of three days we shan't want you any more, and then we can return you to headquarters as an empty."

Traske made no protest—he recognised the futility of it. A little while later, and there were two other figures in the caravan. They were slender, beautiful ethereal figures in frothy lace and diaphanous draperies—they had pink in their cheeks and a tender gleam in their blue eyes.

"And that's the story," Hilsdon concluded lamely.

"Oh, it was wonderful, wonderful!" Connie exclaimed. "You are the two cleverest boys in the world!"

"I'm glad you didn't leave me out," Sutton said.

"Just as if anybody could!" Madge cried indignantly. "Oh, I should like to have seen Captain Traske's face when you brought him here! I suppose you couldn't fetch him?"

"Oh, that would be downright cruel," Sutton said. "But then girls are cruel—no sense of justice at all. You've only got to go out of your way to help another man, and they are sure to think that you are doing their sex an injustice. Now, take——"

Madge impulsively threw her arms about his neck.

"Will you ever forgive me?" she murmured.

"Connie," Hilsdon whispered, "don't you think we're in the way here? Shall I see you back to the house?"

"I think you had better, dear," Connie said demurely.

THE END