TABLE of CONTENTS

A CORNER IN ELEPHANTS

FOR ONCE IN A WAY

THE APPLE-GREEN PLATE

SECOND IN THE FIELD

A BIT OF EGYPT

THE SECOND CHAPTER

THE BLACK PRINCE

THE GREY BAT

THE LONG ARM OF BRONZE

A THRILLING EXIT

A CORNER IN ELEPHANTS

ILLUSTRATED BY WARWICK REYNOLDS

Published in The Windsor Magazine, Vol. XLII, Nov 1915, pp 705-711

NOW, when Professor Cyrus Axiom went to the Chief Commissioner for a permit to hunt butterflies in North-West Samaraland, Hugloff asked him a question. And Commissioner Hugloff was there to ask questions.

"Did you ever hear of one Ulysses P. Odgers?" he said.

"Name sounds familiar," the Professor said thoughtfully. "Wasn't he the man who ate nothing but tripe?"

"I never heard of him in that connection, Professor."

"Then he was the man who always fainted at the sight of it," Axiom responded obligingly. "What's he got to do with African butterflies!"

"Well, he had a good deal to do with them at one time. I dare say it is an interesting study. Have you always followed lepidoptera?"

"I didn't quite get the hang of that remark, Mr. Hugloff, somehow."

"No? I mean, have you always made a hobby of entomology?"

The Professor remarked mildly that he must be a little deaf that morning. The same distressing malady possessed him when Hugloff spoke of the natural fauna of the district. And the Commissioner smiled. He did not often smile; his face was usually grave, which often goes to a man possessing an exquisite sense of humour.

"Mr. Odgers came here, like yourself, in search of insects. He was ten years up country, and I lost sight of him altogether. He sent a good many cases home—heavy cases—so I concluded that some of the butterflies in the interior were somewhat hefty. Well, one of those cases came to grief one day, and I had a look at the butterflies. Some of them had tusks quite six feet long. Then I knew that the Professor had been feeding his butterflies upon our elephants. Now, Professor, I want you to know that elephants are our star crop. They are strictly preserved, and that dodge of shepherding the flock over the frontier line and rounding 'em up afterwards doesn't cut any ice in Samaraland."

"What's all this got to do with me?" the Professor asked politely.

"Oh, nothing! I was only telling you the story. When I tumbled to what was going on, I went after Ulysses P. Odgers. He'd a Maxim gun and a whole battery of Winchesters and Brownings, and he'd taught his natives how to shoot—butterflies. But, all the same, he's dead."

"These things happen daily in the best-ordered families."

"They do. They happen here very often, and they are sometimes painfully sudden. What I mean is, I don't make international affairs of them. I don't give the British or the American Governments a chance to write a Blue Book on the subject. You won't find a word of it in the Yellow Press. I prefer my diplomacy to be a little more abrupt than that."

The Professor nodded thoughtfully. He was not asking any more questions just for the moment. He was making a mental contract between himself and the Commissioner. And Hugloff was doing much the same thing. The Professor took his permit and his papers generally and departed. The Commissioner looked out of his office door towards the forest, shimmering in the heat of the sun, and smiled dryly.

"Well, I've given him his warning," he muttered, "and I think he must have a pretty good idea of what I meant. Not a bad dodge of his, coming here in his own name and tacking 'Professor' in front of it. He looked the part, too—make-up and everything excellent. Who would think that that mild-looking old boy with the stoop and the grey hair and spectacles was an expert shot and noted game poacher?"

Now, Hugloff prided himself upon the way he ran the territory; he was proud of the way in which he kept out the inquisitive stranger and the peripatetic M.P. with the smug accent and the amazing aptitude for making mischief—so far even he had been free from missionaries. So the district throve and the elephants increased in number. It was a criminal offence to shoot one of these beasts in Samaraland, and Hugloff rejoiced in the fact. And he had a way of his own of dealing with poachers.

But there are poachers and poachers. There was trouble with the natives sometimes. Now and then a wandering shikari would bob up serenely, all unconscious of the law of the Medes and Persians, but he was easily dealt with. Professor Axiom was a different matter, however. He had come here cleverly disguised as a man of science, but Hugloff was not to be deceived. He had been warned, too, what to expect. For Axiom had a world-wide reputation as a poacher. He had poached sealskins from the rookeries, he had poached pearls at the imminent risk of his neck, he had poached anything and everything where profit and real live danger went hand in hand. And now he had come down here to try his hand with Hugloff and the British Government.

Hugloff had recognised him at a glance, despite his disguise. He did not regard Axiom exactly as a criminal, for everybody has a kind of sneaking admiration for a poacher. The man's audacity and bravery were beyond question. On neutral ground Hugloff would have most likely forgathered with him, for they had many interests and virtues in common; but when the man came here like this, looking for trouble, there could only be one end to it. Certainly Samaraland was not large enough for both Hugloff and Axiom; one of them would have to go, and that exit would be both violent and painful.

And Axiom had been warned. The story of Ulysses P. Odgers had been a mild fiction invented for the occasion; it was Hugloff's way of telling the other that he had been found out. There never had been any Ulysses P. Odgers—still, the parable was there for ordinary intelligence to read; and Axiom had read it with the greatest possible ease. Hugloff had told him quite plainly that he could go into the interior if he liked, but that he undertook the journey at his own risk, and that, if he tried on any of his little games there, he would be shot on sight. Norman Hugloff meant every word he said. And Axiom knew it; he knew exactly what risks he was taking—a fact which did not deter him for a moment. He bore no malice against Hugloff; on the contrary, he was grateful for the language in which the intimation had been couched. If he failed, he would be shot like a dog, and there would be an end of him.

So he packed up his traps and his cases and departed. He made his way into the interior, with no white man for company. He was going to depend entirely on the natives, a wild, treacherous, hardy lot; but Axiom had a way with him and a knack of getting the best out of everybody that he came in contact with. At the expiration of a couple of months he had about him a force of a dozen armed men, and every nigger for a hundred miles round was his spy and slave. And Hugloff, to whom vassals brought news of the thing, could only sit at home and groan, and wait for his opportunity. So long as Axiom left the precious elephants alone, he was powerless to act; and, so far as he could hear, not so much as a single shot had been fired.

"This chap's going on a different line altogether," Tremayne, Hugloff's second-in-command, said; "he's driving the game. By Jove, his knowledge of the country beats mine, and I've had ten years of it! He's got over four hundred elephants in a sort of ring fence of black humanity, and they just edge the herd exactly where they want them to go. They're gradually getting the beasts accustomed to trekking. It's a long job, and it requires patience; but one of these fine days those elephants will be over the border into the Sad Lands, and then the Professor can have all the ivory he needs."

"It wouldn't be the first time we fetched the herd back, Tremayne."

"Quite right, sir; but those were strictly family affairs. If Axiom gets away with the herd out of our beat, he'll make an international business of it. We should have a score of asses asking questions in Parliament, and next recess one or two of 'em here weeping on the bosoms of the natives. And, begad, the beggars are beginning to laugh at us as it is! They know exactly what is going on. Question is, how can we stop it?"

Hugloff pondered over the difficulty. It was necessary to force Axiom into some open act of defiance. If they could only compel him to lay his hand upon one of the sacred elephants! It came to the Commissioner presently.

"I fancy I've got it," he said. "Now, listen carefully, Tremayne, for this part of the campaign will be left in your hands."

Tremayne expressed his whole-hearted approval. He set out at daybreak with two pack-mules and himself alone, with the object of picking up Axiom's tracks. There were cogent reasons why this shy solitude was necessary. Axiom's camp must be approached without the Professor being any the wiser. There would not be much difficulty about that, for the Professor was not suspicious, and, moreover, he was conscious that his conscience was clear. He was going to win the game without taking any risks, and he half regretted the fact.

Under the cover of a black, starless night, Tremayne crept away from the near vicinity of Axiom's camp and waited for results.

The fire had a good hold by this time; the wind was blowing strong from the west, so that Axiom and his retinue were hard put to it to save their skins. They were glad to get away with their guns and cartridges—the mere fact that all other supplies were destroyed seemed a mere trifle at the time. Nor was there the least suspicion of anything in the way of treachery. These spurting bush fires were constantly happening—must happen as long as tobacco formed a part of the pioneer's religion. Tremayne lurked about for another twenty-four hours, and then returned to headquarters with a water blister on either heel and a peaceful content down inside his moral anatomy. But his face was grave and officially correct as he limped into the Commissioner's office.

"I've come to make a report, sir," he said. "I regret to inform you that the American Professor Axiom has been poaching. I found the carcase of an elephant in the immediate proximity of his tent. I produce a portion of the carcase with some of the bullets, also some empty shells. I am prepared, sir, to lay an information in proper form."

Hugloff took it all down with great gravity. He was seriously disturbed. He dismissed his subordinate in quite his best official manner, but it was quite another Hugloff who met Tremayne at dinner.

"We can act now," he said, when the cigarette stage was reached. "I am going to take matters into my own hands."

"It's a serious business," Tremayne said thoughtfully.

"Perhaps the most serious we ever had in hand. Axiom will fight. It will be a case of shooting at sight. One or the other of us has to go. Did I ever tell you what happened over those poached pearls? No? Axiom got the pearls all right, and they caught him as he was leaving one of the islands—I don't remember which it was, but no matter. He killed four of them and plunged into the sea. How he reached the schooner nobody knows. I had it all from Gilray, who was on the coast at the time. It was Gilray who warned me that Axiom was coming this way."

"We'd better take all the force we can get together, sir."

"We'd better do nothing of the kind," Hugloff said grimly. "My dear boy, the last thing we want in the world is to be talked about. Axiom has just got to fade out and be forgotten. The natives with him are not under our control, so we need not fear gossip from them. What we have to fear is talk on the part of our niggers. I don't want to have a commission over here some fine morning to inquire into the violent death of a distinguished scientist called Axiom—the whole thing engineered by some confounded member of Parliament. We are going out to do the thing alone. Axiom will guess what to expect—he will know that the killing of the elephant would come to my ears. It's just you and me and nobody else. No ostentation, no notice, nothing but hard business. Strangers are slaying our elephants, and we are going to punish them. If somebody is killed in the fight, that's no fault of ours."

Tremayne accepted the situation with proper philosophy. All this, of course, was in the day's work.

"I'm quite ready when you say the word, sir," he said. "I suppose the sooner we are off the better. It will take us three days to get up to Axiom, and goodness knows how long afterwards. I'll see to the provisions and the rifles. Like to start to-morrow, perhaps?"

Most emphatically the Commissioner would, There was a grim look on his face as he explained his plan of campaign. He had been through this kind of thing before, though usually in connection with native troubles, but he had never had a foeman so worthy of his steel. By the time that the expedition was finished, one or the other would be finished, too. And Axiom had had a fair and solemn warning. He had known from the first exactly what penalty he was incurring. Hugloff had told Axiom in as many words that he knew exactly what and whom he was dealing with, and if the alleged Professor cared to go on in the face of danger, then his blood would be on his own head. They had parted on friendly terms enough, but the next time these men met it would be as deadly enemies.

Hugloff knew pretty well where he could pick up his man. Axiom was too old at the game to start off on a long and perilous expedition with only one baggage and provision train. He would have other stores safely hidden away, and these his native servants would fetch. The elephant had probably been slaughtered for the sake of immediate food, and perhaps also for the tusks, which might be given to the natives as a sweetener of extra labour.

"We shall find him pretty close to the spot where you—I mean where the fire broke out," Hugloff said. "I wish I had that beggar's wonderful way with the natives. I never could do anything with them. Yet Axiom comes along, and he's 'Hail, fellow, well met,' with them directly. I've heard that he is just as successful amongst cannibals. And it makes it all the harder for us."

Tremayne recognised the force of the argument. They were not only after Axiom, but they had the niggers to guard against as well. They would not be indifferent, not disposed to throw in their lot with the winning side. On the contrary, they were much more likely to turn their arrows against the attacking force. They might also be on the look-out for Axiom's pursuers. Anyway, Axiom must be pretty sure of his ground, or he had not been so careless over the elephant and the evidence of his crime left on the great plain for such as could read.

For the next day or two Hugloff and his companion pushed their way cautiously on. It was not safe to light a fire, it was not safe to smoke even. They had to put up with dried food, their bed was the open bush. It was on the evening of the third day that they reached Axiom's camp. It was a dark, still night, in favour of the expedition in one way, but against it in another. It was possible to creep forward under cover of the darkness, but, on the other hand, the slightest sound could be heard. Inch by inch the Commissioner and his companion drew nearer to the tent where Axiom lay. A bright fire crackled in front of the tent, a score of dusky forms lay all about it. A stick under Tremayne cracked like a pistol-shot, and instantly a dozen black, shaggy heads were raised like feeding rabbits at the first sign of danger. Axiom was standing in the door of the tent, looking suspiciously about him. The air and manner of the Professor had vanished, his stoop was gone, so also was the grey tinge in his hair. He looked a grand specimen of fine-drawn humanity as he stood there shading his eyes with his hand. Even in that moment of danger Hugloff could not repress a feeling of admiration.

For a long time Axiom stood there gazing into the darkness. He seemed to be satisfied at length that his suspicions were groundless, for he turned on his heel and disappeared, but not until he had said something to the natives round the fire.

"No use," Hugloff muttered. "We shall have to try strategy. He's too wide awake for us to take him by surprise. Anyway, we know where he is and something of the geography of the place. We'll do nothing further to-night."

All the next day they dogged Axiom through the bush as the camp moved along. They were amongst the elephants now—a restless, uneasy herd, none too good-tempered at being shepherded from their favourite feeding-grounds. Another week of this and they would be hustled over the border, and, once that happened. Axiom could laugh at the Commissioner. To kill him now would be justified; to shoot him across the border would be murder.

They lay there in the heat as the sun dropped down—lay there almost under the feet of the restless, uncertain herd. It was dangerous work, and more than once they had to roll over quickly to avoid the crushing weight of a passing foot. It was quite dark at length, and in the distance Axiom's camp fire twinkled. Hugloff rose to his feet, every inch of the ground about him photographed indelibly on his mental retina. His plan was quite clear, and he was going to put it into execution. He felt his way round to the rear of the herd of elephants, now feeding more or less restlessly. He crept behind one of the great slate-coloured monsters, a box of fusees in his hand. He slid one of these down the leg of his breeches, and, as the flame sputtered and roared, pressed it hard against the flank of the elephant.

A mighty trumpeting filled the forest, the fusees flared one after the other. The big fellow lunged forward, followed by the rest of the herd. Whether they were frightened or angry, Hugloff neither knew nor cared. He and Tremayne were behind them, following now openly and recklessly.

"They only needed touching off," he panted. "Axiom has been trying their tempers the last few days. And they're heading right for the camp. We'll just follow and take our chance in the confusion."

The forest seemed to shake under the thud of heavy feet; the elephants charged forward straight for the camp as if it had been an enemy. They were mad with rage and terror now, as Hugloff's trained eye could see. Between the swaying, wobbling bodies he caught glimpses of the camp fire, he heard the sharp crack of a rifle.

A dozen natives rose to their feet and waved blazing torches snatched from the fire. It was just possible that they might stop the stampede. But the big fellow was quite out of hand now, and, in any case, it would be impossible for the leaders to pull up with that ponderous weight of flesh and muscle pressing on behind. Over the camp and over the fire they swept like a torrent. They scattered the natives right and left, like a handful of chaff in a gale.

Hugloff was taking it all in now—he was pressing close behind the rearmost elephant. He saw Axiom burst from the tent and hurl himself into the bush. He marked the spot where the poacher lay almost to an inch, then he dropped himself as if he had been shot. For a moment the camp fire had been beaten flat, but now a stick or two caught fire and blazed brilliantly. With his head upraised cautiously, Hugloff could see something moving in the scrub. He did not need anyone to tell him that this was Axiom, and it was any odds that the American was unarmed. In that wild rush for safety he would not have time to snatch his revolver. The natives seemed to have vanished altogether; it was even possible that they would not return. When a herd of elephants once gets out of control, they are cruelly ugly customers to tackle, revengeful and vindictive, and intelligent withal. And Hugloff had taken this into consideration when he started the circus with the box of fusees. For all the natives would know to the contrary, the elephants had actually been attacking the camp, and it is not good, or even commonly prudent, to face a herd of maddened elephants with a bow and arrow. Hugloff knew also that an infuriated elephant will track a foe for days, and the natives could not possibly discover that the animals were merely frightened.

Thus it seemed to Hugloff that his stratagem had succeeded, and that he had Axiom entirely at his mercy. Where Tremayne was, and what had become of him, he did not know, and did not care very much, either. The two had lost one another in the mad scramble, and probably Tremayne was hiding somewhere in the brush, waiting on events. Hugloff drew a revolver from his pocket and fingered the trigger; by the fitful light of the fire he could mark the very spot where Axiom had dived into the brushwood. He saw a twig move; his lips set into a smile of grim satisfaction.

"You can rise up out of there, Professor," he said. "I know exactly where you are, and I've got you covered. Stand up at once, or I'll fill you with lead!"

No reply came from Axiom, save a queer throaty sound that might have been intended for a chuckle. Something flashed and spat, and a hot pain caught Hugloff along the ridge of his right ear. Without hesitation he emptied his revolver in the direction of the spot where Axiom lay.

"Guess it's you or me," a harsh voice said. "I guess—"

The voice broke off with a choke and a cough. And Hugloff knew that cough. He had heard it rattling in the throat of many a hard-hit native—he knew as well as if a doctor had told him that he had shot Axiom through the lungs. He had only to lie there and wait; to move forward now would be madness. The wounded man might still be full of fight and resource, and there was no getting away from the fact that he was armed. The cough came again. A little distance away Tremayne was whistling gently.

"It's all right," Hugloff muttered. "Just stay where you are, Tremayne; don't show as much as the end of your nose, because I've got him. I'm not boasting—fact is, I'm more than sorry. But the fact remains that I've got him, and I've shot him through the lungs."

"Now, how in thunder did you find that out?" Axiom asked.

He put the question out of the darkness in a spirit of friendly curiosity. He might have been a mere spectator watching the grim game from a place of safety.

"Practice. We all play for our own hands here, Professor, and I'm not taking any risks. But if you'll give me your word—"

Axiom staggered to his feet. He threw his revolver towards the flickering fire.

"There," he said, "that's my last chance. Now, boys, take me and put me on my back by the side of the fire. Make me as comfortable as you can, for I'll not trouble you for long. I'm just bleeding slowly to death inside, and that's a cold fact you can gamble on."

"I'm sorry," Hugloff said unsteadily. "I was never more ghastly sorry for anything in my life. Come and give a hand, Tremayne."

They settled him down carefully by the fireside, and he asked for his pipe. There was brandy somewhere, if they could find it. There was a cheerful smile on his face, the friendliest gleam in his eyes.

"No, there's no pain," he said. "And don't you go asking yourself questions. You gave me as fair a warning as a man ever had. You told me plainly that you knew exactly whom you were dealing with and what the penalty might be. And I took all the risks, pard—I went in with my eyes open. And, if I could get over this bout, I should be doing it again before long. Sorter in the blood, mates. I've been poaching all over the world, and I was bound to get it good and hard some of these days. And I don't leave anyone behind me, and not a red cent out of all the money I've made times. Here, shake!"

He shook hands solemnly and heartily with the others, his eyes closed, and he died without another word or sound. And they buried him, and lit a fire upon his grave in the silence of the forest, with no human eye to see. They were very still and very silent, and Hugloff's eyes were not quite dry.

"Don't say anything," he muttered—"at least, not just yet. I'm sorry, Tremayne, sorry to the bottom of my soul. For he was a real white man, and in this old world of ours there are none too many of them."

THE END

FOR ONCE IN A WAY

Published in The Queenslander, Saturday, 15 January, 1915.

"The ideal Christmas we have waited for so long is going to be ours at last, Hilda," Loftus said. "We have waited for it long enough, goodness knows."

But Hilda Loftus merely sighed.

The dainty mechanism purred, like a thing of life, much as if the click of the switch had stirred up a hive of bees. Quivering steel and whirling brass fitted in together, dazzlingly swift like the flight of a cloud of fireflies. There was no noise beyond the steady hum and the prick, prick, of the shining needles. The whole machine was little longer than a cigar box, and not very much heavier, yet there was fame and fortune in it, as Hugh Loftus very well knew. He was speaking quietly into a tiny brass receiver above the clouded fireflies, and as the words fell from his lips, behold they were faithfully recorded by the gyrating needles. The miracle had been accomplished, and behold, the first mechanical stenographer stood confessed; Hilda should be happy this Christmas or the whole scheme of creation was wrong.

The vocagraph would go down to posterity with the phonograph and wireless. They had both been held impossible in their conception, but they were both born all the same. The suggestion of breathing a word into steel and brass and stamping those words faithfully on paper had been the dream of a madman, and yet the dream had been accomplished, aye, and in a cheap commercial form, too. The vocagraph could be 'placed on the market'--that was what Marshall Clint said--at fifteen pounds, and at that figure give the investor an almost fabulous fortune.

The thing was absolutely complete, it worked smoothly and without a hitch. Loftus had tested it in a hundred ways. He had actually discovered a new force, a brand new secret in dynamics. For three years he had devoted his whole time to it. He had disposed of everything he possessed, stripped himself of house and home, of pleasure and luxury, almost of the necessities of life. He had grown grey at the temples and hollow under the eyes. He was almost boyishly grateful when some chance acquaintance offered him a cigarette. How long was it since he had last played a game of gold? He loved the field and the flood, the gun and the rod and the oar. Some day, please heaven, he would have his own place in the country, and grow roses again. There were times when he ached for the fields and the sunshine and the smell of the good red earth.

And he was not far on the wrong side of 40, and this was his third invention. He did not care to think of the other two and the way he had been robbed of them. Alcott drove a Rolls Royce now, and Pearson had just purchased a villa at Nice. Loftus had nothing. And, unless fortune was on his side, he would get nothing out of this.

Circumstances had forced him to go to Clint. A man he had met in the city had put him on to Clint. Nobody would listen to a man who declared that he had invented a machine capable of recording the human voice on paper. He must be either a knave or a fool. He was dreadfully shabby, too. Down at the heel, failure in every threadbare seam and ragged edge. Besides, his machine, together with its tools and spare parts, had been taken under an execution, and despair had him by the throat. Unless he could raise some money he would have to start over again--on something fresh. He entered Clint's' office, bankrupt in hope and credit, and manhood almost, too.

He came out of Copthall Avenue with a cheque for a thousand pounds in his pocket. He did not know that Clint had made money out of his other ventures. He did not know that Clint was fond of a gamble in patents, he did not know that Clint was accustomed to make or lose a thousand pounds without turning a hair. He did not know exactly what he had signed except that it was something to the effect that unless the thousand pounds be paid in six months everything reverted to the lender. Clint's tame lawyer had drawn up the paper ... What did it matter? If the money was repaid, then Clint and the inventor shared the proceeds between them equally.

Six months! Pooh! Long before then the world would be talking about the vocagraph. And now somehow the six months was nearly up, and by the end of the week--Longstaff had warned Loftus what would happen if the money was not repaid. Clint would grab the lot; that queer twisted, humorous mouth of his would smile, but there would be no money, no extension of time. Longstaff was a good chap, and he had promised to find the money by Saturday provided that Loftus would agree to leave things in his hands and go nowhere else. Two days more and then--Freedom.

Hilda Loftus wished that she could share this rosy view. She was only 24, and very much in love with this simple-hearted, handsome dreamer of hers, but the strain of the last three years had been hard, and besides, she was a struggling author, and the gift of insight was hers. She disliked Longstaff; she did not trust him. And, she had made a discovery the day before that filled her with uneasiness. There was a cloud on her pretty face, a shadow on the grey eyes as she stood watching the machine at work.

"It's wonderful, dearest," she said. "All our troubles should be over by now."

Loftus laughed as he tossed back his black hair with the grey in it.

"Why do you say should, like that?" he asked. "Our fortune is made. We'll take that place at Hindhead and the cottage on the coast near Sandwich. And I'll play golf every day this summer. We'll have a car and go touring round. You wait till Saturday. By that time Longstaff will have found me the money, and I shall be free from old Clint."

"He's not old--not more than 50, anyway."

"Isn't he? Well, he might be a hundred by the look of him. And what a life. He works so hard that he can't eat anything--beyond his dinner he does not know what it is to get a meal. And he suffers from insomnia. Longstaff says he is worth two millions. And if he had twice as much he would be just as keen for more. A form of disease I call it."

Hilda nodded thoughtfully. She had seen Clint, who had once called to look at the mechanism. A big, powerful man, with broody, faraway eyes, and a queer, twisted mouth with just a suggestion of cruel humour about it. With his bent shoulders and head thrust forward he looked like some bloated spider holding on to the threads of his web. He had said nothing, had expressed no opinion of any kind. A hard man, Hilda thought, surely there was no tender spot in Clint. Hilda heard something as regarded that some weeks later.

It was another accident that made her acquainted with Marshall Clint's mother. Hilda did a little odd journalism when fortune came her way, and Mrs. Clint came into the sphere of operations. But this Hilda had kept to herself--it was plainly her duty not to paint Clint in anything but dark colours. And the fateful Saturday in December was getting too close.

"Why are you so sure Mr. Longstaff will come to the rescue?" she asked.

"My dear girl, he benefits to a great extent. Besides, he hates Clint. He'd do anything, even lose money, to spite that chap. The money will come along to-morrow, you'll see. We'll buy the motor."

"Yes, we shall see," Hilda said thoughtfully. "Isn't it possible that Longstaff and Clint are working together? May it not be the fact that Longstaff has been put on to keep you from going somewhere else, and that you may find yourself let down at that last moment when it will be too late."

"Oh, you women. Those chaps hate one another. They don't speak."

"Don't they? Well, as you know, Mr. Clint lives in Seymour-street, No. 55. The night before last I was passing there, and the door stood open. In the hall was Mr. Clint. He was just seeing a man out. I heard him say he had no time to spare. He was going to dine and the next hour or two was sacred to him. And the man who was in the hall was John Longstaff. They shook hands at parting in quite a friendly manner."

"Hilda! Why did you not tell me this before?"

"Oh, I should have told you. Only--only you are so trustful, and I hoped for the best. Besides, Longstaff promised faithfully that you should have the money next day. Again, I had a little scheme of my own--something that I hope to make a short story of later on. Oh, it is quite clear to me those men are working together. You are to be fooled until it is too late for you to go anywhere else. If you could pay Mr. Clint the 1000 pounds, you would have a few days in which to turn round. And I have spoken about the invention to the proprietor of the Forum. He is in Paris till next Wednesday, but he told me that he would gladly find money for you if the vocagraph did work properly; he said any one would."

"Wednesday will be too late," Loftus said gloomily.

"Oh, I quite see that, Hugh. We must do something between now and Saturday--only to-morrow remains. And there is my little scheme to be tried first."

"To-morrow, eh?"

"No, to-night. Stay here and go on with that little experiment of yours. I am going out, and I am going, if necessary, to spend a whole sovereign, about the last I have in the world. It is now seven o'clock. At eight I shall be dining in solitary state in a certain exclusive restaurant in the West End. Oh, you need not worry about me, I shall be perfectly safe. An old newspaper hand like myself is safe anywhere. No, I shall not answer any questions, Hugh."

Loftus shrugged his shoulders. His faith in his wife was childlike. He merely raised his eyebrows as she came into the room presently, dressed for going out. She wore a simple dress of some clinging black material, her neck and arms gleamed like old ivory against the dusky lace. There was a rose in her golden hair. Her eyes were shining with suppressed excrement.

"Do I look well?" she asked. "Are you pleased with me, Hugh?"

Loftus caught her in his arms and kissed her. She had been everything to him for the last three years. He pictured her in the cottage, with the roses climbing over it, he saw her framed in Crimson Ramblers. He would not spoil everything by asking her to explain.

"You are lovely," he said. "So long as I have you the rest matters nothing. You will come back with your pocket full of gold. I feel that the invention is safe."

Hilda laughed as she freed herself from his close embrace.

"You are spoiling my chevelure," she said. "We shall see what we shall see. Now call me a taxi. The ship must not be spoilt for a haporth of tar."

Hilda smiled to herself as the well trained waiter removed her wrap. She wondered if he had any inkling of the true state of things, of the solitary gold coin in her pocket, the fact that she had subsisted on tea and bread and butter for days. The well-ordered glare, the yellow flicker of the electrics dazzled her, the smell of flowers oppressed her senses. Blue and gold and crimson whirled before her eyes. And out of the shimmering haze presently a pleasant refined picture began to focus itself. Here were fair women and brave men, a frothy sea of silk and chiffon, and with it no suggestion of care or anxiety or suffering anywhere.

"I am looking for Mr. Clint," she said.

The waiter was, if possible, a shade more humble in his manner. Mr. Clint had not yet arrived, but was expected at any moment. That was his table by the angle of the wall. Mr. Clint had given no orders for a second cover, indeed the insinuation was that the millionaire invariably dined alone a la carte. If madame would come this way----

Hilda took her seat and dismissed the waiter. Her courage was coming back to her now. She was getting accustomed to the glittering picture; the facets of the diamonds no longer blinded and bewildered her. She was conscious presently that Clint was standing close by regarding her with frank annoyance. There was a moody look in his eyes, his hard mouth was straight and stern. He glanced towards the distant waiter.

"Do please sit down, Mr. Clint," Hilda said steadily. "I am quite aware of the fact that I am occupying the table reserved for you. I had a fancy to dine here to-night."

"Indeed," said Clint coldly. "And why not?"

"Why not indeed? Do please sit down. I shall be able to make my confession sound more sensible to you if you will do so. I came to dine with you."

"Really! Ladies as a rule are not--you understand? As your host----"

"Oh, dear, I did not mean that at all," Hilda smiled. "I am paying for my own dinner, if you don't mind. I hardly know how to explain. As I came along it seemed quite easy and now it strikes me as foolish and extravagant. Especially as I understand that this, is your sacred hour when nobody but a woman----"

"You are quite right," Clint said grimly. "Nobody but a woman would."

"But a woman is always allowed to be illogical, Mr. Clint. And I don't think you will find her quite illogical when she comes to explain."

Clint looked at his vis-a-vis for the first time. It struck him with the force of a new truth that she was exceedingly pretty. The clear depths of those grey eyes reminded him of--pah--foolishness. He had not given a thought to--what was her name?--for years. And the pleading look in those eyes, the pathetic half-frightened droop of her mouth. She was horribly afraid of him, too. She had come here begging, of course. Women always were rapacious creatures. Improvident, too. Probably spending her last sovereign----

"I am," Hilda declared. "You are quite correct."

"You are what?" questioned Clint.

"Here in company with the last few shillings I have in the world. And I don't regret it. If the worst comes to the worst, there is a short story here."

"My dear madame, you are my guest," Clint retorted. "You must be. This is my table; I pay a subsidy for it. Besides, what would the waiter think if you asked for your bill? A little soup? A mouthful of fish and a bird of some kind? Champagne. No? You are quite wise to choose claret. Now talk to me. Let me hear you chatter like all the other women are doing. Ask me a lot of questions. It will he a treat, a new sensation to me."

Hilda laughed gaily enough. But it was not until the coffee was on the table and Clint had asked permission to smoke that she spoke in earnest. The grey eyes had grown serious, the little mouth was set firm.

"Mr. Clint," she said. "How much money would satisfy the average man?"

"All he could get and just a little more," Clint smiled. "It is that little more that keeps the wheels of commerce working. We all want that little more. I do. The ambition of to-day is merely the policy of to-morrow."

"You mean to say you are never satisfied?"

"Well, yes. You may take it for granted that I never am satisfied. I expect you rather despise me for that remark?"

"I do. It is deplorable. I mean this loving to pile up money. Now, I'll ask you another question. Have you ever been in love, Mr. Clint?"

Clint's eyes flashed angrily. His brow knotted in a heavy frown.

"Are you not going too far?" he demanded.

"Of course I am. I came here for that purpose. And you have answered my question, although you did not mean to do so. And I am in love--deeply in love--with my own husband. Nobody but myself knows the depths of his gentle, generous, confiding nature. Why do I tell of the struggles and privation of the past three years? I watch him growing older and greyer. I can see his dream of peace and comfort in some pleasant country house fading away day by day. A little time back that dream looked like becoming a reality. Unless a miracle happens he is a ruined beggar before many hours have gone."

"As a matter of business," Clint began. "As a legal transaction----"

"Please let me finish. We owe you money. If that money is not repaid by Christmas Eve starvation stands before us. My husband's great invention passes into your hands. May I ask what you propose to do with it?"

"Sell it, I presume," Clint said sourly.

"What for?"

"Why, to make money, to be sure. Make a good fortune if you like. If you think that by coming whining to me----"

"I beg your pardon, sir; I am not whining. I am seeking your information. You have twice as much as need be, ten times as much as you can ever spend. You have practically nobody to care for you but your mother. I have met your mother--a dear, kind-hearted honourable old lady, who is intensely proud of you and your career. In her eyes you are the most honourable and upright man in the world. She regards you as being as charitable and generous as herself, and she is beloved by all who know her. What would she say if she knew that you were nothing more than a cold, callous money-grubber--the Man with the Muckrake that Bunyan speaks of in 'The Pilgrim's Progress'? What would she say if she knew that you had deliberately conspired to rob my poor boy of the fruits of his brain? Oh, you like to stand well in the eyes of your mother."

"You would tell her this?" Clint demanded hoarsely. "You would blackmail----"

"Mr. Clint," Hilda cried, "with all your money and power you are a pitiable creature. If it were to save my husband from ruin to-morrow, if it were to give us the fortune you are taking off our hands, I would not tell the good woman who bore you the truth. What is it you want? What do you gain by robbing us? The money makes you no happier. You are not a happy man in any case; your face speaks of sullen discontent, and yet you would stoop to deceit, you would make a tool of John Longstaff, who has tricked and fooled my husband into the belief that ample capital is coming in time to save us. Mr. Longstaff professes to hate you, and declares that he will help us if only to spite you. You two are supposed to be at daggers drawn. Yet he visits you secretly, for I have seen him coming from the house. I have seen you part in the most friendly fashion. Saturday will come, and with it Mr. Longstaff, professing to be in the depths of despair over his failure to get the money. My husband's invention is yours. And when you next go and see your mother, and she looks so fondly and lovingly into your eyes, you will remember that you are but a false idol, and that you have been guilty of a foul and dishonourable action, and that you have deliberately robbed an honest man who trusted you through your paid tool. Oh, why do you do it, why do you want this money? Tell me what qualities go with the making of a millionaire of your class and creed. Is it a disease like drinking drugs that has you?"

"Nobody has ever dared to talk to me like this before," Clint said. "If I deny it----"

"Deny what you please. But I know what I know. I have quite finished. Will you ask the waiter to call a cab for me."

Hilda rose to her feet, but Clint detained her.

"Just a moment," he said. "Are there many women in the world like you?"

"Thousands. And prepared to act like me when their homes and happiness are threatened."

"I did not know it," Clint said quietly. "I did not know it, Mrs. Loftus. There was a woman once, and she--well, she didn't behave like you. And that is the history of my life in ten words. Do you know that you have displayed marvellous courage to-night."

"The courage of despair. And to no purpose, as I knew before I started."

Clint's face flushed, but his eyes no longer gleamed angrily. He looked almost human.

"There you are wrong," he said. "Let me show you that for once in a way--you know what I mean. Now here is a cheque for a thousand pounds that came to me just as I was coming out. I slipped it into my pocket. I am going to endorse this and hand it over to you, and on Saturday you can come to the office and repay your husband's loan. If he knew of this----"

"Allow me to remark that he has not the slightest idea----"

"I beg your pardon," Clint said. "I ought not to have said that, but it is not an easy matter to get out of the habits of a lifetime all at once. But I am going to try and justify the belief that one woman has in me--I am speaking of my mother. I need not say anything about her to you, because you know. Now, supposing that you and your husband join our Christmas dinner tomorrow. You need not hesitate, because I know my mother will be pleased. You see, she still regards me more or less as a successful boy, and it is a source of trouble to her that I have no friends to look after me when she is gone. I want you to help me to show her that she is mistaken. I want you to try and realise that one woman has not spoilt my life entirely. Now say you will come with your husband at 6 o'clock to-morrow night. Tell him that you have made a mistake in old Clint, and remind him that once upon a time, years ago, 'The Christmas Carol' was a favourite story of mine. Tell him that Ebenezer Scrooge is a reformed character, and that between us we will make your husband's invention famous to all the world. I am not going to take any refusal, please understand that."

"We will come, with pleasure," Hilda said. "And now I'd like to get home and tell my husband what a wonderful thing has happened."

It was just striking 12 as Hilda got into the house. One look at her face was sufficient for Loftus.

"What have you done?" he asked.

"I have found Ebenezer Scrooge," Hilda said unsteadily, "and we are going to dine with him to-morrow."

THE END

THE APPLE-GREEN PLATE

ILLUSTRATED BY DUDLEY HARDY

Published in The Windsor Magazine, Vol. XLIII, Dec 1915, pp 194-200

FOR scenic purposes the grill-room of Caro's Restaurant consisted of an exceedingly pretty girl in a tailor-made costume and a nice-looking, clean-shaven man in a blue serge suit. There were tables, of course, and red-shaded lamps on little flower-decked tables, a few ubiquitous waiters, and the usual flavour of bygone food. The crowd consisted of other diners, but the man in the blue suit was not in the least concerned with these—indeed, he was ungrateful enough to wonder why the pretty girl with the intelligent grey eyes had seated herself at his table when there were so many places to spare. It was not until the fish was finished that the girl looked up and addressed her companion demurely by name. "I am afraid you are offended with me, Mr. Roscoe," she said.

"Well, no," the man said. "On the whole, I think not. By the way, you are quite sure my name is Roscoe?"

"Of course," the girl smiled. "Mr. Paul Roscoe. Don't you remember that adventure in Norway many years ago, when you saved our party after the fall of the avalanche. I think it was the bravest thing I ever saw. And you were so modest about it, too. You disappeared before any of us could thank you."

"It sounds very nice," Roscoe murmured. "I mean, it's very flattering to one's vanity. I hope you will give me the credit for no desire to pose, but I had quite forgotten all about it. In fact, to tell you the truth, I was not quite sure who I am till you addressed me by name. I suppose there is no doubt whatever that I really am called Roscoe?"

The girl looked up swiftly. But no smile lurked in her companion's eyes—he was cool, but grave.

"Why do you speak so strangely?" she asked.

"Well; I don't mind telling you," Roscoe said. "By the way— Thank you very much. Miss Lucy Lake, of The Daily Telephone. I have never met a lady journalist before. But I like your face, and I think I can trust you. If I don't trust someone, I shall go mad. Now, three days ago, late in the evening, I woke up from a sleep on the Thames Embankment, and since then I have lost my identity. I was dressed as you see me now, I had a few sovereigns and my watch and chain in my pocket, together with a card-case containing some pieces of pasteboard bearing the name 'Paul Roscoe.' For the first time in my life I regretted the fact that it is one of my silly habits not to have an address on my cards. I suppose it is because I change my lodgings so frequently. At any rate, there I was, absolutely alone in London, with no idea of where I lived and where I came from, except that my name was probably Paul Roscoe. But then I might have been anybody else—it might easily have been some other chap's card-case. I gathered I had met with an accident, because, if you look at me closely, you will see that I have a long strip of plaster under my hair, and uncommonly tender the place is. You can imagine what I felt at the time."

"How deeply interesting!" the girl cried. "What did you do then? You did not go to the police, because—"

"Because the police are looking for me," Roscoe smiled, as the girl hesitated. "I am quite aware of that fact. But why they want me, and what I've done, goodness only knows. I don't feel a bit like a criminal, I don't feel as if I had committed any crime. Do I look like a thief?"

"No," Lucy Lake laughed, "you don't."

"Precisely my opinion," Roscoe said. "But don't you think we are getting on rather too fast? Let me go back to the beginning. As a matter of fact, I did not go to the police. I did not feel in the least nervous, because, you see, I had money on me, and I thought that, perhaps, in an hour or two my memory would come back to me. But it did not, and here I am now, feeling like a grown man who was born at the beginning of the week. I can recollect nothing that happened before Monday evening. I walked about till quite late, and then I decided to look for lodgings. But though a man may be well dressed and have money in his pocket, he can't walk into any place at eleven o'clock at night without a portmanteau, even if it happens to be filled with bricks. So I decided to go to one of the Rowton Houses and take a bed-sitting-room there. I knew I could get this for a shilling a night, and that I could obtain my food from the nearest cookshop. You see, the advantage of the Rowton Houses is this—you can go there in rags or in dress-clothes, and nobody is in the least curious. When I woke in the morning, my mind was as blank as ever. But I felt perfectly fit and well, and inclined to let the adventure take its course. I read the papers to see if anybody was interested in the noble family of Roscoe; but no one seemed to be worrying about me till the third day, when I saw a notice issued by Scotland Yard to the effect that one Paul Roscoe had absconded from his lodgings, and that fifty pounds reward was offered to anybody who would give such information as would lead to his—or, rather, my—arrest. This was sufficiently alarming, and none the less so because I had not the remotest notion of what I'd done. Now, do you happen to know?"

"They called it robbery with violence," the girl said.

"Is that a fact?" Roscoe asked blankly. "Then I am mad—Broadmoor is my place. I ought to be locked up. I can only admire your courage in calmly talking to me like this."

"I am a journalist," the girl said. "I have only just joined The Telephone, and I am anxious to make good. To get hold of a really fine story means so much to me. I may tell you that the mysterious disappearance of Paul Roscoe has gripped the popular imagination. Some crimes do."

"Oh, come, I say!" Roscoe protested.

"Well, you see," the girl apologised, "I must for the moment regard you as a case. Robbery with violence has actually been committed, you have disappeared from your lodgings, and the police are looking for you everywhere. I had only a vague idea that you were the Mr. Roscoe I knew; but when I came by blind luck into this restaurant here, and saw you sitting at this table, I was sure of my ground, especially when I saw you had shaved off your moustache. That was a foolish thing to do."

"Do you think so?" Roscoe asked forlornly. "Well, perhaps I was a bit nervous. You see, I had money, and it was easy enough to buy a few necessaries, such as shirts and collars and toothbrush, to say nothing of a safety razor. But I have not made the slightest attempt to hide myself—my presence here proves that. I dare say that's why the police have not picked me up. And, you see, there was always the chance of running up against someone who knew me—yourself, for instance."

"It really is a most remarkable case," Lucy said, with professional enthusiasm. "I am speaking now, of course, as a journalist. As a woman, I sympathise with you deeply, and I feel quite sure there is a hideous mistake somewhere. But had not you anything about you to prove your identity beyond a card-case? I thought all men carried a lot of letters in their pockets."

"Oh, thanks for reminding me," Roscoe exclaimed. "There was a telegram. I dare say, when I got it, it was intelligible enough, but it's so much Greek to me now. As a personal favour, tell me what you make of it."

Roscoe flattened the telegram out on the table. The postmark was Birmingham; it was addressed to one Roscoe at the lodgings which he had, so to speak, evacuated, and ran—

ARRANGE FOR YOU TO SEE VENDOR TO-NIGHT.
WHATEVER YOU DO, BRING THE GOODS WITH YOU.
WILL MEET YOUR TRAIN. WALTER.

"Now , what do you make of that?" Roscoe asked. "Who the Dickens is Walter, and what is he so anxious for me to take to Birmingham? Did he meet my train by which I did not arrive, and has he communicated with the police? Now, how I got that telegram I have not the remotest idea. And there's another thing—in one of my side coat-pockets is a piece of a broken plate. Now, where on earth did I get a piece of broken plate? Why—oh, why did I put that platter in my pocket?"

Miss Lake's eyes lighted up swiftly. She bent forward eagerly and grasped Roscoe by the arm.

"I hope you did not throw that away?" she whispered.

"Well, I did not," Roscoe said. "Here it is. And, in some vague way, I seem to feel that I am, or was, a judge of old china. You see, this piece has been part of a plate which has been broken and most cleverly mended without the aid of rivets. You can see that by the brown edges of the paste. I should say that the plate had been dropped, and that the shock had detached this fragment without further damaging it. It looks to me like a bit of the famous apple-green which is one of the characteristics of Chinese pottery belonging to the Ming Dynasty. You will see that there is a curious thread of gold running through it— indeed, I should not be surprised to find that this plate at one time had formed part of the famous Middleton dinner service. There was one plate missing in that amazing collection, but I am so misty and confused that I can't work it out anyhow. Now, do you happen to know anything about Oriental china?"

"Absolutely nothing," Lucy Lake admitted. "Now, in return, would you mind answering a question for me? Is the name of Sir Peter Mallison at all familiar to you?"

Roscoe rubbed his forehead vaguely.

"It is, and it is not," he whispered. "When you spoke of the man, a flash of lightning seemed to dart through my brain, but everything is dark again now. As I told you, I recollect nothing prior to the time when I woke up on the Thames Embankment on Monday night. Now, is there any sort of connection between that piece of apple-green platter and the source of my trouble? You seem to know everything, and, if you will tell me, I shall be exceedingly grateful. What have I done?"

"Perhaps I had better tell you," Lucy said. "About eight o'clock on Monday evening you went round to St. Peter's Court in Kensington, which is a large block of flats, and you went by appointment to see Sir Peter Mallison, who resides there."

"It's strange how illusively familiar the name is," Roscoe murmured. "Most irritating, I call it."

"It is, perhaps, not so strange as you think. I see I must treat you as one who hears all these details for the first time. But it is a fact that you went round to St. Peter's Court to see Sir Peter, who is one of the most famous collectors of coins and works of art in Europe. He is a very old man, who lives alone in his flat, where his wants are looked after for an hour or two a day by a charwoman, and his meals are sent in from an adjacent hotel. The old gentleman has been the mark of thieves more than once, and especially lately, because it has leaked out that he has recently bought a valuable collection of gold coins. Amongst his other treasures he happened to possess the missing plate from the Middleton dinner service. Sir Peter only found that out lately, and, when he did so, he made up his mind not to sell it to the owner of the Middleton china unless he could get a fancy price for it. I understand that two hundred guineas was what he was asking— an exorbitant price for a plate—but, on the other hand, its possession would enhance the value of the great service by quite a thousand pounds. Now, I know—for I've had it from the police themselves—that you, or, at any rate, somebody calling himself Paul Roscoe, wrote and asked Sir Peter for an appointment last Monday evening, to go into the question of the purchase of the plate. That letter was found by the authorities when they were called into St. Peter's Court on Tuesday morning by the charwoman. Sir Peter lay on the carpet in his bedroom; he had evidently been severely ill-treated, and up to to-night had not regained consciousness."

"Oh, I'm mad!" Roscoe said. "I am suffering from delusions. You are an illusion—a beautiful one, of course, but a figment of the imagination, all the same. Of course, the police found my letter, and that's why they are after me."

"You are suffering from no delusion," Lucy said sympathetically; "your deductions are too logical for that. As a matter of fact, your letter was found, and so were the fragments of the historic plate, with the exception of the piece on the table. Moreover, the gold coins are all missing, and so far have not been traced. No doubt by this time they have been melted down. Some reporter, a little wiser than the rest, found out the history of the apple-green plate, and wrote quite a nice little story around it. It was a neat and clever piece of work, and appealed strongly to the popular imagination. This is why everybody is talking about the missing Paul Roscoe, who is walking round London quite ignorant of the fact that he is a fugitive from justice."

"But the thing's incredible!" Roscoe cried. "I suppose the assumption is that I hit that poor old gentleman on the head and walked off with his collection of coins. If I were as clever as all that, why did I leave behind me the very thing I went to fetch? Besides, had I intended to rob the chap, I should have never been idiot enough to send him a letter. And what price that nasty wound in the side of my head—I mean the blow that has deprived me of my memory? I must have walked away from St. Peter's Court and gone straight to some doctor's surgery. He would never have sent me out in the street unless he had deemed me capable of finding my way home. Has this doctor turned up? Has he been to the police? You know so much about the case that you may be able to tell me. Of course, you may also think that I am trading on your credulity—"

"One moment," Lucy interrupted. "You see the lamp on the table, don't you? Would you mind taking out the electric bulb? It seems to me to need cleaning. Thank you very much. Now, do you know what would happen if I took this knife and connected the positive and negative poles at the point of contact?"

"Oh, that's easily answered," Roscoe said. "You would fuse the wires and plunge the whole place in darkness."

"That is precisely what I am going to do," Lucy said coolly. "As a matter of fact, two detectives have just come into the room, and I have a strong suspicion they are after you. Call me selfish, if you like, but I cannot have my story spoilt by any clumsy interference. Now, then, quick!"

The lights went out—darkness fell like a blow. Roscoe felt himself dragged by the arm along the floor, and a moment or two later he was being urged across the road through a mass of traffic. Then something seemed to strike him violently on the back of the head, and when he came to himself, he was seated in a taxi under a battery of curious eyes, and Miss Lake was quite coolly giving directions to the driver. All this Roscoe watched with an odd feeling of detachment. So far as he could understand, a policeman was saying that Dr. Frant's house was only just round the corner. In the same apathetic way, Roscoe found himself presently lying on a couch in a consulting-room, with a little keen-eyed man diving a set of long fingers into various parts of his anatomy. Then for the first time one of the inquisitive digits touched the plastered spot on his head, and the rising surgeon looked grave.

"Hello, hello, hello!" he muttered. "Look here, Miss Lake, the smack our friend got on the head from a passing horse is nothing; but this other place is serious. Now, would you mind telling me, sir, where you managed to get sand-bagged?"

"Don't ask me," Roscoe said indifferently, "I don't know."

He lay there, taking no interest in the proceedings. He had a strange obsession that he was somebody else, that he was in a dream, and that the other people were talking behind curtain upon curtain of pink gauze, and the knowledge that someone had been plugging his ears with cotton-wool. Then presently it was borne in upon him that he was the subject of a discussion.

"Oh, dear, no, Miss Lake," Frant said. "He is not going back to his lodgings. He is going straight away to a nursing home on the other side of the road, and within an hour I am going to operate upon him. You see, I spent a year or two in San Francisco, and Mr. Roscoe will not be the first patient I have had who has been murderously assaulted with a sand-bag. No, it won't be a serious operation; there is a slight displacement of bone, where that sticking-plaster is, that presses on the brain. Roughly speaking, the bone will want forking up. Our friend will be as right as possible in a week. I'll just telephone to the hospital for the anaesthetist and a colleague of mine, and meanwhile we'll get Mr. Roscoe ready for the fray."

Roscoe was quite resigned now. It seemed to him that he was the sport of fortune— a helpless cork tossed on the waves of chance. He felt curiously indifferent to whatever happened. He was not nervous or excited—indeed, all the elaborate preparation interested him in a languid way. He was lying on a table presently, and someone was feeling his pulse. Then someone else placed a curious sort of inverted cup over his face, and told him to breathe easily. All the lights in the world and all the lamps of the universe went out, and everything was finished....

When Roscoe came to himself, he was lying in a neat little bed in a cool, sweet room filled with brilliant sunshine. He could feel the morning breeze cool and refreshing upon his face, he could hear the leaping life of London from the outside. Everything was plain enough now—the cotton-wool had gone from his ears, and the pink gauze no longer veiled a keen and joyous world from his eyes. He lay there very still, very contented and happy, and gradually his mind began to reconstruct things. At first it was all a curious medley of grey facts heaped together like the tangles of a jig-saw, and then outstanding parts began to marshal themselves into mathematical figures. Here were a telegram and a letter; here also were a set of chambers filled with all kinds of beautiful objects, a tall man with an air of settled melancholy, a man in evening-dress, wearing a heavy, drooping moustache. Came presently in the procession another man, diminutive and active, very dark and with slanting, sinister, almond-shaped eyes. Then an apple-green plate lying broken in fragments on a Persian carpet...

From that point reconstruction became easy. The real Paul Koscoe lay on his bed with a full knowledge that he was twenty-six years of age, that he was the Honourable Paul Roscoe, a Cambridge graduate and an old "Rugger" Blue, also that he was a man of considerable private means, and that people spoke of him as one of the finest experts in Oriental china. Also that telegram had come from Walter Helmore, a beastly rich young merchant, who was going to marry Roscoe's sister, and that the Middleton dinner service in its complete state was going to be one of the presents to the bride. Then into the picture came the pretty face and sweet intelligence of Miss Lucy Lake. Ripping girl that! Real good plucked 'un, too. Evidently had saved him from a nice mess. He went over the whole ground now, from the moment when he had arrived at Sir Peter's flat till he had lain on the operating-table in an adjoining room. His eye was clear and his smile pleasant as the white-capped nurse came in to see how he was getting on.

"Absolutely top-hole!" Roscoe said. "Never felt better in my life. If you give me some breakfast—a whole lot of breakfast —I shall be awfully obliged. And then, if it's allowed, I should like to see The Telephone for last week."

It was all in The Telephone, of course. The erudite reporter with the gift of imagination had made the best of the apple-green plate. It was quite a little Oriental poem in its way, and a discriminating public had evidently appreciated the effort. There was a good deal about the missing coins, to say nothing of the savage assault upon the unfortunate Sir Peter. So far as Roscoe could gather, the aged virtuoso was considerably better, but still was quite unable to give anything like a coherent account of the outrage. There was a good deal also concerning the past record of Paul himself, and many ingenious theories to account for his mysterious disappearance.

He was still turning the matter over in his mind when Dr. Frant appeared, followed a little later by Lucy Lake. A day or two at the outside, and Paul would be free again.

"But shall I?" he asked. "Perhaps I had better tell you all about it. I can recollect everything now. I went to Sir Peter's flat and found the front door open. The bell was out of working order, so I walked in— walked straight into the dining-room—and there, on a table, was the plate I had come to bargain for. I picked it up, to make sure it was the genuine article, and, as I had it in my hand, the door opened and a man walked in. He was a tall, melancholy chap in evening-dress. Behind him came a little man who looked like a Jap. Of course, I suspected nothing wrong. I had still got the cemented plate in my hand, when somebody gave me a tremendous whack on the head, and down I went. After that I seemed to dream a bit. I dreamt that I found myself in the road, with a piece of the apple-green plate in my hand. Really, I suppose those chaps must have flung me outside and left me for dead. Anyhow, in my dream I looked up a doctor, who asked no questions, but patched me up and sent me about my business. As far as I can recollect, he did not seem to be a very observing sort of chap. For the life of me, I could not recollect where I lived and who I was, so I walked as far as the Embankment, where I went to sleep. I dare say Miss Lake has told you all that happened after that. And, by the way, how is the story getting on?"

"Oh, it's going to be great," Lucy Lake laughed. "You will see it all in The Telephone to-morrow. But it's dreadfully selfish of me to be talking like this. You don't know how delighted I am to see that you are so much better. Now, I wonder if you feel up to seeing some more visitors? You have seen them before—they are the two detectives who were looking for you in the restaurant where we were dining last night. If you don't feel up to the interview "

"Oh, let 'em all come!" Roscoe laughed. "I don't mind. I suppose, sooner or later, I'll have to see them."

The two officers listened gravely enough to Roscoe's story. When he had finished, they smiled at one another significantly.

"Now, that's all right," the leader of the two said. "We do get a bit of luck sometimes, and this is a case in point. We know the two men you speak of— in fact, only yesterday we had a cable from the New York police, saying they had arrived here, and asking us to keep an eye on them. If necessary, we were to trump up some charge against them, pending the arrival of witnesses in connection with an extradition case. The big man is called 'The Colonel,' and was at one time in the Army, and the other is a Japanese servant known as 'Harry the Valet.' Been in a good many gentlemen's houses, he has, and his great game is robbing collections and museums. No doubt they were after Sir Peter's coins, and they had probably got hold of them when you interrupted them. At that moment Sir Peter was lying unconscious in his bedroom, and your presence must have been distinctly awkward. Oh, yes, I can see that you have been sandbagged. Of course, we are very sorry to have given you all this trouble, sir, but your mysterious disappearance made it very awkward. Besides, we had to do something to keep the real culprits quiet. But we are on the track of our men now, and if you'll excuse us, sir, we'll just run round to a Bloomsbury boarding-house and make the arrest."

It was a week or so later before Roscoe saw Lucy Lake again. He met her quite casually in the Temple Gardens. That the story had been a great success was evident from her happy expression and the light that sparkled in her eyes.

"My fortune is made!" she said.

"I dare say," Paul said, without enthusiasm. "It all depends on the point of view. Oh, I'm quite well now. But what I want is someone to look after me—I mean in the way you looked after me the other night. I don't feel half so conceited and cocksure as I did. Look here, Lucy, I am a rotten bad hand at beating about the bush, and, besides, the story is not finished. It isn't rounded off properly. You know what I mean. And if you could see a way to finish it—"/p>

"I could not publish it!" the girl laughed.

"Oh, yes, you could," Roscoe insisted. "What's the matter with the front page of The Telephone?"

"Births, marriages—"

"Yes, that's just what I mean," said Roscoe.

THE END

SECOND IN THE FIELD

ILLUSTRATED BY CYRUS CUNEO

Published in The Windsor Magazine, Vol XLI, Apr 1915, pp 653-658

THE man with the squint appeared to be under no delusions. He spoke with an air of finality that would have been a fine party asset in parliaments and places where they wrangle. The thing was there and to be had for the asking. Poor old Bill had said so, and Bill had seen it. It had always been one of the aforesaid, and late, Bill Magness's proclamations that he never told lies. He had been neither particularly sober nor conspicuously honest, but he couldn't lie. Probably an utter lack pf imagination had had something to do with it.

"As big as a small egg" the man with the squint went on. "You've got the word of Dan'l Adams on it, and that's me. An' Bill, he's seen it. Along of the flyin' detachment, 'e was, an' young Fox-Brabazon a-leadin' of 'em. Exceeded his orders, 'e did, but 'e'd 'eard of the big stone, and naturally, bein' a bit of a sport, wanted to get 'is 'ooks on to the same. 'E'd orders from the bloomin' Commissioner to punish these yer niggers back of the Zambesi— where we are now—an' burn down a few villages, an' not go beyond Nanzar Kiver. We'd got no trouble with the Nanzar tribe, and their autonomy was to be respected— mainly because our column wasn't 'eld to be strong enough. Now, Fox-Brabazon, 'e likes 'is work. Got a weakness for disguisin' hisself and paddlin' about amongst the natives and pickin' up their lingo. And that's how 'e got to 'ear all about the big temple acrost the river and the great god N'Tsu, with the one big diamond eye of 'im a-blazin' in 'is forrid. And 'e an' poor old Bill, they seen it. Swam the river on a bright night an' seen it—usin' glasses, lyin' on their bellies in the scrub and watchin' the crowd doin' Mumbo-Jumbo. For 'is nibs N'Tsu is out in the open, set in a sart of tank arrangement, an' watchin' over the fortunes of Nanzar population. An' if the detachment hadn't been ordered back sharp, Fox-Brabazon would 'ave been all the richer for a diamond as big as an 'en's egg. Fairly groaned, 'e did, Bill said. And now Bill's dead and Fox-Brabazon is down on the coast, and nobody but you and me knows the story, Peter, ole sport. And we're reported to head companies now as wounded, dead, and missin', sniped by the dusky foe and finished off by the vultures. And only five miles between us and the big glass marble in N'Tsu's forrid. An' only ten miles back again to the detachment. An' all we've got to do is to fake up some story of bein' cut off and fightin' the foe like the fine gritty Tommies that we are. An', when we do go back, old N'Tsu's eye goes with us."

"Got to get it first," the pessimistic Peter said without enthusiasm.

Private Daniel Adams eyed Peter Macmanan scornfully. The latter warrior was feeling slightly homesick. He had been persuaded to this adventure against his better judgment. He was missing his tobacco and his comrades and the muddling caravanserai of the forest camp. He was naturally gregarious, and the vast, moist, sweating solitude of the forest oppressed him. Moreover, he was a deserter in the face of the foe. They had provisions and rifles, a revolver each, and a full complement of cartridges, to say nothing of the prospect of glorious loot before them. By this time they had doubtless been written off the strength and mourned, briefly but luridly, by their comrades. There would be no inquiries—little casualties of this sort happened every day.

The whole thing looked absurdly easy. They had only to go there and back again, so to speak, and the deed was done. The Nanzar priests might start some absurd argument, and, if so, it would not be a very difficult matter to desert for the second time. And yonder, beyond the Napaur Hills, were Belgian settlements after rubber, and there was a welcome there for anyone with an insane desire for work. A couple of resolute men with a modern rifle each might successfully raid the great god N'Tsu and deprive him of his glittering eye; and, if they could get it, their fortunes would be made—they could luxuriate in it on the fat of the land in future.

Not that violence formed any part of their programme—the primrose path of diplomacy was better and far more safe. If they could steal the stone without unnecessary advertisement, all the better. Daniel Adams had armed himself with a pair of pliers for the purpose. They had talked the whole thing over, and their plans were made. They had been discussing the campaign all the afternoon, as they lay in the forest almost within earshot of the village in the midst of which the god stood. Probably the great soapstone monstrosity had stood there for a thousand years. Where his fine blazing eye had come from, nobody knew nor cared. Undoubtedly the tribe of Nanzar had been far more highly civilised in the dead ages, for here and there in the heart of the jungle were evidences of stone buildings, mosaic and concrete, and here and there adorned with the acanthus and the lotus, though these things conveyed nothing to the adventurers lurking hard by. They did not speculate as to whether or not the Queen of Sheba might have had a hand in this business. They lay there sweating and gasping in the wet, dripping heat, cursing the need of tobacco, stripped to their shirts and ammunition belts, dirty, grimy, almost unrecognisable. Their uniforms had been hidden in a place of safety, where the white ants could not get at them, their bodies were blistered by mosquito and fly-bites. The expedition was not precisely in the nature of a picnic. Their bandoliers were hung about them, the rifles lay within easy reach.

Darkness shut down presently like the lid of a box. The jungle rustled with unseen life. From somewhere close by came the purr of some gliding beast, uneasy and restless in the presence of humanity. It was a nasty, creepy business altogether, and Peter Macmanan was wishing himself well out of it. Something cold and slimy wriggled across his feet. The darkness, like that of Egypt, could be felt. Glory be to goodness, there would be a moon presently!

It came, after a long, sweating, humid hour or two, like a great golden arc, rising over the shoulder of the distant Napaur Hills. A yellow light filtered through the jungle, throwing long black shafts of shadow, picking out the swiftly moving bats in search of their evening meal. The whole jungle seemed to be full of eyes—round, yellow, gleaming balls turned menacingly on the two men crouching there, silent and not a little dismayed.

Macmanan scooped the sweat from his forehead with a shaky hand.

"'Ere, let's get out of this," he said huskily; "it fairly gives me the 'orrors! If I'd known it was goin' to be like this, I wouldn't ha' come. Wot's the matter with the open?"

"You don't think o' nothin' but yourself," Adams grumbled. "Did you expect a perishin' Pullman car and a brass band at the other end to meet you, or the idol's eye by registered post? All the same, I'm game to get out of this."

They pushed their way sullenly through the scrub on to the open plain. They were wearing practically nothing now besides their boots and shirts and cartridge belts. They were dirty and disreputable beyond words. The most cunning natives would never have taken them for Tommies, and this Adams regarded as a valuable asset.

On the far side of the opening the huts of the village were clustered together. A larger structure of brick and mud and cane stood out from the rest, marking the spot where some chief rested. The place was still and silent as the grave. No living soul could be seen. There was not so much as a dog prowling about, no wandering animals scratching the earth for a lean meal. The huts divided in the centre, and between them the great grotesque idol raised its ugly head. As the deserters moved along, they could catch the flickering gleam in the forehead of the idol. The golden glow of the moon, hanging in a sky of indigo blue, glittered and flashed on the facets of the stone. Macmanan flicked a dry tongue over his still drier lips.

"Perish me, if you ain't right, Daniel!" he said hoarsely. "In me 'eart of 'earts, I never expected to see it. Worth about a quarter of a million at least. I've 'eard chaps what's served in India tell the tale before, but I never believed 'em. We'll get it easy as kiss me 'and!"

They moved along cautiously till the village was reached. They were trembling with excitement from head to foot now, not afraid, but with a queer, crumbling sensation in the pit of the stomach. Then suddenly from behind a low stockade of cactus plants a dark figure rose and confronted them, a ragged figure with a clean-cut Arab type of face, in strange contrast to the woolly mat of his hair. He started back half fearfully, half defiantly, with a conch at his lips. Then a second man appeared to materialise out of nowhere, and the fun began.

There was no fear in the hearts of the two deserters now. The nerve-destroying suspense was over, and the moment for action had arrived. And they had been in tight places before. Without a moment's hesitation, Adams dashed forward and flung his revolver full into the face of the man with the shell. The thud of steel on bone fairly rang as the fellow staggered back, dropping the shell and pressing his hands to his face in the agony of the moment. Adams could hear the patter of blood on the dry leaves. He snatched up the revolver, eager, ready, full of zest to kill, and beat his reeling antagonist with cruel force about the head. He seemed to give at the knees, as if he had been an empty sack; he dropped and lay without a sign of life.

Macmanan was faring none too well. He was lying on the flat of his back, with a pair of hands tearing at his throat and a bony knee pressing cruelly on his chest. The stars were dancing in a cloud of blue and gold and crimson before his eyes, his breath was coming in fitful gasps, a steam-hammer was pounding in his brain. Then something cracked, and he staggered to his knees. There was just the suggestion of acrid smoke in the stagnant air.

"I 'ad to pot 'im," Adams gasped; "he'd 've strangled you in another tick. 'Ope nobody 'eard. We've managed to do in on both the guards, anyway."

Apparently the little spitting crack of the revolver had aroused no alarm. The adventurers crouched panting there, waiting for any further sign of life, but none came.

"It's all our own!" Adams said exultingly. "'Ere, let's drag the bodies away and shove 'em in the water yonder. Both of 'em as dead as mutton, but get 'em out of the way, all the same."

The gruesome task was finished. The camp lay there white and clear in the light of the moon. These men were armed; they feared nothing. They moved on swiftly in the direction of the great god. All about it appeared to be a kind of empty moat, some six feet deep, with sheer smooth sides, and some forty feet across.

"Now, wot's the meanin' of all this 'ere fortification?" Macmanan asked. "Mind you don't fall in and break your bloomin' neck. Bit of a precipice, ain't it?"

But Daniel was not seeing the humour of it. In his own vernacular, "he didn't perishin' well like it." He did not altogether lack the rudiments of an imagination, or he had not been here at this moment. And, besides, he was in the land of Mumbo-Jumbo. He was thinking now of vivid stories told round many a camp fire, things occult and mysterious and terrible. He mistrusted the smooth sides of the empty moat, and the hard floor piled here and there with heaps of rocks and stones. If the simple natives regarded this as a protection for their god, then they were unsophisticated indeed. But were they quite as simple as they appeared to be? Might there not be some livid danger there?

Well, they had to risk it. There was no point in being turned back at the last moment by a mere empty moat. In the moonlight the floor looked solid enough. The village was silent as the tomb, and the big diamond was blazing in the eye of the idol. Adams let himself down the side of the wall, gasping as he went. With his lip between his teeth, he was silently cursing his own cowardice. He took a step or two forward, like Agag, followed by Macmanan. They were half-way across the smooth floor in the direction of the idol before anything happened. Here and there were little hillocks of rock and stone, like islands in a smooth sea.

And suddenly these islets became things of life. Under the astonished eyes of the two adventurers they moved and trembled as solid objects move behind the haze of a flame. From every nook and cranny round, bloated objects bubbled out and squatted hideously, straddling on long, hairy legs with dropsical bodies suspended over them, their yellow beaks emitting a noise not unlike that of a grasshopper, with a deeper metallic note. The wicked yellow eyes of them gleamed viciously. Other hillocks were tremulous with movement now, hairy red objects straddled over the floor in all directions. They would dart swiftly forward for a few yards, and then pull up as if dead. The still, stagnant night air fairly hummed with their hoarse, splitting note.

"What on earth have we struck?" Macmanan gasped. "Spiders, ain't they?"

Adams had no reply for the moment. He was beginning to understand what the hard, shining sides of the moat were used for, and he had heard of these spiders, great big fellows of the tarantula type, but twice the size of the American variety and far more fierce. A trader with a hideous scar on the side of his face and half the calf of his left leg gone had once told Adams a gruesome story of a night's torture in connection with one of the tarantulas, and the man had told it in a hoarse whisper and with a sweating brow.

"For 'Eaven's sake, get back!" he whispered. "They're afraid of us for the moment, but it won't be long. The first one as goes for us'll be followed by the whole hell-spawn of 'em! They'll run all over you, like rats up a wall. 'Op it, Peter!"

Peter needed no second bidding. He ran like a hare, sweating horror at every pore. They scrambled somehow to a place of safety and looked down shudderingly into that pit of abomination. A score or more of the spiders had followed them. They skated here and there, as if impelled by some invisible spring; they stopped motionless, with their great hairy bodies poised above the long legs that looked like those of a dog.

"Nice little, interestin' pets, ain't they?" Macmanan gasped. "'Minds me of the time I won that two quid in the 'Amburg lottery and spent it in boozing! Awful, ain't it?"

"I know," Adams shuddered. "Fancy havin' a 'undred of 'em all over you at once! Take a piece out of you, they do, like a kid eating an apple. So this is the game those chaps play. Wonder how they get to the old image in his glory yonder at spring-cleanin' time? Rig up a rope-bridge or something of that kind. So long as they keep them spiders 'ungry, the diamond's safe."

"But we ain't got no rope-bridge," Peter murmured. "Have to chuck it, I s'pose?"

"Not me," Adams grunted. "We've got to see it through, my son. Here, let's see if we can't frighten the brutes. If not, we'll stir up the village and get them to take a hand at the game. We'll twist flowers in our hair and pretend we're gods. And we've got the guns, too. In for a penny, in for a pound, old sport. I didn't want to have any fuss over this thing, being modest in my notions; but if a jamboree is necessary, then a jamboree it's goin' to be. Got any matches?"

"Got a whole boxful, for the matter of that, mate."

"Good! Get your knife out and open a dozen of the cartridges. We'll lay a train of powder way across the old moat—scatter powder all over the place. They won't like that."

It was not pleasant work dropping down the smooth side of the moat again and laying the powder train. A cold stream played up and down the spines of the conspirators, but they were aided by the discovery that the spiders had no liking for the burning flame. A match held within a yard of one caused him to back like a ship with reversed engines; he spat and scuffled headlong for safety. A tiny point of flame touched the gunpowder, and a zigzag sheet of blue and gold darted across the floor. At the first spurt every bloated black object vanished. In the clear, silver light of the moon, the spiders could be seen fighting and struggling for cover. The acrid smell of the powder hung in the air. Adams smiled his complete satisfaction.

"We've done the trick," he grunted. "Easy on with those matches. Don't forget that we've got to get back again. Come on, mate! A dash for it, and the thing's done!"

Macmanan waited for no second bidding. He was anxious to get along before his imagination began to play tricks with him again. They sprinted across the intervening space and climbed the wall of the island upon which the great grotesque god was seated. The strange features were worn smooth and shiny by the sun and storm of the ages, but the great eye still glittered in the forehead, embedded there in some metal that Adams rightly took for gold. He produced the pair of pliers, which he had taken the precaution to thrust into his boot, and got to work without delay. His spirits rose, he could have shouted and danced in the joy or the moment as the stone came away in his hand. He had fortune in his grasp, probably the best part of a quarter of a million safely knotted away in the tail of his grey flannel shirt. He had his rifle and revolver and the belt full of cartridges, and the way to safety lay in the broad path of the moon.

"Got it!" he gasped. "Bloomin' well got it! We'll buy ourselves out quite in the proper way, old pard. And then back to the Old Country once more, shootin' an' fishin' an' huntin', like the rest of the nobs. Five thousand quid a year interest on our bloomin' capital. Come on!"

No wild outburst of enthusiasm came from Macmanan. He was seeing things hidden from the optimistic eye of his comrade. For instance, he could see a little knot of dusky figures on the far side of the moat, watching the proceedings with intelligent curiosity.

"Here's the gentry of the place come to meet us," he said. "Seem to be annoyed about something. Downright disrespectful, I call it. What's the next game?"

A wild wail of anguish rose from the black figures on the opposite bank. It was followed presently by a yell of rage and the rush of spears. They hurtled all round the statue of the god, but not one of them struck the sacred figure. Adams and his companion crouched in a little gutter at the base, not undisposed to admire the marksmanship of the foe. They were comparatively safe there. They could see how the figures on the far side were getting thicker; the rattle of spears was continuous.

"Open some more cartridges," Adams whispered. "Let's have a flare at the foot of the old fossil 'ere. Ten to one those chaps have never heard a gun or smelt gunpowder in their natural."

Macmanan touched off the contents of a dozen cartridges. The great blue flare exploded, and the din on the opposite bank ceased suddenly. A fantastic figure, garbed in some grotesque robes, danced in a wild saraband slow movement, gesticulating wildly. "The head medicine-man of the tribe, no doubt," Adams thought, as he drew a bead on him. There was a little crack, a puff of flame, and the big man crumpled up in a heap, and so he died.

When Adams looked up again, he could see that every man there had fallen forward on his face. The black heads were pressed to the ground in token of utter subjection.

"The trick's done!" he yelled. "Come on while they've still got the fear of us in their hearts. A match or two here and there, and there's no fear of the spiders. I expect those chaps think we have bewitched them. Get a move on you, Peter—the game's ours!"

They were across the danger zone at length, up the far wall, and walking with the conscious majesty of moral superiority over the bodies of the prostrate natives. Here and there a curious head was raised, only to go swiftly down again. Surely these were beings from another and higher world, those dark, grimy men with strange footwear and queer garments fluttering from their shoulders. They held in their hands magic sticks that spat fire and killed beyond the range of spears. The medicine-man had defied them, and the gods of these strangers had killed him with flame.

They lay there long after Adams and Macmanan had vanished into the scrub and donned their clothes. There was no suggestion of pursuit, and the adventurers knew it. Moreover, they knew their way, and would in two days' march be back with the detachment again. But few questions would be asked; besides, they had their story all ready cut and dried.

They dropped down at the foot of a bluff and lighted their fire, and slept the sleep of clear conscience and duty nobly done. They dreamt of the happy days to come, of beer and baccy and kindred joys so dear to the heart of their clan. And when they awoke and had breakfasted, Adams produced the diamond and gazed on it lovingly.

"A bit of real all right," he said. "I know. I wasn't with a Sheeny in Clerkenwell for a year without knowing something of stones. And you can test 'em as easy as easy. Just give me your knife. Open the little nail-file on the back and scrape it over what they call the facets of the stone. A real diamond resists the file, like this one does, and—Cuss me, if it ain't a perishin' paste one!"

They sat there for an hour or more in silent misery. Then Adams dragged himself wearily to his feet and pointed the homeward way.

"Don't ask me," he said, with concentrated bitterness. "It's a fake, anyway. We've been anticipated, my lad, by a regular genius—a chap what took proper precautions and got a dummy diamond to take the place of the real stone, and thus deluded those poor innocent savages. And he got away safely with the proper marble. Worked it out like a detective, 'e did. Forget it, mate, forget it. And now back to the bally camp. By the right, quick march!"

THE END

A BIT OF EGYPT

ILLUSTRATED BY DUDLEY HARDY

Published in The Windsor Magazine, Vol. XLIV, Jul 1916, pp 233-240

FROM Paradine's point of view—and that, after all, was the outlook that most concerned him—the tiny block of flats on Campden Hill was the breeziest and most picturesque prospect in London. For Capel Hill Court had at one time been what the auctioneers call a "desirable family residence standing in its own grounds," before the inside had been torn out and subsequently refitted with an electric lift and a commissionaire in scarlet uniform, a telephone switchboard, and what is known as "every modern convenience." The garden still remained intact, and Paradine occupied one of the pair of flats on the top floor, from the roof of which he could look down into the gardens and away over the high ground to the distant Surrey Hills. And it had been his whim to erect a tent on the flat roof, and surround himself with flowers and shrubs in imitation of the hanging gardens of Babylon. On summer evenings, when he was in the mood, he was wont to sit out there in ruminating solitude, and work out those brilliant problems of his for the benefit of suffering mankind. For Paradine was one of those fortunate individuals well endowed with this world's goods, who could afford to pick and choose in the field of surgical science—in other words, he was a brain specialist, attracted only by certain phases of cerebral disorders and diseases, or the troubles brought about by accident or catastrophe. Unless a case appealed to him, he declined to take it. He would have nothing whatever to do with the ordinary "mental" case, and turned his back resolutely upon fashionable "nerve" patients, brought about by luxurious living or that selfish introspection which is often the result of too ample means and too little healthy occupation.

It was rarely, indeed, that anybody shared Paradine's solitude on what he called his lonely mountain height. And his next-door neighbour was probably unaware of the fact that he also had an exit on the garden roof. For the next-door neighbour was no less a person than Professor Ionedes, the famous Egyptologist and recognised authority on prehistoric coinage. As a matter of fact, Paradine had hardly ever seen his neighbour, who was an elderly man of pure Greek descent, and a master of many languages. Paradine knew by repute, of course, that the flat adjacent to his contained the finest collection of gold coins in the world; he knew, too, that his neighbour was a somewhat eccentric recluse, and that he was frequently absent from London on one of his many excavating expeditions. And when Ionedes was in the metropolis, he rarely showed himself in society, he had practically no visitors, and was looked after in a perfunctory sort of way by a charwoman, who came over in the mornings to do the necessary cleaning and get the Professor's breakfast. The rest of his modest meals the great numismatist took in an obscure little restaurant in Kensington High Street. All this Paradine knew in the way of vague gossip which filtered to him from time to time through the medium of his own servants. He was aware, too, that some year or two before an attempt at burglary, doubtless with a view to the gold coins, had been made on the Professor's flat, and that since then the front door thereof had been fitted with a steel lining, beyond which it was impossible to penetrate without the possession of the master-key. All this interested Paradine quite in a languid way.

Certainly he was not thinking about it that perfect June evening, as he sat there under the shadow of his palms in a comfortable arm-chair, looking out dreamily across the gardens to the blue hills in the distance. As a matter of fact, he was working out the details of a case, the fine definite points of an operation which he had decided to make on a patient at that moment lying unconscious in a hospital off the Brompton Road. The train of thought was nearly complete, when it was rudely derailed by the sound of a noise and the heavy thud of a falling body, apparently just underneath.

Paradine jumped to his feet and looked eagerly about him. So far he could see nothing, for the well and sufficient reason that there was nothing to see. He peered down the wooden stairway which led through the water-tank in the roof of his own flat on to the ledge beyond, but he could see nothing there. He was about to return to his chair again, when he heard the heavy thud once more, coming unmistakably, or so it seemed, from the direction of the flat next door. Paradine crossed the leads and squinted through the gloomy skylight that was situated immediately over Professor Ionedes' flat. From all appearance, the glass skylight had not been touched for years, for the panes were dusty and grimy, and the woodwork fitted into the roof almost as if it had been fixed there. Paradine told himself that it was no business of his, before he recollected that the Professor was quite alone, that he was elderly, and that something might have happened to him. If this was the case, and the front door was closed, then it would be impossible for anyone to enter from the outside in the ordinary way. Reflecting on this, and the necessity for something to be done at once, Paradine bent down and devoted all his energies to raising the skylight. It gave way presently with a sudden jerk, and Paradine found himself looking down through the water-tank into a small sort of store-room below, which appeared to be empty, save for a few packing-cases and something that looked like a human form sprawling on the floor. There was no ladder leading from the roof into the room below. If there had been one, the Professor would probably have had it removed. As Paradine's eyes became accustomed to the same gloom, he saw the figure down there gradually raise itself, and a white, pleasant-looking face was turned eagerly upwards.

"What are you doing there?" Paradine asked.

"Well, I hardly know," the stranger replied. "Who do you happen to be, anyway?"

"Isn't it for me to ask questions?" Paradine said dryly. "I happen to be the occupant of one of these top flats. My name is Paradine, at your service."

"Very pleased to hear it," the man at the bottom of the shaft said thankfully. "If you wouldn't mind reaching down and giving me a hand, I'll come up and explain."

"Well, I think not. Not just at present, anyway. You see, I happen to be top dog for the moment, and, until you can convince me that my policy is wrong, I propose to remain so. You see, I know something of Professor Ionedes, on whose premises you are at the present moment, and, frankly, my dear friend, appearances are decidedly against you. Now, Professor Ionedes lives entirely alone; he is an old man, with a rooted aversion to visitors, which is, perhaps, inspired by the fact that his flat is full of gold coins, which take up little space, and are always worth their face value in the precious metal. Moreover, I know that no one could leave that flat without the Professor's sanction when once the steel-lined front door is closed. Therefore, when I find a stranger—even a well-dressed stranger with a charming manner like yours— attempting to leave the flat by such a dubious method as the skylight, my suspicions are naturally aroused. For all I know to the contrary, you may have murdered that picturesque old numismatist for the sake of his coins, and found yourself in a trap afterwards. Such being the case, I must decline."

"For Heaven's sake, listen to me!" the other man burst out. "I am not going to deny that part of what you say is true. I am not going to deny that I am cut off here, and that I am trying to escape by means of the skylight. I piled up some of these cases on the floor, and, when I was balancing myself on the top of them, the whole contraption collapsed and let me down badly. That was the noise that you heard. But when you accuse me of murdering the Professor, then you are talking absolute nonsense. As a matter of fact, he's not in the flat at all. I came here this evening to see him by appointment, and, after ringing the bell two or three times, a man came to the door."

"What sort of a man?" Paradine asked.

"A tall, dark chap getting on in life, with black hair and beard. When I explained my business to him, he asked me into the dining-room, and told me that the Professor would see me in a few minutes. Then he put some fez arrangement on his head and walked out of the flat, banging the front door behind him. I waited a quarter of an hour, and, after ringing the bell two or three times, it dawned upon me that something was wrong. So I started to explore the flat, and found that the place was absolutely empty. There wasn't a soul on the premises, either in the bed- or living-rooms. And when I tried to get out, and spotted that steel-lined door, with its spring lock, I knew that I had been trapped by some thief whom I had probably interrupted when I rang the front-door bell. I knew then that I was in a tight place, and when I found that one of the Professor's most valuable coin cabinets had been broken open, I was aware of my danger. When I recovered myself, I cast about for some means of escape. I knew I shouldn't be believed, I knew that I should be accused of taking what was missing from the cabinet, and that's why I hit upon the desperate expedient of getting away by the medium of the roof, and trusting myself to reach the street through the help of another flat, without being discovered. And that's the Gospel truth. Perhaps, if you weren't wearing a Bullingdon Club tie I shouldn't have the courage to tell you this."

"Oh, you were at Oxford, too?" Paradine asked.

"I was. Name of Felton."

"Not the Jimmy Felton?"

"The same, worst 1uck to it. And, now I come to look at you, I see a strong likeness to the chap that we used to call Tomahawk Paradine. Am I right?"

"I've heard worse guesses," Paradine said. "But look here, I can't take your word for all this, you know. You may have gone to pot, for all I know to the contrary. You might have taken to burglary as a profession."

"Oh, yes, I can see all that, of course. But I'm telling you the truth, Paradine. If you don't believe me, come down and see for yourself. Bring a revolver with you, if you like. Anyway, you won't find the Professor here."

Paradine weakened suddenly.

"All right," he said. "I'll take your word for it. Now, hold out your hand, and I'll give you a leg up."

The man called Felton scrambled to the roof with a sigh of relief, and sank breathlessly into an arm-chair. He availed himself generously of Paradine's invitation to sample the contents of the tantalus, and lighted a cigarette.

"Don't you want to go over the flat," he asked, "and satisfy yourself that the aged Professor is not weltering in his own gore? In other words, are you satisfied?"

"Well, partly," Paradine said. "If there had been any violence, you would not be sitting in that chair talking to me in this collected way. If there is anything wrong, you would be only too anxious to get away."

A deep groan burst from Felton's lips.

"As a matter of fact, I am in no end of a hole," he said, " and I want you to help me out, if you can. In fact, no one else can save me; and, upon my word, I don't believe even you can when the truth comes to be told."

"Let's have it," Paradine said encouragingly.

"Well, it's like this. I also am a collector of coins in a modest sort of way, and, without flattery, there are only two men in the world who know more of what I might call pre-numismatism than I do. Professor Ionedes is one, and a queer sort of semi-Arab Johnny called Ali Khan is the other. I have never met Ali Khan, but, in the light of events during the past hour or two, if he isn't the chap who let me into old Ionedes' flat, then I'll eat him, fez and all! But I'm getting on a bit too fast. Do you know anything about coins, Paradine?"

"Nothing whatever, I am sorry to say."

"Then I'd better explain. Now, I suppose Professor Ionedes' collection is absolutely complete as regards the gold coins extant before the beginning of the Christian Era. Ionedes has every one of the coins. There is only one gold piece that he lacked up to a year ago, and this he found in a mummy case whilst exploring in Egypt a few months back. He was exploring the same pyramid that Ali Khan was working on—in fact, they were both looking for that particular medallion that has been a tradition amongst numismatists for generations. And the Professor found it. Ali Khan said that the Greek found it before it was lost— in other words, they were both on the same track, and the Arab was beaten by a short head—a matter of seconds, I believe it was. Anyway, there was a fierce quarrel that nearly ended in physical violence. You will see why I tell you all this presently."

"Go on," Paradine said encouragingly.

"Well, the coin in question is called a Di-Drachma. It is a small gold disc with the figure of a turtle on the obverse side, and on the reverse a design that is not unlike the fifth proposition of the first book of Euclid. It is a Lydian coin, and, experts say, the first token in gold ever struck in the world. When I tell you that there is no mention of coinage throughout the whole of the poems of Homer, you will be able to get some idea of the age of the coin. It was probably struck by Pheilon of Argos in B.C. 895. I don't know what the turtle means, but it is a symbol of some kind, of course. And this is the coin that numismatists have been trying to find for ages. And Ionedes has it, beyond the shadow of a doubt. When I say has it, I ought to have said had it, because it is no longer in his collection."

"How do you know that?" Paradine asked.

"Because it's gone, my boy, vanished— stolen from its place in the drawer by that blackguard Ali Khan, who opened the flat door for me, and subsequently shut me in. I told you that, when I found out how I had been trapped, I went all over the flat and found, amongst other things, that one of the Professor's cabinets had been forced open. In the space amongst the Lydian coins which was obviously reserved for the precious Di-Drachma in the cabinet was nothing but a pad of cotton-wool, and therefore I came to the conclusion that I had interrupted Ali Khan just at the moment when he had laid his hand upon the coveted coin. The old rascal was cunning enough, when he saw how the land lay, to make a clever exit, and leave me to face the infuriated Professor when he came back. Of course, he would swear point-blank that he had never seen me before, that he had never been in Ionedes' flat, and that my story is an absolute fraud. Now you see the position Fate has placed me in, and why I was so anxious to crawl out of the flat at any risk. But, of course, things can't stay as they are, and, at the same time, nobody would accept my explanation. Nothing would convince the Professor that I haven't stolen his Di-Drachma and cunningly hidden it till it was safe for me to go and pick up the beastly thing again."

"In fact, couldn't be worse," Paradine suggested.

"Oh, couldn't it? That's all you know about it. It can be a jolly lot worse. Look here!"

With which Felton produced from his pocket a roughly-cast gold coin of small size, bearing on one side the imprint of a turtle and on the other that of an irregular parallelogram. This he handed over for Paradine's inspection.

"This is the genuine Di-Drachma he said. "There can be no shadow of a doubt as to its authenticity."

"Then you did steal it, after all," Paradine exclaimed. "In that case, why did you tell me "

"Here, half a minute, old man. I am only proving to you how it can be ever so much worse than you thought, because that coin belongs to me, and I had it in my pocket when I called on the Professor this evening. What do you think of that?"

"Well, frankly, I don't, believe you," Paradine said bluntly. "Dash it, man, you can't expect me to swallow a story like that. You tell me that there is only one Di-Drachma in the world, and then you calmly produce another from your pocket, like a conjuror juggling with a couple of rabbits. And, moreover, you tell me that the original gold token has recently been stolen from the Professor's flat. My dear fellow, what particular brand of ass do you take me for?"

"I knew you'd talk like that," Felton said resignedly. "But don't forget that I voluntarily produced the coin which is in your hand. I wasn't bound to do it, you know. I could have gone away without your being any the wiser on the subject. But, because you have trusted me, I have put all the cards in this exceedingly complicated game on the table."

"That's true enough," Paradine admitted.

"Very well, then. Now, perhaps, you will let me go on. I bought that coin, strange as it may seem, from a little general shop in a back street leading off Theobald's Road. I bought it about a week ago. It is a tiny shop, where they sell dilapidated second-hand furniture and cast-off wardrobes and things of that sort—a dirty, dingy little place, where obviously the proprietor was struggling hard for a bare living. In fact, there was a sale going on at the time, under distress for rent. I happened to be passing by, and I looked in, and in a box of rubbish, tokens and cast-off medals, I lighted on that coin. To make a long story short, I bought the whole lot for half-a-crown. Oh, it's a genuine Di-Drachma, right enough, and you can imagine my delight when I discovered the value of my treasure. As soon as I had satisfied myself that it was genuine, I wrote to Professor Ionedes, and asked him if I might be allowed to have a sight of his famous Lydian token. Of course, I didn't mention what I had got, and in the course of a day or two I had a post-card from him, asking me to call upon him this evening at six o'clock. In the light of what I told you, it is quite evident that he forgot all about the appointment, or, what is much more probable, he was lured away from his flat by that scoundrel Ali Khan, who had all his preparations made for the robbery, which' he successfully accomplished. The rest you know. And now you can believe me or not, as you please. I admit everything is against me, I don't suppose that I shall be able to produce the man from whom I purchased that disc—he is probably lost sight of by this time—but I have told you my story, and I am going to ask you to help me all you can. What do you suggest I'd better do?"

"Oh, I don't know," Paradine said. "Are you prepared to leave this token in my hands?"

"Certainly, if you like. But what do you gain by that?"

"Well, it's a guarantee of your bona fides, for one thing. This matter will take some thinking over. You'd better give me your address where I can write to you, and I'll see the Professor for you in the morning. If we do anything in a hurry, the worst construction will be put upon it, and you may find yourself answering a charge at Bow Street. You leave it to me. I dare say I shall think of something."

But morning found Paradine still in two moods, and it was nearly lunch-time before his housekeeper came to him with an intimation that a gentleman wished to see him. In his dining-room he found a little man with nice manners and much politeness, who introduced himself as Inspector Close, from Scotland Yard, coupled with the information, pleasantly conveyed, that he was armed with a search warrant, and that he proposed to go over the flat, with a view to finding a gold coin which was missing from the residence of Professor Ionedes next door.

"I must tell you, Mr. Paradine," he said, "that this is a most unpleasant business, and I am bound to tell you, moreover, that, unless I am satisfied, I have a further warrant for your own arrest. But no doubt—"

"It can't be done," Paradine exclaimed. "I've got a most important consultation at five o'clock this afternoon, in connection with a patient who is lying dangerously hurt in a private hospital off the Brompton Road. I am a brain specialist, as you know, and the whole thing was fixed up on the telephone only half an hour ago."

Inspector Close smiled as the god in the car might have done. It was not a pleasant smile.

"It might be done," he said thoughtfully, "but it rests entirely with yourself. The Professor doesn't want to prosecute, if he can help it, and he is prepared to listen to any story, however improbable, if he gets his missing disc back. You see, it's like this, sir. Nobody can get into the Professor's flat without his own key, which is never out of his possession. He went out yesterday afternoon, intending to return at six o'clock, and when he came back, after being detained, he let himself into the empty flat, the door of which was properly closed, and evidently had been untampered with. Despite this fact, a cabinet had been forced open, and a unique coin extracted—in fact, the only specimen of that coin in the world. The Professor promptly telephoned to Scotland Yard, and I was sent round to investigate. It did not take me many minutes to discover that the flat had been entered through the skylight by someone who obviously had access to the roof. Now, your flat alone gives access to the roof, and the thief must have used your flat for the purpose of the robbery—in fact, it could have taken place in no other way. But, of course, if you can prove your innocence "

The detective shrugged his shoulders and paused eloquently. Paradine stood there, trying to grasp the points of this new and unexpected situation. It was all the more complicated by the fact that at that very moment he had the Di-Drachma in his waistcoat pocket. Nothing would be gained by the detective searching the flat, he knew, but if the officer of the law insisted upon taking him round to Bow Street, then the murder would be out, and nothing could prevent him standing his trial on a charge of stealing the coin. Just at that moment he was regretting at the bottom of his heart that the goddess of Chance had brought him in contact with Felton. For the next minute or two he did some pretty quick thinking, then he plunged his hand into his pocket and produced the gold coin.

"Is this what you are looking for?" he asked. "Because, if you're in search of a gold Di-Drachma, then this is one, beyond the shadow of a doubt. I don't know whether you would like to listen to my explanation or not—probably you would not believe it in any case—so, if you want me to accompany you as far as Bow Street, I am quite prepared to do so. But I must say that I have never been inside Professor Ionedes' flat, and that I decline for the moment to say how that coin came into my possession. Perhaps, on the whole, for the moment I had better say nothing. I am thinking at the present moment more about that case of mine. Now, if I am charged with that robbery, is it possible for me to get bail? I only mean till to-morrow morning, because I must go down to Brompton Road, as a human life probably hangs on my attendance."

"I think that will be all right, sir," Close said. "There could be no possible objection on the part of the police to accept bail for the appearance of so well-known a gentleman as yourself. I suggest that you write a note to a friend or two, asking them to come round to Bow Street this afternoon, and I will see that the notes are delivered. Probably, when Professor Ionedes gets his coin back, he will not be disposed to prosecute, in which case you will hear no more of the matter."

It was four o'clock in the afternoon before Paradine emerged from the seclusion of a whitewashed cell into the open air, accompanied by two indignant scientists of his acquaintance and an apologetic groveller in the person of Felton, who offered to do anything up to suicide, if by so sacrificing himself he could put matters straight. So far, nothing had been seen or heard of the Professor, and it was quite uncertain as to whether he would turn up in the morning to substantiate his charge or not, though Inspector Close was of the opinion that, as he had got his coin back, nothing further would be heard of the matter. Paradine listened calmly enough.

"Oh, don't worry me," he said to the distracted Felton. "If I hadn't been a good-natured fool, I should never have found myself in this mess. And, besides, I've got other things to think about. I must be off to Brompton Road now, in any case. If you want to help, the best thing you can do is to go plunging around and see if you can hit upon the track of that picturesque Arab who has been the cause of all the mischief."

With which, Paradine dismissed the whole thing from his mind, and made his way as promptly as possible in the direction of the Brompton Road and the private hospital there. For the moment, at any rate, he had put the whole of the trouble out of his mind, and was thinking of nothing else besides the interesting case which was waiting his attention. A flippant-minded surgeon, with a watch in his hand, met Paradine on the doorstep.

"You're a nice chap," he said. "I've been waiting for you for a couple of hours, with my own patients performing solos on the telephone every two minutes. Been lunching at the Carlo, I suppose, or something equally important.'*

"Weil, not precisely," Paradine said grimly. "Here, sit down and tell me all about it."

"He's a foreigner," the other man said. "Picturesque, middle-aged ruffian with a black beard. He was knocked down last night, somewhere in Kensington, by a motor lorry, and taken to St. Jacob's. The house-surgeon there saw that it was a case for you, and telephoned to know if he should send the chap round here. So they brought him on a motor ambulance, and he is upstairs at the present moment. I've been all over him myself, but for the life of me I can't find anything wrong anywhere. There are no bones broken and no signs of a fracture, but the man's unconscious and absolutely paralysed. The funny thing is that his colour is quite good, and his pulse and heart quite normal. And now I must be off."

It was quite a couple of hours later before Paradine had completed his diagnosis of the unfortunate patient. He was an elderly man, with clean-cut features and square, fighting jaw, an Eastern beyond question, as his swarthy complexion and black eyes testified. Paradine was not easily puzzled, but for a long time the source of the trouble baffled him. Then he went over all the ground again, and presently the frown lifted from his forehead, and he smiled.

"Ah, here it is," he said, turning to one of the nurses who was holding his instruments. "A small matter enough, but quite sufficient. There has been an injury to the spine right at the base of the brain, a minute displacement of the vertebrae. There's a hole there you can put your finger into. The brain itself is untouched."

"Are you going to operate?" the nurse asked.

"Perfectly useless," Paradine replied. "If that poor fellow moves half an inch, he will be dead. I can remove things, but no surgeon ever yet could replace an injured bit of spine. He is literally hanging on a thread. As I said just now, as soon as he moves he's done for. You'd better go through his belongings and communicate with his friends. Were there any letters or anything of that kind on him?"

"They are on the table there," the nurse explained—"one or two letters, evidently from some scientific society in the East, together with a watch and chain and a purse and a little case with a gold coin in it."

Paradine reached over eagerly and grabbed the shabby little leather case that lay on the table. He threw back the lid with trembling fingers, and there before his astonished and delighted eyes he saw a Di-Drachma. There was no doubt about it; the thing had been burnt too deeply in his memory for him to make a mistake. There it lay, with the imprint of a turtle on the one side and the crude mathejnatical design on the other. Beyond the shadow of a doubt, by sheer good luck Paradine had found the stolen medallion, and was looking down into the unconscious eyes of the thief himself. For beyond question Ali Khan was lying on the bed there, stricken down with mortal illness, no doubt inflicted upon him at the very moment when he was hurrying off from the Professor's flat with his ill-gotten gain.

Five minutes later Paradine had called up Felton on the telephone, and was hurrying back homewards as fast as a taxi could carry him. He had hardly rid himself of his glossy hat and immaculate morning coat before a pale and dishevelled Felton fell headlong into the dining-room.

"Mean to say you've found him?" he gasped.

"I have," Paradine said, " and only just in time, too. It was a bit of sheer good luck. And upon my word, after all that has happened, I think we deserve it. As I told you this afternoon, when we were leaving Bow Street, I had a most important appointment at a private hospital in Brompton Road—a foreigner knocked down in Kensington High Street and seriously injured by a motor lorry. I went to see if an operation would be any good; but the patient was past all that kind of thing, and it's any odds he's dead by this time. I told the nurse in charge that I could do no good, and advised her to communicate with the man's friends. She showed me his letters and belongings, and also told me that he had been possessed of an old gold coin that he carried in a leather case. As I am particularly interested just now in old gold coins, I asked to see it. Here it is. I took the liberty of bringing it away with me, and if it isn't the Professor's missing Di-Drachma, then I am cruelly mistaken. What do you say?"

"Beyond the shadow of a doubt," Felton cried. "What blind good fortune that you should have been called in to attend the actual thief! Oh, that's the coin all right. Then I suppose the next thing is to go and see the Professor, and convince him that he has got my coin, and that this is his. He won't believe it unless we produce the actual token. So let's get along and finish it without delay."

It was some little time before the suspicious Professor, doubtless with the fear of violence before his eyes, consented to open his front door wide enough to admit the two intruders, and, indeed, he would probably have refused then had not Paradine produced the second coin and dangled it before his astonished and crestfallen gaze.

"Yes," he said, "that is a genuine Di-Drachma all right. And I thought that there was only one of them in the world—I mean the stolen one, which is now safe in my cabinet again. But please come inside, gentlemen, and let us talk this matter over."

At the end of half an hour the Professor expressed himself satisfied, though he still looked uncomfortable and ill at ease as he made the necessary exchange of coins, and, with a reluctance which he made no effort to conceal, handed Felton's property over to him.

"I suppose that that rascally Arab must in some way have obtained an impression of the key of my front door," he said, "otherwise I cannot account for the way in which he got into my flat. It is an extraordinary story altogether, and, but for the evidence in Mr. Felton's hands, I would never have believed it. To think that two of those coins were in existence! And the worst of it is that the value of mine is depreciated at least one half by the fact that there is a counterpart. Only a numismatist like Mr. Felton can understand my feelings. Now, Mr. Felton, I'm a rich man, and able to gratify my whims. Shall we say five thousand pounds for your Di-Drachma?"

"Done!" Felton said promptly. "It's yours."

It was a highly delighted Felton who followed Paradine into his flat a few minutes later.

"Funny story, isn't it?" he said. "Pity it can't be written, isn't it?"

"Nobody'd believe it if you did," Paradine replied, "and, if you ask me, you are jolly well out of it."

THE END

THE SECOND CHAPTER

Published in The Queenslander, Saturday, 29 January, 1916.

The great doors clanged behind Inchcliffe, he heard the quick flick of the lock for the last time. His watch was in his pocket, and the little pile of gold sovereigns in the gold box; here was his cigarette-case half-filled, and matches in the little receptacle Hilda had given him the day before they were married.

Considering the time the cigarettes had been in the case they were not bad. He looked all right, of course; neat grey suit, symmetrical crease ending in a patent leather boot, clean linen and snowy collar and a beautiful bow in front of it. He would have passed in the Park all right--but he was not going there.

With his sentence--a just and proper sentence, too--social life was ended. But there can be no romance of this kind without a woman in the case. And the woman was lacking. Inchcliffe had emerged from the prison gates absolutely certain of seeing her--and, behold! she had not come. It was all the more amazing because the woman he had expected was his wife.

She had got off more lightly than he. Her sentence had been merely one of six months in the second division.

Of course, society was properly shocked when Hilda Inchcliffe stole the famous Lashmar necklace. It was such an impudent theft, brazened out till the last minute. It had been a cowardly thing, after Hilda Inchcliffe's arrest, for her husband to fly off to Paris and there hide himself for six months until his ready money had given out, and he had to give himself and the necklace up to the police.

Nor did Hilda Inchcliffe's line of defence tend to improve matters. She stoutly protested that Alice Lashmar, her cousin, had made her a present of the necklace. She had gone round to Miss Lashmar's house in Wilton-avenue, and asked for assistance.

And Miss Lashmar had given her the jewels. She swore to the day and the hour when this had taken place. And Miss Lashmar had had no difficulty in proving that at the hour in question she was somewhere else. Beyond all question Hilda Inchcliffe had called in the absence of her cousin, and had deliberately stolen the necklace.

Why had not Hilda met him as he had written and asked her? There were many things in connection with the story that she did not know. From the moment of his arrest until the day of their sentence he had not had a single hour with his wife. And now she had failed to keep his appointment.

He was more deeply hurt and disappointed than he cared to admit. He had been passionately in love with his wife; he had married her with little means and no prospects, and her extravagance had ruined him. The story that the necklace had been given to Hilda he had not at the time believed. It had been a terrible shock to him. For her sake he lost his head--lost his head and behaved like an idiot, or so people said. But, later on, during the weeks of seclusion in Paris, he began to see things. He saw more in the course of the trial, so that in time in the prison yonder he smiled to himself as if something did not displease him. He had kissed his wife as she disappeared from the dock. Then, like the man that he really was, stiffened his lip for his punishment.

Hilda was not coming, evidently. He would go and find out what had become of her. It was not a pleasant task, that ringing of bells outside West End houses and asking questions of smug, supercilious footmen, who recognised him for the most part. There were others who recognised him also--women with noses uptilted and men with a steely gleam in their eyes.

He found a man at last with the desired information. The man was coming down the steps of his own house.

"Your wife's with Miss Lashmar," he said, throatily. "Good-day."

Inchcliffe reeled down the steps into the road. "Poor little soul!" he muttered. "Poor little girl! The refined cruelty of it! But not for long."

He turned his steps towards Wilton-avenue. The footman who came to the door recognised him; his, eyes half-closed as he sang nasally that Miss Lashmar was not at home.

"Very well, then, so much the better. Where is my wife? Upstairs in the drawing-room? I'll announce myself."

Up the marble stairs, on the thick pile of the carpet, Inchcliffe made his way. The luxury and splendour of it oppressed him. He could still hear the clicking of the keys and the rattle of the locks. All this, more besides, belonged to Alice Lashmar. As a matter of fact, it should all have been Hilda's. That doddering old uncle of hers had always told her that he intended everything for her. She had lived with him as his daughter, and he had told her that he had made a will in her favour, and that will could not be found, and the brother's daughter had taken everything. If Inchcliffe had any suspicion, he kept it to himself. He had not married Hilda for her money. He had married her without a penny, and without heed for the future.

She was sitting all alone in the window with a book in her hand. But she was not reading. She was gazing out of the window sorrowfully and tearfully. She turned as the door opened, and a little cry escaped her. She staggered across the room into Inchcliffe's arms. He could feel her slender frame shaking from head to foot with sobs, her heart was beating to suffocation. She seemed to be struggling for her breath as Inchcliffe held her and soothed her tenderly.

"You are glad to see me again, darling?" he asked.

"Oh, Hughie, If you only knew how much!"

"You did not feel up to coming to meet me, then? You got my letter?"

"I have had no letter lately, Hugh. I have been expecting to hear from you for a week."

Inchcliffe's face grew a little more hard and stern. He dropped down on a sofa and drew the pretty little woman on his knee. "We'll get out of the tangle presently," he said. "Will Alice be away long?"

"All the afternoon, I expect. She is lunching at the Russian Embassy. When I came here a month ago--"

"But, my dearest girl, how did you get here at all? With Alice Lashmar, of all people, after your protesting that she gave you the necklace! Why, it's an admission of guilt."

Hilda's lips trembled again, and tears came into her eyes. "I am past thinking of that," she said. "Nobody seemed to want me. I was not asked to stay anywhere more than a week. And then as a favour. Then Alice Lashmar took pity on me. Alice is supposed to have behaved very kindly and generously to me. And I hate her, hate her, hate her!"

Inchcliffe smoothed the pretty fair hair, and kissed the pretty trembling lips.

"We will come to all that presently," he said. "You still stick to the story of the necklace? You still protest that Alice Lashmar made you a present of it? It is a pretty thin story, Hilda."

"Oh, I know it, Hugh. And Alice did not have the least difficulty in proving that she was somewhere else at the same time. But it's true, Hugh, it's true. I don't know how she managed it, but it's as true as Heaven. But why did she play this trick on me?"

"As well ask why you behaved so foolishly in the pawnshop, dear?"

"I lost my head there, Hugh--as you lost yours afterwards."

Inchcliffe made no attempt to refute the charge. There was a grim smile on his face.

"We will get to all that presently," he said. "It's no use kicking against the pricks, little woman."

"If I had not been so terribly extravagant, Hugh--"

"No use to talk about that either. You were shockingly extravagant, and there's an end of it. You went to Alice, who had all the money that should have been yours, and asked for assistance. It was the opportunity she had been waiting for, and she took it with both hands."

"But, Hugh, there was no occasion for her to hurt me."

"Well, we shall come to that in good time," Inchcliffe went on. "I began to see things in Paris, and pieced the whole puzzle together till it was plain as a picture. We are the sport of circumstances, sweetheart. We shall never convince the world that we are innocent. We are guilty to them, and we must make the best of it. But life is not over for us, and we are not going down and under. And we are not grovelling on our knees to beg money from our relatives. We are about to start again in the Gulf of Florida, and we are leaving with a fortune in our pockets. No one will know where that fortune came from, and that will be our little comedy."

"But where is the money coming from, Hughie? Are you sure that we are not likely to be disappointed at the last moment?"

"We are victims," he said. "Outcasts. It's all very well for the smug armchair religionists to preach platitudes. We can be happy and comfortable if we like, or we can take the martyr's crown and crust thereof. And the martyr's crown would be grudged because society would say that we have no right to the part. When Alice Lashmar comes back--"

"Oh, she will not be back yet. She is dining to-night at the Railton with Oldban--"

"Oldban, so he is the man! Dear, old, solemn, good-natured Oldban! The one man who wrote to me yonder and offered me assistance. Hilda, we will go and dine at the Railton also."

"My dear boy! I haven't been seen in public; and, besides, consider what people will say."

"My dear girl, can they say anything fresh? Hilda, I have set my heart on this thing. You are going to see another act in the drama. You are about to learn what I discovered in prison, and Alice Lashmar must know the truth. Now pack up your belongings and send them to my old rooms in Graham-place. I am returning there to-night, and you will accompany me."

"But, Hugh," Hilda protested, "you said just now that I had better stay here a little bit longer--"

"I know I did. But I have changed my mind. The knowledge that Alice is dining at the Railton to-night has given me an idea. The Railton is never crowded at this time of year. And I should not be surprised to find that we are at the next table to Alice and her companion. Get out some evening things and a wrap, and meet me is the vestibule of the hotel at eight o'clock. Here's a sovereign; it will last you for the moment. Tell Alice that I have been here, and that you are coming back to me at once. Now, don't ask any questions, and you will see what you will see."

"Very well," Hilda answered. "I will be there to meet you. But I know that I shall die of shame. I shall sink through the floor, Hughie. Everybody will be looking at us."

"Not they! You will be glad afterwards. And before a week has passed we shall be on our way out of England. Everything is arranged, the house taken and furnished. We shall be free and happy and have money to spend. And I shall have a genial occupation. It's well worth an effort, as you will see presently."

"I'll make it," Hilda smiled. "Hugh, what will Alice say?"

Inchcliffe shrugged his shoulders. Really it mattered nothing what Alice Lashmar thought. He walked along presently with his head in the air. He was seeking no favour of any man; he was going out to an ideal life with his dear little wife by his side. He turned into the dining-room of the Railton and interviewed the head waiter. He was not known here, and consequently not identified. He would like to see a plan of the tables, and wanted seats for two. He ran his eye swiftly over the card, and a look of satisfaction appeared on his face. Here was the corner where the Marquess of Oldban was dining, and in the same angle another table was vacant. Inchcliffe scribbled his initials on the card, and strolled out well satisfied.

"Is it quite fair?" he asked himself. "She's but a woman after all. Still, my wife is another. And I don't think many men could resist such a glorious revenge as this."

The dining-room contained no more than a sprinkling of guests as Inchcliffe and his wife made their way across the dining room to their table. Nobody appeared to recognise them as they took their seats. A waiter buzzed about them fussily. They settled down to the soup, Hilda looking about her nervously. She gave a start presently, and a wave of colour swept over her face.

"They are coming," she whispered. "What is going to happen? What is it that you want me to do?"

"Nothing," Inchcliffe responded. "Yours is the policy of masterly inactivity. Leave the talking to me, and rest at your ease. Ah, Oldban has spotted us. I hope he won't want to speak."

A young man with a dull, good-natured face and an inevitable eye-glass, started and half stopped. He appeared as if about to hold out his hand, but Inchcliffe bowed coldly and turned away. Hilda watched timidly from under the fringe of her lashes. She saw Oldban colour awkwardly, she saw the haughty disdain on Alice Lashmar's face. Yet that face was very white, and the woman's lips quivered strangely for a moment.

"Hugh," Hilda whispered, breathlessly. "How blind I have been! I have discovered something that I never dreamt of--"

"Really! Ah, you will find out something else before long. Now go on with your dinner. Let us have 40 min. of the commonplace before the curtain goes up on the drama."

The meal drew to an end at length, coffee and liqueur and cigarettes had appeared. The people at the next table were very silent; but then Oldban was always silent.

"The victims of circumstance, no doubt," Inchcliffe said, as if continuing a conversation. Every word could be heard at the next table. "But what could any one do in such a case? It was very hard upon your girl friend, because she could not know how much her cousin hated her. Did you never guess the reason for all this hatred? Did you--I mean, your girl friend--ever ask herself that question?"

"I don't think she imagined that there was any hatred," Hilda said, in a bewildered way. "I don't think--"

"Oh, yes, there was. You--I mean your girl friend--had everything--the prospect of a large fortune, a man who loves you--I mean her. And the other woman was in love with the other man."

"You!" Hilda cried. "Is it possible that--"

"My dear, you are attracting attention," Hugh went on, coldly. "No use getting excited over a mere story. I say that the other woman loved the man and let him see it. I don't think he was more conceited than most men, and therefore he couldn't help understanding. There was one rather painful scene--but no matter. Anyhow, she knew that the man wouldn't tell tales out of school, and he didn't. Then there came a time when you--I mean the girl friend--lost all her money, and it went to the other girl, every penny of it. And the other girl wanted to know if the man still wished to marry the first girl, because--well, it's like a story in a book, isn't it? And the man said he would marry you--I mean your girl friend--if she hadn't a copper. And, as a matter of fact, he did."

"I think," came a clear, hard voice from the other table, "that we had better be moving on, Lord Oldban."

"And I think," Oldban said, in a curiously-strained voice, "that I should like to remain a bit longer. Put you in a cab and all that, if you like, Miss Lashmar."

A glass tinkled on the adjoining table, rolled over, and dropped in a thousand fragments upon the floor.

"It's a very interesting story, Hugh," Hilda said, her cheeks flooded with crimson. "Very interesting."

"Yes isn't it? Well, the man married the girl, and that appeared to be the end of it. But the man and the girl were terribly extravagant, and there came a time when they were in dire straits for the need of money. It was only natural that the young wife should go to the other girl who had deprived her of a great fortune and ask for assistance. And there was nothing marvellous in the fact that the assistance was forthcoming. The second girl had no ready money, but she had jewels--gems which by right really belonged to the young wife--and these were passed on to her. This was the first step in the scheme of vengeance."

"But why was it necessary, Hugh?"

"Because, my dear, we have it on the word of the poet that hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. She knew that your friend would try and raise money on the necklace, and she did. The little girl was not used to that sort of thing, and she made rather a hash of things. Questions were asked, and subsequently the second girl swore that her young friend had stolen the necklace. The young wife declared how on a certain date she had visited the house of the other girl--by the way, shall we call her Alice?"

Hilda nodded. She was dying to steal a glance at the adjoining table, but she dared not for the moment.

"Alice proved that she could not have been present when the alleged interview took place, for she was somewhere else at the time, and, moreover, was suffering from a sprained ankle. Despite that, she was at a garden party, where scores of people saw her. But this was just the very occasion when she was able to slip out and get home with no one any the wiser. The sprained ankle was a sham. And that is how the thing was done."

There was a rustle and a movement at the next table. Alice Lashmar moved slowly towards the door. Her face was white and set, and her eyes gleamed wrathfully.

"You will see me home, Lord Oldban?" she asked.

"I will see you as far as your cab, Miss Lashmar," Oldban said, in the same curiously wooden voice. "There are some old friends of mine that I should very much like to speak to."

Inchcliffe jumped to his feet as the other two vanished. "Here, pay the bill out of that, waiter," he said. "Keep the change. Let's get out of this by the Stannard-street entrance, Hilda. I don't want Oldban back here just now. We've had a pretty innings, and I've spoilt Alice's little game so far as his Lordship is concerned. But nothing can be gained by stirring up the old scandal. Any way, you know now why Alice behaved in that vile way over the necklace."

Hilda was very silent and thoughtful as the cab proceeded in the direction of Inchcliffe's old lodgings. They were plain enough in their way, but they suggested home, and, at any rate, she and Hugh were together. There were tears of happiness in her eyes as she removed her wraps and deposited then in her bedroom. Here were all her belongings, the brushes and trinkets and silver articles, set out on the toilet table. She came back to the sitting-room presently, and smiled as Hugh took her in his arms and kissed her.

"You haven't quite finished your story yet?" she asked.

"Not quite, sweetheart. You see, when you said that that necklace had been given to you, I naturally believed every word that you said. And when Alice behaved so shamefully I knew exactly what was her motive. But for that vile trick of hers I should never have told you that she tried to get me away from you. And we were both helpless. We were bound to suffer. No one would have believed us, and we should have been left to face the world without resource, save what our relatives flung at us as contemptuous charity. When the police were after you I took the necklace, and tried to raise money on it. Or, rather, I pretended to try. I knew that we were both done, and that we were bound to suffer. You see, appearances were too terribly against us. And yet, in common equity and common honesty, that necklace belonged to you.

"I made up my mind what to do. I saw Ashley, and he let me have a thousand pounds. I bolted off to Paris with the necklace, and hid myself there; but I was hiding with a purpose all those months, and I was not wasting my time. When I was ready I came back to England, and surrendered myself to the police."

"And returned the necklace. Hugh?"

Inchcliffe smiled as he turned back a corner of the carpet and pulled up a board. From a little cavity there he produced a shabby leather case, and asked Hilda to open it. As she did so a cry escaped her, and she staggered back in amazement.

"The necklace!" she gasped. "And yet only a day or two ago Alice wore it at the Opera."

"No; merely a clever imitation. I had it copied in Paris, and paid a thousand pounds for it. I felt sure that no questions would be asked when the counterfeit was handed over, and I have been quite justified by events. Now, look here, Hilda, I am not going into the morality of the thing. The necklace was given to you, and there is no reason to inquire why. Besides, no one would believe the story, though you could see for yourself how it impressed Oldban. I worked out the thing cynically and coldly, with the full intention of providing for our future. I did not see my way to cadging on my knees for a few hundred pounds to take us abroad. I daresay I shall get the bitter taste out of my mouth in time, and I know I can sell those stones for thirty thousand pounds if I am careful. Perhaps later on, when we have made our fortune in Florida, I may possibly see my way. But even then--"

THE END

THE BLACK PRINCE

Published in The Windsor Magazine, June, 1912.

THE car came leisurely down the road, and a pleasant-faced young man stepped on to the wooden platform and accosted the distinguished antiquarian respectfully.

"Dr. Donald McPhail, I think," he said. "I am Raymond Welton. Sir John Denmark asked me to come and meet you."

"Oh, indeed," the famous traveller and antiquarian said. "I haven't seen my old friend, Sir John, for three years; in fact, I don't believe I wrote to him after I went to Mexico. When you are buried out yonder a hundred miles from a town, amongst those Aztec ruins, it is not an easy matter to transmit letters. I hope that nothing serious is the matter?"

"Well, not as far as Sir John and Miss Denmark are concerned," Welton explained. "But it's a ghastly business. Miss Denmark has not been well the last few days, and her maid, Lydia Wrench, has been sleeping in her mistress's dressing-room, so as to be handy in case anything happened. Yesterday morning the maid was found dead in her bed. A doctor from Plymouth who had been called in to make the autopsy was utterly puzzled as to the cause of death. So Sir John asked me to come and meet you, and he hoped that you would not mind putting up at my cottage till the funeral is over. And besides, I shall be honoured if you will come. You see, I am by way of being a novelist, and Miss Denmark and I—"

"Oh, you are Welton, are you?" McPhail asked. "I know your mystery stories quite well. What's the name of that book of yours in which you introduce an Egyptian scarab? Have you got anything of the kind on hand just now?"

"Well, I have," Welton said. "And I was going to ask you to help me, because it is all about those mysterious Aztecs, and there's no living soul who knows more about those strange people than you do. At the British Museum I stumbled on an old manuscript written something after the Munchausen style by a traveller who professed to have been out in Mexico, in the Aztec country. There was some wild legend about a butterfly called the Black Prince. Of course, it is all fiction, but the idea appealed to me so strongly that I am making it the central idea in my new story."

"So you think the manuscript is all romance, do you?" McPhail asked, quietly. "You are quite right, Welton. There is no man alive who knows so much of the Aztecs as I do. I am very sorry to hear about Denmark's trouble, and it is exceedingly good of you to put me up. As an old traveller I am quite used to roughing it."

Raymond Welton's cottage was no more than the owner claimed for it, but it was neat and clean, and the famous traveller's tiny bedroom looked out over the wide Atlantic that broke on the sands six hundred feet below. After a substantial meal McPhail lay back in a big basket-chair, smoking the coarse tobacco that his soul loved, and chatting confidentially with his young host, to whom he had taken a sincere liking.

"Most people would find it rather lonely down here," the professor said. "Not that I quarrel with that. By the way, who lives in that black old house on the brow yonder?"

"That's called Ravenshoe," Welton explained. "It was inhabited by a famous smuggler, whose dark exploits are still talked of by the fishermen. It was a fine place at one time, but only about half the house remains now. The man who lives there is a nephew of Sir John Denmark, and is, in fact, the only child of Sir John's dead sister. He's a queer and mysterious sort of man, very quiet and reserved, and no one knows much about him, except that he's supposed to be connected with some London finance companies. He bought Ravenshoe two years ago, when his wife left him, and he spends about half his time down here. According to Sir John he is an object of pity. I understand he was passionately attached to his wife, who simply walked out of the house one afternoon and declined to come back. More than that, she refused ever to see him again, or to explain her conduct to anyone. Curiously enough, it was this same Julian Rama—"

"What name did you say?" McPhail asked, suddenly.

"Rama. Queer name, isn't it? Julian Rama's father was a Spaniard from Mexico, and, I understand, claims direct descent from Acamapichtle, who was the second king of the Aztecs. Sir John says that Rama has a number of old Aztec manuscripts proving his claim, but these, I believe, he declines to show to anyone. When he hears who you are perhaps he will change his mind, though I doubt it."

"So do I," McPhail said, dryly. "However, that's neither here nor there. Would you mind, Welton, saying nothing of this, I mean as to who I am, to Mr. Rama for the present? It is just possible he has never heard of me."

"As to that, I can't say," Welton replied; "you'd better ask Sir John. At any rate, all I know is that it was when I heard Mr. Rama's story that I first conceived the idea of writing a novel round a mysterious man descended from the Aztecs, and who knows all the black magic and dark traditions which have been handed down from that mysterious race. To my mind they are quite as fascinating as the ancient Egyptian."

"Good Lord, yes," McPhail burst out, suddenly. "I should say they are. All the wickedness of Tyre and Sidon and Sodom and Gomorrah and Babylon is wrapped up and packed away in the secret history of the Aztecs. The evil spirit called Tlactecolototl, which these people more or less worshipped, had, I firmly believe, at one time a being in flesh. I tell you, I've seen things myself. I have materialized certain essences and incorporate bodies, and have produced from them results which have made me loathe myself. But you mustn't run away with the impression that this Julian Rama knows as much as I do. Unless he has been out there, as I have done, he couldn't. Probably those documents are merely so many letters to him, and I have no doubt that he is proud of his own descent."

McPhail changed the subject abruptly.

"Now tell me, as a matter of curiosity, were there any marks of violence on the body of the unfortunate girl who died so mysteriously?" he asked.

"None whatever. I saw the poor girl as she lay in bed on her right side, and she seemed to have died peacefully in her sleep. There was nothing to be seen, as far as I could judge, beyond two tiny little marks behind the left ear, no bigger than the point of a needle. They were little reddish specks, white at the base, as if a gnat had stung her. You've got two such marks on the back of your own hand at the present moment."

McPhail glanced hurriedly at his hand, and then he smiled a curious twisted smile that showed his teeth.

"You are a curiously observant young man," he said. "And now, shouldn't we walk as far as Porth Place? I should like, at any rate, just to call and see my old friends."

The blinds were drawn in the long windows and the visitors found Sir John Denmark and his daughter pacing up and down the lawn. They welcomed McPhail cordially and insisted upon his coming into the house.

"You'll find us rather subdued at the present moment," the old Anglo-Indian said. "But, of course, Welton has told you all about it?"

"Oh, yes," McPhail explained. "A most mysterious case, from all accounts. I wonder if you'd mind if I had a look at the unfortunate girl who died so mysteriously."

"Well, I—I don't see why you shouldn't," the startled baronet exclaimed. "The poor child is still lying on her bed, and I'll take you up if you like."

McPhail followed bravely into the darkened room and proceeded to pull up the blind. Then he bent over the body and examined the dead features carefully with the aid of a strong glass which he took from his waistcoat pocket. His flint-blue eyes were bent intently on the tiny little specks under the dead girl's ear. But they were tiny specks no longer: they had developed into little red marks, capped with irregular scars, deep red, with a blue ring at the base.

"My God," McPhail whispered. "So that is it! Thank Heaven, I seem to have got here in time."

The door of the little cottage was thrown wide open so that the light from Welton's reading lamp shone out towards the sea. He had just thrown aside his pen with a gesture of disgust when McPhail came quietly in.

"You have been very patient for the last few days," he said. "And now, my dear Welton, if you have any questions to ask, fire away."

"A hundred," Welton said. "It is five evenings now since I accompanied you into the bedroom of that unfortunate girl, Lydia Wrench. And I saw how deeply you were moved, though I don't think anybody else did. At your suggestion I got Sir John out of the room, and you proceeded to remove one of those tiny sores from the girl's face and put it in your pocket-book. Can you wonder, therefore, that I was curious?"

"Go on," McPhail murmured; "go on."

"Then you asked all sorts of questions. You wanted to know if the dressing-room door was open all night, and whether the door leading into Miss Denmark's bedroom was closed or not. You wanted to know if Miss Denmark's windows were open, and she told you they were. And when Miss Denmark told you that she always pinned her window curtains together in the summer time, because she hated nocturnal moths and insects, and because she had got into the habit of doing that sort of thing in India, you were considerably relieved. Also, you suggested to her that she should keep the doors of her bedroom and dressing-room locked."

"Quite so, Welton," McPhail said. "The death of that poor girl was a mere accident; the pestilence that moved by night was not meant for her at all, but for Daphne Denmark. The mere fact that the girl was sleeping in the dressing-room was unknown to the monster that we have to fight. The danger is close at hand now; it will come as soon as the fading moon is well on the horizon. Therefore the enemy has to move, because he can do nothing unless the weather is hot and fine. I told Sir John that I was going out moth-hunting, and asked him if he would leave one of the windows open so that I could get back into the house. So, as soon as the moon is fairly high, you are going back with me to Porth Place, and we are going to watch and wait for the unseen terror of the night. We shall creep quietly into the house and take our places in the corridor where Sir John keeps his pictures. I have got an electric torch, and I can lend you one too. And make no mistake of the danger. I don't wish to frighten you, but there it is. And that's the sort of thing that tries people's nerve."

"All the same I am quite ready," Welton said, quietly. "I am fighting for the woman I love, and for the woman who loves me. I'd do anything for Daphne."

"I know. Now, if anything happened to Sir John, and especially if anything happened to Daphne, where would the bulk of the Denmark money go to?"

"Why, to Rama, of course. But you don't suggest that a man who is already married, and has a wife living—"

"I suggest nothing. I have been making inquiries; in fact, I've kept the telegraph office at St. Enoc busy during the last few days. You may be surprised to hear that Julian Rama is in desperate need of a thousand pounds."

"Oh, indeed," Welton exclaimed. "Is that why Rama has been in town all the week?"

"My dear fellow, he hasn't been in town at all. He's been here all the time. Like you, he lives all alone, at Ravenshoe, so that he can come and go as he likes, and a man who runs a motor-cycle as he does has only to disguise himself in goggles so that he might pass, even in the village, as a wandering tourist. I am going to show you something to-night that you have never seen before. On the face of it it is nothing but a photograph of a fresco on an old Aztec temple. That fresco I destroyed, but I took this photograph first. Isn't it good?"

The photograph displayed the figure of a woman in Aztec robes lying at full length upon a couch with a hard, white face turned upwards. On one temple something seemed to have perched, something that looked like the petals of a fallen flower, till Welton came to examine it more carefully, and then he saw that it was a gigantic butterfly. There was something weird, and yet so repulsive about it, that Welton shuddered as he gazed at it.

"There is a horrible suggestion about the whole thing," he said. "But it conveys nothing to me."

"It will later on," McPhail said, grimly. "My friend, that's the Black Prince. But come on, we are wasting time here. By the way, have you got any more of that honey that you gave me for tea last night? If so, you might bring a section with you."

Like two burglars they crept into the hall of Sir John's house and up into the gallery. Not a sound did they make, not a sign of their presence did they give, except just once, when McPhail flashed a ray from his electric torch in the direction of one of the bedrooms, after which he proceeded to deposit the section of honeycomb upon the mat outside.

"Sit there," he whispered. "On that oak chest. And take this long-handled Oriental fan in your hand. I have got one too—in fact, I've borrowed them off the wall yonder for the purpose. I'll take my place on the chest on the other side of the corridor, and when the time comes I'll give the signal. Only you're not to make the slightest noise. When I say the word, turn on your electric-torch and thrash about in the air with your fan as if your life depended upon it. I may tell you that it probably does. Now, then."

The electric torch was extinguished, and for a time the two men sat there breathing heavily in the violet darkness. And so it went on for an hour or more, till Welton could feel himself tingle in every nerve, until he felt that he must either rise from his seat and walk about or scream aloud.

And then, suddenly, a queer humming sound broke the intense silence. It was as if a gentle steady breeze was blowing against a highly-strung wire, or as if the two were listening to the dying vibrations of a tuning-fork. It was not a great noise, but in the darkness and silence of the place it struck on Welton's ears with a force that set him trembling in every nerve. It seemed to be all round and about, sometimes up in the roof of the gallery, and then again within a foot of Welton's grey, ghastly face. Then to his relief McPhail spoke.

"Now," he said. "For Heaven's sake, now!"

Welton sprang to his feet and thrashed the dark with the long-handled fan till his arm ached and the perspiration rolled down his cheeks. He was dimly conscious that McPhail was doing the same thing, and then suddenly the professor ceased and a long white ray from the electric torch cut into the darkness. Then something seemed to hum and vibrate, something dazzling in purple and red, and a splendour of spangled gold, followed by the dull impact of some flying body as it came suddenly against a downward sweep of McPhail's fan. For the first time McPhail spoke aloud.

"Got him!" he croaked, in a voice as hoarse as the drone of a circular saw. "Got him! He's past all danger now. Come and have a look, Welton; there's nothing to be afraid of."

Down there on the floor was a huddled mass of some fluffy material, a mangled heap of beauty and colour all blended into one shining and sticky mass.

"The Black Prince," McPhail explained, hoarsely. "The most damnably beautiful thing that ever came out of hell."

"But what is it?" Welton whispered.

"I can't explain here; and, anyway, we haven't finished yet. No, for Heaven's sake, don't touch it. There is nothing more exquisitely beautiful or more deadly poisonous on the face of the earth. And now do you understand what has been worrying me?"

"That devil Rama," Welton exclaimed.

"Of course. Now just wait a minute whilst I get a pair of thick gloves and remove all traces of that hideous mess. Then we'll go as far as Ravenshoe and have this matter out. Unless I am greatly mistaken we shall find the scoundrel at home."

As the two men walked through the moonlight, McPhail proceeded to enlighten his companion.

"It's like this," he explained. "In the ordinary circumstances you would never have got anything out of me about the Black Prince, though, of course, I was interested to hear that you had found that old manuscript at the British Museum. But when you told me all about Rama and the tragedy at Porth Place, then, I must confess, I was disturbed. That's why I asked to have a look at the unfortunate woman. And one glance convinced me that she had fallen a victim to perhaps the most insidious and powerful poison in the world."

"What do you call it?" Welton asked.

"Terafine. It is only found in one insect, and that is the Black Prince. I told Professor Skelton about it a year or two ago, and he made certain investigations on specimens supplied by me, and up to now those investigations are a profound secret. I recognized terafine at once, and the professor confirmed my opinion when he placed that little scab I sent him under the microscope. Then I knew beyond doubt how the girl had died, and I began to make further inquiries into the career of Julian Rama. I found that he was absent frequently in South America on mysterious errands which he said were in connection with a mining concession. And here he doubtless came across the Black Prince. And I found it myself; ah, yes!"

McPhail's voice trailed off for a moment into a hoarse whisper, and the old horror crept into his eyes.

"I don't want to dwell upon that time," he said. "Sometimes I dream of it in the night and wake up wet and cold. But yet I cannot wipe out of my mind the recollection of that evening in the old ruined temple, covered with creepers and orchids, where I first met the Black Prince—met it on the fourth night, under the light of the full moon; when I was watching all alone I saw the infernal thing. I saw a dozen of them, disporting themselves round the remains of a hive of honey which we had taken from a decayed tree. And I fought them, as in the old days they fought the wild beasts at Ephesus. I killed them all, and I buried them whilst my natives slept. I did not want my people to find that the legend was true; but from that day on I never entered an Aztec ruin except in the daylight. And now you know why I asked all those questions, and why I asked Sir John not to identify me with McPhail the antiquary. I didn't want Rama to know who I was, and I don't think he guesses. Come, let us get along, because our night's work is not finished yet."

As they pushed up the slope in the direction of Ravenshoe a fisherman came hurrying along the cliff and pulled up as Welton hailed him by name.

"What's the matter, Tyre?" he asked.

"It's a bad thing that's happened," the fisherman said. "I was going along the cliffs just now, in the direction of Marham, when I see a big car coming up the road with three men in it. One of them was Mr. Pascoe, over to Bodmin, who's Chief of Police there. And from what I could gather the other two were from London, and they had a warrant for Mr. Rama's arrest."

"Then he is a prisoner?" Welton asked.

"Well, no, sir; not in a manner of speaking. Mr. Rama, he must have been looking out for them, for when the car was a quarter of a mile away he comes dashing along on his motor-bicycle down the road and the car pushed on to cut him off. Then Mr. Rama, he swerves round over the headland yonder, so as to make a loop and gain the far side of the Marham Road, which takes him over the slippery grass down the side of the slope, and just then he turns quickly, and over goes the motor-bike and him with the cycle together down the cliff into the sea beyond. I was on my way to tell Sir John."

"Oh, we'll do that," Welton said. "You go down to the beach and see if you can be of any assistance."

As the fisherman vanished McPhail pushed on.

"Come along," he said. "We are not likely to be interrupted, and I couldn't sleep to-night till I have been all over that house. I am not fool enough to believe that that monster Rama has exhausted his supply with two of those loathsome insects. They are tropical insects, and could not live for long in a climate like ours, except in torrid weather, and only then when the moon is in the second quarter. But we have had some very hot nights lately, except for three evenings this week; and this afternoon it was so warm that I knew an attempt would be made to-night. And I was right."

"But if those things are so dangerous to handle?"

"Not to a man who is used to knocking about in motor attire. Mackintoshes and masks and thick gloves not only served Rama as a disguise, but acted as a protection as well. He stole down to Porth Place to-night with one of those infernal moths in a box; he had previously, no doubt, smeared the transom over the bedroom floor with honey, and the big window in the gallery was open. And now, come along and let us wipe out all records."

There was no difficulty whatever in getting into Ravenshoe, for the front door stood wide open, giving on the big hall of the deserted house and the dining-room beyond, where a lighted paraffin lamp stood on the table. In one corner of the room was a safe, the door of which was ajar, and this was crammed with old manuscripts covered with quaint inscriptions that McPhail's experienced eye immediately recognized as Aztec.

"There, what did I tell you?" he said. "Clear that safe out and push all the documents into that sack lying in the corner. Then open the windows and throw it out, and we'll come and recover it in the morning. Upstairs, I think."

They made their way up the wide staircase and searched every room there with the aid of their electric torches. McPhail appeared to be dissatisfied until, presently, he came to a door let into the oak panelling, a door with a catch and button on the outside which he proceeded to open. On the other side of the oak barrier was a network of fine steel in the form of a mesh, and from the room itself gushed a warm odour of hot steam which was mingled queerly with a faint sweet odour that seemed to fill the whole atmosphere.

"Ah!" said McPhail. "Here we are!"

He turned the brilliant lane of light from his torch upon the prison house behind the steel mesh, and almost immediately there arose that peculiar sharp humming musical note that Welton had noticed an hour or so before in the corridor of Porth Place. Then a shadow seemed to fall from the roof, and poised motionless with wings whirring so fast that they hardly seemed to move, and in that instant Welton was gazing with fascinated eyes at the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

It was a great moth, some ten inches across the wings, velvet black as to the body, with a broad band of royal purple exquisitely patterned like fine lace. Towards the base of the wings the blackness shaded away to a pale blue and the long body glowed beneath a mass of vermilion-coloured hair. On the head was an irregular star-shaped mark that might have been a tiny indented crown of pure gold. The great eyes of the moth trembled and scintillated like opals. It was at once beautiful, and yet sinister and repelling. It hovered there just for a minute or two, then fluttered lightly to the floor with wings outspread as if half-conscious of the admiration that it had created. And yet, alluring and beautiful as it was, Welton shuddered from head to foot as he regarded it.

"There," said McPhail. "So far as I know, only three men have ever gazed upon its like before. It is an exquisite thing, and yet deadly poisonous, as you know. Just one touch of that crimson body, and you would be a dead man within five minutes. It seems a pity to make an end of such a beauty, but it must be done."

"What are you going to do?" Welton asked.

"Burn the infernal place down," McPhail shouted. "Destroy it. Wipe it off the face of the earth. Probably if I turn the steam off, those moths will be all dead by morning; the chrysalids and caterpillars would perish, but I am taking no risks so long as this hot weather lasts. If hell opens and looks you in the face, blot it out. Smother it, and destroy it. Now, come with me down to the garage and we'll find a can of petrol and soak the dining-room with it. Don't you think it's the proper thing to do in the circumstances?"

"I'm with you," Welton said, between his teeth. "The whole thing is incredible; the sort of thing that could only happen in the pages of a book."

"And you're the man to write it," McPhail said, as a little later he tossed a blazing match through the dining-room window on to the petrol-soaked floor. "Here's a plot that nobody will believe, though you'll get every credit for your powers of imagination. And after all, it's a sound saying that truth is stranger than fiction."

THE END

THE GREY BAT

Published in the Western Mail (Perth, W.A.), Friday, 14 July, 1916.

The door opening into Oldaker's sitting room opened and a figure crept in. Then the door closed, and a woman stood with her back to it, swaying slightly with her hand to her side as if she were short of breath. Visions of Charlotte Corday crossed Oldaker's mind. He looked for the quick gleam of a revolver, but none came. The woman moved a step forward with a quick movement, and threw off her long wrap. There was something dramatic about it.

"Princess," Oldaker exclaimed, "Princess Elizabeth of----What in the name----?"

"Betty," the Princess corrected eagerly. "Know that I am in the deepest trouble, my dear--Dick."

Something warm and rapturous played about Oldaker's heart. He was young and romantic; he was an Oldaker of Barons court, and the princess was beautiful. She must have known that herself, for Dick had told her so several times lately. They had seen a good deal of each other at Monte Carlo, and Dick had begun to dream dreams. And when one of the most daring and successful of aviators begins to dream dreams, he is in a bad way.

He knew he had no business to be in the Asturian capital at all. To suggest that the aviation ground there was better than a score of others was ridiculous. Besides, there was trouble brewing in Marenna. The Progressives looked like getting the upper hand, and King George had gone to Merum at a most critical time. Even his own followers were muttering of cowardice under their breath. There were many more delectable spots in Europe than Marenna just now. Still, Princess Elizabeth was there.

She came close to him, and laid her hands on his shoulders. It was a sweet, dainty pleading face, and there was something in the expression of it that set Dick's heart beating madly. And the glint in that golden hair!

"Dick," she said softly. "You love me, don't you?"

Princess or no princess, there was only one thing to do after that. Dick had the slender, palpitating figure cuddled up in his arms, his lips were pressed to hers. There was something intoxicating in the fragrance of the spungold hair.

"I've done it!" Dick smiled presently. "Good Lord! my cheek! I shall have to go away, Betty. King George----"

"I knew I should have to ask you," Betty smiled demurely. "My dear boy, the situation is not quite so original as you suppose. Besides, there were Oldakers in Baronscourt long before the Asoffs came to Asturia. And on your mother's side you are related to the wealthiest financiers in Europe. Even if only on that score----"

"Yes," said Dick, thoughtfully. "I've got a tidy chunk of bullion. And ever since we first met----"

"Yes, I know, dear; you loved me. And I loved you, Dicky. And I always get my own way--always."

"And so you came here this afternoon----"

"I came because my sister, the queen, is in great distress. They say that George has fled to Merum. He had to go there."

"Never heard that King George had been accused of want of pluck before, Betty."'

"My dear, the poor man is as brave as you are. They are an artful lot, those conspirators. They have stirred up a nest of trouble both here and at Merum. When George is at Merum Marenna thinks he has gone away into hiding, and when he is here, Merum thinks he has deserted her."

"But no man can be in two places at the same time, Betty."

"There, my dear Dick," she said demurely, "is where I fail to agree with you. If the king could be here at midnight the situation would be saved. He wants to come here secretly and quietly at a moment when the conspirators are absolutely certain that he is at Merum. Then news must come from Merum that George is on his way here. In the ordinary way it would be a matter of hours. And then within an hour or two of striking hard here he must be at Merum again. Consider the paralysing effect of the whole thing; look at the dramatic possibilities of the situation."

"But, my dear Betty, it is a physical impossibility. It can't be done!"

"Really, Dick? Can't you see the way? I have sent a message to the king. He will expect you. And you will get him here before midnight, and back to Merum before daybreak. And you, above all men, tell me it can't be done."

"It is fearfully risky," he said. "In the daytime I should think nothing of it. But as you point out, daylight for our purpose is useless. It's the striking moral effect you're after. You deal a staggering blow in two places at once. And to leave the foe marvelling how it is done is the way to final victory. But it's dangerous, Betty."

The Princess looked grave and troubled. There was a suggestion of tears in her eyes.

"I know it," she said. "Ever since the idea came to me I have struggled against my own feelings. I am pulled this way and that. If--if anything happened to you, Dick----"

"Don't think of that for the moment, dear," Dick said tenderly. "Go on."

"Well, I felt bound to ask. And you are ready to go. I hoped you'd say no and yet I'm awfully proud and glad to find you so willing. George's whole heart is in his work and my sister, the Queen, loves her people. It would break her heart if anything happened. George must be here tonight. I don't say he is being actually kept a prisoner at Merum, but there are obstacles placed in his way--trouble on the line, a sudden breakdown in the garage. You understand."

"You can communicate with the King?"

"My dear, I have already done so. By secret code. George knows exactly what I am proposing to you. He will be all ready. The great light in the castle at Merum will be your guide. Between the Tower and St. Simon's church, where there is an illuminated clock, are gardens, great gardens laid out in the Italian fashion ages ago. If you make no noise----"

"Oh, I shall make no noise. You should see my new engines. I suppose King George has a few people he can rely upon to keep silence."

"Oh, there are plenty of them, Dick. Then you'll do it?"

"Of course I'll do it, darling."

The Princess kissed him tenderly.

"You're a hero," she whispered. "My hero, and I'll marry you though all the armies in Europe try to stop me. There never was any man but you, Dick, from the day we met. And you are going to save Asturia. If you can do this thing there will be no more trouble here. And you will come back to the castle with him. He may need your services. And I would like to know that you are safe."

She slipped her wrap over her head again and vanished. The happiest man in Europe lighted a cigarette. He had promised to enter upon a mad enterprise. And he was not in the least afraid. When the gods throw a beautiful Princess into the arms of a mere mortal man it is clearly up to them to see the business through.

It was pitch dark and the hour near ten when Dick Oldaker picked his way through the Italian garden on the west front of the castle at Merum and fumbled in the direction of a lighted window on the ground floor. The window was open and Oldaker slipped through without hesitation. He dropped the blind back in its place and looked around him. From an American desk a man in uniform arose and approached the intruder with outstretched hand.

"You are the bravest man I ever met, Mr. Oldaker," the King said. "I congratulate you and I congratulate--the Princess Elizabeth. Oh, yes, she has told me everything. I shall not interfere. An Oldaker of Baronscourt is a fit mate for an Azoff any day. You had a safe journey?"

"Absolutely, your majesty," Dick replied, "My monoplane got here in an hour. There was no mishap at all. Your men appear to be discreet and silent. They did exactly as I told them."

The King, paced thoughtfully up and down the room.

"It is wonderful," he said. "Wonderful! With ordinary good fortune I shall strike two blows before daybreak that will end the trouble once and for all. When can we start back?"

"I am ready to start at this moment, your Majesty," Dick replied. "I have brought with me everything that is necessary for you in the way of clothing. The sooner we start the better."

"Then I will join you in the garden in ten minutes," the King replied. "I am supposed to be leaving for my capital at once by coach. The trains are broken down, there is no motor to be had. I shall merely go in my coach as far as the gates and then slip out, leaving the vehicle to proceed. I have a few faithful followers in the secret. Directly I am on my way the traitors in Marenna will be advised that I shall reach my capital some time tomorrow. Long before daybreak I shall be back here to deliver the second blow. I shall have the rascals yet."

Dick murmured his approval of these suggestions. Ten minutes later the King joined him in the garden. As the clocks at Marenna were on the stroke of midnight an astonished lackey staggered backwards as he saw the King come softly along the corridor of the Palace. The miracle had happened.

"Not a word," the King commanded. "Not a word to a soul as you value your liberty. Where is Nikolof and the rest of them. Tell me?"

The menial stammered something about the council Chamber, and the King strode on. A door at the end of the corridor opened, and a white face looked out. The face smiled dazzlingly and the blue eyes filled with happy tears as they fell on Dick.

There was a wave of the hand and the door closed again. Dick staggered along with his head erect and his heart swelling.

"Where shall I wait for your Majesty?" he asked.

"You shall come with me," the King said. "You shall see what you shall see. At any rate you'll see that your part has not been in vain."

The stream of the adventure was running bankful. Oldaker plunged into it with wholehearted joy. There was the uplifting sense that he was helping to make history. A little knot of men for the most part in uniform were gathered round a table illuminated by one shaded bunch of electrics.

The rest of the big gloomy apartment was in darkness. The King strode forward and grasped the neck of the man who sat with his back to the door, and dragged him from his seat.

"Who sits in my chair?" he cried. "Who but the twice-pardoned Lipski? So this is how my faithful ministers labour in my absence? What is the document you are considering? Oh, coquetting with Teutonia, are we? Rise, all of you. Mr. Oldaker, would you be so good as to pull back those curtains and open the window?"

A clock ticked heavily in the painful silence, the metallic jingle of the curtain rings as they clicked back sounded like pistol shots. A ring of pale-faced men stood round the table, silent, disconcerted, incredulity in their downcast eyes. Oldaker turned to the great quadrangle below the open window. In the velvet violet night electric lights gleamed everywhere, the streets were full of people, the theatres and halls were emptying. Suddenly the council chamber blazed with light, the brilliant uniforms were picked out from the street like striking stage pictures. The King, with his hand still on Lipski's neck, impelled him towards the window.

"You traitor," he cried. "Traitors every one of you. And so you tell my people I am deserting them while all the time I am at Merum fighting the rest of your gang. You thought that I was there still, that I could not possibly get away. But there are ways, there are ways."

The King's voice was pitched high, every word he said was carried to the street below. The roadway was blocked now by a breathless, hustling crowd. King George pushed the flaccid Lipski into the window recess and held him there. A ripple of cheers broke from the crowd below, it swelled into a deafening roar, it stopped as suddenly as if it had been cut with a knife. The star was on the stage and the audience eager to hear him.

"Behold a traitor," the King cried. "Lipski, whose life I saved. Behold the other liars cringing in the background. And these are the men by whom you were asked to choose someone to take my place. I hope you are proud of them. But I am back, and I am back just in time."

As the King paused, a vast sigh went up from the street, a sigh, and no more.

"They called me pleasure-loving and easy-going. It is a lie. Was I easy and pleasure-seeking for ten whole years when I lived in a tent defending my frontier and never during that time slept in a bed? For the Queen's sake I slacked the bow and took the month of holiday that I was conceited enough to feel I had earned. I was wrong."

A storm of protest broke from the street. The King smiled, and in that moment Oldaker knew that the battle was won. George whispered a word in his ear. Oldaker came back from the table a moment later with the secret treaty in his hand. The King crashed it down on Lipski's head so that the paper broke and hung round the traitor's neck like a ham frill. The crowd below rocked with mirth.

"Take him," the King cried, "and treat him as he deserves. We have done with him here."

He raised Lipski in his arms as if he had been a child and tossed him through the window. He fell into a thicket of laurels below. There was a wild rush in his direction as King George slammed the window down and pulled the curtain across.

"They will be making jest of this in the music halls to-morrow. Lipski's power has gone. Nothing kills a political reputation more than ridicule."

"And what shall I say to the rest of you?" he demanded. "Is there not one honest man among you? You thought I was no more than a blunt soldier unskilled in the ways of diplomacy. I was the Mars who had forsaken his arms at the call of Venus. I was warned against Lipski, but I trusted him. And when I came to my senses it was nearly too late. But for this brave and gallant gentleman here I should have been too late. It was he who solved the problem whereby I could be in two places at the same lime. Before daybreak I shall be back at Merum and Staffanoff will come with me to bear testimony to the truth of what I say----"

An old faded grey man in the background shuffled uneasily. A gentle bead of perspiration glistened on Staffanoff's great bald head. His dark eyes moved shiftily.

"Sire," he stammered. "If you will allow me to explain."

"No explanations," the King thundered. "These are your marionettes, but your's the cunning hand that pulls the strings. Come with me to Merum."

Staffanoff cringed and fawned. The King crossed the room and rang the bell. A moment later the room was filled with armed men. With a contemptuous gesture the King indicated his unhappy councillors.

"Take them all save Staffanoff," he commanded. "They are prisoners, and shall be treated as such. They are not to see anyone except the gaolers. Now go."

The room was empty presently save for the King and Oldaker and Staffanoff. The latter stood there with bent shoulders and a frame shaking like a leaf.

"I am an old man, sire," he groaned. "A very old man, your Majesty----"

"As if that is any excuse," the King cried. "You are coming with me to Merum, and in my presence you shall tell your fellow conspirators the story of this fiasco. You have room for another passenger, Mr. Oldaker?"

"More if necessary, sir," Oldaker said, "But one of the sort is enough."

"Good. Then follow me in the grounds, Staffanoff. Wrap yourself up well for the journey that is by no means a warm one. Here, my friend. You are no longer puzzled. Get in."

Staffanoff stood there in the darkness shaking with terror.

"But it is madness, your Majesty," he protested. "I am an old man----"

"And therefore you should not mind, Staffanoff. It is madness like this that has saved Asturia to-night. Come, get in, unless you would he gagged and bound first. Get in, I say."

It was nearly two hours later, and the scene had shifted to Merum again. There was the council chamber, another little knot of conspirators gathered round the table. The King took the hoary old traitor by the shoulders and sent him spinning into the room. A hoarse cry came from the table.

"Staffanoff," the leader muttered. "How did you get here? The King is on his way to Marenna. It is impossible for him to reach there before, well, before it is too late. Is there anything wrong?"

"Everything is wrong," Staffanoff stammered. "The King has been to Marenna----"

"Oh, the man is mad," another cried. "Three hours ago the King was here. He----"

"I tell you I am speaking the truth," Staffanoff shrieked. "Gentlemen, we have failed."

"Failed, then in that case the treaty with Teutonia----" The speaker broke off abruptly, his jaw dropped. For the King was in the room with eyes turned with contempt and yet full of cynical mirth upon him.

"Tell him where the treaty with Teutonia is, Staffanoff," he mocked.

"Hanging in tatters round Lipski's neck," Staffanoff whined. "And Lipski is in the hands of the mob in the street who mocked and jeered him. All Europe will be laughing at us to-morrow. They will make us into a vaudeville for the comedy stage. Lipski as the chief clown of the piece and the rest of us will be low comedians. The King was there. The King threw him out of the window to the mob below. And, heavens, how they laughed! And the rest of them are all under lock and key."

A quivering silence followed. There was that in Staffanoff's face, and the palsy of his voice that carried conviction to the most cynical spirit there. Not so long ago they had seen the King on his way to Marenna; at the earliest possible time he could not reach the capital before daylight. And yet he had been there and back again. What unknown force had he called to his aid. Oldaker could have told them, but there was no one there who associated the silent Englishman with this miracle.

The faint grey dawn was breaking in the east as Oldaker stood alone with the King. Something in the way of a belated supper was waiting for him in a private room. The King raised his glass.

"Here's to our friend. Oldaker, the saviour of Asturia," he said.

"I am afraid I cannot make that claim your Majesty," Oldaker said modestly.

"Oh, yes, you can. Without you and your Grey Bat I should have been powerless. Here's to the Grey Bat, the most wonderful aeroplane that was ever made by man--the Grey Bat that flew in the dark and never made the semblance of a mistake. The gallant little craft is safely housed again? And we can trust our faithful allies to keep the secret. Good again. A fine night's work, Oldaker, and an adventure after my own heart--and yours. And here's to dear little Elizabeth who suggested the whole scheme. And may you be as happy with her as you desire. Did I hear the telephone?"

A servant came in with a message for Oldaker. He was wanted by Marenna. The sun was shining brightly and the birds were singing as Oldaker crossed the hall.

"Is that you, Dick?" a sweet voice asked.

"Elizabeth," Oldaker responded. "Well, then Betty. My Betty! You are well and safe?"

"I am well and safe," the sweet voice said. "I want to tell you that I shall be waiting in the Palace Gardens this afternoon to see you, and--and, oh, my dear, my dear----"

THE END

THE LONG ARM OF BRONZE

ILLUSTRATED BY EMILE VERPILLEUX

Published in The Strand Magazine, January 1916

COUNT RUPERT GAVANNI rose from the long table where the whole of the day he had been slaving over his clay models and stretched himself wearily. He splashed hot and cold water into the marble basin in the corner of the studio and washed those long, slim hands of his that seemed to drip red blood. They were beautiful hands, nervous and slender, with flexible wrists elastic as those of Paganini, as indeed they should be, for they belonged to the greatest sculptor of his time. And, indeed, Gavanni was something more than that—he was a poet and a painter, the last representative of an old. Italian family and possessor of a great fortune to boot.

For the most part he lived at that mediaeval palace of his at Hampstead, where he worked and dreamt and entertained the celebrities of Europe, from Royalty downwards.

The house was crammed with art treasures gathered from all parts of the world. The great studio, probably the finest building of its kind in Europe, occupied the whole of the north front and had access to the gardens by four long windows. Beyond the gardens again was a thick fringe of woods, and in the centre of these the lake—a large sheet of water where, in the summer time, Gavanni spent a good deal of his spare hours drifting about the lily-strewn waters in his Canadian canoe. When he was at work, as he was now, on an important group in gold bronze, it was his mood to shut himself off from the rest of the world except for an occasional bosom friend who knew him well and was in sympathy with his irregular habits.

He passed into the dining—room now where Scott Ogilvie was awaiting him, the only guest in the house on that glorious summer night early in ]uly.

Ogilvie was home from India on furlough. He was high up in the Indian police; a quiet man with a logical mind and a clear, grey eye, which was supposed to have seen further into the tortuous ramifications of the Indian mind than any other man who had ever been east of Suez.

"Well, have you finished for to-night?" Ogilvie asked.

"I have been modelling since breakfast," Gavanni declared. "But on the whole it has been a wasted day, for the rascally model I expected this morning did not turn up. I am sending him a postcard that ought to bring him to his senses. A good model gets so dreadfully spoilt. You might drop this card in the pillar-box down the road when you go for your stroll presently. And now let's have some supper."

Ogilvie slipped the card into his pocket and followedy his host to the dining-room. And there, for an hour or more, they sat over their supper in the oak-panelled room filled with historic pictures.

"Are you working to-morrow?" Ogilvie asked, when at length the cigarettes and coffee were on the table.

"All this week, I hope," Gavanni said. "If you find it dull you can easily run up to town.

"Not I," Ogilvie smiled. "The peace and quiet of this old house suit my complaint exactly. I came home for a rest, and I am getting it. For five years I have been carrying on a long battle of wits with the Oriental mind, and I am tired out. By the way, what are you working on now? Anything ambitious?"

"Well, yes," the sculptor said. "You know that line of Kipling's, 'East is East and West is West, and never the twain shall meet'? I'm weaving that into a kind of allegory in bronze, and after infinite trouble I have found the model for the Pathan that I wanted. That's the man who ought to have been here to-day. As a matter of fact, I've had the thing in my mind ever since I stayed with you in Benares two years ago. There's something in the East that has always appealed to me, and Benares fairly set my imagination on fire."

"You left it suddenly enough, anyhow," Ogilvie replied. "I never could quite understand why you turned your back on me there in so abrupt a fashion."

"Ah, then you never guessed?" Gavanni asked.

"Well, I had my suspicions, of course. I suppose that girl Serena Ran had something to do with it?"

Gavanni exhaled a mouthful of cigarette smoke thoughtfully.

"Well, yes," he said. "I had meant to tell you, but I never had the opportunity. Do you know, my dear chap, I came very near to making an everlasting fool of myself over that girl. For three days I was on the point of making her my wife. There was nothing wrong, you understand, merely certain love passages between us; but you are my oldest friend, and I will tell you the truth. I have only been really in love with one girl in my life, and she was Serena Ran. I loved her with a passion that you cold-blooded English know nothing of. She was the one woman only who could play upon my emotions like so many harpstrings. How beautiful she was you know. And we should have been happy enough up to a certain time, but East is East and West is West, and—I packed up my bag and came West instead. I tell you, Ogilvie, I ran away like a coward."

"I suspected something of this," Ogilvie said. "But you could not have married her though her father was an Englishman. Probably the greatest blackguard that was ever in the Indian Civil Service. A fascinating man and fiendishly clever, but a wrong 'un through and through. Anyway, he's dead now, and no doubt his sins lie lightly on his grave. And pretty little Serena is forgotten-——"

"No, by Heaven, she isn't!" Gavanni said, with a quiver in his voice. "She never will be forgotten, though what has become of her I haven't the remotest idea. Probably married to some fat Hindu who ill-treats her. But forgotten, no!"

"This is a strange way for a man to talk who is going to be married in the autumn to Lady Ida Montcrieff. What would the duchess say if she could hear you? And yet Lady Ida is rightly called the most beautiful girl in England."

"She is superb," Gavanni said, with the exact criticism of the artist for the concrete beautiful. "She is a perfect perfume. She carries her own atmosphere with her. She is coldly beautiful, a statue that Praxiteles might have worshipped. She will make a perfect hostess, the most beautiful piece of furniture in my house. And, in a way, I am fond of her. But—"

The speaker paused eloquently and helped himself to a fresh cigarette. It was getting dark by this time, and the dew was beginning to fall like pearly shadows over the gardens. Gavanni rose restlessly and walked towards the window.

"I think I'll take a turn on the lake for an hour," he said. "You won't mind being left alone?"

Ogilvie raised no objection. He never interfered with these moods of his host's. And he knew perfectly well that whenever Gavanni was busy on some important work he usually spent an hour or so most evenings drifting about the lake when the weather was favourable. No doubt the great sculptor did most of his planning out on these excursions.

"All right," Ogilvie said. "You won't be more than an hour or so, I suppose? By the way, I never could quite understand why you erected that bronze statue of Hercules in the centre of your lake. A gem like that unearthed from Pompeii was worthy of a better fate. Why don't you use that statue as a model for the bronze you have in your mind now?"

"There are sculptors who might do so," Gavanni said, contemptuously. "But where would the touch of originality, which is the other word for genius, my friend, come in? I had thought of it only to dismiss the idea at once. No, the Hercules is best where he is. A great work by a great unknown master, standing in splendid isolation in the centre of four hundred acres of water. What more fitting pedestal could you find? But then. of course, you are not an artist."

"No, I am not," Ogilvie said. "I am a mathematician with a practical mind. But go on, don't mind me. Moon about on your lake, and when you have finished you will find me in the smoking—room. Now, off you go."

Gavanni passed down the grass path and through the belt of trees to the lake. The moon was rising behind the belt of trees and throwing silver pencils of light here and there along the face of the water. Between the bands of flame were broad strips of darkness, all the more intense by contrast with the lanes of light. Against the murky background the bronze Hercules loomed up, mystic and ·symbolical, like a thing of life. Gavanni pushed off his canoe and drifted idly hither and thither on the face of the waters. He put the world entirely behind him now, he had one thought only, and that was for the work that filled him to the exclusion of everything else. Almost unconsciously he dipped his paddle in the liquid. moonbeams, and almost as unconsciously pushed on to the centre of the lake. He was close to the statue now, a shadowy form that loomed above him, brown and hard and motionless. Just for a moment the sculptor allowed his eye to roam over those perfect outlines, the play of muscle and sinuousness of form that represented almost a lost art. For great in his line as Gavanni was, he was by no means blind to his limitations. Something like a sigh escaped him.

"If I could only get the spirit of life like that," he murmured. "There is the divine fire in every line and curve, the real afflatus."

It was perhaps an hour or more later, nearly midnight, that Ogilvie became conscious of the flight of time, and woke to the knowledge that he was still alone. It was not Gavanni's way to stay on the lake so late; usually he was back long before now. Not that Ogilvie was in the least anxious. He knew that a Canadian canoe was a frail craft and liable to trouble in the hands of a novice. But then Gavanni was no novice, and in no place was the lake more than five feet deep. At one time the bottom was thick with mud, but a year or two ago it had been cleaned out and the whole basin lined with concrete. So Ogilvie lighted another cigarand waited calmly.

Then the stillness of the night and the serene tranquillity of the smoking-room was broken by a sudden hoarse outcry and the noise of someone hammering on one of the French windows leading to the gardens. Ogilvie jumped to his feet and hastily threw back the long half of the sash.

A man stood there, obviously a gardener in his Sunday clothes. Ogilvie could see that his hands and face were wet; he had lost his hat, and his face was pale and agitated.

"Thank goodness you have not gone to bed, sir," the man gasped. "I saw a light in the window, so I came this way. I am Rogers, the gardener. It is my duty to look after the orchid-houses the other side of the lake. I've got some young plants just coming into bloom, and I generally come along about this time to have a last look at them. About an hour ago I saw the master in his canoe, and when I came away just now the canoe was still in the same place. And when I looked at it again in the moonlight I saw that the boat was empty. At least, I thought so. It seemed strange to see it drifting about there, so I took a punt to fetch it back. And the canoe wasn't empty."

The man shuddered, and his lips quivered.

"The master was lying inside on his face. At first I thought he was asleep. But when I got the canoe to the side and put my hand on his shoulder to wake him up I saw that he wasn't asleep, but that he was dead."

"Good heavens!" Ogilvie cried. "Are you sure, man?"

"Aye, that I am, sir. I'm an old soldier, an' I've seen too many dead bodies not to know. The count's dead, and what's more, it looks as if he had met with foul play. I was too stunned to do anything for a minute or two; but come along, sir, and see for yourself. It's as light as day outside."

Ogilvie waited for nothing more. He raced across the gardens and dashed through the belt of trees until he came to the edge of the lake. There was the canoe anchored. close to the grass path, and in it a dark, sinister object that looked ominously still and rigid in the light of the moon. Gavanni lay there flat upon his face——he had evidently fallen forward from his seat in the stern of the canoe, for he was stretched out on the cushions as if some blow had laid him out, and as if he had never moved afterwards. And there was no hope in Ogilvie's mind; he had looked upon death too often in the dim East yonder not to know it when he saw it, even if the face of the spectre was turned away from him. He knew that Gavanni was dead. And a moment later he knew something else.

"Your master has been murdered," he said, hoarsely. "See that mark at the base of the skull, and that red band below his collar? There has been foul play here beyond a doubt. But come, we are wasting time, and every moment is precious. As an old policeman myself, I know the value of time in cases like this. Now help me to carry the body up to the house, and I will telephone to Scotland Yard and inform the authorities what has happened. Wake up, man; don't stand staring at me in that stupid fashion!"

It was nearly daylight before Ogilvie stumbled sleepily to bed. They had been pretty crowded hours, but so far the investigations at Scotland Yard had proved futile. It was quite clear that nobody in the house could throw any light upon the mystery. And for the moment, at any rate, Ogilvie could see no motive for the crime. That robbery formed no part of the motive an examination of Gavanni's effects clearly showed. Nothing was missing, for the watch and chain had been found on the body, and the count's cigarette-case was discovered in the canoe.

Tired as he was, Ogilvie turned out his pockets and placed his dress clothes carefully away. On his dressing-table lay two or three letters and the postcard that Gavanni had entrusted to him. Apparently he had forgotten all about it; he had dropped off to sleep in the billiard—room after dinner, having intended to go out later on. Not that it mattered very much now. It was a mere trifle, but to a man of Ogilvie's training there were no such things as trifles. He read the address on the postcard, and just for a moment the tired look faded from his eyes. Then he put the whole thing out of his mind, and slept soundly far into the following morning.

Naturally enough the tragic death of Gavanni caused a profound sensation in London. And as the days went on and no arrest was made, public opinion grew impatient. But meanwhile one man, at any rate, had not been idle; Ogilvie was leaving no stone unturned with a view to getting to the bottom of the mystery. By this time he had formed something like a theory. On his own responsibility, and without consulting the police, he decided to empty the lake—nodifficult matter in view of the fact that it was fed by a small stream, and that the opening of the floodgate by the boat—house would drain away the water in the course of a few hours. Ogilvie stood there watching the slow process, his eyes turned upon the mystic figure in bronze in the centre of the basin. It was the figure of Hercules with his club, doubtless in the act of slaying the Hydra. And as Ogilvie turned his eyes intently on the object the plan took more definite shape in his mind.

"I wonder," he murmured to himself; "the odds are a hundred to one against it, but I wonder."

He came back towards the evening when the work was finished, and walked across the empty basin in the direction of the pedestal.

There was no mud here, nothing but a thin, green slime, little thicker than a coat of varnish, and every inch of this, within a few yards of the base of the statue, Ogilvie examined carefully. There was one thing to reward his search in the shape of a heavy knobbed club loaded with lead at one end. There were lines, too, irregular lines and scratches in the slime, that looked very much as if somebody had been tracing a rude pattern there with the point of a walking stick, which, no doubt, had been done before the lake was empty, for there had been no chance of this since, for Ogilvie had taken good care of that. His had been the first footstep inside the empty basin.

"We're getting warmer," he whispered.

"There is something in my theory after all. At any rate, this discovery goes a long way to prove that my theory is right. And I am the one man hi England who knows how to grapple with it."

Early next morning Ogilvie returned to town and made his way to his lodgings in Dover Street. A little time later he called at a house in Stamford Street, Waterloo Bridge Road, under a pretence of finding a bed- and sitting-room for the next two or three days. He gathered from the apartments-card over the fanlight that there would be no diiiiculty in this respect, and so it proved. The landlady was quite willing to accommodate him—indeed eagerly so.

"I shall be out most of the day," Ogilvie said. "I shall want no meals, not even breakfast. And I shall not need the rooms for more than a week, so I'll pay you in advance. Are there any other lodgers in the house?"

"Only one other party, sir," the landlady said. "A troop of performers who 'ave a month's engagement at the Pantheon Music-hall in Lambeth Road. They are natives of some kind, but they are very quiet, and they won't disturb you."

By a singular coincidence the following night saw Ogilvie seated in the cheap stalls of the Pantheon Music-hall, watching the performance with the air of a man who is simply killing time. It was the usual dreary music-hall show, and not till nearly the end did Ogilvie display any sign of interest.

But a clever performance of an Eastern group of artistes seemed to move him almost to enthusiasm. It was quite an intelligent display in its way, clean and refined, and, Ogilvie would have thought, far over the heads of the audience. Yet there was a section of people there who applauded the tableaux vigorously, but there was no man present who followed the doings of those bronzed Orientals with the vivid interest that Ogilvie was feeling in every nerve of his body.

The next morning he was back at Hampstead again. The house, of course, was in the hands of the police, but he was known by name to the inspector in charge, and consequently he had no difliculty in going over Gavanni's papers. Late that evening—just after midnight, in fact—he made his way back to Stamford Street and lighted the gas in his sitting-room.

"Have those other lodgers of yours come in yet?" he asked the landlady. "Oh, they have. Then would you go upstairs and ask the man who calls himself Ran Seri if he will come down here a moment, as I have a message for him from Ogilvie Sahib? Just tell him that, and ask him to come this way."

A minute or two later and a Eurasian, white-clad from his snowy turban to his flowing skirts, came into the room and made a low obeisance.

"Your Excellency sent for me," he said. "The sahib desires to see me. But they did not tell me that it was Sahib Ogilvie himself."

Ogilvie shut the door discreetly and lighted a cigarette. Ran Seri stood there, erect and motionless, a magnificent specimen of humanity, tall and powerful and muscular. His manner was respectful enough, but obviously his nerves were at high tension, for he seemed to be watching some unseen danger that lurked in the background behind OgiIvie's head.

"You did not expect to see me?" the latter asked.

"It is a happiness beyond my hopes," the man said, humbly enough. "It must be three years now since the sahib deigned to extend his protection to the humblest of his slaves. But Ran Seri has not forgotten. And if there is anything I can do for the all-highest protector of the poor—"

"Only one thing," Ogilvie said, calmly. "Tell me why you murdered Count Gavanni."

The Eurasian quivered from head lo foot as if some unseen hand had struck him a mortal blow. But there was no sign of fight in his dark eyes, no suggestion of violence on his part. He took it with all the fatalism of his race.

"The highest knows what he is speaking of?" he asked.

"The highest most certainly does," Ogilvie said, grimly. "You went over to Hampstead on Sunday night of last week and you killed the count when he was sitting in his canoe. I am not going to say that I saw you do it, but I am as sure of it as if I had been there and saw the blow struck. You may speak if you like, or you may remain silent. But there is no hope for you, no chance of escape. In any case, you will be in the hands of the police. before morning. Now, then!"

Ran Seri made a step forward towards a chair, and hesitated.

"Yes," Ogilvie said. "You have my permission to sit down."

The Eurasian dropped into the chair. He gave no sign; if he was feeling deeply he did not betray his feeling by even so much as the quiver of an eyelid.

"There is nothing hidden from the sahib," he said. "There is nothing he does not know. It was the same in Benares, where the evil-doer trembled before a glance of the sahib's eye. And if I had known that the highest was in England I would have come to him the next day and told him the truth."

"Then you are going to confess?" Ogilvie asked.

"Who is the worm Ran Seri that he should set up the thing he calls his mind against the white gods who sit and whisper in the ear of the sahib? The sahib knows everything. Therefore it is not for me to speak."

"Perhaps not," Ogilvie said. "But I like to know that I am right. Now let me see if I can tell you exactly what happened. You came to England with the intention of finding Count Gavanni and killing him."

"Even so, sahib. That thing I did without malice in my mind, and because my gods so ordained it. I am but as a humble instrument in their hands."

"No doubt. But at the same time you had no intention of risking your skin if you could help it. And it was in your favour that you and the count had never met. It was not for him to know that you are half-brother to the girl that the count made love to two years ago in Benares. He did not know that Serena Ran ever had a brother. It is only I who was aware of that because I was head of the police there, and it was with my connivance that you managed to escape from India. But I am merely wasting your time by telling you this. Let us get on. You came to England as the humble instrument of the gods, as you say. But, unfortunately, that kind of thing is not regarded with any marked favour in this country. Of course I can sympathize, to a certain extent, with your point of view, because I have spent twenty years in India. Anyway, you came to England, you found your man, and you laid your plans for his death. He wanted a model for some figures in bronze he was working on, and when you offered yourself he deemed himself fortunate, little dreaming who you really were.

"Well, you went into his service, you had the run of the studio at Hampstead, and by degrees you learnt all you wanted to know. You learnt, for instance, that most fine nights the count was in the habit of paddling about on the lake in the moonlight or in the darkness, working out his designs. And, because you are an Oriental and have the subtle mind and imagination of your race, you began to see your way to one of those dark and mysterious crimes which are the delight of the Eastern criminal. Possibly you might have killed the count in a commonplace fashion, but he was a powerful man, too, and you might have been killed yourself instead. Night after night you watched your opportunities almost under the shadow of that bronze figure in the centre of the lake, and then the inspiration came to you.

"You saw that the count never passed a night on the water without spending a few moments in close contemplation of that work of art, and here was your opportunity ready to your hand. It was no difficult matter for you to strip off your clothing and hide it in a wood, and then, protected by your dark skin, swim as far as the statue. And it was equally easy for a man of your physique to lift the hollow bronze Hercules from its pedestal and drop it into the water, whilst you assumed the place of the statue with a club in your hand ready to deal the count a mortal blow at the first opportunity. I have no doubt that you posed more than once, waiting for the chanoe to come. Then it was no difiicult matter to replace the statue on its base and assume your clothing, with nobody any the wiser. I am as much convinced that this happened on Sunday week as if I had been in the canoe with the count and had seen the crime happen."

"His Excellency is high in favour with his own gods," Ran Seri said. "The gods that never fail him. Doubtless they came to his mightiness in the darkness of the night and showed him all this in a vision."

"Doubtless they did nothing of the sort," Ogilvie said. "I happen to know you of old, and I knew your sister, too. You were in America then. But the count was staying with I me, and it was I who was mainly responsible for bringing him and your sister together. And there was no one who more bitterly regrets it than myself. I am sure there was nothing wrong, only the old story of a man amusing himself in his idle hours and leaving the trusting girl to suffer afterwards. And these stories are not confined to India, my friend. I suppose your sister wrote to you and told you all about her coming happiness, and doubtless she told you, too, afterwards, that her dream was ended. Is she married yet?"

Ran Seri moved for the first time.

"She is dead," he said. "And now you know. She died of what you call a broken heart."

"I am grieved to hear it," Ogilvie replied. "I might have guessed something of this. But for some hours after the count's death I suspected nothing but a vulgar crime. And then I found a postcard that the count had written to you telling you that if you did not put in appeaance on Monday he would have no further use for your services, and I began to see daylight. You would have been wiser to have changed your name. I knew then that you were an enemy in the house, and I knew that you had come all this way to avenge the slight on your sister. But even then I could not quite see how you had managed it until I tracked you here and found out what you were doing. I have seen your performance, I have seen those living bronzes at the Pantheon Music-hall, and I have seen the statue of Hercules in the middle of the lake at Hampstead. And when I had seen those two things everything became plain before me. But I have seen more than that; I have seen the scratches on the pedestal of the statue, and the marks made in the bottom of the lake where you placed the statue when you were posing on the pedestal in its place. I have even found the weapon with which the crime was committed. And with that I have finished. If there is anything you would like to say—"

"A few words, sahib," the Eurasian said, calmly, as if he were repeating something he had learnt by heart. "It is all just as the sahib says. It is as if he had seen everything in a vision arranged before his eyes by the gods. When that little sister of mine, whom I loved to the tips of my finger-nails, wrote to me and told me all her troubles, the gods whispered in my ear that I must find the man and kill him. They whispered day and night until the voices nearly drove me mad. So I came back to Benares, and, behold! the lovely child was dead—dead as if a hand had slain her. And the gods were at my ear the whole time. I had nothing to guide me but a photograph, but in the end that was enough. It took me a year to find the man, but I did find him—I even entered his service, and he none the wiser. In all my spare time I watched him: watched him in his garden and on the lake till the plan came into my mind. I could do it better than most men, for is not my skin the same colour as the statue, and have I not for two years been posing before the public with my brothers until I could stand for hours without the quiver of an eyelid?

"I knew that sooner or later my chance would come to me, and it came. Four Sundays did I wait—for Sunday is the only day I have free—and at last my chance came. He sat there within a yard of me speaking to the statue as if it had been alive. Then he wished me good night, and drifted away so near that I could have touched him with my hand. It was then that I reached forward and smote him with that heavy club on the back of the head, so that he fell on his face and never moved again. It is the decree of the gods that the sahib should be in England now and that his vast intelligence should see in a flash of an eye all that I would have hidden from the world. And if the sahib asks me if I am sorry or that I regret, then I say, no. For, behold, I am an instrument, a sword in the hand of the avenging deities who have used my unworthy body so that justice might be done. And once there were white men who tried to convert me to your creed, and in a book they gave me I read that there should be an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth. And therefore can the sahib bring himself to blame me because I have learnt the lesson written in the Talmud of his own forefathers? Sahib, I have finished."

The Eurasian bent his head upon his breast and folded his hands before him. He sat there, the embodiment of Fate, the incarnation of a creed beyond the grip of Western imagination.

Ogilvie rose to his feet and rang the bell.

THE END

A THRILLING EXIT

ILLUSTRATED BY THOMAS SOMERFIELD

Published in The Strand Magazine, February 1916

Note: A small part of the text in the copy of "The Strand Magazine" used to prepare this story is missing. The lacunae are indicated with square brackets.

IT wanted but ten days to August Bank Holiday, and already the great watering-place of Sandmouth was packed with visitors. Within the next few days the numbers would be augmented by perhaps another two hundred thousand, but Sandmouth made nothing of that, for they boasted that there was ample provision for half a million immigrants, and the boast was justified.

The Empire Palace of Varieties, that huge and luxurious theatre attached to the Winter Gardens, was packed with people from the stalls to the gallery. Not one popular favourite, but a dozen came forward one after the other and did their best, and, indeed, only the best was good enough for Sandmouth.

In the third row of the stalls Gilbert Lockhart sat with his eyes on the stage. He was by way of being an artiste himself, but for the moment, at any rate, he was free to indulge in a little well-earned leisure. He had come down to Sandmouth for a brief rest before appearing in the Winter Gardens on the evening of August Bank Holiday. He would be the star on that occasion in the character of Señor Romano, the world's greatest exponent on the high wire. At ten o'clock on the Monday night he would go through his marvellous performance on a single strand of copper wire running from one lofty water-tower surmounting the huge glass dome of the Winter Gardens to the twin tower at the other end. Others have done this sort of thing before—the great Blondin, for instance—but then Blondin's performance took place on a rope, and Señor Romano traversed a taut strand of wire two hundred and fifty feet above the ground and absolutely invisible to the great audience down below.

There was not much in the performance, perhaps, as such, but it was a fine exhibition of cool courage and daring. Moreover, it took place in the dark, save for the fact that the performer for the most part was surrounded by a blaze of fireworks, and at any rate the management held the entertainment cheap at the fee of five hundred guineas which they cheerfully paid for it. They got their money back twice over, for of all the draws at that moment attracting huge audiences, Señor Romano was the greatest. It was positively his last performance, too, on any stage, and the Palace people were making the most of it.

Lockhart had not gone into this business from any love of it, for, as a means of making a living, he hated it from the bottom of his soul. But what can a young man do who finds himself at twenty-three utterly penniless, without any profession or business training and face to face with poverty after a public school education and a successful career in the world of athletics at Oxford? The sudden collapse of his father's huge business and his subsequent death had brought about this catastrophe. How Lockhart had drifted into it he hardly knew himself; probably his passion for Alpine climbing had been the main incentive. He had discovered that he had the art of balancing himself on a rope at dizzy altitudes, and thus, little by little, he had found his way into the business. And now, under an assumed name, and unknown to his friends, he had become the greatest wireman of his time. And in the last eight years he had amassed the nucleus of a fortune. His appearance at Sandmouth would be his last, for he had purchased a ranch in Canada, and his intention was to go out to it in the spring.

But he had not met Mlle. de Lara, the famous French dancer, at that time. And this was largely the cause of his sitting there in that packed audience with a moody frown on his forehead and a certain anxiety gnawing at his heart. He was watching the lady in question going through that graceful performance of hers in a little sketch founded on the Mexican rebellion which had been written round her and the other star performer in the shape of Leon Diaz, who claimed, not without justice, to be the champion rifle and revolver shot of the world. In it she had to meet first one and then two fencers armed with rapiers and overcome them in a hand-to-hand combat, holding the position till the hero turned up with his revolvers and his world-famed rifles.

Lockhart was watching the slim, graceful, girlish figure in the white shirt and black silk knee-breeches with something like a dog-like devotion in his eyes. He was fascinated by the wonderful swiftness and dexterity and moved by the exquisite beauty of that fair face. And when it seemed to him that Diaz as the lover was carrying his privileges a little too far something like a smothered groan escaped him.

Sitting by his side was a little man in loud checks, with "low, comedian" written all over him. But Billy Jenks was a kind-hearted soul in spite of his native vulgarity, and Lockhart had a genuine liking for him. Jenks was not performing this evening; like all the rest of his profession, he found it impossible to keep away from the atmosphere of the theatre. And the look on Lockhart's face and that smothered exclamation were not lost upon him.

"Diaz is a beast," he said. "But there is no denying that he is easily first in his own particular line. But she don't care anything about him, laddie."

"I wish I could think so," Lockhart groaned.

"Well, I know I'm right. He's fascinated her, and you are a bit slow, ain't you, old man? No business of mine, of course, but there isn't one of us behind who can't see how the land lies. And he is clever. You've never seen what he can do with a rifle, have you? Of course, there isn't much scope for a gun inside a theatre. But I was in a big circus with Diaz three years ago in California, where we gave evening shows in the moonlight, and, by Gad, that chap can make a gun actually talk as long as there's any light at all. And there's no fake about it either. He can judge the range up to a thousand yards as easy as a man judges the points of a horse. But don't you worry about that. You just go in and win, old man. I'm not a gentleman like you, but I know a lady when I see one, and the girl we call Mlle. de Lara was never brought up to this sort of thing."

Lockhart was silent. He knew that perfectly well. He knew that Mlle. de Lara had been born Lucille Dare, that she was the daughter of a man who had at one time had a high commission in the British Army, and that the art she had learnt as a child for her amusement and the state* of her physical training had become later on her one means of obtaining a livelihood. And Lockhart knew, too, that she hated and loathed all this publicity as much as he did himself. He had met her more than once during the last eighteen months, and all had looked like going well until Lucille had been persuaded to accept one of the leading parts in the sketch which had originally been written for Diaz alone.

[* "sake" in the original; probably a typographical error. ]

The entertainment came to an end presently, and the huge audience filed slowly out. Lockhart found himself presently waiting outside the stage door for a chance of a few words with Lucille. He had not yet shaken 0H Billy Jenks, who was hanging about as if waiting for someone himself.

"All right, old man," he said, "I'1l be off. I can see that you don't want me. But I am your friend, as you know, and if you take my advice you won't quarrel with Diaz. There used to be some nasty stories told about him in California; as a matter of fact, he dared not show his face there. I don't believe the beast would stick at anything. And don't forget that a man like yourself who risks his life on a bit of copper wire might form a tempting object for a bit of treachery on the part of a reckless devil like Diaz. Well, so long, old man, and remember my advice is well meant."

Lockhart drew a deep breath as he saw Lucille coming towards him. There was cold surprise in her eyes as she saw him standing there. It was his own fault, perhaps—he had been somewhat shy and laggard in his rôle of a lover—but he did not stop to think of that at the moment. He felt the blood rising to his temples and tingling to his finger-tips as Diaz emerged from the shadows and laid his hand familiarly on Lucille's arm.

"Don't forget," he said, with an insolent glance at Lockhart, "that you are engaged to me for to-morrow afternoon."

Lockhart kept his temper with an effort.

"I—I was going to ask you to come as far as St. Everards in the side—car," he stammered.

"But if I am too late, why, then, I must go over there alone."

It seemed to him that Lucille yielded for a moment, and then the cold look came back into her eyes again.

"I'm very sorry," she said. "But as you did not mention it this morning I thought you had forgotten. Besides, Señor Diaz is going to drive me over to tea at St. Everards in his dogcart. He has promised to let me drive a little way myself. It isn't often nowadays I get a chance of driving a good horse, and I should be foolish to lose such a chance."

Lockhart turned away without another word; he was hurt and sore, and none the less so because he knew he had largely himself to blame. But he would go to St. Everards and have tea at that charming little seaside village alone. And he had, too, an uneasy feeling that perhaps Lucille would need him.

Accordingly, the next afternoon he set out on his motor—cycle about half an hour after he had seen the dog-cart depart and Lucille driving the fine thoroughhred horse of which Diaz was exceedingly proud. Presently he saw them before him on the lonely road over the sand dunes. And then it seemed to him that something was wrong, Evidently the big black horse had got out of hand, for he could see that Diaz had snatched the reins from Lucille's hand and was urging the horse forward. Then, when the danger was past, Diaz began to thrash the high-spirited animal unmercifully. So far as Lockhart could judge, the Mexican was blind with rage and fury, for he suddenly stood up in the cart and, reversing the whip, began heating the terrified animal over the head with the loaded end of it. It was as if some lunatic had suddenly flared out into one of his cyclones of passion.

On and on the helpless horse dashed until, absolutely exhausted, he sank between the shafts and lay in the road. As Lockhart quickened his pace, he saw Diaz jump from the cart and approach the prostrate animal with something in his hand. But it was something that shone and gleamed in the sunlight, and then the full horror of the situation burst on Lockhart. He quickened his pace and threw himself off his motorcycle by the side of the cart. He was just in time to see Diaz, with a face distorted with fury and eyes blazing with rage, stoop down in the road and deliberately cut the throat of the exhausted animal from ear to ear. In the cart Lucille sat like a frozen statue. She was evidently petrified and stricken dumb by this exhibition of raging fury. As Lockhart put out his hands to her she placed her cold fingers in his and he lifted her to the ground. Had he not placed his arms about her she would have fallen. Then she found her speech.

"Oh, take me away, take me away!" she said. "I—I am frightened. Did you over see anything so horrible?"

Diaz rose from his knees and came forward. But not a word did Lockhart say as he fairly lifted Lucille in his arms and placed her in the side-car, which he had not detached from his cycle. There had been just the chance that he might bring Lucille home with him, and he congratulated himself now upon his prudence.

"Don't say anything," he cried to Diaz. "And don't come a yard nearer me, or I'll strangle the life out of you."

A few minutes later and Lockhart, with his precious burden by his side, was racing along the road in the direction of St. Everards.

He [found a] little empty alcove in the tea-[room] and placed Lucille in a seat. [...] dumb, though now she shook [....]ness. Then the blessed tears came—and for a long time she sobbed un[res]trainedly.

"I don't know how to thank you," she said at length. "Oh, why did I come out with that dreadful man? From the very first I have hated and loathed him, and I have been warned against him more than once. I was told that he was dreadfully cruel to his animals. Now, if you—"

"Oh, I know, I know," Lockhart said.

"It was all my fault, Lucille. Only I thought you didn't want to come with me, and I was jealous. I dare say you will say that I have no right to he jealous." She smiled at him gloriously through her tears.

"And I thought you didn't eare," she whispered. "I thought that you were only amusing yourself. Are you quite sure even now, or is it only that you are sorry for me?"

Lockhart acted on the impulse of the moment. They were all alone in the arbour and no one was in sight. And, besides, she was looking at him with those tear-wet eyes of hers in a way there was no mistaking, and her soul was shining in them. He drew her to his side and kissed her passionately.

"There are going to be no more misunderstandings," he said. "Lucille, I never cared for anyone till I met you, and there will never he anybody else. And we are made for one another. You drifted into this the same as I did; you suddenly found yourself without your comfortable home and facing the world as I had to face it. But that is all over now. After Monday I turn my back on this life for ever, and I am going to take you to Canada with me. We both hate the life."

"I've done with it," Lucille said. "At any rate, when I have finished here. And nothing will induce me to appear with that man again. I couldn't do it, Gilbert. I shall tell the management exactly what happened."

The scandal was too great to be concealed; the management was sympathetic; and during the rest of the week the sketch was abandoned. But Diaz brooded, and the expression in his eyes when he looked at Lockhart was bad to see.

"Look to yourself," he threatened, the first time they met. "That is a great performance of yours on the wire, but see that it does not prove a barbed wire for you. I will make that girl my wife yet, in spite of everything."

"Do your worst," Lockhart said. "I'm not afraid of you."

Nevertheless, Lockhart was far from easy in his mind, a fact that he confided to the sympathetic Jenks later in the day.

"It isn't that I'm afraid," he said. "But I'm fearful of my own happiness. Now, just consider, Billy. I've made a good deal of money, I am going to marry the sweetest and dearest girl in the world, and it looks as if a glorious future lay before us. And for the last time on Monday night I am going to risk my life. And it is a risk—a dozen times I have been within an ace of death. The mere thought that it is the last time makes me uneasy. There's more than a chance, too, that Diaz will do me a mischief. I heard just now from one of those Japanese jugglers that the fellow was actually in a lunatic asylum in Nevada three years ago. I tell you I don't like it a bit, Billy."

Billy Jenks was duly sympathetic.

"Look here, laddie," he said. "I believe you are in danger, and the best thing to do is to realize it. I'm all with you, I am. I am only a red-nosed comedian, but I have had my dreams, and I want to help you if I can. You can't go to the police and get them to arrest Diaz, because he has never really threatened you. You can't get that chap locked up till after Monday, anyhow. But you can take precautions, and these are all the more necessary because I know that Diaz will do you a mischief if he can. I found out this morning that he has changed his bedroom to the back of the house where he has his lodgings in Vernon Terrace."

"I don't quite understand," Lockhart said.

"Let me explain. I also, as you know, lodge in the same house; in fact, there are a whole lot of us there. The top back bedrooms in Vernon Terrace overlook the Winter Gardens right between the two water-towers. Anybody up there would have a grand view of your performance on Monday. They could see the fireworks, too, and, of course, there will be a deuce of a noise going on whilst you are on that high wire. Now, our performance will be over at nine, so that we shall be free for your big show. I don't propose to be there at all. I am going to stay at home and keep an eye on Diaz. And I can get one or two of the other chaps to help."

"You think Diaz made that change designedly." ·

"Of course he did. And he's got some deep-laid scheme, too. If he gets you then, nothing matters afterwards, so far as you are concerned. And he won't lose any time about it either. I was thinking about it all last night. And I think I can see a way to get the better of that ruffian and lay him by the heels for many a year to come. Now, listen to me."

As Jenks proceeded to unfold his scheme the frown on Lockhart's face gradually gave way to a smile. He was looking quite himself by the time the comedian had finished.

"That's a good idea," he said. "There's plenty of time to carry it out, too. If nothing happens nobody will he any the wiser, and if, by any chance, Diaz gets to know, then you will be able to prevent him doing anything dangerous."

"I'll see to that," Jenks said, grimly. "I'll use violence if necessary. But if you do get through Monday night all right, then he'll he pretty sure to have another go at you. But if we give him a certain amount of rope, then we shall be able to prove an attempted crime against him and hand him over to the police. You needn't worry, old chap. You must see that everything should come out all right."

It was nearly ten o'clock on the night August Bank Holiday, and something like two hundred thousand people had gathered there in the grounds to watch the most sensational performance before the public that England perhaps had ever seen. The two big water-towers loomed out high into the sky, and between them, as the spectators knew, was a slender copper wire on which Señor Romano, as they knew him, was to perform the marvellous feat which many of them had come miles to see. He would appear presently through one of the windows of the right-hand tower and cross on that spider web to the far side, a matter of some six hundred feet, and should anything happen to him, he would be dashed to pieces on the glass dome beneath him. In itself the performance was not, perhaps, particularly clever, but it was the peril and danger and the superb exhibition of human nerve and courage that the holiday-makers had come to see.

There was no noise now—no word was spoken. It was as if all the people there were aware how necessary it was that there should be no outburst of feeling and no clamour or hurricane of applause to disturb the performer on his terrible joumey. And so they waited moment after moment, tense and silent and strung up to a pitch that had something of pain in it. Then a rocket soared high into the sky and burst like a bombshell high overhead into a cascade of falling stars. It lit up that white ring of faces for a moment as if they had been so many corpses staring up out of a sea of blackness. There followed another rocket and yet another, and after that a blaze of flares picked out the two great water-towers as if they had been cameos cut out against a background of solid bronze. And then, high up overhead, something seemed to drift away from the edge of the tower and move slowly along the unseen wire. Its outline was blurred and dim, but it was a human figure plainly enough, a human figure with hands outstretched swaying gently from side to side.

A sort of murmur rose from the audience, dull and subdued like the sigh of the incoming tide on a midnight beach. And after that there was a silence more tense and painful than before. From the street outside the walls came the hoot of a motor and the clang of an electric tramcar as it swung along. It seemed like an unseemly interruption, something that was vaguely resented by the packed mass of humanity down there below.

Then silence again, a silence like the darkness of Egypt, inasmuch as it could be felt. Strong men were there, not given to emotion, who swallowed down something in the back of their throats. A woman tittered hysterically and then bit her lip as someone gripped her arm with a force that filled her with pain. The mere fact that this grip came from a stranger mattered nothing. And gradually and carefully the figure on the wire slipped on until it paused half-way between one tower and the other, as if looking down on the pallid faces there—and at the same moment hundreds of fireworks, rockets, and Roman candles and squibs began to play all about the human spider on his copper web up there so far over their heads. Presently came a little whip-like crack faintly audible about the reverberating din and unnoticed by the ears of everyone there. A fraction of a second later the figure on the copper wire swayed backwards and forwards, then before the horrified eyes of the overwrought audience pitched headlong downwards and crashed through the dome of glass into the Winter Gardens below.

It was all done in a flash, a minute fragment of time so short as to be infinitesimal, and yet in that pinch from the duration of a second a people's holiday was turned into a tragedy of mourning. It was petrifaction for a breath, paralysis for a second, and then a letting loose of the simple emotions that broke like a fiood and carried that vast human tide with it. Men groaned and shuddered and women cried aloud as they covered their eyes. And down there on the bandstand amidst the fireworks somebody in authority jumped to his feet and began to roar authoritative words through a megaphone. For a second or two it was as if the man down there was raising his voice against the tumult of a nation. Then first one and another caught the gist of what he was saying and whispered it to his neighbour. The tale fiew from ear to ear quickly as a flash of summer lightning. There was silence again, deep and impressive, then the megaphone spoke once more.

Billy Jenks stood in the darkness of a bedroom in Vernon Terrace looking out anxiously on to the packed gardens below. Behind him in his sitting-room with the door closed two men were waiting for him to give the signal. They knew exactly what they had to do, and they knew, moreover, that when the time came not a moment must be lost. And so Jenks stood there straining his eyes into the darkness, waiting one tense minute after another until he saw that diminutive figure beginning to slide its way from one tower to the other opposite. Jenks was holding his breath now, every nerve in his body thrilling and every sense in him at its highest tension. He saw the first rocket soar high into the sky, he watched the play of the gathering sheets of flame down below. And then from somewhere close by him, almost in his own ear it seemed, he heard a sharp crack like the lash of a whip, and before the sound had died away he moistened his dry lips and whistled. He had just time to see the figure on the wire sway and fall before he realized that two men were behind him.

"It's done," he said, hoarsely. "Now, come on, there's no time to be lost."

As Jenks said this he opened the bedroom door next to his own. He fumbled inside for the switch of the electric light, and flooded the room with a warm glow. The bedroom window was wide open, and leaning by the sash with a riflc in his hand was Diaz, It had all been done so quickly that even yet a thin vapour of smoke was trickling from the barrel of the Winchester rifle. Before Diaz could rise to his feet the three men were upon him and he was disarmed. He had been caught absolutely in the act, caught within twenty seconds of firing that fatal shot, and he knew plainer than words could tell him that his fate was sealed.

"You murderous scoundrel!" Jenks cried. "Now, what have you got to say for yourself? I saw everything from my bedroom window, and now we have caught you with the weapon in your hand. Anything to say?"

"Not a word,” Diaz replied between his teeth. "I planned it well and carefully, but fate has been too strong for me. And if you want to know if I'm sorry—well, I'm not. If it had not been to-night, it would have been another time."

"We are wasting time here," Jenks said. "Bring the scoundrel downstairs, and I'll telephone for the police."

The man with the megaphone had his audience well in hand now, and every word that he said carried true and clear to the farthest part of the grounds.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he yelled. "There is no cause for alarm, and the tragedy you have been witnessing is no tragedy at all. It is only a little idea on the part of Señor Romano which he has adopted of late to test the safety of his wire. Sometimes the atmosphere makes a difference, as it generally does to high tension wire, so by means of a slender steel cord a dummy figure, the weight of a big man, is worked along the main cable merely to see that it is absolutely safe. By some means or another the dummy must have become detached from the steel cable and, as it swung downwards, tore itself free from the copper wire. We deeply regret that we should have caused you all this distress, but it has been an accident, as you see, and Señor Romano is up there now waiting to begin. If you look up, you will see him for yourselves."

A great hurricane of cheers broke from two hundred thousand throats, cheers of relief and enthusiasm as Lockhart slid along the wire and started his daring perfomance. He had waited up there watching eagerly until he had seen the flash of an electric light three times repeated from a certain house in Vernon Terrace, which told him that the danger was past and that now he could satisfy the demands of his audience without any further fear. He had finished at length in a last blaze of rockets, he was drawing nearer and nearer to safety, and then he took one deep, shuddering breath as his foot left the wire and he stepped through the window on to the upper stage of the tower, a free man, sound in life and limb, a man who saw the long years of happiness and prosperity looming before him from behind the violet darkness of the warm August night.

"We owe everything to the ingenuity of Jenks," Lockhart told Lucille, as the three of them sat at supper an hour later. "I told you that I should be quite safe, but Billy swore me to secrecy, and so I couldn't tell you exactly how it would be done. All the same, I'm glad you kept away from the gardens, for it must have been at painful scene; in fact, I hardly liked to face it myself. Still, thats all over and done with now. Diaz is out of the way and he will never threaten our happiness again. They will probably certify him as a lunatic, which the man undoubtedly is, and he will very likely never be free again. But I don't want to talk about him. I want to talk about our friend Billy here. It was he who guessed what Diaz was going to do, especially when he found out that the Mexican had changed his bedroom, and it was he who hit upon the happy idea of that dummy. It was any odds that Diaz would take it for me, and hehave exactly as he did."

"But suppose he had found out?" Lucille shuddered.

"Oh, I'd arranged for all that," Billy Jenks said, modestly. "If he had tumbled to our little scheme we were going to enter his bedroom by force and keep him a prisoner till the performance was over. We might have done that in any case, but that wouldn't have helped us. We had to prove that Diaz had murderous intentions or we should never have been abe to have kept him out of mischief for the future. Otherwise, he would certainly have had another try. Neat little dodge, wasn't it? And some day, when I have got time, I think I shall turn it into a play. It ought to make a good one."

"Make it a comedy," Lucille smiled. "We have been too near the edge of tragedy to-night."

THE END