TABLE of CONTENTS

THE BARRISTER AT BAY

ADVENTURE

THE DOLL'S HOUSE

AT SHORT NOTICE

A SOUND IN THE NIGHT

THE CONVICT

BRAYTON'S SECRET

FREE LABOUR

FOR LOVE'S SAKE

A MASKED BATTERY

THE BARRISTER AT BAY

Published in The Central Queensland Herald (Rockhampton, Qld.), Thursday 23 May, 1935.

Mrs. Westbrooke, with a few well-chosen words of apology, dropped into her chair at the dining-room table and unfolded her napkin. It was the usual Wednesday night dinner-party for which Sir John and Lady Cardwell were noted, and the usual brilliant knot of men and women had gathered there. Mrs. Westbrooke had been late, but she certainly did not convey the impression that she had, within the last hour, returned to London from the Continent, after a long and trying journey. She was serene and calm as usual, perfectly dressed, and beautiful in her stately way. She did not look anything like her thirty-five years, and those who knew her wondered what her secret was. Hers had been a stormy life, and it was only recently that she had found her way into a harbour of peace and serenity. Now she was rich, and had all the world before her.

She glanced casually round the table, with its flowers and ferns and shaded lights, the last person in the world whom anyone might associate with care or strife or tragedy. Despite her serenity, she was here looking for someone, and presently she found him.

He was on the other side of the table, discussing some passing topic with his dinner partner. Edgar Remington was a man who would have attracted attention anywhere, not so much from his good looks or striking personality as by his peculiar and forceful magnetism. As a matter of fact, he was plain in feature, coarse cut, and rugged--the bulldog type; deep of voice and tenacious of purpose. The men at the Bar, who ought to know, prophesied that Remington would go a long way. He was quite a modern product--extension schools' scholarship, university and Bar prizeman, son of a Noncomformist minister, with a strong leaning towards politics. His chance had come now, and he was going to make the best of it. He knew perfectly well that if he succeeded in getting a verdict of acquittal for Julius Maxwell on the morrow the rest of the way along the path would be easy. Everybody was talking about the case; it was one of those criminal romances that gripped the popular imagination in the club and cottage alike. It was even being discussed fitfully round Lady Cardwell's dinner-table.

At first everything had pointed to a verdict of guilty. Nobody doubted that Maxwell had deliberately murdered the man who had been his greatest benefactor, and whose money he had expected to inherit. The prisoner had been a bad lot from the first. He had been expelled from school, he had left Oxford under a heavy cloud, and a few years later he had been forced to resign the membership of his clubs. There was more than one of Lady Cardwell's guests who had know Mrs. Maxwell, the pretty, pathetic little woman whose heart had been broken by her rascally husband's cruelty. She was supposed to have died abroad somewhere, leaving a daughter behind her, but on this latter point nobody seemed to be quite sure. Certainly no self-respecting girl would be likely to come forward and own Julius Maxwell as her father. One quidnunc declared that Maxwell's daughter had come into money and changed her name. At any rate, the only person in the world that Julius Maxwell could turn to at the finish was his Uncle John--the man who had been found murdered in the library three months before, in circumstances that pointed to the guilt of his scapegrace nephew.

The dead man had been found in his house in Portman Square when the servants had come down one morning early in October. The old man had been murdered, without a doubt, but no clue had been left behind, and nothing apparently was missing until it was discovered, a few days later, that the murdered man had withdrawn from his bank five hundred pounds in notes on the eve of the crime, and of these there was no trace whatever. For three months the police had searched for them in vain, but up to now not one of them had been put in circulation.

Still, gradually and surely, the authorities worked up a strong case against the accused. For three days now the counsel for the Crown had been unfolding his story, and when he finally sat down there was not a single person in the court who would have given sixpence for the life of the prisoner.

Then had come Remington's chance. For two days he fought for the life of his client as if it had been his own. He was the most-talked of man in England now, and he knew it. He stood there quiet and calm, with the air of one who felt himself to be a victor, and unfolded a marvellous and ingenious defence. Apparently he was going to rely entirely upon an alibi--a dangerous thing in any but the most skilful hands. And yet, so well had he worked it that, when the court rose at five o'clock that afternoon, the betting on the verdict was even.

It was not that a single listener to that battle of wits entertained the slightest doubt as to the guilt of the prisoner. Everybody knew that he was guilty. He carried it in his face and his furtive eye and nervous twitching of his hands. And yet Remington had established the doubt, and as he sat there placidly eating his dinner he knew that, with the coming out of the evening papers, tomorrow he would be famous.

The dinner dragged its slow length along, the coffee and liqueur stage reached at length, and the cigarettes were handed round.

Mrs. Westbrooke changed her chair, and, with a skilful move, found herself seated next to Remington. The two were acquainted of course, but they were not in the feast intimate.

Remington welcomed Mrs. Westbrooke with a proper shade of deference, for he was not insensible to her popularity and influence; but he would willingly have changed the conversation.

"Really," he said, "I think we've discussed my client long enough. Besides, it is hardly the sort of topic for a dinner where ladies are present. What do you say, Mrs. Westbrooke?"

"Well, I am interested enough," Mary Westbrooke said. "But I am not so much interested in your client as yourself."

"That is very nice and flattering."

"I don't think so. Now, I don't understand the aspect of the legal mind in the least. I am going to be frightfully rude, Mr Remington. I am going to exercise the privilege of my sex and ask an impertinent question. Do you honestly believe that your client is innocent?"

Remington shrugged his shoulders.

"Has that anything to do with the case?" he asked. "I am merely an instrument--what the criminal classes call a 'mouthpiece.' A certain solicitor comes to me with a brief to defend Maxwell, and I undertake the defence."

"Do you think that Maxwell is innocent?"

"My dear lady," Remington said patiently, "it is not for me to say. I want you to understand that the man is my client. He has assured me and his solicitor that he is the victim of circumstances, and, after discussing all the points, we decided to set up a certain line of defence."

"And a very brilliant line of defence, too," Mrs Westbrooke smiled. "That is what everybody says. I understand that the prisoner is likely to be acquitted tomorrow. But you have not yet answered my question. Do you think Maxwell is guilty?"

Remington protested politely. Really, this sort of thing was not fair. He was doing no more than his duty; he was acting entirely according to precedent laid down in the long and glorious traditions of the English Bar. He could not discuss his client's guilt or innocence with anyone. Could not Mrs. Westbrooke see that it was not a personal matter?

"It would be awkward for you," she said, "if by some chance the missing bank-notes suddenly appeared. If one of them could be traced to your client, what would you have to say then?"

Remington shrugged his shoulders.

"There would be an end to the case as far as I am concerned," he said. "Of course, you mean if the fact were brought to my personal knowledge. Then I should be robbed of my triumph, and you would say it served me right. I am trying to see your point of view, Mrs. Westbrooke. According to you, none of us are sportsmen. If you had your way, no noted criminal would ever be represented in the courts. Once a man was taken to be guilty, then every barrister would turn his back upon him. Now, that is not my view at all. If I were briefed to defend a murderer, I would do my best for him, even if his victim were my own brother. It is entirely a matter of the point of view. In your eyes I am no sportsman, and in my eyes you are arguing from an entirely false perspective. You won't mind my saying that you speak as if you had a personal bias against Maxwell."

Mrs. Westbrooke's eyes flashed ominously.

"I have," she said. "Maxwell's unhappy wife was one of my dearest friends. I will make you a present of that."

Remington looked just a little relieved. He was not displeased that the argument should take on a personal aspect. Anybody listening--and most of the guests were--would attribute Mrs. Westbrooke's anger entirely to her loyalty towards her dead friend. Remington smiled in a tolerant way.

"I thought you didn't mean quite all that you said," he remarked. "Of course, I am not going to defend my client as a model of virtue. I would not be seen in the street with him, for instance. But at the same time I am not admitting that he was responsible for the death of his uncle. We don't want to go into details."

"Julius Maxwell is an abandoned scoundrel," Mrs. Westbrooke said. "He started life with a great advantage. He had money, and when he had dissipated that he married a fortune. He spent every penny of his wife's money, and ill-treated her into the bargain. He behaved so badly that his only daughter left him, and was so ashamed of her father's record that she changed her name. She got her own living as a typist and shorthand clerk in the city. She thought she was safe; but, unfortunately, she also had a large amount left her. That man found it out, and followed her everywhere. For eighteen months he made the poor girl's life a burden. From her he had all her income; she could not touch her principal because she was not of age. She lived in the meanest lodgings on the Continent, and frequently was short of food. I found her not long ago playing a violin in a Viennese restaurant. She told me her story, and I managed to get her away to a place where her father could not find her. For the last three or four months Julius Maxwell has been living on his wits. I have seen him once or twice. And I firmly believe that he called upon his uncle on the night of the crime and murdered him for the sake of that money."

"Which has not been traced to him," Remington suggested.

"No; but I am sure it will be," Mrs. Westbrooke went on. "Of course, you will say assumption is not evidence."

"Julius Maxwell was forbidden his uncle's house, remember," Remington smiled. "He never called there; indeed, we have the evidence of the servants to prove that."

"I suggest that he had a latch key," Mrs. Westbrooke said. "He used to live with his uncle at one time. He waited till late at night, and let himself in with the old latch key, having no doubt discovered that the butler had leave of absence till the small hours to attend a servants' dance. We know, therefore, that the front door was only on the latch, which you will admit is a point in favour of my argument. I don't say that Julius Maxwell intended to kill his uncle, but I am sure that he did it, probably tempted by the sight of those notes. And I am quite sure that you will agree with me."

Remington protested vigorously. All the same, he was not altogether at ease in his mind. To begin with, there was a good deal in what Mrs. Westbrooke had said. Why should a man use his talents and mental qualities to achieve the liberty of another man whom he knew to be a danger to society? And yet every ambitious member of the Bar was only too anxious for the opportunity. He had worked out an ingenious defence for Maxwell, and everybody was talking about it. If he could get the man off, then his reputation and fortune were made. He would be able to go to Grace Eversfield, and declare his love for her without anybody being able to say that his affections were inspired by her money.

But deep down in his heart he knew that his client was guilty. He could see it in the shifty eye and the quivering lip, could hear it in the hoarse voice and the throaty question. He knew that he was about to release on society a scoundrel who ought to have been destroyed like a mad dog years ago. It was all very well to advance his sophistries and quote his list of precepts to Mrs. Westbrooke, but he winced under her flashing eye and the cold contempt of her tongue.

She turned from him presently as if the argument was finished, and for the rest of the evening seemed to avoid him. It was only when her car was announced that she approached him again, with an offer of a lift.

"I hope you don't think I have been too horrible to you?" she said. "But it is a point upon which I feel very strongly, and I should have said just as much even if I had not known Julius Maxwell and that poor girl of his. May I give you a lift in my car? I think you go my way; and, besides, there is something I want to say to you."

"I am quite at your disposal," Remington said.

A little later, and he found himself seated in the cosy drawing-room of Mrs. Westbrooke's luxurious flat. She pressed him into a chair, and with her own dainty hands waited upon him. She gave him cigarettes, she poured out his whisky and soda and placed it on a little table at his elbow. Remington might have been some invalid waited upon by a loving nurse. It was all very flattering and pleasant, but there was a sympathy and a shade of pity in Mrs. Westbrooke's eyes that made him feel a little anxious and uncomfortable.

"You are too good to me," he murmured. "What have I done that you should be so kind to a mere barrister?"

"We are just coming to that," Mrs. Westbrooke said. "My dear boy, I am going to give you a shock. I have watched you a great many years; I am always interested in the career of brilliant young men, even if they happen to be barristers, which is a profession that I hate. You have done exceedingly well, and I always admired the way in which you kept up your friendship with Grace Eversfield, even though she remained in an office and you were beginning to make a mark at the Bar. I think there was some sort of an understanding between you even before Grace came in to her money and went abroad."

"That's true enough," Remington said simply. "I never cared for anybody but Grace. I could not marry her because marriage is a terrible handicap to a young man just starting life. Grace knew that, of course. We understood one another perfectly, though no word of love had ever passed between us. I dare say you will think that this sounds very sordid and calculating, but it is nothing of the sort. Then Grace came into her money, and I--well, I persuaded her to have six months' holiday on the Continent. You can call it pride, if you like. I wanted her to see something of the world, to see other men, to mix with good people. And then, if she was still of the same mind--Oh, you know what I mean. I played the game, though I am only a barrister who is defending a rascal for the sake of fame and money. And if I get him off I am a made man. Then, Mrs. Westbrooke, I shall go straight to Grace----"

Remington's voice trailed off in a whisper. Mrs. Westbrooke was regarding him with infinite pity in her eyes.

"I do understand," she said. "I understand far better than you imagine. Did Grace Eversfield ever tell you the story of her life? Did she ever speak of her parents?"

"Only that she was unhappy at home. I know that she lost her mother years ago, and that her father is a mauvais sujet. She has not seen him for a long time. And she was anxious that he should not know of her good fortune. What----"

Remington broke off suddenly. He could see swift illumination in Mrs. Westbrooke's sorrowful eyes.

"Good God!" he cried. "You don't mean to say--you don't mean to say that Grace is the daughter of that abandoned scoundrel on whom all my hopes are based?"

He rose to his feet and paced up and down the floor agitatedly. The thing was impossible, incredible. Yet he could see no denial in Mrs. Westbrooke's eyes.

"I knew it would be a great shock to you," she said. "But it is true, all the same. That is why I brought you here tonight. I had to tell you. A part of the pitiful story you already know. Grace's mother was my greatest friend. Many a time have I sheltered her here when her husband's violence had driven her into the street. There was nothing of that horrible story that I did not know. When the poor woman died I helped Grace to get her situation. I encouraged her to hide her identity, and advised her to betray it to no one unless she was compelled to do so. I did not see that anyone should know, except, perhaps, the man that she was going to marry. I should not tell you this now if you had not been so candid. And, besides, there are urgent reasons why you should be informed. At any rate, you are defending Grace's father, and, if you succeed, then the poor child will never rest till he has the last penny she possesses. And everybody, sooner or later, must know the sordid story. I suppose what I have said makes no difference?"

"How can it?" Remington groaned. "Don't you see that my whole professional career is at stake? I must go on. I cannot recognise a personal side of this business. It is very terrible, of course; but you see how helpless I am. I must assume that my client is innocent until he is proved to be guilty. The defence I have prepared----"

"Is in your opinion impregnable," Mrs. Westbrooke interrupted.

"I don't see how anything could shake it. So long as those notes cannot be traced, Maxwell is safe."

"And if the notes could be traced? If even one of them could be shown to have been in Maxwell's possession?"

"Then the whole thing collapses like a house of cards. But for goodness sake don't tell me that it is in your power? It would be as good as ruin! I should have to tell my client's solicitor, and withdraw from the case; that is, unless Maxwell would plead guilty. Why, if I dared to go on, knowing the ghastly truth, I should be driven from the Bar in disgrace. Please tell me nothing. If you want to appear as a witness----"

"Ah! there spoke the special pleader," Mrs. Westbrooke cried. "But I am going to speak, though your future career at the Bar depended upon my silence. I am only concerned with the happiness of that dear child--yes, and your happiness, too. She must not be dragged into this business; the scandal must not be made public. No, I cannot permit you to pass. I knew that I was going to meet you tonight, and I made up my mind to bring you here--because I wanted to show you this."

As Mrs. Westbrooke spoke she took an oblong piece of paper from the desk and handed it to Remington.

"This is a five-pound note," she said. "Will you please look at the number. If you do, you will see that it is one of the notes which the police are seeking for in connexion with the Maxwell murder case."

"That is quite right," Remington murmured. "I know the numbers of the missing notes by heart."

"Will you kindly turn it over?" Mrs. Westbrooke went on. "On the back of it you will see Julius Maxwell's signature and the date. Now, I dare say you will wonder how this came into my possession. On the night of the crime I was passing through London on my way to Paris, only staying here one evening. I did not return from a dance till two o'clock to the morning, when I found Julius Maxwell awaiting me. He was wild and excited, and anything but sober.

"He told me that he had been arrested shortly after midnight in some low gambling-den, and that some equally low associates had gone bail for him. He had given a false name to the police, and was quite sure he would get off before the magistrate with a fine. There was some pressing reason why no one should know that he was in London. He tried to borrow money from me, but I refused to lend him a penny. He went away, and then returned a few moments later with the note you have in your hand. Knowing my man, and feeling sure he had stolen the note, I made him endorse it. No doubt he paid his fine and got away without recognition. The next morning I left for Paris; and I never heard a word of the tragedy till I got back here yesterday. And now, what are you going to do about it? I have placed in your hands enough evidence to hang Maxwell twice over. I am only doing my duty. I might have come into court and given my evidence without saying a word to you. But Grace is a second daughter to me, and I want, if possible, to preserve her from the terrible scandal. It seems to me that the rest is entirely in your discretion."

Remington sat there for a few moments with his head in his hands. Here was a situation entirely without precedent; here was his ambition in ruins at his feet.

"I shall thank you later on," he said. "Meanwhile, may I use your telephone? Thanks very much. .. ."

"Is that you, Gregory? . . . Yes, I want to see you at once. Maxwell will have to plead guilty. . . . Yes, I'll come round at once."

THE END

ADVENTURE

Published in the Townsville Daily Bulletin, Saturday 9 November, 1935.

She stood in the dock, barely conscious of her environment, clinging to the rail in front of her as if it were some sort of Rock of Ages cleft between her and the sea of troubles that overwhelmed her.

A thief—that was what they said—a thief. Shoplifter? A mean pilferer of unguarded trifles! Not that a compact gold manicure set was by any means a trifle.

She had come up from Shepperton for an afternoon's shopping. She, a young married woman with money in her purse, and in a social position which should have rendered her impervious to temptation. The mistress of a delightful home, with a mate occupying a sound position in the City. Holding her head high as she entered the mammoth store of Bronsons, intent upon the purchase of some expensive trifle—a wedding present for a friend who had been her bridesmaid less than a year ago. Happy and wholly care free.

What followed was like some evil dream. A long glass counter strewn with tempting objects in silver and gold, half a dozen women hanging over them in patent admiration—women, like herself, adumbrating prosperity. Then, like the flashing change of a kaleidoscope, a different and more terrible picture. A sudden stir, a commotion, the arm of a policeman grabbing a vanity bag (hers), and producing therefrom, like some grim conjuror, a gold manicure set which only a few moments before had been lying on the crystal surface of the table.

The kaleidoscope flashed once more on a prison cell, with a widely protesting woman passionately proclaiming her innocence. A long, distracting night in the cell, and now another and no less trying ordeal in the shabby police court whilst a trim, self-assured young woman from Bronsons was giving her evidence.

"No, your Worship," she said in answer to a question from the bench, "I did not actually see the theft committed. But my suspicions were aroused. Being one of the firm's lady detectives, it is my duty to keep a sharp look-out on certain counters. But I did see a hand move, and immediately I noticed that a certain article was no longer on the counter. I also saw a woman's open bag on the counter, and came to the conclusion that the missing article was inside it. I stopped the accused as she was leaving the shop without making a purchase and told her she would be detained. When the policeman came to examine the bag, the manicure set was discovered inside. Whereupon, acting on instructions, I gave accused into custody."

Very terse and to the point, but none the less damning for all that. Hopelessly, Elsie Squire lifted her eyes and glanced round the court. She met the glance of a man sitting behind the solicitors' table and forced a smile. She could see no condemnation in her husband's eyes, only a world of sympathy and suffering. It was good to know that one man in the world believed in her innocence, though all the rest of creation was against her. But here was the policeman giving his evidence.

"When called in," he said, "I found the prisoner detained in the office. In her bag I found the article which is the subject of the charge, and produce it in evidence."

"Is the prisoner represented?" the magistrate asked.

A little man in glasses bobbed up from his seat.

"She is, your Worship," he said. "I represent her. I hope to have an answer to the charge, however black appearances are against her. I ask for a remand for a week, bail being fixed as your Worship desires."

"Very well," the Bench decided. "The prisoner in £50 with a further surety in £100. Next case."

Outside in the sunshine a large saloon car was waiting. Into it Evan Squire handed his wife tenderly.

"You poor darling," he whispered passionately. "God, how much you must have suffered!"

"Then you don't believe, Evan?"

"That you would even dream of such a thing? Of course not. There is some diabolical trick of fate here. But, darling, how came your bag to be open on the counter?"

"I was taking out my handkerchief," Elsie explained. "Do you think it possible that, in replacing it, I swept the gold set into my bag? It was quite a bijou set."

It was possible, Squire admitted to himself. But all the theory in the world was so much beating of the wind.

"Are we going—home?" Elsie asked.

Impossible to face that, she was telling herself. Yet sooner or later such would have to be done, The home she loved so well! All those artistic treasures. The rose garden in the sun, the velvet tennis lawn. Never again could she see life from the same perspective. And the neighbors? The tennis club, the golf and badminton? She would have to resign, all these social amenities.

"I—I can't go back, Evan," she said piteously.

"Not until this ordeal is over, darling," Evan reassured her. "I have arranged all that. Last night and early this morning. I packed everything you need, all of which is in the luggage carrier behind us. We are on our way to Brighton now, where we shall stay until you. . . And I am taking a week off from the office. Garden has got a theory——"

"Garden? Who is he, Evan?"

"The little lawyer man who has your case in hand," Evan explained. "The thieves lawyer they call him. He knows the underworld better than anyone in London. Enormous practice in police courts. Recommended to me. And he's got a theory. He wouldn't say more than that. Cheer up, dear heart."

Montagu Garden, attorney at law, sat in his office interviewing a client. A youngish-looking woman in the early thirties with a personality all her own. Attractive undoubtedly, and dressed with that subtle mixture of simplicity and smartness one associates with one to the manner born. A cigarette was in her scarlet mouth, her legs crossed with easy abandon.

"In trouble again, Lil?" Garden asked with easy familiarity.

"You said it, Monty," the woman, known as Liverpool Lil in certain circles, replied. "Returning to my flat just now I smelt police. And there were the blighters. Search warrant probably. They didn't pipe me so I got out whilst the going was good."

"Expecting to be arrested any moment?"

"And here I am."

"You can put your shirt on that, Monty. And there's lots of stuff in the flat lifted from half the leading stores in the West End. Oh, I'm for it all right."

"Now how many times have I warned you. . . . ."

"Oh? cut it out. Monty, I knew I was spotted last week in Savages, only the lady tec was not dead sure, funking a possible action for damages. You know the game."

Mr. Garden nodded. He most certainly knew the game.

"So they dropped the Yard a hint, and the Yard, knowing your record, has been shadowing you."

"The boy guessed right the very first time. I'll be for it any old time now, so the rest is up to you, Monty. Guilty, my Lord, and all that. Six months' hard, I expect—what?"

Mr. Garden shook his head doubtfully.

"Don't forget that this will be the third time of asking, so to speak," he said. "When they trace all that stuff in your flat there will be a dozen charges to meet. Of course we can plead guilty to the lot before they get their oar in and fight for summary jurisdiction. If his Worship is in one of his melting moods, we might get off lightly. By the way, is there anything of Bronsons in that little—er—collection of yours? Have you been a 'customer' there?"

"Only casually, Monty. The day before yesterday I did drop in there, and a jolly narrow squeak I had. When you have been at the game as long as I have, you learn to spot the lady tecs, by instinct, and keep your eyes skinned accordingly. I guess I gave that young woman something to think about."

Mr. Garden helped himself to a cigarette.

"Something original, eh?" he asked. "If you don't mind I should like to hear that story."

Liverpool Lil proceeded to tell it. There was a queer light in the eyes of the little attorney, though his fascinating client was unaware of that. When, at length, she had finished, he turned to her with a smile on his lips.

"How often have I told you—all your gang for the matter of that—how important it is to tell me everything? You are keeping something back. Something you are ashamed of, I am sure. Now, listen to me carefully. In the circumstances, I can't save you, because this will be the third time you have stood in the dock. But I might be able to get you away with six month in the second division if you will tell me everything—mind, everything, just as it happened when you dropped in at Bronson's the day before yesterday."

"You are a devil," the fascinating Lil exclaimed. "You spotted it at once, did you?"

"My dear girl, that's what I am here for. Half you people get into trouble and suffer because you won't even tell your own solicitor the whole truth about anything. Now, to begin with, how did you know that the police had a search warrant?"

"Oh, as to that," Lil said lightly. "I have friends in the force."

"Yes, I suppose you have, only we need not go into that side of the question now. What you have to do is to play the penitent. When you leave here, go straight to Scotland Yard and make a clean breast of it. I suppose I can take it that in your flat is more than one article that Savage's people can identify? In other words, you have not disposed of the whole of the loot you picked up during your visit to that establishment. Careless, careless, just like the rest of them. Are you never going to learn the necessity of getting rid of the stuff at once?"

"Guilty, my lord," Liverpool Lil laughed. "There were one or two things that I couldn't bear to part with. Well, there they are in my flat, or rather, there they were when I got the office about the search warrant. All that splosh is in the hands of Scotland Yard by this time, you bet."

"Yes," Garden grunted. "You can see it now, can't you? And you can see why I have got a bit of a task before me. And you can see why, when you get to Scotland Yard, you must disguise nothing. Why, the thing that you are ashamed to tell me is the very thing that is going to get you out of trouble. At least, I hope it will have its effect when we come before the Bench. You are a bit of an actress, aren't you, Lil? Play the penitent and shed tears without any special effort?"

"I can do all that," Lil boasted.

"Ah, that's what I want. Now we are getting on. You have to go to Scotland Yard with tears in your eyes, not dancing. Quite the humble transgressor seeking grace. But take care not to let whoever examines you know that you were put wise as to the raid on your flat. What you told me just now is going to help us both. Can't you see that?"

"Since you put it in that way, I can, but I should never have thought of it myself."

"Of course you wouldn't. If you and your kind always thought of those little things, It would be a poor look out for lawyers like myself. Now be off. Don't stand about here any longer. I am not in the least anxious to have my office visited by detectives. You are not supposed to have seen me at all, so far. You've got to assume that I know nothing until I am called in on your behalf and visit you in your cell. And, if I were you, I shouldn't take much trouble to avoid arrest."

For some time after his engaging client had left. Garden sat at his desk busy writing. Then he called up one or two people on the telephone and, locking his roll-topped desk, informed his confidential clerk that he was going off on business for the day, and would not be back before the following morning.

Half an hour later, he was on his way to Brighton. In the seclusion of a private hotel there, Evan Squire and his wife were passing the days dreading the hour when Elsie would once more stand in the dock with a certainty of shame and disgrace before her. So far, they had heard no more of the defence at which Garden had hinted, and were miserably speaking of it when the attorney himself walked into the room. There was a quiet smile on his face, at the sight of which Elsie's heart began to beat a little faster. Evan jumped on his feet.

"Any news?" he asked anxiously.

"News in plenty," Garden said. "For all I say it myself as shouldn't, it was one of the best day's work you ever did, Mr. Squire, when you decided to place your wife's case in my hands. I think I can say, without boasting, that practically all the swell mob in London have passed through my hands at one time or another. And a certain young woman of fascinating appearance and most beautifully dressed happens to be one of them. I assure you, Mr. Squire, if you met her in the street, or in a private house, you would be sure that she was to the manner born. As a matter of fact, she first saw the light in a Liverpool slub, though, to-day, you couldn't pick a flaw in her equipment."

"What's all this to do with us?" Evan asked.

"Well, the young woman in question is a client of mine, as I told you, and, at the present moment, is probably enjoying the hospitality of Scotland Yard. When you came to me, Mr. Squire, and told me the story of the gold manicure set, my mind at once jumped to a certain conclusion. Not a coincidence, because I know the underworld so well, and I know their ways so intimately that in 99 cases out of 100 I could put my finger upon the real delinquent without much trouble. That happens in the present instance. I have to be careful what I say, because the woman in the case is a client of mine as well as your wife, who, of course, is quite innocent."

"If we could only prove it," Evan sighed.

"That is exactly what I came down here to do. Now, this Liverpool expert, knowing that she is for it, and having had her flat searched for valuables lifted from various big stores, has by this time, told the authorities everything. I wonder if you can cast your mind back a little, Mrs. Squire. When you were standing by the jewellery counter at Bronsons, were there other women about you? Did you notice, for instance, one in an expensive sable coat who stood very close to you?"

"Oh, so I did," Elsie said. "A very distinguished looking woman—quite the aristocrat, in fact."

"Otherwise—well, you can guess. I mean, somebody who hailed from Liverpool. It was she who was the cause of all the mischief. Being very nearly caught by one of Bronson's lady detectives, she slipped the manicure set out of the palm of her hand into your bag. It was her one chance of getting away in safety. I got that out of her, because, indirectly, it is going to lead to a lighter sentence for her than she would have had otherwise. The conscience-stricken girl who read all about your case in the paper and has come forward, regardless of consequence to herself, because she could not bear to see another suffer for the crime she had committed herself. That you will hear from her own lips when your case comes up for hearing on the adjournment. Only never even think of this again."

"Oh, what a relief," Elsie sighed. "But do I really have to go to that dreadful court again?"

"Why, of course you do," Garden smiled. "I can arrange for Liverpool Lil's case to be taken just in front of yours. Then, the woman in the dock, with—ah—tears running down her face, will vindicate you completely. My dear lady, you will be news! Every daily paper in London will have a column about it. And, because my client has behaved so magnanimously. I am hoping that the magistrate will put her on probation, although she has been before him more than once. But the great point, Mrs. Squire, is that you will be entirely vindicated, and not even the most evil-minded person will be able to throw a stone at you. I think, in the circumstances, you won't mind facing a police court again. Instead of a criminal, everybody will be making a heroine of you."

"I don't want to be a heroine," Elsie wept happily. "All I want is to have this dreadful stain removed from my character, so that I can go home once more and face my friends, without any feeling of shame. I cannot quite understand how you managed it, Mr. Garden, but that does not make to feel any the less grateful. Oh, what it is to feel free once again!"

THE END

THE DOLL'S HOUSE

Published in The Central Queensland Herald (Rockhampton, Qld.) Thursday 30 January, 1936.

It was a very fine establishment indeed, and, when he had time to think, John Harness was very proud of it. And when he asked his wife what she meant by calling it a doll's house, she merely smiled, and told him that he would not understand, though she had hopes that he might find illumination some day.

Three years ago, and the house at Stanhope Gate had not been thought of. Three years ago Jack Harness and his wife lived in the country, and the city and its ways was a sealed book to him. Then somebody came along with a wonderful formula in the shape of a new dye, and Harness was invited to put a thousand pounds into it, and incidentally make a huge fortune wthout interference with his present employment, which in his case generally meant shooting partridges or playing golf. Within a year Harness was passing most of his time in the City, where his money was now involved. He had known the rack of anxious days and sleepless nights; he had stood more than once on the verge of ruin. And so gradually his fortunes had gone one step back and two forward till now he was spoken of as one of the coming men, and the doll's house in Stanhope Gate was the envy of all Kitty's friends.

"What a pity you let the old place," Kitty said more than once. "I should just love to go back to it again. Sometimes I wish you would come to me and tell me that you had lost everything, and that there was just about enough to keep up the old Grange."

"What a funny girl you are," Harness said irritably. "There are thousands of women who would only be too glad to change places with you. And yet you laugh and call this a doll's house. Why?"

He lay back in his chair wearily, for he had had a long and trying day, and the shadow of the coming trouble was haunting him.

"Well, I will tell you," Kitty said. "It is so dreadfully cold and formal and artificial. It's all make believe, Jack, just like it used to be in the old nursery at home when I was giving a doll's tea-party. Now confess it, my dear old boy, don't you feel horribly lonely sometimes in this big house? Out of the men that come here can you reckon on one real friend?"

Harness shrugged his shoulders irritably.

"Do you mean that you are not happy here?" he asked.

"Ah, that is the pathetic part of it," Kitty cried. "You, the new man created in the City and grown up in three years have taken my other self—yourself—by the throat and strangled him. I was proud of your success once, I never realised that you were forging chains that grow stronger and heavier year by year. Before long you will not have the strength to break them. And not once since we came here have we been away together."

"Yes, I could do with a holiday," Harness said thoughtfully. "But I can't see my way to it just yet. I've got over a hundred thousand pounds sunk in a new valve. Three months ago I expected to make a million out of it. I knocked old Carton's concern end-ways. He came to me and asked me to compromise, but I wouldn't listen to him except on my own terms. He is a grasping old money grubber and boasts that he hasn't a friend in the world."

"I am sorry for him," Kitty said. "I wonder if in time to come people will ever speak of you as Harness the old money grubber?"

"Oh, don't be ridiculous," Harness muttered. "There's no room for sentiment in the City. What was I saying? I stood out for good terms and Carton refused them. I wish to goodness I hadn't been quite so firm now. I met young Edgar Ellis a day or two ago, and he was full of his latest invention. When I asked him what it was he said it was an improved valve, and that he was thinking of showing it to Carton. I managed to get a look at the blue prints, and I saw quite enough to know that if Carton gets hold of that invention my valve will be a drug on the market. The old man will fight me to a standstill. Once he gets the whip hand of me, I am done, Kitty."

Harness' voice dropped to a hoarse whisper, his face was pale now, and a little bead of moisture had gathered on his forehead.

"Is it as bad as that?" Kitty asked. "But surely, my dear boy, your course is quite obvious. Edgar Ellis is a most delightful young man, so clever and straightforward. Now, if I were in your place, I should tell him exactly how things stand and offer to take him into partnership. Like most inventors, he is poor, and will jump at the chance."

Harness smiled more or less pityingly.

"My dear child, we don't do things like that in the City. If we did we should be bankrupt in a week. Of course, my game is to pretend that I saw nothing in it, and suggest that I might possibly find some way of using it if we came to terms. I asked Ellis to come round here this evening, and he may turn up at any moment now. No, I don't mean it to be exactly a business interview, so there's no reason why you shouldn't sit here while we talk. Then you'll get some idea of how things are done."

Kitty made no reply. Her thoughts were far enough away, away in the heart of a pleasant country amongst green fields and shady woodlands, and in the background a low, rambling house, all white, with black cross beams and latticed windows peeping out from overhanging eaves. She could see the sunk rose garden with its grass paths and the battered old sundial athwart the cedar, where a work-table was laid out and a girl curiously like herself, was waiting for a man who bore an odd evasive likeness to that older man who was sitting opposite her in the doll's house. And everywhere was the air of good health and sweetness and content and the laughter that seems honour in small things and is content with the joy of today and the promise of tomorrow. Ah, well! this was all so different to the cold, artificiality of the doll's house, with the music of the birds and the bleating of the lambs in distant pastures was changed for the hoot of the horn and the sullen roar and rush of the traffic.

To get back to it; oh, to get back to it! Surely there was some way. There was no lack of money in those days, for the simple reason that so little was sought for or required. All was peace, contentment, and happiness, and life was blithe and full as the carol of the blackbird in the early mornings. They might get back to this, perhaps, someday, but nothing less than a blessed catastrophe could bring it about. A little time now and the tenants of the Grange would be on their way to India again, so that it would be possible to return there and find every stick and stone as Kitty had tearfully left it. From the bottom of her heart she was hoping that the proposed combination between greedy old age and sanguine youth would come about. "How great a fool a clever man can be sometimes," she said. "When you trusted your fellows you were happy. And they never played you false. And now you are utterly miserable because you can trust nobody. You tell me you stand on the verge of ruin. And even then you are afraid to tell Edgar Ellis the truth, because you are obsessed with the idea that he will take advantage of you. Now I should go to him and tell him the truth. I should offer him fair and liberal terms in the assurance that he will accept them eagerly. Oh, you laugh at me, but I am only speaking for your sake. If you came to me tomorrow and told me that you were insolvent, I should be glad. All I ask is enough saved from the wreck to enble us to go back to the Grange and knit up the threads of the old life once more. But that I fear will never be."

The library door opened at that moment and a young man came in. He looked eagerly from one to the other and smiled.

"Well, you two," he said cheerfully. "I always envy you when I come here. You always look so happy and comfortable—as if there was no such thing as the City and its worries."

Harness smiled in spite of himself. He was wondering what Ellis would say if he only knew the truth and if he could understand why the colour had flamed into Kitty's cheeks. For this young man held the fortunes of the doll's house in his hands, and if diplomacy failed, then the whole structure must collapse like a house of cards. Leaning back in her chair, with half-closed eyes and a strange fluttering in her heart, Kitty watched the progress of the fray. Very cleverly and skilfully Harness led up to that which was foremost in his mind, and Kitty caught herself wondering if this was the man she had promised to love and obey.

Kitty sat up presently, for down in the hall the telephone bell rang, and Harness with a gesture, intimated to his wife that she had better answer the call. A harsh voice asked if Mr. Ellis was there.

"He is in the drawing-room," Kitty said. "Shall I fetch him?"

"No occasion to do that," the harsh voice said. "A message will be quite sufficient. It is Mr. Carton speaking."

The receiver trembled in Kitty's hand. It was with an effort that she kept her voice steady. She would give Mr. Ellis a message, of course, and if Mr. Carton would kindly give it her, she would do her best to convey it correctly.

The harsh voice cut in without ceremony.

"Much obliged, I am sure. Tell Mr. Ellis I have been away all day and have only just got back. Say I have gone into the contract and accept the terms. I have just posted the cheque to the engineers in Manchester, and if Mr. Ellis will call at my offices tomorrow, at ten o'clock, I shall be obliged."

There was no more, not even a word of thanks or a good-night. And all the time that Nero had been fiddling there in the drawing-room, the doll's house had been fiercely ablaze. No doubt Carton had found out in some way where Edgar Ellis was, and had taken steps to strengthen his own position without a moment's delay. Was it too late to save the situation? Was there yet a last desperate chance of relieving the garrison? Would anything be gained by the suppression of that pregnant message?

But Kitty was by no means sure that she wanted to hold the pass. What she needed more than anything else was her husband back again as she had known him three years ago. And in any case Ellis was certain to find out. If there had been any temptation, she put it from her and went back to the drawing-room. She repeated the message word for word; she seemed to know it by heart. She saw the light of triumph flash into Ellis's eyes, and then the shade of regret on his face as he turned to Harness.

"This is a big triumph for me," he said. "I never really expected that Carton would accept my forms. When I saw him a day or two ago he seemed disposed to throw cold water on the whole thing. I suppose he heard I was here this evening and made up his mind to rush it through. Well, it's done now, and there's an end to it, but I would much rather that it had been you, Harness. To tell you the truth, I had been hoping for weeks that you would make me an offer. Your business and mine combined would have defied the world, especially as your position is so strong in the United States. But there are some men who like to work alone, and I feel that you are one of them."

"Is it too late now?" Harness asked.

"You are joking of course. I made Carton a definite offer which he has not only accepted, but has also backed it with a very large sum of money. We're going to be rivals now, but I hope we shall be none the less good friends for that."

Ellis had gone at length, leaving husband and wife facing one another across the dead ashes of the grate. Harness sat there moodily looking into the future. He glanced up presently to see that his wife's eyes were filled with tears.

"Well go on," he said bitterly; "I deserve all your reproaches. You are a better judge of Ellis than I am, and if I had followed your advice two hours ago Carton would have been standing in my place at this moment. I suppose you understand that he means to ruin me. Not that I am going to take it lying down. I'll put up as big a fight as possible, and I may come out with any luck with a few pounds to the good. But it won't be any more."

"Why should I reproach you?" Kitty asked. "I know nothing of your City ways. But I do know that there are good and honest men in the world, though you have ceased to think so. And I'm not in the least frightened, Jack. It will cause me no regret or humiliation to leave this house. Oh, if you could only understand! And, please God, some day I hope you will."

It is not to be supposed that the man in the doll's house turned his face to the wall or shrank from the fray. But the months that followed were drab and dreary ones, and night by night Harness came back with a shadow on his face that deepened day by day. There were strange stories and rumours in the City, and gradually those other women who had come eagerly at one time to help Kitty to play in the doll's house gradually relaxed their visits until they came no more. And there was one black and bitter night when Harness reeled home and collapsed in a chair, asking weakly for brandy, a thing he had never been known to touch before. There was no dinner that evening, and no longer was it possible to conceal from the curious eyes of the domestic staff the fact that disaster darkened the air.

"It's all over, Kitty," Harness explained. "Those people have beaten me to a standstill. They are having a certain amount of trouble with the United States over their patent because there is something in my specification that blocks the way. I believe that I could have compromised over that, but Ellis has been in America for months now, and I can't get at him. I swallowed my pride sufficiently to call on Carton this morning, but they told me that he had been laid up for days. I was ready to make pretty well any terms, but my lawyers said that something must be done today. So I have made an assignment of everything except the old place in the country. And there will be just enough to pay everybody. For the next few months we shall have to live on the rent for the Manor House, and even that will only last till those people go back to India. Oh, Kitty, Kitty, what a fool I've been."

He stretched out his hands to her and she laid her head upon his breast and comforted him. The thought of ruin troubled her not at all. The doll's house had crumbled in the dust, and before long all the pretty costly toys therein would go to other children of a larger growth who were eagerly making doll's houses of their own. But it mattered nothing to Kitty, for the City man was no more, and she had got her husband back at last.

She shed no tear and no blush of shame rose to her cheek as strange men pushed their way into the house without ceremony, and proceeded to label the pictures and the china and tear the velvet-pile carpets from the floors. It mattered nothing to her that the servants left in a body, and that she had to get her own simple meals. After all, there was no shadow of disgrace, and nothing that the gossips in the city could point to. Then there came another day when the house in Stanhope Street knew them no more, and they found themselves in dingy lodgings in Bloomsbury. There was no more than a hideous little sitting-room looking out on a dreary street, and for the first time in her married life Kitty thanked heaven that she had no children. It was necessary to look carefully at every sixpence, for the man who had recently controlled a big business was thankful now to draw three pounds a week from a house in the City. And when you've been accustomed to every luxury, it is a terribly difficult matter to face the problem of existence on sixty shillings every seven days. But then the cloud had lifted from Harness' brow, the stoop had gone from his shoulders, and he had learned to laugh again as he had done in the days which apparently had gone for ever. There were small pleasures and enjoyments, now at the cost of some rigid economy, but enjoyed with a wholeheartedness and zest that Kitty had never known in the gilded hours in Stanhope Street.

And so winter passed away and the spring came round, and down in the country the primroses and violets were blooming and the commons were ablaze with the golden glory of the gorse. The Manor House had been empty a few days now, and it was necessary that the place should be let without delay. Whether to let it furnished or sell all that beautiful old furniture was a problem discussed over many hours. Kitty would have preferred a little house of her own somewhere in the suburbs, but it was impossible to furnish without money, and so the important problem was left in abeyance for a moment and then something happened.

"I heard a bit of news today," Harness said as he came home tired and weary, yet smiling, from the City. "Old Carton is dead. He died at Monte Carlo over a week ago. I only heard it this morning. His general manager told me. He said they had cabled to Edgar Ellis, and that he might be back at any moment. When he comes back I am going to see him, and perhaps he will give me a good post in his firm. He owes me something, after all, seeing that his valve was inspired by mine. Ellis was always a good fellow, and without building up any great hopes, I am sanguine——"

The grimy maid of all work opened the sitting-room door and brought in a letter with an American postmark. It had been readdreased more than once, and Harness was interested to see that it was in the handwriting of the very man he was talking about. Kitty had noticed it, too, and together they read the letter.

"MY DEAR HARNESS,—I shall be home almost as soon as you get this, but I feel that I must write to you at once. I have just heard of the death of Carton by cable, and what is more to the point, I have discovered that the old man never carried out the promise he made me months ago. When I got out here I found that your patent was in my way. You claim certain things in your specification, and until the matter is settled I can do nothing here, at least I can do nothing definite for years. I proposed to Carton that we should jointly buy you out with an offer equivalent to a one quarter holding in our company. He promised me that he would see to it, and I understand that he has done nothing of the kind. He always hated you, as you know, and I suppose that was his revenge.

"Well, you have gone down unfortunately, but at the same time we cannot do without you if we are to reap anything like the volume of business which is open to us here. I renew the offer with the greatest possible pleasure. It means a very handsome income now and a large fortune in the future. With kind regards, and hoping to see you very soon, yours very sincerely,

"EDGAR ELLIS."

The letter fluttered to the ground. There was silence for a moment, then Harness caught his wife in his arms and kissed her long and tenderly on her quivering lips. There was a smile on his face and an eager gleam in his eye.

"We'll go back to the old place, Kitty," he said. "We'll go back to the Manor House tomorrow, and never leave it again. Never mind about the big fortune in future so long as we can have the wholesome country and get the old friends we could trust and love round us once again. I have had my lesson, Kit; you were right and I was wrong. And I can see that it was a mistake for us to come to London at all. Honestly, I've been a happier man on an office stool than ever I was in Stanhope Street. And if you can ever find it in your heart to forgive me——"

"Forgive you," Kitty laughed. "Haven't you given me that which I prize above everything—my husband back again?"

THE END

AT SHORT NOTICE

Published in The Central Queensland Herald (Rockhampton, Qld.), Thursday 17 June, 1937.

I

It was all very well for the General to assert his independence, to proclaim the fact that he was not going to be put upon by anybody, but it was none the less awkward for Ethel Lance, who was mainly responsible for the maintenance of law and order in the old fire-eater's family. This was not the first time the same thing had happened, but it had never taken place on Christmas Eve before. To make a long story short, General Francis had been quarrelling with his servants, and one word leading to another, the upshot of the mischief was that the domestics left in a body, to the General's great delight and the corresponding dismay of Miss Lance.

"It is all very well," she said, "but what are we going to do now? Do you know there is absolutely not a single servant left in the house? Do you understand that?"

"And a good thing, too, my dear," General Francis chuckled. "They are the plague of one's life. If I had known how things had altered since my young days I would have spent the rest of my years in India. No trouble with then out there."

Which was precisely the source of all the mischief. General Francis had spent more years than he cared to count in the service of his country abroad, and he had not yet succeeded in bringing himself in line with modern British ideas. It was, no doubt, a fine thing to take out his cheque book and pay then off grandly one at a time; but who was going to take their places? Seagrave Grange was by no means a large house, but it required at least half a dozen servants to run the place properly, added to which it was some twelve miles from the nearest town. Between now and Christmas Day it would be absolutely impossible for Ethel to supply a fresh domestic staff. More than this, casual help was at a premium. Even the humblest of cottager's wives liked, if possible, to spend Christmas in the bosom of their family. It was fortunate, perhaps, that the few expected guests were all relatives, who could be put off by telegram.

"Well, there is only one thing for it," Ethel said resignedly. "We shall have to send messages to everybody not to come, and we shall have to do the best we can for ourselves. I suppose you understand what that means, Uncle? You must make your own bed and get your own breakfast. I don't suppose it will be any particular hardship to an old campaigner like yourself, and, no doubt, I can manage. But it is impossible that there should be cooking of any kind in the circumstances."

The General drew himself up erect. The smile of the conqueror was on his face. For the moment he stood on the hearthrug in front of the dining-room fire feeling that he had done well by his country. But the mood would pass presently, as Ethel very well knew, for the General was a man who had a weakness for his dinner and the other good things of this life.

"Where there's a will there's a way," he said cheerfully. "Oh, no doubt you will find somebody to come and give you a hand. I daresay there are plenty of deserving women in the neighbourhood who have been cooks and all that kind of thing in their younger days. I don't want much myself—just a bit of fish, and a bird and a savoury for dinner. It's hard luck if an old soldier like myself can't make shift and do without a parcel of insolent servants."

In spite of her perplexity Ethel laughed aloud. She was wondering where the genius was to come from, capable of cooking the little dinner which the General had sketched out so airily for himself. There were, doubtless, working men's wives in the neighbourhood who eked out a scanty living by an occasional odd day's work, but from a gastronomic point of view, they were hardly likely to satisfy the General's modest requirements. And despite her annoyance, Ethel could not really find it in her heart of hearts to be angry with her uncle. He seemed to take everything so for granted. He seemed absolutely certain that he had done the right thing. Ethel stood there for a moment or two looking out through the windows across the snowy landscape lying white and silent outside. There had been two heavy falls of snow lately, so that it was a matter of some difficulty to reach the nearest village, and if something had to be done that same must be done speedily, and before darkness fell. The bare trees were sweeping wildly in the wind, the leaden-grey sky gave promise of more snow to come. The General turned away from the fire and rubbed his hands briskly.

"It's getting low," he muttered. "Why aren't there any logs here? And the coal scuttle is empty, too. Confound the people. They might have taken the trouble to see to this before they went."

"And now you'll have to see to it yourself," Ethel laughed. "Do you happen to know where the coal and wood are kept, because if you don't I must show you. And whilst you are about it you had better get in a good supply or we shall have the kitchen fire out, too, to say nothing of the drawing-room and the bedrooms."

"I've got to do that?" the General said in a choking voice.

"Well, of course," Ethel responded sweetly. "My dear uncle, you hardly expect me to do a thing of that sort."

General Francis snorted furiously. A deep pink spread over his cheeks. He was beginning faintly to realise that he was likely to pay a penalty for his headstrong folly. All the same he followed Ethel quietly and grimly enough down the stone-flagged passages until they came to a large square yard surrounded by outhouses. There were five or six inches of wet snow on the pavement, and the General breathed a silent prayer that his chronic rheumatism might escape the fruits of his rashness.

"You'll find all you want over there," Ethel went on. "You can amuse yourself by filling up all buckets and baskets and carrying them into the kitchen. You had better get in a big supply because it looks like more snow, and goodness knows how deep it will be before morning. As to myself, I will go as far as the village and see if I can get some sort of assistance."

It was no far cry to the village, but the task was a little more difficult than Ethel had anticipated. The fine snow had been drifted by the wind into masses here and there, so that progression was slow and painful. Ethel shuddered to herself as she thought of how dangerous the way would be if she happened to be detained in the village till after dark. But she put these gruesome thoughts from her mind now and trudged bravely on till at length the place was reached. It was just as she had anticipated. News of the exodus from Seagrave Grange had already reached the villagers, and some of them were disposed to be amused over the trouble which had overtaken General Francis. Some, on the other hand, were sympathetic enough, but the same story came to Ethel's ears with wearisome monotony. Everybody who cared to turn out had been engaged for the festive season. And as to the rest, they made no secret of the fact that Christmas Day was a sacred one to them, so far as their families were concerned. It was very annoying and very disheartening, but there was nothing else for it, and Ethel turned disconsolately homeward in the gathering dusk. She had been detained by more than one forlorn hope, so that at length when she turned her back upon the glowing red lights of the village the darkness had nearly fallen. It was strange how weird and unfamiliar the landscape had grown, how all the well known marks seemed to become merged in the snow. Yet Ethel had walked that same path hundreds of times before. She would have been almost ready to have attempted it blindfold. Yet now she felt all misty and confused, with a certain horror lest she had taken a wrong road. The darkness shut down, too, with appalling swiftness. The trees were rocking in the wind, a stinging powder of snow tingled on the girl's face until she winced in positive pain. She turned her back to the gale for one moment whilst she fought for breath, then she staggered on again till the great white drift rose up beyond her knees, and further progression became impossible. It seemed to the girl that her mind was going now and that she was sinking down into a dreamless sleep. She remembered in a vague kind of way tales and stories of travellers lost in the snow, and how they had actually lain down and perished within a stone's throw of warmth and safety.

With a great effort she struggled to her feet and attempted to push her way forward. It was just a chance now whether she made her way through or not, for the darkness was thick and black as velvet. She could feel nothing but the tingle of the snow on her face. All she knew was that whatever happened she must keep upon her feet, that the least weakness or fear on her part would bring the end about. She braced herself up presently and cried aloud for help. Surely it was possible that somebody was abroad in the neighbourhood, for dark and desolate as it was, she was yet within half a mile of the village and almost within hearing distance of civilisation. She bitterly regretted that she had not accepted the offer of a lantern which one of the villagers had tendered her. Once more she opened her lips and cried aloud, and this time it seemed as if her call was not in vain. Surely she could hear someone coming whistling down the road. Surely that spot of light dancing before her eyes must be a lantern carried by some guardian angel in the shape of a villager. Once more the scream for assistance broke distractedly from the girl's lips.

"All right," a welcome voice said cheerfully. "I'm coming. Stay where you are and I am certain to find you."

II

Ethel's heart seemed to stand still for a moment, then the blood rushed back to her veins again, the feeling of numbness and sleepiness passed away. A moment later she was looking up into the face of the man who carried the lantern, and he was gazing concernedly into her own. A light of recognition came into his eyes.

"Why, Ethel," he exclaimed. "What are you doing here? Don't you know how dangerous it is to be out in a storm like this? To think I should run against you like this the very day I come home. But perhaps you have not yet forgiven me."

"Oh, take me back to the Grange," Ethel moaned."'Thank heaven you came in time. It is only a few minutes since I left the village and yet I am absolutely exhausted. I came down here to see if I could find some assistance. All our servants have gone away and the General and myself are quite alone in the house."

Roger Keene suppressed a smile, for the General's queer notions of discipline were well known to the young sailor, who was now hastening home to his father's house. Sir Roger Keene's residence lay fairly close to Seagrave Grange. There had been a time, two years ago, when Roger and Ethel had been something more than friends, but some stupid misunderstanding had arisen between them, and a long voyage in the Chinese seas seemed to have nipped the romance in the bud.

"And so you are absolutely dependent upon yourselves," Roger said cheerfully. "How like the General it is. Nobody but he would have chosen a time like this to get rid of all his servants. But I daresay we shall find some way out of the difficulty. The first thing is to get you home again. Just you lean on my arm and trust me to pull you through. It is a precious lucky thing that I thought of borrowing a lantern in the village. I don't believe I should have got home without it."

"But you will be snowed up yourself," Ethel protested. "And they will be anxious about you at home. And, besides, I don't see why you should go out of your way like this for my sake, especially after the way in which I——"

Ethel broke off in some confusion. It seemed to her that Roger pressed her arm to his affectionately.

"I think I know what you are going to say," he whispered. "But we will go into all that later on. As a matter of fact, my people won't be in the least alarmed, because they don't expect me till tomorrow, which is Christmas Day, and lots of things might happen between now and then. You are not going to say another word till you are warm and comfortable again and have had some hot food. You are under my protection, now. How stupid we have been, Ethel."

Ethel made no attempt to deny the charge. She was feeling strangely happy and comfortable, despite their slow progress and the sting of snow flakes on her cheeks. They managed to pick their way between the snow drifts, until presently Seagrave Grange loomed out of the darkness and the warmth of the dining-room was reached at length.

A great fire blazed upon the hearth. General Francis had managed to light the lamps, both of which were smoking horribly. The anxiety cleared from his face as Ethel came into the room.

"I was beginning to feel terribly worried," he said. "Hallo, Roger, is that you? How did you come here?"

Roger Keene proceeded to briefly explain. Without ceremony he extinguished one of the lamps and relighted it dexterously. In a few moments both lamps were burning brightly.

"Now you go off to your room at once," Roger said, cheerfully. "By the time you get downstairs I will make you some tea. I daresay you have a kettle and hot water somewhere. If you don't know where it is I can find it. But don't you worry, General. You just sit down and smoke a cigar and leave it to me. One doesn't knock about for two or three years in a coasting squadron without learning a thing or two. I flatter myself I can show you a way to do without servants altogether. After we have had tea we'll overhaul the larder and see if I can't cook you a dinner which, at any rate, will have the charm of novelty. It is a lucky thing that I happened to come along just at the right time."

For once in his life the General yielded up the reins of office to a younger man than himself. After all said and done they seemed to have ways of managing things in the Navy which certainly did not apply to the sister service. In an incredibly short space of time Roger had tea on the table. He had found bread and butter foraging about the kitchen, and presently the tea was flanked by a pile of hot buttered toast, to which all did ample justice.

"Upon my word, this is a unique experience," the General cried. "I have spent some queer Christmas Eves in my time, but never one like this before. I begin to feel almost glad that I got rid of those servants now. Better tea I never tasted."

Roger Keene smiled discreetly. He knew the General well enough to feel that once the novelty had worn off he would soon be hungry again for the good things of life. But for the present it was pleasant enough; it was pleasant to sit there round the glowing wood fire with the curtains tightly drawn, listening to the howl of the gale outside and the angry swish of snowflakes on the windows. It was, in sooth, a strange Christmas Eve, but the very strangeness of it added to its charm and piquancy. Ethel sat there in a big armchair, her eyes half closed. She was still dwelling upon her miraculous escape; her heart was full of gratitude and tenderness towards Roger. But for him, she shuddered to think where she might be by this time.

Cut off from the world as they were, the evening passed swiftly enough, and Roger's impromptu dinner was voted as successful as his tea. There was one part of the meal which the absence of servants could not mar, and that was the wines. The General brought them up from the cellar himself. He decanted some curious old port with a reverence and respect which became its great age. He was beaming with delight now. He did not look in the least like the culprit who had brought all this about.

"Your very good health, Roger," he said; "and may this be the least pleasant moment in our lives. If you can possibly run over tomorrow and cook our meals for us, I daresay we shall get along till we can man the garrison again."

"I think I have a better plan than that," Roger said demurely. "I shall have to leave you to get your own breakfast, but you shall see me later in the day."

And Roger was quite as good at his word, for early in the forenoon on Christmas Day a comfortable-looking omnibus ploughed its way through the snow to Seagrave Grange, and Sir Roger Keene, followed by his son, alighted, and made their way into the house.

"A merry Christmas to you," the Baronet said heartily. "My dear General, why on earth did you not let me know what was going on! Here we are in that big house of mine with no Christmas guests, for once in a way, except Roger, with enough, and more than enough, for a whole village, and you are actually starving here, with no one to help you. I am not going to listen to a single word. I'll send over a caretaker to look after the house, and meanwhile Miss Ethel and yourself are coming over to my place to stay till you can get settled again. Now don't waste time, because the sooner we are off the better. Just go upstairs and pack what you want, and we can get away in time for a bit of shooting before lunch."

There was no denying the breezy hospitality of the speaker, and half an hour later the bus was rolling down the drive again in the direction of Sir Roger Keene's house. They pulled up at length under the big portico; the huge doors were thrown open, and the cosy hall sent out an inviting warmth. Roger stretched out his hand and helped Ethel to the ground.

"As my future wife," he whispered; "now, promise."

And the look in Ethel's eyes answered the question.

THE END

A SOUND IN THE NIGHT

Published in The Central Queensland Herald (Rockhampton, Qld.), Thursday 18 February, 1937.

The man lay there dead and stiff and cold; he might have been beyond all surgery for hours. Ayres had some surgical knowledge, and he recognised at a glance that the dead man's neck was broken. His legs were curiously twisted as if he had met with some tremendous accident, possibly in connexion with a motor. He was well dressed, his clothes were smartly cut, and the overcoat collar was turned up. A grey cloth cap lay a little distance off, but obviously formed no usual part of the unfortunate man's dress. He might have been a professional man, a successful lawyer, perhaps, who found himself staying in that remote and lonely part; he might have borrowed the cap with the intention of replacing a more correct form of head-gear.

Ayres could come to no other conclusion than that murder had been done. No man intent on suicide could have inflicted those terrible injuries on himself. And the theory that he had been killed by a passing car would not hold water. No car could have climbed up the slippery side of the moor, and, besides, the spot where Ayres had made the discovery was a kind of meadow surrounded by a stone wall. At one corner was a clump of larches, under which Ayres had been camping out for the last few days. He was absolutely alone there, nothing but a small bell tent, a supply of provisions and a spirit stove, together with his naturalist outfit. He had come to that lonely moor with the intention of securing a specimen of one of the rarer Hawk moths.

It was past ten on the previous evening before he had finished his 'sugaring' and other lures for the elusive stranger, and a little later he had put out his light and lay smoking in his tent with the flap thrown back. At that time there had not been a soul in the meadow besides himself. He had lain awake the whole of the night listening intently for the jar of the wings which would tell him that the rare feathered creature was in the trap. The brief night had spent itself, and the first saffron flush was creeping up from the east before Ayres rose and stretched himself, conscious that his had been a wasted vigil. He had not heard a sound except once or twice the lour churning of a nightjar. He was prepared to swear that he had not closed his eyes the whole of the night, and yet within fifty yards of where he had lain a brutal murder had been committed. He was not blind to his own position. He was a stranger here, and no doubt awkward questions would be asked. He knew the story that he would have to tell would sound a strange one, but it would have to be told and the sooner the better. It was broad daylight now, and a little way below Ayres could see a cowman driving his flock towards the milking acre.

Ayres yelled again and again until he attracted attention. Presently the peasant came lumbering up.

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

"That," Ayres said curtly, as he pointed to the dead body. "I have been camping out here in search of rare moths. At ten o'clock last night there was not a soul in the field but me. At daybreak I found this unfortunate gentleman lying dead. I wonder if by any chance you might happen to know him?"

The cowman backed away, palpably frightened. It was with considerable difficulty that Ayres at length induced him to examine the dead man's face.

"Never seen him before," he declared. "I knows everybody for miles around, and that poor chap, 'e never lived about here. And you mean to say, sir, as how you never heard nothing at all?"

"No, I didn't," Ayres replied. "The whole thing's an absolute mystery to me. I cannot think how such a terrible crime could have been committed without my hearing something of the struggle. And yet there was not one sound except the churning of a nightjar."

The cowman shook his red head obstinately.

"That you didn't, sir," he exclaimed. "I've been a woodsman and a shepherd and a cowman for forty odd year, and there's nothing about anything that flies or creeps in these parts as you can teach me. And I tell you this, sir, no living soul ever heard a nightjar nearer than Felton, and that's fifteen miles away."

"Do you mean to tell me," Ayres demanded, "that I don't know the note of a nightjar when I hear it? My good man, I have been a naturalist always. It is my living. I heard that nightjar as plainly as possible, and, what is more, I heard it three times at intervals. But all this is rather callous, my friend. What we've got to think of now is the poor fellow lying here and what to do with him. I am bound to stay here till the police come, and I must ask you to go and look for them. Is there anybody in the village who possesses a telephone!"

"Squire, at the Grange, 'e have," the cowman explained.

"Then go down to the Grange at once and explain to the squire exactly what has happened. Ask him to telephone to Ixyridge and tell the superintendent of the police there to come over here as soon as possible and bring a doctor with him."

It was a long, dragging half-hour that followed before a figure on a stout moorland pony came slowly up the hillside and approached Ayres. The newcomer was evidently the squire of the parish. He introduced himself as Thornton, and inquired somewhat abruptly to know what all this trouble was about. Evidently he had gleaned something from the cowman, and it was equally evident that what he had gathered had not prejudiced him in Ayres' favour.

"It seems almost incredible, sir," he said stiffly. "You are asking me to believe that this tragedy——"

"I am not asking you to believe anything," Ayres said curtly. "Your views on the subject are nothing to me. I have no more to say. We must await the police."

A full hour elapsed before the arrival of the superintendent, who was accompanied by a doctor. A brief examination confirmed the fact that the unfortunate man's neck was broken, and that both his legs were injured. There was nothing about him to lead to his identity.

"I can't find anything," the doctor said at length. "There is nothing but this sheet of tracing paper, which would not help us much. As far as I can make out, it represents the skeleton of a bird and various sections of the same fowl."

"I know," Ayres said. "It is that of a nightjar. Very strange."

He took the thin paper in his hand and unfolded it. The sheet was practically covered with a series of drawings from a sketch of the bird in its natural state down to the skeleton and the bones of the wings. As a naturalist Ayres was profoundly interested. But there was another side to the matter which puzzled him: Why had his brother naturalist gone to all this trouble, and why were there so many drawings of the wings of this bird? It was very strange that nothing else but this should have been found on the dead man's body.

"The mystery deepens," Thornton said. "It looks very much as if this unfortunate man was a rival of yours, Mr. Ayres. Do you suppose by any chance that he also was looking for the Striped Hawk?"

"I neither like your question nor the way that you ask it," Ayres snapped. "Here is my card, by which you will see that I am Professor Ayres, of University College. Several of my friends knew that I was coming here and—well, it does not in the least matter. When we can find out who this poor fellow is it will be fine enough to draw deductions. We are neither of us detectives."

It might have been assumed that it was an easy matter to discover the identity of the murdered man. The whole thing was a mystery which appealed to the popular imagination, and was largely mentioned in the Press. But nothing came out at the inquest, which was adjourned for a fortnight, and during that time there appeared to be no inquiry whatever for any missing individual. The cap found by the body had been identified by a Plymouth hosier as one he had sold two or three days before, to a casual customer, who had come into his shop just on closing time with a story of having lost his hat on a quay, and had expressed the desire to buy a cap as he was leaving hurriedly by a train. The shopkeeper viewed the dead body and identified the man as the person who had purchased the cap. This was the only piece of definite evidence, and there was, therefore, nothing for it but to adjourn the inquiry for a fortnight. At first there had been a certain amount of feeling antagonistic to Ayres. Local gossip quite openly attributed the crime to him, and the county police seemed to share the same opinion, but all this was considerably discounted by the appearance of Sir James Silver, the eminent entomologist, who came down to prove that he and several of his colleagues knew all about Ayres' moth hunting holiday, and listened scornfully to the suggestion that he had had a hand in the mysterious crime. Ayres was loth to leave the neighbourhood; he had no intention of running away, and, besides, he had not yet discovered the origin of his search.

"You stay where you are," Sir James suggested. "These local police are past praying for. I had a great mind to remain in the village for a day or two and help you in your search. No, I am just a bit too old to sleep under canvas or I would accept your offer of a shake-down in the tent. Oh, yes, I will come up and lunch with you now if you like. I think I have made a discovery which is likely to interest you."

The two scientists partook of a modest lunch, then Sir James sat down under the shadow of the larches and filled his pipe.

"I know you have made a closer study of the hawks than I have," he said, "but I do not quite agree with you that this is the only spot in England where the Striped Hawk is to be found."

"Produce one from somewhere else," Ayres smiled.

"Am I to accept that as a challenge?" Sir James asked.

"If you put it in that way, yes. But I am absolutely certain that you won't find the moth anywhere else."

"Really I shall be obliged if you'll examine the contents of a little case which I have in my pocket; and here it is."

As he spoke Sir James handed over to his companion a small deal box, such as collectors use for the safe carriage of specimens. Inside, neatly pinned to the strip of cork, was a gorgeous moth, the sight of which caused Ayres to give a gasp and a cry of surprise. He turned eagerly to Sir James.

"The Striped Hawk beyond a doubt," he cried. "But this conveys nothing to me. For all I know to the contrary, this may be a cultivated specimen, or, perhaps, imported from Holland. It is rather a poor specimen too, and I should say, had been somewhere where there was a lot of grease about. At any rate, it was not taken in a net or with the aid of syrup."

"It was not cultivated, neither was it imported from Holland. It was caught, if I may put it that way, by myself——"

"But not here," Ayres interrupted.

"Which is precisely my point, my dear fellow. Now, as you know, before I came on here, I was staying with Girton near Salisbury Plain. I was on the Plain a day or two ago, and there I found the Striped Hawk which you have at the present moment in your hand."

"If any other man had told me that I would have refused to believe it," Ayres cried. "Now, perhaps, you can tell me how a moth, short-flighted and practically indigenous to this locality, found itself so far away from its natural food. Why, on Salisbury Plain a hawk could derive no sustenance whatever. Somebody must have carried the creature there. But you have not told me yet how you caught it. If you were on the Plain at night——"

"I didn't say I was on the Plain at night," Sir James said, dryly. "We were crossing the Plain when a monoplane appeared over our heads and came to the ground within half a mile of where we were standing. Naturally we hurried to the spot, curious to see what had happened and ready to render assistance if necessary. Nothing really had happened, the pilot of the monoplane had descended of his own accord and was merely out on an experimental flight. That plane was not a bit like any I have ever seen before. It was exactly like a bird. It had no propeller, motion being established by the vibration of the wings. As I was examining the plane I noticed a tiny object adhering to some part of the machinery, which was dripping with oil. When I came to examine the object closely I found that it was nothing more or less than a specimen of the Striped Hawk Moth, and you have that specimen in your hand at the present moment."

Ayres sat silent for a little time.

"Very, very singular," he said presently. "Of course, what you say disposes of the suggestion that the Striped Moth is to be found in ordinary circumstances on Salisbury Plains. This specimen must have come in contact with that strange aeroplane in the darkness. I should very much like to see the pilot of that aeroplane. Did you find out his name? Is he likely to be there for any time?"

"I think so," Sir James said. "At any rate, he told us that he was conducting a series of experiments, and that there was no place like the Plain for his purpose. I didn't ask what his name was, but I dare say—here, where are you going?"

"To send a telegram to Girton," said Ayres. "A telegram asking him if he can put us up for the next two or three days."

Sir James knew Ayres well enough to be sure that there was something more than idle curiosity behind the suggestion. Two days later the scientists were quartered in Girton's house a few miles from Stonehenge. There was a good deal of flying going on as usual, but most of the attention of the visitors was concentrated upon the Angus August monoplane, which had caused quite a sensation. The owner and inventor, who called himself Angus August, had appeared apparently out of nowhere; indeed, he had not a mechanic of his own.

The invention itself was a remarkable one, and seemed to indicate quite a departure in aerial navigation. In the main it had devolved from the ordinary methods, inasmuch as it was not propelled in the usual manner, but was worked with wings precisely as a bird flies. In a wind its behaviour was remarkable. It appeared to defy all the laws of gravity, and could move with dazzling rapidity at practically any angle.

For the best part of two days Ayres watched these flights in silent admiration. He was waiting his opportunity for a quiet chat with Angus August.

Ayres dispatched a telegram or two and half a dozen letters. The replies to these seemed to satisfy him. It was late on Saturday afternoon before he found the opportunity which he was seeking. He caught the airman alone on his way back to the roadside inn, where he was putting up for the moment. The man called Angus August looked just a trifle annoyed at the intrusion.

"I am afraid I must detain you for a moment or two," Ayres said. "Here is my card. I am an entomologist, as you may know, and most of my friends are scientists. Do take a cigarette. Shall we sit on the stile for a few minutes?"

The airman signified an ungracious assent. His dark eyes regarded Ayres almost menacingly.

"What do you want with me!" he demanded. His English was good but slightly guttural.

"Merely a little information. I want you to tell me where you got your idea for that remarkable monoplane. I am interested, because two years ago a man named Miller applied to me for sectional drawings, if I may so phrase it, of the bird which is called the nightjar. This Miller had an idea for an aeroplane. The request was somewhat out of my line, so I turned Mr. Miller over to a fellow professor who is a well known ornithologist. I believe he supplied all the drawings; in fact, I know he did. By the way, have you ever heard of this Miller? Did you get your idea from him? I am not asking out of curiosity."

For quite a long time no reply came from the famous airman. He appeared to be turning over some problem in his mind. He smiled as if he were about to give Ayres his confidence.

"I suppose you think you have got some sort of a claim," he said. "Now let me ask you a question. What do you know personally as to the man you are speaking of?"

"Nothing," Ayres admitted frankly. "I have never seen the man in my life. But I have my own reasons for being deeply interested in his welfare. He was your partner——"

"You seem to be very sure of your ground."

"Are you going to deny it!" Ayres asked. "If so, I will apologise for detaining you, and at once."

"Oh, not so fast," August muttered. "As a matter of fact, Miller and myself worked out the scheme together; I don't mind admitting that his was the finer brain of the two, and that without him the monoplane would never have been the success that it is today. He had the brains and I the small necessary capital. In addition, he was the finest mechanic I have ever seen. We worked on the models for a long time in London, and as soon as we were satisfied that we were sure of success, we went off to a place called High Tor, which is Devonshire way. We found a deserted hut on the moor miles away from the nearest house, and this we provisioned. We managed to get all our materials up there without arousing curiosity, and there we worked for months at the machine. From the start everything went well, we had practically no disappointment, and at the end of nine months we were actually flying. As you know, the monoplane is practically silent, so it is quite easy for us to take quite long flights in the dusk without anybody being at all the wiser. If anybody did hear they would take it for a nightjar; indeed, for all practical purposes the machine is one. You see, Miller and myself——"

"Yes, but where is Miller?" Ayres asked. "You can carry a passenger, but you came here quite alone."

"I was coming to that," August explained. "I am on delicate ground now, but I know that you will respect my confidence. Miller got into trouble some time ago in Paris. Something to do with forgery, I believe. The night before we started he was in Plymouth, where he received an intimation that the police were after him. There was nothing else for it but for him to get out of the country without delay. I believe he reached New York in safety, en route for the West. I am afraid he will never be able to return to this country again, but, of course, it will be up to me to see that he gets his share of the fortune which we have in this monoplane of ours. I have told you this——"

"That was very good of you," Ayres said dryly. "And now let me tell you a little story which I think you will find quite as interesting as the one which you have just related to me. Did you ever hear of a rare specimen of a moth called the Striped Hawk."

"I don't know anything about moths."

"No. Well, you are going to. Let me tell you that when my friend Sir James Silver saw your monoplane for the first time he found a Striped Hawk attached to some part of your machinery. Now, from my point of view, that is a most remarkable discovery. I knew for a cold scientific fact that the Striped Hawk could not possibly exist on Salisbury Plain. Again, the insect only flies after dusk, and therefore must have become attached to your machinery during your night flight from High Tor here."

"It doesn't sound very interesting."

"My dear sir, I am just coming to the interesting part. Look at this map. Here is High Tor and here is the Plain. Now just where my finger is lies some high ground where for some days I was camping out, hunting the Striped Hawk. On the night of your flight here I was on duty and did not close my eyes. I saw nothing and heard nothing beyond a loud noise which I took to be the note of a startled nightjar. But I was mistaken, for it was proved to me on the highest local authority that no nightjars had ever been seen within miles of the place. What I heard beyond a doubt was the churning of your monoplane's machinery. You must have passed just overhead; indeed, this is proved by the Striped Hawk which Sir James found attached to your machinery. Now do you begin to understand?"

August's eyes were blazing.

"Go on," he said hoarsely. "Go on, curse you."

"You know just what I found the next morning," Ayres proceeded. "You must have seen it in the papers. I discovered a man lying dead not more than fifty yards from my tent. Directly I knew about that moth and heard the peculiar noise your monoplane makes, I knew exactly what had happened. As you passed over my tent you threw your companion out."

"Prove that it is Miller," August cried.

"That can safely be left in the hands of the police," Ayres said. "Miller had no friends, and you gambled on the certainty of his not being identified. You were working in secret together and nobody, so far as you know, had seen you with the murdered man."

"A fairy tale," August sneered. "Of course, I have read all about that business the papers. There was absolutely nothing on the body of the dead man likely to lead to his identification."

"There was," Ayres said quietly. "Something you had overlooked. You were just a trifle careless. For obvious reasons the police made no mention of their discovery, but in the dead man's pocket they discovered the original drawings of the nightjar which I had procured for the unfortunate Miller through my friend. And now if you have any questions to ask me——"

August had no questions to ask. He turned away with a snarl and a curse, something gleamed dully blue in the sunshine. There was a whip-like crack, a flash, and August lay white and silent on the grass with a bullet in his brain.

THE END

THE CONVICT

Published in The Mercury (Hobart, Tas.), Saturday 19 February, 1938.

THE usual placid smile was on Denny's face as he crossed the prison yard on his way to the cook house for the inevitable matutinal bread and butter and cocoa. Denny had come to Kingstown two years ago, and from the first had established himself as the prime favourite with his gaolers. He was always cheerful and always willing, and any man more unlike the fruit of the gallows it would have been hard to imagine. And yet Denny's escape from the supreme penalty had been a narrow one indeed. There was little doubt of the fact that it was his hand that had dealt the fatal blow in that wild poaching affray on the edge of Hoxton Moor, but there was just a doubt, and the sympathetic jury had given Denny the benefit of it. At that critical moment Denny's perennial smile had stood him in good stead. It was impossible to believe that a man looking so innocent and guileless could have been guilty of a cruel murder. So the jury had called it manslaughter—to the great annoyance of Mr. Justice Savory—and the latter had grimly complimented the prisoner on his escape, and had let him off with the comparatively light sentence of three years' penal servitude.

Denny smiled as he heard the sentence, smiled as he left the Court, but his heart was full of tears and the misery of it bore him down and overwhelmed him. He had never meant to injure the keeper, he had been standing on the defence with his back to a dry ditch grimly resolved to see the thing through, and it was a pure misfortune that John Stokes had run in just in time to get the butt of the gun crashing down on his head. Up to that moment Denny had never been in trouble. He was a hard-working farmer doing his best to scratch a living from a few acres of sour moorland, and naturally enough a man must have his recreations; and poaching happened to be the outstanding passion of Denny's life. It was common knowledge that up to that dreadful night no keeper had ever laid Denny by the heels, and no successful charge had ever been made against him.

ANOTHER three months now and there would be an end of it. When the order for release came, the leaves would be falling and the Autumn gold, burnished and shining, would be hanging in gleaming banners on the woodsides. Sometimes as Denny worked he could hear the cock pheasants challenging in the spinneys, and only yesterday he had found a covey of partridges in a ferny hollow. The smile died from his face for a moment and something caught him by the throat and filled his eyes with tears. At that moment the temptation to make a dash for liberty was strong upon him. He knew every inch of the country for miles around, knew where he could find food and shelter. All he needed was a box of matches and a loaf of bread, and for the rest nothing mattered. It would be glorious to have a few days' liberty, a few hours on the tors where the biggest trout lay, and where Denny had hidden his tackle ages ago ready for the next expedition on his lordship's preserved water. But this would only mean the freedom of the woods for an all too brief space, and the loss of the remission of sentence which good conduct and that perennial smile had won for the prisoner.

So Denny put the temptation from mind and the next morning there came the letter which was the cause of all the mischief. It was a letter from a girl, of course, and as Denny read it in the seclusion of his cell his face grew hard, and there was on his brow a frown as black as night. He went about his appointed task for the rest of the day with the ghost of a smile, and before he slept that night he had made up his mind.

IT was a misty morning, grey and gloomy, and the lights were still burning in the prison as he crossed to the cook house to draw his rations. He turned abruptly to the right and made for the high wall round the yard beyond which the misty moor and liberty lay. In an angle of the yard some repairs had been going on, and here and there a heap of stones ready to his hand. He whipped off his coat and unwound from his body a rope constructed from his torn sheets, one end of which he tied around one of the stones, and, exerting all his strength, threw it over the wall. With his light weight he was confident that the big stone would afford sufficient resistance for him to reach the coping. It was just touch and go for a moment, but the stone dangling over the top held firmly, and a few seconds later Denny was speeding across the moor in the direction of the tors.

He ran on smoothly and easily, full of the joy of life, the keen air filling his lungs like champagne. He knew exactly where to go; the precise direction in which to turn, so that when the prison bell clanged harshly through the unbroken silence, he smiled with the air of one well satisfied.

And Denny had no illusions. With the best of luck on his side he could not hope to be a free man more than a few days. Still, he could accomplish a good deal in that time. The first thing he had to do was to provide himself with suitable clothing, and here was the hut of Joe Braund, the shepherd, all ready for the purpose. He and old Joe had shot many a pheasant together, but when Joe heard the news and subsequently found an old coat and pair of trousers missing—well, Joe would know how to be silent.

It was past 10 before Denny had finished his breakfast. He had borrowed some bread and a box of matches, and with the aid of his fishing tackle had caught a brace of his lordship's trout, and had cooked them over a dry wood fire. Then he lay down like a dog in the sweet-smelling bracken and slept for hours.

THE light was failing in the western sky as he woke and turned his steps in the direction of a cluster of twinkling lights which he knew outlined the little hamlet of Weston. He skirted the village cautiously until he came to a cottage lying back in a garden, the door of which was open, so that he could see the cheap oil lamp burning smokily on the table. As he crept along the flagged pathway he saw that someone was moving inside. He saw a girl, tall and slim and dark, oval of face, and looking out through a cloud of dusky hair. She was young and straight and vigorous, with a suggestion about her that spoke more of the South than the pink and white robustness of the typical Devonshire lass. She was distinctly handsome, too, in her wild, hawk-like fashion, and Denny drew a long deep breath, as he saw her, like some portrait of Rembrandt flashing against the dingy background. Assured that there was no one else in the room, Denny stepped quietly inside and closed the door behind him.

The girl turned swiftly, the olive skin grew white, the dark eyes filled with the nameless fear.

"You, you," she gasped. "Are you mad?"

"Maybe I am," Denny said slowly. "There's no fool like a fool what's lost his heart over a woman."

"If father happens to come back," the girl stammered.

"Your father will come back when they closes the doors of the Three Bells," Denny went on in the same toneless voice. The smile was no longer on his face, his eyes were troubled. "Now hearken to me, Meg. When they sent me up yonder I was as good as a dead man. Seemed to me as if my life was finished. Three years! Three years behind prison bars!"

"I'm very sorry, Denny," the girl stammered.

"Now that's a lie," Denny said stolidly. "You ain't a bit sorry. You've got the wrong blood in you, my lass. There never yet was a Vincent, man or woman, who cared for anybody but themselves. I suppose you can't help it. I knows as you comes from some of them that settled, 'ere back in the days when the Armady was wrecked. Your men's 'andsome and your women's beautiful enough, and never a heart amongst the lot o' ye. Yet I was fool enough to think you was different to the rest. It's nigh on three years now since I put my arm round you and kissed you, and you swore as 'ow you was the 'appiest girl in Devonshire. And I believed you. I wouldn't listen when they told me that behind my back you was carrying on with that lily-livered John Glass. Curse his pretty face and them taking ways of 'is. And when the trouble came, you swore that you would wait for me, and be my wife when I was free again. And now you are going to marry John Glass tomorrow. Is it really true, or have I been misinformed?"

"Who told you?" the girl asked unsteadily.

"I don't see that it matters," Denny said. "We get letters in prison sometimes, but you seem to have forgotten it. Anyway, not one line 'ave I 'ad from you all the time. 'Ere, what are ye goin' to do? I don't leave the cottage, nor you neither, till I've finished what I've got to say. A friend wrote and told me all about this thing. You're not worth a thought, you and this new man of yours, but because I've suffered and know what it is—well, you wouldn't understand that. Before they put me away I showed you where my money was. I showed you over a hundred pound, hard earned in sweat and toil, and that was to make a home for us when my time was up. Many a bitter night have I been cheered by the thought of that. Little did I think that you had taken my savings and bought yourself and that scamp Glass your outfits for Canada and your passages. Don't say a word to me. Where else did the money come from? Glass hasn't a penny, nor you. And you thought I should know nothing of this till I came out of prison. Do you know why I am here now? Can you guess?"

THE girl shook her head slowly. She stood there by the side of the table, breathing fiercely: her lips parted with a fear that was beyond all disguising. What was this man going to do to her, she wondered. He had altered strangely since she had last seen him; he was hard and haggard, and the prison taint was plainly to be seen. There was blood on his hands still; would there be blood on his hands again before he had finished with her? For all that he had said was true. In the days gone by she had been flattered by his attentions, she had flaunted Denny before the other girls in the village, she had succeeded where most of them had failed. And from the moment that the prison doors had closed upon him she had never given him another thought. She had never lacked admirers, and, in any case, there was always John Glass to fall back on. Then the temptation had come to her, and she had taken Denny's money from its hiding-place. She was going to marry Glass on the morrow, and long before Denny was free she and her husband would be thousands of miles away. Not in her wildest dreams had she anticipated such a crisis as this. It had not seemed possible for Denny to find out how he had been betrayed.

"You've got no proof of this," she said sullenly.

"What more proof do I want?" Denny demanded. "You couldn't marry Glass without money. Neither of you ever earned a penny in your lives. And when Ada—I mean my friend, wrote and told me the news, it didn't take much brains to see where the money came from."

"So that's where you got it from?" she cried. "Ada Knott wrote and told you. The white-faced cat, the jealous little fool! So that's how the silly little doll took her revenge on me?"

"She's a good girl, and always was," Denny said stolidly. "And so you are conceited enough to think that she is jealous of you. Why, she could have Glass a score of times if she had minded."

"I wasn't talking about John," she cried. "It was you that Ada Knott was after. She used to cry her eyes out when first we took to walking together. I could see what was the matter when she came whining up to me and wished me 'appiness. Couldn't keep her voice steady 'ardly. Everybody in the village knew it except you."

A dull red rose to Denny's cheeks.

All this was as if the girl had suddenly struck him a blow. It was very much like a flash of lightning in a dark place when a solitary wayfarer sees danger in his path. A score of forgotten incidents grew clear and luminous in Denny's mind. And there had been a time when he and Ada Knott—but he did not want to speak about that now. Nor could he believe for a moment that the letter he had received was dictated by any feeling of petty jealousy.

"I ain't goin' to argue this with you," he said. "There are lots of things that you can't understand. And now let's have the truth. I want to know just what you've done with my money?"

The girl shook her head sullenly.

"You've got no money," she said. "Never 'ad none. Who's going to believe a story told by a gaol bird? Don't you come 'ere threatening me. Don't you dare to say——"

"The money was in notes," Denny went on quietly. "Bank of England notes, they was, and I took 'em out myself when there was all that talk about Luker's Bank down to Oakleigh. Manager said I was a fule for takin' 'em. Like as not they'd be stolen from the cottage. So e' takes the numbers of the notes and enters them in a little book. It ain't my word as you're up against, Meg. And now, what have you two done with my money?"

The girl turned a little white about the lips. She was frightened now; the terror in her eyes leapt out, and Denny saw it. But there was no triumph in his face, nothing but a gentle melancholy bred of some vague intangible regret.

"You'd never charge us, Denny?" the girl asked. "The money was no use to you; besides, I'm sick and tired of this place. And there's always a chance out there in Canady."

"Not for the likes of John Glass," Denny said. "Seems to me as I'm getting my revenge later on all right. I suppose you spent it all? Not a penny of it left?"

"I didn't want to take it," the girl said hoarsely. "After I told Glass he never let me rest. And I did want to get away so bad. Hark, there's somebody outside. I'll pull down the blind. You mustn't be seen here, Denny. I'll get you away."

"You won't do nothing of the sort," Denny said doggedly. "I know that step anywhere. Many a night when we've been lying out in a dry ditch waiting for the moon to go down—Come in, John. You didn't expect to see me here tonight."

A slim weed of a man came jauntily into the room, and Denny caught him by the shoulder. The easy smile died away from the newcomer's lips, the strength seemed to go from his limbs, he dropped into a chair as if he had been an empty sack. The red hair plastered in a horrible fringe upon his forehead grew damp, the little ferret eyes dilated like those of a cat in the dark.

"My god, it's Denny," he faltered. "Denny come back to life again. What—what do you want?"

"I came here to kill you," he said slowly. "I knew as how I should find you here, you two together, and I promised myself—well, never mind what I promised myself. And now we are face to face I can't do it. It isn't as if you was a right and proper man, John Glass. You're just a miserable rat of a chap, just a boasting coward and no more. Funny thing to me that any woman can see anything in a bloke like you. Call yourself a poacher. Oh, yes, you used to come with us sometimes, but you always took good care to keep out of harm's way. And when there was a chance of trouble, you showed the white feather, and went whining to his lordship for mercy. It was you as put the keepers on us that night; but for you I should be a free man at this moment. Oh, I know all about it. I knew all about it at the time of the trial. And one of the luxuries I promised myself then was the leathering I was going to give you when I was a free man again. And now some'ow I can't do it. It would be almost as bad as 'itting a woman. Still, there be other ways. I could send you to jail if I 'ad a mind."

"You've never gone and told 'im, Meg?" Glass gasped.

"'Ere, be a man," Meg cried contemptuously. "I didn't tell 'im; 'e knew all about it when 'e came. And 'e says the bank manager over at Oakleigh 'as got the number of the notes. Might just as well own up. Besides, 'e can't do nothing. 'E'll be back in jail within a week."

There was something almost fine in this hard, shameless taunt. Whatever the man might feel, the woman was utterly unconcerned. Denny looked at her with a certain contempt for his own past blindness.

This creature was the woman he had wanted to marry! For the love of her he had seen red, in his desire for her, and his rage against the other man he had broken prison deliberately, full well knowing what the consequences might be. And now it suddenly dawned upon him that the beauty whom he had idealised was no more than a village slut, and a bold, black-eyed wench, too lazy to keep clean and too selfish to care for aught but herself. The anger and contempt and self-pity were fading from Denny's heart now as these truths dawned upon him.

"I told you what I come 'ere tonight for," he said. "Leastwise, what I thought I 'ad come for. I said as 'ow I was sure of findin' Glass 'ere, and it were my intent to kill 'im. And now I knows as I was altogether wrong. Stand up, John Glass, and face me like a man if you can."

Glass scrambled to his feet shamefacedly.

"I b'aint afraid of you," he said.

"That's a lie," Denny went on with the same even tone. "You'm in such a mortal fear that you can't stand upright. And yet there's no cause for nothing of the kind. You can say, if you like, as I come 'ere tonight to say good-bye to two old friends, and wish 'em 'appiness in the new sphere which it pleases Providence to call 'em. I learned that from a sermon what the chaplain preached in the chapel last Sunday, and I've learnt lots of things that you wouldn't understand. But that isn't what I meant to say. I come 'ere to wish you 'appiness and make you a little present. I've got a 'undred pounds 'idden away, and Meg knows where to find it. That's my wedding present to you, and if you give me a pen and a bit of paper, I'll put it down in writing. I don't want no gossip in the village, I don't want it said afterwards as 'ow you two went off with something that didn't belong to you. You can just show that paper to anyone you like. It won't matter nothing to me, because when my time's up I'm going to Canady too. I dare say when I sell up my few sticks I shall have enough to take me out yonder. Now then, what about that bit o' paper?"

A sullen flush rose to the girl's face, for Denny had penetrated her armour of callous selfishness at last. It was only just for a moment she was touched, only just for a moment she hesitated between admiration for Denny's generosity and an innate conviction that he was a born fool. There could be no gratitude either, seeing that the gift had already been spent. Without a word she produced a scrap of paper and a rusty pen. The suspicion of a smile flickered on her lips as she watched Denny's laborious attempt at composition. He placed his head on one side, and regarded his handiwork with pardonable pride.

"I think that's all right," he said. "No; I don't want no thanks. There'll be children presently, and it's just as well as they shan't have a' couple of thieves for their parents. And now I'll be off."

Without waiting for another word he turned and left the cottage and walked boldly out into the night. He no longer skirted along under cover of the darkness, no longer bore himself like a hunted creature flying from justice, for he had done his work, and was not afraid. As he reached the turn of the road a figure came out from the woodside and a hand was timidly laid on his arm. In the pallid moonlight he saw a pretty, anxious face and a pair of blue eyes all swimming with tears.

"So it's you, Ada?" he said. "It's good of you to stop and speak to the likes of me. If I hadn't been a fool——"

He stopped, for something seemed to catch him by the throat and choke him. He was standing in the centre of one of those blinding illuminating flashes again. And when the sear of the lightning had passed, it had fused upon his soul the lasting knowledge that this was the girl he had always loved, and that the other thing had been a mere obsession. He held out his hands unsteadily.

"OH, my dear, my dear," he said. "If I'd only—but it's no use to talk of that now. It was good of you to send me that letter. But 'ow did you 'appen to know as I was 'ere?"

"I saw you creeping up to the cottage," the girl exclaimed. "And then I knew who the escaped convict was. And all this because I sent you that letter. I always knew as you cared for 'er, Denny, always felt as you would go through fire and water for 'er. And she's not worth the love of any man. And that's why I wrote you the letter. I knew your time was getting near, but I didn't want you to feel the cruel disappointment when you came out. And now you've learnt the truth from them two, and it does my 'eart good to see as 'ow you've taken it like a man. If you will try in time to forget 'er—-"

"It's done already," Denny said simply. "I come 'ere tonight to make them two a wedding present, and wish 'em good luck. And I don't want ever to see neither of them again. And I don't love Meg Vincent, and I never did. And the strange thing is that I didn't know it till an hour ago. You learns lots of things in prison, my dear, but I ain't got no time to tell you about them now. If you don't mind walking down the road a little way with me——"

"Down the road?" the girl gasped. "Why, there's two warders hiding in the plantation, Denny."

"That's all right, lass," Denny said easily. "I don't mind 'em now. And you jest listen to me. I ain't blind any longer. Ada, tell me the truth. Could you love me and be my wife later on if so be as I could prove to you——"

"OH, you know, you know," the girl whispered. "All the village knew. And you're a good man, Denny, in spite of it all. Let us turn back. I dare say I could manage——"

Denny drew her to his side and kissed her tenderly.

"It can't be done that way, dear," he said. "Now I tell you that many things are to be learnt in prison, and in my spare time I've read more books than I ever read in my life before. And the books I have studied most are those about Canady. And that's where we're going later on, my dear. When the time comes I'll sell everything, and we'll face the new world together."

"I'd want no better happiness," the girl said. "And I've got a bit of money saved too. If you can only get away into some hiding place till they forget."

"It can't be done that way," Denny said. "I'm going back again, girlie. I'm going to see it out; I'll not cross the water till I can go as a free man. Now dry your eyes, and kiss me, and let me go. And remember that by the time the swallows are here again——Goodbye."

He gently drew her arms from about his neck, and then, without another word, with head erect and swinging step, strode off down the hill to the spot where he knew the warders were awaiting him.

THE END

BRAYTON'S SECRET

Published in The Central Queensland Herald, Rockhampton, Qld. Thursday, 14 May, 1942.

Lawrence Brayton lay back in his chair luxuriously. This was the kind of thing that appealed to him—he liked the silken luxury of it all, the flowers, the shaded lights, the statues, the suggestion of aloofness all around him. There was no vulgar chatter or merry laughter in the dining-room of the Wellesley, no startling display of the 'human form divine' as interpreted by the last audacities from Paris—they did not encourage powdered shoulders at the Wellesley. It was all in the very best of taste, quite subdued, with lights shaded and just an occasional flash from a tiara or a coronet, in the purple, flower-laden lamplight. The coffee was excellent, the cigarette a dream, the liqueur a poem. Brayton was quite glad to be alone in the quiet enjoyment of the picture.

"I ought to have been born a rich man," he muttered as he glanced across the tangle of purple orchids on the table. "Every poet should have money. I wonder if I am a poet really. Anyway, I am blest, or cursed, with the artistic temperament. All the same, I've got to work in the city for my living. A commission agent! If I could only have foreseen it in the old Eton days! Lord! to have money, and cut the city. To be able to say to Gertrude Mallison—Lawrence, my boy, you are a greater fool than I took you for. Still, I suppose I have something to be thankful for. I can put my bands on a thousand pounds, and I've had a good dinner at Harrison Syme's expense without having to put up with the company of that brilliant bounder himself."

As a matter of fact, Harrison Syme had been called away before the soup was finished. Somebody wanted to speak to him on the telephone. He had gone off in his insolent, swaggering way; he had come back looking white and uneasy, quite unlike the financier who was supposed to have made over a million of money in the past four years.

"Beastly nuisance, but I've got to go, Brayton," he muttered. "Most important matter. I'll do my best to get back in an hour. You get on with your dinner; I've ordered it, and I shall have to pay for the same in any case. If I don't get back I'll ask you to call on me tomorrow. You may have made something of the cipher by that time."

Brayton expressed himself quite correctly and conventionally. As a matter of fact, he was not disposed to quarrel with the turn of events.

"Let it go at that," he said. "It looks to me like a variation of the Four-Ace Code. It's the code I've been using for years."

Brayton smiled to himself. He was fond of mysteries and puzzles, and on more than one occasion had been of considerable assistance to Scotland Yard. But then, at the Yard, they knew what Syme was not aware of—that the Four Ace Code was Brayton's own invention. He had sold it some years ago for a trifle, not realising its value, and now the code was one of the most popular amongst business men. The key-card could be changed at pleasure. If the diamond ace was the key letter, then anybody familiar with the clue could decipher. But say a man distrusted his confidential clerk and elected to take hearts instead, the clerk in question was reduced to impotence. All the most precious secrets entrusted to the cable came by the Four-Ace Code.

Syme gulped down a large glass of brandy and departed. Quite content to be alone, Brayton sat there puffing an other cigarette. On one side of him was an ambassador, at the table on his left a personage was dining. It was all very pleasant and very soothing to a well bred, ambitious young city man possessed of the artistic temperament. He longed to have the money to do this kind of thing regularly. And perhaps Gertrude——

Well, why should he not think of her? He knew that she liked him, and she generally chose him as her partner at tennis and in the mixed foursomes at Ranelagh; she had told him once that his step suited her to perfection. But then she was so beastly rich and he was so beastly poor! She wasn't an ordinary type of girl either—she had something besides money and beauty.

One night, up the river—yes, he had seen the glint in her eyes, the faint, unsteady smile. He had been very near speaking that night. To have her for his wife, to order out the motor and drop in here to a little dinner, they two together. And to sit opposite that exquisite face and watch the smile in those glorious eyes.

"I am the biggest fool in England." Brayton told himself. "Well, what is it?"

A telegraph-boy stood by his side, a pert little messenger absolutely at home there.

"My Syme, sir?" he suggested. "Thank you, sir; good night, sir."

The orange envelope was dropped carelessly on the table, and the boy had vanished. Evidently a telegram of importance, and one that Syme had expected, for the sender of the message had known exactly where to find Syme and where he could get him without delay. Very strange. It did not seem quite so strange when Brayton recalled the fact that Syme dined at the Wellesley most nights. Possibly Syme did not want the cable to go to his office.

"Wonder if I'd better open it," Brayton said. "It may be very important. His own man has orders to open any telegram, I know. If it is important he'll pitch into me afterwards for not taking steps to get in touch with him. I think I will."

The envelope was barely fastened down. There were only two words in it, and they were in cipher. In an idle way Brayton spelt them over. What did 'jigshawspi lemonnutsnoseben' mean? Brayton stuck the envelope down again and called one of the waiters.

"Here's a shilling for you," he said. "Try and get Mr Syme on the phone. Try his clubs. When you get him, tell him to hold the wire as I want to speak to him."

The waiter departed on his errand. Brayton could see the queer jumble of words no longer, but he could have repeated them by heart all the same. He had the sort of memory necessary to the solution of cipher. And, in fact, two or three letters in the jumble were oddly familiar. He wondered where he had seen them before. Suddenly the answer flashed upon him.

"By Jove," he muttered, "it's the Four-Ace Code. And the cipher ace is clubs. I don't want to pry into any man's secrets, but I'd like to see if I could work it out."

He took a pencil from his pocket and jotted the sequence of letters down with absolute correctness on the back of the menu card. Then he proceeded to place the consonants in two parallel lines. Now that he had got the start, the rest was child's play. He wrote the answer to the sum in his neat handwriting, so that the words stood out like little letters of flame.

"Agricola main reef forty ounces. Blind. Eighty years. Over a thousand."

To the lay mind even now it looked cryptic to a degree. But not to a man who had spent five of the best years of his life in the city.

"So Agricola is a really big thing," Brayton muttered.

"The Agricola mine that everybody says is a swindle turns out to be a big thing in a main reef, showing forty ounces of gold to the ton.

"Nobody knew but the man who sent this cable, and he has seen that the rest are absolutely 'Blind.' The life of the mine is eighty years, and the dividend should pan out at over a thousand per cent. Well, Syme is a greater rascal than I took him for. It was only today that I read that Agricola was going in for liquidation. Shares a drug in the market at two for three-halfpence. By Jove, if I can get into the market before Syme I shall be——I've got a thousand pounds to play with. And shares to be had for nothing. Oh, Gertrude, Gertrude——"

Brayton stretched out a shaky hand in the direction of the cablegram.

"No, I won't," he said between his teeth. "I'll not suppress it. I'll play the game. Syme shall have his cable if I can possibly find him, but there is no occasion to tell him what I have discovered. He couldn't know that any form of the Four-Ace Code is like an open book to me. He'll probably go quietly to work some time tomorrow, but he'll be too late. By lunch time Agricola will be all mine."

Brayton helped himself to another liqueur and lighted a cigarette with a perfectly steady hand. The whole thing was deliciously simple. He had only to divide his thousand pounds between two brokers, and give them instructions to buy Agricola so long as the money lasted. They could be had for practically nothing. By this time tomorrow Brayton would be rich. People would no doubt say a good many hard things about him, but it was all in the way of business. Let them do it. And Gertrude——

The waiter was some time away. He came back presently with the information that he had got Mr. Syme on the phone at his club. Mr. Syme regretted that he was unable to return to the Wellesley that night, as he was detained on business of the utmost importance, and that he had just gone home.

"You told him about the cable message?" Brayton asked.

"He never gave me a chance, sir," the waiter exclaimed. "He was in a desperate hurry. He cut me off and hung up the receiver. I did all I could, sir."

"I daresay it will be all right," Brayton responded. "I'll take the message myself on my way home. If a man is so foolish as to——That will do, waiter, thank you."

The waiter vanished, and Brayton leisurely donned his hat and coat. Things were going to be very different with him from this night on. By this time tomorrow——He walked as far as his club, the one extravagance he indulged in, feeling on the best of terms with the world. It is not every night that a man strolls down Pall Mall with a secret in the back of his mind worth two hundred thousand pounds. And this was quite a moderate estimate, Brayton thought.

It was not very late as yet and the club was full. Brayton dropped into his accustomed seat in the smoking room and blandly inquired if there was any news. Three or four men were discussing something eagerly by the fireplace. It seemed to Brayton that he caught Syme's name.

"What's that you are saying, Doctor?" he asked. "What about Syme?"

"Dead," Doctor Gladstone said crisply. "I've just come from Syme's room. I'm his man, you know. They fetched me from here by motor half-an-hour ago. Dead before I got there."

A little odd feeling played up and down Brayton's spinal column.

"A sudden trouble with the heart?" he gasped.

"Suicide," Gladstone went on with pseudo-cynical indifference. "Shot himself through the head with a revolver. Walked in quite coolly and took off his hat. Called for a drink and took every drop of it. Then he handed the glass back to his man, took a revolver from his hip-pocket, and shot himself. Mad! Not a bit of it—man was as sane as you or I. Another financial bubble pricked. They say the Agricola smash finished him off."

Brayton called for a drink himself; he felt that he needed it. The cablegram had come too late; perhaps things had gone too far for even the news from South America to save him. And Brayton was the one man in the world, with the exception of the sender of the message, who knew that Agricola was the best thing on the market at the present time.

"It's a bad smash," another man said. "I met poor old Stannard this afternoon nearly out of his mind. He's been advising his clients to put money into Agricola. He began to tell me what one client of his, a girl——"

"Is that Stannard, of Lincoln's Inn, the lawyer?" Brayton asked. "Mr. Mallison used to be his partner. If it's the same man."

"Oh, it's the same man," the other said. "What, are you going already, Brayton?"

Brayton muttered something to the effect that he had work to do. He wanted to be alone to think this matter over. The floating kaleidoscope of events bewildered him. An hour or two ago and he had sat humbly in the Wellesley envying Syme his money and position, and now Syme was dead and Lazarus had a fortune in his pocket.

Not a soul in the world knew except the sender of the cablegram. There would be a great deal of poverty and distress, for the Agricola had been a strong tip with the public, who, a little while back, had rushed for everything that Syme fathered. Scores of these people would be ruined, but Brayton did not allow his mind to dwell on that point. People of that class always lost their money—if one fraudulent scheme didn't have it another would. Why couldn't they be content with a safe interest?

"Oh, yes, a lot of people would suffer. But people like old Stannard! It seemed incredible that he should have been caught. And that he should invest clients' money. Gertrude Mallison was a client of his; in fact, he was her trustee. Suppose he had lost all Gertrude's money. Suppose she had to turn out and get her own living. And suppose Brayton was rich, as he would be soon. Gertrude, Gertrude, those eyes of yours have made a fool of me," he murmured. "Your father was not the man to give his trustee much latitude in the way of investments. Still——"

The papers were full of it next day. It was a tremendous smash. Scotland Yard had been after Syme; they had been looking for him the evening before with a warrant. He had played a desperate game at the finish, but fortune was against him. It was one of the inspectors of the Yard who told Brayton all this. Syme could not afford to wait for that cablegram from South America. Doubtless, he had lingered on till the last possible minute. The authorities had taken possession of Symes' papers, and already a hopeless state of affairs had been divulged. Everything had been disposed of—Syme did not appear to have a share worth keeping left. There was no occasion to hold on to the Agricola, seeing that in the ordinary course of events they could have been bought back for two for three halfpence. Special meetings of the various shareholders would be called at once, but the chance of saving anything out of the wreck was very remote.

Brayton stood impassively. The game was absolutely in his own hands. There was no occasion for any hurry. He took his way leisurely into the city and commenced operations. He was a buyer for cash. His broker was frank to the verge of rudeness.

"My dear fellow, you will lose every penny," he said. "What on earth——"

"Never mind that," Brayton said. "What can you buy the shares for?"

"Well, certainly for sixpence each. Perhaps less."

"Then buy all you can for cash and the account. I'll give you a cheque for £1,000 now. That should secure 40,000 of the ordinaries. Oh, I'm not saying there is anything in Agricolas, but Agricolas may counteract another thing that I shall get 5 per cent out of. It's a pure spec, on my part, but I've had a bit of luck lately, and I'm backing it."

"Come into a fortune?" the broker asked.

"No, I haven't," Brayton said crisply. "But all that you can get for that amount. Good-bye."

He strolled off quietly, and patiently awaited his game. He had parted with all his available capital, and in return he possessed forty thousand Agricola ordinary shares, with a possibility of as many more. Within ten days he would have to find a further thousand pounds or carry over. But the carrying-over would be easy enough, as Brayton very well knew. Within ten days those shares would be standing at a premium of at least five pounds, and he was pretty certain to make half a million of money. A couple of days drifted by, and Brayton was satisfied. There were no more Agricolas to be had. On Thursday morning they were asked for, on Thursday, at closing time, as much as eight shillings were bid. By midday on Friday the stock stood at par, and then the secret leaked out. Whence it came nobody seemed to know or care. Syme's co-directors, harassed out of their lives, cabled to the mine asking pertinent questions of their engineer. His little conspiracy had failed; Syme's tragic death had pricked the bubble, and it behoved the engineer to save his face. He was shocked to find that Syme had suppressed his code message, or perhaps Syme had not received it. At any rate, he begged to repeat his cable, and did so. The directors sighed with relief. At any rate, their holdings were intact; the Agricola was a good thing, and they prepared without delay to call the shareholders together and tell them so. The city rang with the story.

On the day of the extraordinary general meeting Agricolas stood at £4 10s. Brayton turned into the Cannon Street Hotel with the easy mind and placid assurance of one who feels himself in the possession of half a million of money. There were shareholders there who were not shareholders at all. They had parted with their holdings and they came sadly curious to know how the swindle had been worked. Syme was dead and done with, but assuredly he had confederates who had engineered the swindle, and who was going to benefit by it. Possibly the chairman of directors would be able to tell them something.

Brayton glanced curiously around him. He began to wish that he had stayed away. Some of those faces were by no means pleasant to look at. There was an old clergyman with frayed coat and a collar evidently trimmed at the edges, a half-blind working man led by a little girl. And there was a tall lady in deep black with two children by her side. And there was Mr. Stannard with a white, anxious face and a twitching of the lips that told its own tale. And last, there was Gertrude Mallison, grey lipped and forlorn, with an expression in her eyes that brought Brayton to her side.

"I—I did not expect to see you here," he stammered. "I sincerely hope——"

"Oh, we are all in the same boat," Gertrude smiled wistfully. "Only, don't say anything to Mr. Stannard. He is heartbroken about it. Oh, yes, all my money. He says that he must have been mad. You see, my father gave him absolute discretion. And he meant to make me very rich—he——"

What was going on? Oh, yes, the chairman was speaking. But the chairman had very little to say. He and his colleagues had not sold for various reasons. They had lost nothing. But they were quite prepared to pool their shares for the benefit of the company generally. At the huge premium at which the shares stood today, something substantial would be done to mitigate the distress. There had been some dirty, underhand work, and certain people had benefited. Those people were strangers, and the chairman understood that one of them was in the room at the moment. Perhaps he would like to say a few words. If not, then there was very little to be said. Perhaps the Board of Trade——

"You are alluding to me," Brayton said. "To be quite frank, I hold four-fifth of the shares. I bought them for very little on exclusive information. Your engineer betrayed you, and the exclusive information dispatched for Syme's benefit came unexpectedly into my hands. Why I kept the information to myself I need not say. I could not give it to Mr. Syme, because he had gone to his account elsewhere. Neither am I going to explain why I bought those shares. If I had not done so sooner or later, there would have been a rush on the part of the shrewd city speculator, and instead of one man to contend with you would have had a hundred. As a matter of sheer business my position is unassailable. You cannot touch me. But there is another way in which you can touch me and you have. I am touched by the appearance of certain people here. Their silence is more eloquent then words. If I like to leave the room with my hands in my pockets I can do so, and no process, legal or otherwise, can stop me. But I am not going to do it. And I am not going to have my motive questioned either. Call it a tardy repentance on my part, call it what you like, say that I did this to save you from the city sharks, say I did it because a lady shareholder is a great friend of mine, and I wanted above all things to stand well in her eyes. But I'm going to give all those shares back to the people who sold them to me, and the price is exactly what I gave for them. And—and that's all."

The greatest fool in the City of London walked out into Cannon Street feeling at peace with all the world. A hand was laid on his shoulder. He turned round to meet Gertrude's eyes.

"My cab is here," she said. "Please get in. I am going to take you as far as my flat. Did you suppose that I was going to let you run off in that fashion? Oh, I know something about business. My father was a business man, remember. We shall be quite alone there. Please get in."

Brayton obeyed mechanically enough. Right away to Kensington, Gertrude kept her face averted from him. She said no word till the flat was reached. The tears were in her eyes still.

"Sit down in that chair," she commanded. "And tell me everything. Everything, mind!"

Brayton told the story. He omitted nothing. It seemed strange that he should be baring his soul to this girl in so free a fashion. He spoke of his hopes and fears, of the artistic temperament, of his loathing for the city.

"And there it was, thrown at me, Miss Mallison," he said. "Especially——"

"Gertrude," the girl said. "Call me Gertrude, please."

"Well, Gertrude, darling. I could be rich. Why should I consider other people? I—I could ask the girl I love to marry me without any chance of being called a fortune-hunter."

"Is—is the girl rich?" Gertrude whispered. "I mean was she rich this morning?"

"Well, she wasn't," Brayton said. "But she is now, and I am poor, and there is an end of the matter. But, thank God, she knows my story now, and if she thinks none the worse of me——"

"Worse of you, Lawrence! Worse of you! Oh, the boy is clearly mad. Why, you acted splendidly. You acted as few people would have done. You gave everything back to those poor people, you were going to give up the girl you loved so that——What nonsense, what delicious, romantic nonsense! And what does it matter who has the money so long as it belongs to one of the two?"

"I—I don't know what you mean," Brayton summered.

"Yes, you do, Lawrence. Look at me. Come here. Now put your arms round me like that—and kiss me. And I'll put my arms round you—like this—and I'll kiss you. Oh, my dearest boy, have not you seen for a long time that there was nobody but you? I thought that I should have to ask you. But now that you have given me back my fortune I must offer you something in return. Well, I do, dear! Let me hide my face on your breast and so save my blushes——"

"I don't believe you're blushing a bit, Gertrude."

"Well, then, I'm not. I'm not a bit ashamed of myself. Lawrence, what can I do for you?"

He bent down and kissed her long and passionately.

"Take me to the Wellesley to dinner tonight," he said. "With you opposite me with that love-light in your glorious eyes, even the artistic temperament would have no more to ask for."

THE END

FREE LABOUR

Published in The Central Queensland Herald, Rockhampton, Qld., Thursday 1 April, 1943.

Overton crept a little nearer towards the neat little parcel in the clean table napkin, and sniffed as a hungry dog might have done. The muscles of his mouth quivered—he passed his tongue over his dry lips. In the language of his bygone youth—and, Heavens! how far away that seemed—he was up against it. Not for worlds would he have confessed the fact that no food had passed his lips for 20 hours. He was willing enough to work and strong enough withal. But the whole world seemed to be full up, perspiring dockers were passing in a constant stream, he could hear the roar of traffic as the laden lorries passed over the cobble stones in High Street. And yet in all this world of activity they told him that things were slack and that most of the casual hands there were working for a bare wage.

Overton was realising bitterly enough that this thing was true. He had made a sixpence yesterday by holding horses, but so far as the docks were concerned nothing for the best part of a week. He was angrily conscious that the strength in which he prided himself was feeling the strain. But at any rate he was a better man than the thin reed over there sweating amongst the bales of wool. He was a clean-shaven, respectable-looking man and bore the unmistakeable stamp of better times. Overton studied him half curiously. He saw the little man stagger towards one of the bales and drop on it, shaking from head to foot like a leaf. His head and hands jerked as if invisible strings were pulling them.

"Anything wrong?" Overton asked.

"Malaria," the little man gasped. "It's a legacy I brought back with me from India. Catches me cruelly at times. When I get a bad dose I'm good for nothing for a week. And the devil of it is that cursed foreman's got an eye on me. Next time he comes round and finds I haven't shifted this little parcel I'll get fired. They've got no use for malaria here. Do you happen to be looking for a job yourself!"

"Well, that's about it," Overton said briefly.

"Well, turn in and shift this wool for me. If you get it done in half-an-hour I'm good for a shilling. If I get a stiff dose of quinine down me I may be better presently. On the other hand, I may be worse. Point is, are you game?"

Overton turned to the work fiercely. He ripped off his coat and vest and rolled up his shirtsleeves. The shaky little man sitting there had a stammering word or two of praise for those magnificent muscles.

"My word, you ought not to be put off a job," he said. "Done a deal of rowing in your time, haven't you?"

"I was in my college boat," Overton said absently. He reddened slightly as he spoke. "But that's another story."

"That's all right," the little man said. "I was in my college boat, too, though you wouldn't think it to look at me."

He rose to his feet and staggered away. When he returned half-an-hour later the whole of the work was done and Overton was sitting on a capstan wiping his heated forehead.

"Here's your money," the little man said. "Oh, you needn't hesitate to take it. I've got a bit put away. And I should have a bit more but for these cursed strikes. To blast with your leaders, I say. No, I've got no Federation ticket and I don't want one. And thousands more would tear up theirs if they only dared. And there's thousands, too, who regard Mat Herring as a god and just do anything he asks when he holds up his little finger. Look at him now talking to those lightermen. Not a day's work has he done for the last ten years. Just twig his fine clothes and his big watch chain and his cigar. And there's nothing to him except the gift of the gab and a certain infernal cheek that fairly hypnotised 'em. There are mothers and children down our way who would put a knife into him if they dared. We've had mine strikes in the last five years, and there's not a docker here who could tell you what they were about if you gave him a sovereign. Here, you haven't taken your shilling yet. It seems a pity that a workman like you should be doing nothing. You come along here tomorrow morning at the same time, and I'll see if I can't find a job for you."

Overton walked over to the nearest public house and spent a few coppers of his precious shilling in a cheap, substantial meal. In reckless mood he treated himself to a glass of beer and a penny packet of cigarettes. The close and stuffy little bar was full of dockers more or less unemployed, the air reeked with the smell of sweating humanity. And Overton did not fail to notice the suggestion of unrest and discontent on the face of those about him. He could hear certain threats and grumbling; he caught from time to time the revered name of Mat Herring. There was a commotion in the bar presently, and the big agitator himself came in. He spoke loudly and stridently—his coarse red face bore a certain suggestion of strength and power. From Overton's point of view he was merely a repulsive bully using these deluded men as a means to an end. Overton itched with a desire to get his hands upon the man, and he would have quarrelled with him at the slightest opportunity. But discretion was certainly the better part of valour now. He had only a small handful of coppers between himself and starvation, and the docker who made an enemy of Mat Herring lived to regret it and that speedily.

The agitator boomed on in his big voice, eloquent on imaginary grievances and leaving sullen discontent behind him wherever he went. There was some fresh trouble in the air, some childish controversy which might at any moment burst into a flame that would involve all the labour in the East.

"You've got 'im in your own 'ands," Herring roared. "'Ere, wot are yer talking about? Ain't I speaking?"

"There's a gal outside wot wants to speak ter yer, Mister 'Erring," one of the audience said ingratiatingly.

"Daresay it's that niece o' mine," the great man said. "If she wants to see me, she can come inside."

There entered a tall, slim figure of a girl clad in rusty black. Over her head and shoulders was a shawl of some fleecy material which did not serve to disguise the marvellous colour and texture of her hair or the sensitive beauty of her face. She was no better dressed than most women round there and yet she stood out from them a thing apart. Something like a bitter smile trembled on Overton's lips. He was wondering by what extraordinary freak of nature this girl could be Herring's niece. The man turned and brutally demanded what the girl was doing there.

"It's the child," the girl stammered painfully. Overton noticed that her voice was as refined as her face. "She's worse. You must send for a doctor."

"No doctors in my house," Herring declared. "Bloodsucking set of murderers I call 'em. And don't you come bothering me again like this when I'm in the middle of my work."

He raised his am threateningly and Overton jumped to his feet. Just for a moment the joy and pride of the militant dockers was within an ace of receiving the thrashing which he had so richly deserved for years. But Overton checked himself in time. Commonsense told him that he would only make matters worse for the girl afterwards. He did not take his seat again, but followed the girl out into the street.

"You'll excuse me," he said. "I have no right to speak to you, of course, but you are in trouble, and I fancy I can help you. I have no money, but I am not without influence, though it may sound amusing for me to say so."

"You are very good," the girl said gratefully. "And it is a pleasure to speak to a gentleman again. And anybody can see you are that. In a way we are companions in misfortune. You see Mr. Herring married my sister. And she died. It is just as well that she did, and she left a little girl, whom I promised to look after. That is why I am down here instead of—but I need not go into that. Ada is a poor, weakly little thing. And she will never live to be grown up. And he doesn't care, he has no heart or feeling of affection for anything. All the money he makes he spends on himself. Can't you see how cruelly I am placed? And what he said just now about the doctor is all lies. He grudges the expense where his own flesh and blood is concerned."

Who on earth was this girl, Overton wondered. And what was she doing here in this God-forsaken spot? And how on earth had that sister of hers come to give her heart to a cold-blooded brute like Herring? But he was destined to learn all these things in time. Providentially Herring was away for a day or two, stirring up strife and discontent at Bristol, and Overton's doctor friend was doing his best for the pale, white fragment of humanity which would never blossom into robust youth. It was only a question of time, and Helen Macgregor heard the verdict with tears in her eyes. After the clumsy methods of manhood Overton consoled her. He had been seeing a good deal of the girl lately, for the little man with the malaria had been as good as his word, and Overton was in regular employment now.

"I wonder if I'm really sorry," Helen said. "It will be a blessed relief when the time comes, and then I can get away from here altogether."

"You want to go all that badly?"

"I am aching to turn my back upon it. It has been two years of penal servitude for me. I offered to take the child elsewhere, but my brother-in-law would not hear of it. If it were not for her I could go back tomorrow to the family I left. When my father died I became governess to some children in the most delightful household in the world. I was more one of the family than a governess. My father had been vicar of the parish. We might have all been happy if my sister had not met Mr. Herring. She was always strangely romantic, she took a vivid interest in social questions, and she made up her mind that Mathew Herring was a great man. Even to the very last she regarded him as a kind of Napoleon of labour. She was absolutely blind to his coarseness and selfishness. She never saw that he was a dissipated, vulgar, dishonest loafer, whose only qualities were impudence and brag, and she never realised that he would not have married her at all but for the fact that she had inherited a few hundred pounds from a distant relative. And he dragged her from the sweetness and refinement of a country home to this dreadful spot. He had never been accustomed to anything different—any slum-dwelling was good enough for him so long as he could spend his evenings in some low public-house over his beer and politics. He never even let me know when my sister was dying. I found her here, and she made me promise to look after the child. A sordid little story, is it not? But all I can do now is to wait for the inevitable end. Then I can go back again to the sunshine and the sweetness of the country. But before I go I should like—you won't think me vindictive?"

"Oh, I know what you would like," Overton said. "And I like you all the better for that touch of humanity. It makes me feel that I am not altogether in contact with a saint. You would like to see Herring exposed and disgraced. You would like to see him made the laughing stock of these poor deluded fools whose proudest ambition it is to pay for his beer. Well, I will try and manege it for you if I can. It was very nearly being an accomplished fact the day I first saw you in that dirty little public-house. There's going to be trouble here. I feel quite sure that these men will be all out again within the fortnight. And, mind you, they don't want to come. If I could only get them to listen to me I'd break Herring in a week. And there's only one way to do it."

Helen Macgregor's eyes gleamed. There was a deep flush on her face. She laid her hand on Overton's arm.

"Oh, if you only could," she whispered. "My heart bleeds for the women and children. Mind you, these people have a case. I have lived with them long enough to see that. And they would win what they are entitled to if they could get rid of the bitter blight that parasites like Herring smother them with. And you could do it for them. They have come to like you. And, strangely enough, one of the reasons is because you are a gentleman."

"Do I look like one?" Overton smiled.

"Yes, you do," the girl said. "In spite of your docker's dress and the dirt on your hands and face, there is no mistaking it. I knew it the first time we ever met."

"And you asked yourself no questions, Helen?"

"Of course I did. I am full of curiosity. And I don't care if you've done something wrong. At any rate, you have not been used to the horrors of a place like this, and it is fine and noble of you to be getting your own living whilst, I daresay, your friends would be ready to help you. Perhaps you will tell me some day."

"Oh, I will that. There's nothing against me. I could walk down Piccadilly with my face to the sunshine. Only I've been a fool. Heavens, what a fool!"

He might have told her more, but the whistles began to hoot and bellow, and the grimy, dingy bees were stirring in the hive. They were very discontented bees just now, sullen and unwilling, and Overton scented the trouble from afar off. He marked Herring as he strolled about the docks with the air of a dissipated conqueror, he noted the angry gleam in the foremen's eyes and the clenching of their fists as Herring swaggered past them. But they were utterly powerless, and they knew it. Had the men any sort of feeling? Overton asked himself. This sort of thing had been going on for days now, and Herring's child lay dying. It was that same evening that Helen came to him, quiet and subdued, with the information that the little one's sufferings were over.

"She died an hour ago," she explained, "and Matthew Herring grumbled because he would have to find the money for the funeral. Oh, he is a dreadful creature! Don't think it hard of me, but I can think of nothing but my release from this awful place.. .. Within a day—within an hour——"

"Oh, I know what you mean. But don't go alone. Let us go together. Will you call me presumptuous if I tell you that there is a dear old aunt of mine who writes to me regularly and who takes the warmest interest in my welfare. And I have taken the liberty of telling her all about you. I told her of your noble heroism and self-sacrifice. And when you've finished here she wants you to go and stay with her for a time."

"I shall be very glad," Helen said simply. "With the exception of the people I used to be with, I have not a friend in the world. And they are abroad and will not be back for several weeks. I will wait and go with you, Geoffrey."

The last word dropped quite unconsciously from the girl's lips, and Overton smiled.

"Then let it be Saturday," he said. "When did you say the funeral was to be—Thursday afternoon? Oh, yes, I shall be quite ready for you by Saturday morning."

Overton went back to his work with his head high in the air and a set determination on his lips. There was going to be trouble by Saturday, of that he felt certain. It was late on the Friday afternoon before the smoke gave way to the flame, it was one of those silly disputes between capital and labour, a touch of harshness on the one side and mistaken pride on the other. A sullen murmur ran through the dock and almost before anyone knew what had happened a thousand angry men were standing with their hands by their sides, and the foreman, almost beside himself with rage, was yelling hoarse commands lurid with profanity. Out of the welter of dogged, perspiring humanity came Herring, red of face, strident and overbearing.

"Down tools, lads," he cried. "Outside every one of you. You've got right on your side and you will have all the country with you over this job. Within a week there won't be a single workman in a single dockyard in Great Britain."

Overton stepped quietly forward.

"Wait a minute," he said. "You might give the foreman a chance. You might wait to hear what he's got to say anyhow. Don't tell me that you are going to be influenced by that drunken, swaggering loafer any more."

He pointed contemptuously at Herring. The latter darted forward, his course, red face aflame.

"Meaning me?" he demanded hoarsely.

"Meaning you, you common, dissipated beer-swiller. You're a liar and a thief. You've been robbing these poor fools for years. Yes, and I'm in a position to prove it if you like. Regular work and contentment for the lads means starvation for you. Here, come, there must be at least five hundred of you chaps who have known Matthew Herring for years. But I'll wager a sovereign that the oldest-hand here cannot recollect when Herring did an honest day's work. Is it a bet."

He held up the glittering coin between his fingers, and something like a sigh went up from the dockers. There was not one of them there who had not felt the pinch of hunger at least four times during the past twelve months, and very few of them who could not have recollected the loss of a wife or child, and all owing to the blighting influence of Matthew Herring. Something like a laugh went up, and more then one man in the crowd reached down for his tools.

"Here, drop it," Herring yelled. "Who do you think's speaking to yer? Why this chap's a blackleg 'imself."

"They're going back to work," Overton said quietly.

Indeed, they looked very much like doing it. Their eyes, were averted from Herring: he would, perhaps, have been astonished could he have known the deep-rooted hatred that he had inspired in every breast there. In reality it seemed to him that this impudent blackleg was defying him on his own ground. Well, he would show the dockers what he was made of. He stripped off his coat and strode across to where Overton was standing. The latter's heart leapt with pure joy. He had but little fear of the conflict. And it pleased him to see that Herring had some knowledge of boxing. It was all absolutely irregular, not to say idiotic, for the crowd had gathered round, and even the strident foreman had forgotten his torrid blasphemy. Herring came on with a head-long rush intent upon carrying all before him. Something seemed to move something jolted him on the jaw, and, to his own intense surprise, he found himself rolling over in the dust. A deep sarcastic cheer rose from the crowd and the red danced before his eyes. From that moment there could only be one possible result of the fight. The turning agitator was blind with rage, he was dead out of condition, and Overton hit him just where and when he pleased. The blood was streaming down his face, his left eye was half blind, and still Overton refrained from the knock-out blow. He took a particular pleasure in punishing this ruffian, a certain savage delight which relieved the pent-up feelings of many weeks, and Herring needed no knockout blow. He dropped to his knees at length and blubbered like a child.

"Better get back to work lads," Overton said quietly. "Nice specimen of a leader you're got, haven't you? Try a man next time. Here, get up and go home."

He kicked Herring to his feet, and the vanquished orator slunk off without another word. There came a harsh command from the ready-witted foreman, and in a moment every hand was at work again. All but Overton. He put on his coat and left the dock.

"'Ere, you're not going?" the foreman asked. "I can find you a better job if you need it. You're the stuff we want."

"Oh, I've got a job," Overton smiled. "It's not in the docks. It's down at a place in Sussex."

He met Helen next morning. He no longer wore his suit of moleskins; he was attired in a neat, well-cut flannel suit and straw hat. Half a dozen women gave him a cheer as he stood by the side of the taxicab waiting for Helen. She, too, was changed almost beyond recognition. Her eyes were moist and her smile unsteady as she put her hand into Overton's.

"Where are we going now?" she whispered.

"We are going straight away into Sussex," Overton explained. "Down to the house I told you about. Extravagant? Oh, I don't know. I have not spent much for the last 12 months, and I want to have you all to myself."

"I heard all about yesterday afternoon," Helen said. "Oh, it was splendid, splendid! I loathe violence, but I should like to have been there? Are you very shocked?"

They whirled along away from the misery and humiliation out into the country and the sunshine. Then they came at length to a fair old house nestling amongst the trees, and here on the balcony, looking across a garden so fair and sweet that the tears rose to Helen's eyes, Overton placed her in a seat and told his story.

"I have a confession to make," he said. "This house and small estate belongs to me. For the last year my aunt has been looking after it. You will see her presently and fall in love with her, as everybody does. But I have something to tell you first. Now, do you know that 18 months ago I was one of the most selfish, indolent idlers who ever disgraced a good education? My father used to say that I had no heart at all, and when he died, somewhere about a year ago, he left a strange will. He said I was young and strong enough for anything, and that for a whole 12 months I must go away with nothing in my pockets and earn my own living. I was not to borrow a penny from anyone, and if I failed by a single day, everything was to go to a single relation. My word, this last year has been a revelation to me! It took the conceit out of me to find how useless I was. I had chances and lost them one after another. I knew what it was to be downright hungry. I've slept on the Embankment, and the day I first went to the docks I hadn't tasted food for 20 hours. Well, I got a job there, and I was only too glad to stick to it, and I did stick to it till the year was up, and nearly six weeks more and I am a man at last."

"It was very fine," Helen cried. "But why did you go on after the year was up?"

"You don't know that? Can you look me in the face and tell me you cannot guess? Do you think I could part with you now, you who came like a crown to my salvation. I brought you here to remain always after we are married, and my aunt is looking forward to welcoming you as a daughter. She will be here at any moment now. You won't disappoint her, Helen?"

The girl held out her hand and smiled at Overton through her happy tears.

"Oh," she whispered, "Oh, what a world it is!"

THE END

FOR LOVE'S SAKE

Published in The Central Queensland Herald, Rockhampton, Qld. Thursday, 12 October, 1944.

I.

Though there was a smile on the girl's face, there was something like despair in her heart. It was not the kind of setting either, that one associates with misery or unhappiness, for on every side was evidence of wealth and luxury and extravagance. As a matter of fact, Evelyn Drayton reproached herself with being there at all. Why had she consented, she wondered, to give the light of her countenance to people of this class? Perhaps it was because she was good-natured; perhaps it was because she had not liked to say no. At the same time, she knew perfectly well why she had come. She had not seen Cecil Burt lately, and besides, she had heard certain strange rumours as to the financial status of himself, and his partner, George Lester. They were known to be a somewhat audacious firm. They were quite up-to-date in their methods, and prepared to take risks at which a more old-fashioned house would have held up its hands in horror. But, then, they were both well-known sportsmen, and the commercial world generally was getting accustomed to their dashing habits.

It did not matter so much so far as Lester was concerned, for he had a rich old father behind him who would have seen that his son came to no harm. With Cecil Burt, however, the case was different. If anything happened to him he would have to stand or fall on the merits of the case. There was no one likely to come forward and give him a helping hand in case of disaster. There was one, but Cecil Burt did not dream that she was interested in his welfare, and, for her own reason, Mrs. Cranleigh did not want him to know. The lady in question was a widow of considerable means, unconventional enough, and a thorough Bohemian in her ways and habits. She was rich and fond enough of Cecil Burt, to whom she had decided upon leaving her entire wealth when she had done with it. But this was a secret known only to herself and Evelyn Drayton, and to the man who had made the volatile old lady's will. As a matter of fact, this man was George Lester, for Lester and Burt were partners as solicitors, and Lester's father was by way of being one of Mrs. Cranleigh's oldest friends. The matter was a profound secret, and Mrs. Cranleigh had extracted a promise from Lester that his partner should never know how Mrs. Cranleigh's money was to be disposed of.

This is exactly how matters stood as Evelyn Drayton sat there at that interminable evening party, waiting and hoping for a chance to see Burt. The rumours had been more persistent the last day or two; they assumed ominous form now, and Evelyn was terribly anxious. She might not have cared to confess it to herself, but she was very deeply in love with Cecil Burt, and it only needed this trouble on his part to disclose the girl's feelings to herself. Cecil Burt might have been rash and foolish, he might even have been mad enough to speculate with clients' money, but what difference would a fact like that make to a girl where her affections were concerned? She had nothing or little of her own, but she was none the less desirous of finding some way to save Cecil Burt from the disaster which was hanging over him.

Perhaps she was all the more keen on this because she profoundly disliked and distrusted George Lester. She knew perfectly well that the man cared for her; in fact, he made no attempt to disguise his feelings. He knew also that Burt was a successful rival, and Evelyn had a vague uncanny impression that he would not have scruples as to the means of getting Cecil Burt out of the way. And Burt was so rash and headstrong too. He was just the kind of man to carry on the reckless and hazardous game to the last moment, to run his head into the deadly noose, and then, if things failed, to take his own life without a moment's hesitation. More than once, in a half jesting way, he discussed this matter with Evelyn; but there was no jesting about him when he spoke of possible failure. His jaws stiffened then, his eyes had become sombre and serious. Perhaps, to a certain extent, the spirit of prophecy was upon him. At any rate, Evelyn could not shake off the impression of those words. She felt sure enough that Burt had been in deadly earnest.

The matter was with her now as she sat there listening to the frivolous conversation going on about her. Her eyes ached with the glittering gaudiness of it all. Besides, it was getting late now, and it did not look as if Cecil Burt was going to put in an appearance. Evelyn turned away a little sore and disappointed, for she had written an argent note to Cecil Burt saying where she should be that evening and expressing a desire to see him. She would have passed from the drawing room now, only George Lester came in at the same moment and took a seat by her side. There was no mistaking the look of admiration in his eyes and the girl coloured now as she noticed it. She half rose.

"I am just going," she said coldly.

"You wouldn't have been in such a hurry if Burt had been here," Lester replied. "Sit down a moment."

"Perhaps not." The girl took up the challenge boldly and coolly enough. "But then, you see, Cecil is not here. I wrote most particularly to him and asked him to meet me, but I suppose he is otherwise engaged, or he does not think it worth while."

"He always was a fool," Lester said cynically.

"Do you really think so?" the girl asked. "Well, perhaps that is better than being a knave. On second thoughts I won't go just yet. There are one or two things you can tell me. I am going to ask you plain questions, because I am fond of Cecil Burt, and I take a great interest in his welfare. I think you ought to know strange rumours are going about as to your firm. I have heard them freely mentioned lately. People say that you are in trouble, and that—well—that you are using money which is not altogether your own. I give it you for what it is worth, and I sincerely hope that there is no truth in the scandal."

Lester laughed unconcernedly.

"Not so far as I am concerned," he said. "Besides, even if there were, I have my father behind me. Still, one never knows, even in an office like ours. You see, we both have our separate departments, and if Burt were doing anything wrong I should probably be the last to know. Had you not better ask him yourself!"

There was a sneer underlying the question, and Evelyn Drayton resented it accordingly. She checked the impulse which rose to the tip of her tongue, and smiled bravely.

"That is exactly what I am going to do," she said. "But hasn't Cecil Burt any friends at all, no expectations?"

It was Lester's turn now to hesitate. He did so for the fraction of a second, but it was not lost upon the girl by his side.

"So far as I know, none," he said.

There was something in the reply which excited all the girl's worst fears. Professional caution was all very well, but Lester was carrying it a little too far. He might, at any rate, have given her a hint, so Evelyn thought, as to Mrs. Cranleigh's will in Cecil's favour. There was no need to mention any name, but it seemed ominous, to the girl who knew everything, that he was concealing this fact so carefully. And again, he had listened with no sort of anger or impatience to the suggestion that there was anything wrong with his firm. Men of integrity did not usually accept such slander so calmly. In an illogical kind of way it occurred to Evelyn that Lester might be laying a deliberate trap for his partner. The consequences to Lester would be slight, for the simple reason that he had his father behind him. But for Burt they might be very serious indeed. It might mean disgrace, the loss of all social position, and perhaps dishonour in a gaol. There was not the slightest reason why Evelyn should come to these conclusions, but they were gradually being forced upon her. She rose now, almost afraid to continue the conversation, and moved across the room, with Lester by her side. A newcomer, with a face which betrayed excitement, accosted Lester.

"Is it true?" he asked. "I mean is it true what I heard just now about Mrs. Cranleigh? I am told she is dead."

Lester started uneasily. Evelyn Drayton's heart gave a great leap. She checked a sudden feeling of hopelessness of which she was ashamed. But she was only thinking about Burt now. At the same time, she was thinking about Lester, too and the sudden, unexpected embarrassment in his manner.

"How should I know!" he stammered.

"How should you know?" the other man echoed. "Why, you came away from the house with Dr. Bryant. I heard him say so. Of course, if you like to make a mystery about it, I am sorry I spoke." The speaker passed on, apparently in a huff. There was a red flush on Lester's face, and a furtive look in his eyes as he turned to Evelyn. Her manner was cold and self-contained, though inwardly she was burning. All she wanted now was to be alone to think this matter out. If she understood the thing at all Cecil Burt would be free now, there would be nothing to prevent him meeting his engagements. But why did Lester want to keep it secret? Why should he try and disguise from Burt the knowledge that his benefactress was dead. Was it possible that things had reached such an acute state—but Evelyn did not care to think of that.

She would go home at once. She would telegraph Burt to come and see her without delay. It was just possible that she might be able to reach him by means of the telephone. At any rate, she would not rest an evening until she had met the man who was everything to her.

She reached her own rooms at length. She dismissed her maid and drew the curtains close, for it was a chilly evening, and an inviting fire burnt on the hearth. There was a pile of letters on the table, and Evelyn turned them over carelessly. They might keep for the present, she told herself.

She was in no mood now for idle gossip and frivolous feminine correspondence. She turned the letters over contemptuously with her hand, then the colour came into her cheeks and the sparkle to her eyes again.

Here was a letter from Cecil Burt. She wondered what excuse he had to make for not replying to her urgent messages. Her heart beat more joyfully as she tore open the envelope.

But as she read the few words, hastily scrawled upon the sheet of paper, the colour left her cheeks and her heart seemed to stand still. There was no heading or signature. The wild words were quite enough and pregnant with meaning without that.

"You will never see me again," the message ran. "This is the last message I shall write to you or anybody else; for, my dear child, I am ruined beyond hope of recovery, I am dishonoured beyond despair. I have been playing with money belonging to other people, and my speculations have ended in disaster. Lester knows little or nothing about this. I doubt if he would care if he did. He will be all right, for his father will see to him, and Lester knows by this time; in fact, I saw him tonight. Think the best you can of me, and do not forget that with all my faults I loved you with a sincerity and passion beyond all words. I can say no more than this. It is my last word and thought."

II.

The next hour or two passed for Evelyn Drayton like a dream. There was only one thought uppermost in her mind, and that was that Cecil Burt must be saved. For all her thoughts were in a whirl. She saw one thing steadily and clearly. She was satisfied now that George Lester had been in a position to save this disgrace, to save the loss of life. He had deliberately held his tongue. To all practical purposes he would be guilty of Cecil Burt's murder. And why had he done this? To Evelyn's mind there was no doubt whatever. He had remained silent, knowing that a few hours would see Burt out of the way, and the path rendered smooth and easy for himself. It was a horrible idea, so horrible that Evelyn could have cried aloud when she thought of this black treachery.

But it was useless to sit there brooding and grieving. There was work to be done, and that without delay. Half an hour later Evelyn, closely cloaked and veiled, was making her way towards Burt's lodgings in the faint hope of finding him there. She had heeded nothing of the fact that the streets were now almost deserted, and that more than one belated wayfarer regarded her curiously. What did anything matter so long as the life of the man she loved was in danger. She came presently to her destination, only to be met with disappointment. Burt's discreet manservant raised his eyebrows significantly as he saw his visitor, but he was respectful enough. He had not seen Mr. Burt all day. The latter had said that he was not coming back, but that if anybody wanted him he would be at the office at 10 o'clock tomorrow.

"Are you sure!" Evelyn asked anxiously.

"I think so, miss," the manservant said. "The master promised to do a little thing for me. I don't mind telling you that it is in connexion with an almshouse which my mother is looking for. I have never known master neglect a promise of that kind."

Evelyn thanked the man and went away. After all it was a slender chance, but there was just a certain amount of hope in it. For Cecil Burt was just the kind of man to recollect a promise like that, even in the moment of his darkest despair. Where he was and what he was doing in the meantime Evelyn would have given much to know. It only remained for her now to pass the time as best she could to kill the laden hours till the morning, and then to make her way to Lincoln's Inn, where the offices of Lester and Burt were situated. There was hope yet.

Ten o'clock in the morning found Evelyn in Lincoln's Inn. She walked boldly into the clerk's room and asked for Mr. Burt. At the same moment Lester came out of his own office. He was immaculately dressed, as usual, and self-possessed, but he obviously started at the beautiful vision standing there in his clerk's office. He had evidently caught the question, for he replied to it himself without the slightest hesitation.

"Burt is not here," he said. "Is there any message I can give him? Perhaps you would like to come into my office."

Evelyn glanced at the clerk to whom she had put the question. She saw there was a colour in his face, and that his manner was confused. Evidently it was not in the direction of the office, on the ground-glass door of which the name of Burt was inscribed in black letters. It seemed to her that she could see the shadow of someone looming behind the opaque panels. Then she changed her mind and followed Lester. He waved her to a chair. He sat at his own desk with the tips of his well-manicured fingers pressed together.

"This is all unexpected pleasure," he murmured.

"Is it a pleasure?" Evelyn asked coldly. "I doubt it. You are wondering why I am here, and I will tell you. Last night I had a strange, unaccountable dream which impressed me very much. I thought that some friend of mine had been convicted of a crime of which he was innocent, and that he was going to be hanged this morning. It seemed to me that the proofs of his innocence came into my hands just in time for me to save him. This was a most extraordinary dream, because I found out that the governor of the gaol, who was responsible for the execution, was himself the guilty party. It was my duty to go down to the prison with a reprieve. But when I showed it to the governor in his private office he locked me in there so that I was powerless to do anything till that judicial murder was accomplished. It was a most vivid dream, for I could hear the funeral service being read, and the tolling of the bell. Then I battered my hands upon the door till they were raw and bleeding, and the clamour I was making awoke me. Now, don't you think that was a strange dream for a girl to have?"

"And you came here to tell me this?" Lester asked.

"Amongst other things, yes," Evelyn went on. "But I don't think I should have dreamt that dream but for the fact that I knew that the man I love was in danger. I came here to save Cecil Burt from his own folly and from your treachery."

"Treachery?" Lester said hoarsely; "what do you mean?"

"Oh, don't palter with me," Evelyn cried. "You know what I mean as well as if I had made a deliberate accusation against you. A pretty compliment you paid me. It is, indeed, good to think that a man should care for me so much that he should deliberately murder his own friend so as to clear the ground for himself. I did not think I should ever like to speak to a man in this shameless fashion, but this is no time to play with words and hide oneself behind a false femininity. Why do you shake your head and smile like that? I tell you I know everything, and you know everything, too. You have known for days the desperate position in which Cecil Burt stands. You knew that there was only one thing that could save him. But you never told him what that one thing was—you kept that assiduously to yourself. If you had told him that Mrs. Cranleigh was dying——"

"Mrs. Cranleigh?" Lester echoed. "What has she to do with it?"

"Oh, you seem to forget the fact that she was a great friend of mine, and she told me what you have known for months. Then sooner or later, every penny she possessed would find its way into Cecil Burt's possession. She bound you to secrecy as she bound me, and that secret you had a right to respect. But when Cecil Burt came to you last night and told you how things were, why did you not tell him that there was a means whereby he could have escaped the consequences of his folly and lead a better life in future? You could have informed him that Mrs. Cranleigh was dying, that it was only a question of hours. You could have found him late last night, and let him know that he had come into a fortune which would place him beyond the reach of the law. Oh, it is a horrible thing to speculate thus on a poor woman's death, to rejoice, as it were, that her loss has been another's gain! But, then, we are all human, and such thoughts as these will not be denied. At ten o'clock last night you knew everything. It was after ten when you saw your partner, and he went away with the avowed intention of taking his own life, what time a single word from you would have saved him."

"I didn't know," Lester stammered. "I give you my word——"

"Your word!" Evelyn echoed scornfully. "And what is that worth? A little less than nothing. Ring the bell, and tell your clerk to ask Mr. Burt to come in here at once! And don't let him know that I am here. Oh, I would have spared you this humiliation if I could; but moments are precious, and I am wasting valuable time. You will have to sit there and listen to all that I have to say. You will have to drink the cup to the dregs. How strange it seems! How different is the realisation to one's expectations! At one time I would have scorned the idea of giving my affections to a man who was not the pink of honour and integrity. And here am I prepared to commit something which is not much less than a crime to save a man for whose sake I would gladly die. Perhaps, after all, I am no better than either of you. Perhaps——"

The door opened and the clerk came in. A moment later he disappeared and Burt walked into the room. He staggered back at the sight of Evelyn. He would have retreated had she not darted forward and laid her hand upon his arm. The whole room was spinning round the girl now, a red mist floated before her eyes. But her voice was firm and steady enough as she spoke again presently.

"You wonder why I am here," she said. "I have been looking for you since last night, ever since I received your letter. Let me tell you that our dear old friend Mrs. Cranleigh is dead, and that she has left you the whole of her fortune. Before you wrote me that letter last night you saw Mr. Lester here and told him what you were going to do. He might have informed you then of what he already knew—that you were a rich man, and beyond the reach of all pecuniary troubles. But he had his own peculiar reasons for remaining silent, and I leave you to guess what they were. Heaven knows, I have been through humiliation enough already!"

"For my sake?" Burt asked, with white lips.

"For your sake. Yes, and perhaps for my own also. Why is it that women should never think the less of a man because he has made a false step like this? And yet if, on the other hand, the crime was the woman's—but this is no time for moralising. Ask Mr. Lester if what I say is not strictly true. But there is no occasion to do that because you can read his guilt on his face. Months ago Mrs. Cranleigh told me what she was going to do with her money, but she bound me to secrecy, and I have always respected her wishes. But I knew that your partner knew, because he made the will. At first, for professional reasons, he did not tell you. Later on he concealed his knowledge for reasons which I prefer not to go into. At any rate, he will tell you now that you are free, and that it is only a question of time before you are rid of this hateful business altogether. And now, will you kindly call a cab for me? I have taxed my strength a little more than I can bear."

Lester sat at his desk in moody silence, whilst Burt procured the cab. His face was white and set, but no more so than Evelyn Drayton's features. She held out her hand, which Burt barely touched.

"Come and see me this evening," she said; "I cannot bear to talk of it now, in a detestable atmosphere like this. Oh, you need not be afraid—you are quite forgiven. When a woman passes her heart over to a man she overlooks crime on his part, while she would turn with loathing from another whose indiscretions were far more trivial. And try and recollect that you belong to me now, and that all I have done is for your sake alone. Call me selfish, if you like; perhaps, after all, it is nothing else."

It was about nine o'clock the same evening that Burt called round at Evelyn's rooms. She was seated thoughtfully by the firelight. But for its flickering glow the rest of the room was in darkness. She held out a long, slim hand to her lover. There was an unsteady smile upon her face. He knelt by the side of the low armchair and placed his arms about her shoulders.

"Am I quite forgiven?" he whispered.

"Oh, yes," the girl smiled through her tears. "It is all very weak on my part, and I am not a bit like the heroine I took myself to be. But then, you see, I happen to love you, and that makes all the difference. Still, there is something to be wiped out, something which will take time to forget. It is in your hands, Cecil, and the punishment will be yours if you do not teach me to forget."

"I will try, my dear," the man said, "I will try."

THE END

A MASKED BATTERY

ILLUSTRATED BY A.P. BALL

HAD Gresson been an imaginative man he would, perhaps, have pondered over the mutability of human affairs and tne decree of Fate which kept him hiding in a conservatory at the very moment when he had expected to play billiards in his favorite public-house. It is on record somewhere that the accidental swallowing of a grape seed changed the destiny of the world, and thus, in a smaller way, the forgetfulness of an attractive housemaid changed the life current of Mr. Gresson, and ended his existence in an unexpected and most startling manner. Whether the gods of Chance are novelists in embryo or not, it is certain they are remarkably good plotters, hence the sudden demise of George Gresson in a manner which would have done credit to the most brilliant writer of melodrama, living or dead.

The story is too good to be lost. It was the housemaid's fault, of course. She ought to have told Gresson that her master, Vivian Laycock, had suddenly changed his plans and had decided to dispose of his works of art without delay. If a master in the predatory art cannot rely upon his information, his best-laid schemes are apt to go astray. For a long time past, Gresson had made up his mind to possess himself of Vivian Laycock's matchless collection of snuff-boxes, and as a precautionary measure he had made the acquaintance of one of Mr. Laycock's housemaids, in whose heart he had inspired a tender passion mainly by boasting about his little place at Hendon and how happy those two were going to be later on. Therefore he was considerably upset and annoyed to find, quite at the eleventh hour, that Mr. Laycock had arranged for the following morning for his treasure to be fetched away and deposited in the interim for safe custody with the famous firm of auctioneers who were to dispose of the articles.

To think with Gresson was to act. This important conversation had taken place down the lane by the side of the rose-garden, and within ten minutes of that time the housemaid had retired to dream of the little house at Hendon and George Gresson was more or less safe in the conservatory. A mimosa bush tickled his nose and he was more or less distressed by the overpowering scent of the tuberoses. Still, on the whole, these were merely minor vexations, and he began to see his way to a successful expedition.

It was, perhaps, unfortunate for Gresson that Mr. Laycock had been in the rose-garden attending to a convalescent flower of distinguished parentage and had overheard the whole conversation. He jumped to a natural and logical conclusion, and smiled grimly to himself as he picked a green fly off one of the salmon-pink leaves.

As a matter of fact, he was sorely in need of some mental relaxation. People envied Vivian Laycock his beautiful house, his magnificent gardens and his priceless collection of art treasures. But the master of it all would have cheerfully changed places with any of these envious ones. For Laycock went in constant fear of his life. There was always the chance that he would be found some morning with a knife through his back, and become another victim in the long list of mysteries which the police had never solved. It matters nothing for the purpose of the story what Laycock was afraid of. We will assume, if you like, that the man had a past. For years he had been pursued by a relentless enemy whom he had never seen. The pursuit had begun a decade or more before on another continent. Laycock had managed to get away; but he knew that, sooner or later, his pursuer would run him down. And the strange part of the whole affair was that he had never seen the man who would, some time or another, wreak this vengeance upon him. There were moments when he almost forgot the whole matter. There were other times when they came back to him with vivid force. And now the mysterious punishment was upon him,—the man who meant to take his life was in London; he had written to Laycock; he would call upon his victim that evening before midnight.

It sounded absurdly like a chapter from some wild romance; but there the letter was, and the writer meant every word he had penned. Laycock might have placed the matter in the hands of the police, but he knew that, had he done so, the enemy would never appear—he would be warned in time, and then the vengeance would fall in some other, unexpected, direction. Besides, the police would probably only have laughed at the story. In any case they could have done no more than bind the offender over to keep the peace, which would have been tantamount to giving him a free hand to carry out his intentions in his own good time and pleasure. He was coming there that night, either to take Laycock's life, or lose his own. Therefore the odds were all in favor of the stranger: if Laycock had the best of the encounter, he would find it exceedingly difficult, not to say impossible, to convince the authorities that he had acted only in self-defence. And, besides, in that case, the whole disgraceful story would have to be told.

From this it will be seen that Laycock was between the devil and the deep sea when he stood in the rose-garden listening to the piquant little conversation on the other side of the fence. Vaguely he began to see that here was a gift from the god of Chance, and that possibly there was a way out of it for him after all. He was more or less amused. He was more or less looking forward to a dramatic encounter with George Gresson later on. He marked the intruder down in the conservatory. Then he retired to the library and, under the influence of a cigar and a whisky-and-soda, began to elaborate his plans.

It was just before eleven when he retired, somewhat noisily, to bed. Five minutes later he crept down to the library again and took his seat in an arm-chair by the side of the fireplace, where he could control the electric switch. Ten minutes later Gresson came quietly into the room, walking like a cat in the dark and making his way quite coolly in the direction of a glass case of snuff-boxes which stood on the other side of the fireplace. A moment later the switch clicked, the room was flooded with light and the trigger of the revolver in Laycock's hand clicked also. It was a persuasive kind of sound and brought the burglar up all standing.

"Mr. Gresson, I think," Laycock said. "To be more exact, Mr. George Gresson. Glad to see you. Sit down."

George Gresson sat down accordingly. It was not for him to force the conversation; it was his part to listen politely.

"I have heard of you," Laycock went on.

"Only lately, of course—in fact, I happened to overhear your conversation with my housemaid. You are the class of man that poisons life for art collectors like myself; we have always to take you into consideration. Of course you know what is going to happen."

Gresson nodded his head and looked longingly in the direction of the w:hisky-and-soda. His lips were parched, his throat was peculiarly dry.

"Help yourself," Laycock went on. "Now, you know perfectly well that if I hand you over to the police, you will get at least five years. I don't mind telling you that in ordinary circumstances I shouldn't hesitate for a moment. But you are in luck to-night, Mr. Gresson. Oh, you may smile, but, in your own brilliant metaphor, you never know your luck. I mean it is in your hands to walk away from here in an hour's time, a free man with a hundred pounds in your pocket. I am sure you will think that is far better than having the trouble of disposing of my snuff-boxes, with the chance of being picked up by the police at any moment. I should say by the look of you that you are an educated man."

"That is so," Gresson said quietly.

"And a man of the world, too. Now, suppose I ask you to pass yourself off as me for an hour. I am expecting to call at any moment an individual who is personally an entire stranger to me. He knows nothing about my life or my friends; he has never seen me. He is by way of being a blackmailer of sorts. Now, suppose you stay here and personate me, keeping the man as long as you can, while I run over to his lodgings in my motor and obtain possession of certain incriminating papers of mine which he has. I think I can trust you to remain here, because all my works of art are already secure in the safe in my bedroom. If you don't believe me, you have only to look at that glass case behind; and I take it that even you would be more than an hour getting into my safe. Now, if you will do this little service for me, I shall take great pleasure in handing you a hundred pounds when I come back."

Gresson's eyes began to glisten. Here was an adventure after his own heart. From a professional point of view he was disappointed; even from a business outlook the program was more or less of a failure. But, on the other hand, he had saved himself from what he would have termed a "five years' stretch," and the fee was out of all proportion to the services rendered. He helped himself engagingly to a whisky-and-soda and proclaimed that he was game.

"Better do the thing thoroughly while you are about it," he suggested. "I have no doubt I shall be able to draw the feather over the eyes of your friend. You see, I was in a pretty good position at one time, and you can see for yourself that there is nothing in my appearance which is the least objectionable. If you could rig me out in a dress-suit of yours, I think I could act my part all the better. It will be agreeable to sit here and feel that I am master of this place, if only for an hour."

"Very well," Laycock agreed. "Come with me as far as my bedroom... There, upon my word, you look like a gentleman now. All you have to do is to throw dust in the eyes of the man who is coming and treat him as you like. Only keep him here for an hour, and the money is yours."

"Don't you worry about that," Gresson said quietly.

Left to himself, Gresson glanced complacently around and helped himself liberally to another drink. He was enjoying himself by this time. The dress-clothes were by no means a bad fit, the single diamond in his glossy shirt-front sparkled alluringly. It was easy to imagine himself the master of all this wealth and luxury, for Gresson had a lively imagination, and he looked forward to playing his part with satisfaction both to himself and his employer.

It was about half an hour before Gresson was aroused by the ripple of an electric bell somewhere in the distance. He came rightly enough to the conclusion that here was the mysterious stranger, waiting on the doorstep for admission. He crossed the hall leisurely and threw back the big door. A tall, dark man with a beard and mustache, his eyes hidden behind a pair of eye-glasses, lifted a Trilby hat politely. His face was thin and drawn and there was a certain nervousness in his manner which was not lost upon Gresson. Moreover, the new-comer evidently was a foreigner, although his English was correct enough; Gresson mentally put him down as an American.

"You got my letter, sir?" he suggested.

"Go on," Gresson said in non-committal fashion. "I may say that you were expected. Won't you come in?"

The stranger's eyes gleamed behind his glasses.

"You are a very bold man," he murmured.

"Think so?" Gresson asked complacently.

"Well, perhaps I am. In a way I have been expecting you. Come in."

The stranger appeared about to speak, then suddenly changed his mind. With an air of almost indifference he followed Gresson into the library. He took the proffered seat, but curtly declined anything in the way of refreshment. At the mere suggestion, his lips tightened until they were a thin, straight thread under his closely clipped mustache. Despite the man's frailness and his apparent lack of physical qualities, Gresson recognized that he had all the makings of a first-class antagonist; the burglar was a judge in such matters, and, consequently, he was not so complacent as a little time before; he would have felt more cheerful and reliant had the stranger partaken of the suggested whisky-and-soda. This was the kind of fanatic who usually murders his victim first and blows out his own brains afterward. Still, Gresson himself was not without a weapon, for before answering the bell he had taken up Laycock's discarded revolver and slipped it into the pocket of the dress-jacket he was wearing.

"Sorry you won't help yourself," he said. "And now, if you don't mind, we'll get to business."

"I came here for no other purpose," the stranger said, calmly enough. "We have never met before, but you know me."

Gresson nodded his head gravely. Obviously it was his cue to wait for the other man to give him a lead.

"Twelve years ago you did me and mine an irreparable wrong," the stranger went on.

"You did that wrong in cold blood; you calculated the chances to a nicety. But for a little act on your part you would be a poor man to-day; you would not be leading a life of luxury like this. But your scheme, to a certain extent, like most other schemes, was not crowned with complete success. So far as the material side is concerned, you were successful enough. But there were three people you wanted to get rid of, three people you schemed to get out of the way; but two of them lived—lived long enough to find you out. The second man died soon after, but not before he had told the third—myself— what had happened. It was a story that moved me from the first; the more I dwelt upon it, the more did the desire to be even with you grow upon me. We led a lonely life out yonder, as you know, and I have had little else to think about. The remembrance of your treachery was with me day and night until it became a monomania. I swore to myself that if ever I had luck enough, or made money enough, to take a year's holiday in England, I would come and track you down. I have all the evidence of your crime by me, most of it in your own handwriting."

The speaker paused for a moment and coughed; it was a deep, distressing cough, that told of lung trouble behind it. Gresson had his hand on the revolver in his pocket. He checked a tendency to whistle; he was feeling somewhat annoyed with Laycock. What right, he wondered, had the master of this house to put on airs and treat like a dog men who were, at least, as honest as himself? Gresson might be a burglar, but he had never knowingly wronged any one except in the way of business, and his victims could well afford to sustain their losses. Still, Gresson had promised to go through with this interview, and he meant to see the play out to the finish. Just for the moment he had almost forgotten that he was acting the part of substitute to Laycock.

"What do you want me to do?" he asked.

"I want you to do nothing," the stranger replied. "It is too late to talk now. The time has come for action. Even if I thought your repentance was deep and sincere, I should still pursue the same course. But to allow things to go on as they are now—never. You appear to be rich and prosperous. I am a poor man, with barely enough money to pay my passage back home again. Besides, I am naturally not of a robust nature; I have lived too fast, and I have not many months before me. But, at any rate, when my time does come, it will be a satisfaction to me to know that you are out of the way. Now you know what I mean."

"It sounds like a threat," Gresson suggested.

"A threat! Aye, it is something more than that. After all the warnings you have had during these years, you must have learned your lesson very badly if you think that one of my family would stop at threats. But I am going to give you the chance. I could have come here without warning. I could have taken your life with none any the wiser. But I prefer to do the thing openly. Physically you are quite a match for me."

"I should think I was," Gresson said thoughtfully. "Why, Lord love the man, I could smother you!"

The stranger's eyes gleamed again.

"That is how I expected you to speak," he said. "You are as cool and hard and callous as you ever were, just as flippant and artificial. If there had remained a gleam of pity in my heart, it would be extinguished now. But we are wasting time."

Gresson glanced uneasily at the clock. Things were progressing a little faster than he had expected, and he had promised to detain the stranger for at least an hour. It was only fair to Laycock that he should do so. Yet here was this bloodthirsty intruder forcing matters along at a breakneck pace, and altogether refusing to play the game in a neat and artistic manner. It would be an easy matter, Gresson thought, to take the revolver from his pocket and drive the stranger off the premises with a threat of an ounce or so of lead in his brain if he did not comply forthwith.

"What's your hurry!" he said. "Do you suppose there is only one side to the business? Are you not going to listen to anything that I have got to say? Come, be fair."

A strange laugh broke from the intruder's hps. His face was pale and ghastly now. But there was no fear or hesitation in his eyes. He looked round the room with a sudden contempt for all its luxury and artistic splendor.

"What can you have to say?" he asked. "What possible point can you adduce in your own favor. Why, of all the poisonous scoundrels who ever lived, of all the cold-blooded rascals ever heard of, you are the worst! And yet you sit quietly there asking me to argue the point. I have argued it with myself, and I have found you guilty. And now—"

"What a beggar it is to talk!" Gresson said thoughtlessly. He was forgetting his part for the moment. "You remind me of a dreary play I once saw across the water. I think it was called 'The Stranger.' He was the most garrulous beggar I ever saw on the stage, and, upon my word, you remind me of him. If it is a matter of money, you have only to say the word"

"Money!" the stranger cried passionately.

"Do you think money will do everything? Is it omnipotent?"

"In a general way, yes," Gresson said sapiently. "At least, I find it so. Now, my dear man"

But the stranger was not listening. He had risen to his feet excitedly. He was trembling and shaking from head to foot, like a cat about to spring on a bird. Before Gresson could realize what had happened, the man had cleared the intervening space and was upon him. He pinned Laycock's understudy down in the springy depths of his arm-chair. He had him by the throat with a grip that could have been inspired only by hatred or malice or both commingled. A long knife gleamed in his hand. Gresson could see the red rims of his eyes as he bent forward with a knife drawn back as if to strike a final and deadly blow.

"Here, steady on!" Gresson expostulated. "If you are not careful, you will be doing—"

But it was too late. The knife came down in a swerving glittering circle right over the glossy shirt which covered Gresson's heart. At the same time Gresson drew his revolver and fired point-blank into the face of his mad antagonist.

Vivian Laycock came back slowly and thoughtfully from Blackheath. He was driving his car himself. He had many things to dispose of in his mind before he reached his residence. His mission had not been altogether unsuccessful, for in his breast-pocket was the bundle of papers of which he had been in search.

He put the car away, congratulating himself upon the fact that it had been a dry night and that there was not much to be done to the big automobile in the way of removing such dust and stains as would have given evidence that the car had been on the road. The garage was some distance from the house and Laycock's chauffeur was in London on a brief holiday. At the end of half an hour not even the astutest detective would have noticed that the motor had been out of its stable. Laycock removed his leather suit and hung it carefully in its usual place.

He was quite calm and collected now; it seemed his plans were moving smoothly. Then he went back to the house and let himself quietly in with his latch-key. He did not proceed directly to the library. On the contrary, after he had fastened the front door, he turned to the dining-room. Here he helped himself liberally to brandy.

"I need it," he muttered. "I am afraid my nerves are not quite what I thought they were. I wonder what I shall see when I get to the library? It is very quiet in there."

The brandy had steadied him, for Laycock was an abstemious man, so that the generous spirit lost no time in getting to work. Yet, as he stood there he could hear the beating of his own heart; he could feel the sharp, quick flutter of his pulses. And it was still, too, deadly, awfully still, so that the scratching of a mouse behind one of the panels sounded like a strident voice of accusation shouting from the house-top.

It seemed to Laycock that he could stand it no longer, though at the same time he was afraid to move. Tiny beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead. With an effort he raised one foot, and put it down on the parquet floor a yard nearer the library door. He had control of himself now. He pushed the door open and strode into the room.

Small wonder that the place was deadly still. For Gresson lay back in his arm-chair, his limbs relaxed, his head grotesquely and awfully sideways. Over his heart a great slash in the glossy shirt-front, from which a thin, beady stream of dark red was flowing. It needed no critical glance to see that the burglar was dead.

Stretched at his feet across the hearth-rug the stranger lay, with his head in the fireplace. Close by him was a revolver, one chamber only of which was discharged. There was a small blue scar on his forehead through which the bullet had entered.

For full five minutes Laycock stood contemplating the scene, then he glanced fearfully around him. Something like this he had expected. The only fact that he noticed now was the appalling success of his scheme. That the burglar would perish in his place he had expected; but that the murderer, who had crossed a whole continent to do this thing, should have perished also was to jump from the realm of possibility into romance. The man had come all these miles to do this deed! In ordinary circumstances he would have gone away, feeling that at length vengeance was satisfied and desirous only of putting an ocean between himself and possible pursuit. If only the burglar had died, then Laycock would have felt himself secure for the future. But that both of them should be wiped out of existence was a piece of good fortune on which he had not counted for a moment.

He could see now that he had gone a little too far, that he had been just a little too calculating and elaborate. What he needed was an explanation so simple that he could have given it without change or variation, even if he had been roused in the night to do so. Now there was work before him. He regretted from the bottom of his heart that he had gone so far as to fall in with Gresson's suggestion that the latter should wear one of his own dress-suits. Fortunately, the shirt Gresson was wearing was a new one and unmarked. The shot which had slain the stranger had been fired by Laycock's own revolver; but that, again, was a detail capable of ready explanation.

It was not an easy matter to remove Gresson's dress-clothes and substitute his own, but it was accomplished at length without any one in that silent, slumbering household being any the wiser. Laycock left the coat and waistcoat unfastened so that the blow from the knife should look quite natural. Once the repulsive work was done, he stepped back to contemplate the picture with the eye of an artist who has at last posed his models to his perfect satisfaction. Then he started from the room, shouting at the top of his voice and thundering upon the bronze gong which stood in the hall. He had discarded his own clothes and was in his pajamas and a dressing-gown. The whole place re-echoed to the din. The clang of it sounded horrible in Laycock's own ears. He was profoundly thankful when the butler and a footman presently appeared, followed in the background by a knot of timid women-servants.

"I thought I should never rouse you," Laycock said. "One of you go round to the stables and wake up the coachman. I came down-stairs just now, roused by the sound of a shot and found that two burglars were in the library. Possibly they had come together, possibly they were strangers to each other and had both arranged to raid the house the same night. At any rate, they seem to have come in conflict. As far as I can see, they are both dead."

It was all coolly and naturally done. The whole house was a blaze of light now. A little while later and one of the grooms hurried off for the police. An inspector arrived presently and listened gravely to all Laycock had to say.

"Bit of a startler for you, sir," the inspector said respectfully. "But perhaps I had better go into the library and examine things for myself. If you don't care to come along with me, sir"

"Why not?" Laycock asked. "I have already seen the horrors for myself. I am not afraid."

The inspector proceeded to take notes coolly enough. He naturally desired to know how these intruders had got into the house. But the open door of the conservatory explained that. Then the inspector bent down over the body of the man lying in the arm-chair, and a gleam of recognition came into his eyes.

"I know him, at any rate, sir," he said. "Why, it is George Gresson! Of all the artful burglars in London, he is about the sharpest of the lot. We have been trying to catch him for years without success. But, you see, he was a man of education, and all the time he has been at the game we have never been able to lay him by the heels more than once."

"Do you know the other man?" Laycock asked.

The inspector shook his head. He had not the least idea who the other man was. Assuredly he had never seen him before; neither had he any theory to advance.

"We shall never clear it up, sir," the inspector said. "You mark my words if we do. There are certain crimes which always remain mysteries, and you will see that this will be one of them."

Laycock was of the same opinion.

The collector of curios never explained why he changed his mind about the sale of his snuff-boxes, and why they still adorn his beautiful house at Lee. But, then, Laycock is a man of few words, and the reticent habit grows on him as he gets older.

THE END