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201	--- title: The Tower of the Elephant author: Robert E. Howard tags: Fiction, Short Story, Adventure, Fantasy, Sword & Sorcery word count: 9576 ... # Chapter I Torches flared murkily on the revels in the Maul, where the thieves of the east held carnival by night. In the Maul they could carouse and roar as they liked, for honest people shunned the quarters, and watchmen, well paid with stained coins, did not interfere with their sport. Along the crooked, unpaved streets with their heaps of refuse and sloppy puddles, drunken roisterers staggered, roaring. Steel glinted in the shadows where wolf preyed on wolf, and from the darkness rose the shrill laughter of women, and the sounds of scufflings and strugglings. Torchlight licked luridly from broken windows and wide-thrown doors, and out of those doors, stale smells of wine and rank sweaty bodies, clamor of drinking-jacks and fists hammered on rough tables, snatches of obscene songs, rushed like a blow in the face. In one of these dens merriment thundered to the low smoke-stained roof, where rascals gathered in every stage of rags and tatters—furtive cut-purses, leering kidnappers, quick-fingered thieves, swaggering bravoes with their wenches, strident-voiced women clad in tawdry finery. Native rogues were the dominant element—dark-skinned, dark-eyed Zamorians, with daggers at their girdles and guile in their hearts. But there were wolves of half a dozen outland nations there as well. There was a giant Hyperborean renegade, taciturn, dangerous, with a broadsword strapped to his great gaunt frame—for men wore steel openly in the Maul. There was a Shemitish counterfeiter, with his hook nose and curled blue-black beard. There was a bold-eyed Brythunian wench, sitting on the knee of a tawny-haired Gunderman—a wandering mercenary soldier, a deserter from some defeated army. And the fat gross rogue whose bawdy jests were causing all the shouts of mirth was a professional kidnapper come up from distant Koth to teach woman-stealing to Zamorians who were born with more knowledge of the art than he could ever attain. This man halted in his description of an intended victim's charms, and thrust his muzzle into a huge tankard of frothing ale. Then blowing-the foam from his fat lips, he said, "By Bel, god of all thieves, I'll show them how to steal wenches: I'll have her over the Zamorian border before dawn, and there'll be a caravan waiting to receive her. Three hundred pieces of silver, a count of Ophir promised me for a sleek young Brythunian of the better class. It took me weeks, wandering among the border cities as a beggar, to find one I knew would suit. And is she a pretty baggage!" He blew a slobbery kiss in the air. "I know lords in Shem who would trade the secret of the Elephant Tower for her," he said, returning to his ale. A touch on his tunic sleeve made him turn his head, scowling at the interruption. He saw a tall, strongly made youth standing beside him. This person was as much out of place in that den as a gray wolf among mangy rats of the gutters. His cheap tunic could not conceal the hard, rangy lines of his powerful frame, the broad heavy shoulders, the massive chest, lean waist, and heavy arms. His skin was brown from outland suns, his eyes blue and smoldering; a shock of tousled black hair crowned his broad forehead. From his girdle hung a sword in a worn leather scabbard. The Kothian involuntarily drew back; for the man was not one of any civilized race he knew. "You spoke of the Elephant Tower," said the stranger, speaking Zamorian with an alien accent. "I've heard much of this tower; what is its secret?" The fellow's attitude did not seem threatening, and the Kothian's courage was bolstered up by the ale, and the evident approval of his audience. He swelled with self-importance. "The secret of the Elephant Tower?" he exclaimed. "Why, any fool knows that Yara the priest dwells there with the great jewel men call the Elephant's Heart, that is the secret of his magic." The barbarian digested this for a space. "I have seen this tower," he said. "It is set in a great garden above the level of the city, surrounded by high walls. I have seen no guards. The walls would be easy to climb. Why has not somebody stolen this secret gem?" The Kothian stared wide-mouthed at the other's simplicity, then burst into a roar of derisive mirth, in which the others joined. "Harken to this heathen!" he bellowed. "He would steal the jewel of Yara! - Harken, fellow," he said, turning portentously to the other, "I suppose you are some sort of a northern barbarian—" "I am a Cimmerian," the outlander answered, in no friendly tone. The reply and the manner of it meant little to the Kothian; of a kingdom that lay far to the south, on the borders of Shem, he knew only vaguely of the northern races. "Then give ear and learn wisdom, fellow," said he, pointing his drinking-jack at the discomfited youth. "Know that in Zamora, and more especially in this city, there are more bold thieves than anywhere else in the world, even Koth. If mortal man could have stolen the gem, be sure it would have been filched long ago. You speak of climbing the walls, but once having climbed, you would quickly wish yourself back again. There are no guards in the gardens at night for a very good reason—that is, no human guards. But in the watch-chamber, in the lower part of the tower, are armed men, and even if you passed those who roam the gardens by night, you must still pass through the soldiers, for the gem is kept somewhere in the tower above." "But if a man could pass through the gardens," argued the Cimmerian, "why could he not come at the gem through the upper part of the tower and thus avoid the soldiers?" Again the Kothian gaped at him. "Listen to him!" he shouted jeeringly. "The barbarian is an eagle who would fly to the jeweled rim of the tower, which is only a hundred and fifty feet above the earth, with rounded sides slicker than polished glass!" The Cimmerian glared about, embarrassed at the roar of mocking laughter that greeted this remark. He saw no particular humor in it, and was too new to civilization to understand its discourtesies. Civilized men are more discourteous than savages because they know they can be impolite without having their skulls split, as a general thing. He was bewildered and chagrined, and doubtless would have slunk away, abashed, but the Kothian chose to goad him further. "Come, come!" he shouted. "Tell these poor fellows, who have only been thieves since before you were spawned, tell them how you would steal the gem!" "There is always a way, if the desire be coupled with courage," answered the Cimmerian shortly, nettled. The Kothian chose to take this as a personal slur. His face grew purple with anger. "What!" he roared. "You dare tell us our business, and intimate that we are cowards? Get along; get out of my sight!" And he pushed the Cimmerian violently. "Will you mock me and then lay hands on me?" grated the barbarian, his quick rage leaping up; and he returned the push with an open-handed blow that knocked his tormenter back against the rude-hewn table. Ale splashed over the jack's lip, and the Kothian roared in fury, dragging at his sword. "Heathen dog!" he bellowed. "I'll have your heart for that!" Steel flashed and the throng surged wildly back out of the way. In their flight they knocked over the single candle and the den was plunged in darkness, broken by the crash of upset benches, drum of flying feet, shouts, oaths of people tumbling over one another, and a single strident yell of agony that cut the din like a knife. When a candle was relighted, most of the guests had gone out by doors and broken windows, and the rest huddled behind stacks of wine-kegs and under tables. The barbarian was gone; the center of the room was deserted except for the gashed body of the Kothian. The Cimmerian, with the unerring instinct of the barbarian, had killed his man in the darkness and confusion. # Chapter II The lurid lights and drunken revelry fell away behind the Cimmerian. He had discarded his torn tunic, and walked through the night naked except for a loin-cloth and his high-strapped sandals. He moved with the supple ease of a great tiger, his steely muscles rippling under his brown skin. He had entered the part of the city reserved for the temples. On all sides of him they glittered white in the starlight—snowy marble pillars and golden domes and silver arches, shrines of Zamora's myriad strange gods. He did not trouble his head about them; he knew that Zamora's religion, like all things of a civilized, long-settled people, was intricate and complex, and had lost most of the pristine essence in a maze of formulas and rituals. He had squatted for hours in the courtyards of the philosophers, listening to the arguments of theologians and teachers, and come away in a haze of bewilderment, sure of only one thing, and that, that they were all touched in the head. His gods were simple and understandable; Crom was their chief, and he lived on a great mountain, whence he sent forth dooms and death. It was useless to call on Crom, because he was a gloomy, savage god, and he hated weaklings. But he gave a man courage at birth, and the will and might to kill his enemies, which, in the Cimmerian's mind, was all any god should be expected to do. His sandalled feet made no sound on the gleaming pave. No watchmen passed, for even the thieves of the Maul shunned the temples, where strange dooms had been known to fall on violators. Ahead of him he saw, looming against the sky, the Tower of the Elephant. He mused, wondering why it was so named. No one seemed to know. He had never seen an elephant, but he vaguely understood that it was a monstrous animal, with a tail in front as well as behind. This a wandering Shemite had told him, swearing that he had seen such beasts by the thousands in the country of the Hyrkanians; but all men knew what liars were the men of Shem. At any rate, there were no elephants in Zamora. The shimmering shaft of the tower rose frostily in the stars. In the sunlight it shone so dazzlingly that few could bear its glare, and men said it was built of silver. It was round, a slim perfect cylinder, a hundred and fifty feet in height, and its rim glittered in the starlight with the great jewels which crusted it. The tower stood among the waving exotic trees of a garden raised high above the general level of the city. A high wall enclosed this garden, and outside the wall was a lower level, likewise enclosed by a wall. No lights shone forth; there seemed to be no windows in the tower—at least not above the level of the inner wall. Only the gems high above sparkled frostily in the starlight. Shrubbery grew thick outside the lower, or outer wall. The Cimmerian crept close and stood beside the barrier, measuring it with his eye. It was high, but he could leap and catch the coping with his fingers. Then it would be child's play to swing himself up and over, and he did not doubt that he could pass the inner wall in the same manner. But he hesitated at the thought of the strange perils which were said to await within. These people were strange and mysterious to him; they were not of his kind—not even of the same blood as the more westerly Brythunians, Nemedians, Kothians and Aquilonians, whose civilized mysteries had awed him in times past. The people of Zamora were very ancient, and, from what he had seen of them, very evil. He thought of Yara, the high priest, who worked strange dooms from this jeweled tower, and the Cimmerian's hair prickled as he remembered a tale told by a drunken page of the court—how Yara had laughed in the face of a hostile prince, and held up a glowing, evil gem before him, and how rays shot blindingly from that unholy jewel, to envelop the prince, who screamed and fell down, and shrank to a withered blackened lump that changed to a black spider which scampered wildly about the chamber until Yara set his heel upon it. Yara came not often from his tower of magic, and always to work evil on some man or some nation. The king of Zamora feared him more than he feared death, and kept himself drunk all the time because that fear was more than he could endure sober. Yara was very old—centuries old, men said, and added that he would live for ever because of the magic of his gem, which men called the Heart of the Elephant, for no better reason than they named his hold the Elephant's Tower. The Cimmerian, engrossed in these thoughts, shrank quickly against the wall. Within the garden some one was passing, who walked with a measured stride. The listener heard the clink of steel. So after all a guard did pace those gardens. The Cimmerian waited, expected to hear him pass again, on the next round, but silence rested over the mysterious gardens. At last curiosity overcame him. Leaping lightly he grasped the wall and swung himself up to the top with one arm. Lying flat on the broad coping, he looked down into the wide space between the walls. No shrubbery grew near him, though he saw some carefully trimmed bushes near the inner wall. The starlight fell on the even sward and somewhere a fountain tinkled. The Cimmerian cautiously lowered himself down on the inside and drew his sword, staring about him. He was shaken by the nervousness of the wild at standing thus unprotected in the naked starlight, and he moved lightly around the curve of the wall, hugging its shadow, until he was even with the shrubbery he had noticed. Then he ran quickly toward it, crouching low, and almost tripped over a form that lay crumpled near the edges of the bushes. A quick look to right and left showed him no enemy in sight at least, and he bent close to investigate. His keen eyes, even in the dim starlight, showed him a strongly built man in the silvered armor and crested helmet of the Zamorian royal guard. A shield and a spear lay near him, and it took but an instant's examination to show that he had been strangled. The barbarian glanced about uneasily. He knew that this man must be the guard he had heard pass his hiding-place by the wall. Only a short time had passed, yet in that interval nameless hands had reached out of the dark and choked out the soldier's life. Straining his eyes in the gloom, he saw a hint of motion through the shrubs near the wall. Thither he glided, gripping his sword. He made no more noise than a panther stealing through the night, yet the man he was stalking heard. The Cimmerian had a dim glimpse of a huge bulk close to the wall, felt relief that it was at least human; then the fellow wheeled quickly with a gasp that sounded like panic, made the first motion of a forward plunge, hands clutching, then recoiled as the Cimmerian's blade caught the starlight. For a tense instant neither spoke, standing ready for anything. "You are no soldier," hissed the stranger at last. "You are a thief like myself" "And who are you?" asked the Cimmerian in a suspicious whisper. "Taurus of Nemedia." The Cimmerian lowered his sword. "I've heard of you. Men call you a prince of thieves." A low laugh answered him. Taurus was tall as the Cimmerian, and heavier; he was big-bellied and fat, but his every movement betokened a subtle dynamic magnetism, which was reflected in the keen eyes that glinted vitally, even in the starlight. He was barefooted and carried a coil of what looked like a thin, strong rope, knotted at regular intervals. "Who are you?" he whispered. "Conan, a Cimmerian," answered the other. "I came seeking a way to steal Yara's jewel, that men call the Elephant's Heart." Conan sensed the man's great belly shaking in laughter, but it was not derisive. "By Bel, god of thieves!" hissed Taurus. "I had thought only myself had courage to attempt that poaching. These Zamorians call themselves thieves—bah! Conan, I like your grit. I never shared an adventure with anyone, but by Bel, we'll attempt this together if you're willing." "Then you are after the gem, too?" "What else? I've had my plans laid for months, but you, I think, have acted on sudden impulse, my friend." "You killed the soldier?" "Of course. I slid over the wall when he was on the other side of the garden. I hid in the bushes; he heard me, or thought he heard something. When he came blundering over, it was no trick at all to get behind him and suddenly grip his neck and choke out his fool's life. He was like most men, half blind in the dark. A good thief should have eyes like a cat." "You made one mistake," said Conan. Taurus' eyes flashed angrily. "I? I, a mistake? Impossible!" "You should have dragged the body into the bushes." "Said the novice to the master of the art. They will not change the guard until past midnight. Should any come searching for him now, and find his body, they would flee at once to Yara, bellowing the news, and give us time to escape. Were they not to find it, they'd go beating up the bushes and catch us like rats in a trap." "You are right," agreed Conan. "So. Now attend. We waste time in this cursed discussion. There are no guards in the inner garden—human guards, I mean, though there are sentinels even more deadly. It was their presence which baffled me for so long, but I finally discovered a way to circumvent them." "What of the soldiers in the lower part of the tower?" "Old Yara dwells in the chambers above. By that route we will come—and go, I hope. Never mind asking me how. I have arranged a way. We'll steal down through the top of the tower and strangle old Yara before he can cast any of his accursed spells on us. At least we'll try; it's the chance of being turned into a spider or a toad, against the wealth and power of the world. All good thieves must know how to take risks." "I'll go as far as any man," said Conan, slipping off his sandals. "Then follow me." And turning, Taurus leaped up, caught the wall and drew himself up. The man's suppleness was amazing, considering his bulk; he seemed almost to glide up over the edge of the coping. Conan followed him, and lying flat on the broad top, they spoke in wary whispers. "I see no light," Conan muttered. The lower part of the tower seemed much like that portion visible from outside the garden—a perfect, gleaming cylinder, with no apparent openings. "There are cleverly constructed doors and windows," answered Taurus, "but they are closed. The soldiers breathe air that comes from above." The garden was a vague pool of shadows, where feathery bushes and low spreading trees waved darkly in the starlight. Conan's wary soul felt the aura of waiting menace that brooded over it. He felt the burning glare of unseen eyes, and he caught a subtle scent that made the short hairs on his neck instinctively bristle as a hunting dog bristles at the scent of an ancient enemy. "Follow me," whispered Taurus, "keep behind me, as you value your life." Taking what looked like a copper tube from his girdle, the Nemedian dropped lightly to the sward inside the wall. Conan was close behind him, sword ready, but Taurus pushed him back, close to the wall, and showed no inclination to advance, himself. His whole attitude was of tense expectancy, and his gaze, like Conan's, was fixed on the shadowy mass of shrubbery a few yards away. This shrubbery was shaken, although the breeze had died down. Then two great eyes blazed from the waving shadows, and behind them other sparks of fire glinted in the darkness. "Lions!" muttered Conan. "Aye. By day they are kept in subterranean caverns below the tower. That's why there are no guards in this garden." Conan counted the eyes rapidly. "Five in sight; maybe more back in the bushes. They'll charge in a moment—" "Be silent!" hissed Taurus, and he moved out from the wall, cautiously as if treading on razors, lifting the slender tube. Low rumblings rose from the shadows and the blazing eyes moved forward. Conan could sense the great slavering jaws, the tufted tails lashing tawny sides. The air grew tense—the Cimmerian gripped his sword, expecting the charge and the irresistible hurtling of giant bodies. Then Taurus brought the mouth of the tube to his lips and blew powerfully. A long jet of yellowish powder shot from the other end of the tube and billowed out instantly in a thick green-yellow cloud that settled over the shrubbery, blotting out the glaring eyes. Taurus ran back hastily to the wall. Conan glared without understanding. The thick cloud hid the shrubbery, and from it no sound came. "What is that mist?" the Cimmerian asked uneasily. "Death!" hissed the Nemedian. "If a wind springs up and blows it back upon us, we must flee over the wall. But no, the wind is still, and now it is dissipating. Wait until it vanishes entirely. To breathe it is death." Presently only yellowish shreds hung ghostily in the air; then they were gone, and Taurus motioned his companion forward. They stole toward the bushes, and Conan gasped. Stretched out in the shadows lay five great tawny shapes, the fire of their grim eyes dimmed for ever. A sweetish cloying scent lingered in the atmosphere. "They died without a sound!" muttered the Cimmerian. "Taurus, what was that powder?" "It was made from the black lotus, whose blossoms wave in the lost jungles of Khitai, where only the yellow-skulled priests of Yun dwell. Those blossoms strike dead any who smell of them." Conan knelt beside the great forms, assuring himself that they were indeed beyond power of harm. He shook his head; the magic of the exotic lands was mysterious and terrible to the barbarians of the north. "Why can you not slay the soldiers in the tower in the same way?" he asked. "Because that was all the powder I possessed. The obtaining of it was a feat which in itself was enough to make me famous among the thieves of the world. I stole it out of a caravan bound for Stygia, and I lifted it, in its cloth-of-gold bag, out of the coils of the great serpent which guarded it, without awaking him. But come, in Bel's name! Are we to waste the night in discussion?" They glided through the shrubbery to the gleaming foot of the tower, and there, with a motion enjoining silence, Taurus unwound his knotted cord, on one end of which was a strong steel hook. Conan saw his plan, and asked no questions as the Nemedian gripped the line a short distance below the hook, and began to swing it about his head. Conan laid his ear to the smooth wall and listened, but could hear nothing. Evidently the soldiers within did not suspect the presence of intruders, who had made no more sound than the night wind blowing through the trees. But a strange nervousness was on the barbarian; perhaps it was the lion-smell which was over everything. Taurus threw the line with a smooth, ripping motion of his mighty arm. The hook curved upward and inward in a peculiar manner, hard to describe, and vanished over the jeweled rim. It apparently caught firmly, for cautious jerking and then hard pulling did not result in any slipping or giving. "Luck the first cast," murmured Taurus. "I—" It was Conan's savage instinct which made him wheel suddenly; for the death that was upon them made no sound. A fleeting glimpse showed the Cimmerian the giant tawny shape, rearing upright against the stars, towering over him for the death-stroke. No civilized man could have moved half so quickly as the barbarian moved. His sword flashed frostily in the starlight with every ounce of desperate nerve and thew behind it, and man and beast went down together. Cursing incoherently beneath his breath, Taurus bent above the mass, and saw his companion's limbs move as he strove to drag himself from under the great weight that lay limply upon him. A glance showed the startled Nemedian that the lion was dead, its slanting skull split in half. He laid hold of the carcass, and by his aid, Conan thrust it aside and clambered up, still gripping his dripping sword. "Are you hurt, man?" gasped Taurus, still bewildered by the stunning swiftness of that touch-and-go episode. "No, by Crom!" answered the barbarian. "But that was as close a call as I've had in a life noways tame. Why did not the cursed beast roar as he charged?" "All things are strange in this garden," said Taurus. "The lions strike silently—and so do other deaths. But come—little sound was made in that slaying, but the soldiers might have heard, if they are not asleep or drunk. That beast was in some other part of the garden and escaped the death of the flowers, but surely there are no more. We must climb this cord—little need to ask a Cimmerian if he can." "If it will bear my weight," grunted Conan, cleansing his sword on the grass. "It will bear thrice my own," answered Taurus. "It was woven from the tresses of dead women, which I took from their tombs at midnight, and steeped in the deadly wine of the upas tree, to give it strength. I will go first—then follow me closely." The Nemedian gripped the rope and crooking a knee about it, began the ascent; he went up like a cat, belying the apparent clumsiness of his bulk. The Cimmerian followed. The cord swayed and turned on itself, but the climbers were not hindered; both had made more difficult climbs before. The jeweled rim glittered high above them, jutting out from the perpendicular of the wall, so that the cord hung perhaps a foot from the side of the tower—a fact which added greatly to the ease of the ascent. Up and up they went, silently, the lights of the city spreading out further and further to their sight as they climbed, the stars above them more and more dimmed by the glitter of the jewels along the rim. Now Taurus reached up a hand and gripped the rim itself, pulling himself up and over. Conan paused a moment on the very edge, fascinated by the great frosty jewels whose gleams dazzled his eyes—diamonds, rubies, emeralds, sapphires, turquoises, moonstones, set thick as stars in the shimmering silver. At a distance their different gleams had seemed to merge into a pulsing white glare; but now, at close range, they shimmered with a million rainbow tints and lights, hypnotizing him with their scintillations. "There is a fabulous fortune here, Taurus," he whispered; but the Nemedian answered impatiently, "Come on! If we secure the Heart, these and all other things shall be ours." Conan climbed over the sparkling rim. The level of the tower's top was some feet below the gemmed ledge. It was flat, composed of some dark blue substance, set with gold that caught the starlight, so that the whole looked like a wide sapphire flecked with shining gold-dust. Across from the point where they had entered there seemed to be a sort of chamber, built upon the roof. It was of the same silvery material as the walls of the tower, adorned with designs worked in smaller gems; its single door was of gold, its surface cut in scales, and crusted with jewels that gleamed like ice. Conan cast a glance at the pulsing ocean of lights which spread far below them, then glanced at Taurus. The Nemedian was drawing up his cord and coiling it. He showed Conan where the hook had caught—a fraction of an inch of the point had sunk under a great blazing jewel on the inner side of the rim. "Luck was with us again," he muttered. "One would think that our combined weight would have torn that stone out. Follow me; the real risks of the venture begin now. We are in the serpent's lair, and we know not where he lies hidden." Like stalking tigers they crept across the darkly gleaming floor and halted outside the sparkling door. With a deft and cautious hand Taurus tried it. It gave without resistance, and the companions looked in, tensed for anything. Over the Nemedian's shoulder Conan had a glimpse of a glittering chamber, the walls, ceiling and floor of which were crusted with great white jewels which lighted it brightly, and which seemed its only illumination. It seemed empty of life. "Before we cut off our last retreat," hissed Taurus, "go you to the rim and look over on all sides; if you see any soldiers moving in the gardens, or anything suspicious, return and tell me. I will await you within this chamber." Conan saw scant reason in this, and a faint suspicion of his companion touched his wary soul, but he did as Taurus requested. As he turned away, the Nemedian slipt inside the door and drew it shut behind him. Conan crept about the rim of the tower, returning to his starting-point without having seen any suspicious movement in the vaguely waving sea of leaves below. He turned toward the door-suddenly from within the chamber there sounded a strangled cry. The Cimmerian leaped forward, electrified—the gleaming door swung open and Taurus stood framed in the cold blaze behind him. He swayed and his lips parted, but only a dry rattle burst from his throat. Catching at the golden door for support, he lurched out upon the roof, then fell headlong, clutching at his throat. The door swung to behind him. Conan, crouching like a panther at bay, saw nothing in the room behind the stricken Nemedian, in the brief instant the door was partly open—unless it was not a trick of the light which made it seem as if a shadow darted across the gleaming floor. Nothing followed Taurus out on the roof, and Conan bent above the man. The Nemedian stared up with dilated, glazing eyes, that somehow held a terrible bewilderment. His hands clawed at his throat, his lips slobbered and gurgled; then suddenly he stiffened, and the astounded Cimmerian knew that he was dead. And he felt that Taurus had died without knowing what manner of death had stricken him. Conan glared bewilderedly at the cryptic golden door. In that empty room, with its glittering jeweled walls, death had come to the prince of thieves as swiftly and mysteriously as he had dealt doom to the lions in the gardens below. Gingerly the barbarian ran his hands over the man's half-naked body, seeking a wound. But the only marks of violence were between his shoulders, high up near the base of his bull-neck—three small wounds, which looked as if three nails had been driven deep in the flesh and withdrawn. The edges of these wounds were black, and a faint smell as of putrefaction was evident. Poisoned darts? thought Conan—but in that case the missiles should be still in the wounds. Cautiously he stole toward the golden door, pushed it open, and looked inside. The chamber lay empty, bathed in the cold, pulsing glow of the myriad jewels. In the very center of the ceiling he idly noted a curious design—a black eight-sided pattern, in the center of which four gems glittered with a red flame unlike the white blaze of the other jewels. Across the room there was another door, like the one in which he stood, except that it was not carved in the scale pattern. Was it from that door that death had come?—and having struck down its victim, had it retreated by the same way? Closing the door behind him, the Cimmerian advanced into the chamber. His bare feet made no sound on the crystal floor. There were no chairs or tables in the chamber, only three or four silken couches, embroidered with gold and worked in strange serpentine designs, and several silver-bound mahogany chests. Some were sealed with heavy golden locks; others lay open, their carven lids thrown back, revealing heaps of jewels in a careless riot of splendor to the Cimmerian's astounded eyes. Conan swore beneath his breath; already he had looked upon more wealth that night than he had ever dreamed existed in all the world, and he grew dizzy thinking of what must be the value of the jewel he sought. He was in the center of the room now, going stooped forward, head thrust out warily, sword advanced, when again death struck at him soundlessly. A flying shadow that swept across the gleaming floor was his only warning, and his instinctive sidelong leap all that saved his life. He had a flashing glimpse of a hairy black horror that swung past him with a clashing of frothing fangs, and something splashed on his bare shoulder that burned like drops of liquid hell-fire. Springing back, sword high, he saw the horror strike the floor, wheel and scuttle toward him with appalling speed—a gigantic black spider, such as men see only in nightmare dreams. It was as large as a pig, and its eight thick hairy legs drove its ogreish body over the floor at headlong pace; its four evilly gleaming eyes shone with a horrible intelligence, and its fangs dripped venom that Conan knew, from the burning of his shoulder where only a few drops had splashed as the thing struck and missed, was laden with swift death. This was the killer that had dropped from its perch in the middle of the ceiling on a strand of its web, on the neck of the Nemedian. Fools that they were not to have suspected that the upper chambers would be guarded as well as the lower! These thoughts flashed briefly through Conan's mind as the monster rushed. He leaped high, and it passed beneath him, wheeled and charged back. This time he evaded its rush with a sidewise leap, and struck back like a cat. His sword severed one of the hairy legs, and again he barely saved himself as the monstrosity swerved at him, fangs clicking fiendishly. But the creature did not press the pursuit; turning, it scuttled across the crystal floor and ran up the wall to the ceiling, where it crouched for an instant, glaring down at him with its fiendish red eyes. Then without warning it launched itself through space, trailing a strand of slimy grayish stuff. Conan stepped back to avoid the hurtling body—then ducked frantically, just in time to escape being snared by the flying web-rope. He saw the monster's intent and sprang toward the door, but it was quicker, and a sticky strand cast across the door made him a prisoner. He dared not try to cut it with his sword; he knew the stuff would cling to the blade, and before he could shake it loose, the fiend would be sinking its fangs in to his back. Then began a desperate game, the wits and quickness of the man matched against the fiendish craft and speed of the giant spider. It no longer scuttled across the floor in a direct charge, or swung its body through the air at him. It raced about the ceiling and the walls, seeking to snare him in the long loops of sticky gray web-strands, which it flung with a devilish accuracy. These strands were thick as ropes, and Conan knew that once they were coiled about him, his desperate strength would not be enough to tear him free before the monster struck. All over the chamber went on that devil's dance, in utter silence except for the quick breathing of the man, the low scuff of his bare feet on the shining floor, the castanet rattle of the monstrosity's fangs. The gray strands lay in coils on the floor; they were looped along the walls; they overlaid the jewel-chests and silken couches, and hung in dusky festoons from the jeweled ceiling. Conan's steel-trap quickness of eye and muscle had kept him untouched, though the sticky loops had passed him so close they rasped his naked hide. He knew he could not always avoid them; he not only had to watch the strands swinging from the ceiling, but to keep his eye on the floor, lest he trip in the coils that lay there. Sooner or later a gummy loop would writhe about him, python-like, and then, wrapped like a cocoon, he would lie at the monster's mercy. The spider raced across the chamber floor, the gray rope waving out behind it. Conan leaped high, clearing a couch—with a quick wheel the fiend ran up the wall, and the strand, leaping off the floor like a live thing, whipped about the Cimmerian's ankle. He caught himself on his hands as he fell, jerking frantically at the web which held him like a pliant vise, or the coil of a python. The hairy devil was racing down the wall to complete its capture. Stung to frenzy, Conan caught up a jewel chest and hurled it with all his strength. It was a move the monster was not expecting. Full in the midst of the branching black legs the massive missile struck, smashing against the wall with a muffled sickening crunch. Blood and greenish slime spattered, and the shattered mass fell with the burst gem-chest to the floor. The crushed black body lay among the flaming riot of jewels that spilled over it; the hairy legs moved aimlessly, the dying eyes glittered redly among the twinkling gems. Conan glared about, but no other horror appeared, and he set himself to working free of the web. The substance clung tenaciously to his ankle and his hands, but at last he was free, and taking up his sword, he picked his way among the gray coils and loops to the inner door. What horrors lay within he did not know. The Cimmerian's blood was up, and since he had come so far, and overcome so much peril, he was determined to go through to the grim finish of the adventure, whatever that might be. And he felt that the jewel he sought was not among the many so carelessly strewn about the gleaming chamber. Stripping off the loops that fouled the inner door, he found that it, like the other, was not locked. He wondered if the soldiers below were still unaware of his presence. Well, he was high above their heads, and if tales were to be believed, they were used to strange noises in the tower above them—sinister sounds, and screams of agony and horror. Yara was on his mind, and he was not altogether comfortable as he opened the golden door. But he saw only a flight of silver steps leading down, dimly lighted by what means he could not ascertain. Down these he went silently, gripping his sword. He heard no sound, and came presently to an ivory door, set with blood stones. He listened, but no sound came from within; only thin wisps of smoke drifted lazily from beneath the door, bearing a curious exotic odor unfamiliar to the Cimmerian. Below him the silver stair wound down to vanish in the dimness, and up that shadowy well no sound floated; he had an eery feeling that he was alone in a tower occupied only by ghosts and phantoms. # Chapter III Cautiously he pressed against the ivory door and it swung silently inward. On the shimmering threshold Conan stared like a wolf in strange surroundings, ready to fight or flee on the instant. He was looking into a large chamber with a domed golden ceiling; the walls were of green jade, the floor of ivory, partly covered by thick rugs. Smoke and exotic scent of incense floated up from a brazier on a golden tripod, and behind it sat an idol on a sort of marble couch. Conan stared aghast; the image had the body of a man, naked, and green in color; but the head was one of nightmare and madness. Too large for the human body, it had no attributes of humanity. Conan stared at the wide flaring ears, the curling proboscis, on either side of which stood white tusks tipped with round golden balls. The eyes were closed, as if in sleep. This then, was the reason for the name, the Tower of the Elephant, for the head of the thing was much like that of the beasts described by the Shemitish wanderer. This was Yara's god; where then should the gem be, but concealed in the idol, since the stone was called the Elephant's Heart? As Conan came forward, his eyes fixed on the motionless idol, the eyes of the thing opened suddenly! The Cimmerian froze in his tracks. It was no image—it was a living thing, and he was trapped in its chamber! That he did not instantly explode in a burst of murderous frenzy is a fact that measures his horror, which paralyzed him where he stood. A civilized man in his position would have sought doubtful refuge in the conclusion that he was insane; it did not occur to the Cimmerian to doubt his senses. He knew he was face to face with a demon of the Elder World, and the realization robbed him of all his faculties except sight. The trunk of the horror was lifted and quested about, the topaz eyes stared unseeingly, and Conan knew the monster was blind. With the thought came a thawing of his frozen nerves, and he began to back silently toward the door. But the creature heard. The sensitive trunk stretched toward him, and Conan's horror froze him again when the being spoke, in a strange, stammering voice that never changed its key or timbre. The Cimmerian knew that those jaws were never built or intended for human speech. "Who is here? Have you come to torture me again, Yara? Will you never be done? Oh, Yag-kosha, is there no end to agony?" Tears rolled from the sightless eyes, and Conan's gaze strayed to the limbs stretched on the marble couch. And he knew the monster would not rise to attack him. He knew the marks of the rack, and the searing brand of the flame, and tough-souled as he was, he stood aghast at the ruined deformities which his reason told him had once been limbs as comely as his own. And suddenly all fear and repulsion went from him, to be replaced by a great pity. What this monster was, Conan could not know, but the evidences of its sufferings were so terrible and pathetic that a strange aching sadness came over the Cimmerian, he knew not why. He only felt that he was looking upon a cosmic tragedy, and he shrank with shame, as if the guilt of a whole race were laid upon him. "I am not Yara," he said. "I am only a thief. I will not harm you." "Come near that I may touch you," the creature faltered, and Conan came near unfearingly, his sword hanging forgotten in his hand. The sensitive trunk came out and groped over his face and shoulders, as a blind man gropes, and its touch was light as a girl's hand. "You are not of Yara's race of devils," sighed the creature. "The clean, lean fierceness of the wastelands marks you. I know your people from of old, whom I knew by another name in the long, long ago when another world lifted its jeweled spires to the stars. There is blood on your fingers." "A spider in the chamber above and a lion in the garden," muttered Conan. "You have slain a man too, this night," answered the other. "And there is death in the tower above. I feel; I know." "Aye," muttered Conan. "The prince of all thieves lies there dead from the bite of a vermin." "So—and so!" the strange inhuman voice rose in a sort of low chant. "A slaying in the tavern and a slaying on the roof—I know; I feel. And the third will make the magic of which not even Yara dreams—oh, magic of deliverance, green gods of Yag!" Again tears fell as the tortured body was rocked to and fro in the grip of varied emotions. Conan looked on, bewildered. Then the convulsions ceased; the soft, sightless eyes were turned toward the Cimmerian, the trunk beckoned. "Oh man, listen," said the strange being. "I am foul and monstrous to you, am I not? Nay, do not answer; I know. But you would seem as strange to me, could I see you. There are many worlds besides this earth, and life takes many shapes. I am neither god nor demon, but flesh and blood like yourself, though the substance differ in part, and the form be cast in different mold. "I am very old, oh man of the waste countries; long and long ago I came to this planet with others of my world, from the green planet Yag, which circles for ever in the outer fringe of this universe. We swept through space on mighty wings that drove us through the cosmos quicker than light, because we had warred with the kings of Yag and were defeated and outcast. But we could never return, for on earth our wings withered from our shoulders. Here we abode apart from earthly life. We fought the strange and terrible forms of life which then walked the earth, so that we became feared, and were not molested in the dim jungles of the east, where we had our abode. "We saw men grow from the ape and build the shining cities of Valusia, Kamelia, Commoria, and their sisters. We saw them reel before the thrusts of the heathen Atlanteans and Picts and Lemurians. We saw the oceans rise and engulf Atlantis and Lemuria, and the isles of the Picts, and the shining cities of civilization. We saw the survivors of Pictdom and Atlantis build their stone age empires, and go down to ruin, locked in bloody wars. We saw the Picts sink into abysmal savagery, the Atlanteans into apedom again. We saw new savages drift southward in conquering waves from the arctic circle to build a new civilization, with new kingdoms called Nemedia, and Koth, and Aquilonia and their sisters. We saw your people rise under a new name from the jungles of the apes that had been Atlanteans. We saw the descendants of the Lemurians who had survived the cataclysm, rise again through savagery and ride westward, as Hyrkanians. And we saw this race of devils, survivors of the ancient civilization that was before Atlantis sank, come once more into culture and power—this accursed kingdom of Zamora. "All this we saw, neither aiding nor hindering the immutable cosmic law, and one by one we died; for we of Yag are not immortal, though our lives are as the lives of planets and constellations. At last I alone was left, dreaming of old times among the ruined temples of jungle-lost Khitai, worshipped as a god by an ancient yellow-skinned race. Then came Yara, versed in dark knowledge handed down through the days of barbarism, since before Atlantis sank. "First he sat at my feet and learned wisdom. But he was not satisfied with what I taught him, for it was white magic, and he wished evil lore, to enslave kings and glut a fiendish ambition. I would teach him none of the black secrets I had gained, through no wish of mine, through the eons. "But his wisdom was deeper than I had guessed; with guile gotten among the dusky tombs of dark Stygia, he trapped me into divulging a secret I had not intended to bare; and turning my own power upon me, he enslaved me. Ah, gods of Yag, my cup has been bitter since that hour! "He brought me up from the lost jungles of Khitai where the gray apes danced to the pipes of the yellow priests, and offerings of fruit and wine heaped my broken altars. No more was I a god to kindly jungle-folk—I was slave to a devil in human form." Again tears stole from the unseeing eyes. "He pent me in this tower which at his command I built for him in a single night. By fire and rack he mastered me, and by strange unearthly tortures you would not understand. In agony I would long ago have taken my own life, if I could. But he kept me alive—mangled, blinded, and broken—to do his foul bidding. And for three hundred years I have done his bidding, from this marble couch, blackening my soul with cosmic sins, and staining my wisdom with crimes, because I had no other choice. Yet not all my ancient secrets has he wrested from me, and my last gift shall be the sorcery of the Blood and the Jewel. "For I feel the end of time draw near. You are the hand of Fate. I beg of you, take the gem you will find on yonder altar." Conan turned to the gold and ivory altar indicated, and took up a great round jewel, clear as crimson crystal; and he knew that this was the Heart of the Elephant. "Now for the great magic, the mighty magic, such as earth has not seen before, and shall not see again, through a million million of millenniums. By my life-blood I conjure it, by blood born on the green breast of Yag, dreaming far-poised in the great blue vastness of Space. "Take your sword, man, and cut out my heart; then squeeze it so that the blood will flow over the red stone. Then go you down these stairs and enter the ebony chamber where Yara sits wrapped in lotus-dreams of evil. Speak his name and he will awaken. Then lay this gem before him, and say, "Yag-kosha gives you a last gift and a last enchantment." Then get you from the tower quickly; fear not, your way shall be made clear. The life of man is not the life of Yag, nor is human death the death of Yag. Let me be free of this cage of broken blind flesh, and I will once more be Yogah of Yag, morning-crowned and shining, with wings to fly, and feet to dance, and eyes to see, and hands to break." Uncertainly Conan approached, and Yag-kosha, or Yogah, as if sensing his uncertainty, indicated where he should strike. Conan set his teeth and drove the sword deep. Blood streamed over the blade and his hand, and the monster started convulsively, then lay back quite still. Sure that life had fled, at least life as he understood it, Conan set to work on his grisly task and quickly brought forth something that he felt must be the strange being's heart, though it differed curiously from any he had ever seen. Holding the still pulsing organ over the blazing jewel, he pressed it with both hands, and a rain of blood fell on the stone. To his surprise, it did not run off, but soaked into the gem, as water is absorbed by a sponge. Holding the jewel gingerly, he went out of the fantastic chamber and came upon the silver steps. He did not look back; he instinctively felt that some sort of transmutation was taking place in the body on the marble couch, and he further felt that it was of a sort not to be witnessed by human eyes. He closed the ivory door behind him and without hesitation descended the silver steps. It did not occur to him to ignore the instructions given him. He halted at an ebony door, in the center of which was a grinning silver skull, and pushed it open. He looked into a chamber of ebony and jet, and saw, on a black silken couch, a tall, spare form reclining. Yara the priest and sorcerer lay before him, his eyes open and dilated with the fumes of the yellow lotus, far-staring, as if fixed on gulfs and nighted abysses beyond human ken. "Yara!" said Conan, like a judge pronouncing doom. "Awaken!" The eyes cleared instantly and became cold and cruel as a vulture's. The tall silken-clad form lifted erect, and towered gauntly above the Cimmerian. "Dog!" His hiss was like the voice of a cobra. "What do you here?" Conan laid the jewel on the great ebony table. "He who sent this gem bade me say, "Yag-kosha gives a last gift and a last enchantment."" Yara recoiled, his dark face ashy. The jewel was no longer crystal-clear; its murky depths pulsed and throbbed, and curious smoky waves of changing color passed over its smooth surface. As if drawn hypnotically, Yara bent over the table and gripped the gem in his hands, staring into its shadowed depths, as if it were a magnet to draw the shuddering soul from his body. And as Conan looked, he thought that his eyes must be playing him tricks. For when Yara had risen up from his couch, the priest had seemed gigantically tall; yet now he saw that Yara's head would scarcely come to his shoulder. He blinked, puzzled, and for the first time that night, doubted his own senses. Then with a shock he realized that the priest was shrinking in stature—was growing smaller before his very gaze. With a detached feeling he watched, as a man might watch a play; immersed in a feeling of overpowering unreality, the Cimmerian was no longer sure of his own identity; he only knew that he was looking upon the external evidences of the unseen play of vast Outer forces, beyond his understanding. Now Yara was no bigger than a child; now like an infant he sprawled on the table, still grasping the jewel. And now the sorcerer suddenly realized his fate, and he sprang up, releasing the gem. But still he dwindled, and Conan saw a tiny, pigmy figure rushing wildly about the ebony table-top, waving tiny arms and shrieking in a voice that was like the squeak of an insect. Now he had shrunk until the great jewel towered above him like a hill, and Conan saw him cover his eyes with his hands, as if to shield them from the glare, as he staggered about like a madman. Conan sensed that some unseen magnetic force was pulling Yara to the gem. Thrice he raced wildly about it in a narrowing circle, thrice he strove to turn and run out across the table; then with a scream that echoed faintly in the ears of the watcher, the priest threw up his arms and ran straight toward the blazing globe. Bending close, Conan saw Yara clamber up the smooth, curving surface, impossibly, like a man climbing a glass mountain. Now the priest stood on the top, still with tossing arms, invoking what grisly names only the gods know. And suddenly he sank into the very heart of the jewel, as a man sinks into a sea, and Conan saw the smoky waves close over his head. Now he saw him in the crimson heart of the jewel, once more crystal-clear, as a man sees a scene far away, tiny with great distance. And into the heart came a green, shining winged figure with the body of a man and the head of an elephant—no longer blind or crippled. Yara threw up his arms and fled as a madman flees, and on his heels came the avenger. Then, like the bursting of a bubble, the great jewel vanished in a rainbow burst of iridescent gleams, and the ebony table-top lay bare and deserted—as bare, Conan somehow knew, as the marble couch in the chamber above, where the body of that strange transcosmic being called Yag-kosha and Yogah had lain. The Cimmerian turned and fled from the chamber, down the silver stairs. So mazed was he that it did not occur to him to escape from the tower by the way he had entered it. Down that winding, shadowy silver well he ran, and came into a large chamber at the foot of the gleaming stairs. There he halted for an instant; he had come into the room of the soldiers. He saw the glitter of their silver corselets, the sheen of their jeweled sword-hilts. They sat slumped at the banquet board, their dusky plumes waving somberly above their drooping helmeted heads; they lay among their dice and fallen goblets on the wine-stained lapis-lazuli floor. And he knew that they were dead. The promise had been made, the word kept; whether sorcery or magic or the falling shadow of great green wings had stilled the revelry, Conan could not know, but his way had been made clear. And a silver door stood open, framed in the whiteness of dawn. Into the waving green gardens came the Cimmerian, and as the dawn wind blew upon him with the cool fragrance of luxuriant growths, he started like a man waking from a dream. He turned back uncertainly, to stare at the cryptic tower he had just left. Was he bewitched and enchanted? Had he dreamed all that had seemed to have passed? As he looked he saw the gleaming tower sway against the crimson dawn, its jewel-crusted rim sparkling in the growing light, and crash into shining shards. THE END
202	--- title: The Treasure of Tartary author: Robert E. Howard tags: Fiction, Short Story, Pirates, Historical Fiction, Adventure word count: 6983 ... # Chapter 1: Key to the Treasure It was not mere impulsiveness that sent Kirby O'Donnell into the welter of writhing limbs and whickering blades that loomed so suddenly in the semidarkness ahead of him. In that dark alley of Forbidden Shahrazar it was no light act to plunge headlong into a nameless brawl; and O'Donnell, for all his Irish love of a fight, was not disposed thoughtlessly to jeopardize his secret mission. But the glimpse of a scarred, bearded face swept from his mind all thought and emotion save a crimson wave of fury. He acted instinctively. Full into the midst of the flailing group, half-seen by the light of a distant cresset, O'Donnell leaped, kindhjal in hand. He was dimly aware that one man was fighting three or four others, but all his attention was fixed on a single tall gaunt form, dim in the shadows. His long, narrow, curved blade licked venomously at this figure, ploughing through cloth, bringing a yelp as the edge sliced skin. Something crashed down on O'Donnell's head, gun butt or bludgeon, and he reeled, and closed with someone he could not see. His groping hand locked on a chain that encircled a bull neck, and with a straining gasp he ripped upward and felt his keen kindhjal slice through cloth, skin and belly muscles. An agonized groan burst from his victim's lips, and blood gushed sickeningly over O'Donnell's hand. Through a blur of clearing sight, the American saw a broad bearded face falling away from him—not the face he had seen before. The next instant he had leaped clear of the dying man, and was slashing at the shadowy forms about him. An instant of flickering steel, and then the figures were running fleetly up the alley. O'Donnell, springing in pursuit, his hot blood lashed to murderous fury, tripped over a writhing form and fell headlong. He rose, cursing, and was aware of a man near him, panting heavily. A tall man, with a long curved blade in hand. Three forms lay in the mud of the alley. "Come, my friend, whoever you are!" the tall man panted in Turki. "They have fled, but they will return with others. Let us go!" O'Donnell made no reply. Temporarily accepting the alliance into which chance had cast him, he followed the tall stranger who ran down the winding alley with the sure foot of familiarity. Silence held them until they emerged from a low dark arch, where a tangle of alleys debouched upon a broad square, vaguely lighted by small fires about which groups of turbaned men squabbled and brewed tea. A reek of unwashed bodies mingled with the odors of horses and camels. None noticed the two men standing in the shadow made by the angle of the mud wall. O'Donnell looked at the stranger, seeing a tall slim man with thin dark features. Under his khalat which was draggled and darkly splashed, showed the silver-heeled boots of a horseman. His turban was awry, and though he had sheathed his scimitar, blood clotted the hilt and the scabbard mouth. The keen black eyes took in every detail of the American's appearance, but O'Donnell did not flinch. His disguise had stood the test too many times for him to doubt its effectiveness. The American was somewhat above medium height, leanly built, but with broad shoulders and corded sinews which gave him a strength out of all proportion to his weight. He was a hard-woven mass of wiry muscles and steel string nerves, combining the wolf-trap coordination of a natural fighter with a berserk fury resulting from an overflowing nervous energy. The kindhjal in his girdle and the scimitar at his hip were as much a part of him as his hands. He wore the Kurdish boots, vest and girdled khalat like a man born to them. His keen features, bummed to bronze by desert suns, were almost as dark as those of his companion. "Tell me thy name," requested the other. "I owe my life to thee." "I am Ali el Ghazi, a Kurd," answered O'Donnell. No hint of suspicion shadowed the other's countenance. Under the coiffed Arab kafiyeh O'Donnell's eyes blazed lambent blue, but blue eyes were not at all unknown among the warriors of the Iranian highlands. The Turk lightly and swiftly touched the hawk-headed pommel of O'Donnell's scimitar. "I will not forget," he promised. "I will know thee wherever we meet again. Now it were best we separated and went far from this spot, for men with knives will be seeking me—and thou too, for aiding me." And like a shadow he glided among the camels and bales and was gone. O'Donnell stood silently for an instant, one ear cocked back toward the alley, the other absently taking in the sounds of the night. Somewhere a thin wailing voice sang to a twanging native lute. Somewhere else a feline-like burst of profanity marked the progress of a quarrel. O'Donnell breathed deep with contentment, despite the grim Hooded Figure that stalked forever at his shoulder, and the recent rage that still seethed in his veins. This was the real heart of the East, the East which had long ago stolen his heart and led him to wander afar from his own people. He realized that he still gripped something in his left hand, and he lifted it to the flickering light of a nearby fire. It was a length of gold chain, one of its massy links twisted and broken. From it depended a curious plaque of beaten gold, somewhat larger than a silver dollar, but oval rather than round. There was no ornament, only a boldly carven inscription which O'Donnell, with all his Eastern lore, could not decipher. He knew that he had torn the chain from the neck of the man he had killed in that black alley, but he had no idea as to its meaning. Slipping it into his broad girdle, he strode across the square, walking with the swagger of a nomadic horseman that was so natural to him. Leaving the square he strode down a narrow street, the overhanging balconies of which almost touched one another. It was not late. Merchants in flowing silk robes sat cross-legged before their booths, extolling the quality of their goods—Mosul silk, matchlocks from Herat, edged weapons from India, and seed pearls from Baluchistan, hawk-like Afghans and weapon-girdled Uzbeks jostled him. Lights streamed through silk-covered windows overhead, and the light silvery laughter of women rose above the noise of barter and dispute. There was a tingle in the realization that he, Kirby O'Donnell, was the first Westerner ever to set foot in forbidden Shahrazar, tucked away in a nameless valley not many days' journey from where the Afghan mountains swept down into the steppes of the Turkomans. As a wandering Kurd, traveling with a caravan from Kabul he had come, staking his life against the golden lure of a treasure beyond men's dreams. In the bazaars and serais he had heard a tale: To Shaibar Khan, the Uzbek chief who had made himself master of Shahrazar, the city had given up its ancient secret. The Uzbek had found the treasure hidden there so long ago by Muhammad Shah, king of Khuwarezm, the Land of the Throne of Gold, when his empire fell before the Mongols. O'Donnell was in Shahrazar to steal that treasure; and he did not change his plans because of the bearded face he had recognized in the alley—the face of an old and hated enemy. Yar Akbar the Afridi, traitor and murderer. O'Donnell turned from the street and entered a narrow arched gate which stood open as if in invitation. A narrow stair went up from a small court to a balcony. This he mounted, guided by the tinkle of a guitar and a plaintive voice singing in Pushtu. He entered a room whose latticed casement overhung the street, and the singer ceased her song to greet him and make half-mocking salaam with a lithe flexing of supple limbs. He replied, and deposited himself on a divan. The furnishings of the room were not elaborate, but they were costly. The garments of the woman who watched interestedly were of silk, her satin vest sewn with seed pearls. Her dark eyes, over the filmy yasmaq, were lustrous and expressive, the eyes of a Persian. "Would my lord have food—and wine?" she inquired; and O'Donnell signified assent with the lordly gesture of a Kurdish swashbuckler who is careful not to seem too courteous to any woman, however famed in intrigue she may be. He had come there not for food and drink, but because he had heard in the bazaars that news of many kinds blew on the winds through the house of Ayisha, where men from far and near came to drink her wine and listen to her songs. She served him, and, sinking down on cushions near him, watched him eat and drink. O'Donnell's appetite was not feigned. Many lean days had taught him to eat when and where he could. Ayisha seemed to him more like a curious child than an intriguing woman, evincing so much interest over a wandering Kurd, but he knew that she was weighing him carefully behind her guileless stare, as she weighed all men who came into her house. In that hotbed of plot and ambitions, the wandering stranger today might be the Amir of Afghanistan or the Shah of Persia tomorrow—or the morrow might see his headless body dangling as a feast for the birds. "You have a good sword," said she. He involuntarily touched the hilt. It was an Arab blade, long, lean, curved like the crescent moon, with a brass hawk's head for a pommel. "It has cut many a Turkoman out of the saddle," he boasted, with his mouth full, carrying out his character. Yet it was no empty boast. "Hai!" She believed him and was impressed. She rested her chin on her small fists and gazed up at him, as if his dark, hawk-like face had caught her fancy. "The Khan needs swords like yours," she said. "The Khan has many swords," he retorted, gulping wine loudly. "No more than he will need if Orkhan Bahadur comes against him," she prophesied. "I have heard of this Orkhan," he replied. And so he had; who in Central Asia had not heard of the daring and valorous Turkoman chief who defied the power of Moscow and had cut to pieces a Russian expedition sent to subdue him? "In the bazaars they say the Khan fears him." That was a blind venture. Men did not speak of Shaibar Khan's fears openly. Ayisha laughed. "Who does the Khan fear? Once the Amir sent troops to take Shahrazar, and those who lived were glad to flee! Yet if any man lives who could storm the city, Orkhan Bahadur is that man. Only tonight the Uzbeks were hunting his spies through the alleys." O'Donnell remembered the Turkish accent of the stranger he had unwittingly aided. It was quite possible that the man was a Turkoman spy. As he pondered this, Ayisha's sharp eyes discovered the broken end of the gold chain dangling from his girdle, and with a gurgle of delight she snatched it forth before he could stop her. Then with a squeal she dropped it as if it were hot, and prostrated herself in wriggling abasement among the cushions. He scowled and picked up the trinket. "Woman, what are you about?" he demanded. "Your pardon, lord!" She clasped her hands, but her fear seemed more feigned than real; her eyes sparkled. "I did not know it was the token. Aie, you have been making game of me—asking me things none could know better than yourself. Which of the Twelve are you?" "You babble as bees hum!" He scowled, dangling the pendant before her eyes. "You speak as one of knowledge, when, by Allah, you know not the meaning of this thing." "Nay, but I do!" she protested. "I have seen such emblems before on the breasts of the emirs of the Inner Chamber. I know that it is a talsmin greater than the seal of the Amir, and the wearer comes and goes at will in or out of the Shining Palace." "But why, wench, why?" he growled impatiently. "Nay, I will whisper what you know so well," she answered, kneeling beside him. Her breath came soft as the sighing of the distant night wind. "It is the symbol of a Guardian of the Treasure!" She fell away from him laughing. "Have I not spoken truly?" He did not at once reply. His brain was dizzy, the blood pounding madly in his veins. "Say nothing of this," he said at last, rising. "Your life upon it." And casting her a handful of coins at random, he hurried down the stair and into the street. He realized that his departure was too abrupt, but he was too dizzy, with the realization of what had fallen into his hands, for an entirely placid course of action. The treasure! In his hand he held what well might be the key to it—at least a key into the palace, to gain entrance into which he had racked his brain in vain ever since coming to Shahrazar. His visit to Ayisha had borne fruit beyond his wildest dreams. # Chapter 2: The Unholy Plan Doubtless in Muhammad Shah's day the Shining Palace deserved its name; even now it preserved some of its former splendor. It was separated from the rest of the city by a thick wall, and at the great gate there always stood a guard of Uzbeks with Lee-Enfield rifles, and girdles bristling with knives and pistols. Shaibar Khan had an almost superstitious terror of accidental gunfire, and would allow only edged weapons to be brought into the palace. But his warriors were armed with the best rifles that could be smuggled into the hills. There was a limit to O'Donnell's audacity. There might be men on guard at the main gates who knew by sight all the emirs of the symbol. He made his way to a small side gate, through a loophole in which, at his imperious call, there peered a black man with the wizened features of a mute. O'Donnell had fastened the broken links together and the chain now looped his corded neck. He indicated the plaque which rested on the silk of his khalat; and with a deep salaam, the black man opened the gate. O'Donnell drew a deep breath. He was in the heart of the lion's lair now, and he dared not hesitate or pause to deliberate. He found himself in a garden which gave onto an open court surrounded by arches supported on marble pillars. He crossed the court, meeting no one. On the opposite side a grim-looking Uzbek, leaning on a spear, scanned him narrowly but said nothing. O'Donnell's skin crawled as he strode past the somber warrior, but the man merely stared curiously at the gold oval gleaming against the Kurdish vest. O'Donnell found himself in a corridor whose walls were decorated by a gold frieze, and he went boldly on, seeing only soft-footed slaves who took no heed of him. As he passed into another corridor, broader and hung with velvet tapestries, his heart leaped into his mouth. It was a tall slender man in long fur-trimmed robes and a silk turban who glided from an arched doorway and halted him. The man had the pale oval face of a Persian, with a black pointed beard, and dark shadowed eyes. As with the others his gaze sought first the talsmin on O'Donnell's breast—the token, undoubtedly, of a servitor beyond suspicion. "Come with me!" snapped the Persian. "I have work for you." And vouchsafing no further enlightenment, he stalked down the corridor as if expecting O'Donnell to follow without question; which, indeed, the American did, believing that such would have been the action of the genuine Guardian of the Treasure. He knew this Persian was Ahmed Pasha, Shaibar Khan's vizir; he had seen him riding along the streets with the royal house troops. The Persian led the way into a small domed chamber, without windows, the walls hung with thick tapestries. A small bronze lamp lighted it dimly. Ahmed Pasha drew aside the hangings, directly behind a heap of cushions, and disclosed a hidden alcove. "Stand there with drawn sword," he directed. Then he hesitated. "Can you speak or understand any Frankish tongue?" he demanded. The false Kurd shook his head. "Good!" snapped Ahmed Pasha. "You are here to watch, not to listen. Our lord does not trust the man he is to meet here—alone. You are stationed behind the spot where this man will sit. Watch him like a hawk. If he makes a move against the Khan, cleave his skull. If harm comes to our prince, you shall be flayed alive." He paused, glared an instant, then snarled: "And hide that emblem, fool! Shall the whole world know you are an emir of the Treasure?" "Hearkening and obedience, ya khawand," mumbled O'Donnell, thrusting the symbol inside his garments. Ahmed jerked the tapestries together, and left the chamber. O'Donnell glanced through a tiny opening, waiting for the soft pad of the vizir's steps to fade away before he should glide out and take up again his hunt for the treasure. But before he could move, there was a low mutter of voices, and two men entered the chamber from opposite sides. One bowed low and did not venture to seat himself until the other had deposited his fat body on the cushions, and indicated permission. O'Donnell knew that he looked on Shaibar Khan, once the terror of the Kirghiz steppes, and now lord of Shahrazar. The Uzbek had the broad powerful build of his race, but his thick limbs were soft from easy living. His eyes held some of their old restless fire, but the muscles of his face seemed flabby, and his features were lined and purpled with debauchery. And there seemed something else—a worried, haunted look, strange in that son of reckless nomads. O'Donnell wondered if the possession of the treasure was weighing on his mind. The other man was slender, dark, his garments plain beside the gorgeous ermine-trimmed kaftan, pearl-sewn girdle and green, emerald-crested turban of the Khan. This stranger plunged at once into conversation, low voiced but animated and urgent. He did most of the talking, while Shaibar Khan listened, occasionally interjecting a question, or a grunt of gratification. The Khan's weary eyes began to blaze, and his pudgy hands knotted as if they gripped again the hilt of the blade which had carved his way to power. And Kirby O'Donnell forgot to curse the luck which held him prisoner while precious time drifted by. Both men spoke a tongue the American had not heard in years—a European language. And scanning closely the slim dark stranger, O'Donnell admitted himself baffled. If the man were, as he suspected, a European disguised as an Oriental, then O'Donnell knew he had met his equal in masquerade. For it was European politics he talked, European politics that lay behind the intrigues of the East. He spoke of war and conquest, and vast hordes rolling down the Khybar Pass into India; to complete the overthrow, said the dark slender man, of a rule outworn. He promised power and honors to Shaibar Khan, and O'Donnell, listening, realized that the Uzbek was but a pawn in his game, no less than those others he mentioned. The Khan, narrow of vision, saw only a mountain kingdom for himself, reaching down into the plains of Persia and India, and backed by European guns—not realizing those same guns could just as easily overwhelm him when the time was ripe. But O'Donnell, with his western wisdom, read behind the dark stranger's words, and recognized there a plan of imperial dimensions, and the plot of a European power to seize half of Asia. And the first move in that game was to be the gathering of warriors by Shaibar Khan. How? With the treasure of Khuwarezm! With it he could buy all the swords of Central Asia. So the dark man talked and the Uzbek listened like an old wolf who harks to the trampling of the musk oxen in the snow. O'Donnell listened, his blood freezing as the dark man casually spoke of invasions and massacres; and as the plot progressed and became more plain in detail, more monstrous and ruthless in conception, he trembled with a mad urge to leap from his cover and slash and hack both these bloody devils into pieces with the scimitar that quivered in his nervous grasp. Only a sense of self-preservation stayed him from this madness; and presently Shaibar Khan concluded the audience and left the chamber, followed by the dark stranger. O'Donnell saw this one smile furtively, like a man who has victory in his grasp. O'Donnell started to draw aside the curtain, when Ahmed Pasha came padding into the chamber. It occurred to the American that it would be better to let the vizir find him at his post. But before Ahmed could speak, or draw aside the curtain, there sounded a rapid pattering of bare feet in the corridor outside, and a man burst into the room, wild eyed and panting. At the sight of him a red mist wavered across O'Donnell's sight. It was Yar Akbar! # Chapter 3: Wolf Pack The Afridi fell on his knees before Ahmed Pasha. His garments were tattered; blood seeped from a broken tooth and clotted his straggly beard. "Oh, master," he panted, "the dog has escaped!" "Escaped!" The vizir rose to his full height, his face convulsed with passion. O'Donnell thought that he would strike down the Afridi, but his arm quivered, fell by his side. "Speak!" The Persian's voice was dangerous as the hiss of a cobra. "We hedged him in a dark alley," Yar Akbar babbled. "He fought like Shaitan. Then others came to his aid—a whole nest of Turkomans, we thought, but mayhap it was but one man. He too was a devil! He slashed my side—see the blood! For hours since we have hunted them, but found no trace. He is over the wall and gone!" In his agitation Yar Akbar plucked at a chain about his neck; from it depended an oval like that held by O'Donnell. The American realized that Yar Akbar, too, was an emir of the Treasure. The Afridi's eyes burned like a wolf's in the gloom, and his voice sank. "He who wounded me slew Othman," he whispered fearfully, "and despoiled him of the talsmin!" "Dog!" The vizir's blow knocked the Afridi sprawling. Ahmed Pasha was livid. "Call the other emirs of the Inner Chamber, swiftly!" Yar Akbar hastened into the corridor, and Ahmed Pasha called: "Ohe! You who hide behind the hangings—come forth!" There was no reply, and pale with sudden suspicion, Ahmed drew a curved dagger and with a pantherish spring tore the tapestry aside. The alcove was empty. As he glared in bewilderment, Yar Akbar ushered into the chamber as unsavory a troop of ruffians as a man might meet, even in the hills: Uzbeks, Afghans, Gilzais, Pathans, scarred with crime and old in wickedness. Ahmed Pasha counted them swiftly. With Yar Akbar there were eleven. "Eleven," he muttered. "And dead Othman makes twelve. All these men are known to you, Yar Akbar?" "My head on it!" swore the Afridi. "These be all true men." Ahmed clutched his beard. "Then, by God, the One True God," he groaned, "that Kurd I set to guard the Khan was a spy and a traitor." And at that moment a shriek and a clash of steel re-echoed through the palace. When O'Donnell heard Yar Akbar gasping out his tale to the vizir, he knew the game was up. He did not believe that the alcove was a blind niche in the wall; and, running swift and practiced hands over the panels, he found and pressed a hidden catch. An instant before Ahmed Pasha tore aside the tapestry, the American wriggled his lean body through the opening and found himself in a dimly lighted chamber on the other side of the wall. A black slave dozed on his haunches, unmindful of the blade that hovered over his ebony neck, as O'Donnell glided across the room, and through a curtained doorway. He found himself back in the corridor into which one door of the audience chamber opened, and crouching among the curtains, he saw Yar Akbar come up the hallway with his villainous crew. He saw, too, that they had come up a marble stair at the end of the hall. His heart leaped. In that direction, undoubtedly, lay the treasure—now supposedly unguarded. As soon as the emirs vanished into the audience chamber where the vizir waited, O'Donnell ran swiftly and recklessly down the corridor. But even as he reached the stairs, a man sitting on them sprang up, brandishing a tulwar. A black slave, evidently left there with definite orders, for the sight of the symbol on O'Donnell's breast did not halt him. O'Donnell took a desperate chance, gambling his speed against the cry that rose in the thick black throat. He lost. His scimitar licked through the massive neck and the Soudani rolled down the stairs, spurting blood. But his yell had rung to the roof. And at that yell the emirs of the gold came headlong out of the audience chamber, giving tongue like a pack of wolves. They did not need Ahmed's infuriated shriek of recognition and command. They were men picked for celerity of action as well as courage, and it seemed to O'Donnell that they were upon him before the Negro's death yell had ceased to echo. He met the first attacker, a hairy Pathan, with a long lunge that sent his scimitar point through the thick throat even as the man's broad tulwar went up for a stroke. Then a tall Uzbek swung his heavy blade like a butcher's cleaver. No time to parry; O'Donnell caught the stroke near his own hilt, and his knees bent under the impact. But the next instant the kindhjal in his left hand ripped through the Uzbek's entrails, and with a powerful heave of his whole body, O'Donnell hurled the dying man against those behind him, bearing them back with him. Then O'Donnell wheeled and ran, his eyes blazing defiance of the death that whickered at his back. Ahead of him another stair led up. O'Donnell reached it one long bound ahead of his pursuers, gained the steps and wheeled, all in one motion, slashing down at the heads of the pack that came clamoring after him. Shaibar Khan's broad pale face peered up at the melee from the curtains of an archway, and O'Donnell was grateful to the Khan's obsessional fear that had barred firearms from the palace. Otherwise, he would already have been shot down like a dog. He himself had no gun; the pistol with which he had started the adventure had slipped from its holster somewhere on that long journey, and lay lost among the snows of the Himalayas. No matter; he had never yet met his match with cold steel. But no blade could long have held off the ever-increasing horde that swarmed up the stair at him. He had the advantage of position, and they could not crowd past him on the narrow stair; their very numbers hindered them. His flesh crawled with the fear that others would come down the stair and take him from behind, but none came. He retreated slowly, plying his dripping blades with berserk frenzy. A steady stream of taunts and curses flowed from his lips, but even in his fury he spoke in the tongues of the East, and not one of his assailants realized that the madman who opposed them was anything but a Kurd. He was bleeding from a dozen flesh cuts, when he reached the head of the stairs which ended in an open trap. Simultaneously the wolves below him came clambering up to drag him down. One gripped his knees, another was hewing madly at his head. The others howled below them, unable to get at their prey. O'Donnell stooped beneath the sweep of a tulwar and his scimitar split the skull of the wielder. His kindhjal he drove through the breast of the man who clung to his knees, and kicking the clinging body away from him, he reeled up through the trap. With frantic energy, he gripped the heavy iron-bound door and slammed it down, falling across it in semicollapse. The splintering of wood beneath him warned him and he rolled clear just as a steel point crunched up through the door and quivered in the starlight. He found and shot the bolt, and then lay prostrate, panting for breath. How long the heavy wood would resist the attacks from below he did not know. He was on a flat-topped roof, the highest part of the palace. Rising, he stumbled over to the nearest parapet, and looked down, onto lower roofs. He saw no way to get down. He was trapped. It was the darkness just before dawn. He was on a higher level than the walls or any of the other houses in Shahrazar. He could dimly make out the sheer of the great cliffs which flanked the valley in which Shahrazar stood, and he saw the starlight's pale glimmer on the slim river which trickled past the massive walls. The valley ran southeast and northwest. And suddenly the wind, whispering down from the north, brought a burst of crackling reports. Shots? He stared northwestward, toward where, he knew, the valley pitched upward, narrowing to a sheer gut, and a mud-walled village dominated the pass. He saw a dull red glow against the sky. Again came reverberations. Somewhere in the streets below sounded a frantic clatter of flying hoofs that halted before the palace gate. There was silence then, in which O'Donnell heard the splintering blows on the trap door, and the heavy breathing of the men who struck them. Then suddenly they ceased as if the attackers had dropped dead; utter silence attended a shrilling voice, indistinct through distance and muffling walls. A wild clamor burst forth in the streets below; men shouted, women screamed. No more blows fell on the trap. Instead there were noises below—the rattle of arms, tramp of men, and a voice that held a note of hysteria shouting orders. O'Donnell heard the clatter of galloping horses, and saw torches moving through the streets, toward the northwestern gate. In the darkness up the valley he saw orange jets of flame and heard the unmistakable reports of firearms. Shrugging his shoulders, he sat down in an angle of the parapet, his scimitar across his knees. And there weary Nature asserted itself, and in spite of the clamor below him, and the riot in his blood, he slept. # Chapter 4: Furious Battle He did not sleep long, for dawn was just stealing whitely over the mountains when he awoke. Rifles were cracking all around, and crouching at the parapet, he saw the reason. Shahrazar was besieged by warriors in sheepskin coats and fur kalpaks. Herds of their horses grazed just beyond rifle fire, and the warriors themselves were firing from every rock and tree. Numbers of them were squirming along the half-dry river bed, among the willows, sniping at the men on the walls, who gave back their fire. The Turkomans of Orkhan Bahadur! That blaze in the darkness told of the fate of the village that guarded the pass. Turks seldom made night raids; but Orkhan was nothing if not original. The Uzbeks manned the walls, and O'Donnell believed he could make out the bulky shape and crested turban of Shaibar Khan among a cluster of peacock-clad nobles. And as he gazed at the turmoil in the streets below, the belief grew that every available Uzbek in the city was on the walls. This was no mere raid; it was a tribal war of extermination. O'Donnell's Irish audacity rose like heady wine in his veins, and he tore aside the splintered door and gazed down the stairs. The bodies still lay on the steps, stiff and unseeing. No living human met his gaze as he stole down the stairs, scimitar in hand. He gained the broad corridor, and still he saw no one. He hurried down the stair whereon he had slain the black slave, and reached a broad chamber with a single tapestried door. There was the sudden crash of a musket; a spurt of flame stabbed at him. The ball whined past him and he covered the space with a long leap, grappled a snarling, biting figure behind the tapestry and dragged it into the open. It was Ahmed Pasha. "Accursed one!" The vizir fought like a mad dog. "I guessed you would come skulking here—Allah's curse on the hashish that has made my hand unsteady—" His dagger girded through O'Donnell's garments, drawing blood. Under his silks the Persian's muscles were like taut wires. Employing his superior weight, the American hurled himself hard against the other, driving the vizir's head back against the stone wall with a stunning crack. As the Persian relaxed with a groan, O'Donnell's left hand wrenched from his grasp and lurched upward, and the keen kindhjal encountered flesh and bone. The American lifted the still twitching corpse and thrust it behind the tapestry, hiding it as best he could. A bunch of keys at the dead man's girdle caught his attention, and they were in his hand as he approached the curtained door. The heavy teakwood portal, bound in arabesqued copper, would have resisted any onslaught short of artillery. A moment's fumbling with the massive keys, and O'Donnell found the right one. He passed into a narrow corridor dimly lighted by some obscure means. The walls were of marble, the floor of mosaics. It ended at what seemed to be a blank carven wall, until O'Donnell saw a thin crack in the marble. Through carelessness or haste, the secret door had been left partly open. O'Donnell heard no sound, and was inclined to believe that Ahmed Pasha had remained to guard the treasure alone. He gave the vizir credit for wit and courage. O'Donnell pulled open the door—a wide block of marble revolving on a pivot—and halted short, a low cry escaping his lips. He had come full upon the treasure of Khuwarezm, and the sight stunned him! The dim light must have come through hidden interstices in the colored dome of the circular chamber in which he stood. It illumined a shining pyramidal heap upon a dais in the center of the floor, a platform that was a great round slab of pure jade. And on that jade gleamed tokens of wealth beyond the dreams of madness. The foundations of the pile consisted of blocks of virgin gold and upon them lay, rising to a pinnacle of blazing splendor, ingots of hammered silver, ornaments of golden enamel, wedges of jade, pearls of incredible perfection, inlaid ivory, diamonds that dazzled the sight, rubies like clotted blood, emeralds like drops of green fire, pulsing sapphires—O'Donnell's senses refused to accept the wonder of what he saw. Here, indeed, was wealth sufficient to buy every sword in Asia. A sudden sound brought him about. Someone was coming down the corridor outside, someone who labored for breath and ran staggeringly. A quick glance around, and O'Donnell slipped behind the rich gilt-worked arras which masked the walls. A niche where, perhaps, had stood an idol in the old pagan days, admitted his lean body, and he gazed through a slit cut in the velvet. It was Shaibar Khan who came into the chamber. The Khan's garments were torn and splashed darkly. He stared at his treasure with haunted eyes, and he groaned. Then he called for Ahmed Pasha. One man came, but it was not the vizir who lay dead in the outer corridor. It was Yar Akbar, crouching like a great gray wolf, beard bristling in his perpetual snarl. "Why was the treasure left unguarded?" demanded Shaibar Khan petulantly. "Where is Ahmed Pasha?" "He sent us on the wall," answered Yar Akbar, hunching his shoulders in servile abasement. "He said he would guard the treasure himself." "No matter!" Shaibar Khan was shaking like a man with an ague. "We are lost. The people have risen against me and opened the gates to that devil Orkhan Bahadur. His Turkomans are cutting down my Uzbeks in the streets. But he shall not have the treasure. See ye that golden bar that juts from the wall, like a sword hilt from the scabbard? I have but to pull that, and the treasure falls into the subterranean river which runs below this palace, to be lost forever to the sight of men. Yar Akbar, I give you a last command—pull that bar!" Yar Akbar moaned and wrung his beard, but his eyes were red as a wolf's, and he turned his ear continually toward the outer door. "Nay, lord, ask of me anything but that!" "Then I will do it!" Shaibar Khan moved toward the bar, reached out his hand to grasp it. With a snarl of a wild beast, Yar Akbar sprang on his back, grunting as he struck. O'Donnell saw the point of the Khyber knife spring out of Shaibar Khan's silk-clad breast, as the Uzbek chief threw wide his arms, cried out chokingly, and tumbled forward to the floor. Yar Akbar spurned the dying body with a vicious foot. "Fool!" he croaked. "I will buy my life from Orkhan Bahadur. Aye, this treasure shall gain me much honor with him, now the other emirs are dead—" He halted, crouching and glaring, the reddened knife quivering in his hairy fist. O'Donnell had swept aside the tapestry and stepped into the open. "Y'Allah!" ejaculated the Afridi. "The dog-Kurd!" "Look more closely, Yar Akbar," answered O'DonneIl grimly, throwing back his kafiyeh and speaking in English. "Do you not remember the Gorge of Izz ed din and the scout trapped there by your treachery? One man escaped, you dog of the Khyber." Slowly a red flame grew in Yar Akbar's eyes. "El Shirkuh!" he muttered, giving O'Donnell his Afghan name—the Mountain Lion. Then, with a howl that rang to the domed roof, he launched himself through the air, his three-foot knife gleaming. O'Donnell did not move his feet. A supple twist of his torso avoided the thrust, and the furiously driven knife hissed between left arm and body, tearing his khalat. At the same instant O'Donnell's left forearm bent up and under the lunging arm that guided the knife. Yar Akbar screamed, spat on the kindhjal's narrow blade. Unable to halt his headlong rush, he caromed bodily against O'Donnell, bearing him down. They struck the floor together, and Yar Akbar, with a foot of trenchant steel in his vitals, yet reared up, caught O'Donnell's hair in a fierce grasp, gasped a curse, lifted his knife—and then his wild beast vitality failed him, and with a convulsive shudder he rolled clear and lay still in a spreading pool of blood. O'Donnell rose and stared down at the bodies upon the floor, then at the glittering heap on the jade slab. His soul yearned to it with the fierce yearning that had haunted him for years. Dared he take the desperate chance of hiding it under the very noses of the invading Turkomans? If he could, he might escape, to return later, and bear it away. He had taken more desperate chances before. Across his mental vision flashed a picture of a slim dark stranger who spoke a European tongue. It was lure of the treasure which had led Orkhan Bahadur out of his steppes; and the treasure in his hands would be as dangerous as it was in the hands of Shaibar Khan. The Power represented by the dark stranger could deal with the Turkoman as easily as with the Uzbek. No; one Oriental adventurer with that treasure was as dangerous to the peace of Asia as another. He dared not run the risk of Orkhan Bahadur finding that pile of gleaming wealth—sweat suddenly broke out on O'Donnell's body as he realized, for once in his life, a driving power mightier than his own desire. The helpless millions of India were in his mind as, cursing sickly, he gripped the gold bar and heaved it! With a grinding boom something gave way, the jade slab moved, turned, tilted, and disappeared, and with it vanished, in a final iridescent burst of dazzling splendor, the treasure of Khuwarezm. Far below came a sullen splash, and the sound of waters roaring in the darkness; then silence, and where a black hole had gaped there showed a circular slab of the same substance as the rest of the floor. O'Donnell hurried from the chamber. He did not wish to be found where the Turkomans might connect him with the vanishing of the treasure they had battled to win. Let them think, if they would, that Shaibar Khan and Yar Akbar had disposed of it somehow, and slain one another. As he emerged from the palace into an outer court, lean warriors in sheepskin kaftans and high fur caps were swarming in. Cartridge belts crossed on their breasts, and yataghans hung at their girdles. One of them lifted a rifle and took deliberate aim at O'Donnell. Then it was struck aside, and a voice shouted: "By Allah, it is my friend Ali el Ghazi!" There strode forward a tall man whose kalpak was of white lambskin, and whose kaftan was trimmed with ermine. O'Donnell recognized the man he had aided in the alley. "I am Orkhan Bahadur!" exclaimed the chief with a ringing laugh. "Put up your sword, friend; Shahrazar is mine! The heads of the Uzbeks are heaped in the market square! When I fled from their swords last night, they little guessed my warriors awaited my coming in the mountains beyond the pass! Now I am prince of Shahrazar, and thou art my cup-companion. Ask what thou wilt, yea, even a share of the treasure of Khuwarezm—when we find it." "When you find it!" O'Donnell mentally echoed, sheathing his scimitar with a Kurdish swagger. The American was something of a fatalist. He had come out of this adventure with his life at least, and the rest was in the hands of Allah. "Alhamdolillah!" said O'Donnell, joining arms with his new cup-companion. THE END
203	--- author: Carter tags: Detective and mystery stories, Murder, Investigation, Fiction, Extortion, Dime novels title: The Twin Mystery; Or, A Dashing Rescue summary: ' "The Twin Mystery; Or, A Dashing Rescue" by Nicholas Carter is a detective novel written in the early 20th century. The story revolves around the famous detective Nick Carter as he takes on a perplexing case involving a notorious blackmailer known only as the Brown Robin, who has been operating in several cities before setting its sights on New York. The narrative establishes a sense of intrigue and tension as Nick Carter navigates the complexities of the mystery, suggesting that he will be challenged both legally and personally by the cunning adversary. The opening of the story introduces Nick Carter and his wife, Edith, as they receive mysterious letters from the Brown Robin. These letters hint at a dark and manipulative game of blackmail in which Carter is pulled into a web of deception. The enigmatic Brown Robin challenges Nick''s reputation as a detective, leading him to seek out the identity of this clever antagonist while also interacting with potential victims, such as the wealthy bank president Alpheus Cary. As Nick prepares to uncover the truth, he faces the possibility of being drawn into one of his most dangerous cases yet, setting the stage for a thrilling detective story filled with clever turns and unexpected encounters. ' word_count: 48773 fiction_type: Novel ... # CHAPTER I. THE BROWN ROBIN. "Mr. Nick Carter: I have come to town to do business. I give you notice before I begin, because I am quite certain you will be informed immediately after I commence operations. It really makes little difference; you cannot reach me. Really, my dear Nick, I have a contempt for the so-called detective ability. You, with your Ida, Chick and Patsy, are a little better than the rest, but you are in the same running when you undertake to stop me. "The Brown Robin." This letter Nick Carter found in his mail one morning a short time ago, on coming to his breakfast table. He read the letter with some interest, noting that it had been mailed late the afternoon before, and in the sub-district in which he lived. Tossing it over to his wife, Edith, to read, he said: "That might be taken for a challenge, I suppose." Edith read it, and replied that she should take it for an impertinence. "Who is the Brown Robin?" she asked. "Ah! That is the great mystery," answered Nick. "A woman?" asked Edith. "When you ask that question in that way," replied Nick, "you mean to make the statement that you believe it to be a woman." "Well, yes; I judge the writer of this is a woman." "Why?" "The writing, in the first place." "That will hardly do. It might be taken for the writing of a woman a little more masculine than is usual, or of a man a little more feminine than is usual. I carefully examined the writing before I gave you the letter, and could not determine satisfactorily to myself which it was." Edith again examined the letter, and said that she should be afraid, after a second look, to stand on either side. "The truth is, Edith," said Nick, "it is an assumed hand, not the natural one of the person who wrote it, and is not always employed by that person. That is my belief." Again Edith studied the letter. "There is something about the whole thing," she said, "that impresses me with the notion that the writer of this is a woman. But if you were to ask me why, I could not tell you." Nick laughed. "It is the same old story of puzzling mystery." "Then you know something of the Brown Robin?" "I know that the Brown Robin puzzled and mystified the police of Chicago two winters ago. I was appealed to then to go to Chicago, take up the case, and ferret out the mystery, but then I was engaged in an important matter here and could not go. "Suddenly the Brown Robin disappeared from Chicago and turned up in Boston, where the police were put at their wits' end in an endeavor to detect the person. "As suddenly he, she or it flitted to Philadelphia, with a like result, and then back again to Chicago. Now it would seem that the Brown Robin is making New York its roosting place." "But who is the Brown Robin, and what does it do?" "As I said, who the Brown Robin is—whether a he, she, or it—is a mystery. What the Brown Robin does is to extort money from various kinds of people, and most successfully, by blackmail. "The Brown Robin moves about so skillfully and shows up in so many guises, that he, she or it has always escaped detection, and has left the police of each place where it has operated in doubt whether it is a man, or a woman, or a lot of men and women, moving under the directions of a very skillful person. "That is all I can tell you, for I have not looked deeply into the matter." "This is a direct challenge to you." "Yes, but I shall not accept it, unless I am retained by a victim of the Brown Robin's arts, and then only if the victim will consent to be guided wholly by me in the matter." He tossed the letter aside and finished his breakfast. He had hardly time to open his morning paper, when the servant entered with a note, which, she said, had been brought by a messenger boy. Opening it, Nick read: "My Dear Carter: Very shortly after receiving this you will have a call from Mr. Alpheus Cary. He is my first victim in New York. I should judge by this experience that New York is very easy to work. The incident afforded me a good deal of amusement, for Mr. Alpheus Cary hates to give up. "He was in a panic when he did, but regretted it a minute after. Indeed, my operation came perilously near robbery, for his hesitancy began before he really handed the money over. "The only regret I have is that the sum was so small. In that sense it was not a brilliant beginning in New York. But you can complete the operation by getting a stiff retainer out of him. Then, if you choose to "whack up," why, you can send me half. That proposition is the reason why I write. "Really, Carter, there is quite a stroke of business to be done by us in this way. I know you pose as an honest man, but, pshaw! let there be no nonsense between us. "The Brown Robin." The first sensation Nick experienced on reading this letter was that of anger. Then the audacity of the writer excited his sense of humor. "You thought the other letter was impertinent," said he, handing the last one to Edith, "but what do you think of this one?" Edith read it with flushed face, but, inspired by an idea, she said: "Nick, if I were you I would capture that person, no matter what I did to accomplish it." "What would you do?" "I'd pretend to enter into a bargain with the Brown Robin, such as is here proposed." Nick did not reply at once. When he did, he said: "Do you know, Edith, I am under the impression that this is an impudent and audacious beginning of an effort to blackmail me." "Nick Carter!" "Yes, a trap is being laid for me to walk into, of which this is only one of the strings." "But why should they attempt to blackmail you?" "I suppose my money is as good to them as that of any other person. But what a triumph it would be to have the boast that Nick Carter had been trapped that way!" "True." "Edith, let me warn you to be prepared for any trick. Whether I will or not, the Brown Robin has thrown down the gauntlet." "Do you know Mr. Alpheus Cary?" "I only know that there is a person of that name, who is a man of wealth and the president of a bank in this city—a man of some prominence, but that is all I do know of him." "Where does he live?" "Somewhere in Central Park West, but just where I don't know. What are you thinking of?" "I was thinking that perhaps the Cary whom you are told will call on you might be the Brown Robin made up, and that it would be well to send Chick or Patsy to find if he is at home." "Good, Edith," cried Nick, with a laugh, "you are getting to be a great detective. Well, I shall act on your suggestion, only I shall send Ida to Mr. Cary's house, for she is near by." He went to the 'phone and rang up Ida, and received an immediate response. But Edith, closely watching, saw him start as a look of deep suspicion came over his face. He made a quick signal to his wife. Asking through the 'phone whether he was talking to Ida, he received an answer which brought again the suspicious look to his face. But he continued, as usual, though his message was a surprise to Edith. He said: "As soon as you can, Ida, I want you to go to Herman Hartwig, and, giving him the word ‘Passen,' tell him to give you his report. Then bring it to me. Do you understand?" Waiting for a response, he said: "Then repeat what I have said." He listened, and, as he did, a broad smile came over his face. He hung up the 'phone and rang off, turning to his wife with a queer light in his eyes. "Why, Nick," asked Edith, "who is Herman Hartwig?" "I don't know." "And what is the word ‘Passen?'" "Never heard of it before." "Then what is the meaning of your message?" "Nothing. It was diamond cut diamond. That was not Ida on the other end of the line." "Who, then?" "I don't know. Perhaps the Brown Robin. The wires have been tampered with in some way. It was not Ida for, if it had been, she would have wanted to know where Herman Hartwig was to be found, since she had never heard of him before, because I invented the name at the moment." "Then your suspicions were excited at once?" "Yes; it was a good imitation of Ida's voice, but a certain trick of Ida's speech was wanting, and I was watching for it." Nick thought a moment; then, hastily stepping to the 'phone, he cut the connecting wires. "It is the safest way," he said. "Now, Edith, hurry to the drug store on the corner and send for Chick, Patsy and Ida." As Edith went out, Nick sat down to his paper again, but he had read a short time only when the servant entered with a card, saying that a caller was in the parlor. He read the card. The name on it was Mr. Alpheus Cary. Bidding the servant to tell the gentleman that Mr. Carter was engaged for the present, but would see him presently, he continued to read his paper. His intention was not to see his caller until his aids should arrive, for he meant that Chick should be present at the interview, and Patsy should shadow the caller when he left. He was thus engaged when Edith returned. She bore in her hand a card and note, and, as she entered the room, she was about to speak, but Nick checked her with a gesture. She handed Nick the card and note. Reading the card, Nick looked up with surprise and compared it with one he had just received. It was the same exactly. Tearing open the note, he read: "Dear Mr. Carter: I beg you will call on me at the Zetler Bank, on a matter of importance, at your earliest convenience. I do not call on you for the reason that I fear the call would become known to a person I desire to keep in the dark. Respectfully, Alpheus Cary." "Where did you get these?" whispered Nick. "At the drug store," returned Edith, also in a whisper. "I was about going out when the druggist called me by name. An elderly gentleman, standing near, started and spoke in a low tone to the druggist, asking if I was Nick Carter's wife. "Being told that I was, he came to me, handing me his card and this note, with the request that I should give it to you. "He said that he had intended to call, had even driven past the door, but, on second thought, believed it were not best, and had gone to the drug store, where he was known, and had written the note there." "And you came directly back with it?" "Directly." "Where did Mr. Cary go?" "He got into a cab and drove down Columbus Avenue." Nick thought a moment, and said, in a whisper: "This must have occurred about the time my caller handed in the other card." He sprang to his feet and hurried to the parlor. But it was empty. The waiting caller had left without a word. Nick, calling the servant, inquired if she had seen the caller leave, but she had not, nor could she give any information. Pursuing his inquiries, all that he could learn was that a moment after Mrs. Carter was seen to enter the front door an elderly-appearing man had darted from it and had gone down the street, hastily, to the west. Satisfied that a spurious Mr. Cary had called on him that morning, and that the genuine Mr. Cary had accosted his wife in the drug store, Nick returned to his room to await the arrival of his assistants, Chick, Patsy and Ida. # CHAPTER II. THE WAY OF THE ROBIN. Nick's passage to the Zetler Bank to see the real Mr. Alpheus Cary was in the nature of a procession. He had been impressed with the idea that the caller who had announced himself as Mr. Alpheus Cary, had, by some means, come to know that the real Mr. Cary was in the neighborhood, and had fled because of that. His fleeing seemed to Nick to suggest that in some way this person was either the Brown Robin or some one connected with that person. The audacity of the effort to impersonate Cary in an interview with Nick further suggested that the person had much confidence in his own skill, and was rather conceited about it. He thought it probable that he would be put under observation in his next attempt to leave the house. So he directed Chick to go out and post himself so that he could shadow Nick and see whether he was followed. And, having respect for the skill of this Brown Robin, he sent Patsy out charged with the duty of following Chick, and Ida later to follow Patsy. Thus it was that when, an hour later, he went out into the street, his passage to the Zetler Bank was in the nature of a procession. Nick's passage, however, was not direct, for he received a signal from Chick that the latter thought a person was on the track of his chief. Consequently he took a devious route, turning into many strange places, doubling on his track and doing a number of strange things. All this time he paid not the slightest attention as to whether or not another person was doing these strange things, for he was relying upon Chick to determine whether any one was on his track. "Gee!" said Patsy, when, in these doubling turns, he came upon Ida, "what is this game we're getting this morning?" However, Chick had seen a young man about twenty-five or six, who had made his appearance only as Nick had shown on the street, and whose route was the same as that of the chief. When Nick had taken to his devious ways on hearing a peculiar huckster's cry behind him, which he knew to be from Chick, this young man had taken to the same devious ways. When Nick started straight for the bank, this young man had followed, and Chick saw him walk to the very door of the Zetler Bank to watch Nick enter. Summoning Patsy by signal, he sent him on the trail of this young man, while he awaited the appearance of Nick from the bank. The wait was a long one. When Nick presented his name, Mr. Cary came forward in such excitement that Nick thought he would betray himself to every one within hearing. "I am glad to see you, Mr. Carter," he said. "My business is most important, yet I have been warned——" "I know," said Nick, calmly, "the Brown Robin. You have been told not to dare to talk to me." "Why," exclaimed Mr. Cary, "how do you know that?" "I guessed it," said Nick, with a smile. "But take me somewhere where we can talk aloud and unheard." Mr. Cary led the way into an inner room, closing the door after him. "Now," said Nick, "there are certain things I know of this case, but I want you to tell me everything, concealing nothing, not even when it tells against yourself. I shall regard it as a confidential communication. Make neither excuses, nor apologies, but tell the plain truth." "But I have been warned not to talk to you at all." "By whom?" asked Nick. "By some one who signs the letter ‘The Brown Robin.'" "Let me see that letter," demanded Nick. "Well, I don't know that I ought." "Now, Mr. Cary," said Nick, sternly, "you were blackmailed last night; indeed, it was more nearly like robbery, for the money was taken from your hands while you were hesitating whether you would pay it over or not." "You know that? How?" asked Mr. Cary. "Never mind how I know," replied Nick, sternly. "It is my business to know a great many things. But I want to say this: I mean to investigate this matter to the bottom. If you help me by giving me all the information in your possession, so much the better, but whether you do or not I shall find all out. Now choose which you will do." "Well, I had intended to retain you, but this letter——" "Let me see it," demanded Nick, in a decided tone. Mr. Cary yielded, and, taking the letter from his breast pocket, handed it to Nick. At a glance the famous detective saw that it was the same handwriting, on the same kind of paper, as the two letters he had received in the morning. It read: "Dear Papa Cary: I want to warn you against a very bad man. His name is Nick Carter. You will only get yourself into trouble if you don't take my warning. You are in a good deal of trouble now, for you stand in danger of exposure. Fie! Such a naughty Papa Cary! But you must not talk to Nick Carter. You must not talk to him of our pleasant experiences last night. And, Papa Cary, you must come again, and bring some more of the stuff that makes the mare go. I shall tell you when and where. And you must, or there will be pretty photographs sent to Mamma Cary and the little Carys, and to the bank officials, and so there will if you talk to Nick Carter. "The Brown Robin." Nick folded up the letter and placed it in his pocket, saying: "This letter will be safer with you than with me. Now tell me how you met the woman." "How do you know——" "I would rather you would answer my question," interrupted Nick, sternly, "and please waste no time with questions. You met a woman last night. Where? How? When?" "Well, it was in the Rideau restaurant—that is a——" "I know—in Fourth Avenue. How came you to be there?" "Some business took me on the East Side yesterday afternoon, on which I was delayed beyond my own dinner hour. I had heard of this place and thought I would like to visit it. So I went there to dine. It was crowded, few seats being vacant. "As I passed down the rows of tables I came to one at which was seated a young woman of attractive appearance, dressed like a lady, in brown, on whose hat was a robin. "The seat opposite her was vacant, and, bowing, I asked if I could occupy it. She consented by saying that she could not prevent me, as it was free to any one to take. "Seating myself, it was not long before I was in conversation with her." "I see," said Nick. "Did she know who you were?" "Why, no." "Then how did she come to know?" "That is where I was a fool. I told her." "On her inquiry?" "No, confound it. A bottle of wine and a pretty woman let loose my tongue, and I babbled like an infant." Nick had difficulty in keeping a straight face over this frank confession and the disgusted face that accompanied it. "Of course you didn't know her?" asked Nick. "No; she told me she was but recently from Chicago; that she was married; that her husband had been detained at the last moment, but would soon follow her." "Well, what then?" "It ended in my paying for her supper, and we arose from the table together, leaving the restaurant together. "In the street I asked her direction, and proposed to accompany her as far as her door." "It would seem as if, then, you took the lead in this thing." "That is true in a way, yet she encouraged every step." "Of course. Go on." "She took me into Seventeenth street, and toward the east, to a respectable-looking house, which she said was one in which she was staying, and asked, indeed coaxed, me to enter. "Well, like a fool, I consented. She took me into the front parlor, and, asking me to be seated, went off, saying that she would return in a moment." "She did, having changed her street dress for a flowing wrapper. Seating herself, she began a series of questions about myself that I, fool that I was, answered. "Suddenly, and without intimation of her purpose, she arose, and, coming to me, threw her arms about my neck, seating herself on my lap. "I was so astonished at this for a moment I was helpless, and in that moment there was a flash of light that blinded me. "The woman laughed gayly, and, jumping up, ran into the other room. A moment later she returned, saying: "‘Come, Papa Cary. I don't give my pleasant company for nothing. You've enjoyed my society for two or three hours. You must pay for it. Come! Shell out!' "‘What is this?' I cried, ‘blackmail?' "‘Some unpleasant people call it that, I believe,' she said. ‘But whatever it is, you must submit.' "‘Not by any means,' I said. ‘You have attacked the wrong person.' "Again she laughed, and, springing up, ran into the next room, to return in a moment, bringing with her a photograph plate. "‘You may look at that,' she said, holding it up before me. Over the rim she pointed a small revolver. "I looked to see that a photograph of myself, with her on my lap, her arms about my neck, had been taken. "I fairly staggered back in alarm, and with a merry, mocking laugh, she hurried with the plate into the other room. When she came back, she said: "‘I'm a business woman, Papa Cary. A short horse is soon curried. Out with your money, or, as soon as these photos are printed they will be sent to decorate your home and your office.' "In my first fright over this threat I took some money from my pocket, but the thought came that payment wouldn't end it, and that I ought to bargain with her in a way that would secure me. "While I hesitated, thinking what to do, by a quick movement she snatched the money from my hand, crying, with a laugh: ‘Thank you.' "I protested—demanded its return. But she said: "‘Oh, no! You have given me this, and it will not be the last that you will give me, either. This is only the beginning. And I will pay you for it by always keeping those photographs.' "All this time she was laughing, but I could see in her right hand her revolver. I suddenly jumped forward to seize her revolver arm, when she sprang back and in an instant everything was dark. The lights went out. "Then I was pushed forward and out of the room by more than one, through a hall and into the street. "In my anger I threatened that I would put you, Mr. Carter, on her track, and when I was in the street I rushed about, trying to find a policeman. "By and by, however, my common sense came uppermost, and I saw that by appealing to a policeman I should only make public what I should, in my own interests, keep quiet. "So, determining to see you as soon as I could, I went home. "This morning, on reaching the bank, I found the letter which you now have in your possession." "How much money did she take?" "A little less than a hundred dollars—I cannot tell exactly; between ninety and a hundred." "Did you see any one else then?" "No." "You could go again to that house?" "No doubt of it." "Have you told me everything that occurred?" "Everything, reserved nothing. Now, I want those photographs, Mr. Carter. I want you to get them. I'll pay for them; but I won't be blackmailed." Nick was silent a moment or two, thinking. Then he said: "On your recital it seems to be merely a vulgar panel game. But I think there is more back of it than that. However, I will take the case. I will think it over. Do nothing, however, until you see me again. I shall probably be back again in an hour or two, possibly with my plan of action worked out." Nick left the banking house, and, going into the street met Chick and Ida. "Was I followed?" "Yes," replied Chick. "Followed to these doors by a young fellow of twenty-five, stylishly dressed. He was like a woman more than a man; that is, his face was so fine and handsome." "What became of him?" "He went off after seeing you, with a curious smile on his face. Patsy is on his trail." "Then that is all right," said Nick. "Come with me. I think we have got a case well worth looking on. We will go somewhere where we can talk it over." The three then went to a neighboring hotel. # CHAPTER III. A BLIND CHASE. When Patsy took the trail of the young man who had followed Nick to the doors of the bank, the only purpose of it was to find out who he was and with whom he had connection. In taking up the trail Patsy was wary. His first effort was to determine whether the young man feared shadowing, and, if he did, whether he believed himself to be shadowed. For the first ten minutes there were no indications of any kind on the part of the young man. He took up a bee line for Broadway, and, turning into that thoroughfare, walked to the south with a rapid gait and a businesslike manner, turning neither to the right nor the left, nor giving any heed to persons behind him. Thus they went, the followed and the follower, down Broadway, when, the building of the New York Life being reached, the young man suddenly turned into it with quickened pace. Patsy broke into a sharp run. He quickly appreciated the danger he was in of losing his man. It seemed to him that these great big buildings, with their numerous elevators, many stairs and entrances and exits, were especially contrived to favor escaping crooks. As he dashed through the entrance, he saw his man turning, on a run, into the rotunda, which is circled by elevators. "The deuce!" cried Patsy. "My one chance is that he can't get an elevator before I get to him." He ran like a deer down the long corridor, to the amazement of those who were passing. He turned the corner just in time to see the gates of the elevator close, as it shot upward, and in it was the man he had followed. This was almost too much for Patsy, and he gave an exclamation of chagrin. But he rapidly took in the fact that the elevator that had just gone up was the one that did not stop short of the tenth floor, and that one was to follow, stopping at each. Into this he plunged, concealing himself from view, but in such a way that he himself could watch. Passing the ninth floor, he saw the young man eagerly watching the elevator that followed. Patsy could not get out on the ninth, but he did on the tenth, and hurried down the stairs. Some one was descending the stairs to the eighth floor. Leaning over the balustrades, Patsy saw a man descending rapidly. This one wore a dark beard and mustache, and his hair was of the same color. The man he had followed had been beardless and his hair was quite light. But there was something in the carriage of the shoulders of the man descending the steps that suggested the one he had followed down Broadway. Springing to the head of the stairs, Patsy flung himself on the balustrades, sliding down thence to gain time. The man followed quickened his pace and fairly flew down the steps two at a time. Patsy was gaining on him, for he was more reckless in his pursuit than the man was in his flight—taking more chances. Thus the chase continued until the floor on which the great offices of the insurance company were reached, when the followed man plunged into them, with Patsy close on his heels. Then the man stopped, faced about and waited for Patsy to come up. To the lad's astonishment, he was not in disguise. He looked at Patsy with a sarcastic smile, and asked: "Are you following me?" "Yes," replied Patsy, carefully sizing up his man. "You could be in better business," replied the other. "What are you doing it for?" "You know very well," replied Patsy. "Now that you have got up to me, what are you going to do?" he asked. That was just exactly what Patsy was asking himself. What was he going to do? But he made a bluff, and said: "I am going to find out who you are, and what your name is." "That's easy," replied the other. "But what do you want to know for?" "That's my business," replied Patsy. The fact was, Patsy didn't really know why he had been ordered to follow the man. He suspected that it was because the man had followed Nick, and that there was a desire to know who he was. "Of course, that is your business," replied the other. "Very well, my name is George Vernon; I am one of the secret inspectors of this company. I followed Nick Carter this morning, thinking he touched the case I am on, until I found he did not. Then I sheered off. I take it I am a good deal in the same business you are." All the time he was talking this way he had been edging toward a door. This seemed to be so straight that Patsy could not deny it, though he believed the fellow was lying. He looked around to the clerks for confirmation, but they were all behind high desks and railings, and he could not get to them except by leaving his man. A high official of the company approached, one Patsy knew well. Patsy hailed him, and asked him if the man calling himself Vernon was in the employ of the company. "Well, that's a hard one for me," said the official, good-naturedly. "I should be greatly puzzled to identify all of our employees." The man said, respectfully: "I am in the inspectors' department." The official, however, became suddenly serious, and asked: "But what is it? Anything wrong with him, Patsy?" The other now turned on the lad with a start, his eyes intently fixed on Patsy, and the lad, as much as he respected the high official, could have kicked him for letting out his name. But the high official did worse. Saying to the one who called himself Vernon to stand where he was, he seized Patsy by the arm to lead him to a gentleman sitting at a desk within a railing. The impulse was a kindly one, for the high official wanted to serve Patsy, but it was a mistaken one, since the other, seizing his opportunity, dashed through the door, near which he was standing, into a big office beyond. Patsy broke from the grasp of the high official and jumped after him. There was a second's delay as the door swung back on him, but when he had passed through he saw the other running down the long room. The sight of a man flying frantically through the room, with another plunging along as frantically, followed closely by a high official of the company, excited all the clerks, and they thronged into the narrow way, so impeding Patsy's pursuit that, by the time he had reached the door at the end of the room through which the other disappeared, his man was nowhere to be seen. He ran hither and thither toward all the outlets, but quickly recognized the futility of further effort. He went back to the high official, who had followed him out of the room. Patsy was considerably nettled, but, choking down his anger, said: "He's a crook, all right, or he wouldn't have wanted to get away from me. But now I want to ask you whether there is a George Vernon in the employ of the company." "What department does he say he is employed in?" asked the official. "In the inspector's department." "Come with me," said the official. Patsy was led to a room where a man, busily engaged, was seated at a desk. He arose immediately on the approach of the high official, answering promptly the question whether there was a George Vernon in his employ. "Yes; there is such a person, and he is in the next room at this moment." "Call him," said the official. A tall, thin, intelligent-looking young man, the very opposite in appearance of the one whom Patsy had followed, reported. What was apparent was that the man followed had known of this George Vernon, and had seized on his name to throw Patsy off. When the real George Vernon was told of the occurrence and of the man who had taken his name, he said that on the day previous he had fallen in with a man of the description given in an uptown hotel, who had expressed a wish to take out a policy on his life. The real Vernon had talked with him on that line and given him his name and department. "Well," said Patsy, to the high official, "my man got away, but one thing is settled, he's a crook, and the other thing is that I have him so well sized up that I'll know him, I don't care how he is disguised." Patsy left the offices of the company, and as he did so, he said to himself: "My man carries his shoulders as not one man in a thousand does. He has a short step and a knock-kneed gait; he has no beard and a small mole under his chin, on the left side." He stopped in the corridor suddenly, slapped his thigh with his hand, stood still a moment, thinking earnestly. Finally he exclaimed aloud: "Holy smoke! I'll bet that's the way of it." Seeking a retired spot, in a corner, he made a rapid change in his appearance. He had entered the building a smartly dressed young fellow. He left it looking like a broken-down man of sixty, limping in gait and with bowed shoulders, racked with a cough. But he did not leave it until he had stood some time in the entrance holding out his hands and asking for money of every one that entered nor until he had been fairly driven from it by the officer in charge. Then he stood on the sidewalk, still begging, and continued to do so until the officer drove him away by threatening him with arrest. All the while he was thus engaged his eyes had been busy, and he saw a man standing on the opposite side of the street, occupying a position that commanded a view of the main entrance. When driven from the sidewalk in front of the building he crossed the street and took up a position near this man. A moment was sufficient to satisfy Patsy that he was disguised. Half an hour passed, during which Patsy begged, when he could without being discovered by policemen, and still shadowed the disguised man, who was watching the main entrance. Finally this man strolled away like one who did so reluctantly. Patsy watched him with a thrill of delight. He had found his man again. The man went to a hotel, where he sat down in the writing-room and, taking paper and envelope from his pocket, began to write letters. Patsy slipped away and made another change in his appearance, and, coming back, set out to write letters himself. When the other had written two letters, he got up and went out, followed by Patsy. This time he went to an American District Telegraph office, handing the letters in and paying the fee. Leaving the office he went directly back to the hotel where he had written his letters, and, calling for the key of room ninety-eight, said to the clerk: "I am tired and shall lie down for a nap. Call me by two o'clock. Not later." He went to his room. Patsy turned over the register and found the name of Harold Stanton, and opposite the number ninety-eight. "How long has Stanton been staying with you?" asked Patsy. "Only since last night." "What do you know of him?" "Nothing. He paid for his room for two nights. But he wasn't in his room last night." Patsy went away, saying: "What next? I've run him down to this place, and know he figures as Harold Stanton." He went back to the American District Telegraph office and persuaded the man in charge to give him the names of the persons to whom Stanton had written letters. One was Nick Carter, the other was Alpheus Cary. Patsy gave a long whistle, and set out to find his chief. # CHAPTER IV. THE REAL THING. After Nick had talked over the case with Chick and Ida, he had sent Chick to the house in Seventeenth Street to take stock of it and to make inquiries. "Chick," he had said, "I don't think you will learn much, for I fancy the house has been abandoned by these people. However, you may learn something in looking it up." He then went to his house, to find a caller awaiting him. Nick looked at the card, but did not recognize the name. It was Richard F. Mountain. He sent for the caller to come to his own room. Mr. Mountain was one who showed in his movements that he was a man of business, and accustomed to affairs. "Are we alone, Mr. Carter?" he added, on entering. "What I have to say is strictly confidential." "We cannot be overheard here," replied Nick. "Then the next question is, can I rely upon you to take my case?" "I never decide to take a case until I hear the story," said Nick, "but whatever confidence you give me will be respected." "It's a case of attempted blackmail," replied Mr. Mountain. "The Brown Robin?" asked Nick. Mr. Mountain stared a moment before he replied: "Yes, that name has cropped up in the case." "Then I take your case," said Nick, "for I am already engaged. Go on with the story." "I am an insurance agent and real estate broker," said Mr. Mountain, plunging at once into his story, "and frequently have sums of money in my hands for investment belonging to other people. My reputation is good and my standing high. "Some time ago I was caught in a speculation in which I had ventured rather recklessly. I reached a point where, unless I could put up a very considerable sum, I was likely to lose all I had ventured—lose everything. "In this strait I used the money of an estate I was managing, and saved myself for that time. It was wrong and was something that people did not believe I would be guilty of. "After I had passed this money out of my hands an accounting was suddenly and unexpectedly demanded of me. I was in a corner, likely to be exposed and ruined. The facts were not suspected, however, and a day or two intervened. I tried to extricate myself, but could not. "In my distress I determined on suicide, and drew up a statement which was a confession, placing it in my desk, to be found when my death was announced. "On the day I had fixed for my death—the day of accounting, I was given a respite by a postponement for one week. "During that week the speculation I was engaged in was brought to an unexpected and successful conclusion and realization. I was in funds again—in fact, a rich man. "During the few days left me before the accounting, I was so busy in preparing for it and buying back securities that I had used, that the confession passed from my mind. "After I had passed through the accounting triumphantly, I looked for it. It was gone. I searched and inquired, but without success. "For a long time it worried me greatly, but as time went on and nothing came of it, I began to think that I must have destroyed it and forgotten I had done so. "But yesterday a copy of it was presented to me, and I was told that I could have the copy and the original for fifty thousand dollars. "I temporized and put off further negotiations until to-morrow. Now, that is the whole story. And, Mr. Carter, I am here to say that I will not pay the sum. I will not be blackmailed. I don't want to be exposed, either; I do not want the disgrace that would follow. My business would be ruined. That is a small matter in one way, for I am a wealthy man, but I do not want to lose the respect and confidence I enjoy. "In my whole business life I have made this one false step. But, all the same, I will not be blackmailed. "Now, with handing you this letter, received this morning, I have stated my case." He took a letter from his pocket and handed it to Nick. At a glance Nick recognized the paper and the handwriting. It read: "Mr. Richard F. Mountain: Contrary to my custom, I gave you two days to comply with my demands. Then I thought you asked for time to gather the money required. Reviewing our talk, I see now that you made no promise. I have been lax. I shall not be again. To-morrow you must be prepared to comply. I shall call you to a place to pay the money. Be prompt in your coming. But heed this. Do not call in the services of Nick Carter. Do not talk to him at all. "The Brown Robin." Holding the letter in his hand, Nick asked: "How was this demand made?" "By a young man who called on me at my office yesterday afternoon." "What name did he give?" "None. He approached when I was engaged with some people I was doing business with, merely saying: "This is a copy, but important enough to demand your immediate attention." "I read it, of course, and, getting up from my seat, took him aside, demanding to know what was wanted. "His answer was that he was acting for another person, who wanted fifty thousand dollars for the original. Situated as I was, surrounded by people who were at the time placing financial trust in me, I could do nothing but fight for delay and postponement." "I see," said Nick. "Now, have you any idea who this young man was?" "No." "Nor who it is he says he represents?" "No knowledge." "Do you suspect any one?" "Well, I hardly know how to reply. I had a typewriter—a young woman in my employ, who left me suddenly just before I missed that paper. Time and time again my mind has gone back to her in suspicion with nothing to support it. Her name was Alberta Curtis." "Have you heard of her since she left you?" "In a way, immediately after her disappearance. She was a Southern girl of a good but impoverished family. She eloped with a married man. That was the cause of her leaving me. I heard of it from her family, who cast her off for the act." "With whom did she elope?" "I only know his name—Charles Stymer." Just then Patsy came in, and Nick sent for him. "This is Patsy Murphy, Mr. Mountain," said Nick. "One of my most trusted aids. I want to question him on some business he has on hand." Turning to Patsy, he asked: "Did you follow your man?" "Yes. He gave me a chase, too." "Did you get close to him—close enough to know what he looks like?" "I had a talk with him." "Describe him to me?" Patsy gave an elaborate description of the man that had figured before him both as George Vernon and Harold Stanton. As Patsy talked, Nick, closely watching Mr. Mountain, saw him show signs of increasing excitement, until he finally burst out: "Why, he is describing the very man who called on me yesterday." "Then," said Nick, with a smile, "the Brown Robin is both a man and a woman." "I do not understand you," said Mr. Mountain. "Probably not," said Nick. "I am not far enough in the case to understand it myself. We are already engaged on one case of blackmail in which the Brown Robin figures as a woman. Now you give us one in which it figures as a man. "The Brown Robin has given a good deal of trouble in Chicago, Boston and Philadelphia without being detected. "It has just begun operations in New York. I imagine your case is the first one of its operations, and the other we have the second. "Whether it is a he or a she, or a gang, it is bold, audacious and skillful, working in a new way." "By the way, chief," asked Patsy, "have you received another letter from the Brown Robin?" "Yes; why do you ask?" "Because this fellow I followed sent you one." Nick picked a letter from the table and handed it to Patsy. It read: "My Dear Uncle: Really, you are much better than I supposed. It is worth while working against you. You're not easy, but keep me at work. What a dance you gave me this morning. And your Patsy is a regular laloo. He ran me down and cornered me this morning. If he had dared to arrest me he would have done so, but he had no right to do that, so, of course, he didn't. I slipped away from him only by accident. The above is only by the way. I write to say that you are not serving Papa Cary well. Drop him for his own sake. Even if you do stop him from giving me more, I'll ruin him. That is my rule. His safety is in submitting to me. "The Brown Robin." Patsy folded the letter, and handed it back to Nick, saying: "He wrote another to the other." "Who?" Patsy wrote the name of Alpheus Cary on a slip of paper, handing it to Nick. "Ah! I must know what it said," said Nick, as he glanced at it. Turning to Mr. Mountain, Nick said: "One of the peculiar features of this affair is the frequent and impudent letters that are written to me. "Until you came with your story, I was at a loss to understand the reason of them. I do now. Your case is the big one. While it is being worked the Brown Robin would have us think that the other case is the only one it is working on. "It is quite ingenious and a new way of working. Leaving a trail open on the second, they will carefully make those to the first blind. "Now, Mr. Mountain, return to your office. Another aid of mine will call on you as soon as he can. His sole business will be to study your appearance. Give him every opportunity. "If you receive another letter, let him have it. If you receive a notice from the Brown Robin to go to any particular place, tell him of it. That I must know of at the earliest moment. "Now, Patsy, Chick is over somewhere in Seventeenth Street. Find him and send him to Mr. Mountain's office. Now get away, please, both of you, for I must go out." Mr. Mountain returned to his office, feeling a weight off his shoulders, since the celebrated Nick Carter had the case in hand. Patsy hurried off to find Chick. Nick himself made his way to the Zetler Bank to find Mr. Cary almost in a state of collapse. A messenger had brought him a letter from the Brown Robin. It read: "Dear Papa Cary: Your little present of last night only went a little way. I want more for some expenses I have. You must be at the corner of Fourth Avenue and Twenty-eighth Street this afternoon at five o'clock. Be prompt, now, because there will be some one there to bring you to me. And bring some money. A nice good lot. Don't fail, if you do—— "The Brown Robin." When Nick had read this letter, Mr. Cary handed him a photograph which he said had been brought in but a short time before, carefully wrapped up. Nick saw that it was one taken by flashlight. It showed a woman sitting on Mr. Cary's knee, her arms about his neck, his face showing plainly. Nick thought it was about as compromising a picture as a respectable elderly gentleman of family could be tortured with, and one of which clearly no explanation could be given to offset or contradict the story it told. He studied the woman's face, or so much as she showed. There was art in the way it was shown, yet concealed. "Tear it up and burn it," he said. "You must not have it lying about your desk." And while Mr. Cary was engaged in the work of destroying the damaging photograph, Nick was busily thinking. Finally he asked: "Have you nerve enough to keep this engagement with the Brown Robin and carry her another hundred dollars?" Against this Mr. Alpheus Cary protested warmly, declaring that he never again would voluntarily see the woman. But Nick's persuasive powers must have been great, for shortly after four o'clock Mr. Cary was seen to leave the bank, and had he been followed, it would have been seen that his way was up Fourth Avenue. # CHAPTER V. THE BROWN ROBIN DINES. As the hour of five approached, an elderly gentleman who would have been recognized by any of the directors of the Zetler Bank as Mr. Alpheus Cary, its president, could be seen on the corner of Twenty-eighth Street and Fourth Avenue. He was looking in every direction, and peering into the face of every man who approached him, exhibiting a nervousness and an anxiety which showed that he regarded his mission at that place as everything but pleasant. Frequently he took out his handkerchief and mopped his face; altogether, he made himself rather conspicuous on the corner. Finally, as five o'clock was reached, a young man Patsy would have recognized as the one who went to sleep in the hotel after writing two letters, came up from some unknown place, for Mr. Alpheus Cary thought he sprang from the earth. "Mr. Cary, I believe," said this young man, addressing the elderly gentleman. "That is my name," replied Mr. Cary, nervously. "I thought that I recognized you," said the young man. "Are you the one——" But he was interrupted. "How is the market to-day, Mr. Cary?" asked the young man. "My eye has been off the tape to-day, and I am carrying a lot of U. P." Could any one have been close enough, they would have seen that while the young man was asking this question, and others, and receiving nervous and embarrassed answers to them, he was closely watching the elderly man. If Mr. Cary had been a sharp detective, he would have thought that these sharp looks meant something, but as he was not, of course, he apparently did not observe them. Finally the young man said: "Are you prepared to follow me?" "Why, yes; that is why I am here, I suppose. Are you the one who was to meet me here?" "Mr. Cary, are you acting in good faith?" "Why, yes, what do you mean?" "Did you come here alone?" "Entirely so." "Did any one know of your coming here besides yourself?" "Not a single person." "Will you give your word that Nick Carter is not in concealment here to see us go off together and to follow us?" "I will swear that I am here alone; that neither Nick Carter nor any one else is in concealment here to follow us." "Very good; I'll take your word for it. But let me tell you that if you have deceived me in any way, that you will be punished in a way that you will not like." "I have not deceived you. No one is with me, and no one could suspect that I was to be here." "Come along, then." The young man led Mr. Cary down Twenty-eighth Street to Lexington Avenue, and, turning the corner, hurried him into a nearby doorway. "I do not disbelieve you, Mr. Cary, but I am going to be satisfied." They stood there a while. Evidently satisfied that they were not followed, he motioned for Mr. Cary to follow him. Their way now was to a rather plain house at the other end of the block. Reaching it, they mounted the steps, the young man tapping at the door. It was opened immediately, and the young man motioned for Mr. Cary to enter. Then he followed, closing the door after him. "Enter the parlor, Mr. Cary," he said, "and I will call the one you came to see." He disappeared, running up the stairs. Mr. Cary had a long time to think over the wisdom or unwisdom of his step in again putting himself in the power of the woman who had, the night previous, played him such a scurvy trick. For one who wanted to see him so badly as she had written, the Brown Robin was slow in making her appearance. By and by, however, there was a movement on the stairs, in the hall, and Mr. Cary anxiously waiting, heard the Brown Robin's voice saying, rather commandingly: "You will be here promptly at nine in the morning?" The voice of the young man who had brought him to the house was heard in reply. "Yes, my sister; but you will not see me until that time." The other door opened and closed with a bang. Mr. Cary grinned on hearing this. But whether in satisfaction of the departure of the young man, or in pleased anticipation of a _tête-à-tête_ with the Brown Robin, did not appear. His face, however, was perfectly composed when the Brown Robin, very cool and elegant in appearance, entered the parlor. "How good of you, Papa Cary, to come and see me again," she cried. "You may kiss me." She offered her cheek to Mr. Cary, who hesitated a moment and then, as if he could not resist the temptation, awkwardly kissed her, to her great amusement. She sat down opposite him, saying: "I was afraid that you would be angry with me for playing that trick on you." "Then you mean to give me back that money?" said Mr. Cary. "Oh, dear no," she cried. "I couldn't do that. You see, I have spent all that money. We had to move this morning, and then my brother, Harold, had some debts that I had to pay. New York is an awfully expensive place, and I want money. You have brought me some, haven't you?" "I should suppose your husband would supply your needs?" said Mr. Cary. "When does he reach here from Chicago?" "I hope not soon, Papa Cary, for then I would have to stop seeing you. And I mean to see a good deal of you. Do you know what I am going to do this afternoon? I am going to give you a nice dinner. You gave me a nice one yesterday. Only you'll pay for this one, just as you did for the one yesterday. That is, if you have brought me some money. Have you?" "Have I?" asked Mr. Cary. "Well, yes, I have brought you some. Here is a hundred dollars." He handed the roll to her. "Only a hundred," she said, as she took it. "That is not handsome, Papa Cary. I thought it would be five times as much. But I'll take this, and you will have to give me more money five times as often, if you only give it in such little bits." "I'll give you a good deal more if you will do something for me I want you to." "What is that?" "Give me that photograph plate and the pictures you have had printed." The Brown Robin laid her shapely head back on the cushions of her chair and laughed long and heartily. Then she said: "Oh, that poor little trick! You want to bargain with me, Papa Cary. Now, what will you give for them?" "What would you have the heart to demand?" "Well, Papa Cary, I have such a soft heart that I am afraid I must let you put the figure on them." "I will give you a thousand dollars for them." "Have you the money here?" "No. I have no more than I gave you. But I would give it on delivery of the plate and pictures." "And do you think I would give up the pleasure of seeing you for a thousand dollars?" "That isn't the question." "Oh, yes it is. Don't you see that it is owing to my having those pictures that you are here to-day? If I hadn't them, you wouldn't be here now, would you?" "Yes, I think I should, if you had sent for me to come." The Brown Robin threw her head to one side and eyed the elderly gentleman shrewdly for a while. "I am afraid you are fibbing, Papa Cary," she said. "And I am getting afraid of you, too. I fear instead of being a respectable, elderly gentleman, ready to give aid and protection to unprotected females, you are a gay old dog. "No, I can't sell that pretty picture for a thousand dollars. It's too cheap. It cost me too much pains to get it. And then, how do I know but that you will take it to your club, show it around to other gay old dogs, as your last conquest?" Mr. Cary grinned delightedly over being called a gay old dog, but shook his head and protested with his hands. "But come," said the Brown Robin, as a servant entered from the rear. "Come to dinner all by our two selves." She led the way, and Mr. Cary followed into a rear room, where a dinner table was laid. The dinner was a good one, and Mr. Cary evidently enjoyed it, for he ate heartily, getting quite gay over it. Of wine, however, he was sparing in use, though urged often to drink. When the dinner was over Mr. Cary renewed his efforts to get the photographic plate, but the Brown Robin was not to be cajoled into a bargain. She evaded in every way coming to close quarters, laughing and joking. Finally she put an end to it all by saying that she must go out, and that Papa Cary could accompany her a part of the way. She went to the upper part of the house, and while she was gone Mr. Cary seemed to show a most inexcusable curiosity as to the room he was left in and what it contained, for he examined everything in it, picking up a few things which he put in his pocket. When the Brown Robin returned she was dressed for the street. "Am I pretty enough to walk with you?" she asked. "I don't know in which costume you are the prettiest," replied Mr. Cary, "but there is a strange thing," he continued. "I do not yet know your name." "You shall call me Mrs. Clymer," she said, as she led him out of the door. She walked with him up Lexington Avenue as far as Thirtieth Street, into which street she turned, going toward Fourth Avenue. She stopped before a certain house and looked at its front carefully. "Let us go in here," she said. "What for?" "To look at it. It is empty. One of those furnished houses to rent. I like to look at them." Mr. Cary followed her up the stoop. The door was opened by a caretaker who had seen them ascend the steps. Mrs. Clymer, if that was her name, was contented with looking at the parlors. She went out, and, walking up to Fourth Avenue, turned to the south, Mr. Cary obediently following her. At Twenty-third Street she turned the corner, going to a real estate office, where she entered into conversation with the broker. Mr. Cary, meantime, looked out of the window into the street. If he had known them, he would have recognized in the two men standing on the pavement near the door, Chick and Patsy. But the Brown Robin called him to her, saying: "I must have twenty-five dollars. I want to pay it to this man." "I haven't that amount with me," replied Mr. Cary. "Give me your check, then." "Oh, I can't do that. But wait a minute. I can get the money." He hurried out, going quickly to the corner. Here he stopped, sounding a signal. Chick and Patsy, hearing it, went quickly to the corner. As they came up, Mr. Cary said: "Follow when I come out of the real estate office." He went back, handing to the Brown Robin twenty-five dollars. Finishing her business, she went out, followed by Mr. Cary. On the sidewalk she said: "Now, Papa Cary, you must leave me. But you must come promptly when I send for you. Perhaps it will be to-morrow. Our fun is only beginning." She asked Mr. Cary to stop a Lexington Avenue car for her and got aboard it when it came, bidding the elderly gentleman good-by at the car, very sweetly. Mr. Cary, regaining the sidewalk, turned the corner, walking down Fourth Avenue to Twenty-second Street. There he stopped, waiting for Chick and Patsy to come apace, and, when they did, he said: "I want to get this makeup off as soon as I can." "It's a pity to take it off," said Patsy. "It's great." "Boys," said the elderly gentleman, "that woman is the Brown Robin." "The devil!" exclaimed Patsy. "I am the only detective, or police officer, that has ever spoken to the Brown Robin, knowing it to be her. I have her measure." "Why didn't you nab her, then, chief?" asked Chick. "Because she has worked the Cary matter so skillfully that I could not convict her. I want to get her foul on the Mountain case. But the Brown Robin is a woman." "Then who the devil is Harold Stanton?" asked Patsy. "I'll tell you that later. There are others, and we must capture them. But come with me." They hurried to a neighboring hotel, where the Alpheus Cary who had dined with the Brown Robin quickly came out as Nick Carter, the famous detective. # CHAPTER VI. AN AUDACIOUS VISITOR. After he had removed his disguise, Nick said to his two aids: "The Cary case will give us little trouble after this. I shall probably continue to play his part in it, but it will amount to little more than shelling out some money. She thinks she has captured him. "She is a wonderfully clever woman, and is using the Cary incident merely as a cover to the big strike on Mountain. "Now, Chick, tell me what you found in Seventeenth Street?" "That the house was empty; that it had been occupied but two or three days; that the rent had been paid for a month; but possession has not been given up." "Do you know who rented it?" "A woman who gave the name of Mrs. Stanton." "Hum! I fancy that she has rented another house this evening, the one in Thirtieth Street. In my way of thinking, that house is to be the scene of the strike on Mountain. "That is a job for you, Patsy," continued Nick. "Watch that house from early to-morrow morning and settle who goes in and all about it. Nothing will be done there to-night. "I must go to Cary's club and quiet him for the night. He is nearly in a collapse. How about Mountain, Chick?" "I saw him. He is game, chief. Nothing came for him from the Brown Robin up to the time of his leaving his office. He will not yield. He is going to the theatre to-night." "Do you know where?" "Yes; at the Empire." "Ah, ha! Be in the neighborhood, boys, and keep him under watch if you can. He is quite as likely to get his notice there as anywhere." Nick went home satisfied that if there was any movement made that night, it would be only in the way he indicated. "A lady is waiting to see you in the parlor, Nick," said Edith, as he entered. "Who is it?" "She would give no name," replied Edith. "She is young, pretty, and has asked me a lot of questions about you." "Of course you gave me a good character," laughed Nick. "I told the truth about you, and you can guess what it was, for I won't tell you," laughed Edith, in reply. "But hurry and get rid of her, for I want you to go out a ways with me." Nick went to the parlor. No man ever had a greater control of his features than the famous detective. He always maintained his self-control under the most trying circumstances. He had more than once looked certain death in the face without blinking. But he had as narrow an escape from betraying himself as he ever met with, when, on opening the parlor door, he saw the Brown Robin occupying one of his sofas. The shock was momentary and not observed by the other. Nick crossed the room, bowing before his visitor, gravely, and said: "I am Mr. Carter, madam." The Brown Robin arose from her seat and looked most keenly and curiously into his face. Nick would have been dull indeed, if he had not also seen the look of admiration that grew on the face of his visitor. But it did not affect him. Indeed he was just then striving to guess what the game of the Brown Robin was in seeking him at his own home. "I should be much pleased, Mr. Carter," said the Brown Robin, "if you would listen to what I have to say and give me your advice." "I certainly will listen to you," replied Nick, "but as to the advice I cannot tell yet. But, be seated and begin." The Brown Robin sat down, and, taking from her pocket a letter, she said: "If you will read that it will be a good beginning." She handed it to him, and at a glance Nick saw that it was one of the kind with which now he was familiar. He read it: "Mrs. Ansel: I have named my figures. I have only this to say further: If the money is not at the place to be mentioned, and at the time, your letters will be in the hands of your husband in the evening. "The Brown Robin." Nick handed the letter back and waited for the Brown Robin to speak. Apparently she was much embarrassed, and Nick, studying her, thought she was an admirable actress. Finally she burst out: "You are not at all sympathetic, Mr. Carter. Cannot you help me by asking questions?" Nick smiled. Her acting pleased him, it was so good. "I presume I can," he said. "I suppose this is a case of blackmail." "Horrid blackmail." "What are the letters referred to?" "Mine, written before I was married." "Why, then, should you fear to have your husband see them?" "Well, they are compromising—that is, some of them—that is, in a way. They were written while I was engaged to the one who is now my husband, to a man of whom my husband is now and always has been desperately jealous." "Who is this Brown Robin?" "Don't you know?" "I was asking if you knew." "I only know that it is a name under which some one is making my life miserable. Who and what is the Brown Robin?" "A blackmailer, evidently. I have heard of the name as used by a person in various cities, and latterly in New York." "Is it a man or a woman?" "The Brown Robin, I should judge, is a name used by a man and a woman, working together." A faint smile flitted over the face of the lady. There was a moment's silence. Then Nick asked: "How did these letters get into the possession of the Brown Robin?" "They were stolen from Mr. Collins." "The man to whom they were written?" "Yes." "By whom?" "By the Brown Robin, I suppose." "How much money does she want?" "One thousand dollars." "And you cannot pay it?" "I have no more money than my husband gives me, and he would find it difficult to raise so large a sum." "Now, then, what is it you wish from me?" "Well, what am I to do?" "I think I should say that it is simply impossible—that you would find it difficult to raise a thousand cents. Convince these people of your inability to raise the money, and, as a rule, they drop the thing. It is the hope of getting money that makes them hold on." "But cannot you give me some way of getting back those letters?" "Frankly, Mrs. Ansel, for that I take to be your name," said Nick, "I don't think the game is worth the candle. "If I were in your place, I should take a detective of the regular force with me to the appointed place, and when the blackmailer appeared, put him, or her, or them, under arrest. They would give up the letters to be released." "Wouldn't you go with me?" Immediately Nick thought he saw through the purpose of the call. It was the audacious effort of which he had spoken to Edith, of leading him into a compromising trap. It did not anger him, for he rather admired the boldness and audacity of it. However, his first impulse was to refuse, but his second thought was to see it out. He said: "I am a very busy man just now, and cannot control my time. What is the hour of this meeting, and where is it to be?" "The hour is eleven to-morrow, but I am to be informed early to-morrow morning of the place." "Very well, I will go with you, if you inform me early enough." The Brown Robin arose, apparently much pleased with the success of her visit, and shortly after left. Nick went back to Edith, telling her to prepare herself for her walk and saying that he wanted to go in the neighborhood of the Festus Club, for a moment's word with one of his clients. When she came back, ready for her walk, she asked: "Who was your caller, Nick?" "The Brown Robin." "Nick! You don't mean that that pretty woman is the Brown Robin?" "No doubt of it!" "How do you know?" "I called on the Brown Robin to-day, disguised as Alpheus Cary." "And she had the audacity to come and see you, knowing you are retained to expose her?" "Boldness and audacity are her weapons." "What did she want?" "She pretended that she was a Mrs. Ansel, who was being blackmailed by the Brown Robin." "She came to measure you, Nick, to size you up, as you call it." "Perhaps that was her game. She has never seen me, I suppose. But, Edith, I think she was laying the trap of which I spoke this morning." "How?" "She wanted me to accompany her as Mrs. Ansel to meet the Brown Robin and compel the giving up of the letters." "Ah! and you do not walk into the trap." "But I will. Something of value may come out of it. I will escape it, never fear. Chick and Patsy will not be far off, I can tell you." Edith made no reply. Quite evidently she did not like it, but she knew it was useless to combat Nick when he had made up his mind. So she held her peace and went out for her walk with him. During their walk they stopped at the door of the Festus Club, where Nick told Mr. Cary that he had his case so well in hand that the old gentleman could go home and sleep in comfort. # CHAPTER VII. CHICK'S GREAT DISCOVERY. When Nick had left Chick and Patsy at the hotel, where he had taken off the disguise of Mr. Cary, the two young detectives discussed their own details for the night. "We're to keep a watch over Mountain," said Chick. "He seems able to watch over himself," replied Patsy. "Oh, he's able enough," said Chick. "It isn't that. The chief wants to know the moment he gets the word from the Brown Robin. He believes that the Brown Robin will show up to-night." "Then we must be on," said Patsy. "It's up to us to decorate the lobby of the Empire with our beauty. Say, Chick, it's the old story. We've swung about the Tenderloin so much lately that too many know us." "And we'll have to look different. Well, Patsy, let's swing out as swell Willie boys." Patsy laughed heartily, pounding the pillar against which he had been leaning. "A sweet Willie boy you'll make Chick," he said, after a while, "with those broad shoulders of yours. No, no, Chick. Do your own act. Swing out as a regular swell." Chick looked at his watch, and said: "It is nearly time to rig, then. But come with me first. I want to look over that Seventeenth Street house again. Though the people in the neighborhood say the folks who were in it for three days have left it, I've a notion it's still in the game." The two moved off in the direction of the house in question, and had reached the corner of Twenty-third Street and Lexington Avenue on their way, when a young man in a blue flannel shirt and a coil of wire about his shoulder, stopped Chick and asked: "Ain't you Chickering Carter?" "Yes," replied Chick, eying the young man keenly. "Well, say," said the young man, "it's up to me to tell you something. Say, I've been chewing on it all day, and just as soon as I was cleaned up I was going to hunt up Nick Carter and give it away, if it did fling me out of a job." "Can you tell me?" asked Chick. "That's what I hollered whoa on you for. You'll do just as well." "Step aside, then," said Chick. Chick led the way to a place near the corner, where they could talk unobserved, followed by both Patsy and the young man. "Now, then, what is it?" asked Chick "I've been dead wrong," said the young man, "and I'm going to square it, even if you fling me over to the company. It's this way. I'm lineman for the telephone company. See? "I know all about Nick Carter, and you, and Patsy and Ida. See? Well, I was working on the line up by Ida's house this morning, where a break had been reported, and I had to go on to the top of a house right by hers. "Well, I found a wire had been rung in on it, and I followed it to see that it run over the gutter and to a window on the third floor. See? "I went down to that room, and there was a young woman, and she was a peach, all smiles. See? "‘You've found it,' she says, ‘and caught me. Now don't give me away, 'cause there's nothing in it. I was only trying to get on to my best feller.' See? "Anyhow, she give me the great jolly and I went in up to my neck. I was soft as butter. When she flung up a fiver at me, hanged if I didn't do what she wanted, and fixed the wire to an old 'phone she had in the room. "She jollied me into it. See? After I got away from her, I began to think, and the more I thought the more wrong it was to me, and I saw what mush I'd been in the hands of a pretty woman. "So, after I'd been thinking an hour, I went back to unfix it. Say! Just as I got to her door I heard her say: ‘All right, chief, this is Ida.' Then I took a big tumble. I listened and heard her say over what the one at the other end had been saying, something about ‘Herman Hartwig' and ‘Passen.' She had got on to Nick Carter's talk and was a crook playing Ida. "I took a sneak up to the roof, cut the leak wire, and switched the other over so that the crook couldn't get at it again. "That's all there is of it. I've squared it with you, and, if you want to, you can report me to the company and get me sacked. I won't squeal." "Well," cried Chick, "I wouldn't do that, anyway. And now that you've squared yourself this way, I wouldn't think of it. "It was the chief she was talking with over the wire, but there wasn't any harm done, for he dropped right away that it wasn't Ida on the other end, and gave the other a throw-off. He cut the connections with his own 'phone. "If you want to square it right with the chief, go to his place to-morrow morning and put the connections on. I'll see him to-night and square you with him." The young man, expressing satisfaction with this arrangement, went off, after shaking hands with both Chick and Patsy. But he had gotten no farther than the corner when he stopped short, peered forward eagerly, and came back to the young detectives on a run. "Say," he cried. "Come. The young woman is going down the av'noo. Sure, it's her." "Who?" asked Patsy. "The one who worked me on the wires." The two followed quickly to the corner, where the man pointed out a woman moving along at a brisk gait down Lexington Avenue. "Come on, Patsy," cried Chick. The young man evidently thought he was in it, too, for he followed after. The woman, plainly unconscious that she was followed, went on until she reached Twenty-first Street, when she was stopped by Grammery Park. She turned to the right, or toward the west, and went around the park to Twentieth Street, and so down to Irving place. Into this short street she turned, continuing on to Seventeenth Street. "Hide!" cried Chick, just as she reached the corner, springing over the fence into a courtyard. Patsy obeyed immediately and the lineman caught on quickly enough to prevent himself from being seen. As Chick had anticipated, the woman had stood still on the corner and looked back. As no one was to be seen, she was apparently satisfied that she was unobserved, for she turned to the left and went out of sight. The three came from their hiding places, and, at Chick's suggestion, Patsy stole up to the corner, peering around it. He signaled for Chick to come, and dashed across Seventeenth Street. The woman was pursuing her way toward Third Avenue on the upper side of Seventeenth Street. "Keep back, out of sight," said Chick to the lineman. The young man fell back, and Chick advanced cautiously, taking advantage of every obstruction of which he could make use. Patsy was pursuing the same tactics on the other side of the street. When within a few doors of Third Avenue, the woman again stopped and looked back. This had been anticipated by Chick, too, and he was out of sight when she turned. Nor was Patsy to be seen. The only one in the vista was a man—the lineman—and his back was turned, as if he were walking toward Irving Place. Hastily she ran up the steps of the house in front of which she had stopped, and disappeared through the door. Chick and Patsy both appeared at the same instant. Chick sounded a signal, and Patsy came running to him. "Is it the house, Chick?" he asked. "The same one, Patsy," replied Chick. "Then it is the Brown Robin." "Perhaps. We'll pipe off the house for a while." The lineman came back to them, and learning what they were about to do, concluded to go off, but Chick persuaded him to stay. While he had every reason to believe that the young fellow was honest, yet he would not take the chance of having him give warning. The wait was half an hour in length, during which time the three were completely concealed under the areaway of a vacant house. About the time that Patsy expressed the opinion that the woman was settled for the night, a form was seen to appear on the stoop from within the house they were watching. "Here she comes!" cried Patsy. The figure descended the steps. "It's a man," said the lineman, "not a woman." The figure turned from the house toward the west, approaching closely to the spot where the three were hidden. As the man passed them, the light of a street lamp fell upon him. Patsy caught the arm of Chick in a firm grip, and held it until the figure of the man passed far enough along to be beyond the possibility of hearing. "It is the one I followed this morning," he whispered. "The deuce!" exclaimed Chick. "The one who wrote the letter—who went to sleep in the hotel?" "Yes; in the disguise he put on after he ran away from the insurance building." "Get out and watch him," said Chick to the lineman. The young fellow did as he was told, and presently reported that the man was crossing Irving Place and going up Seventeenth Street to the west. "Patsy," said Chick, "go and rig yourself for the night's work. I'll take up the shadow and will give you the trail." Patsy was about to go off, but he waited to hear Chick say to the lineman: "It isn't worth your while to follow us longer." But at the moment the lineman said: "The fellow is coming back." Again the three went into hiding to see that the young fellow stopped at the corner of Irving Place. He stood there a moment or two, looking down the street, and passed out of sight. Patsy stole up to the corner, and lightly leaping into the courtyard of the house on the corner, threw himself on the ground and wriggled to the corner, to see the man standing nearby, leaning against the fence. Patsy wriggled back, and signaled to Chick that the man was there yet. Chick gave the return signal to keep up the watch, and himself stole down the street to the house whence the man had come. Looking up at it, there were no indications that it was occupied. Pulling from his pocket a false mustache and a wig, he donned them quickly, keenly alive to any signal Patsy might give, and, mounting the steps, rang the bell. Chick had a notion in his head that he wanted to satisfy. There was no response, though he rang several times. Then he tried the outer door. It opened to him, and he found himself in a vestibule. The inner doors were locked. He picked the lock quickly and stepped into a dark hall. There were no signs or sounds of life within the house, but all was darkness. Chick drew his revolver, and then took from his coat pocket his lantern. Feeling for the parlor door, he entered that room and listened. Then he flashed his lantern. It was empty. By the light he located the stairs, and shutting it off, cautiously climbed them to the second floor, where he listened again. There was no sound of anything. Again flashing his light, he found an open door in front of him. He entered. On the bed was a lot of women's clothes. He examined them. It was a complete woman's costume. On a chair was some men's apparel. Chick went back to the woman's clothes and muttered: "It is just what I thought." He gave a hasty glance at the bureau. On it was a lot of paint and cosmetic; several false beards, mustaches and wigs. "I've got this for a certainty." He bounded out of the room, going hurriedly into every part of the house. It was empty; not a soul in it. He went to the front door, and as he did so he heard some one on the outside. He darted into the parlor and not a moment too soon, for some one entered and hastily ran upstairs in the dark. Quick as a flash and as a light shone forth on the second floor, Chick slipped out of the front doors and down the steps. Reaching the sidewalk, he sounded a low whistle. Promptly came the response; Chick bounded in its direction. Patsy appeared from under a stoop; Chick went to him. "Who went into that house?" he asked. "The same one who came out. He came back all of a sudden, as if he had just thought of something, nearly catching me. Who came out just now?" "I did." "The devil!" "Yes; I've been through the house. There wasn't a soul in it." "But the woman who went in?" "Patsy, I've tumbled to a big thing. The woman who went in and the man who came out are the same person. But hurry off, Patsy, rig up and find my trail. There's business on hand." Patsy dashed away and was hardly out of sight, when Chick saw the young man come from the house and hurriedly pass up Seventeenth Street. Chick was after him quickly, a piece of red chalk in his hand. The lineman had disappeared. # CHAPTER VIII. A DEEP GAME. For some time, as a matter of convenience for making changes and as a meeting place for himself and aids, Nick had maintained a room in the hotel where, in the late afternoon of the day in which these events took place, he had taken off his makeup as Mr. Cary. It was to this place that Patsy hurried to make the change that would prevent him from being recognized by the Brown Robin. It did not take him long, and when he turned out into the street again, in his dress suit and mustache, he looked like a veritable young man about town—a handsome swell. He had supposed when he left the room where he made the change that he would have to return to the neighborhood where Chick had made his great discovery, to pick up Chick's trail. But he had barely stepped through the main entrance to the hotel when he saw, on the pavement directly in front, a roughly-drawn arrow in red chalk, the head pointing to the north. It was Chick's trail. "Great luck!" exclaimed Patsy to himself, as he hurried up to the corner. "I'm on as the flag falls." At the corner the sign showed that Chick had crossed the street to the west side of Broadway, but on reaching the corner on that side, Patsy could see nothing that indicated further direction. "Great Scott!" exclaimed Patsy. "They have taken a car." He went back to the middle of the street, and, looking about carefully, saw some pieces of paper. He looked for a trail of them, but the wind had evidently blown them away. Searching further, Patsy's eye was caught by an upright form which fluttered a small red flag, a signal of some kind, used in the operation of the street railway. This upright was a slender rod of iron, but about it was tied a small bit of red cloth. Patsy went to it, to recognize it as one of Chick's signs. A railroad man came up, warning Patsy away from the signal. "Now, who the deuce did that?" he exclaimed, tearing off Chick's signal. But Patsy had seen it, and knew that Chick had taken an upbound car. So he mounted the next one, quite certain that Chick's destination was the Empire Theatre. But, all the same, he kept a sharp lookout for any signal that might have been left by Chick on the way. He saw none, however, until in passing the Empire Theatre, his eye caught a strip of red cloth, a foot long, fluttering from the billboard of the theatre. "Chick's there," he muttered. At Fortieth Street he got out and walked back to the theatre, taking off the strip of cloth which had been fastened by a pin, as he entered, placing it in his pocket. As he entered the lobby, a man in ordinary clothes passed out, making a signal to Patsy. Even before Patsy saw the signal he had recognized Chick, though he was disguised by a false mustache and wig. He followed Chick out, and when he came up, Chick said: "My man, who is a woman—the Brown Robin—is in there, looking at the play. The second act is on. "Mountain is in there, too. The Brown Robin talked with Mountain after the first act. What was said between them I don't know, but whatever it was, the Brown Robin asked something from Mountain which he refused to give or do. "I couldn't get to him before he went back to his seat." "Catch him after this act," said Patsy. "That's what I want to do," said Chick, "and I have been thinking it over and how to do it. You see, if we talk with Mountain in the open, the Brown Robin will drop, and that is what we don't want. "Say, Patsy, you know the manager, don't you?" "Yes; he's all right—nice fellow." "Well, can't you see him now, and ask him to let us into a room and send for Mr. Mountain?" "Sure." Patsy went off, and in a few moments was back again, saying it was all arranged. He led Chick into a room opening off the lobby, and when the door was closed Patsy laughed and said: "This job was easy enough, Chick, but the hard part was to convince our friend that I was the one I said I was. He knows Mountain, so that is all right." At this moment the door opened, and a short, rather stout man, with a sharp, bright, masterful face, entered, looking keenly about. "The great mogul over all here," whispered Patsy. It was indeed the great theatrical manager of the day. "Which one is Patsy?" he asked. Patsy stood up, and the great manager looked him over keenly. Then he laughed heartily, and shook hands with the lad. "Patsy," he said, "I think I shall have to engage you to teach makeup to my young people. Yours is a triumph of art." Directing the boy in attendance to make the two comfortable, he went out. Shortly after, a bell sounded in the room. "The act is over," said Chick; "now for Mountain." They did not wait long, for the door soon opened and Mr. Mountain, in evening attire, entered. He looked at the two with the air of one who had expected to find acquaintances and had met strangers. "Mr. Mountain," said Chick, "we are two of Nick Carter's men." "The woods are full of them, then," said Mr. Mountain, seriously, "for this is the second time I have been accosted by them." "Do you mean," asked Chick, "that the one who spoke to you after the first act said he was one of Nick Carter's men?" "That's what he did." "For Heaven's sake!" exclaimed Chick. "I hope you gave him no confidence." "I did not. I told him that I did not know whether he was or not, and I would not talk to him until I knew or he proved it. Then I told him that when I knew him to be one of Nick Carter's men I would have nothing to do with him, or Nick Carter, either, for I had been warned against all. And that's what I say to you." "You do not recognize me, then, Mr. Mountain?" "I do not." Chick stood up, and quickly removed his mustache and wig. "How now, Mr. Mountain?" "There's no doubt of it now," laughed Mr. Mountain. "I am Patsy, Mr. Mountain," said the lad, "but I can't take off my makeup so quickly or put it on again." "Well, boys," said Mr. Mountain, "what's in the wind?" "We have been detailed by the chief to watch over you, Mr. Mountain," said Chick. "He had a notion that you would get your notice to-night." "He was right. I did." "When?" "See here, Chick," said Mr. Mountain, "Carter told me that if I was questioned I must deny having anything to do with him or his men." "That's all right, Mr. Mountain," said Chick. "The chief has a notion that they do not know that you have retained him, and he wants to keep the thing quiet. I hope you did not let on to that young man that you had relations with us." "Why?" "Because that was the Brown Robin." "The devil! I saw Nick Carter only a couple of hours ago, and he told me the Brown Robin was a woman." "The person speaking to you after the first act was a woman." "What? Are you sure?" "Certain. Now, then, what did she want?" "Say, Chick," exclaimed Patsy. "Hold on! Mr. Mountain has seen her in the makeup she had when she left Seventeenth Street." "That's all right, Patsy, but she made a change on her way up here. Now, Mr. Mountain, what did she want?" "Well, after telling me she was one of Nick Carter's men, she asked if I had got my notice. I refused to say anything to her on the subject, and when she talked Nick Carter I told her, as Mr. Carter had instructed me, that I had nothing to do with him, and wanted to have nothing to do. "He—that is, she, if it is a she—began to threaten me with Nick Carter's power, but I wouldn't have it. I stood pat on Mr. Carter's instructions." "That is first-rate," said Chick. "I see the game through and through. It was an effort to be satisfied whether or not Nick Carter is employed by you." "Well, then, she is satisfied that he is not, for I lied like a trooper." "Good! Now, then, you have got your notice?" "Yes." "How?" "By letter. It was thrust into my hand as I entered the theatre here." "May I see it?" Mr. Mountain took a letter from his pocket, handing it to Chick, who, after reading it, passed it to Patsy. It read: "Mr. M.: To-morrow at 5 P. M. Be at the entrance of the Park Avenue Hotel, prepared to do business, as I require. Make no mistake as to the amount. You will be met by one who will bring you to me. If you are accompanied by any one, or, if any one is concealed there to watch and follow, I shall know it, and if you play tricks the game will be up. Be prompt. "The Brown Robin." "So it's business to-morrow," said Chick. "It seems so," replied Mr. Mountain. "I want to see Carter on this business; I meant to go to him after the theatre." "Don't; let him go to you," said Chick. "You will be seen and followed if you go. He will get to you unseen." "I suppose that is so," said Mr. Mountain, thoughtfully. "You will inform him then?" "Yes; I will take this letter to him." Chick was thoughtful a moment, then handed the letter back, saying: "On second thoughts, Mr. Mountain, keep that letter in your pocket. You may be required to show it, and it may be well to do it, if so." "How?" "The man who first came to you may show up before the evening is over." "I see." "A lot may be done to find out whether you are acting in good faith before they put their heads in the trap." "I follow you. Good! I am to act as I meant to come down in earnest." "That is it." The bell sounded again to notify of the raising of the curtain. "Go back, Mr. Mountain, as if nothing had occurred here," said Chick. Mr. Mountain went into the lobby, and Chick asked an attendant if there was a way out of the room except through the lobby. An unknown way was pointed out, and through it Chick and Patsy went out to Broadway. Here Chick said: "Now, Patsy, go into the theatre and keep up the watch. I think Mountain will be shadowed home; follow if he is. I shall hunt up the chief." Patsy obeyed, and went into the theatre, paying his admission, to see the man he had followed earlier in the day, in the same disguise in which he had come from the Seventeenth Street house; that is to say, the Brown Robin, standing just within the audience hall. He took up a standing position near her. Chick hurried across town to Nick's apartments and arrived a few minutes after Nick had returned from his walk with Edith. The famous detective listened intently to what Chick had to tell. "This is great work of yours, Chick," he said. "You have proved satisfactorily what I have suspected ever since I was at the Brown Robin's house as Mr. Cary. "The suspicion that the man that followed me this morning and was followed by Patsy afterward was a woman came to me when he took me to the Lexington house." "I was looking for the knock-kneed gait that the keen-witted Patsy spoke of, and then it struck me it was a woman, well padded and made up." "But, chief, you saw the man go out of the Lexington Avenue house just as the Brown Robin came to you." "No, I didn't, Chick," replied Nick, with a smile. "I heard it. But I dropped then, or thought I did, that the two voices were from the same person—a little play played for my benefit. "She is a great actress, Chick, and a thundering smart woman. She has the energy of the devil. When she left me, as Mr. Cary, in Twenty-third Street, she must have come straight over here. Leaving here, she made for the Seventeenth Street house, to make her change for the night's work. "That was a great piece of work of yours to go into that house. It proved the fact, and shows up her game. "I can see now how she baffled all the others. She has three houses to work in, and in the Lexington Avenue house she is seen only as a woman, except as she ordered it to-day. "She is great on makeup, and she plays the game herself. Well, she makes the big strike to-morrow, and we'll have her. "We'll meet her with her own cunning. "But come, we'll go to Mr. Mountain's house, to be there before he gets back from the theatre. "Take my word for it, Chick, the Thirtieth Street house is to be the scene of the big strike." With this, the two detectives set out for Mr. Mountain's residence. # CHAPTER IX. THE TRAP. Patsy arrived early the next morning to report to Nick that on the night previous the Brown Robin, still in male attire, had followed Mr. Mountain to his home, after that gentleman had left the theatre with his family. She had been around the front of the house for some little time, and then, as if satisfied that Mr. Mountain was housed for the night, had left, going directly to the corner of Thirty-fourth Street and Sixth Avenue, where she met two men, evidently awaiting her coming. Only a word or two was exchanged between them, and they then set off at a quick pace, going straight to the Thirtieth Street house, where the Brown Robin had unlocked the doors and let the two men in. She did not enter the house herself, but now hurried to Lexington Avenue, where she took the car, getting off at Twenty-third Street, and going to the Seventeenth Street house, which she entered some time after midnight. She was there but a short time, when she came out clad in woman's clothes, and went straight to the Lexington Avenue house, evidently her day's work done. "Well," said Nick, "it was a hard day's work, and she filled in all her time. "She was arranging her programme for to-morrow. We have arranged our programme, too. Those two men that she let into the Thirtieth Street house are there to help her in the strike on Mr. Mountain. "I doubt if there will be any others on hand. You need not watch it this morning. My plans have been slightly changed since my talk with Mr. Mountain last night. "But I want you to put yourself in a place outside where you can follow me this morning when I go out: I suppose the Brown Robin will try to spring her trap on me this morning." Patsy had been gone but a few moments when a messenger boy arrived with a letter for Nick. It was signed by Mrs. Ansel, and said that the place appointed for her in which to meet the Brown Robin was in Seventeenth Street at eleven o'clock, and it asked if Mr. Carter would meet the writer at a well-known department store in Sixth Avenue at 10 A. M., naming the entrance at which Mrs. Ansel would be waiting. Nick carefully examined the letter and noted several things. The stationery was not the same as that which had been used for the former letters; the handwriting was not the same, and the letter was framed so skillfully that it was made to look like the letter of a woman asking an assignation with a man. Nick called Edith and asked her to read the letter. As Edith was doing so he took some papers from his pocket, and from these selected a blank sheet and an envelope. "Compare this blank paper and the paper on which this note is written," said Nick. "It is the same," said Edith. "Even the most cunning make their slips," said Nick. "I found this blank paper on a table in the parlor of the Brown Robin in Lexington Avenue, as I did also a sheet of the other paper. Keep them, and the letter as well. "I am off to meet this very cunning person and see what her little game is. I confess I can't quite see through it." He went away, and promptly at ten appeared at the entrance of the department store named. The Brown Robin was waiting, and, as he approached, Nick did not fail to observe a flash of triumph in the eyes of that person. She arose to meet him, and welcomed him cordially. "I was very much afraid that you would fail me," she said. "Oh, no," he said, carelessly. "I am quite anxious to see this Brown Robin." "Why, indeed!" "She must be an attractive person. An old gentleman who ought to know better was caught by her, and rushed off to me to get him out of his trouble. But before I could get to work, he backed out of the matter, and, I think, because she has entangled him in her charms." The one beside him looked up quickly at Nick, but she could not read his face. "They say," said she, "that there is no fool like an old fool. I suppose you could not be caught that way." "A man is very foolish to boast of his ability to resist the charms of a pretty woman," said Nick, gravely. "I have seen too many strong men caught to be boastful myself." "Perhaps it is the story of her charms that makes you so willing to go with me?" "Perhaps," replied Nick, "but I think it is more out of curiosity to see the woman who has baffled the police forces of so many large cities. It might be useful, you know, to me some time. There's no knowing how soon a case in which she is operating may be given me." To this the pretended Mrs. Ansel made no reply. After a moment Nick said: "Ought we not to go?" "As it draws near to the time, I am a little frightened," she said. Nevertheless she made preparations to start. They went out of the store, walking down Sixth Avenue to Eighteenth Street, and then through that street to Fifth Avenue. On the corner of that street the pretended Mrs. Ansel suddenly gave a little scream, clung tightly to Nick for a moment, and then leaped into a doorway, hiding herself. Nick did not follow her, but stood still, watching her. The woman peered out cautiously; finally she came with a greatly frightened air to him, gasping out: "My husband! He just crossed the street." "What then?" asked Nick. "Oh, if he had seen you with me there would have been such a row. He is so jealous—so suspicious!" "Come along and point him out to me." He fairly pulled her to the corner, but, reaching it, the pretended Mrs. Ansel could not see her husband. "That frightens me," she said. "He may have seen me. He may be hiding to watch me. Oh, come away!" She hurried across the street, Nick following her. From that time on she kept up her nervous, frightened manner, until the door of the Seventeenth Street house was reached. "What an admirable actress she is!" thought Nick. "She is wasting great talents in a dangerous game when she might win fame on the stage." At this house, looking up at the number, she said: "This is the place. Shall we go in?" "That is what we came for, isn't it?" asked Nick. Without another word, the pretended Mrs. Ansel mounted the steps and rang the bell. Nick followed her up leisurely. The door was opened promptly by a large, stalwart woman dressed as a servant. To this person the pretended Mrs. Ansel said: "Mrs. Ansel and Mr. Nicholas Carter, to see the person named on this." She handed a small slip of paper to the servant. The servant closed the door and ushered them into the parlor, going out into another part of the house. She was back again in a few moments to say that the lady of the house was engaged for the present, but would see them shortly. Nick said to himself: "All this is well done, but what is the game?" In the meantime the pretended Mrs. Ansel showed every evidence of the natural nervousness that a woman placed in the position she pretended to be in might show. Nick had seated himself at a little distance from her, but shortly she beckoned him to a seat beside her on the sofa. "I don't think I can stand this suspense," she said. "It is all I can do to keep from fainting." And no sooner had she said this than she reeled over, falling completely into Nick's arms. At that very moment, a man whose face was blazing with anger, rushed into the room, crying: "So, I have tracked you at last. I have you with your paramour, in fact. You wretch!" To all appearances the woman had fainted dead away and did not hear the angry words. Nick lifted her up and laid her on the sofa where she lay as he put her, and stood up. "Who are you?" asked Nick. "Who am I?" repeated the other. "The deceived husband." "Is your name Ansel?" "Yes. I am the husband of that wretched woman." "Well, is the fact that a woman faints evidence against her?" "Don't trifle with me, sir. I have followed you here. I knew she had an appointment with some one this morning. I watched and have found her in her guilt." "In the house of the blackmailer known as the Brown Robin?" sneered Nick. At this moment the pretended Mrs. Ansel opened her eyes, started up, and cried out: "My husband! I am ruined!" Again she toppled off into a faint. "I suppose this is a well-worked game?" said Nick. "Well, play it to the end. How much do you want? Make it as easy as you can. I can't afford much, but I can't afford a scandal about my name." As he said this, Nick carefully watched the Brown Robin, and was certain he saw first a look of surprise and then of triumph on what was supposed to be an unconscious face. "Money," cried the man, "I want no money. Would money restore my wretched home, my happiness, the mother of my children?" Nick could hardly restrain a smile, for the man was clearly over-acting. But Nick kept up the pretense, for he wanted to see where the game was to lead to. "No; but you shall sign a confession. You shall give me the proof. You shall give me the means of tearing asunder these bonds that have now become hateful to me. "Here, sign this!" He drew a paper from his pocket, and, spreading it on a table, gestured in the most melodramatic manner to Nick to sign it. Nick crossed the room and took up the paper. As he lifted it to read he saw that the pretended Mrs. Ansel had recovered consciousness, and was sitting upright on the sofa. As soon as she saw Nick had observed her, she began to play her part. "Oh, my husband!" she cried; "be merciful. I know appearances are against me, but you are mistaken. I have done no wrong. Listen to reason. This is not a lover. It is Mr. Carter, the great detective." "I care not who he is," cried the other, in a great pretense of fury. "You met him by appointment. I watched you send the letter. I saw him meet you. I tracked you here. I saw you in his arms. I have witnesses. Sign you, sir!" It was very cheap acting, but through it all Nick had read the paper, and saw that it was an effort to make him compromise himself by signing it. "I shall sign nothing of this kind!" he said, quietly. "You won't. You won't give me justice!" cried the man, in a very tempest of fury. "I won't sign this ridiculous document," said Nick, "for it is not true." "Then I will take action at once. You must stay here. What, ho, my friends!" Three men, thorough ruffians, looking like dissipated prize-fighters, appeared. "You will watch this man until I return. I go for my lawyer and a magistrate. Hold this man until I return. Come with me, you faithless woman!" He sprang at the pretended Mrs. Ansel, and, seizing her by the arm, whirled her out of the room. # CHAPTER X. HOW THE TRAP WAS SPRUNG. Nick sat down and laughed. The over-acting of the cheap actor, hired for the occasion, was ludicrous. But the three ruffians, armed with revolvers, were ugly facts. He now saw the game. The trap had been sprung. It was a device to get him under control while the big strike on Mountain was being worked. Either the Brown Robin feared he had been retained by Mr. Mountain, or she had learned, despite his efforts to the contrary, that he really had been. "Well," he said, looking at the three brutes, "what is your game?" "To keep you here all day," replied one of them. "Oh, is it?" asked Nick. "What has become of the woman that was here?" "She has gone out with her husband." "Oh, drop that, my lads," said Nick. "That was the Brown Robin. I knew that when I came in here with her." The three men grinned, and one said to the other: "I told her she couldn't fool him." "I suppose you mean to earn your money by keeping me here?" said Nick. "Yer right, guv-ner." "Well, I don't know that I can blame you," said Nick, "but I want to know for sure that the woman is gone." "She's gone, all right." "Well, take me through the house, and let me be certain." "There can't be any harm in that," said one. "Go ahead quietly, me and Smithy'll go behind." Thus escorted, Nick went through and made sure the Brown Robin had fled the house. After all, it was a vulgar trap which had been laid for him. He returned to the parlors and sat down a while. Then he asked one of the men to open a window and let a little air in. When this was done, he took some cigars from his pocket and handed them to his guards. Then he went to the piano, and, seating himself, to the great pleasure of the three brutes, he sang: "Come to me, darling, I'm lonely without thee, Daytime and nighttime I'm dreaming about thee." He knew Patsy, and probably Chick, were without and would take his song as a call for them. Nor was he mistaken. But a few minutes passed when his quick ears heard a sound at the front door that told him the lock was being picked. Again he seated himself at the piano, and began to sing and play. The brutes were attentive upon him. But, through the corner of his eye, he saw Chick at the hall door. Wheeling about on the piano stool, he sprang to his feet, and, drawing his revolver, cried out: "Down, you dogs!" Chick sprang into the room from the front door and Patsy came in from the rear room, revolvers up. The brutes, taken by astonishment, could not rally in time, and, seeing they were powerless, threw up their hands. "Take their guns, Patsy," said Nick. This the lad quickly did, while Nick and Chick covered them. "Boys," said Nick, "I'm sorry to treat you so, but I must. You must be bound and gagged, but I'll let you loose in time." The three did not dare to make resistance, and, making them as comfortable as circumstances would permit, the three detectives took care to carefully lock the house up. Then they quietly departed. "It was a stupid way," said Nick to Patsy and Chick, as they walked away, "and more like a cheap melodrama than anything else. Really, I believe the Brown Robin has been an actress some time in her life." ~ ~ Shortly before five o'clock that afternoon Mr. Mountain, with a small package under his arm, appeared on the steps of the Park Avenue Hotel. He had not been there long before the young man who had first called on him came up. It was, of course, the Brown Robin. Her tactics were precisely the same as they had been with Mr. Cary the day before, that is, with Nick disguised as Mr. Cary. And the same questions were put to him as to any person being in concealment. When these had been answered as the person desired, Mr. Mountain was asked if he was ready to go and see the Brown Robin. "Yes," replied Mr. Mountain, "if it is to be done, let us do it right away. But first let me go into the hotel with this." The young man was reluctant, but yet he followed and Mr. Mountain, going to the desk, asked the clerk to place it in the safe and give it to no one but himself. This done, the two walked out of the hotel. As Nick had foreseen, their way was up to the Thirtieth Street house. What the young man did not see was a trick played by Mr. Mountain, a trick taught him by Nick. Every three or four steps they took, a small piece of paper fluttered from Mr. Mountain's hand. It was thus Nick could ascertain that the Thirtieth Street house was their destination. Everything moved precisely as it had the day before. The young man showed Mr. Mountain into the parlor and disappeared to call the person Mr. Mountain had come to see. There was a wait for some time, and then the Brown Robin swept into the room. "I am very glad to renew your acquaintance, Mr. Mountain," said the Brown Robin. Mr. Mountain fairly staggered in his surprise. "Why! Why!" he exclaimed. "Alberta Curtis!" "The same," said the Brown Robin. "Although I have had many experiences since I was your typewriter, my name has remained the same through it all." "Then it was you, after all, that stole the confession," blurted out Mr. Mountain. "Stole is an ugly word, my dear old employer," said the Brown Robin. "Be more polite. Say I confiscated it when I found it among loose papers." Mr. Mountain, though he had suspected this, yet, when he learned that it was so, seemed amazed and stupefied. But the Brown Robin soon brought him to his senses by asking if he had come to do business. In her dealings with Mr. Mountain, there was none of the coquetry she had displayed with Mr. Cary. Thus aroused, Mr. Mountain said: "Your terms are outrageous!" "Let us be plain and brief, Mr. Mountain. You have become a very rich man. Fifty thousand dollars will not even embarrass you. I have informed myself exactly as to your financial condition. "You can afford to pay that to preserve your good name and your reputation. "Now, read this." She took from her pocket a typewritten roll of paper, and extended it to Mr. Mountain. "You will see that it is a carefully-prepared newspaper article, which embraces your confession. "If you refuse to pay what I believe is the value of that confession, in your handwriting, to you, that will be published." Mr. Mountain read it over, and saw with what skill it was prepared, and how eagerly a paper would seize on it. "You would not have the cruelty to do that?" "You are mistaken," said the Brown Robin, coldly. "I would have and will do what I say I will. Make not the least mistake about that." "But you will do it for less?" "Fifty thousand or nothing." This was said with the utmost firmness. Then she added: "But why shuffle? The very fact you are here shows that you are here to comply." "I am to have the original confession for that payment?" "Yes." "Must I trust to your honor to get it?" "Show me the money and I will show you the document." "Very well." "Understand," said the Brown Robin. "I am well guarded. I can defend myself with this." She displayed a revolver. "I stand on a push-button," she went on, "and the slightest pressure will summon to my aid, if you attempt any tricks, those who will defend me." "Very good!" Mr. Mountain placed his hand in his pocket, and, taking out an envelope, took out a check, holding it in his hand. The Brown Robin, in the act of drawing a paper from the breast of her dress, stopped. "A check! Is this a trick, or is it your ignorance?" "Why, yes, a check drawn to my own order for fifty thousand dollars, and indorsed by me. You did not tell me in what shape you wanted it." "True. But you must have understood." Suddenly she flew into a violent passion, in which she declared that she would ruin him, really frightening Mr. Mountain. He tried to soothe her, and in doing so admitted that he had thought a check would not do. "I did bring fifty thousand in bills with me. It is in a package that I left in the Park Avenue Hotel. I can destroy this, and get the package in ten minutes." "And bring a horde of officers down on me?" "No; you can accompany me, or that young man who brought me here can." "That young man was myself, you fool." "Then go with me yourself." The Brown Robin thought a moment, and finally said: "I will." She called for her hat and coat, which was brought by a servant, and to that servant she handed the confession, to retain until she returned. She led the way out of the house in an energetic way, and, when they reached the hotel, entered the office with the broker. "Now get it," she said, stopping within twenty feet of the desk. "No tricks. I shall watch, and my punishment will be swift, no matter what occurs to me." Mr. Mountain went off and passed into the private office behind the counter or desk, and for a brief second was lost to sight to the Brown Robin, as he passed behind a high safe. But she saw him go with the clerk to the safe and receive a package, and return with it to her. Without a word she led the way out of the hotel and back to the house they had just left. Entering the parlor again, Mr. Mountain tore off the wrapper to show the bills within, and held it out to her. She called for the confession, and, receiving it from the servant, held it out to Mr. Mountain, who took it as she took the package of bills. Mr. Mountain assured himself it was the original by a hasty glance. The Brown Robin was tearing the wrapper from the package. When she opened it and shifted the bills she fairly screamed. The package was a dummy, only one bill being on the top. She sprang forward, but she faced two revolvers leveled at her. "You are my prisoner, Brown Robin. I am not Mr. Mountain, but Chick Carter, the detective. Mr. Mountain stayed at the hotel that he went to with you. I came in his place." The woman stepped on the button she had boasted of, and bells sounded in the house. At the same instant Chick gave a shrill whistle. A door crashed in and the plate glass of a front window was broken by the heavy blows of a hammer. Patsy sprang through the window, with revolvers up, and Nick Carter through the door, followed by Mr. Mountain. Nick met two men dashing down the stairs, the first one of whom he struck in the face with the butt of his revolver, knocking him senseless, and grappled with the other. Patsy had sprung at the servant woman, who had shown fight, to find she was a man in woman's clothes, and he found his hands full. Chick had easy work in overcoming the Brown Robin. It was a fight soon over, however. The two men Nick had attacked in the hall, finding the door open, fled through it. The other man, in woman's clothes, was overcome by Patsy, and, with Nick's aid, bound. Though beaten, the Brown Robin was game. "Well, Mr. Carter," she said, "I have come to the end. I was told you would overreach me if I met you. You have. I did not think you would. I thought myself smarter than you." "You were very easy," said Nick, quietly. "I could have taken you yesterday, when I dined with you, in the Lexington Avenue house, as Mr. Cary." "You?" she cried. "You did that?" "Oh, yes, Mrs. Clymer. You do not offer your cheek to me to-day." He imitated perfectly Mr. Cary's voice. This was too much for the Brown Robin. She seemed to feel worse over this deception than over her arrest and defeat. Nick saw that she had been wounded in her conceit. Finally she said: "Well, if I am no better than that, I deserve to fail. Lock me up." The Brown Robin and her servant were taken to the station house and locked up. "Your imitation of me," said Mr. Mountain to Chick, "was so good that when I passed behind that safe and saw you there waiting for me I was startled, though I expected to find you there. It was capitally done. I congratulate you." "Congratulate the chief, Mr. Mountain. It was his play from start to finish, and he made me up." The compromising photographs of Mr. Cary, together with the plate, were easily recovered in the house in which they were taken. Nick's inquiries into the life of the Brown Robin showed that she had been engaged in a criminal career almost from the moment that she had eloped with the man Stymers from Mr. Mountain's employ, though at one time she had been on the stage and at another time a newspaper writer. Stymers was a bank burglar, who had led her into crime. Her criminal career had been most successful, and the first check called in it was when she met Nick Carter and his faithful band. She received a long sentence, and it is hardly likely that she will ever again embark on a career of wickedness. # CHAPTER XI. AT THE DOG SHOW. Next day was "blue Monday" with Nick, and he decided to try the Dog Show at Madison Square Garden as a cure for the "dumps." After luncheon he set out to visit the Garden, little dreaming what fresh adventures were in store for him as the result of that visit. He had barely entered the hall than a prominent banker, known for the keen interest he took in the development of the dog, and who was one of the officers of the society under whose auspices the dog show was held, greeted him with the remark: "Of all men, Mr. Carter, you are the man I most wish to see. Some miscreant is poisoning our dogs here. The fourth animal is just now dying from a dose—all valuable animals." "Have you suspicions?" asked Nick, scenting mystery at once, and nothing loath to tackle another puzzle now that he had placed the Brown Robin behind prison bars. "Not the slightest suspicions," replied the banker, "although the owner is making wild charges and threats, but, then, that is from her grief." "Her?" asked Nick, in surprise. "Yes; Mrs. Constant—poor Al Constant's widow." "Were all the dogs poisoned owned by her?" "All of them." "Do you think it possible that rivalry or jealousy could be at the bottom of it?" "In the contest here for prizes, do you mean?" "Yes." "I cannot believe it." Nick asked no more questions, and looked over the room. "Come with me and look at the dog," said the banker. Nick nodded, and the banker led the detective to a rear room, where he saw a noble setter dog writhing in agony on a blanket on the floor. A well-known veterinary surgeon was laboring over the dog, and a beautiful woman of thirty, regardless of her costly raiment, was kneeling at the dog's head, soothing and petting him, the tears streaming from her eyes, while she murmured: "My old Don! My poor old Don!" The dog's eyes were glazed, and Nick saw at a glance as he came up that the dog was dying. But from time to time, the poor beast would turn a look of deep affection on the beautiful woman and lick the hand that soothed and petted him. "Mrs. Constant." said the banker, "here is Mr. Carter, the celebrated detective. I have hopes that I can persuade him to look into this case." "It is too late to save my poor old Don," said Mrs. Constant, looking up. "As for the miscreant, I know him. He is——" "One moment," hastily interrupted the banker. "What you have to say as to charges and suspicions say to Mr. Carter alone. He is to be trusted, and his advice will be well worth following." Mrs. Constant looked up at Nick, smiling through her tears, and said: "Very well. When can I talk to you, Mr. Carter?" Handing her his card, Nick said: "Come to my house when you can." "I will do so," said Mrs. Constant, "as soon as I have seen poor old Don cared for and my other dogs out of harm's way." Now the dog had another spasm, and it proved to be his last. He stiffened out and died. Nick turned away and went into the show room to inquire as to the manner in which the dogs on exhibition were guarded and cared for, and in doing so passed half an hour inspecting the dogs. At the end of that time, as he approached the center division, he saw Mrs. Constant standing beside a dog with her hand upon its head. He lifted his hat in salutation, and was surprised to see her state of wonder and doubtful return of the recognition. He smiled as he thought swift forgetfulness of himself was not flattering. Excusing it on the ground that she was troubled over the death of her favorites, he passed on into the street and went home, where he related the peculiar occurrence that had successfully driven away his fit of the "blues." A short time after his arrival the servant announced Mrs. Constant. Nick directed that the lady should be shown into the room he was occupying. Edith, Nick Carter's wife, who was also in the room, arose to go, but before she could leave the apartment, Mrs. Constant entered, and exclaimed: "Why, Edith!" Edith responded by running across the room to Mrs. Constant, crying: "Why, Blanche!" All this was very surprising to Nick, who could not imagine how it was that his wife knew his client. But, as he listened, he found that before Edith's marriage Mrs. Constant had been a member of the same theatrical company with Edith, and, like Edith, had left the stage when she married. Then that which had before puzzled him was made plain. He knew that he had seen Mrs. Constant before when presented to her by the banker at the dog show. It was all explained. He had seen her on the stage as Blanche Romney. When at length the ladies had finished their renewal of old times, Mrs. Constant turned to that which had brought her to Nick. "I hardly know how to begin my story, Mr. Carter," she said, "but I will tell you how I came to be an exhibitor of dogs at the show. My late husband was much interested in developing a certain strain of setters. "As I am a great lover of dogs, I took a vast interest in the kennel, and soon came to know quite as much about it as he, taking my part in the management and supervision of it. "I came to know what he was striving to do, and so, when he died and left all his dogs to me, I determined to carry out his plans and continue the kennel. "Mr. Constant died very suddenly. The doctors called it apoplexy. He was in good health and was stricken down without warning. "It is too late now to determine it, but I cannot rid myself of the idea that foul play was at the bottom of his death." "When did he die?" asked Nick. "Nearly two years ago." "At his home?" "He was brought home, but was taken ill at his club. I had gone over to Philadelphia early in the morning, not to return until the next day, so he dined at his club. The doctors insisted that he had been imprudent at the table, eating and drinking too much. "Mr. Constant was a free liver, and that gave a basis for their decision. But if I tell you that Mr. Constant was a wine-drinker, do not believe that he used it in excess. He did not. "Now I come to that which is unpleasant. His marriage to me was not agreeable to his family. They opposed it bitterly. "I did not know that until after marriage. Whether it would have changed my course if I had, I don't know. His family is very aristocratic, and I was a poor girl, of humble origin, working for wages on the stage. "We were happy in our life together, but our marriage separated him from his family. He was independent in having a small competence, and a share in the income of a large estate, held in trust, his for life and to be his children's after him, if he had them, which, by the way, he had not. "I was telegraphed for, and reached him in time to have him die in my arms, but he never recognized me. "When he was dead I found that he had left his own small fortune to me, but his share in the income of the estate did not become mine. "I have been advised that I have a right to it, but to get it would mean a lawsuit, and I am comfortable and in plenty without it. "Now, then; at the time of my marriage there was a man, Eric Masson, moving in the same club and social circle with my husband, who, while pretending to be on friendly terms with him, was his bitter enemy. "He wanted to marry me. From the first I had disliked him. It was not indifference to him; it was positive dislike for him on my part. "I had rejected him before I met Mr. Constant. When he learned that Mr. Constant was attentive to me, and that I was likely to marry, Masson warned me not to do it, saying it would be well for neither Albert nor myself. "He circulated stories as to myself, which had much to do with my husband's family's opposition, and one of them reaching my husband's ears, who was then my _fiancée_, resulted in a violent quarrel between the two, ending in Albert giving Masson a thrashing. "Though the differences were afterward healed, I know that he worked to my husband's injury always. "Masson was one of the party with whom my husband dined on his last day. "My husband had not been dead two months when he renewed his attentions to me, declaring that he had been waiting for Albert's death to step into his shoes. "I drove him away from me angrily, telling him that I loved the memory of my husband too well to insult it by taking Masson as his successor. "Since then he has been my vindictive enemy, making trouble for me when and where he could, starting scandals as to myself. "He tried to take my kennel of dogs from me, declaring that Albert had sold them to him on the day of his death. "He began a suit at law to obtain the dogs, going so far as to intrigue to get me to hire some creatures of his about the kennel, so that they might steal the dogs for him. "In short, I have been persecuted by him ever since my husband's death. He is the only enemy in life that I have, and I know he is at the bottom of the poisoning of my dogs." "I suppose," said Nick, "that this Eric Masson is the broker of that name—the yachtsman?" "The same person," replied Mrs. Constant. "Are you prepared to tell me the nature of his persecutions of you?" "Yes; at any time." "I do not want them now," said Nick, as Mrs. Constant showed signs of attempting to recite them. "Now, as to the injuries he attempted to do your husband. Can you prove those charges?" "Yes; after my husband's death I found among his private papers a package, which tells it all. My husband must have gathered them for a purpose that his death defeated." "Can you let me have that package?" "Yes; whenever you like." "Will you let me have it at once?" "I will bring it to you to-night." "Very well, Mrs. Constant. Say nothing to anybody that you have given the case to me." "Masson will know it." "Why?" "If he does not know now, he will in a short time, that I have come to see you. He has me under espionage—every step I take he has followed." "So bad as that?" asked Nick. With this Mrs. Constant went away, after saying to Edith, who had been an interested listener, that now, having met again, they must not lose sight of each other. "What do you think of it, Nick?" asked Edith. "A rather strange story, but there is more behind it than she has told—perhaps more than she really knows. When you knew her what sort of reputation did she bear?" "The very best," declared Edith. "Blanche was a good girl, Nick. She was so light-hearted and full of spirits in those days, so gay, that sometimes she was misunderstood, but there was not the least harm in her." "Well, Edith, I fancy you will have some detective work to do." "In what way?" "She knows more than she thinks she does. You must get her to talk confidentially to you, and these things may crop out. "Again, there are things she shied away from telling me, especially when you were present, but she will tell them to you." "I'll do what I can." After dinner that evening Nick went out for a short time, and, returning, as he was about entering his house a carriage drove up and some one, leaning from it, called him by name. Turning back, he saw Mrs. Constant. He went to the carriage door, and the lady thrust out a package to him, saying: "I am so glad to have seen you here. I am so hurried—so little time. It's the package—Blanche, that is, Mrs. Constant, you know. By-bye, I must hurry. Please tell the driver to go on." Nick did so, wondering at her haste, and as the carriage drove off entered his house. # CHAPTER XII. DEAD IN HER CARRIAGE. Nick sat down to study the package Mrs. Constant had given him, having some knowledge of the persons the package was supposed to tell about. He knew Albert Constant had been a man of no occupation in life, living on his income; that his family was wealthy, and about the most exclusive in the city. That his marriage to Blanche had been violently opposed by it, not alone because she was an actress, but because she was of that rank of life which his family believed was much below his own. He also knew that Albert Constant had quarreled with his family because of this marriage, and as a consequence had withdrawn from society. Of Eric Masson he knew less. That he moved in the same social circle as that in which the Constants were leaders he did know, and that he was not a popular member of it. He also knew that he was a broker in Wall Street, and, if there were not charges of sharp practice against him, there were mutterings of them, while it was whispered that at poker with his friends he won too steadily and too heavily. There were scandals also rumored about as to his private life, all of which, however, had not as yet affected his standing in the social world. The papers of the package were not easy of understanding, nor did they tell a complete story. Among them were letters from Masson to Albert Constant and copies of replies from Constant to the same. But the package was principally made up of memoranda in the handwriting of Constant, which was disjointed and seemed to be mere guides for the memory of Constant to be used at some future time. It all indicated, however, as Mrs. Constant had said, that at some prior time Masson had done Constant an injury, and that, though Masson denied it, Constant was gathering the proof of that injury. Nick spent the evening over the package, and at bed-time laid it away with a dissatisfied feeling that it did not confirm the charges Mrs. Constant had made. The next morning, on coming down to the breakfast table, he found Edith sitting horror-stricken over the newspaper. In answer to his anxious inquiry, his wife extended to him the newspaper, pointing to an article, the mere glance at which informed him that Mrs. Constant had been killed in her carriage the night previous. Reading the account attentively, Nick found that it was a murder, but by whom it was not even suggested. Beyond the fact that when the driver arrived at the destination he had been given, he discovered that the person he had driven was dead within the carriage, and that the surgeon, on being called, had quickly discovered that death was the result of a bullet from a small revolver entering the brain immediately back of the left ear. None of the circumstances were given. Comparing the time, Nick concluded that the murder must have been committed between thirty minutes and an hour after she had driven up to his door to give him the package of papers over which he had spent the time just prior to going to his bed the night before. The account was not informing, and was but little more than mere announcement of the discovery of the murder, except that it told who the dead woman was and who her husband had been. Edith was much distressed over the fact that death should have come in such shocking form to her friend, and so shortly after her old associations had been renewed. Nick devoted some time to soothing and calming Edith, and then sat down to his breakfast, determining that as soon as it was over he would begin an investigation. But before his breakfast was over he received another shock, though of a different kind. A note was brought him, evidently written that morning, from Mrs. Albert Constant, asking him to call upon her at once to consult with her on the new horror that had come into her life. He was astounded. He picked up the paper again to read the article telling of Mrs. Albert Constant's murder. There was no mistake. He had read aright. It was distinctly stated that the murdered woman was the widow of the late Mr. Albert Constant, and even the poisoning of her dogs at the dog show was talked of. And yet he held in his hand, written that morning, a letter from the woman the paper said had been murdered in her carriage the night before. "It is incomprehensible, Edith," he said. "There can be no doubt about this letter, and it speaks of a new horror." "Perhaps," said Edith, "she was not killed, but only wounded." "The newspaper account particularly says that the ball entered the brain behind the ear," said Nick. "Any one receiving such a wound as that could not write a letter within twelve hours, if she ever could. No; it is not to be accounted for on that ground. I fear this letter was written prior to her murder, for early delivery this morning, on the discovery of some new happening like that of the poisoning of her dogs." He arose from the breakfast table, saying: "I shall go to her home at once and try to reconcile what now seems to be a mystery." He went out of the house at once, and to the residence of Mrs. Constant, which was in the lower part of West End Avenue. Arriving, there were unmistakable evidences of a tragedy within the house. In front of it, on the pavement, were a number of people gazing with idle curiosity at the front of the house. Drawn up at the curbing was the undertaker's wagon, sure testimony that some one within the house was dead. As Nick mounted the steps, the door opened and the coroner came forth. "Ah, Mr. Carter," said that official, "you are expected. I have done all that I can do here at present. I presume you will begin an investigation. I hope that you will. "At present it is a dense mystery. I cannot give you a single point. All that we know is that the woman was killed somewhere between nine and half-past nine last night; that she was shot in the back of the head, and that death followed immediately. But who shot her we have no more idea after working all night than we had in the beginning." "What are the circumstances?" asked Nick. "Very meager," promptly responded the coroner. "The lady came from a dressmaker's establishment, and before entering her carriage told her driver to drive directly home to this place. "As soon as he heard the door close, he drove off, making but one stop on his way here, and that at Fifty-eighth Street, where his carriage was blocked for a minute or two. "Arriving here, as the lady did not get out, he got down from his box and opened the door, to find her unconscious. He gave the alarm; the woman was carried into her home, and a doctor soon coming pronounced her dead." "No one was known to have been in the carriage with her?" asked Nick. "No. That is the great mystery. I was disposed at first to look upon it as suicide. I have not abandoned that idea entirely yet, though all the physicians and surgeons who have examined the body say it is not probable. "However, the body lies in the parlor. Go and look at it, and after you have made your first investigation, I shall be obliged if you will come and talk with me about it." The coroner stepped back and opened the door for Nick to pass through, closing the door after him and going his way. Nick passed into the parlor, and there found Mrs. Constant lying in the box the undertaker had provided. He stood looking down upon her face, thinking that death had brought its changes and sharpened peculiarities of features that he had not noticed in life. While he looked, the undertaker came from a rear room, looking at him inquiringly. Nick said, quietly: "I am Mr. Carter, the detective." "Oh, yes; Mrs. Constant is expecting you. Indeed, she is very anxious to see you." Nick looked up in great surprise, saying: "Mrs. Constant?" He pointed to the body lying within the box. The undertaker smiled in a melancholy way, and said: "That is what has puzzled and confused people so. But let me take you to Mrs. Constant. She has been asking every minute if you have come." Nick followed the undertaker up the stairs to the door of a room in the front of the house, at which the undertaker rapped lightly. A maidservant opened the door, and when the undertaker said that Mr. Carter was there, flung it wide open, saying: "Come, Mr. Carter, Mrs. Constant will be glad to see you." As Nick stepped into the room, the maidservant spoke to a lady sitting in the corner, telling her that Mr. Carter was there. The lady arose immediately, and advanced to meet Nick. At once Nick saw that she was Mrs. Constant in the life. Her face showed the distress she was suffering, for it was pale and haggard, and its lines deeply marked. The resemblance between the woman before him and the one lying still in death in the room below was astonishing. Mrs. Constant took Nick's hand, attempting to speak, but broke into uncontrollable sobs. However, she controlled herself in a few minutes, and said: "This is the end, Mr. Carter. It is the last. It can go no further." "I cannot understand it," said Nick. "The paper said it was you who was killed." "I wish it was myself who had been killed," cried Mrs. Constant. "It was my twin sister, Ethel. But it was I he intended to kill." The word twin sister explained everything that had bewildered him, as in a flash. "I did not know that you had a twin sister," said Nick. "Yes, I had," said Mrs. Constant, sadly. "She came to live with me a week ago. She was so happy to come, and this is the end. She died for me." "Prior to her coming to live with you," asked Nick, "where did she live?" "In Philadelphia." "Had she spent much time in New York with you?" "Not much time," replied Mrs. Constant. "Only for short visits at long intervals." "Did she have many acquaintances in this city?" Mrs. Constant, as in a flash, saw the end toward which Nick's questions were tending, and said, hurriedly and impatiently: "Waste no time on that, Mr. Carter. Ethel had no acquaintances in New York, except a very few that she had made within the past week. She was killed because the one who killed her thought it was I who was in the carriage." "I know that you think so," said Nick. "But I was trying to explore the possibility of the other view." "It is wasted time, Mr. Carter. Ethel knew no one in New York, nor had relations with any one who would do such a thing." "Could any one have followed her from Philadelphia?" "No," said Mrs. Constant, earnestly. "Ethel was a good girl; she had no secrets apart from me, and no man had entered into her life in any way. She lived a very quiet life at home, and if there had been any love affair of hers or any one persecuting her, I should have known it. My secrets were hers and hers were mine." "It was not you, then," asked Nick, "who came to me with that package last night?" "No. I was detained at home by a caller, and as Ethel was going over to a dressmaker's in Sixth Avenue, I asked her to take that package to you first." "What time did she leave here to go?" "It must have been nearly eight o'clock. We were going out last evening, but the dress Ethel was to wear had not been sent home as promised, and Ethel wanted to go for it." "When she gave me that package," said Nick, "she said she was much hurried. But all the time I thought it was you." "Yes, the resemblance between us was so great that all our lives we have been mistaken for each other, even by intimate friends. This resemblance is the cause of the announcement in the papers this morning that it was I who had been killed." "There was no one in the carriage with her when I saw her," said Nick. "And no one when the carriage arrived home," replied Mrs. Constant. "But a man did get into that carriage, supposing I was in it, and killed her. I know who it was, and so do you." Nick raised his hand, warningly, and said: "Mention no names, Mrs. Constant. Charge no one with so awful a deed. Trust to me. I will investigate that line to the end, but let your suspicions be unsaid, or, if you must talk of them, talk only to me." Mrs. Constant first turned impatiently away, but as impulsively turned back and placed her hand in Nick's, saying: "You are Edith's husband as well. I will trust everything to you." "That is good," said Nick. "Now a practical question. The driver of that coach, who was he?" "The same as my own coachman. I have an arrangement with a livery stable near by, by which I have the same carriage, horses and driver by the month. The carriage is used by no one but me, and the coachman drives nobody but me." Securing the address of this livery stable and the name of the driver, Nick hurried to the stable, telling Mrs. Constant that he would return soon. He found the driver without difficulty, and from him learned the course taken by Ethel Romney and the places she had called at. The story he told was a straight one. He had been summoned shortly before eight o'clock, and had turned out so quickly that he was at the Constant residence a few minutes before eight o'clock. He had first driven Miss Romney to the dressmaker's, in Sixth Avenue, where she had got out. She was gone but a few minutes, and, coming out, said that she would have to return to that place. Then she had instructed him to drive to Mr. Carter's house, where she had seen Mr. Carter without getting out of the coach. After that she had driven back again to the dressmaker's, where she remained possibly twenty minutes, and, coming from there, she had seemed quite vexed. She told him to drive directly home, and he had followed Sixth Avenue, intending to go up by way of Fifty-ninth Street. She had made no stop on the way thither, and the carriage had not stopped except for a minute or two at Fifty-eighth Street, where the way had been blocked. Arriving in front of the Constant residence, as she made no effort to get out, he had got down to see what the matter was. Then he thought she had fainted, and, making an outcry, people had come from the house. They had carried her in, and he had driven off to the stable. The man, whose name was Rawson, was positive that no man talked to Miss Romney, except Nick himself, during the ride. He was positive that no one had entered the coach with Miss Romney at any time. "Are you certain," asked Nick, "that while you were standing in front of the dressmaker's the second time that some one did not enter the coach?" The man replied that he had seen no one attempt to. "But it is possible, isn't it," asked Nick, "that a man might have got in there and you not know it?" "It might be, sir," said Rawson, "but it isn't likely." Nick turned away. The man had evidently given all the information he had. He went back to Mrs. Constant, with no light shed on the mystery. # CHAPTER XIII. POSSIBILITIES. Nick had summoned his faithful aids, Chick, Ida, and Patsy, to meet him at his apartments on his arrival. He found them awaiting him when he got home, and, without waste of time, sat down to tell them the incidents of the new case they were engaged on. "Of course," he said, in conclusion, "you will see that in the occurrence of this murder, the poisoning of the dogs slips away into minor importance. "Yet, if Mrs. Constant's suspicions are correct, the same person is responsible for both. "In that way, or that view of it, it becomes important to trace out that poisoning." "The thing stands this way, then," said Chick. "If Mrs. Constant is right about the murder of her sister, she is right about the dogs; if she is wrong about the dogs, she is wrong about the murder." "As usual, Chick," said Nick, "you state the whole thing in a nutshell. So, as the dog business is more easily followed than anything else, we will get into that investigation first." "Don't treat Mrs. Constant's suspicions too lightly," said Ida. "I think you will find that she has kept back her strongest reasons for suspecting Masson. She has wanted you to guess them. Edith, as her friend, could get them from her." Nick looked up at Ida, sharply, and said: "That is very shrewd, Ida." Turning to Patsy, he went on: "I want you to take up the dog end of this case, Patsy." "I am aching for that," replied Patsy. "I'd rather run down a man who would kill a dog like that than anything else. But I say, chief, put me next to that swell banker. He's one of my kind." Chick and Ida laughed at this, and Nick said: "You shall have a note to him. As for you, Ida, you must go to Philadelphia. "There is this possibility, that the murder of Ethel Romney came out of her life in that city, before she came to New York—some trouble that she had there. "You must look into that, and we must know all about the life, habits, and even the romances, if any there are, of Ethel Romney. Here is a list of people who would be likely to know about her." He handed her a slip of paper he had prepared for her, and went on: "There are other possibilities that we must look into. There is that of suicide. "It is possible, but not probable. "Unless the girl had something back in her life, Ethel was more likely to look to the future with pleasure than otherwise. "She had come to live in plenty and elegance with a sister to whom she was much attached. "Then, there is the possibility that the murder was the outcome of an attempt by some fellow, bolder than usual, who managed to get into the carriage, supposing that the woman in it had money or jewelry with her. "All these possibilities must be examined and run down before I am willing to take up the suspicions of Mrs. Constant as to Masson. But that does not mean that we shall not keep Masson in view. "These things will be undertaken by Chick and I." Nick now went to the desk, and, writing a letter, handed it to Patsy, saying: "You want to get to work at once, Patsy, while the trail is warm." Patsy hurried away, and Ida, saying that, unless the chief had further instructions, she would go, too, followed the lad out of the apartment. "Now, Chick," said Nick. "To send Edith to Mrs. Constant, and then you and I will take up the most difficult part of the work." In a few moments these two shrewd detectives were on their way to the neighborhood of the Constant residence. As they were riding uptown in the car, Nick said: "Mrs. Constant's theory is that Ethel was killed by a person who had intended to kill her, but was misled by the strong resemblance between Ethel and herself. "That resemblance is great," admitted Nick. "I was misled by it myself twice—once shortly after I had been introduced to Mrs. Constant, and again when Ethel brought that package to me from Blanche Constant." "But, chief," said Chick, "you did not know at that time that Mrs. Constant had a twin sister; the mistake was a natural one. But if Masson was as well acquainted with Mrs. Constant as he seems to be it would be strange if he did not know of that twin sister." "And would not have been easily misled," said Nick. "You have struck a point that must be investigated." "And there is a point on the other side," said Chick. "The hard thing in adopting the theory of Mrs. Constant is that a man of the kind Masson is should commit murder, especially in cold blood. "Now, suppose that Masson did not know of the twin sister, suppose he climbed into that coach under the notion that Mrs. Constant was in it. Since it was Ethel Romney, she, of course, denied that she was Blanche or that she knew Masson, perhaps, to his anger, leading to the murder and the reason for it." "That is," said Nick, "supposing it to have been Masson, and that he lost his temper, he lost control of himself, in that denial." "Yes, that is what I mean," said Chick. "Well," said Nick, "it all means that we have plenty of work to do and a lot of vexatious little inquiries. Whoever it was that got into that coach, whether it was Masson or some one else, in my opinion crept into the coach while it was standing in front of that dressmaker's establishment to which Ethel Romney went." This conversation had occupied the greater portion of their trip uptown. As they stepped off the car, Nick saw the man Rawson, who was the driver for Mrs. Constant. He appeared to be looking for some one. Rawson brightened up as Nick approached, and said: "I have been looking for you, Mr. Carter, because I have got something to say. I have been thinking over that ride last night, and especially since you asked me to-day about its being likely that any one got into that carriage." "Yes, have you thought of anything more?" said Nick. "Well, yes," said Rawson. "It isn't much, but, then, I ought to tell you. You see, I didn't think much when you asked me that question, but since I have. "The lady was in a great hurry to get back home, and as soon as she got into the carriage from that dressmaker's I touched up the horses and started off at a good gait. "I didn't think much then of it, but I am thinking now that as the lady got into the coach I heard a sort of cry or scream from her, but the door slammed shut right after it, and I was off at once." Nick looked at Chick, and the latter said: "It looks, chief, as if you were right as to when the person got into the coach." "Yes," said Nick; "that would look as if the man was already in the coach, and the noise that Ethel made was a cry of surprise at finding some one there." Turning to Rawson, he said: "It looks like a very important point, Rawson, and I wish you would keep up thinking about it. Any little thing about the whole matter tell me of." What answer Rawson might have made to this was prevented by a man who was evidently a stableman, coming up and addressing Rawson, not knowing who the two were the coachman was talking to. He said: "I say, Rawson, it's true, isn't it, that you drove the woman that was killed in the coach yesterday?" "Yes, it's true; worse luck," said Rawson. "Well, say," said the man, "the papers say there wasn't any man with the woman in that coach. I say there was. What do you say?" "I say there wasn't," said Rawson. "Well, you're wrong there." Rawson was about to deny this somewhat strongly, but Nick stopped him, and said to the man: "What do you know about it?" "I know there was a man ridin' with her." "How do you know it?" asked Nick. "Why," said the man, "I was standin' in Sixth Avenue talkin' with a friend when I saw my friend here, Rawson, pulled up in front of a swell dressmaker's. "Then I see his lady, the one he drives for, get out and go into the dressmaker's. "Well, 'twan't any of my biz, and I wasn't lookin' sharp. By and by I happened to look at the coach, and there was a swell in it." "Are you sure of that?" asked Chick. "Sure. But, anyhow, my friend breaks away and I gets on the trolley to go to the stable. When I gets up to Fifty-eighth Street I goes into a saloon. "When I had put away a couple of beers, I comes out and I stands in front lookin' at a block a big truck loaded with iron had made, when I see Rawson pulled up. "Then I see my swell guy in the coach open the door on the other side, get out, shut the door after him, and slip over to the other side." "What's your name?" sharply asked Nick. "What's that to you?" replied the other. "Johnny," said Rawson, "this is Mr. Carter, the celebrated detective." The man started, a little frightened, and immediately became far more respectful. "My name is Johnny Moran," he said. "What is your business, Moran?" asked Nick. "I am a stableman, sometimes drivin' for a livery stable right near where Rawson works." "He's all right," said Rawson. "We worked together in the same stables before, and he is a good man." "I have no doubt of that. He looks like it," said Nick. "Now, Moran, what did this man you saw in the coach look like?" "Well, he was a swell." "Describe him as near as you can." The man seemed to be embarrassed, and hung his head, as if trying to think hard. "I didn't just see his face," he said, at length. "He had on a shiny hat, and whiskers all around his face, that were dark, and the clothes he had on were swell." "Would you know him again if you were to see him?" The man shook his head doubtfully, and finally said: "I don't know about that. You see, I didn't think anything was wrong then, and I wasn't stagging him off for anything. If he was dressed just the same maybe I would, but I wouldn't want to swear to it." He thought a little while, and then said: "He was about as tall as him," he pointed to Chick. Then he went on: "Seems to me, as he went across the street with his back to me, he had a trick of hitching up his right shoulder." "How hitching it up?" asked Chick. "It was more than that—it was a kind of a jerk." "Is that all you can tell us?" asked Nick. "It is all that I can think of now." "If we should want you to go with us some time, where could we find you?" asked Nick. "You can find me at the stable most any time, and I'll go with you whenever you want me to." "What you have already told us, Moran," said Nick, "is very important. It has settled one question that we were in great doubt about." The two detectives turned away, and, as they walked off in the direction of the Constant house, Nick said: "Chick, luck's with us." "Nick Carter's luck," Chick said, with a laugh. "It's luck, whosever it is," said Nick, "for we might have hunted a long time before we got such direct evidence of the correctness of our theory, that the man entered that coach when it stood in front of the dressmaker's." "I suppose that we must assume that he did enter there," said Chick, "but we are weak on that evidence." "We have direct evidence as to how he left the coach after the murder," said Nick. "I think we can safely assume that there is where he did enter the coach. However, there is something for you to do, and that is to go down into that neighborhood and see if you can establish the fact for a certainty that he did enter there." "Then I had better do it without loss of time," said Chick. "I will go right away." Thus it was that the detectives separated at that point. # CHAPTER XIV. A CHANGE OF FRONT. Patsy had made his way to the Madison Square Garden at once, and presented his letter to the prominent banker. "I should think," said the banker, as he folded up the letter, after reading it, "that Mr. Carter would devote his energies rather to finding out who killed Mrs. Constant than to finding out who poisoned her dogs." "Oh, Mrs. Constant is all right," replied Patsy. "She wasn't killed." "Not killed?" replied the banker. "The papers said so." "All a mistake," said Patsy. "Mrs. Constant is well, though she ain't happy, for the reason that it was her sister who was killed." "That beautiful girl!" exclaimed the banker, eager to know all that Patsy could tell him. Though the lad was anxious to get to work, he was compelled to delay while he satisfied the banker's curiosity. When he was finally released, which he was with full authority to go to all parts of the huge building, he hurried out into the space where the dogs were benched. As fond as he was of the animals, however, he paid little attention to them, for he was anxious to make himself acquainted with the attendants. It was the last day of the show, and the attendance, especially at that hour in the afternoon when Patsy reached the building, was very large. If thereby movement about the building was made difficult, it was all the better for Patsy, for he was less likely to be recognized. He spent an hour of close examination without hitting upon anything which could serve as an opening to him. Finally he engaged in conversation a well-known kennelman of a prominent breeder, leading it to the poisoning of the dogs by degrees. "Yes," said the kennelman, in answer to Patsy's question, "there was a nasty case of poisoning here. You can bet that it was outside of the bunch." "What do you mean by that?" asked Patsy. "I mean it was none of the doggy men that did it, and it wasn't for any show reasons. A breeder, or a man in the business, thinks too much of a dog to do him in that way. "Setters are not my line. We were only competing in the fox-terriers. So we hadn't especial interest in setters. But I felt as bad over the deaths of those setters as if they had been the dogs I had brought up and cared for. "It's a mean man that can kill a dog, anyhow—dogs as gentle and sweet-tempered as setters are. "So I say some one was trying to get square on the lady that owned those dogs, and for reasons away from this show. "Say, if they ever get down to the truth of it, see if it don't turn out to be a woman that did the business." This was a new idea to Patsy, and he stood still thinking of it. Suddenly a voice fell on his ear. "It's him, I'm telling you. Sure. Get out of sight!" Patsy looked around, without seeing whence came the voice, though two of the attendants were walking off hastily. Rather from curiosity than from any other reason, Patsy followed them, carefully preventing himself from being seen by them. When they had reached the end of the aisle, they turned, taking up a position behind a bench, where they thought they were concealed from view. Patsy crept up as closely as he could, and under the pretense of petting one of the dogs, then listened to their further talk. "I heard that Nick Carter was onto the case," said the voice Patsy had heard before. "Now his young assistant, Patsy, comes around on the sneak." "But you ain't sure he's onto the case. Likely he's only come in to have a look at the dogs." "Look nawthin'! He's here for biz. I am going to get out." "If you do, you lose your pay. If you drop out now, you get nothing." "The whack on the other thing is good. Anyhow, I don't want that fellow to get his peepers on me." "You haven't got the whack, an' I'm ready to bet that we'll get t'rown down yet." "Go wan," said the other, incredulously. Patsy cautiously climbed upon the bench and peeped over the division. Two men in the dress of the hired attendants stood with their backs to him. As he looked, trying to fix upon some peculiarity by which he could recognize them when in a position to see their faces, a man, who was in his manner and dress of some consequence, approached. He eyed the two keenly, and the two straightened up as if they expected recognition from the person. Apparently this person was about to pass by, but he suddenly halted, turned from his path, and went quickly to the bench near where the two were standing, pretending to be much interested in the dogs there. All of this was seen by the keen-eyed Patsy, and he also saw that as this consequential-appearing person reached the bench, he slipped something deftly into the hands of the two standing ready to receive it. Not a word was spoken between the three. The passage made, the consequential-appearing man turned from the bench and sauntered on. Dropping from his perch and keeping his eye on this person, Patsy followed him down, keeping in his own aisle. As the end was reached, Patsy hurried forward, and, getting close to this person, kept him in sight until he met an acquaintance. "Who is that person?" asked Patsy, pointing out the man he had been following. "Don't know," replied the one he accosted. "There's Herrick over there. He knows everybody, and if you want to know badly I'll find out for you." "Do," said Patsy. "And hurry!" Patsy's acquaintance hurried off and came back in a moment, saying: "The man's name is Eric Masson." Though Patsy was rather expecting that reply, yet when he received it, it was with a sort of a shock. However, firmly fixing in his memory the features of the man Masson by a close inspection of them, he hurried back to the part of the building where he had left the attendants. They were still in the places where they had stood when Masson came to them and passed to them the mysterious something. He made a wide circle so that he could come in front of them to observe their faces. Then he worked up to them gradually, using the passing people skillfully as a screen for himself. Thus he obtained an excellent view of their faces, and it seemed to him that he recognized one of them, but it was difficult for him to fix it. He was about to turn away, in an effort to learn who they were, how and under what circumstances they had obtained employment there, when he saw Masson again approaching. This time he seemed to be stopping for an instant before each of the dogs, but yet steadily edging along to where the two men stood. Patsy took a chance and moved closer, concealed only by a lady and gentleman, whose next movements might disclose him to the very persons of whom he was trying to keep out of sight. Finally Masson reached the spot where the two men were standing. "This dog is not a prize winner," he said, to the one nearest him, who proved to be the one whose features were somewhat familiar to Patsy. "No; he didn't win anything," replied the man. Then, in a lower tone of voice, Masson said: "I want to see you." "When?" replied the attendant, in the same tone. "Right away." "Where?" "Follow me out and to a place I shall go to." "Say, boss," replied the other, "if we skip the place now we lose our bones for the four days' hustle." "Never mind that. I'll make it good. You must get out to me. There's trouble." "All right," said the other, who had not yet spoken. "If you make good, what you say goes. But it's a ten-case note for each of us." "All the same. Get off those clothes and get to me." As the two made a movement as if to go away from the spot, Patsy fell back to a point where he could observe without being seen. The two went off toward the rear of the hall, and Eric Masson sauntered off toward the main entrance. There he took a stand as if he was merely watching the passing show. At once Patsy took in the situation. The men had gone to change their clothes, and Masson was waiting for them to return. "I must follow them," muttered Patsy. "To do so I must make a change, and I've got to make it quick." Near where he stood was a door which he thought led into the offices of the kennel club. He dodged through it to find he was correct in his surmise as well as to face the prominent banker. "What now, Patsy?" asked the banker. "Only a little makeup," replied Patsy. "I think I'm on to something, and am going to try it." Much to the interest and amusement of the banker, he drew from his pocket a wig, which he slipped on, and a false mustache, using some color to change his face and eyebrows. "Oh, for another coat and hat!" cried Patsy, casting longing eyes on those worn by the banker. "I'll swap with you, Patsy," cried the banker, laughing heartily, as he threw off his coat. The exchange was quickly made, and as Patsy dashed out, the banker, following, cried out: "I shan't swap back, Patsy, because as it stands now I got the best of the trade." Patsy laughed, but made no reply. Hurrying out, he found Masson still in the place where he left him. He passed close to him, and went into the hallway, standing just within the gate, waiting until Masson appeared. As this person showed up, Patsy sauntered through the gate and down to the outer doors. Looking back, he saw the two men, now in their street clothes, following at a respectful distance. Patsy went out on the sidewalk. When Masson reached it, he turned toward Twenty-seventh Street and rounded the corner. Patsy was close behind him. Walking at a brisk gait, which he quickened to pass Masson, he saw that that person was going to Fourth Avenue. Nearing the corner of Fourth Avenue, Patsy put himself in concealment, quite certain that he had not been observed by Masson or the two men. And from that point he saw Masson turn up Fourth Avenue, followed by the two men. Now Patsy trailed in behind them. The way was up Fourth Avenue, only a few blocks, when Masson turned into a saloon on the corner, making a signal for the two men to follow him. The young detective passed in close behind the two. A hasty glance about the room showed him that it was well thronged by customers, something he had hoped for. It also showed him that a partition formed a small room in the corner on the side on which was the bar. At the end of the bar, nearest this small room, was a large and rather ornamental icebox. At the end of the box, furthest from the bar, and out of sight of it, was a door leading into the hall by which the upper floors of the house were reached. This door was open and swung back against the partition, leaving a space behind it. Masson made his way through the customers to this small room, followed by the two men. He ordered drinks for them, and when they had been served and paid for, he closed the door, shutting himself up with them. Patsy slipped behind the hall door. He could hear nothing, however. By dint of climbing upon the door, resting a foot on the door-knob, he brought his ear on a level with the top of the partition. The effort paid him. "There's a lot of trouble," said Masson's voice, quickly recognized by Patsy. "In the first place, Nick Carter has been put on the case." "That's bad," said one of the others. "Why bad?" asked Masson. "Because he's a wizard to get at the bottom of things." "Well, it isn't likely he'll spend much time on this matter, for he's got something bigger on hand. But that isn't what I am after just now. Listen to me. "Nick Carter was put on the case. The woman has charged me with being at the bottom of the thing. However, there was a change, and that gives me a chance to do a thing I want to have done. "Nick Carter won't pay much attention to this thing for a while." "That's where you're off," interrupted the voice Patsy had first heard. "One of his best men was in the Garden this afternoon. He's there now on the snoop." "You're wrong, old man," muttered Patsy to himself. "I'm here, on the sneak." "Who?" asked Masson, anxiously. "Patsy Murphy," replied the other. "I dropped to him as soon as I saw him." "Are you sure?" asked Masson. "You bet he's sure," said the other. "He's been through Patsy's hands, and he knows him." "That's so," said the first one, "and he left his mark on me so he'd know me again. I sneaked when I saw him." "Well, if that's so," said Masson, "it makes it all the more necessary that the thing moves as I have planned. "This woman's sister was killed last night." "No; the woman herself," said one of the voices. "Don't contradict me," said Masson. "It was the woman's sister. I've got it straight. That may make some little trouble for me, but not much. It will make more if they get onto the other job. "But I want you two out of the way to make sure that they don't get on. Take a trip to Chicago, St. Louis, or the devil, for four or five weeks. I'll pay for it. "Now, then, you see what I mean. Will you get out right away? I'll stake you well." "I'm game to go on the next train," said one of the two. "I ain't so ready to go," said the other, "but if it cuts any ice I'll do it." "Well," said Masson, "it will cut a good deal of ice with me. I can't afford to take any chances now. I wish now that I'd never gone into the job, seeing what turn things have taken. "But the thing is, are you ready to go?" "Yes." "When will you go? To-night?" "Yes." "Where to?" "Chicago, if you say so." "Well, I do. It is now near five o'clock. Meet me at half-past seven at the Forty-second Street Station, and I'll hand you the tickets and the stake. Is that settled?" There was a movement of chairs as if the three men were rising, and Patsy slipped down from his perch and from behind the door. He was out in the saloon in a position to see them when they came from the room. "I needn't worry about Masson," said Patsy to himself. "He can be picked up at the station. I'll follow the others to find out who they are." His chase after these two was not a long one, though it did carry him to the Bowery, to which place the two hurried. The two toughs, for such, indeed, they were, reaching that famous thoroughfare, quickly made for a saloon which was well known to Patsy through frequent visits to it in the way of business. So skillfully had his shadow work been done that neither of the two toughs had even seen him. Entering this place close behind them, Patsy was surprised and not gratified to see within it an old acquaintance, Bally Morris. But what had rather annoyed him he quickly saw was likely to turn out to his advantage. No sooner had this Bally Morris seen the two Patsy was following enter, than he went up to them and began a quarrel with them, charging them with having gone back on him in some matter. It was clear to Patsy that the two had no wish for a quarrel at the time, and he saw them get out of the place as soon as they could. And he changed his tactics at once. Slipping out, he tore off his beard and false mustache, letting the two go where they would, believing that he would get trace of them at half-past seven at the Grand Central Station. Having got into his own proper person, he went back into the saloon to find Bally Morris. That amiable young person recognized Patsy at once, and was not, apparently, anxious to see the young detective. "Oh, ho," thought Patsy. "He's afraid of me. He's been up to something and thinks I am on." Asking Morris to take a drink with him, he said: "Who were the two guys you were wanting to scrap wid, Bally?" "I don't know who dey is. I hed a muss wid 'em las' night to a rag spiel." "Oh, come off, Bally. Don't play me dat way. Gimme it straight." "Honest, I don't." "Say, Bally, you couldn't be honest if you tried. Well, I ain't on to anythin' you've been doin', but I want to know who dose fellers are, see! If you don't give it, why——" He stopped, looking Bally in the face, steadily and threateningly. "Well," at length said the East Side tough, "dey ain't no fr'en's of mine. Dere names is Al Crummie and Bill Graff." "Crooks?" "Well, dey ain't straight goods." "Where is dere hang-out?" "On de block below. What dey been doin'?" "Poisoning dogs, I guess." Bally looked up at Patsy with a laugh, as if he did not believe him. "Dat's all I know," continued Patsy. "Up to the dog show. Dey was hired there." "Well," said Bally, "de're mean enough." Patsy had now gotten all he wanted, and he hurried off to find Nick Carter and to report. # CHAPTER XV. CLOSER TO MASSON. Chick was present when Patsy made his report of the afternoon's work, and listened with interest to the remarks Nick made on it. "Patsy has settled one end of the case in pretty short order," said Nick. "The dogs were poisoned by these two men, Crummie and Graff, who were hired to do it by Masson. What further work there is to be done on that line is only that of making the proof strong. Patsy's work was quickly done, and well done." "I had a good deal of luck with me," said Patsy, modestly, though much pleased with the praise of his chief. "Luck, Patsy," said Nick, "usually comes from the right use of your head, and seizing hold of opportunities when they present themselves." "Well, chief," asked Chick, "how does this triumph of Patsy hitch on to the murder end of the case?" "There is where the puzzle is," remarked Nick, thoughtfully. "This morning," said Chick, "we said that if we found that Masson was not responsible for the death of the dogs it would go far toward putting Masson out from under the suspicion of murder. Does it work the other way when we find that he is responsible for the poisoning?" "I am afraid that is the way we figured this morning," said Nick, with a smile. "But after hearing Patsy's report, I am even more puzzled as to Masson. "If he was guilty of that murder, he is a cool-blooded wretch to talk of it, as Patsy reports he did." "Yes," said Chick, "his nerve is great. It seems he knew it was not Blanche, but Ethel Romney that was killed." "Don't forget, Chick, that at the time he was talking to these men all the world knew. The evening papers by that time had corrected the error of the morning." "True enough," said Chick, "I had forgotten that. So there is no point in that." "But, chief," cried Patsy, "what are we to do about the lads that are going to Chicago to-night?" "Let them go," replied Nick, quietly. "Let them go?" repeated Chick and Patsy in the same breath. "Yes; it will be easy enough to get them when we want them. The chief thing is that I want Masson to think that he is right; that we are not paying any attention to the dog end of the case; and, to convince him, if we can, by our action that we have no suspicion as to him as the murderer." "And then?" asked Chick, who was at a loss to follow his chief, who was laying out a plan so different from his usual course. "Then I shall have every step he takes shadowed and every move he makes watched." "And yet you do not believe that Masson killed Ethel Romney?" "It will not do to say that, Chick. I have told you that I am more puzzled over this case than any I ever had to do with. I will admit to you that, starting with the suspicions of Mrs. Constant, and her reasons, all the indications are just as she suggests—that Ethel Romney was killed by Eric Masson, supposing her to be Blanche Constant. But when it is all done, I cannot make up my mind that he did do it. "Now, I propose to settle that question beyond dispute." "Patsy," said Chick, suddenly, "what sort of looking man is Eric Masson?" "About your height," said Patsy, "brown beard and hair, straight nose, pretty high, eyes close together, so dark as to look black, set well back in his head, dresses very swell." "Good!" exclaimed Chick. "Now, chief, a man of exactly that description appeared in front of that dressmaker's place in Sixth Avenue, to which Ethel Romney went, just after Ethel was there the first time, and hung around there so long that three people had their attention attracted to him. "One of them saw the carriage drive up a second time, saw the lady it carried get out a second time, saw this man dart out of an adjoining doorway and follow her as she passed through into the place, speak to her, come out again and get into that carriage. "This same person saw the lady come out and attempt to enter the carriage, heard a little cry from her as she stepped in, and saw the man hurriedly close the door of the coach. "There is something for you to crack, chief." "That is what you picked up this afternoon when you left me?" calmly asked Nick. "Yes." "It confirms the stories of both Moran and Rawson. It makes the indications point all the stronger toward Masson. "Now, I'll give you something stronger than that. Ten minutes after Ethel Romney drove away from home, Eric Masson called at the Constant residence, asking to see Mrs. Constant. "The servant who opened the door told him the lady had just driven away in her carriage. "The servant supposed she was telling the truth, for she had mistaken Ethel for Mrs. Constant. In response to the question as to whether Mrs. Constant had gone out for the evening, the servant replied she thought not, as she had heard Mrs. Constant was going to her dressmaker." "Knowing all this you still have doubts, chief?" asked Chick. "Patsy," asked Nick, "does Eric Masson walk with a hitch or a jerk to his right shoulder?" "I saw nothing of it?" replied the lad. "Chick," said Nick, "Masson was in his club from six o'clock in the evening until ten at night. Three men stand to swear to it." "What time did Ethel Romney leave her home last night?" asked Chick. "About eight o'clock." "It's a puzzle; more puzzling the deeper you get into it," said Chick. "If these three men stand firm, Masson can prove an alibi, if charged." "Chick, one man stands ready to swear that he saw Eric Masson in Fifty-eighth Street at nine o'clock, for he had just looked at his watch as he saluted Masson. "Another stands ready to swear that he met and spoke to Eric Masson at about half-past nine, at the corner of Fifty-seventh Street and Fifth Avenue." "And this is the result of your inquiries since I parted with you?" asked Chick. "You think that instead of clearing things they are worse muddled." "It would look that way." "Well, you're right. I can't even imagine an explanation of these contradictions." Further conversation on this line was interrupted by the coming of Mrs. Carter, who had been spending the afternoon with Blanche Constant. She was quite excited, saying: "It has been a distressing afternoon. Blanche's grief is almost robbing her of her senses. She blames herself so much that she did not guard Ethel against the dangers she was exposed to." Turning suddenly to her husband, she said: "Nick, how is it that you can doubt for a moment that Masson is the man that murdered Ethel, thinking she was Blanche?" Chick was about to speak, but Nick checked him, saying: "Edith, you know, I usually want proof before I believe a man guilty." Continuing, he said: "When, having been rejected, Masson learns that Blanche Romney was about to marry Albert Constant, he tells her it will be well neither for herself nor for Constant if she does. It was not nice or manly, yet there is nothing in that to justify a belief in murder." "But——" "Blanche thinks he injured her husband. That is only suspicion. She hints at foul play in Constant's death, but it is based only on the fact that Masson dined at the same table. At the very best, it is only suspicion. "She thinks that Masson killed her dogs, but she has no proof. It is only suspicion." Patsy looked up in great surprise at Nick when he said the last words. Then he saw that Nick had a purpose in the way he was replying to Edith. "Well, it is not suspicion when he entices Blanche into an empty house, where he is alone, is it?" cried Edith, quite heatedly. "What is that you are saying?" asked Nick. "I didn't mean to speak of it," said Edith, "for Blanche is so afraid of the scandal of it. But the grass was hardly green over the grave of her husband when Masson renewed his attentions to Blanche. That was bad enough in itself. "She drove him away angrily, and yet he persisted in writing to her until she returned his letters unopened. "Then one day, having by some means learned that Blanche was befriending a poor family, he enticed her to go to see that poor family at a certain house. "When she entered the house the poor family was not there, but Masson was, and he was alone. "Then he told her that she was compromised by entering that house, for every one in the neighborhood knew that a bachelor lived there, and had seen her enter. "Blanche only got out of the house by drawing her revolver and fighting her way out. "One day, when Blanche was giving a reception, for which she had issued cards, five or six most notorious women entered, having received cards, to scandalize her, and one acknowledged that she had been hired by Masson to go there. "Then, when Blanche sent for him and threatened him with arrest and prosecution if he continued the persecutions, he declared that he would continue them until she married him; that if she wanted to live it could only be as his wife——" "Now," said Nick, springing to his feet, "we have something substantial to go upon. I knew there was something back of all this indefinite suspicion of Mrs. Constant. "It required Edith's sympathy to get it out. "What an infernal scoundrel the fellow is! "What is true," he continued, "is that we have for the first time knowledge of a threat on the part of Masson to kill Mrs. Constant. "That becomes serious. Now we have a new motive for work. "Patsy, you must be at the Grand Central Station to see your friends, Crummie and Graff, off to Chicago. Let them go, thinking that nobody suspects them. "Then take up Masson's shadow. That is to be your work for the present. "In the meantime, I am growing alarmed about Ida. She was to wire me before this from Philadelphia." "Don't worry, chief," said Chick. "Ida knows how to take care of herself. If she has not wired you, it is because she means to turn up from that city this evening." "I hope so," said Nick, uneasily. Then the four went to dinner. # CHAPTER XVI. IDA IN TROUBLE. When Patsy set out to be present at the departure for Chicago of his two new acquaintances, Crummie and Graff, Nick and Chick accompanied him to the station, in order that they might become familiar with the appearance of Masson. Under Edith's recital of the tale told her by Blanche Constant of Masson's persecutions, the latter person had assumed a new importance in Nick's eye. Arriving at the station, Patsy quickly espied the two East Side toughs. They were roaming about the large room, evidently looking for some one, and not finding him. "It begins to look," said Patsy, "as if Masson had thrown 'em down." "Yet," said Nick, "when you heard him talking to them, he seemed to be most anxious to have them get out of town, didn't he?" "Yes," replied Patsy. "It was his idea. He proposed it to them." "There may have been a new turn in the game," said Nick. He had hardly said this when a man stepped out from a group of persons and walked over to the two, speaking to them. Surprise was plainly shown on the faces of the two toughs when they were addressed, but the expression quickly changed to one of recognition. This man was about the height of Chick, but he was smooth-shaven. The three detectives, moving up more closely, saw this smooth-shaven stranger hand a small envelope to one of the two. Then he took from his pocket two small packages, handing one to each. Patsy, who had edged away, so that he could get a clear view of the stranger's face, came back to Nick, saying: "Great Scott! The fellow has given himself a clean shave." "Shaved off his whiskers and mustache?" asked Nick. "Sure," said Patsy. Nick made no reply, but Chick said: "If the fellow looked no better before than he does after shaving, I pity him." "He looks a lot worse," said Patsy. Chick laughed, and Nick remarked: "He is a foolish man." The doors leading to the train shed were now thrown open, and the gatemen began to call the train. The two toughs shook hands with Masson and passed through the gate, on their way to the train they were to take. Masson turned to go to the exit to the street, and in doing so passed close to the three detectives, apparently without recognizing them. If he did, he made no sign of it. He had gone but a few steps beyond this little group of detectives when he encountered a party of travelers, consisting of two ladies and two gentlemen. To this party he lifted his hat. All of the four looked with some surprise upon him, and then one of the gentlemen broke into a laugh, saying: "Why, you have made an astonishing change in your appearance, Masson." "Yes," replied Masson, fully at ease. "And not for the better, I imagine." To this remark no one made reply, but the other gentleman said, lightly: "It was a reckless thing to do—making such a complete change." "It was forced on me," said Masson. "A fellow that looks like me has been going about town representing himself to be me, and causing me a good deal of trouble. The only way in which I could stop him was to destroy the resemblance." "Perhaps he will shave, too," said one of the ladies. "But he will not restore the resemblance," replied Masson. "It was the whiskers that did the trick." Their conversation was changed with this, and Nick said to his companion: "Was that said by Masson for our benefit, think you?" "It sounded like a throw off," said Chick. The three detectives passed out of the building, and stood on the sidewalk in front of the main doors, waiting for Masson to make his appearance. "You must follow Masson when he shows up, Patsy," said Nick. Patsy moved away, to be prepared for this duty, and Chick said: "If Masson's words were not intended for us, then they were important in showing that there is another man on the carpet who might be confused with him." "And," added Nick, "it would afford an explanation of the contradictions that now bother us." At this moment Masson came through the door and walked briskly up Forty-second Street, Patsy following. Nick made a signal to Chick, and started after. Thus Masson was followed to Fifth Avenue, when he turned to the south, going down that avenue, to all appearance unconscious that he was followed. At Thirty-seventh Street Nick stopped, Chick halting with him. "I have followed as far as I want," said Nick. "I wanted to see whether he walked with a hitch or jerk of his shoulders." "Did you notice it?" asked Chick. "No," said Nick. "I noticed nothing in the man's habits of movement that indicated it." The two now turned to the west, leaving Patsy to continue his shadow of Masson alone. This shadow led to a club some distance down Fifth Avenue, in front of which stood two men, one of whom respectfully saluted Masson as he came up. Masson walked directly to the man, and said, abruptly: "There will be nothing doing, Denton, until to-morrow night. Then I want steam up and everything ready for a three or four weeks' cruise. I want the launch to be at the old pier as early as eight o'clock, although I may not be there to meet it until ten. "Now, Denton, I want no mistakes. The same men manning the launch that we have had before. I want the crew off the deck when I go aboard. You alone are to have the watch from nine to twelve. "I shall be here at the club until midnight. After that I shall be at home until to-morrow. You can reach me any time to-morrow here at the club if you have need to." Masson was about to go into the clubhouse, and the two men to whom he was talking had moved off a short distance, when a third man came running up, saying: "There is a mistake, Mr. Masson. The funeral does not take place to-morrow, but the day after." "Are you sure," asked Masson. "Sure. I got it from the undertaker in charge." Masson hurriedly called the two men back, and said to them: "Wait! There may be a change of orders." Turning to the third man who had come up, he asked: "What are the arrangements?" "The funeral is at eleven, and the burial will be at Greenwood as soon thereafter as it can take place." "Hum!" exclaimed Masson, thoughtfully. "Day after to-morrow then. That changes all arrangements." He walked off to the two men who had come back and were patiently waiting for him to speak. To them he said: "The orders I gave you are all off. Come to me to-morrow here for further orders. In the meantime, you can continue preparations for a long cruise. That's all for the present." The two men went away, and Masson, taking the other by the arm, led him into the house. Patsy had overheard the whole of this conversation by slipping out into the middle of the street, behind the four persons and climbing into a cab standing empty before the door. When all had disappeared, he crawled out again and crossed to the other side of the street. "Now, what does all that mean?" said Patsy to himself. "The first two men were from his yacht. That's clear. And Masson is going on a long cruise. That's clear, too. But who was the other man, and what's that about a funeral?" He stood thinking a little while, and then suddenly exclaimed: "Gee! what if it's the funeral of that Miss Romney? Well, I'll shadow him for a while if he comes out, for Masson's going to stay in the club." Shortly after the man who had entered with Masson came out, and leisurely walked off into the direction of Broadway, closely followed by Patsy. It soon became apparent that he had no particular business on hand, nor any special place to go to, but was lounging from saloon to saloon. "It's eating up time for nothing following this chap," said Patsy, to himself. "I'll give him the drop, and start after the chief to find him." Acting upon this thought, Patsy hurried to his chief's residence, to find that Nick had just come in with Chick. He reported the conversation between Masson and the three men that he had overheard, to the great interest of the two elder detectives. When he was through, Nick said: "Masson has shipped off to Chicago the two men who were his instruments in the dog poisoning affair. Now he is going away for a long cruise himself." "But, chief," said Chick, eagerly; "how about that funeral? His going away seems to be tied up with that." "I was coming to that," said Nick, "and it is the most important thing. The undertaker, having been given full charge, had appointed to-morrow as the day of the funeral, but Mrs. Constant, having learned this, postponed the funeral another day, on the ground that it seemed like hurrying Ethel into the tomb to have the funeral so soon. "Now compare this fact with what Patsy overheard between Masson and that third man who came up, and we can conclude that the funeral Masson is interested in is that of Ethel Romney. "It appears, then, that Masson is determined to begin his cruise on the day of that funeral. Why?" "It is very strange," said Chick, "and I take it we will have to find that out. It can't be, chief, that it is to be explained on the simple ground that Masson wishes to attend that funeral?" "Dismiss that idea, Chick," said Nick. "Masson will not attend in any event. No, we must look deeper than that for an explanation." The three were silent a moment, each busy with his own thoughts, when Nick said: "This calls for action. We may be forced to show our hands before we are quite ready." "We can hardly let Masson go out of sight," said Chick. "And yet," said Nick, "we have not enough basis on which to detain him. We have got to meet this another way. "The name of his yacht is the _Derelict_. When he is not aboard, it lies in the East River, off Twenty-third Street. Patsy, there is some work for you to do." The famous detective got up from his chair, and began pacing up and down the apartment, keeping it up for a long time. When he stopped he dropped again into his chair, and said: "I am satisfied that this move of Masson's bears some relation to the case we have in hand. What, I am not able to figure out. But we must get ‘onto' it, to use Patsy's words, and Patsy, you must be the one to get ‘onto' it." "All right, chief," said Patsy. "But you must tell me how." "Didn't you tell me once that some summers ago you were on a yacht as a steward for a little while?" "Yes." "Well, I think you will have to try and hire out as a steward on the _Derelict_." Patsy laughed, and replied: "Or as an able seaman?" "Any way, so long as you get aboard," said Nick. "That's the most important thing we have to do at present. And you haven't much time to do it in, either." "And it isn't an easy thing to do," said Patsy; "but I'll start the ball rolling to-night." The little clock on the mantel of the room struck the hour of ten, and Chick said: "If you are going to start the ball to-night, you'll have to start it very soon, for it's ten o'clock now." At that moment the servant entered the room with a telegram, which she handed to Chick. Tearing off the envelope and opening the folded paper within, Chick read aloud: "‘Am in trouble.'" Chick hastily glanced at the top of the dispatch, and exclaimed: "Philadelphia! The deuce! It's from Ida." "How do you know?" asked Patsy. "Is it signed by her?" "There's no signature," said Chick. "But I know it's from her." Nick was already on his feet, and he said: "And she wants help or she never would have sent the message. Chick, you and I start for Philadelphia now. We have just got time to catch the next train that leaves for that city." "Do I go, too?" asked Patsy. "No," said Nick. "We leave you in charge of the case. Get on to that yacht if you can. I fancy that that's where the work must be done. We can't tell how long Chick and I will be away. But, if anything important turns up, wire me to the old place in Philadelphia. "Now, Chick, we must be off." Nick and Chick hurried away, and Patsy went off to start his own difficult work. # CHAPTER XVII. A NEW SIDE. Ida met with an experience unusual to her on her trip to Philadelphia. While riding on the cars she perceived that a man and woman, fellow-passengers, were eying her with no little curiosity. What had attracted their attention she was at a loss to know, and for a time it irritated her. But, turning to the window, she, by interesting herself in a magazine, tried to forget it. And, becoming interested in her story, she did forget it, and was only started from her interest by seeing a man seat himself in the chair next to her. For a time she paid no attention to this person, except to observe that he was a man apparently of thirty-five, wearing a closely-clipped brown beard and brown mustache, his hair cut very short. Her book slipping from her lap gave this man the opportunity for which evidently he had been looking. Picking it up, he returned it to Ida, receiving her thanks for his courtesy, and then attempted to enter into conversation with her. However, making no reply to his remarks, when he persisted she swung her chair about so that she presented her back to the man. She was aware that the man was angry, but she gave little heed to that, merely turning to satisfy herself that the man was not the one who, with the lady, had a little time before annoyed her by their close watchfulness of her. She had not sat in this position but a little time, when the lady before mentioned arose from her seat, and crossing the car, sat down in the empty seat which Ida was now facing. "Pardon me," said the lady; "I take this seat and speak to you for two reasons. One is rather a kindly one, and the other wholly selfish and curious. "I perceive that you are being annoyed by the man on the other side of you. I saw that by sitting beside you and talking with you I could put an end to his annoyances." This the lady said in a low tone that could not be heard by the man at the back of Ida. When Ida had thanked her for the interference the lady went on, but now in a much louder voice. "My selfish and curious reason is one not so helpful, but I hope you won't think it impertinent. "My husband has recognized you as the celebrated Ida, the aid of the famous Nick Carter, of whose exploits I have frequently read. "I have long admired you, wondering how a woman could do such brave things as I have known you to do. So I wanted to know and talk with you." Though much annoyed at thus having her identity revealed in a public place, Ida could not refrain from meeting the lady pleasantly, for in the lady's speech and manner there was, after all, much that was complimentary. Yet it was an uncommon experience for Ida. She knew that Nick, Chick and Patsy were subject to such happenings, and were often compelled to resort to disguises to prevent accidental recognitions. She did not care to be so conspicuous as recognition made her, but a moment's thought told her that, after all, no great harm was done, since her mission to Philadelphia could hardly be called a secret one; that is, secrecy was not required in doing her work. But, what gave her the most annoyance was that she was conscious that the man on the other side of her had heard the lady, had started into unusual interest, showing a little agitation and had swung his chair around so as to bring his ears nearer to the two. However, he soon got up, going to the other end of the car. After this the lady and Ida chatted pleasantly until the train drew into the great station in Philadelphia, when the lady rejoined her husband, and Ida left the car. The first thing that Ida did on reaching the street was at once to set out for the house in which the family of Blanche Constant and Ethel Romney lived. As she passed the City Hall she saw, standing on the lower step of the main entrance, looking at her intently, the man who had attempted to get her into conversation on the cars. Making no sign, and thinking that it was an accident, Ida hurried along, keeping a sharp lookout behind her. It seemed to her that the man was following her at a distance. And when she reached the street, where she was to take the street car, she thought that she saw the man concealing himself in a neighboring doorway. Of this she could not be certain, but, when mounting the car, which was a good deal crowded, she had the uncomfortable feeling that the man was on the same car. "All this may be accidental," said Ida to herself, "but I don't think it is." Arriving at her destination she left the car hastily, and, reaching the curbstone, turned to watch the people descending from it. The man who had seemed to follow her was not among those who got off at the corner, but, as she watched the car roll up the street, a man dropped off about midway of the block above, and Ida thought it was the man in question. This man hurriedly walked up the block in the same direction the car was going, and disappeared around the same corner. Ida now looked at her memoranda, and found that the house occupied by the family of the murdered girl was in the street on the corner of which she was standing. It was not her intention to visit this house, but she had intended to inspect it from the outside. It was clear that the houses of that neighborhood were not occupied by the wealthier residents of Philadelphia, but it was also clear that it was a thrifty neighborhood, and that the people living there were at least in comfortable circumstances. Most of the people whose names Nick had put down on the list he had given her lived thereabouts. One, however, was a detective friend of Nick's, who, Nick said, would give Ida such assistance as she might need were she to require it. Ida, however, had determined that she would not call upon this detective unless she were compelled to, by failing to secure what she was after in applying to the other people. Having observed the house, Ida passed on, intending to call on a woman living on the block below, whose name had been given her by Nick. As she reached the next corner, to her surprise, as well as to the surprise of the other, she came face to face with the man who had annoyed her previously, and who had just turned the corner. In his surprise and embarrassment the man lifted his hat and went on. Ida continued her way, a good deal troubled by the encounter. Her call on the lady in question resulted in a success that she could not have hoped for. In fact, she secured information which was complete, and was only confirmed, not added to, by those whom she subsequently visited. And in this information were revelations of which Nick had not dreamed. From this woman, who was familiar with the history of the family, Ida learned that Blanche and Ethel were twin daughters of an old actor and actress; that the father had died when the girls were about twelve years of age, and that the mother, after continuing on the stage for some two years thereafter, had married again and left the stage. The man she had married was a superior mechanic, who had invested his savings in the purchase of a saloon, which quickly became a sporting haunt; he was a widower, with a son aged about eighteen years at the time of his father's marriage. When his father engaged in the liquor business he had taken the son into the store, who, under the influences, grew to be rather sporty in his tastes and practices. As the two girls developed they did not get along well with their stepfather, and Blanche, the more spirited of the two, left her home when eighteen to become an actress. Ethel, however, who had neither a taste nor an aptitude for the stage, remained at home, enduring an unpleasant life. After Blanche had made what was considered to be a wealthy marriage, the conditions at the Romney home were utterly changed. George Macrane, the stepbrother, under the suggestion of Donald, his father, became a suitor for the hand of Ethel. There seemed to be an idea on the part of the father and son that a good deal of money must come from Blanche to Ethel, and that the husband of Ethel must benefit by it. Ethel, from the first, had resisted these efforts, and was compelled to fight the battle almost alone. Her mother was evidently a weak woman, completely under the rule of her husband, and joined her husband and his son in their effort to force upon the girl the unwelcome suit. The girl Ethel had shown more spirit in this resistance than she had displayed in all her life before. It became persecution, for her life was made miserable during the four years that it lasted. All sorts of annoyances were put upon her. She was not permitted to go out, or to receive company, and, if she talked with any one, especially a man, a great row was made with her. As the time went on these persecutions were increased. Finally the girl Ethel, in her distress, had carried her troubles to the lady talking to Ida. This lady had advised Ethel to tell all her troubles to her sister Blanche, something which Ethel had not done, because of the urgency of her mother not to trouble Blanche with the family affairs. At length the matter had become so bad that Ethel had permitted Blanche to know how unpleasant was her life at home, with the result that Blanche had insisted that Ethel should come to live with her. The decision to do so had been met by a terrible row at home, and was only accomplished by Blanche coming over to Philadelphia and actually carrying Ethel off in spite of the opposition of the stepfather and son, which became so much of a quarrel that the elder Macrane, losing his temper, attempted to strike Blanche, and was only prevented by the interference of the mother and son. Blanche had carried Ethel off, but not until both father and son had threatened that it would not end with that. Further inquiry on the part of Ida showed that the elder Macrane was a man of almost ungovernable passion, while the son was in much better control of himself, but was sullen, determined and vindictive. Ida left this lady intending to confirm this story by further inquiries, and, indeed, did so in parts by three subsequent calls. She said to herself, that at the present rate of progress she was making, she would be able to return so as to arrive in New York by midnight at least. It was now just growing dark when she set out for the next name on the list. # CHAPTER XVIII. IN DURANCE VILE. Ida was led a little distance from the neighborhood in her next call, and to a part of the city that differed in appearance from that in which, up to this hour, she had spent her time. It was more sparsely settled, the houses further apart and the buildings larger. As she reached the address of the person she was next to call on, she was met by a rather rough-looking young man, who asked her who she was looking for. Ida did not like the looks of the fellow, and, as she answered, her hand stole to her pocket where her trusty revolver, which had served her well in the past, safely lay. Having given the name of the person she wanted, the young tough told her to enter the hall door, climb the stairs and knock at the first door she came to. She entered the hall as directed, but found it wholly dark. Stopping a moment to strike a match, so as to see her way, the first faint glimmering of the light showed her the forms of three men crouching at the foot of the stairs. Instantly the match was knocked from her hand, and, in the intense darkness that followed, she found herself seized both from before and behind. Though she struggled, she was powerless in the grasps of the scoundrels. Then something was pulled over her head which seemed like a bag. Naturally much frightened, nevertheless Ida did not lose her wits, and keenly noted every move of the rascals who had seized her, carefully watching for some sign of the brown-bearded man, whom she immediately suspected of being at the bottom of the attack on her. She was now lifted from her feet and carried farther into the hall. Then she was certain she was borne into the open air. Then again into a narrow passage, up some stairs and into a room, where she was placed on a chair. The men left her alone, but she could hear them close and bolt the door behind them. All was as silent as the grave. Outside, from the distance, she could hear dimly the roll of wheels and the noise of the trollies, but that was all. She tried to tear off the covering that had been put on her head, and found she had no difficulty in drawing it off. There was no light in the room save that which entered through the windows from the street. It was little, but sufficient to see that the room she was in was barely furnished. There was a table and two chairs. That was all. She went to a window and saw that it looked out on the street, but could see no one there. She examined her pockets and her dress. There had been no attempt to take anything from her. Her revolver still rested safely in her pocket. She felt more secure when she found this had been left to her. She also drew from her pocket what she had forgotten she had—a blank form for a telegram and the stump of a pencil. Her pocketbook was secure also. Hearing a noise without the window she went to it again to see that a young lad was crawling along the coping. Trying to throw up the sash, she found it was nailed fast. Winding her handkerchief about her hand, so that it would not be cut, she broke a pane of glass and thrust her head through it. The boy was startled and seemed as if he were going to crawl back. "Who are you?" asked Ida. "Did they lock youse up there?" asked the boy. "Yes; how did you know?" "I was on the stairs and seed 'em." A thought occurred to Ida. She asked: "Will you do something for me?" "If I kin." Ida took out her pocketbook, and, handing a bill to the lad, said: "Here's a dollar. I want you to take a telegram for me. It will cost a quarter. The rest of the money shall be yours. Will you take the paper to the telegraph office?" "Sure. Where's de paper?" "I'll write it." Ida hurried to the table and filled in the address of Chick, at Nick Carter's, in New York. Then she wrote these words: "Am in trouble." She had only gotten so far when she heard quick steps in the hall without, approaching her door. Without waiting further she rushed to the window and thrust the telegram she had written out of the window to the boy, who snatched it and crawled away in a hurry. Ida went back to the table, her hand on her revolver. The bolts were withdrawn and a man entered the room. At a glance Ida saw that he was disguised, and not skillfully at that. He crossed the room to where she was standing, the table between them, and stood looking at her intently a moment or two. Ida returned his gaze. Neither spoke for a while. Then the man said: "You are Nick Carter's Ida. What is your business here?" "I have none," said Ida. "I was brought here against my will." "I mean in Philadelphia." "That is my business." "Answer me, or it will be worse for you. You are here on the Ethel Romney case." "Suppose I am, what then?" asked Ida, boldly. "Well, you won't do much locked up here, will you?" asked the man. "Oh, I don't know," replied Ida. "You can't tell." The man did not know what to make of that answer and did not reply for a moment or two. Then he said, roughly: "Nick Carter thinks that the one who did the girl came here." Ida made no reply, but she was thinking hard. "He's wrong. It was a New York swell. You're working on the wrong lay." Still Ida made no reply. "Who does Nick Carter think did it?" Ida continued her silence. "What have you got onto since you've been here?" Ida did not answer that question. "Why don't you answer?" said the man, roughly. "I'll make you answer mighty quick." Still Ida did not speak. The man, losing his temper, attempted to reach her by passing around the table, but Ida edged away until their positions were reversed, and she stood where the man had, and the man was where she had stood. The door was open behind her. She made a dash for it. The man seemed prepared for that, for he violently pushed the table aside and sprang after her. Ida, drawing her revolver, whirled about, and, leveling her gun, called out: "Don't come. I'll shoot!" The man laughed, sneeringly, and advanced. Ida fired. The ball carried high, knocking off his hat. But it halted the scoundrel. Ida sprang through the door, dashed along the hall, finding the head of the stairs and rushed down them. The man followed, shouting at the top of his voice, apparently calling the name of some one. Descending the stairs Ida found an open door and rushed through it to see that she was in a small yard. Hastily glancing about she saw a door in the fence. She sprang to this and found it unlocked. In a moment she was in the street. But she was hardly through the gate than the man was upon her. Ida drew her revolver again, but this time, as she leveled it, it was knocked from her hand by a man who had come from behind a tree. She was overpowered again. In the struggle she tore the disguise from the man who had followed, and the hasty glimpse she had satisfied her that he was the man who had accosted her on the cars—the brown-bearded man. This time they tied a handkerchief over her eyes. "She's the devil's own," said the voice which Ida thought was the voice of the one from whom she had just escaped. "You say she belongs to Nick Carter?" said another voice. "So she is." "She won't get away this time," replied the other. The two attempted to pick her up again. While her eyes were being bandaged, Ida had seemed to make no resistance, but was busy in taking something from her pocket. But when the two lifted her up, she wriggled out of their grasp, sinking to the pavement, where she tried to do something with her hand. The two pounced on her again, and this time lifted her clear from her feet, and not gently, either. It did not appear that they carried her again through the gate by which she had escaped, but up the street a short distance and into another hallway. But she struggled with every step, throwing out her right arm and bringing it into contact with everything she could strike. She did this so regularly that it seemed as if she had a purpose in it, though what it was, was by no means clear. She was carried up a pair of stairs and put in a room again, and, as before, seated in a chair. "There," said a voice that she recognized as that of the brown-bearded man, "I reckon you'll stay here for a while." Ida lifted her hands, which had been left free, and tore the bandage from her eyes. She was not in the same room, and it was lighted so well that she could see that she had made no mistake in supposing that one of the men was the one who had traveled from New York at midday with her, and that the other was the tough who had, in accosting her, induced her to enter the dark hallway. She had not spoken a word. "She's game," said the tough. "I should say so," replied the other. "But we'll take some of the gameness out of her before we get through with her." The two withdrew, locking and bolting the doors behind them, leaving Ida alone in the dark to think over her strange plight, and whether her telegram would reach Chick, and, if it did, if Chick would find her. # CHAPTER XIX. A DASHING RESCUE. It was after midnight before Nick and Chick reached the streets of Philadelphia. Before they drew into the station, Nick had said: "We'll waste no time, but go directly to the neighborhood in which Ida was to do her work." "If it's not in the main streets, the people will have been asleep these two hours," said Chick. "All the same," said Nick, "if Ida is in trouble, as we believe, I don't know the girl if she won't find some way of letting us know where she is, if we get into our neighborhood." So it was that when they left the station, they followed the route that had been taken by her earlier in the afternoon, getting off the car at exactly the same corner that she had done. Here Nick stopped a moment, to think of the memorandum he had given Ida as his guide to their further movements. "Chief," said Chick, "if we are now on the ground where Ida has been working, we ought to be careful how we move around, for fear some one will drop to us." "You are right about that, Chick," said Nick, leading the way down the street—the same one Ida had gone. As he got opposite a house, about the middle of the block, he stopped short, and said, in a low tone, to Chick: "That's the house Ethel Romney left to go to New York, where she met her death." "The old home of Blanche Constant, then?" asked Chick. "Yes," replied Nick. "I only know it by the fact that this is the street and that is the number." At that moment there was a noise, as if the door of the house was being opened, made distinct by the silence which reigned in the street. The two detectives immediately slipped into concealment of the first doorway, and watched. The man came out, carefully closing the door after him, and, coming down the steps, stopped a moment on the sidewalk, where the light from the arc lamp fell full on his face. "Brown-bearded and brown-haired," remarked Nick, in a whisper. The man under watch finally turned and walked off toward the lower corner. Chick slipped out and across the street, directly in his rear. He did not attempt to follow the man, but watched him walk away. Then he slipped back to Nick on his tiptoes, saying, eagerly: "By thunder, chief, that man walks with a hitch and jerk of his right shoulder." "I thought I saw that myself," replied Nick. "Under other circumstances we'd follow that man, but now our business is to find Ida." As a matter of fact, they did follow the man, but only because their ways were the same. At the corner below they saw this man pass through a door, which Nick and Chick sized up to be the back door of a drinking saloon. They let him go, and Nick led the way to the house of the woman on whom Ida had first called. This was not guesswork. He recalled that he had advised Ida to see that woman immediately on arriving in Philadelphia. It was with some difficulty that the woman was aroused, and when she was, her means of communication with them was through the window of her bedroom. It did not take long for Nick to learn that Ida had called on her, and that she did not know whither Ida had gone on leaving her. "The first point is made," said Nick to Chick, "for we have found that Ida reached here and began work. Now we will follow her up." Taking a position under the arc light near by, Nick took from his pocket some papers, and, after examining them, said: "I fancy we can travel Ida's course pretty straight for a while. Come along." Thus, without delay, they called at each of the next three places Ida had gone to, and in the order that she had, compelled in each instance to arouse people from their beds to answer their questions. But at the end of this journey they were, to use the words of Chick, "up against it." What line Ida had traveled, and to what address she had gone, they had no way of judging. Although Nick had given her the name of a person to call on, he was unable to tell where that person lived, and had advised Ida that she would have to find out on her arrival in the city. He could only tell that it was in a certain neighborhood, information which he had obtained from Blanche Constant after the murder. However, assuming that this was her next direction, they went thither in what Chick felt to be a rather hopeless search. Reaching that part of the town, they traveled the streets in all directions without hitting upon any indications of Ida's tracks. Coming to one corner, which they had passed several times. Nick said: "Here's a street that we have not been over yet; let's try it." "I am afraid," said Chick, as he followed his chief down the street indicated, "that we will find other streets that we will travel until daylight." He had hardly gotten the words out of his mouth than he stopped short and dropped down on his knees, looking at something intently on the pavement. Nick halted, looking with great interest at what his aid was doing. He saw him take from his pocket a small lantern he always carried with him, and turn the light on a particular spot of the pavement. "What is it, Chick?" said Nick. "Red chalk marks," said Chick. "Signs?" asked Nick. "Not our signs," said Chick, "though they seem to look as if there had been an attempt to make one. But, chief, I'll bet my life that this is the same chalk we use." Nick bent down over the spot, and saw that the pavement was made of red brick; that it would have been difficult to have made one of the signs that they used between them, and that in this case the marks only seemed to have been hastily made without any form whatever. He stood up erect, looking at Chick. "Could those marks have been made by Ida?" asked Nick. "I am guessing that they were," said Chick. "Anyhow, I gave Ida a piece of that chalk, and told her she ought to always carry it with her, for she could not know how useful it might become." "Let's look a little farther," said Nick. "Wait a minute," said Chick. "If any one comes, play drunk." Backing up against a tree, Chick suddenly lifted that fine, manly voice his friends knew he had, in a popular song of the day, that rang out on the night air as clear as a bell. He had sung but a verse, when two men suddenly appeared at the corner beyond them, say a hundred feet away, and Nick began to urge him to come home and not make a holy show of himself in the street, saying that they'd have the cops down on them if he didn't stop it. He could hear one man say to the other that it was only a couple of drunks, and saw them turn back and go out of sight. Chick sang another verse, and then both listened. There was an answer, indistinctly, yet clear enough for them to hear every note. They heard the third verse of the song sung through. "Ida's here," said Chick. "Are you sure?" asked Nick. "Sure!" replied Chick. "I'd know her way of singing in the wilds of Africa." "Then you have found her," said Nick. "And the next thing is to get to her." On looking up, he saw nearly opposite where the marks on the pavement were, a door in the fence opposite to where they were standing. Both he and Chick carefully examined this door and the fence for further marks without finding any. Then Nick followed up the pavement, until he came opposite the door of the first house to be reached, and there beckoned to Chick, pointing with as much excitement as the great detective ever showed, to long red marks on the brickwork of the door. "That's the house she is in," said Chick. Nick tried the door, and found it was locked. It took him but a minute to pick the lock, but this did not open the door, for it was soon apparent that it was barred from within as well as bolted. Chick was preparing to put his strength against it, when Nick checked him, and said: "Let's try if there is an entrance from that yard." Hurrying to the door in the fence and through it, they closed it after them and began an examination of the yard in which they found themselves. The brick wall of the house, on the door of which were the red marks, made one side of the yard, and at the rear of this side was a door to which they went. This door opened to them on the first trial, and Chick's lantern came into play again to show a hallway with stairs leading up. They mounted these stairs revolvers in hand, and on reaching the landing, found an open door opposite them. Turning into this room, the first thing that they saw was a large black cloth bag on the floor, the next a woman's handkerchief, which Chick said belonged to Ida. It was the handkerchief which Ida had wound around her hand with which to break the pane of glass, through which she had talked to the boy who had helped her. A hasty examination of the adjoining rooms satisfied the two shrewd detectives that the house was not occupied regularly. Out into the hall they went again, to follow it to an angle, where it turned sharply to the rear, examining each door that they came to. Finally, at the extreme end of the hall, they found a door which was not only bolted, but barred as well. Chick went to this door, and tapped on it lightly, but in a peculiar manner. The signal was so light as to be almost unheard, but it was immediately responded to. "She's here," said Chick. "Cover me while I take these fastenings off." In a twinkling the bar was wrenched off and the bolts withdrawn and the door flung open. Nick and Chick sprang through, with revolvers up and were met with a merry laugh. "There's no one to fight here but me," said Ida. She soon satisfied the anxious inquiries of the two that she was unharmed and uninjured in any way, and then Nick said: "Not another word now until we get Ida out of this place." "Give me a gun," said Ida. "I lost mine early in the evening." Chick handed her one, saying that she'd find it a little heavier than the one she was used to having. "Now," said Nick, "I will lead, Ida follow and Chick behind. Come on." They passed through the hall and to the stairs, and down them without anybody interfering. But, as they reached the door, it was opened and a man made his appearance. Ida immediately recognized him, even in the dim light, as the tough who had misdirected her into the dark hallway where she had been seized. "That is one of them," she said. The tough, with an oath, called on some one behind him and sprang at Nick. Possibly if he had known the ready use the famous detective could make of his fists, he would have thought twice over his action. As it was, he received a blow straight between the eyes which sent him out of the door and on his back to the pavement. Nick sprang forward through the door at once to meet the second coming up. He did not wait for any action on the part of that fellow, but sent him to keep company with the other, who was endeavoring to get on his feet. Chick caught Ida and swiftly carried her out of harm's way, through the door and into the street, through which now she had passed for the second time that night. Nick followed them closely, and in a moment they were out on the corner. "Take notice of the place, Chick," said Nick. "We may want to come back here again." The two rascals who had been so severely dealt with by Nick made no attempt to follow them, and it was not long before they were in the street where they could take the cars that would take them to the hotel where they usually stopped when in that city. It was not until then that Ida told the story of her experience of the night, and of the information she had gained. After he had listened to it intently, Nick said: "What you tell us puts an entirely new look upon our case. Chick has picked up a point to add to it, and together they give us some work that will keep us in Philadelphia to-morrow. That brown-bearded man has got to be investigated." "Yes," said Chick, "and we have got to know where he spent the last three days." "But what was the meaning of their peculiar treatment of me?" asked Ida. "They meant to keep you a prisoner," said Nick, "to prevent you from doing work which they had already found was getting too close to them." Nick got up from his chair, and turning to Chick, said: "Come, Chick, Ida wants rest after her rough experience, and you and I have got to size up something. Come with me." # CHAPTER XX. PATSY'S TRIUMPH. While these events were transpiring in Philadelphia Patsy was endeavoring to set out as a yachtsman. Chick said that Patsy was like a cat, since he always fell on his feet, no matter how you threw him. Leaving Nick and Chick starting for their Philadelphia trip, he wandered over to Broadway and from caprice turned into the hotel café where he had left the man who had brought to Masson the news of the change in the arrangements for the funeral of Ethel Romney. Rather to his surprise than otherwise, he found this man drinking with acquaintances. Among them was one with whom Patsy was slightly acquainted. This man knew Patsy had some connection with Nick Carter, but how much he knew Patsy could not tell. As Patsy was standing near the bar, this man looked up and recognized the lad. He arose from his seat and crossed to where Patsy was standing, addressing the young detective rather familiarly. His purpose of rising appeared to be to light his cigar; but he said: "I want to shake that crowd. They drink too fast for me, and I don't like the gang." The man who was in relations to Masson called out: "Are you going, Jensen? Well, don't forget to send me a handy boy for the cabin, as you promised." "Who is that?" asked Patsy. "His name is Moore. He is a sort of a hanger-on of Masson, the broker. Don't know what, exactly. But does things for him." "What does he want of a handy boy?" "Some one to go as a steward on Masson's yacht." "I wish you would get me the job." "You?" The man called Jensen looked curiously at Patsy for a moment, and then asked: "Do you mean it?" "Sure." "You would take the place?" "Try me." "By George! What a go. I'll try it. Ever had any experience that way?" "I was on the _Gay Flirt_ one season." "Good." He called Moore aside and whispered to him a while. Moore came to Patsy, saying in an off-hand way: "My friend backs you for the place. Wages twenty dollars a month and board. Report on board the _Derelict_ off Twenty-third Street, at nine to-morrow morning." He handed Patsy a slip of paper, on which he had written some words, and went back to his companions. Looking at it, Patsy saw it was an order to the chief steward to put him to work. Hailing the man Jansen, Patsy prepared to leave, but Jansen followed him out to say: "I'd give an old button to know your game. But I'll wait to hear the story until I meet you again." Patsy went off with a laugh, and to bed. The next morning, promptly at nine, he reported on the _Derelict_, and was promptly set at work. He was heartily sick of his job before the day was over, for it was hard work he was at, with nothing occurring to relieve the monotony. About six o'clock in the evening the man he had seen the night before waiting for Masson in front of the club house came aboard. Patsy soon learned that he was the sailing-master and he had not been on board long before there were orders to pull up and steam down the river. The yacht was taken around Governor's Island, into Gowanus Bay, and brought to anchor not far from, but out of the track of boats of, the Thirty-ninth Street Ferry. All things were settled for the night. The next morning there was much work done in preparation of sailing that afternoon with the owner on board. Patsy kept a keen eye open for signs of the things Nick expected to occur, for he felt that whatever did occur must happen before the yacht set sail on its cruise. At twelve o'clock the man who had engaged him as steward the night previous, Moore, appeared on board and entered at once into an earnest talk with the sailing-master. What the subject of their talk was Patsy was unable to discover, although he made all sorts of efforts to get within earshot. Whatever it was, was not to the liking of the sailing-master, for he shook his head doubtfully over what Moore was saying. The other was persistent. Finally, the sailing-master arose, saying in a tone easily heard by Patsy: "Well, all right, I'll do it. But I tell you, Moore, I don't like it. There will be trouble for some of us, if it keeps up." "There'll be no more," said Moore. "The Mogul has his mind set on this and——Well, if we don't help in it, some one will be out of a job." "And some of us take a chance of being in—somewhere else," replied the other, with a bitter laugh. As he turned away Moore detained him, and there was a further whispered conversation, during which Patsy could see that they frequently looked at him. Finally the sailing-master called him over and asked: "Do you know how to obey orders and keep your mouth shut and your eyes closed for an extra wad?" "For that I do," replied Patsy. "I size him up as right, Moore," said the sailing-master. "Give him your orders." He walked away. "There's something on this afternoon that'll make dollars for you," said Moore. "All right," said Patsy. "Well, then," said Moore, "in twenty minutes you'll go ashore and be posted in a certain place, where you can see all around you. And there you'll stand. See?" Patsy nodded. "By and by, up on a hill that will be shown you, a man will wave a red cloth. If there are no policemen in sight you will wave a white handkerchief. If there are you'll wave a green one. See?" "I see, all right." "Then you'll feet for the launch, and, getting aboard, shut your eyes. See?" "All right." "Then you're game for it." "Game for anything." Moore went away, but was back again shortly, telling him to follow. A steam launch lay alongside, into which Moore dropped, telling Patsy to follow. This launch ran off to a part of the beach rather out of sight and retired. A broken-down wharf stretched out into the water, and the launch ran up to it. At a signal Patsy went ashore. Four other men went ashore also, leaving two men aboard, one at the wheel, and the engineer. Patsy noticed that none of the other men seemed to be of the yacht's crew. The six picked their way over the wharf or pierway and reached the land. It was a lonely spot, a large, unbroken waste, few houses or buildings near. They all followed Moore for some three hundred yards, when he stopped, saying to Patsy: "This is your post. Now keep your eyes open for policemen. Up on that hill yonder the man will be with the red flag. If the way is clear and nobody down there where we landed, wave this." He handed Patsy a napkin. Moore took the other men away. Just then a bell tolled in the distance. "The devil!" exclaimed Patsy. "We're not far from Greenwood Cemetery." Then he said again: "And the funeral is to-day." He sat down on a stone and did some thinking. The result of this was that he took off his coat, turned it inside out and put it on again, looking as if he had another coat on. From his pockets he drew a wig and put that on. He rolled up his cap and put on a slouch hat. Then he stole up in the direction the others had gone. He passed the man stationed on the hill unrecognized. Arriving at the avenue where the cars ran, he looked around for Moore. By and by he saw him standing in front of a drinking saloon. He edged up close to him and saw he was anxiously waiting for some one. That some one appeared shortly in the person of Masson, from a carriage which was driven up to the place. "Well?" said Masson. "It's all right, so far," replied Moore. "The funeral carriages will be along in a moment." "Is the driver fixed?" asked Moore. "Yes; to be knocked off his box, and one of our men to take his place." "Does she ride alone?" "No; hang it. There's a woman with her." Patsy went out and sat on the curbstone. Something—an outrage of some kind—was on foot. A funeral procession came up—a small one. In the carriage immediately behind the hearse were two women. One he recognized at once. It was Edith, Nick Carter's wife. The other was Blanche Constant. He was sure of that from the description he had had of her and a photograph he had seen. Something of the villainy on foot came to him. He hurried back to his post and again became a steward of the _Derelict_. His wait was a long one. By and by he saw the red cloth waved by the man on the hill. He gave the signal of the white cloth—indeed, gave it without care as to whether or not there was any one near or not. A minute later a carriage came dashing over the hill. Four men sprang out, one seizing the horses, while one knocked the driver from the box and climbed up himself. Two others climbed into the coach from either side. Then the coach made straight for the landing where the launch was. Patsy started on a run for the little pier, and at the land end waited, well hidden. As the coach whirled up, he could see within it. Edith was there, and so was Blanche Constant, but both were unconscious. Masson and Moore were both there also. The two men—the signal man and the one who had stopped the horses—were left behind. Masson had planned to seize Blanche Constant as she was returning from the funeral of her sister and carry her off in his yacht. Edith had been with Blanche, contrary to expectation, and she had been dosed to prevent her from interfering, but was to be sent back to the city. Patsy's plan was made in an instant—a plan to spoil the plan that had been carefully laid. He waited until Masson got out of the coach and had lifted Blanche out. Then he sprang into full view, both revolvers leveled. "Hold!" he cried. "Put that lady down!" "What!" shouted Masson. "What the deuce! Moore, look to that fellow!" The driver made a movement as if to get off his box. "Jim Grady!" cried Patsy; "if you stir, I'll put a ball into you and pull you in beside for that job of two nights ago!" "Heavens!" cried the driver, "it's Patsy Murphy!" He jumped from his box and ran like a deer. Meanwhile Masson was raving like a madman, calling on Moore to shoot the young detective. Moore did start for Patsy, and with revolver in hand. Patsy was in no humor for fooling and, as Moore approached, he fired, striking the scoundrel in the shoulder and sending him to the ground with a groan. Masson, seeing his lieutenant down, dropped Blanche to the ground and rushed like a maniac at Patsy, shouting for help. The engineer and the wheelman, hearing the shot and the cries of Masson, climbed out of the launch and came rapidly over the rickety wharf. Patsy saw at a glance that he was likely to be attacked from behind, and, taking deliberate aim, fired at Masson, hitting him in the upper right arm. Yelling with pain and rage Masson dropped to the ground and Patsy, whirling around, shouted to the two coming over the rickety pier: "Back, you curs! I'll serve you as I have the others. I'm Patsy Murphy!" Whether they knew the name, or were satisfied that he would do what he said he would, the fact is that they stopped, and at Patsy's command dropped to the pier. Dashing up to the carriage, Patsy picked up Mrs. Constant, put her in the coach, and, springing on the box, whipped up the horses. He was not a minute too soon, for the signal man, the driver and the other one were approaching as fast as they could run. Indeed, as Patsy drove toward them they made an effort to stop his way, but Patsy, standing up in his box, fired his revolver, right and left, in a way that made them believe that caution was the better part. So he dashed on toward the avenue. The shots had attracted attention, of course, and several policemen came. "I'm Patsy Murphy, of Nick Carter's staff of detectives," cried Patsy. "This is a case of abduction that I have spoiled. The ladies in the coach are Mrs. Constant and Nick Carter's wife. Seize those men of that yacht lying out there." But, looking out on the water, they could see the yacht was moving out into the harbor under full steam. Patsy was disappointed, for he would have liked to arrest Masson, but he had saved the women, and that was the important thing. He first drove them to a drug store, where they were quickly restored to consciousness, and then to the city, having first engaged a driver at a livery stable. Edith took Blanche home with her, and Patsy was a hero in the eyes of both. But Patsy, getting home, was inconsolable that he had no prisoners. # CHAPTER XXI. THE MURDERER. Events developed rapidly in Philadelphia while Patsy was having his fight with Masson and defeating the abduction scheme. Before they had discussed Ida's information long both Nick and Chick had arrived at the same conclusion. They believed they had found the murderer in Philadelphia, and that Nick's instinct that Masson was not the person guilty of the murder of Ethel Romney had been right from the first. "We must move without delay, Chick," said Nick. "Our rescue of Ida will inform this man that we are in town, and he will run." "To make our conclusions a dead certainty," said Chick, "we ought to prove that George Macrane was in New York on the day of the murder." "We'll take the chances, and prove it afterward," said Nick, grimly. "Come." "Where?" asked Chick. "To see the chief of police." "At this hour? It is three in the morning." "He'll have to stand for it." They went out and woke up the chief of police, who, understanding the situation, summoned two officers, whom he put at the disposal of Nick. The four then set out for the house of Macrane, arriving there a little after four in the morning. They approached the house cautiously, concealing themselves where they could watch it. A light was burning in the third-story window, which Nick fancied was the window of the room occupied by George Macrane. As they watched, two men came down the street, and, rapping at the door of the Macrane house, asked for George. They were told that he had not yet returned home. Chick's sharp eyes recognized one of these men as one of those that had opposed their rescue of Ida. These two men sat down on the lower step of the Macrane house. "They mean to wait for George Macrane," said Nick. They did not wait long, for in ten minutes' time a man was seen approaching from the opposite direction. The two men stood up to meet him. What they told him could not be heard by Nick and Chick, but it was followed by a frightful explosion of oaths and curses from George Macrane. So frantic, indeed, was this outburst, that Nick thought it proceeded from a craven fear of the result. Touching Chick, and, bidding the officers to follow, Nick slipped across the street, closely approaching the three men before they were seen. Laying his hand on the shoulder of Macrane, Nick said: "George Macrane, you are my prisoner. I want you for the murder of Ethel Romney." The shock was so sudden that Macrane dropped to the pavement in a heap. If the other two had been disposed to make a resistance they were too much astonished at the charge made against their employer to offer any. They stared in open astonishment, and made no show of objecting when the officers took them in charge. George Macrane soon recovered possession of himself, and, rising, said rather tremblingly, to be sure: "You must be wild to charge me with that. Ethel Romney is in New York." "She is in Greenwood by this time," said Nick. "I couldn't have done her—she in New York and me here," said Macrane, growing bolder as he talked. "She's been there a week or more." "It is useless, Macrane," said Nick. "We know the whole trick. You were in New York yourself. You laid the game up well, but we know it. "You knew there was a man in New York who was following Ethel's sister; you were told you looked like him; you saw him, and you trimmed your whiskers to be exactly like him." Nick stopped and looked at Macrane. What he had been saying was purely guesswork, but he saw that he had hit home. "You called at Mrs. Constant's home at eight o'clock on the night of the murder, giving the name of Masson. You were told that Mrs. Constant had gone out to the dressmaker's. "You knew that wasn't so—you knew it was Ethel who had gone out, but thereby you found out where she had gone to. "You went to the dressmaker's and waited till she came. You tried to speak to her as she went in. Then you went into the coach and waited. "When she came to enter it she saw you and screamed, but you pulled her in and shut the door. "The coach drove rapidly up the avenue, and during that drive you shot her, for she had told you that she was done with you forever, and meant to live with her sister. "When the coach was checked, at Fifty-eighth Street, you stepped out, crossed the street, and, going down Fifty-eighth Street, you bowed to a man at nine o'clock, who spoke to you as Masson. "Half an hour later, on the corner of Fifty-seventh Street and Fifth Avenue, you talked for a few minutes with a man who stopped you and called you Masson. "You made yourself conspicuous in other places when you thought suspicion could be thrown on Masson. "Then, when you thought you had done enough you started back to Philadelphia, but one of my aides was on the train. We were on your track. We were bound to land you as we have landed you." Turning to the officers, Nick said: "Take us to the lockhouse. Chick, have you hand-cuffs?" Chick had not, but one of the officers had, and Macrane was ironed. It was daylight when Nick and Chick returned to their hotel to snatch a brief sleep. Early in the morning they were out, making the proof strong that Macrane had been in New York. They wired for Patsy to come on, with Moran and the storekeeper of Sixth Avenue that Chick had dug up, by an early train. On their arrival they positively identified Macrane as the man seen entering and leaving the coach. Patsy, on his arrival, reported his experiences with Masson and the rescue of Mrs. Constant and Edith. Though Patsy told it with all modesty, Nick knew that Patsy had performed a most gallant and heroic deed, and so said, but it was not until he returned to New York that he learned how gallant and brave the deed was. Speaking of the curious development of the case, Nick said: "From the first I felt that Mrs. Constant's natural bitterness toward Masson had misled her judgment. I never did believe that he did the murder. "The strange thing is that Mrs. Constant did not give greater importance to the feeling of Macrane toward Ethel. "However, she has a hold on Masson now, and if she will follow my advice, Masson will see the inside of a prison for his evil deeds. He deserves it." But he did not. When Mrs. Constant learned that she had unjustly charged Masson with the murder of her sister, she seemed to feel that she had done him an injury which she could atone for only by refraining from following up the advantage she possessed. Masson fled to Europe, so that Mrs. Constant is now free from his persecutions. Macrane lies under conviction of murder in the first degree, and awaits execution. He has confessed, saying that he visited New York to force Ethel to return with him, and, finding that he had lost her and all control of her, in a fit of anger he killed her. Mrs. Constant devotes herself to her kennel, but her grief for the death of her sister is so great that she is a broken woman. When Patsy wants to be particularly swell, he sports a fine diamond ring that Mrs. Constant gave him in recognition of his bravery when he prevented her abduction by Masson. The case is referred to by Nick Carter's outfit as "Patsy's Triumph," and as such is not easily forgotten. THE END
204	--- author: Nelson S. Bond tags: Science fiction, Soldiers, Fiction, Psychic ability, Authorship, Spirit writings title: The Ultimate Salient summary: ' "The Ultimate Salient" by Nelson S. Bond is a science fiction novella written in the early 1940s. The story revolves around Brian O''Shea, a soldier from the future who is connected to a present-day writer, Eben Clinton, through a psychological phenomenon known as telaesthesia. The narrative explores themes of war and survival as O''Shea navigates a defeated America while trying to find hope amidst a totalitarian invasion. The opening of the novel introduces the reader to Eben Clinton, who is interrupted by a mysterious visitor, Dr. Edgar Winslow, seeking his help to transmit a critical message to a future soldier, Brian O''Shea, who will not be born until 1942. The narrative shifts between present-day America and O''Shea''s experiences in a war-torn future where he grapples with the consequences of the invasion and the duty to lead his dwindling group of soldiers against overwhelming odds. As the story unfolds, it becomes apparent that O''Shea and his comrades have little hope left, making their fight for survival even more urgent and poignant. The opening portion sets the stage for an exploration of timeless struggles against oppression, sacrifice, and the quest for freedom, leaving the reader eager to see how these threads will intertwine. ' word_count: 20014 fiction_type: Novella ... # I > Brian O'Shea, man of the Future, here is your story. Read it carefully, soldier yet unborn, for upon it,—and upon you—will one day rest the fate of all Mankind. _He glanced at me slowly, and a bit sadly, I thought. "I'm sorry, Clinton," he said, "but that won't do. It won't do at all. It will have to be written. You see—you won't be here then...."_ I thought at first he was the census-snoop, returning to poke his proboscis into whatever few stray facts he might have overlooked the first time. My wife was out, and when I saw him coming up the walk, that bulky folder under his arm, I answered the door myself—something I seldom do—sensing a sort of reluctant duty toward the minions of Uncle Sam. ~ He was a neat and quiet person. One of those drab, utterly commonplace men who defy description. Neither young nor old, tall nor short, stout nor slender. He had only one outstanding characteristic. An eager intensity, a _piercingness_ of gaze that made you feel, somehow, as if his ice-blue eyes stared ever into strange and fathomless depths. He said, "Mr. Clinton?" and I nodded. "_Eben_ Clinton?" he asked. Then, a trifle breathlessly I thought, "Mr. Clinton, I have here something that I know will prove of the greatest interest to you—" I got it then. I shook my head. "Sorry, pal. But we don't need some." I started to close the door. "I—I beg your pardon?" he stammered. "Some?" "Shoelaces," I told him firmly, "patent can-openers or fancy soaps. Weather-vanes, life insurance or magazines." I grinned at him. "I don't _read_ the damned things, buddy, I just write for them." And again I tried to do things to the door. But he beat me to it. There was apology in the way he shrugged his way into the house, but determination in his eyes. "I know," he said. "That is, I _didn't_ know until I read this, but—" He touched the brown envelope, concluded lamely, "it—it's a manuscript—" Well, that's one of the headaches of being a story-teller. Strange things creep out of the cracks and crevices—most of them bringing with them the Great American Novel. It was spring in Roanoke, and spring fever had claimed me as a victim. I didn't feel like working, anyway. No, not even in my garden. Especially in the turnip patch. Hank Cleaver isn't the only guy who has trouble with his turnips. I sighed and led the way into my work-room. I said, "Okay, friend. Let's have a look at the masterpiece...." His first words, after we had settled into comfortable chairs, made me feel like a dope. I suppose I'm a sort of stuffed shirt, anyway, suffering from a bad case of expansion of the hatband. And I'd been treating my visitor as if he were some peculiar type of bipedal worm. It took all the wind out of my sails when he said, by way of preamble, "If I may introduce myself, Mr. Clinton, I'm Dr. Edgar Winslow of the Psychology Department of—" He mentioned one of our oldest and most influential Southern universities. I said, "Omigawd!" and broke into an orgy of apologies. But he didn't seem to be listening to me; he was preoccupied with his own explanation. "I came to you," he said, "because I understand you write stories of—er—pseudo-science?" I winced. "Science-_fiction_," I corrected him. "There's quite a difference, you know." "Is there?" He frowned. "Oh, yes. I see. Please forgive me. Well, Clinton—" The professorial stamp was upon him; quite unconsciously he addressed me as if I were one of his students. "Well, Clinton, I came to ask a favor of you. I want you to transmit a message to a certain man. I want you to write the message in such a form that it will not be lost—in the form of a fictional narrative." It takes all kinds to make a world. I gazed at him thoughtfully. I said, "Don't look now, but isn't that doing it the hard way? I'll be glad to help you out. But putting a simple message into story form is—well, why not just let me _tell_ the guy? By word of mouth?" "I'm afraid," he said soberly, "that is impossible. You see, the person to whom this message must go will not be born until the year 1942." "Nineteen—!" It worked. It threw me off balance for a minute. Then came the dawn. It _was_ a gag, after all. My pal Ross being funny from out Chicago way, maybe? Or Palmer, deserting Tark long enough to joyride me over the well-known hurdles? I chuckled. I said, "That's all right, Professor. I'm young; I can wait. Just tell me the name of this unsprouted seedling, and I'll stick around till he gets old enough to talk to. Only the good die young; I expect to live to a ripe old age." He glanced at me slowly, and a bit sadly, I thought. "I'm sorry, Clinton," he said, "but that won't do. It won't do at all. It will have to be written. You see—you won't be here then...." ~ You know, it should have been funny. Uproariously, screamingly funny. I should have laughed my crazy head off, given my obviously screwy visitor a smoke and a drink and a clap on the back and said, "Okay, pal. You win the marbles. Come clean, now. Who put you up to this crystal ball stuff? What's the payoff?" But I didn't, because somehow it wasn't funny after all. There was a deadly seriousness to my visitor's manner; the knuckles of his hands were white upon his knees, his icy blue eyes burned with a tortured regret that was like a dash of water to my mirth. "I'm sorry, Clinton," he said. "I'm really dreadfully sorry." I lit a cigarette carefully. In as even a voice as I could muster, I said, "Perhaps you'd like to tell me more? Perhaps you'd better start from the beginning?" "Yes," he said. "Yes, I think that would be best." He fingered the thick brown envelope nervously. "The story begins," he said, "and ends—with this manuscript...." ~ "As I have already told you," said Dr. Winslow, "my profession is teaching. Psychology is my field. Recently I have given much of my time to research into the lesser-known faculties of the human mind. Experimental psychical research such as that investigated by Prof. J. B. Rhine of Duke. You are undoubtedly familiar with his work?" "Extra-sensory perception?" I nodded. "Yes. Most fascinating. The results are far from satisfactory, though. And some of his conclusions—" "You make a common error," said my visitor gravely. "Dr. Rhine has not assumed to draw any conclusions—as yet. He offers only a few, and completely logical, presumptions. "Dr. Rhine's studies to date, however, have been in the field of extra-sensory perception only. There are other fields of psychical research quite as untouched, and, I have reason to believe, even more important and—fruitful. "It is in one of these companion fields that I have been laboring. I have been investigating the phenomenon you may know as "telaesthesia."" "You mean," I asked, "telepathy?" "There is a difference between the two. Telepathy, as defined by Myers in 1882, is "the communication of impressions of any kind from one mind to another, independently of the recognized channels of sense." It implies a deliberate, recognized contact between two minds existent at one time. "Telaesthesia is a more complex meeting of entities. If A, let us say, reaches out and helps himself to the contents of B's mind _without_ the knowledge or assistance of B, that process will be called "telaesthesia." Unlike telepathy, it knows no barriers of Time. There are hundreds of recorded case histories from which we learn of men of our time who have established telaesthetic contact with former forgotten eras. "And of days to come, as well!" Here Winslow's eyes literally gripped me. "But never, until now, has anyone succeeded in gaining more than a fleeting glimpse into the Time stream of the future. Never before has a man established a contact so deep, so strong, that he could read not one sentence or one paragraph of that which is to be—but an entire chapter, decades long...!" ~ It was spring in Roanoke. Outside, warm April sunshine poured down luxuriant gold upon the faint, green buds. My place, _Sans Sou_, lies in a quiet fold between two rolling hills. There was nothing to disturb that quiet now save the boastful warble of a redbird, "Purty! Purty!" and the petulant complaint of a chipmunk in the sycamore. The sky was a pale, soft blue, cloudless and serene. There were no clouds, and even the delicate fronds of the weeping willow drooped motionless. So it could not have been a storm I heard. Yet as he spoke, a dark shadow seemed to scud across the sky, veiling the sunlight, and the gods made portent in the swell of distant thunder. I felt the short hairs stiffen on my neck, and despite the warmth I shivered. I said, and why I spoke in a whisper I cannot tell, "Never before ... until ... _now_?" "Until now!" he repeated. And suddenly his fingers were swift with eagerness, he fumbled with the flap of the envelope while words raced from his lips. "Several months ago I began to experiment with automatic writing, one of the means by which telaesthetic contact is authenticated. "At first the results were—as might be expected—faulty. From the autohypnotic syncopes into which I was able to project myself, I woke to find nothing on the sheets before me but meaningless scribbles. "And then, suddenly, I woke one day to find that in my period of subliminal usurpation I had achieved a definite result. I—or someone—had written four full pages. The first four pages of this manuscript!" Here he handed the manuscript to me. I had time to notice that the writing was full-bodied, flowing. Then Dr. Winslow's words claimed my attention again. "That was but the beginning. Once having established contact, it was as though I became the _alter ego_ of this mysterious correspondent. From that time on my experiments were graced with success. Whenever I resumed contact, pages were added to the manuscript. By the periodicity of these, I am led to believe that Brian O'Shea is a diarist, and that through some inexplicable phenomenon, it is given to me to be able to set down, telaesthetically, the very words he writes in his diary—" "You said," I interrupted, "Brian—?" "O'Shea," nodded Winslow. "Brian O'Shea. A soldier in the army of the Americas, Clinton—in the year 1963 A.D.! His diary is a history of the things to come!" ~ What I would have said then, I do not know. Maybe I would have said something bitingly scurrilous—which I most certainly would have regretted later. Or perhaps, as is most likely, I was momentarily stunned into speechlessness. But I was spared the necessity of speaking. Dr. Winslow had risen; eyes glowing strangely, he touched my shoulder. "I am going to leave you now, so you may read this manuscript in peace. When you have finished, you will understand why I came, and know that which must be done. "You will find that the manuscript begins abruptly at the moment when first I "contacted' O'Shea. It ends with equal abruptness. There are fragments missing; these may be filled in or rounded out as you consider necessary for the purpose of story-telling. I have made a few slight changes in spelling. Whether O'Shea was—or should I say "will be?"—a poor scholar, I do not know. The spelling of some words may have changed over a period of trouble-swept decades.... "But whatever surprises lie in store for you, whatever conclusions you draw from the manuscript you are about to read, I beg of you that you play the game of caution. If you end by doubting O'Shea's story, _still_ you must convey to him the message the manuscript demands. It is the only way. We must take no chances. I will leave my address—" Here he scribbled a few words on his card; I noted subconsciously that his own handwriting was tiny, crabbed, angular. "When you have finished reading, get in touch with me. No, don't get up!" For a long moment I stared after him. Is there any way I can tell you how I felt? I, who have written fantasies woven of thin air, now thus to be suddenly thrust into a fantasy beyond my own wildest imaginings? Even more important, is there a way I can make you believe that this is not merely another amusing tale, to be read today and forgotten soon? The structure of this narrative is mine. I supplied the story form. But is there any way I can convince you that the words which follow are not my own? _I did not write this story!_ It is the story of a man who is not yet born, who will not live these happenings for twenty years. Here is the story of Brian O'Shea, soldier.... # II —Stumbled and pitched to his knees. I ran to his side and would have carried him, but he shook me off. "It's too late, O'Shea," he said. "My number's up. Take over. And—" He hiccoughed convulsively and his lips drooled red. "And for Lord's sake, Brian, get the men out of this trap!" His eyes glazed, then, and his head dropped forward to his chest. Someone tugged at my shoulder. It was Ronnie St. Cloud; he was screaming, above the splatter of shrapnel, "The hills, O'Shea! They've cut us off from the river. The hills are our only way out!" Danny Wilson was beside him, and Knudsen, and a few more. About us milled a shrieking, terrified throng; it was impossible to tell soldier from civilian. Our uniforms were anything but uniform. We wore whatever serviceable garments we could salvage. I still had—though I suppose it was unrecognizable beneath a layer of caked sweat and mud—an old khaki campaign shirt, but my breeches were a corduroy pair I had found in a demolished farm house near Sistersville. St. Cloud wore the horizon-blue jacket of a _poilu_ beside whom he had fought in Belgium. Knudsen looked least military of all in whipcord riding breeches commandeered from the tack rooms of the Greenbriar Inn at White Sulphur. St. Cloud was right, of course; we might have known from the beginning we couldn't hold Huntington. It was open to the west, and that entire sector, from Chicago to Detroit and spearheading southward to Akron, Cincinnati, Zanesville, was occupied by von Schuler's Death's Head Brigade. But Captain Elmon, who had whipped our tiny company into some semblance of order after the debacle at Pittsburgh and had brought us safely down the river through Parkersburg and Gallipolis, had believed we might be able to defend this West Virginia river town until reinforcements could reach us from the Fort Knox garrison. ~ There was a school here, a Marshall College, with a layout ideal for our purposes. The buildings were more than a hundred years old, sturdily built; there were dormitories, kitchens, private power plants for heat and light. The campus was encircled by a waist-high brick wall which, sandbagged, made a perfect first-line defense against infantry. The rugged, mountainous terrain made it impossible for the Toties to bring up mechanized units. Nor could they bring pressure to bear from the Ohio River which, here, was not only shallow but bedded with rubble from the locks and dams we had blown up. But—the old, old story. They got us from the air. Their Messerschmitts and Junkers descended on us like a host of locusts, bombed the town ruthlessly; small pursuit planes strafed the fleeing populace with merciless persistence. We couldn't do anything about that, of course. Captain Elmon told me once—he saw volunteer service in Sweden before our country got into it—that in the early days of the war, aircraft confined its operations to military objectives. But I laughed; I knew he was just leading me on. He was a great one for joking, was the captain, even in the darkest hour. Now Elmon lay dead at my feet; his final command had been that I take over. Get the men out of this trap. There was no time to waste in bootless grieving. Already the sharp bite of sidearms augmented the scream of shellfire ... which meant the Toties were up to their old trick of parachuting an army of occupation into the beleaguered town. I shouted swift orders to the others, bade them pass the word around to "take to the hills." There were viaducts under the railroad at 16th and 20th Streets; we used these as our ports of egress. It wasn't a matter of minutes. We gave ground slowly, fighting off the enemy advance from street to street, alley to alley, house to house. By the old football stadium, now an ammunition dump, I found Bruce MacGregor, the Canadian, and the roly-poly Hollander, Rudy Van Huys. They had impressed the services of a dozen scared civilians, were loading trucks, vans, anything with our meager store of ammunition. MacGregor glanced at me sharply. "Where's the Old Man, O'Shea?" "Dead," I told him. "We're on our own. Mac, do you think you can handle this job alone?" "Why?" "I want Van Huys to forage. We're retreating to the hills. Use the 20th Street underpass, cut south to the Big Sandy, then west at Louisa. Rudy, get all the food-stuffs you can lay hands on. We're heading for hungry country." They grunted understanding and I went on. They were two good men. The chubby Dutchman could smell out provisions like a beagle. Our men wouldn't starve immediately, anyway. That moment's delay was the only thing that saved my life. I was but a half block away from the underpass when a Totie bomber spotted the stream of refugees flooding out of the city through that viaduct. My ears sang to the screaming whine of his power dive, concussion threw me to the pavement as he loosed his entire rack full of bombs into the heart of the fleeing throng. They never had a chance. Those who did not die instantly in the explosion were buried a split-second later in the tons of twisted steel and concrete that cascaded down upon them. There was one moment of dreadful cacaphony, hoarse screams of fear mingling with the thunderous roar of the explosion—then a dull, unearthly silence, punctuated only by the muted whimper of a few charred bodies that could not die and the grating slither of broken masonry filling the chinks of the funereal mound. ~ I rose, shaken, nauseated. Others had come up behind me; among them was Devereaux. There were tears in the young Frenchman's eyes. He lifted his head blindly toward the sky, shook an impotent fist. "_Les sales cochons!_ Will it never end, O'Shea, the triumph of these devils? Are honor and mercy dead? Is God dead? My country ... all of Europe ... now yours...." "They haven't taken America," I told him savagely, "yet! Come on. We're leaving town through the 20th Street viaduct. Is that you, Ronnie? What's the news?" "They've consolidated position along Fifth Avenue, thrown a defense line from Four Pole Creek to the river, infantry advancing north along the river bank to the college. Thompson and a foray squad are trapped in the First National, no use trying to save them. We blew the Toties' brains out, though." St. Cloud grinned ghoulishly. "We had City Hall plaza groundmined. They chose that spot to set up general headquarters." "Where's Frazier?" "Dead. Blue Cross." "Janowsky?" "Same thing." "Wilson?" "He's all right. Or was. He went back toward the college. Said something about having an ace up his sleeve, whatever that means." I didn't tell him. I didn't have to, for at that moment Danny came racing toward us. He waved his hand at me in a sort of vague salute or greeting, yelled, "If you're ready to get goin', _git_! There'll never be a better time." "Why?" "Because the Toties are goin' to have their hands full in a minute. With something too hot to handle. I just happened to remember that college we were bunked in had its own heating plant. A natural gas pipe-line. Since it was the Toties' objective, I thought maybe I'd warm house before they got there. Hold your hats, folks! There she goes!" There came a sudden, terrific blast of sound. Even at that distance we felt the shuddering repercussion, felt a breath of superheated air fan our cheeks as the natural well Danny had set off let go with a thunderous detonation. Into the gathering dusk shot a writhing spiral of white-hot flame ... the jagged outlines of oft-bombed houses looked black and ugly against the searing screen. The flames leaped higher, higher, spread. An oily pall blotted the dying rays of the sun; from afar came to us the crackling agony of a city destroying itself. I watched, spellbound for a moment, then turned to the others. "Danny is right. This is our chance. Let's go!" ~ MacCregor and Rudy Van Huys were waiting for us in the hills beyond the city. We paused to take stock of equipment, count noses, and plan our next move. Of our company—which had numbered six hundred before Pittsburgh, and had been one hundred and sixty-odd at yesterday evening's rollcall—now there remained but fifty-seven men. Twelve recruits joined us from the clamoring mob of civilian refugees. These were, of course, either graybeards, striplings, or men of dubious value as soldiers. All men of fighting age and caliber had long ago been called to the colors by wave upon wave of government drafts. We were a pitiful collection, poorly fed, inadequately armed, raggedly clad. Even so, the civilians were loud in their demand that we remain with them to "protect" them. But this I could not agree to do. "You'll be safer," I told them, "hiding here in the hills than marching with us. We'll try to contact Preston's brigade at Fort Knox. You have food, water, radios, medical supplies. Hide out, keep living and—keep hoping!" And so we left them. They must have numbered three thousand, mostly women and children. A few tried to follow, but I quickened the pace. The last weeping woman abandoned the pursuit after five miles; I saw her fall to earth, beating the insensate soil with weary, hopeless fists. Beside me marched Danny Wilson. He was a reckless, devil-may-care lad, was Danny. Even in the thick of battle his ruddy features were habitually wreathed in a grin. But it had deserted him now. He said soberly, "Maybe we should have stayed with them, Brian, boy. It's a hard row to hoe." "We can't fight a war in small detachments," I told him grimly. "You know that. Mexico tried it, and now their country is under Totie rule. Nova Scotia tried it, and now the swastika flies there. Our only hope is to concentrate, meet them somewhere in one decisive battle." "I suppose you're right. We go to join Preston?" "Yes. It's the general concentration point. Elmon got instructions by radio just before he went west. Jackson is bringing up his army from the Gulf, Davies is marching in from Springfield. They say three flights are taking off from Fort Sill; we'll have a small air force. If we can beat the Toties off at Louisville, we'll cut their communications line from Pittsburgh to Cincinnati, hold the Ohio." That night we slept along the Big Sandy. Before we bivouacked I broke our little company into six squads, each of eleven men, each headed by a veteran on whom I knew I could depend. I appointed Danny Wilson and Ronnie St. Cloud as my lieutenants. In arranging the squads, I tried to place the men according to nationality under one of their own race. Raoul Devereaux led one of the French squads, while Anatole LeBrun the other. That would have been funny a few years ago, when the army was still organized under the caste basis, because Devereaux used to be a captain and LeBrun a common private. But that old "officer and gentleman by Act of Congress" stuff had gone overboard a long time ago. Now we picked our leaders by their leadership ability. Ian Pelham-Jones, the Britisher, and Bruce MacGregor headed two English-speaking squads; Rudy Van Huys commanded a group of Dutch and Belgians; the tall Norwegian, Ingolf Knudsen, led a collection of assorted Scandinavians. Norwegians, Swedes, Finns, Danes—Lord, there was a tough outfit! And so we hit the trail. There's not much use telling about the days that followed. We marched and slept and ate and marched again. We were spotted once by a Totie spyplane; he came down to do a little plain and fancy strafing but we had the advantage of broken terrain. We took to cover and turned his crate into a colander before he decided he'd had enough. Lars Frynge, the Swedish sharpshooter, claims he punctured the pilot as well as the plane, but I wouldn't know about that. Though it's true that he did wobble as he flew away. ~ We avoided Lexington, cutting south through Campton and Irvine. We picked up a railroad at Lancaster. Joe Sanders, a native of these parts, said it was a part of the old Louisville & Nashville. If it were in operation, he said, it would take us right to our destination. But that was like saying if we had wings we could fly. The rails were twisted ribbons of steel; in some places the roadbed had been so completely eradicated you would never know it had been there. We saw people from time to time, but mostly in the small towns. They came out to cheer us as we marched through, offered us what little they had in the way of fresh water, barley bread, clothing that would never be used, now, by sons, husbands, brothers, who had fought their final battle. I got a fine new sweater in one village. In another we had an odd experience. A white-haired granddame insisted we accept a flag she had sewn for us. A funny-looking red flag with blue diagonal cross-bars and thirteen white stars. We used it later to bury Johnny Grant. He died of a delayed gas hemorrhage. The larger towns were deserted. We saw only one man in Danville. A scrawny, long-haired weasel skulking through the ruins of what had once been an A & P supermarket. Bruce MacGregor took a shot at him, but I knocked his rifle up. The bullet whistled over the man's head, and he scurried away like a sick, desperate rabbit. I knew there was a G.O. to shoot all looters on sight, but the time had passed, I told Mac, to concern ourselves with such trivialities. Ammunition was too precious. And, anyway, if he didn't find the buried provisions, maybe the enemy would. The seventh night out, we camped in the woods north of Bardstown, just a few yards off what had once been a main highway. I was beginning to smell smoke. Tomorrow we would join the main garrison, get fresh clothing and equipment and be assigned our duties in the projected offensive. That is, I suppose, why I was sleepless. We had stumbled across a deserted tobacco shed the day before. The brown leaves were old, parched, crumbling, but it was better than the hay-and-alfalfa mixture they had given us up North. I rolled myself a cigarette and was sitting by the side of the road when suddenly I heard it. The sound of an approaching automobile. A moment later moonlight glinted on metal; I saw it picking its slow, lightless way over the cracked asphalt. My heart leaped. This must be a car from Louisville. I ran down to the road, stood waiting eagerly. It approached at a snail's pace, but in the gloom the driver must have had all he could do to watch the road without keeping an eye peeled for vagabond troops, for when, as it came beside me, I cried a greeting and reached for the door, there came a startled sound from within, the motor roared stridently, and the car leaped forward, almost wrenching my arm from its socket. Somehow I managed to hold on, though the automobile bounced and jarred crazily as it struck deep ruts in the roadbed. My head glanced metal and I saw whirling stars. "Hey!" I yelled. "What the almighty hell are you trying to do! Take it easy!" Brakes squealed; the car jolted to a stop. And from the interior a voice, high-pitched with relief, cried: "You—you're an American! Thank Heaven!" Then a slim form collapsed suddenly over the wheel. I yanked the door open, dragging the unconscious driver from the cab. He must be, I thought, wounded. He must be— But it wasn't a "he" at all. As the body fell back limply over my arm, a campaign hat tumbled earthward. Soft brown hair cascaded from beneath it. The driver was a girl! I had ammonia tubes in my first-aid kit. I snapped one beneath her nose, jolted her back to awareness. And she proved her femininity by coming out of it with a question on her lips. "Who—who are you?" "O'Shea," I said, "commanding a detachment from the Army of the Upper Ohio. Marching to join Preston's brigade at Louisville. But never mind that. Who are _you_? Where do you think you're going?" She said, "Louisville!" In the darkness her face was a white blur, drab, expressionless, but there was a touch of hysteria to her voice. "Louisville! But haven't you got a radio? Didn't you know—" We hadn't. It didn't make sense. As she faltered, I snapped, "Know what? Go on!" "Louisville has fallen. The Toties have taken Fort Knox. Our troops are destroyed, the government has fled, and the Army of the Democracies is in utter rout!" I stared at her numbly. In the black of the woods a nightjar screamed a single, discordant taunt.... # III The commotion had roused most of the others. Quiet forms in the midnight, they had drifted to the road. Wilson spoke now. He said, "That's the end, then. If she's right, Brian, the war is over. And we've lost." I said to the girl, "How about it?" She shook her head. "I'm afraid so. The last reports I heard, they had seized the Mississippi, cut all contact between our Eastern and Western armies. The Japs control California and Nevada. There was a terrific battle being waged at Albuquerque. The Russian navy holds the Great Lakes. Everywhere you hear the same story." Pelham-Jones demanded harshly, "St. Louis? Did you hear anything about—?" "Wiped out to a man. It was caught in a vise. The Germans from the east, the Italians from the north." Pelham-Jones said, "I see," quietly. He turned away. His shoulders looked heavy. He had a younger brother at St. Louis. Van Huys looked at the girl suspiciously. "How do we know she's telling the truth, O'Shea? It may be more lies. She may be a Totie spy." I said, "You have your dent?" She nodded and handed it to me. I flashed my light on it. It was authentic, all right. The picture on the tiny metal identification tag was an image of her; the name beneath was _Maureen Joyce_. She was tagged as a WAIF, a member of the Women's Auxiliary Intelligence Force. I gave it back to her. "Very good, Miss Joyce. Sorry. We can't afford to take chances, though. You understand, I'm sure. But—" My curiosity made me exceed my authority. "But what are you doing here? Surely you wouldn't be attempting to escape the Toties in this direction? If they hold the east?" She hesitated for a moment. Then, carefully, "I am acting under orders, Captain O'Shea. They were supposed to be _secret_ orders. But in view of what has happened—" She made up her mind. "It would be better for more than one to know. In case—in case anything should happen to me. "You've heard of Dr. Mallory?" "Thomas Mallory?" I said. "The physicist? The one who pestered the daylights out of the government about some crack-brained invention during the early days of the war? Is he the one you mean?" "Yes. The government isn't too sure, now, that it acted wisely in refusing to listen to his plan. But you know how it was for a while. Miracle men flooded the War Department with fantastic ideas for "smashing the enemy." "Only, in this last extremity, the War Department decided to investigate Mallory's claim. As a last resort. I was commissioned to find him, bring him to Louisville. But now—" Uncertainly. "Now I don't know just what I ought to do. Even if he has a plan, and a good one, there is no one to whom we can communicate it." ~ Surprisingly, it was Danny Wilson who interrupted. "Except," he said suddenly, "us!" He turned to me. "Brian, it would be suicide for us to go on to Louisville—and there's no place else to go. We might as well make this our job. We have everything to gain, nothing to lose." "Do you," I asked the girl, "know where Mallory is?" "Only roughly. Somewhere in the hills of the upper Cumberland. I plan to comb the neighborhood—" The Kentuckian, Joe Sanders, edged forward. "Don't need to do no combin'," he drawled. "Reckon I c'n help. This yere Mall'ry—he a big man? White hair? Red complected?" "Why—why, yes. I believe so." "Mmm. Figgered it'd be the same one. I know him. Usta fish near his place when I was a colt. He come there in the summertime, big house in Cleft Canyon on Mount Rydell. I "member we usta call him the "devil Doc," "count of there was alluz queer goin's-on at his place. Well, Cap'n?" He squinted at me. I weighed the chances briefly. It was probably a wild goose chase. On the other hand, it was useless, as Danny had pointed out, to throw our little force against the might of the Toties who now held Fort Knox. And there was a faint, insane possibility that Dr. Mallory had a "plan'—an invention, maybe—that would enable us to form the nucleus of a new army that, reorganized, would sweep the invaders from our land.... "We'll do it!" I said. "We'll march at dawn!" We had to leave the car there on the road and strike out across country. It was the shortest and safest way to Cleft Canyon. Now that the Toties had made a clean sweep of the East, the roads were no longer open to us. As in Mexico five years ago, as in Ontario, the Maritimes, the New England States year before last, as in Illinois last year, floods of Totie scavengers were pouring through the conquered land in a series of "mop up" operations. Time and again aircraft droning over our heads sent us scurrying to cover. Once a flight surprised us in an open field. That's when we lost Johnny Grant and three other men. Nearby woods saved the rest of us. Before we abandoned the car, I had the men strip it of everything we could possibly use. Upholstery, tires, all electrical accessories, including the televise. It was this last that kept us going, kept our spirits aflame with determination, even when the trail was hardest. Wherever we spun the dial we found the ether crackling with the boasts of the enemy; each scene pictured on the plate was one calculated to tighten the already grim jaws of my men. The Totie banner floated everywhere. It was a blood-red flag; in the center was a quartered circle. In each of these segments was a symbol of one of the four totalitarian states that had welded to form the Totie army. Swastika and crimson sun, side by side with the Italian fasces and Soviet hammer-and-sickle. The Big Four that, irresistibly combined, had ground the principles of democracy under foot. It made me bitter, but it made me heart-sick, too. I could not help wondering how, or why, my father and those of his generation had been so blind as not to see the shadow of the inevitable creeping toward them. Surely they must have known, as early as 1940, that Sweden would not be the last neutral to be drawn into the conflict? Even then there must have been rumblings in the Balkans, on the Mediterranean? Did they not guess that Italy and Russia were just waiting until the hour was ripe, that Japan's leisurely conquest of China was a mere military exercise to keep Nippon warmed up until the day should arrive for a blow at the Pacific Islands? My own country was perhaps the worst offender. Had it not been told by a wise man, centuries before that, "In Union there is Strength?" Yet America, like Switzerland and Portugal, Greece and Egypt, played ostrich. Hoping against all sane hope that each succeeding conquest would so weaken the Toties that the few actively fighting democracies could win out in the end. I remember, as a child, the gleeful shouting in the streets of America when news reached us across the Atlantic that Hitler had been assassinated. I remember my father saying to a neighbor, "That's the last of the mad dogs. Stalin and Mussolini are gone; now Hitler. There'll be an armistice within a month. After that—" I wonder if Dad ever thought of that when he fought with his regiment at Buffalo. The true facts must have come to him as a series of staggering blows. The sudden collapse of the Franco-British union when Russia and Italy, selecting their moment with diabolic accuracy of timing, threw their support to Germany. The three mad dogs were dead, yes, but four younger, madder dogs took their place. Himmler, Ciano, Molotov, and Kashatuku. The crushing of India, the rape of Africa, the shadow of the crimson banner stretching across the Atlantic Ocean to touch Brazil. It was too late then to evoke the Monroe Doctrine. Too late to throw defenses about our own shore line. Canada owned but a shell of its former man power, Mexico was a hotbed of Totie sympathizers. Our militia was unready, theirs fired for twelve years in the flaming crucible of war. These were not pleasant memories I had as our small band marched toward Mallory's hide-out in the hills. But I could not escape them. I, myself, had witnessed the siege of New York, had seen Philadelphia blown to shards by the mighty Armada that swept up the Delaware, had heard the last, defiant cry of the defenders of Los Angeles— ~ _Unfortunately, here a portion of the manuscript is missing. To Brian O'Shea the events mentioned must have been so commonly known as to render unnecessary the mentioning of specific dates. Dr. Winslow places the probable date of the invasion of the United States at 1959, but this may vary as much as two years, one way or the other._ "—low!" warned Sanders. "I don't think he's seen us!" Danny's eyes had widened; he was pointing eastward. "He's not looking for us! There's what he's waiting for. Look! An American plane!" I was soaked to the skin, cold and miserable. The damned Totie scout might, I found myself thinking unreasonably, have waited just five more minutes before sneaking up over the horizon. Five more minutes and we would have finished fording this stream, would be up the rise and through the tangle of elm that Joe Sanders claimed concealed the place that was our destination. Beside me, Maureen sneezed. The poor kid was wet, bedraggled. I don't know how she contrived to still appear beautiful under such circumstances. Somewhere behind me, I heard the snick of a breech-bolt. I turned in time to find LeBrun raising his rifle. I slapped it down. "No, you idiot!" He looked sulky. "He's low, O'Shea. I can lay one in his gas tank." "And if you miss," I hissed, "you'll have the whole damned Totie army down around our ears. We've come this far without being caught. We'll take no risks now." Still, I knew how he felt. It was rotten to crouch there, knee-deep in icy mountain water, concealed by a vault of foliage, watching one of our planes—one of what must be a very, very few of our planes—drive blindly into the path of a hedge-hopping Totie fighter that had spotted its prey and was now waiting for it. Then, suddenly, there was the roar of motors. The American plane had come within range. The Totie plane broke from concealment, spun skyward in a swift, dizzying burst of motion. White puffs broke from its nose seconds before our ears caught the spiteful chatter of machine-gun fire. It caught the American flyer off guard. Something broke from his left wing, flapped crazily in the wind, as he jammed his plane—more by instinct than anything else—into a dive. The Totie was on his tail in an instant. And we stood there, helpless, watching a sweet, if one-sided, air battle. The Totie plane was superior, of course. But our pilot was a master. Time and again he wriggled out from under the other's nose just as it seemed he would be riddled into fragments. Once he managed to climb high enough to try a few shots of his own, but the Totie Immelmanned, was back on his tail before he could even get his sights trained. It ended as suddenly as it had begun. One minute they were spiraling for position, whirling around each other like a pair of strange, snarling dogs. The next there came a thin streamer of smoke from the tail of the American plane; a streamer that thickened to a cloud as we watched, became flame-shot black, choking, menacing. The Totie fired a final burst into the damaged plane. It went into a spin. Something dark appeared from a gap over the fuselage, it was the pilot climbing free. For what seemed an endless moment he poised there, then he was a brown chip on the blue breast of the sky, a chip that hurtled headlong to earth. Beside me Maureen gasped; I felt her shoulder tense against mine. Then a white mushroom blossomed suddenly; I choked a word of profanity that somehow I didn't mean to be profane. The parachute, bloated with air, zigzagged languidly to the ground. The pilot was halfway down when his plane crashed. Flames leaped in a wooded thicket across the rise. The Totie airman circled several times. Then, apparently content, he gunned his ship, disappeared northward. MacGregor frowned. "They must be confident. First Totie I ever saw who didn't gun a parachuter." ~ We left our hiding place, then; broke into the open where the caterpillar could see us. He was a good flyer. He sighted us, played his cords expertly, and landed less than an eighth of a mile from where we had gathered. A couple of our men helped him fight down the still-struggling "chute; he kicked himself loose from the straps and approached me. "Won't have any more use for that," he said ruefully. "You're the leader here? My name's Krassner. Jake Krassner. Fourth Aerial Combat." I introduced him around. Danny Wilson said eagerly, "Did you say the Fourth? I knew a guy flew with them. Name of Tommy Bryce. From Hoboken. You know him?" Krassner shook his head. He had hard, black eyes, a little close. Crisp hair. Broad shoulders. He was a good-looking chap. A little haughty, maybe. But airmen are like that, especially to ground-huggers. "I'm sorry. Our personnel has changed a lot. Lately," he added grimly. He looked at me. "I seem to have picked a hell of a place to get shot down, Captain. What on earth are you doing in this desolate spot?" Van Huys chuckled, and Joe Sanders grinned. "Don't look like much from topside, eh, Krassner? I figgered it wouldn't. The old man's a fox. He spent more than twenty years givin' this hide-out the damnedest coat of natch'ral camouflage you ever seen." "Old man?" said Krassner curiously. "Camouflage?" Maureen touched my arm. She whispered, "Maybe you had better not tell him, Brian. It's our secret—" I started to tell her what the hell. He was one of us, and there were mighty few of us left. We needed all the men we could get. And Krassner looked like a man. I didn't get a chance to say any of this, though. For as we talked, we had continued to follow Sanders. Joe was now picking his way confidently through an opening in the tangle of foliage. Sunlight dimmed as we entered a huge, cleared space entirely roofed by an interwoven network of boughs. In this space was a wide, rambling, one-story house, adjoined by a number of inexplicable sheds. And on the veranda of the house stood a man I recognized instantly. It was Dr. Thomas Mallory. # IV Mallory made us welcome. More than that, he seemed positively delighted that we had come. He showed anxiety on only one point. "No one saw you come here, Captain? You're sure of that?" "Positive," I told him. "Good!" He called, and assistants came from inside to lead my men to quarters. I was surprised, as well as a little shocked and disappointed, to discover the number of women attached to Dr. Mallory's household. There were a few men, but for the most part he seemed to have surrounded himself with girls. Not only that, but with young and pretty girls! But this was no time to sit in judgment on a man's morality. We had an important mission. Maureen broached the subject as soon as we three were rid of the others. "You must know why we're here, Dr. Mallory. We did not find this place by chance. We came because you are the last hope of our country. Too late, the government realizes it needs the invention you offered it five years ago." Mallory shook his head sadly. "I'm sorry, my child—" "You can't refuse, Doctor!" I broke in. "Don't you understand? The Toties overrun all the Americas. Democracy is dead unless—" He raised a weary hand. "Then democracy is dead, O'Shea. Not even I can restore its life. I can say only one thing; I am glad from the bottom of my heart that the government refused to listen to me when first I approached the War Department with my plan." "Glad? Why?" "Because I was guilty of that which a scientist must ever dread. I jumped to a hasty conclusion, based on insufficient evidence. My conclusion was wrong, my plan—" He sighed, turned toward a door. "But come. I will show you." ~ He led the way from his office into an adjoining room; a laboratory, spotless, white-gleaming. About the walls of the laboratory were a number of cages. In some of these were small animals; I saw monkeys, guinea pigs, a squirrel, rabbits. Some were active, eating, shuffling about, looking at us with bright, inquisitive eyes. Others lay apparently asleep. But these I noticed with some remote part of my mind. For the focal point of attention was a glass-walled case in the center of the room; a topless case in which lay the body of a man. Maureen started. She said, "Dead, Doctor?" "He is not dead," replied Mallory somberly. "He is the result of my dreadful error of judgment. These others—" He nodded toward the cages. "—were the experiments that misled me. This man, one of my assistants who trusted me and was daring enough to become my first human experiment, sleeps. How long he will continue to sleep, I cannot guess. But it may be for one, two, or even more decades!" "Sleeps!" I said. But Maureen, with a flash of that swift intuition I had seen before, guessed the answer. She said, "Anaesthesia! That was your plan, Dr. Mallory!" "Yes, my child. That was my plan. I am a scientist, but five years ago I was sociologist enough to recognize that the United States could not match the power of the Totalitarians. I realized, even then, that the ending we have seen come to pass was inevitable. I set myself the task of finding a way to meet the impending menace. "I found the answer in a new form of anaesthetic. I will not tell you its formula. It is a dismal failure—but that I did not know. I thought it was a great success. When I permitted small animals—those you see before you—to inhale some of the delicate granules—" "Granules, Doctor?" "Yes. It was a revolutionary means of inducing unconsciousness. When I permitted the animals to inhale these granules, they fell into a soft, deep, harmless slumber. I timed their periods of sleep carefully, discovered the anaesthetic rendered them senseless over periods ranging from one to two weeks. "It was then, heady with success, I offered my plan to the government. It was, I thought, so simple. Our planes would scatter the granules over enemy terrain—" He laughed shortly, mirthlessly. "—and the enemy would fall into deep slumber. While they were thus incapacitated, our men, garbed in specially constructed suits, wearing protective masks, could walk amongst them, disarm them, imprison them. The war would be ended bloodlessly—" I stared at him incredulously. I said, "But—but if it really works that way, Dr. Mallory, that is the weapon we need!" "Yes, my boy. But it doesn't work that way. I have told you I made an error in judgment. I assumed that Man, being a higher animal than those on which I experimented, would experience the same, or a slightly less drastic reaction than that experienced by the animals. I did not take into consideration the fact that Man is also a more highly integrated animal. That he is weaker, in some respects. "When Williamson, here, volunteered to become a human guinea pig, I accepted his offer. I exposed him to the granules. He breathed deeply, fell asleep—" Dr. Mallory shook his head. "And that was more than four years ago. He still sleeps!" ~ I said, "I understand now, Doctor, why you consider your plan a failure. But you speak as a scientist and a humanitarian who would shudder at seeing thousands of men sleep for a decade. I am a soldier. I have met War face to face, and have learned, by bitter experience, that there is no weapon too dreadful to use if the results are satisfactory. "What if your granules _do_ put the Toties to sleep for years instead of days? Isn't that better than seeing our countrymen die beneath the sword of the aggressor? Unless we act swiftly, this war is over. Freedom, liberty, equality of men, all the things we believe in, are doomed. But there is yet time to equip a few of our troops with the suits and masks you speak of, turn loose your slumber-granules to the winds. "Even though thousands of our own men share the sleep of the enemy, we can go through with the disarmament program you planned. When our foes awaken, a decade hence, they will have lost their leaders and their war. When our friends waken we will take them, triumphantly, to the homes and cities we have rebuilt while they slumbered." Dr. Mallory said, "I wish it were as simple as that, O'Shea. But there is one other thing you do not know. The granules that are my anaesthetic are more than mere granules. They are spores. Worse—they are self-propagating spores!" He pointed to a trebly barred and locked door opening on one wall of the laboratory. For the first time there was nervousness in his voice. "There is a storeroom beyond that door, O'Shea. In that storeroom, quiescent in sterile containers, lie spores. Countless thousands, millions of them. They are the granules I made for the government before I discovered their real nature. There lies beyond that door a weapon potent enough to end this war immediately—" He paused suddenly. We had all heard it, the squeak of a worn hinge, the shuffle of a footstep. I motioned Mallory to silence, tiptoed to the office door and flung it open. The aviator, Krassner, stood there. He was smiling. He said, "Ah, there you are, Captain! I was looking for you. I wanted to ask if—" "How long have you been here?" I asked angrily. "How long? Why—just a minute or so. I—" "Were you listening to our conversation?" He stiffened; a flush highlighted his cheek bones. "I beg your pardon, sir!" he said. "Because, if you were—" Dr. Mallory was beside me, his hand was on my arm. I hesitated. There was no sense in being so violently suspicious. I said, "Well, never mind. Go back to your quarters, Krassner. I'll be with you shortly." "Very good, sir!" He saluted, turned and stalked from the office, a picture of affronted honor and dignity. I felt somewhat ashamed of myself. Mallory said, "It really doesn't matter whether he heard us or not, O'Shea. What I was about to say is, there lies beyond that door a weapon potent enough to end the war immediately—but it must never be used. For once loosed to the winds, those abominable spores would not only end this war, they would still all animal life on the face of Earth. I have said they were self-propagating. Each new generation of spores would deepen the slumber into which mankind had been soothed by the first—" I said, "But why keep them, Doctor?" "I don't quite know, O'Shea. Perhaps I have done so because I am, at heart, more emotional than a true scientist should be. Perhaps I have a secret fear that there may come a day when I shall be forced to play God, give mankind its release from the chains of the tyrant." Maureen shuddered. "No, Doctor! You mustn't even think of that. Things look black now, but they can't go on like this forever. Right and truth and liberty will prevail in the end. There must be some other way to escape—" "There is," said Dr. Mallory quietly. "There is another way. A plan I have been working on ever since the failure of my first. There is one last refuge to which they cannot follow us." I said, "I don't understand, Doctor. Do you mean Antarctica?" His grave eyes captured, held mine. "No," he said. "A place more remote than even that. I mean, O'Shea—the moon!" ~ I knew, then, suddenly and with a great, overwhelming despair, that our journey to Cleft Canyon had been a vain one. As a last resort we had sought the hidden laboratory of one who had been a great scientist. We had found a madman. I said, "Maureen—" and I suppose there was regret in my voice. But Mallory stopped me. "A moment, O'Shea. I'm not insane. Nor is my plan—as you undoubtedly think—impossible. Did you ever hear the name of Frazier Wrenn?" The name was vaguely familiar, but I couldn't place it. Maureen could, and did. She said, curiously, "Isn't he the traitor who disappeared from Earth with a group of followers? Years ago? From a laboratory out west somewhere?" "Yes, my dear. In 1939. From Arizona. But whether he and his tiny band were traitors is something future generations must decide. Wrenn hated war; foresaw what must come of Earth's second Armageddon. He fled Earth, his destination was the planet Venus, his purpose to maintain, on that wild colony, a vestige of culture and civilization until Earth's feverish self-destruction should end." Mallory sighed. "We do not know what has become of Wrenn's expedition. There has been no remotest sign, no signal—" I said, "Venus! But, Doctor, that means _spaceflight_!" "Yes, Brian. I was to have been a member of that gallant party. But I was delayed in reaching their Arizona rendezvous, and their departure was hastened by an unexpected attack. They left without me. But, fortunately, Wrenn had confided in me the plans for his spaceship. For years, now, with what scraps of metal I could steal from a war-ridden, metal-hungry humanity, I have been secretly building a small duplicate of the _Goddard_. "You wonder where it is hidden? Our Kentucky hills conceal great caverns, Brian. There is one beneath the hill on which this house stands. Below us—as I will show you shortly—is a gigantic cave. In it is my almost completed craft." I had not noticed that Maureen's hand was in mine until I felt its soft whiteness tense within my grasp. She cried, "But why the moon, Dr. Mallory? Why not follow the Wrenn expedition—?" "You ignore a major factor, my dear. Celestial mechanics. Wrenn's flight was planned for a time when Venus and Earth were in conjunction. Such is not the case now. Earth approaches the Sun, while Venus is at aphelion. And my craft is, as I have said, but a small copy of Wrenn's. Moreover, I have been able to collect only a small amount of fuel. "There is only one body within our cruising range—Earth's moon. It is my dream that we shall go there—" I had been listening silently, stunned. Now I came to my senses. "No, Doctor! I can listen to no more. You forget I am a soldier of the United States army." "The government has fallen; the last of the democracies is crushed beneath the conqueror's heel, Brian, lad." "It will rise again. In the hinterlands—" "—are Totalitarian troops." "There are still eighty million Americans—" "And a hundred million aggressors!" He put a hand on my shoulder. "Don't you see, Brian, this is how you can best serve your country? Make this flight with me. We will take your men and my followers—two score men and the women you have already seen—and form a colony on the Moon. "We will return, then, secretly, for more Americans. And more, and more. We will transfer our democracy to a new soil, there grow in strength and power and wisdom until some day we can reclaim our heritage." Despite my training, I could not help but be convinced. I said, shaken, "But astronomers tell us the Moon is a barren, lifeless world?" "For the most part, it is. But the Caltech telescope indicates that air still lingers in the depths of the hollow craters. And in underground caverns. Water can be synthesized. It will be no easy existence, but it will be—" "The ultimate salient!" breathed Maureen at my side. "The last line of defense for freedom's children! Brian, Dr. Mallory is right! We must do this thing!" He looked at me hopefully. "Well, Brian O'Shea?" I took a deep breath. "When does our flight depart?" # V At Dr. Mallory's suggestion, I did not tell my men too much about our plans. "With so much at stake, O'Shea," he said, "the less they know the better it will be." But they did not ask to know much. They were good men; they trusted me. And if they chafed a little at the enforced idleness of the next week, the rest must have been a welcome surcease from months of fighting. Only one man failed to share their calm acceptance of my orders. Krassner. He told me, sulkily, "There's something going on around here, O'Shea. And, damn it, I have a right to know what it is. As a fellow officer—" "I respect your brevet, Krassner," I told him somewhat curtly, "but for the present I must ask you to remember that you are attached to this division through courtesy only, and have no authority. In a few more days, now, I will be at liberty to explain everything." He had to be satisfied with that. Though it was the nature of the man to be snoopy; several times he was observed prowling around the grounds, searching some clue as to Doctor Mallory's well-concealed secret. He was chasing a will-o'-the-wisp, of course. A man might have searched for months without finding the entrance to Mallory's underground workshops. Mallory admitted Wilson and St. Cloud, my lieutenants, to his confidence. He took us to the cavern wherein was being constructed the spaceship. The gateway to the depths was that which appeared to be a photographer's dark-room. Once inside, Mallory pressed certain carved ornaments, the entire farther wall slid back, and there stretched before us a smooth, well-lighted passage leading downward at a gentle incline. We must have followed this more than a half mile before we debouched into the main cavern; a mighty, vaulted chamber, a huge bubble of emptiness blown in the solid mountain centuries ago when Earth was in the travail of making. But it was not this natural wonder that made me gasp. I had seen others; I had, indeed, once taken refuge for four weeks with the Ninth Artillery in Luray. That which brought an exclamation to my lips was the shimmering monster braced on an exoskeleton of girders in the middle of the chamber. A gigantic, tear-shaped rocketship, stern jets lifted some feet off the ground, streamlined nose pointing at the roof of the cave. About it, in and around it, sweating men fretted, worried, labored, like so many restless bees. Here the brief chatter of a riveting machine woke snarling echoes as a final plate was welded into place; there a master electrician wove an intricate network of wires into some obscure purpose. In still another place, a strong-thewed gang trundled seemingly endless trains of supplies into the ship's capacious holds. Dr. Mallory smiled at the expressions on our faces, and there was pardonable pride in his smile. "There, my friends," he said quietly, "is the _Jefferson_." "_Jefferson?_" repeated Maureen wonderingly. "Named for him who, in our country's infancy, wrote down in blazing words the principles on which all democracy is based. The inherent right of men to enjoy life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Once his words showed us the way. Now his name shall lead us to a new civilization." "Amen!" said Danny Wilson piously. Then, "Now can we have a look at her? I mean _him_, Doctor?" Knowing every nook and cranny, berth and hold, turret and gun-chamber of the _Jefferson_ as I do now, it is hard to remember my feelings on that day when first I strode her permalloy decks. Even so, I can recall the vast wonder that engulfed me as Dr. Mallory led us through the ship, pointing out the engines, the control-rooms, the Spartan simplicity of the living quarters, the well-equipped kitchen and compact storage bins. There was much I did not understand until long afterward. Permalloy itself was a novelty to me. The metal had been invented, Mallory said, by a German scientist. One of the old school. A Doktor Eric von Adlund. "I do not know what has become of him. Perhaps he, like the other peace-loving great of his race, has long since been liquidated by the Totalitarians." ~ So said Dr. Mallory sadly. And he tried to explain the operation of the small, inconceivably powerful, atomic motors, the invention of Frazier Wrenn. It was a concept so novel, yet so simple, that it staggered us all. But I could see how, without first having a knowledge of the heretofore unknown element _inektron (the spelling of this important word seems to have confused Brian O'Shea. In the manuscript it is incomprehensibly scribbled. Dr. Winslow suggests the philological similarity of such words as_ "inertron" _and_ "inactron"? _NSB_) man might never have discovered the long-sought power of the atom. St. Cloud, frankly at sea as regarded scientific matters, was delighted with the military efficiency of the ship. I could see his fingers yearning for the lanyard of one of the rotor-guns installed in the fore and aft turrets. He liked, too, the foreman who came over to meet us. "How many men have you working here below?" he asked. Myers, the supervisor, told him twenty-three. "And there are twenty women topside," he grinned. "Doc says we're going to a brutal frontier. But if the women can stand it, we can. A man can do lots of impossible things with his wife at his side." I understood, then, the number of girls I had seen above ground, and regretted my hasty judgment of Dr. Mallory's character. I might have realized that he did nothing without purpose. He had seen—as I saw now—that without something, some_one_, to fight for, the men of our little colony-to-be could easily lose heart. He was assuring our venture against all eventualities. I was glad, suddenly, that Maureen was beside me. I wondered if she felt the same way. Danny Wilson voiced a problem that had puzzled me. "But this cavern, Doctor? Aren't you like the man who, in his spare time, built a yacht in his cellar? How are we ever going to get this monster out of here?" Mallory said placidly, "When the hour comes, we will burst from this cavern like a moth from its chrysalis. You have not yet witnessed the power of our atomic beams. "One thrust of blinding energy from the forward jets and we will shear an exit through the tons of solid rock and earth that now conceal us. Before we leave—" He looked at me significantly. "—we will destroy the buildings above ground. Including that one, sealed chamber that no man must ever open. "The Totalitarians will have no way of guessing who we were, what we did here, or where we have gone. And even if they should guess, they would be powerless to follow us." His voice was low, vibrant, anticipatory. "Your men and mine, Brian O'Shea, we hundred odd will establish the first base on Luna. Then there will be other trips to Earth, gathering more converts to our cause. The day will come when we will match our conquerors in strength. And then—" I said thoughtfully, "One more thing, Doctor. The _Jefferson_ is supplied with water and provisions, yes. But if our number grows, we will need our own farms and granaries. How are we to grow food in the lightless grottoes of the moon?" He nodded sagely. "All that has been provided for, Brian, lad. I have overlooked nothing. Chemical culture is possible. Trust me to take care of that problem when it arises." Danny Wilson coughed apologetically. He said, "We do, Doc. But—but I think I know what's in the back of Brian's mind. Suppose something should—I mean—if anything might happen to you—?" "That, too, I have considered. There is a complete scientific library in the aft turret. Science is no secret to the man who can read and think." Danny's face lighted. He said beautifully, "A library! Golly! Books! I haven't seen a book for nigh onto fifteen years. Except Field Code manuals. There hasn't been much time for reading lately." "And that," said Mallory darkly, "is perhaps the greatest catastrophe of this war. Reading men, thinking men, are happy men. They are not concerned with the lust for conquest of anything save the unknown. Yes, Wilson, there are books. And for those who seek light entertainment there are even volumes of fiction. Magazines for amusement." "Magazines?" I said, puzzled. "Magazines for amusement? I don't see anything funny in an armament warehouse." Mallory sighed. "Forgive me, O'Shea. I had forgotten your youth. There was a time, when you were a toddling child, when "magazines' were not always ammunition bins. Publishers used to issue monthly periodicals, printed on paper, bound in bright jackets, filled with stories. Exciting adventures in sports, the West, tales of crime and its detection, fictionized hazards as to the future of the world— "Ah, but that was long ago. That was when paper was cheap and common. When the vast mills of Norway and Denmark and Canada poured endless rolls of pulp into our country." Danny said eagerly, "I'd like to see some of these here "magazines," Doc. Could I?" "You may. Myers will help you select some from the storage bin, Wilson. And now, my friends, if you are ready to return to the surface—?" ~ That, as I recall, was on the 29th day of July, 1963. Yes, I know it was that day, because that was the date of the fall of Santa Fé. We watched that battle through our televises; it was triumphantly broadcast—a braggart deed in keeping with their boastful ways—by the Toties. Albuquerque having fallen, General Bornot, commander of the Army of the West, had withdrawn his forces to the old capital of New Mexico, there to make a last, desperate stand. It was a valiant, but doomed, defense. The very fact that intimate details of the battle were televised shows how vastly superior the Totie forces were; their airplanes could fly without hindrance over our lines, spying out resources, reserves, and the pitifully weak remnants of our Army. Like our own demolished Eastern army, the westerners were a motley crew. I saw French, English, Scandinavian and Canadian uniforms; loyal Sikhs from India fighting shoulder-to-shoulder with kilted Scots; swarthy refugees from Totie Mexico and Guatemala defending futile breaches beside blonde, fair-skinned Icelanders. The main body of attackers stormed up from captive Albuquerque to the south; these were the trained warriors of Japan, the yellow horde that had ravaged California, Arizona and Utah and pressed eastward to meet Kievinovski's command. The Russians came down from the north, cutting off any avenue of escape through Taos. ("Once," Dr. Mallory told us sadly, "Taos was the artistic center of the United States. Now but one pigment flows there; the red of blood.") And Schneider's Army of the Mississippi had swept westward through Arkansas and Oklahoma, leaving nothing but waste and desolation behind them, to meet the other armies at this last defense post of democratic gallantry. It was no battle at all, really; it was a slaughter. Our army had refortified old Fort Marcy, earthworks built by General Kearny more than a hundred years ago. Two divisions were quartered in the Garita, the old Spanish headquarters. Thus they lay, more than four thousand Democratic troops—waiting behind breastworks of earth and "dobe for the attack of armies whose artillery was built to blast steel and concrete pill-boxes out of existence. Even so, the gallantry of their defense turned the blood in my veins to electricity. They did not wait for the Toties to attack; they carried the fight to the enemy. With the first, tentative shot from the besiegers there came an answering blast from the besiezed. Then the bedlam was on. Stream upon endless stream, the Toties flooded into the city. As they did so, we—and the enemy—discovered that the spying televise had not told the whole story. Windows opened to expose spitting, snarling machine guns. Doorways gaped to expose light fieldpieces that poured fiery death into the Toties. Fake walls split miraculously, from them charged concealed troops of Americans, faces grim, guns flaming, roaring, bayonets flashing. Guerrilla warfare became the order of the day. At street barricades powder and flame were forgotten as men met face to face, looked with stark eyes upon dripping steel. Americans and their allies fell, but for each of them fell two, three, a half dozen of the invaders. The scream of explosives was deafening, the street pictured on the metallic screen before us was a shambles of blood; bodies lay asprawl like the forgotten toys of a careless child. And—the televise screen went blank! Danny Wilson loosed a great cry of joy. "They're licked!" he roared. "The dog-whelped cowards are licked! I never knew of them to turn off a televised victory—" For five glorious minutes we shared his hope. Then the broadcast was resumed, after a murmured comment about a "technical difficulty in transmission"—and when again our eyes looked upon the streets of Santa Fé, the picture had changed. Once more it was aircraft that had won the day. In the face of impending disaster, the Toties had loosed the full power of their air armada against the beleaguered forces. It did not matter to them that their thermite bombs fell amongst their men as well as ours; that was a hazard their hirelings had been trained to accept. Burst after flaming burst rocked the streets of old Santa Fé, broken bodies were flung brutally against shattered walls, doorways and windows emptied—and there were no more defenders. Only fresh, unending troops of Toties filling the gaps left by their fellows. ~ I saw the Garita fall, a flaming shambles; I saw an airplane swoop low over breastworks hastily flung up at the _Puenta de Los Hidalgos_ and wipe out a company of Americans. I heard the biting rasp of machine gun fire, the staccato bark of anti-aircraft; once the visiplate before us whirled giddily for an instant as the plane in which our broadcaster rode narrowly escaped disaster. I saw the last great moment of Fort Marcy; the fall of the gates and the horde of snarling Toties that rushed in, bayonetting all before them; I saw the bayonet wielded that slashed the rope holding the American flag to the flagpost. I saw the man who turned and raced to that flagpost, grasped the ropes and held them taut as, for a moment longer, the tattered ensign whipped out through the smoke and flame. Then I saw the bullet that found this unknown hero's breast; saw him cough and loose his grasp, slip earthward as the flag above him tumbled to the dirt. There was a look of hurt surprise in his eyes. Then I saw no more, because my eyes were wet. And Dr. Mallory said, "There is nothing more to see—" And turned off the televise. ~ Yes, that was the 29th day of July, 1963. I remember it well. For it was after that I asked Mallory, "Do we go now? There is no reason to delay." And he said, "We will leave in five days. By that time all will be in readiness. And the third of August will be a day of good omen. It was on that day, centuries ago, that a humble Portuguese sailorman with a great dream sailed westward to the Indies and found a new world. "Like Chistofero Colon, we will select that date to set our course for New America—" Maureen's hand tightened on mine. Krassner, who had been watching the televise silently, gaped at us. "New course? Go? Go where?" "Skip it—!" I began. But Dr. Mallory stopped me. "No, I think it is well the men should be told now, O'Shea. My helpers know. Your men, who must be the fighters of our party, should be told where they are going." And he told them. It came as a stunning blow. Some of them looked frightened; some, to be quite truthful, simply did not understand. Others were openly incredulous. Among these was Krassner. He epostulated, "But—but, O'Shea, this old fool must be insane! Flight to the Moon! Absurd!" His eyes narrowed. "There's more to it than that. This is a trick of some kind I'll bet it's tied up with that mysterious invention you've got hidden in your closet—" I grasped him by the shoulder, whirled him about. "Then you _did_ hear us that day?" "Sure. I heard you. Is there anything wrong in that? I couldn't help hearing you say you had a weapon that would end the war. If that's what you've got, trot it out! That's a lot better than dying like rats on a fool's expedition to the _Moon_! "Luna! Pah! I, for one, won't have anything to do with it—" I said hotly, "You damned fool, we can't open that closet. Don't you realize—?" "Brian!" snapped Dr. Mallory. I shut up suddenly. Krassner looked at me, then at the old man suspiciously. He snarled, "You reminded me once that I had no authority over your command, O'Shea. Well, now I remind you that you have no authority over me. I'm pulling out of here. I've had enough of this insane secrecy and—" He started for the door. I said only one word. "Lars!" Lars Frynge, the towering Swede, had his revolver at Krassner's midsection. He said amiably, "Ay tank maybe you batter lissen to Captain, hey?" Krassner's face purpled. He bellowed, "This is the last straw, O'Shea. Insulting an officer and an equal! By the gods, I'll—" He was right. He was an officer and an equal. But I was determined of one thing. Go with us he would, whether he liked it or not. But in the meanwhile— "All right, Lars," I said. "Krassner, I'm sorry. I wasn't just trying to throw my weight around. But think it over carefully, man. This means a lot to all of us. You're at liberty to do what you will." He snorted and strode from the room. Danny Wilson cocked an eyebrow at me; I nodded. Danny followed him. Maureen said nervously, "He's a trouble-maker, Brian. I don't think we should trust him out of our sight." "That's why Danny left us," I grinned. "And when we go, we should leave without him." "That," said Mallory, "is impossible. When we go, there must remain no one behind to know where we have gone." ~ And there were five days left in which to finish all that had to be done before our departure. Those were days of feverish excitement and activity for all of us. Having been let into the secret, my men were shown the way to the underground cavern. There they labored, side by side with Mallory's helpers, to load the cargo, put the last finishing touches on the _Jefferson_. We stripped the house; we gathered all forage from the barns and silos and bins. We rolled cask upon cask of fresh spring water into the holds. We locked and sealed the holds, one by one. Danny raised a fuss about that. He had found something new and wonderful—something I meant to investigate myself as soon as the opportunity permitted. The joy of reading fiction. "It—it's swell, Brian!" he told me. "Boy, I wish I'd lived in them days when magazines was common. You ought to read some of them stories. Sports and detective stories and—" He looked sort of sheepish. "The ones I like best are science stories. Gosh, you'd be surprised, Brian. Them old writers guessed sometimes pretty near what was going to happen. "There was a guy named Bender, or Binder, or something like that, who guessed "way back in "40, at the start of this war, that we'd get into it. And there was another guy named Clinton who said the same thing—he was nuts, though. He said the women would bust loose from the men and set up their own government. "And those others, they predicted things like the spaceship we'll soon be riding in. And television, and—" I said, "Those magazines must be plenty old." "They are. Ancient. But they're still fun. Brian, can't I sneak a few of them into my berth instead of sealing them up in the library? Do you think Doc would mind?" "I guess not," I told him. So he did just that. By the time he'd finished robbing the library, it looked moth-eaten and there was scarcely enough room in his berth for him to turn around in.... Those were full days and exciting ones, but pleasant. It is hard to realize that we were living on the bright edge of grave calamity. Nor did we know it until the eve of the day on which we were to take off. It started with a thin, high droning to the north. The familiar drone of aircraft. As always, under these circumstances, Dr. Mallory sounded the "Take cover!" signal, and everyone scurried to the shelter of the camouflaged grove, there to wait until the danger should pass. But it did not pass. The droning came nearer, deepened in tone. And we saw, through the leafy veil that concealed us, that it was not a single plane that was approaching, nor a single flight—but a solid phalanx of enemy aircraft! Even then we did not guess the dreadful truth. It was not until they had come directly over us, swung into an involute loop and began concentrating upon us, that we knew what was happening. Then we saw something dark and ominous loose itself from the rack of one bomber; a thin screaming filled the air—and in the woods to our right there came a frightful blast! Earth shook beneath us, Maureen screamed needless words in my ear. "They're bombing _us_, Brian! They've found our refuge!" # VI There was only one thing that spared all of us in those next few minutes. That was the fact that the Toties did not know _exactly_ where we were. Somehow they had learned the approximate location of Dr. Mallory's mountain hide-away, but not in vain had the aged scientist spent twenty years nurturing plant life to form a perfect barricade of concealment about the dim, squat buildings. From above, the wooded dell that hid his laboratory must have looked like one of thousands such. Therefore they scattered their shots. One bomb exploded a quarter mile from Mallory's house; I learned afterward that it killed two workmen who had been laying in cordwood. Others exploded as far as five miles away as the hive of lethal wasps eddied back and forth, bombing the entire countryside with abandon. A thousand questions seethed through my brain, but there was no time now to ponder the answers. No time to ask why, or how, the Toties had learned of this place. I seized Maureen's elbow, half-led, half-dragged her toward the laboratory. Above the crashing din I howled in her ear, "To the cavern! That's the only safe—" The rest was lost in an ear-splitting thunderbolt. But she knew what I meant. We were not the only ones who fled to the security of the house. The lab was the lodestone toward which all we tiny, helpless motes gravitated. By the time we reached it, the shaking walls were jammed with soldiers, workers, women, who had sought refuge there. A few of these were itching for action. Such a one was Danny Wilson. He was pleading with Mallory, "How about it, Doc? Just one of them anti-craft guns? We can get it up here in no time." "No. They don't know just where we are, Wilson. A shot would locate us definitely. We must remain silent and take our chances against a lucky placement." Krassner, his handsome face oddly pale, clutched at Mallory's arm. "This cavern you were talking about, Mallory. Take us there! We'll all be blown to bits—" Joe Sanders' nose wrinkled, he looked at the airman disgustedly, and spat. Mingled with my own contemptuous reaction to Krassner's demand, I felt a warming glow of pride in my men. Each of them had realized, as had Maureen and I, that the only safe place was the underground shelter. But each of them had wanted, before we took to that refuge, at least one vengeful poke at the enemy. Quivering capitulation like this rubbed them the wrong way. But Mallory, serene as ever, had already led the way to the secret entrance. He pressed the knobs, the door swung open. I was beside Krassner as he did so; I saw the look of surprise on the aviator's face as he saw the long tunnel that fed to the depths beneath. I couldn't restrain the taunt. "Thought Mallory was insane, eh, Krassner? Does this look like the work of a madman?" He muttered something incoherent. Then Pelham-Jones, whose squad had been quartered farthest from the main house, burst into the room excitedly. "They're landing foray parties, Brian! How long will it take to get everyone out of here?" I glanced at Mallory. He said, "Fifteen or twenty minutes, at least." "And to get the _Jefferson's_ motors started?" "Another ten." "Then," I snapped, "you'll need protection for a half hour. That's what we're here for. Bruce, Rudy, Raoul, split your squads. Send half below; have the others throw a cordon about the laboratory. If they're dropping infantry, they'll have to stop bombing. By the time they find us, the others will be below. Then we'll take to the cavern—" "Very good, sir!" They sprang into action. ~ The women continued to file singly into the small dark-room, pass through the doorway into the tunnel. Maureen clutched my arm. "Brian, you don't have to stay up here. You're too important. You're the leader. You've got to—" "—to stay with my men!" I told her quietly. And I did what I had been wanting to do, but had never before dared. I took her, unresisting, into my arms; kissed her. Her lips were warm against mine. Then I pushed her toward the doorway. "Get down there. Don't worry about us. If we hold our fire it will take them a long time to locate us. Danny, where did Krassner go?" Danny grimaced. "That yellow mutt? Don't ask me. He's probably down there by now, hugging a stalactite." "Well, to hell with him. Let's get going. And don't forget—don't fire a shot unless they actually see us. We don't want to give our position away." Mallory said quietly, "I'll herd them below as fast as I can, Brian. When you hear the signal, bring your men on the double. But before you leave the laboratory, you know what must be done?" He nodded significantly toward the inner room, toward the trebly-barred door that contained a world's fate. I nodded. "I know." The steady evacuation continued. I went outside again. As Pelham-Jones had reported, the Tories were parachuting infantry to the ground. More planes had reached the scene; the sky swarmed with them. And a mass occupation was in progress; from each transport rumbled a steady stream of dark figures that, like strange, winged insects, plunged out of their humming cocoons, hurtled headlong toward Earth for a moment—then suddenly grew filmy, white umbrellas that lowered them gently to the ground. It was a random, haphazard occupation for the Toties _still_ had not solved the secret of our exact location. But many—too many—were dropping near our sheltered grove. It would not take them long, I knew, to find us. Happily, the aerial bombardment had ceased with the dropping of the infantry. That was good. No chance explosion would find the heart of our refuge, destroy the lab and cut us off from the underground cavern. Approximately twenty of us remained above ground as defenders. I told MacGregor, "Encircle the house. Defend it at all costs until you hear Mallory's call—then hightail it for the tunnel. I've got something to do inside." I went back to the door beyond which were concealed the lethal anaesthetic spores. There were two barrels of oil there; we had placed them there for the purpose I now carried out. I broke them open, spilled their contents every which way. Now a single match would set the house ablaze, destroy forever the danger Mallory had feared. I would strike that match just before ducking into the tunnel myself— A single, explosive crack sounded outside! A rifle had spoken! ~ That ripped it! With that shot there came a moment of macabre silence; then the air was alive with an answering volley from the hills and woods surrounding us. I raced out of the house, found Rudy Van Huys. I roared angrily, "Who fired! Why? Good God, man, don't you realize—" His pink, chubby cheeks shook with anger to match my own. He said, "I don't know, Brian. They hadn't spotted us until then. But now—" He didn't need to point to the forest; I could see the grey-green uniforms sifting through the trees, closing in on us. The _spang!_ of a Wentzler shrilled in my ears, spent lead splattered against the wall behind me. All about us, now, rifle fire rasped and spat; I saw an advancing Totie soldier stop short in his tracks, stagger, spin, and fall, clutching his stomach with red hands that clawed. I heard a grunt from one of the men beside me, saw his mouth form an astonished O and an ugly, purple-black third eye appear magically in the middle of his forehead. The back of his head.... Then came a welcome sound, a cry from Mallory. "All clear, O'Shea! Bring your men!" They came on the double. Not all of them. Half of them, maybe. Those few minutes of gunfire, raking our fearfully exposed position, had cost us. MacGregor, huge bear of a man, staggered around an ell of the house carrying a still figure. Danny Wilson. I cried, "Mac, is he—?" "Bad, Brian! Mighty bad." MacGregor lumbered into the house with his burden; the rest of the men followed him, lingering to throw last shots into the advancing force before they disappeared. There remained, still, my most important task. Now the Toties had apparently brought up several pieces of light artillery, for mingled with the snap of musketry I heard the familiar coughing bark of ordnance. Once the house shuddered and quaked, concussion deafened my ear drums as a shell found us. But I sped down the empty corridors toward the lab. Time was precious. All too soon the Toties would close in on the house; before that I must toss my flame, race back to the tunnel entrance. I burst into the room, at last, and— —and stood aghast! I had only presence of mind to throw a shielding arm across my face, hold my breath. For no longer was the closet sealed. The bars had been smashed inward, the lock was a shard of broken metal, the door a heap of splinters. The gods of chance had tossed a die for our enemies. That shell I had heard—had found its way into the granary of death! I had a momentary glimpse of the inside of the closet. I saw grey, fungoid granules sifting through the broken door; a cloud whirled and eddied toward me. To breathe that cloud meant oblivion. Beating at my clothes, my hair, with suddenly frenzied fingers, I turned and fled from the room. In the hallway I stopped, ignited the box of matches I carried, tossed the blazing brand onto the oil-soaked floor. Flame licked hungrily along those stained boards; the bright fire-flower grew before my eyes. Even so, I knew my effort was in vain. The shell had entered through the walls of the house, and even now I could see those spores of slumber sifting out to float with the winds. An agonized cry brought me to my senses. Mallory's voice, "Brian! Brian, lad—where are you!" I turned and fled toward the secret portal. I made it just in time. The aged doctor and I were the last to enter the tunnel as the first Totie set foot in the laboratory. Stumbling, panting, we raced down that smooth slope to where the _Jefferson_ awaited us. A dull throbbing wakened echoes in the hollow depths; eager hands helped us into the air-lock. I heard Mallory gasp, "Take off! _Now!_" The humming deepened to a frightful roar, the Niagara of powers beyond comprehension. I was dimly aware of a cascade of broken rock smashing down about the _Jefferson's_ permalloy casing, of an unearthly sheet of flame mirrored through quartzite windows. Then a tremendous tug pulled me to my knees, my lungs strained for precious air, blood danced before my eyes and there was agony in my bones.... # VII Earth was a tremendous disc, swaddled in lacy veils of gleaming white, when next I looked upon it from the control turret of the _Jefferson_. I did not look for long. I had, when I turned my gaze upon it, some vague idea of being able to determine (if nothing else) broad continental outlines of the sphere from which we were roaring at a speed which Mallory had told me was approximately 25,000 miles per hour. But the sheen was so terrifically blinding that I had to shut my eyes. Dr. Mallory, no longer so intent over his instruments now that he had checked his course and found it satisfactory, noticed the movement, reached over and turned the pane through which I had been looking a quarter-turn in its grooved frame. Immediately the burning radiance dimmed into murky grayness. "Earth-shine, Brian," he answered my unspoken query. "Our mother planet is a great reflecting body. At this distance it is even more painful to look upon with the naked eye than is the sun." Maureen said, "But the moon, Doctor? We don't seem to be moving toward it?" "We aren't. It's moving toward us. Or perhaps I should say both it and we are moving toward a mutual point in space where our paths will intersect in—" He glanced at a chronometer and at his calculations. "In a little less than eight and a half hours. "Before that, however. Brian," he turned to me seriously, "there will be a few minutes that I am afraid will be rather uncomfortable for our party. The period of absolute weightlessness when we reach the "dead spot'; the spot where the gravitational forces of Earth and its moon are completely nullified by each other. "You might go below and warn everyone that this is to be expected. Bid them not to be alarmed." Someone coughed apologetically at the turret door. It was St. Cloud. His face was granitelike, but his eyes were haggard. He said, "Brian—" "Yes?" "It's Danny." "Danny? Is he—?" He nodded. "I'm afraid so. He'd like to see you." ~ I followed him swiftly down the ramp, through the corridors, and into the sick bay. There were a half dozen of the men in there receiving first aid treatment from one of Dr. Mallory's assistants. Wilson was in one of the private wards off the main hospital room. He turned his head slowly as I entered, essayed a grin that froze, suddenly, as a spasm shook him. But he said, in a low, husky voice, "Hyah, Cap!" I said, "Hayah, yourself, soldier!" and motioned the others to get out. The door closed softly behind them. "Got a blighty one, did you?" I said. He said laboriously, "You wouldn't kid a guy, would you, Brian? I got a west one this time." His hands plucked at the sheet covering him, drew it down. Even the bandages had not been able to staunch that slow, staining seepage. I drew the cover back again. "You're tough, Irish," I told him. "You'll get over that one before breakfast." But I had a hard time saying it; the words rang false from my lips. I was lying, and he knew it as well as I. He shook his head. "I don't much give a damn, Brian. I got the guy who done it, and a couple others for good measure. There's only one thing I'm sorry about." "Yes, Irish?" "That story. It was about a guy named Kinniston. A Lensman. He was in a hell of a jam. I'd like to have known if he got out." He said plaintively, "I can't lift my hands, Brian, boy. They're so damned weak...." I said, "One of those magazines? Where is it?" He nodded to the chair beside his bed. I picked the thing up, found the place where he'd left off. I started reading to him the story that had captured his fancy. It wasn't easy. I hadn't read much of anything since I left military training school at the age of thirteen. A lot of the words were unfamiliar, and I guess I made pretty heavy weather of it. But he seemed to be enjoying it. He lay back on the pillows, breathing hard, so intent on the adventures of this "Gray Lensman," printed in an old and yellowed fiction book, that he almost forgot the icy fingers closing in upon him. He only interrupted me once. That was to say suddenly, "Brian—it was Krassner, you know." "What?" "He fired ... the shot." The shot that had betrayed us! I was reminded, forcibly, that I hadn't seen Krassner aboard ship. I didn't know whether he'd made it or not. But if he had— "Go on ... Brian. Get him out of trouble before...." So I read on. It was weirdly strange, sitting there reading a story of spaceflight adventure written twenty years ago. While we, ourselves, soared the void in a craft bound for Earth's satelite. But I read on. And it must have been ten minutes before I sensed something wrong. At first I couldn't figure what it was. Then, suddenly, I realized. It was the fact that Danny's breathing no longer rasped beside me.... I rose and closed the magazine. I hope that somehow he knows, now, how the Lensman fought his way out of that jam. ~ I went back to the turret, then. But on the way I sought out Ronnie and Mac and Rudy. I asked them about Krassner. They hadn't seen him. "But we will! If he's aboard this ship, we'll dig him out!" They were gathering their squads into search parties as I left. In the control room, Dr. Mallory had just completed another check-up and minor course revision. He was jubilant because the _Jefferson_ was reacting so beautifully. "Another six hours, Brian, and we'll be there. I've been teaching Maureen to operate the ship. She's an apt pupil." Maureen flushed with pleasure. Mallory continued, "I'm glad we have another pilot. Now she can make the next trip back to earth, pick up more colonists while we build our Lunar colony—" I started, and looked at him swiftly. Then he didn't know! I said, "Doctor—those spores. How swiftly do they propogate?" "With drastic swiftness, Brian, lad. That's why I kept them in a sealed, sterile chamber. Had they ever been loosed, within two month's time all Earth would have succumbed to their somnivorous power. But why do you ask—?" A sudden look of fear swept his features; his voice rose. "Brian! You destroyed the spores? I saw flames leaping before you entered the tunnel—" And then I told him. It took him a good while to speak again. And when he spoke, his voice was deep with sorrow. He glanced at the dim shadow of earth outlined on the polaroid window, and his hands made a yearning gesture. "That which I feared most has come to pass. We are powerless to prevent it. We might have time for two, three, a half dozen trips to Earth to save a few refugees from the sleep to come—but even that is unsafe. Were a single spore to get into the ship, be borne back to Luna, our colony, too, would be stilled in centuries, aeons of slumber. You're _sure_ the spores escaped, Brian?" "I'm sure." "Then soon we will be the last of Earth's waking children. Our responsibility is graver than ever. Now must we not only keep alive the spirit of liberty, but all man's dreamed-of future is in our hands." Maureen cried desperately, "But the responsibility is too great, Dr. Mallory. Surely you, who invented the spores, know some way to counteract their action? Isn't there some way to effectively destroy them?" "None, my dear. None ... except ..." His eyes dimmed uncertainly. "I don't know. Maybe. There's a faint, far possibility. Once, as I was experimenting, I happened to expose certain of the spore-plasm to synthetic chlorophyll. A reaction took place, a sloughing of the spore cell. I was not interested in that at the time, so I didn't pursue the experiment. But it is remotely possible...." "We must try, then," I told him. "As soon as we get to Luna, you must try that experiment again. Try it on your sleeping assistant, Williamson. Better he should die now than slumber on forever in his glass coffin. "And if the antidote works, we'll be in a position to reclaim Earth. Sweep away the plague, and while doing so, end the war in the very fashion you once planned." "I'll do it!" he cried excitedly. "Chlorophyll must be the answer! As soon as we reach—" He stopped abruptly. Footsteps were pounding up the runway; breathless men were tumbling into the room. Big Mac was at their head, his brow was red with unbridled rage. He yelled at me, "Brian! We've found him! We've found the dirty, skulking rat!" "Krassner, you mean?" I thought again of Danny, and of those others who had died because of Krassner's revealing gun shot. My anger flared to match MacGregor's. "Where is he? Bring him in!" "We've got to take him. He's barricaded himself in the aft storage compartment and threatens to blow the ship to hell if we make a move!" # VIII For a moment, everything before my eyes was outlined in crimson. As from afar I heard my own voice gritting, "Get your men together! Follow me—" Then Dr. Mallory's sharp command, "No, Brian! Don't move hastily. He has the upper hand. He can do just what he threatens. Those aft storage bins are loaded with explosive, inflammable substances. Maybe we can reason with him—" He turned to Maureen. "Hold the ship to its course, my dear. I will be back in a few minutes." We moved aft. Mallory and myself, MacGregor and Ian Pelham-Jones, Devereaux. We passed through the bulkhead that sealed the forward from the aft portion of the ship, hurried down a long corridor, and came to the carriage lock beyond which lay the storage bins, the engineers' berths, the recreation room and the library. This door was closed; before it, tense, nervous, uncertain, hovered a dozen of my men. Van Huys headed them; he looked up at me, his pale blue eyes troubled. "He's in there, Brian. I think the man's gone mad!" Mallory raised his voice, called mildly, "Krassner?" There was a shuffling sound from behind the lock. A moment's silence, then Krassner, suspiciously, "Well?" "What's the matter, my friend? You mustn't act like this. What is it you want?" "Turn the ship back to Earth!" "But we can't do that." Mallory's voice was soothing, persuasive. "We've set our course. We can't return." "You must, damn you!" I couldn't restrain myself any longer. I brushed by Mallory, cried, "Krassner, you're acting like an idiot! Come out of there immediately!" Again there was a brief instant of stillness. Then Krassner's tone altered subtlely, became half-mocking. "Is that you, O'Shea?" "Yes." "The gallant captain of a drag-tailed company. You want to save your command, don't you, Captain? Then make the old fool turn this ship back, and do it _now_!" Wrath inflamed me; I stepped forward and hammered on the metal door. There came the sound of swift, frightened movements inside. Krassner yelled sharply, incisively, "Don't try to come in here, O'Shea. I can blast this ship to shards, and by the Banner, I'll—" He stopped abruptly, aware that in his excitement he had finally given himself away. But if he was startled, I was even more so. Suddenly, now, it all made sense. I wondered why I had not guessed the truth before. But I am not a clever man; I am just a soldier. And we had met Krassner under circumstances that favored his deceit. I said slowly, "So you're not one of us, after all, Krassner? You're one of them?" He had recovered his aplomb. He laughed stridently. In my mind's eye I could see his face, thin lips drawn in a tight smile, those too-close eyes lifted at the corners with mockery. His voice was a taunt. "Congratulations, O'Shea, on having played the dupe so long and so excellently. Allow me to introduce myself in my proper character. Captain Jacob Krassner of the Imperial German Army—at your service!" It was all too clear, now. I remembered the day we had met Krassner, seen him "shot down" by an enemy plane. I remembered MacGregor's comment at the time. "Damned funny. First Totie I ever saw who didn't gun a parachuter." And that day I had caught him listening to us from Mallory's outer office. His restless wanderings around the laboratory grounds; now I knew he had been seeking the hide-away of the _Jefferson_. And the betraying rifle-shot— "You Americans are a naïve race," Krassner was saying amusedly. "It never occurred to you, did it, O'Shea, that I might have concealed on me a portable transmitter? It was I who exposed the location of the laboratory to our gallant forces. We had suspected for some time that strange things were brewing near Cleft Canyon. That is why I—shall we say "dropped into the picture'? To learn the meaning of certain things that puzzled us." He was a braggart, like the rest of them. Now that he had given himself away—only Toties swore "by the Banner"—he was gloating triumphantly. And he held the upper hand. We could not even tell him that which we knew; that Earth was doomed, that already hundreds of thousands of his compatriots as well as ours by quiescent in dreadful, sleeping undeath. If he discovered the Totie cause was lost—well, they were ever ones for the heroic, the vainglorious gesture. And his hand controlled forces that would blast us all into nothingness. ~ I glanced about me nervously. The faces of the men mirrored my anxiety, Mallory's brow was heavy with fear, Van Huys gnawed his full lower lip savagely. Only the gleaming metalwork of the corridor was impassive; that and the heavy door that barred us from a traitor and an enemy. A grilled square, high in the walls of the corridor, was like a great, fanged, laughing mouth. I stared at it. "Mallory!" I whispered the name. "What is that?" "Eh?" He followed my glance. "Oh—that? Part of the ventilation system. But, why—?" Then he grasped the reason for my sudden eagerness. "Yes, Brian. It feeds into every chamber. We'll give you a hand. Bruce—" Krassner's voice came to us, suspicious. "What are you whispering about out there? I warn you, don't attempt to enter this room. If you do, we'll all die together!" Mallory somehow managed to keep his tone steady. "Krassner, you're an intelligent man. Listen—" "Keep him talking, Doctor!" I whispered. I nodded to MacGregor; his huge hands cupped to give me a hand-up to the grill. My fingers tore at the four studs that bolted it into position. One came out. Another. All eyes were upon me as I lifted the heavy grill from its position, lowered it into the outstretched hands. Only Mallory continued talking, pleading, arguing, reassuring. Stalling for precious time. I nodded, MacGregor's shoulders heaved, and I was scrambling into the smooth bore of the ventilating system. It was narrow, but not too narrow; the air was cool, clean-smelling. I crept from the opening, was lost in darkness. A native sense of direction, keen-edged by years of guerrilla warfare, aided me in threading that black labyrinth. How long the creeping journey took, I had no way of knowing. It seemed endless, for I moved slowly, cautiously, dreading the revelatory scrape of clothing upon metal, the sound that might send Krassner suddenly into action. A turn, a rise, a descent, and another turn. Then before me loomed a networked square of light. And the sound of Krassner's voice was no longer muffled; it reached my ears loudly. "—fine organization, O'Shea, where the soldiers address their "captain' by his first name. But we will teach you obedience, you Yankee up-starts! We—" I was at the grill. There was no way to unscrew it from the inside. What could be done must be done—and in a single, sure move—from here. Krassner stood a few yards from the barred and bolted door. He had not been bluffing. He had prepared the way for the destruction of the _Jefferson_ in the event his demands were refused, his scheme went awry. The end of a coiled fuse lay beside him, he toyed nervously with an electro-lighter as he talked. But now his patience was wearing thin. He said, "But enough of this conversation! Are you, or are you not, going to turn about? Your answer now, or by the Banner—" Mallory answered reluctantly, "Krassner, once more I beg of you to listen to reason." "The time for reason is past. I want action. You, O'Shea! Speak to me! Are you going to turn the ship?" Silence. I eased my revolver from its bolster with infinite slowness. I saw a puzzled look appear on Krassner's features, turn to a look of sudden doubt. "O'Shea! Where are you? Speak to me!" My gun spoke for me. ~ Krassner never suffered for the misery he brought on others. He never knew what struck him. My shot crashed into his brain like a Jovian bolt. Without a word, a whimper, a groan, he collapsed where he stood, his lips still parted in the question he had been hurling at the door upon which, now my comrades were battering. But even in death, Krassner was destined to throw a last blow amongst us. My cavernous eyrie echoed with a roaring blast; when my deafened ears could hear again they heard a sizzling crackle. The stench of burning powder stung my nostrils. I craned to look down through the grill; saw there that which damped my forehead coldly. Krassner's weapon had been the hand flame-thrower of our enemy. The stricken convulsion of his fist had shot a withering blast of flame upon the fuse. Now a charred line of fire was racing to the charge Krassner had prepared. In frantic haste I screamed this knowledge to those beyond the door. "You've got to get in somehow! Stop that fuse!" Their efforts redoubled. I heard the ringing crash of metal upon metal which meant they had brought up a pry, then came a hissing sound, and at the doorjamb, by the hinges, metal warmed, turned orange, glowed cherry red. A blowtorch! I could do no good behind this grill. It was the act of a contortionist to turn in that meager space, but somehow I accomplished it, scrambled desperately toward the corridor grill through which I had entered the air-duct. It was just as I gained the opening that the hinges of the lock finally gave way, the door burst open. Even I was not prepared for that which appeared through the frame. The entire aperture was one solid sheet of flame. Despite their eagerness, no one could blame my men for falling back, horrified, from the scorching fingers that leaped out to grasp them. All but one! And that one was Dr. Thomas Mallory. Perhaps it was because he alone realized the vital necessity of jerking that fuse from its charge before everything ended in one coruscant moment. Arms locked before his face, head lowered, he dashed recklessly into that flaming hell! I fell—or dropped, I know not which—from my outlet, found myself on my feet, heard myself bellowing, "Water! We've got to stop that fire before—" But they knew that. Already someone had raced to the jets, another was tugging desperately at a reel of fire hose. I suppose what I did next was heroic. Either that or damned, blind foolishness. It could not have been deliberate heroism, for there was no time to measure the chances, weigh the consequences. I leaped through the doorway, followed Dr. Mallory. And even so, there was another figure at my side. That of burly Bruce MacGregor. We found him at the same time. He lay face down on the floor, arms outstretched before him. But in one blistered hand was—the end of the fuse. Scant inches from its charred end stood piled boxes of Triple-X, most deadly of all explosives. The flames had not yet quite reached it, but in another moment— Then the water came! Like a solid fist it caught me in the middle of the back, shot me, sprawling, forward. The breath shot from my lungs before that impact—but never had I been more grateful for a bruising blow. MacGregor, a sorry sight with his blistered cheeks, scorched hair, spark-charred garments, bent his brute strength against the flood, roared directions. "Here! On these boxes first! Soak them, ruin them! We can fight the fire later...." ~ We got Dr. Mallory out of that furnace. How long we battled the fire after that is hard to say. At least an hour. Krassner had planned his coup with deadly Teutonic thoroughness. Not only had he arranged the fuse and explosive charge; he had also soaked walls, drapes, furniture, with gasoline. Against this, our water was useless. We had no sand. Men labored to drag the lethal crates of explosive out of the danger zone; after that we went back at the ever-spreading fire. Chemicals did the trick finally. The last blaze succumbed to the stifling blanket of carbon dioxide, a clean-up crew methodically swept up the last of the charred débris. Thus died Krassner—but at what a cost! Ten of my men in the hospital, at least two of them seriously burned. Three whole bins of provisions gone forever, devoured by the hungriest of all foes. A binful of linens, clothing, blankets, burned to cinders. And every other room that had been in that aft section of the ship gutted! All these disasters paled into insignificance when, bandaged, cleaned, reclad, I went to visit Dr. Mallory. One look at his face and I knew that here was the heaviest price we were to pay for the destruction of our last mortal foe. Only Mallory's eyes were visible under the swaddling mask of bandage, and these were raw and bloodshot. But the ghost of a smile lighted these fine old eyes, and his voice, sieved through a layer of gauze, said weakly: "I ... reached there in time ... Brian, lad." "You did that," I told him huskily. "You saved us all, Doctor." "Not only us, but ... mankind. We _had_ to live, Brian. You must lead ... our people ... out of the wilderness." I said, "Not I, Doctor. _You._ You are the only man who can save us, reclaim the sleeping world—" He said, as though not hearing me, "It's a good ... thing I showed Maureen ... how to run the ship. Isn't it? Now she can take us to Luna. "Brian, boy ... find the notes ... in my desk. They'll help you. I believe ... you'll find the crater of Copernicus ... the best place to land. There will be air there. Thin, maybe. But air. In the underground grottoes ... should be ... water...." ~ A spasm shook him; his eyes closed for a moment in pain, then opened again. They were febrilely bright. "Most important of all ... Brian ... the spores. You must find a way ... to destroy them. Go back to Earth ... and awaken man ... to a new, a peaceful, world." He was silent so long that I cried out, "Doctor!" I couldn't say more. But he spoke again, and for the last time. "I am sure now ... Brian ... you will find the answer ... in chlorophyll. Keep after it. The fate of all ... mankind ... is in only your...." And that was all. His eyes closed, then, as if they had finally found peace. I turned away. Maureen covered his face tenderly. She came to my side, and her voice was soft. "He was right, Brian. You are our leader now. It is up to you to find the antidote for Earth's illness." I stared at her long and bitterly. My voice must have been harsh. "I! I, Maureen? Tell me—do you know the formula for chlorophyll? Do I? Does anyone aboard this ship, now _he_ is gone?" "Don't be upset, Brian. No, we don't—but there's no cause for despair. It, and everything else you need know, is at our disposal. That's why he went to such pains to provide a scientific library for the ship. All man's knowledge lies there, waiting for us to seek it out." I took a deep breath. I said, "That's just it, Maureen. I couldn't bring myself to tell him. But—" "But, Brian—?" "The library is gone! The books that meant life or death for mankind are a pile of crumbled ashes!" ~ I suppose I should be grateful that we are here. I should be thankful that Maureen's quick intelligence made it possible for us to land here at the crater of Copernicus. I look from the window of my little shack. I see shanties like my own arranged in a crude circle here at the base of towering mountains. Dr. Mallory was right. We have air here, and water. We have enough provisions to last us for years. By the time those are exhausted, we will be independent of our Earthly supplies, for already Sanders and Van Huys have set soil into cultivation; they claim, gleefully, that this thick, rich, Lunar soil flowers like a desert when watered. And we have set up plants for the synthesis of water. Strange how quickly we have adapted ourselves. We even laugh sometimes, nowadays. There have been marriages; I suppose that means that in a little while there will be births. Imagine that! The first Earth child to be born on the Moon. I, too, should be happy. At times I am—comparatively. For I have Maureen beside me; our love is a great, sustaining force in a desperate existence. But I cannot be completely happy, for night or day I am reminded of the great, impossible burden that weighs my shoulders low. The Earth, a massive, glowing globe, lights our sky. Occasionally I think I can glimpse the gleaming ocean waters of Earth; once, on a clear night, the familiar outline of our lost homeland, America, was crystal clear to our eyes. Yet all life on that nearby mother planet is, must be, now deep in everlasting sleep. Everlasting because I am powerless to interrupt it. Because Mallory's library is no more; because I am a stupid soldier, not a clever man. Only recently there came a wan ray of hope. It was as we were transferring the last pieces of furniture from the _Jefferson_ to our shacks. In the berth that had been Danny Wilson's—gay, laughing Danny!—I found pile upon pile of those amusing, colorful "magazines" that Danny loved. They are old and ragged; many of them are coverless. But most of them—for such was Danny's preference—are the kind which Mallory once called "science fiction." Dreams of the world-to-be, pathetic in the face of that which now confronts us. But it is my only ray of hope, these magazines. I brought them to my shack. I am culling them carefully, one by one. There is a faint, and oh! so faint, chance that.... Yet I fear it is a hopeless search. There is so much of fancy in these little books, so little simple fact. Had but _one_ of those imaginative writers of years ago thought to include in one of his stories that which must have been, to him, a commonplace formula—that for chlorophyll—I could yet do that which Mallory demanded of me. Here we are rich with ores, the soil teems with every element known to man. We have a well-equipped laboratory, we could synthesize _anything_. But we cannot create this "chlorophyll" because we do not know what it is, nor what elements combine to form it. Hope dwindles as I read. There remains but one more slim pile of magazines before me. If the answer is not in one of them, then we must perish. I turn pleading eyes to the past, to the year 1940, before I was born. But there is no one to hear my plea. Unless, in one of these remaining— (_Here the manuscript ends._) ~ # POSTSCRIPT Common sense tells me there can be little doubt but that this "manuscript," purported to be written by one Brian O'Shea, a soldier in the Army of the Democracies in the year 1963, A.D., is a deliberate and painstaking hoax. Who is responsible for it, I cannot begin to guess. Somehow I can't bring myself to believe that Dr. Edgar Winslow (whom I have investigated and found to be exactly what he claimed, a fellow in the psychology department of one of our nearby Southern universities) would lend himself to such a fantastic trick. But it is hard to believe, also, that Winslow could and did achieve the perfect telaesthetic rapport evidenced by the foregoing pages. But—there was an earnestness about Winslow that stirred me strangely. He did not have the air of a man perpetrating a fraud. He asked me, you will remember, to "play the game of caution," even if I did not believe that which I found in the manuscript. I should, perhaps, dismiss the whole thing with a shrug; heave the "story" back at Winslow with the advice that if he wants to become a science-fiction writer he should do so honestly, not try to insinuate his way into print on the byline of another. Yet—it is a queer manuscript. It is quiet here in Roanoke today. As I write, I look from my office windows to see the rolling hills, now sweet-breasted with fresh green, misted with the soft white of dogwood. The sky is blue and clear, the sun a warm beneficence. Still, the morning papers tell of the desperate plight of the Allies. Again they have lost ground to a grim, mechanized Totalitarian army. Finland, Norway, Belgium, Holland,—the list grows. Mussolini has sent his restless legions to battle; Japan makes overt gestures toward the Indies. Russia, the patient bear, crouches in the north, watches ... and waits.... I don't know. I honestly don't know. The manuscript is probably a hoax. And yet ... and yet.... Anyway, here it is, Brian O'Shea. Here is what you asked for. You'll find it on the cover of this magazine. If this magazine is one of those through which you still have to search, the world you mourn may yet blossom anew. And because covers, like man's freedom and dreams and hopes, too often crumble into dust, the formula you want is printed here again, man of the future. C_{55}H_{70}O_{6}N_{4}Mg is the empirical formula for chlorophyll, Brian O'Shea! C_{55}H_{70}O_{6}N_{4}Mg! THE END
205	--- author: Jules Verne tags: Coal mines and mining, Fiction, Scotland, Adventure stories, Fantasy fiction, French, Translations into English, Civilization, Subterranean, Imaginary places title: The Underground City; Or, The Black Indies - (Sometimes Called The Child of the Cavern) summary: " \"The Underground City; Or, The Black Indies\" by Jules Verne is a novel likely written in the late 19th century. The story revolves around James Starr, an engineer who receives an enigmatic letter from Simon Ford, a former foreman of the now-abandoned Aberfoyle coal mines. As Starr embarks on a journey to uncover the mystery behind Ford's correspondence, the narrative unfolds against the backdrop of themes like exploration, human determination, and the subterranean world of mining. \ At the start of the novel, James Starr receives a letter inviting him to the Aberfoyle coal-mines, triggering a rush of nostalgia for his life\u2019s work as the viewer of the mine\u2014now closed for ten years. As Starr prepares to visit, a second letter warns him that the invitation is a hoax. Undeterred, Starr meets young Harry Ford, Simon's son, who leads him back to the mines. Upon arriving, they learn that Simon Ford has spent the last decade living within the mine, convinced it still holds undiscovered riches. As they delve deeper into the mine, the excitement builds when they detect signs of flammable gas\u2014suggesting a promising coal seam may exist just beyond a mystery-filled passageway. Thus, the stage is set for the unfolding drama in the depths of the earth and the exploration of both the mine and the characters' motivations. " word_count: 42603 fiction_type: Novel ... # CHAPTER I. CONTRADICTORY LETTERS To Mr. F. R. Starr, Engineer, 30 Canongate, Edinburgh. If Mr. James Starr will come to-morrow to the Aberfoyle coal-mines, Dochart pit, Yarrow shaft, a communication of an interesting nature will be made to him. "Mr. James Starr will be awaited for, the whole day, at the Callander station, by Harry Ford, son of the old overman Simon Ford." "He is requested to keep this invitation secret." Such was the letter which James Starr received by the first post, on the 3rd December, 18—, the letter bearing the Aberfoyle postmark, county of Stirling, Scotland. The engineer's curiosity was excited to the highest pitch. It never occurred to him to doubt whether this letter might not be a hoax. For many years he had known Simon Ford, one of the former foremen of the Aberfoyle mines, of which he, James Starr, had for twenty years, been the manager, or, as he would be termed in English coal-mines, the viewer. James Starr was a strongly-constituted man, on whom his fifty-five years weighed no more heavily than if they had been forty. He belonged to an old Edinburgh family, and was one of its most distinguished members. His labors did credit to the body of engineers who are gradually devouring the carboniferous subsoil of the United Kingdom, as much at Cardiff and Newcastle, as in the southern counties of Scotland. However, it was more particularly in the depths of the mysterious mines of Aberfoyle, which border on the Alloa mines and occupy part of the county of Stirling, that the name of Starr had acquired the greatest renown. There, the greater part of his existence had been passed. Besides this, James Starr belonged to the Scottish Antiquarian Society, of which he had been made president. He was also included amongst the most active members of the Royal Institution; and the _Edinburgh Review_ frequently published clever articles signed by him. He was in fact one of those practical men to whom is due the prosperity of England. He held a high rank in the old capital of Scotland, which not only from a physical but also from a moral point of view, well deserves the name of the Northern Athens. We know that the English have given to their vast extent of coal-mines a very significant name. They very justly call them the "Black Indies," and these Indies have contributed perhaps even more than the Eastern Indies to swell the surprising wealth of the United Kingdom. At this period, the limit of time assigned by professional men for the exhaustion of coal-mines was far distant and there was no dread of scarcity. There were still extensive mines to be worked in the two Americas. The manufactories, appropriated to so many different uses, locomotives, steamers, gas works, &c., were not likely to fail for want of the mineral fuel; but the consumption had so increased during the last few years, that certain beds had been exhausted even to their smallest veins. Now deserted, these mines perforated the ground with their useless shafts and forsaken galleries. This was exactly the case with the pits of Aberfoyle. Ten years before, the last butty had raised the last ton of coal from this colliery. The underground working stock, traction engines, trucks which run on rails along the galleries, subterranean tramways, frames to support the shaft, pipes—in short, all that constituted the machinery of a mine had been brought up from its depths. The exhausted mine was like the body of a huge fantastically-shaped mastodon, from which all the organs of life have been taken, and only the skeleton remains. Nothing was left but long wooden ladders, down the Yarrow shaft—the only one which now gave access to the lower galleries of the Dochart pit. Above ground, the sheds, formerly sheltering the outside works, still marked the spot where the shaft of that pit had been sunk, it being now abandoned, as were the other pits, of which the whole constituted the mines of Aberfoyle. It was a sad day, when for the last time the workmen quitted the mine, in which they had lived for so many years. The engineer, James Starr, had collected the hundreds of workmen which composed the active and courageous population of the mine. Overmen, brakemen, putters, wastemen, barrowmen, masons, smiths, carpenters, outside and inside laborers, women, children, and old men, all were collected in the great yard of the Dochart pit, formerly heaped with coal from the mine. Many of these families had existed for generations in the mine of old Aberfoyle; they were now driven to seek the means of subsistence elsewhere, and they waited sadly to bid farewell to the engineer. James Starr stood upright, at the door of the vast shed in which he had for so many years superintended the powerful machines of the shaft. Simon Ford, the foreman of the Dochart pit, then fifty-five years of age, and other managers and overseers, surrounded him. James Starr took off his hat. The miners, cap in hand, kept a profound silence. This farewell scene was of a touching character, not wanting in grandeur. "My friends," said the engineer, "the time has come for us to separate. The Aberfoyle mines, which for so many years have united us in a common work, are now exhausted. All our researches have not led to the discovery of a new vein, and the last block of coal has just been extracted from the Dochart pit." And in confirmation of his words, James Starr pointed to a lump of coal which had been kept at the bottom of a basket. "This piece of coal, my friends," resumed James Starr, "is like the last drop of blood which has flowed through the veins of the mine! We shall keep it, as the first fragment of coal is kept, which was extracted a hundred and fifty years ago from the bearings of Aberfoyle. Between these two pieces, how many generations of workmen have succeeded each other in our pits! Now, it is over! The last words which your engineer will address to you are a farewell. You have lived in this mine, which your hands have emptied. The work has been hard, but not without profit for you. Our great family must disperse, and it is not probable that the future will ever again unite the scattered members. But do not forget that we have lived together for a long time, and that it will be the duty of the miners of Aberfoyle to help each other. Your old masters will not forget you either. When men have worked together, they must never be stranger to each other again. We shall keep our eye on you, and wherever you go, our recommendations shall follow you. Farewell then, my friends, and may Heaven be with you!" So saying, James Starr wrung the horny hand of the oldest miner, whose eyes were dim with tears. Then the overmen of the different pits came forward to shake hands with him, whilst the miners waved their caps, shouting, "Farewell, James Starr, our master and our friend!" This farewell would leave a lasting remembrance in all these honest hearts. Slowly and sadly the population quitted the yard. The black soil of the roads leading to the Dochart pit resounded for the last time to the tread of miners' feet, and silence succeeded to the bustling life which had till then filled the Aberfoyle mines. One man alone remained by James Starr. This was the overman, Simon Ford. Near him stood a boy, about fifteen years of age, who for some years already had been employed down below. James Starr and Simon Ford knew and esteemed each other well. "Good-by, Simon," said the engineer. "Good-by, Mr. Starr," replied the overman, "let me add, till we meet again!" "Yes, till we meet again. Ford!" answered James Starr. "You know that I shall be always glad to see you, and talk over old times." "I know that, Mr. Starr." "My house in Edinburgh is always open to you." "It's a long way off, is Edinburgh!" answered the man shaking his head. "Ay, a long way from the Dochart pit." "A long way, Simon? Where do you mean to live?" "Even here, Mr. Starr! We're not going to leave the mine, our good old nurse, just because her milk is dried up! My wife, my boy, and myself, we mean to remain faithful to her!" "Good-by then, Simon," replied the engineer, whose voice, in spite of himself, betrayed some emotion. "No, I tell you, it's _till we meet again_, Mr. Starr, and not Just ‘good-by,'" returned the foreman. "Mark my words, Aberfoyle will see you again!" The engineer did not try to dispel the man's illusion. He patted Harry's head, again wrung the father's hand, and left the mine. All this had taken place ten years ago; but, notwithstanding the wish which the overman had expressed to see him again, during that time Starr had heard nothing of him. It was after ten years of separation that he got this letter from Simon Ford, requesting him to take without delay the road to the old Aberfoyle colliery. A communication of an interesting nature, what could it be? Dochart pit. Yarrow shaft! What recollections of the past these names brought back to him! Yes, that was a fine time, that of work, of struggle,—the best part of the engineer's life. Starr re-read his letter. He pondered over it in all its bearings. He much regretted that just a line more had not been added by Ford. He wished he had not been quite so laconic. Was it possible that the old foreman had discovered some new vein? No! Starr remembered with what minute care the mines had been explored before the definite cessation of the works. He had himself proceeded to the lowest soundings without finding the least trace in the soil, burrowed in every direction. They had even attempted to find coal under strata which are usually below it, such as the Devonian red sandstone, but without result. James Starr had therefore abandoned the mine with the absolute conviction that it did not contain another bit of coal. "No," he repeated, "no! How is it possible that anything which could have escaped my researches, should be revealed to those of Simon Ford. However, the old overman must well know that such a discovery would be the one thing in the world to interest me, and this invitation, which I must keep secret, to repair to the Dochart pit!" James Starr always came back to that. On the other hand, the engineer knew Ford to be a clever miner, peculiarly endowed with the instinct of his trade. He had not seen him since the time when the Aberfoyle colliery was abandoned, and did not know either what he was doing or where he was living, with his wife and his son. All that he now knew was, that a rendezvous had been appointed him at the Yarrow shaft, and that Harry, Simon Ford's son, was to wait for him during the whole of the next day at the Callander station. "I shall go, I shall go!" said Starr, his excitement increasing as the time drew near. Our worthy engineer belonged to that class of men whose brain is always on the boil, like a kettle on a hot fire. In some of these brain kettles the ideas bubble over, in others they just simmer quietly. Now on this day, James Starr's ideas were boiling fast. But suddenly an unexpected incident occurred. This was the drop of cold water, which in a moment was to condense all the vapors of the brain. About six in the evening, by the third post, Starr's servant brought him a second letter. This letter was enclosed in a coarse envelope, and evidently directed by a hand unaccustomed to the use of a pen. James Starr tore it open. It contained only a scrap of paper, yellowed by time, and apparently torn out of an old copy book. On this paper was written a single sentence, thus worded: "It is useless for the engineer James Starr to trouble himself, Simon Ford's letter being now without object." No signature. # CHAPTER II. ON THE ROAD The course of James Starr's ideas was abruptly stopped, when he got this second letter contradicting the first. "What does this mean?" said he to himself. He took up the torn envelope, and examined it. Like the other, it bore the Aberfoyle postmark. It had therefore come from the same part of the county of Stirling. The old miner had evidently not written it. But, no less evidently, the author of this second letter knew the overman's secret, since it expressly contradicted the invitation to the engineer to go to the Yarrow shaft. Was it really true that the first communication was now without object? Did someone wish to prevent James Starr from troubling himself either uselessly or otherwise? Might there not be rather a malevolent intention to thwart Ford's plans? This was the conclusion at which James Starr arrived, after mature reflection. The contradiction which existed between the two letters only wrought in him a more keen desire to visit the Dochart pit. And besides, if after all it was a hoax, it was well worth while to prove it. Starr also thought it wiser to give more credence to the first letter than to the second; that is to say, to the request of such a man as Simon Ford, rather than to the warning of his anonymous contradictor. "Indeed," said he, "the fact of anyone endeavoring to influence my resolution, shows that Ford's communication must be of great importance. To-morrow, at the appointed time, I shall be at the rendezvous." In the evening, Starr made his preparations for departure. As it might happen that his absence would be prolonged for some days, he wrote to Sir W. Elphiston, President of the Royal Institution, that he should be unable to be present at the next meeting of the Society. He also wrote to excuse himself from two or three engagements which he had made for the week. Then, having ordered his servant to pack a traveling bag, he went to bed, more excited than the affair perhaps warranted. The next day, at five o'clock, James Starr jumped out of bed, dressed himself warmly, for a cold rain was falling, and left his house in the Canongate, to go to Granton Pier to catch the steamer, which in three hours would take him up the Forth as far as Stirling. For the first time in his life, perhaps, in passing along the Canongate, he did _not turn to look at Holyrood_, the palace of the former sovereigns of Scotland. He did not notice the sentinels who stood before its gateways, dressed in the uniform of their Highland regiment, tartan kilt, plaid and sporran complete. His whole thought was to reach Callander where Harry Ford was supposedly awaiting him. The better to understand this narrative, it will be as well to hear a few words on the origin of coal. During the geological epoch, when the terrestrial spheroid was still in course of formation, a thick atmosphere surrounded it, saturated with watery vapors, and copiously impregnated with carbonic acid. The vapors gradually condensed in diluvial rains, which fell as if they had leapt from the necks of thousands of millions of seltzer water bottles. This liquid, loaded with carbonic acid, rushed in torrents over a deep soft soil, subject to sudden or slow alterations of form, and maintained in its semi-fluid state as much by the heat of the sun as by the fires of the interior mass. The internal heat had not as yet been collected in the center of the globe. The terrestrial crust, thin and incompletely hardened, allowed it to spread through its pores. This caused a peculiar form of vegetation, such as is probably produced on the surface of the inferior planets, Venus or Mercury, which revolve nearer than our earth around the radiant sun of our system. The soil of the continents was covered with immense forests. Carbonic acid, so suitable for the development of the vegetable kingdom, abounded. The feet of these trees were drowned in a sort of immense lagoon, kept continually full by currents of fresh and salt waters. They eagerly assimilated to themselves the carbon which they, little by little, extracted from the atmosphere, as yet unfit for the function of life, and it may be said that they were destined to store it, in the form of coal, in the very bowels of the earth. It was the earthquake period, caused by internal convulsions, which suddenly modified the unsettled features of the terrestrial surface. Here, an intumescence which was to become a mountain, there, an abyss which was to be filled with an ocean or a sea. There, whole forests sunk through the earth's crust, below the unfixed strata, either until they found a resting-place, such as the primitive bed of granitic rock, or, settling together in a heap, they formed a solid mass. As the waters were contained in no bed, and were spread over every part of the globe, they rushed where they liked, tearing from the scarcely-formed rocks material with which to compose schists, sandstones, and limestones. This the roving waves bore over the submerged and now peaty forests, and deposited above them the elements of rocks which were to superpose the coal strata. In course of time, periods of which include millions of years, these earths hardened in layers, and enclosed under a thick carapace of pudding-stone, schist, compact or friable sandstone, gravel and stones, the whole of the massive forests. And what went on in this gigantic crucible, where all this vegetable matter had accumulated, sunk to various depths? A regular chemical operation, a sort of distillation. All the carbon contained in these vegetables had agglomerated, and little by little coal was forming under the double influence of enormous pressure and the high temperature maintained by the internal fires, at this time so close to it. Thus there was one kingdom substituted for another in this slow but irresistible reaction. The vegetable was transformed into a mineral. Plants which had lived the vegetative life in all the vigor of first creation became petrified. Some of the substances enclosed in this vast herbal left their impression on the other more rapidly mineralized products, which pressed them as an hydraulic press of incalculable power would have done. Thus also shells, zoophytes, star-fish, polypi, spirifores, even fish and lizards brought by the water, left on the yet soft coal their exact likeness, "admirably taken off." Pressure seems to have played a considerable part in the formation of carboniferous strata. In fact, it is to its degree of power that are due the different sorts of coal, of which industry makes use. Thus in the lowest layers of the coal ground appears the anthracite, which, being almost destitute of volatile matter, contains the greatest quantity of carbon. In the higher beds are found, on the contrary, lignite and fossil wood, substances in which the quantity of carbon is infinitely less. Between these two beds, according to the degree of pressure to which they have been subjected, are found veins of graphite and rich or poor coal. It may be asserted that it is for want of sufficient pressure that beds of peaty bog have not been completely changed into coal. So then, the origin of coal mines, in whatever part of the globe they have been discovered, is this: the absorption through the terrestrial crust of the great forests of the geological period; then, the mineralization of the vegetables obtained in the course of time, under the influence of pressure and heat, and under the action of carbonic acid. Now, at the time when the events related in this story took place, some of the most important mines of the Scottish coal beds had been exhausted by too rapid working. In the region which extends between Edinburgh and Glasgow, for a distance of ten or twelve miles, lay the Aberfoyle colliery, of which the engineer, James Starr, had so long directed the works. For ten years these mines had been abandoned. No new seams had been discovered, although the soundings had been carried to a depth of fifteen hundred or even of two thousand feet, and when James Starr had retired, it was with the full conviction that even the smallest vein had been completely exhausted. Under these circumstances, it was plain that the discovery of a new seam of coal would be an important event. Could Simon Ford's communication relate to a fact of this nature? This question James Starr could not cease asking himself. Was he called to make conquest of another corner of these rich treasure fields? Fain would he hope it was so. The second letter had for an instant checked his speculations on this subject, but now he thought of that letter no longer. Besides, the son of the old overman was there, waiting at the appointed rendezvous. The anonymous letter was therefore worth nothing. The moment the engineer set foot on the platform at the end of his journey, the young man advanced towards him. "Are you Harry Ford?" asked the engineer quickly. "Yes, Mr. Starr." "I should not have known you, my lad. Of course in ten years you have become a man!" "I knew you directly, sir," replied the young miner, cap in hand. "You have not changed. You look just as you did when you bade us good-by in the Dochart pit. I haven't forgotten that day." "Put on your cap, Harry," said the engineer. "It's pouring, and politeness needn't make you catch cold." "Shall we take shelter anywhere, Mr. Starr?" asked young Ford. "No, Harry. The weather is settled. It will rain all day, and I am in a hurry. Let us go on." "I am at your orders," replied Harry. "Tell me, Harry, is your father well?" "Very well, Mr. Starr." "And your mother?" "She is well, too." "Was it your father who wrote telling me to come to the Yarrow shaft?" "No, it was I." "Then did Simon Ford send me a second letter to contradict the first?" asked the engineer quickly. "No, Mr. Starr," answered the young miner. "Very well," said Starr, without speaking of the anonymous letter. Then, continuing, "And can you tell me what you father wants with me?" "Mr. Starr, my father wishes to tell you himself." "But you know what it is?" "I do, sir." "Well, Harry, I will not ask you more. But let us get on, for I'm anxious to see Simon Ford. By-the-bye, where does he live?" "In the mine." "What! In the Dochart pit?" "Yes, Mr. Starr," replied Harry. "Really! has your family never left the old mine since the cessation of the works?" "Not a day, Mr. Starr. You know my father. It is there he was born, it is there he means to die!" "I can understand that, Harry. I can understand that! His native mine! He did not like to abandon it! And are you happy there?" "Yes, Mr. Starr," replied the young miner, "for we love one another, and we have but few wants." "Well, Harry," said the engineer, "lead the way." And walking rapidly through the streets of Callander, in a few minutes they had left the town behind them. # CHAPTER III. THE DOCHART PIT Harry Ford was a fine, strapping fellow of five and twenty. His grave looks, his habitually passive expression, had from childhood been noticed among his comrades in the mine. His regular features, his deep blue eyes, his curly hair, rather chestnut than fair, the natural grace of his person, altogether made him a fine specimen of a lowlander. Accustomed from his earliest days to the work of the mine, he was strong and hardy, as well as brave and good. Guided by his father, and impelled by his own inclinations, he had early begun his education, and at an age when most lads are little more than apprentices, he had managed to make himself of some importance, a leader, in fact, among his fellows, and few are very ignorant in a country which does all it can to remove ignorance. Though, during the first years of his youth, the pick was never out of Harry's hand, nevertheless the young miner was not long in acquiring sufficient knowledge to raise him into the upper class of the miners, and he would certainly have succeeded his father as overman of the Dochart pit, if the colliery had not been abandoned. James Starr was still a good walker, yet he could not easily have kept up with his guide, if the latter had not slackened his pace. The young man, carrying the engineer's bag, followed the left bank of the river for about a mile. Leaving its winding course, they took a road under tall, dripping trees. Wide fields lay on either side, around isolated farms. In one field a herd of hornless cows were quietly grazing; in another sheep with silky wool, like those in a child's toy sheep fold. The Yarrow shaft was situated four miles from Callander. Whilst walking, James Starr could not but be struck with the change in the country. He had not seen it since the day when the last ton of Aberfoyle coal had been emptied into railway trucks to be sent to Glasgow. Agricultural life had now taken the place of the more stirring, active, industrial life. The contrast was all the greater because, during winter, field work is at a standstill. But formerly, at whatever season, the mining population, above and below ground, filled the scene with animation. Great wagons of coal used to be passing night and day. The rails, with their rotten sleepers, now disused, were then constantly ground by the weight of wagons. Now stony roads took the place of the old mining tramways. James Starr felt as if he was traversing a desert. The engineer gazed about him with a saddened eye. He stopped now and then to take breath. He listened. The air was no longer filled with distant whistlings and the panting of engines. None of those black vapors which the manufacturer loves to see, hung in the horizon, mingling with the clouds. No tall cylindrical or prismatic chimney vomited out smoke, after being fed from the mine itself; no blast-pipe was puffing out its white vapor. The ground, formerly black with coal dust, had a bright look, to which James Starr's eyes were not accustomed. When the engineer stood still, Harry Ford stopped also. The young miner waited in silence. He felt what was passing in his companion's mind, and he shared his feelings; he, a child of the mine, whose whole life had been passed in its depths. "Yes, Harry, it is all changed," said Starr. "But at the rate we worked, of course the treasures of coal would have been exhausted some day. Do you regret that time?" "I do regret it, Mr. Starr," answered Harry. "The work was hard, but it was interesting, as are all struggles." "No doubt, my lad. A continuous struggle against the dangers of landslips, fires, inundations, explosions of firedamp, like claps of thunder. One had to guard against all those perils! You say well! It was a struggle, and consequently an exciting life." "The miners of Alva have been more favored than the miners of Aberfoyle, Mr. Starr!" "Ay, Harry, so they have," replied the engineer. "Indeed," cried the young man, "it's a pity that all the globe was not made of coal; then there would have been enough to last millions of years!" "No doubt there would, Harry; it must be acknowledged, however, that nature has shown more forethought by forming our sphere principally of sandstone, limestone, and granite, which fire cannot consume." "Do you mean to say, Mr. Starr, that mankind would have ended by burning their own globe?" "Yes! The whole of it, my lad," answered the engineer. "The earth would have passed to the last bit into the furnaces of engines, machines, steamers, gas factories; certainly, that would have been the end of our world one fine day!" "There is no fear of that now, Mr. Starr. But yet, the mines will be exhausted, no doubt, and more rapidly than the statistics make out!" "That will happen, Harry; and in my opinion England is very wrong in exchanging her fuel for the gold of other nations! I know well," added the engineer, "that neither hydraulics nor electricity has yet shown all they can do, and that some day these two forces will be more completely utilized. But no matter! Coal is of a very practical use, and lends itself easily to the various wants of industry. Unfortunately man cannot produce it at will. Though our external forests grow incessantly under the influence of heat and water, our subterranean forests will not be reproduced, and if they were, the globe would never be in the state necessary to make them into coal." James Starr and his guide, whilst talking, had continued their walk at a rapid pace. An hour after leaving Callander they reached the Dochart pit. The most indifferent person would have been touched at the appearance this deserted spot presented. It was like the skeleton of something that had formerly lived. A few wretched trees bordered a plain where the ground was hidden under the black dust of the mineral fuel, but no cinders nor even fragments of coal were to be seen. All had been carried away and consumed long ago. They walked into the shed which covered the opening of the Yarrow shaft, whence ladders still gave access to the lower galleries of the pit. The engineer bent over the opening. Formerly from this place could be heard the powerful whistle of the air inhaled by the ventilators. It was now a silent abyss. It was like being at the mouth of some extinct volcano. When the mine was being worked, ingenious machines were used in certain shafts of the Aberfoyle colliery, which in this respect was very well off; frames furnished with automatic lifts, working in wooden slides, oscillating ladders, called "man-engines," which, by a simple movement, permitted the miners to descend without danger. But all these appliances had been carried away, after the cessation of the works. In the Yarrow shaft there remained only a long succession of ladders, separated at every fifty feet by narrow landings. Thirty of these ladders placed thus end to end led the visitor down into the lower gallery, a depth of fifteen hundred feet. This was the only way of communication which existed between the bottom of the Dochart pit and the open air. As to air, that came in by the Yarrow shaft, from whence galleries communicated with another shaft whose orifice opened at a higher level; the warm air naturally escaped by this species of inverted siphon. "I will follow you, my lad," said the engineer, signing to the young man to precede him. "As you please, Mr. Starr." "Have you your lamp?" "Yes, and I only wish it was still the safety lamp, which we formerly had to use!" "Sure enough," returned James Starr, "there is no fear of fire-damp explosions now!" Harry was provided with a simple oil lamp, the wick of which he lighted. In the mine, now empty of coal, escapes of light carburetted hydrogen could not occur. As no explosion need be feared, there was no necessity for interposing between the flame and the surrounding air that metallic screen which prevents the gas from catching fire. The Davy lamp was of no use here. But if the danger did not exist, it was because the cause of it had disappeared, and with this cause, the combustible in which formerly consisted the riches of the Dochart pit. Harry descended the first steps of the upper ladder. Starr followed. They soon found themselves in a profound obscurity, which was only relieved by the glimmer of the lamp. The young man held it above his head, the better to light his companion. A dozen ladders were descended by the engineer and his guide, with the measured step habitual to the miner. They were all still in good condition. James Starr examined, as well as the insufficient light would permit, the sides of the dark shaft, which were covered by a partly rotten lining of wood. Arrived at the fifteenth landing, that is to say, half way down, they halted for a few minutes. "Decidedly, I have not your legs, my lad," said the engineer, panting. "You are very stout, Mr. Starr," replied Harry, "and it's something too, you see, to live all one's life in the mine." "Right, Harry. Formerly, when I was twenty, I could have gone down all at a breath. Come, forward!" But just as the two were about to leave the platform, a voice, as yet far distant, was heard in the depths of the shaft. It came up like a sonorous billow, swelling as it advanced, and becoming more and more distinct. "Halloo! who comes here?" asked the engineer, stopping Harry. "I cannot say," answered the young miner. "Is it not your father?" "My father, Mr. Starr? no." "Some neighbor, then?" "We have no neighbors in the bottom of the pit," replied Harry. "We are alone, quite alone." "Well, we must let this intruder pass," said James Starr. "Those who are descending must yield the path to those who are ascending." They waited. The voice broke out again with a magnificent burst, as if it had been carried through a vast speaking trumpet; and soon a few words of a Scotch song came clearly to the ears of the young miner. "The Hundred Pipers!" cried Harry. "Well, I shall be much surprised if that comes from the lungs of any man but Jack Ryan." "And who is this Jack Ryan?" asked James Starr. "An old mining comrade," replied Harry. Then leaning from the platform, "Halloo! Jack!" he shouted. "Is that you, Harry?" was the reply. "Wait a bit, I'm coming." And the song broke forth again. In a few minutes, a tall fellow of five and twenty, with a merry face, smiling eyes, a laughing mouth, and sandy hair, appeared at the bottom of the luminous cone which was thrown from his lantern, and set foot on the landing of the fifteenth ladder. His first act was to vigorously wring the hand which Harry extended to him. "Delighted to meet you!" he exclaimed. "If I had only known you were to be above ground to-day, I would have spared myself going down the Yarrow shaft!" "This is Mr. James Starr," said Harry, turning his lamp towards the engineer, who was in the shadow. "Mr. Starr!" cried Jack Ryan. "Ah, sir, I could not see. Since I left the mine, my eyes have not been accustomed to see in the dark, as they used to do." "Ah, I remember a laddie who was always singing. That was ten years ago. It was you, no doubt?" "Ay, Mr. Starr, but in changing my trade, I haven't changed my disposition. It's far better to laugh and sing than to cry and whine!" "You're right there, Jack Ryan. And what do you do now, as you have left the mine?" "I am working on the Melrose farm, forty miles from here. Ah, it's not like our Aberfoyle mines! The pick comes better to my hand than the spade or hoe. And then, in the old pit, there were vaulted roofs, to merrily echo one's songs, while up above ground!—But you are going to see old Simon, Mr. Starr?" "Yes, Jack," answered the engineer. "Don't let me keep you then." "Tell me, Jack," said Harry, "what was taking you to our cottage to-day?" "I wanted to see you, man," replied Jack, "and ask you to come to the Irvine games. You know I am the piper of the place. There will be dancing and singing." "Thank you, Jack, but it's impossible." "Impossible?" "Yes; Mr. Starr's visit will last some time, and I must take him back to Callander." "Well, Harry, it won't be for a week yet. By that time Mr. Starr's visit will be over, I should think, and there will be nothing to keep you at the cottage." "Indeed, Harry," said James Starr, "you must profit by your friend Jack's invitation." "Well, I accept it, Jack," said Harry. "In a week we will meet at Irvine." "In a week, that's settled," returned Ryan. "Good-by, Harry! Your servant, Mr. Starr. I am very glad to have seen you again! I can give news of you to all my friends. No one has forgotten you, sir." "And I have forgotten no one," said Starr. "Thanks for all, sir," replied Jack. "Good-by, Jack," said Harry, shaking his hand. And Jack Ryan, singing as he went, soon disappeared in the heights of the shaft, dimly lighted by his lamp. A quarter of an hour afterwards James Starr and Harry descended the last ladder, and set foot on the lowest floor of the pit. From the bottom of the Yarrow shaft radiated numerous empty galleries. They ran through the wall of schist and sandstone, some shored up with great, roughly-hewn beams, others lined with a thick casing of wood. In every direction embankments supplied the place of the excavated veins. Artificial pillars were made of stone from neighboring quarries, and now they supported the ground, that is to say, the double layer of tertiary and quaternary soil, which formerly rested on the seam itself. Darkness now filled the galleries, formerly lighted either by the miner's lamp or by the electric light, the use of which had been introduced in the mines. "Will you not rest a while, Mr. Starr?" asked the young man. "No, my lad," replied the engineer, "for I am anxious to be at your father's cottage." "Follow me then, Mr. Starr. I will guide you, and yet I daresay you could find your way perfectly well through this dark labyrinth." "Yes, indeed! I have the whole plan of the old pit still in my head." Harry, followed by the engineer, and holding his lamp high the better to light their way, walked along a high gallery, like the nave of a cathedral. Their feet still struck against the wooden sleepers which used to support the rails. They had not gone more than fifty paces, when a huge stone fell at the feet of James Starr. "Take care, Mr. Starr!" cried Harry, seizing the engineer by the arm. "A stone, Harry! Ah! these old vaultings are no longer quite secure, of course, and—" "Mr. Starr," said Harry Ford, "it seems to me that stone was thrown, thrown as by the hand of man!" "Thrown!" exclaimed James Starr. "What do you mean, lad?" "Nothing, nothing, Mr. Starr," replied Harry evasively, his anxious gaze endeavoring to pierce the darkness. "Let us go on. Take my arm, sir, and don't be afraid of making a false step." "Here I am, Harry." And they both advanced, whilst Harry looked on every side, throwing the light of his lamp into all the corners of the gallery. "Shall we soon be there?" asked the engineer. "In ten minutes at most." "Good." "But," muttered Harry, "that was a most singular thing. It is the first time such an accident has happened to me. "That stone falling just at the moment we were passing." "Harry, it was a mere chance." "Chance," replied the young man, shaking his head. "Yes, chance." He stopped and listened. "What is the matter, Harry?" asked the engineer. "I thought I heard someone walking behind us," replied the young miner, listening more attentively. Then he added, "No, I must have been mistaken. Lean harder on my arm, Mr. Starr. Use me like a staff." "A good solid staff, Harry," answered James Starr. "I could not wish for a better than a fine fellow like you." They continued in silence along the dark nave. Harry was evidently preoccupied, and frequently turned, trying to catch, either some distant noise, or remote glimmer of light. But behind and before, all was silence and darkness. # CHAPTER IV. THE FORD FAMILY Ten minutes afterwards, James Starr and Harry issued from the principal gallery. They were now standing in a glade, if we may use this word to designate a vast and dark excavation. The place, however, was not entirely deprived of daylight. A few rays straggled in through the opening of a deserted shaft. It was by means of this pipe that ventilation was established in the Dochart pit. Owing to its lesser density, the warm air was drawn towards the Yarrow shaft. Both air and light, therefore, penetrated in some measure into the glade. Here Simon Ford had lived with his family ten years, in a subterranean dwelling, hollowed out in the schistous mass, where formerly stood the powerful engines which worked the mechanical traction of the Dochart pit. Such was the habitation, "his cottage," as he called it, in which resided the old overman. As he had some means saved during a long life of toil, Ford could have afforded to live in the light of day, among trees, or in any town of the kingdom he chose, but he and his wife and son preferred remaining in the mine, where they were happy together, having the same opinions, ideas, and tastes. Yes, they were quite fond of their cottage, buried fifteen hundred feet below Scottish soil. Among other advantages, there was no fear that tax gatherers, or rent collectors would ever come to trouble its inhabitants. At this period, Simon Ford, the former overman of the Dochart pit, bore the weight of sixty-five years well. Tall, robust, well-built, he would have been regarded as one of the most conspicuous men in the district which supplies so many fine fellows to the Highland regiments. Simon Ford was descended from an old mining family, and his ancestors had worked the very first carboniferous seams opened in Scotland. Without discussing whether or not the Greeks and Romans made use of coal, whether the Chinese worked coal mines before the Christian era, whether the French word for coal (_houille_) is really derived from the farrier Houillos, who lived in Belgium in the twelfth century, we may affirm that the beds in Great Britain were the first ever regularly worked. So early as the eleventh century, William the Conqueror divided the produce of the Newcastle bed among his companions-in-arms. At the end of the thirteenth century, a license for the mining of "sea coal" was granted by Henry III. Lastly, towards the end of the same century, mention is made of the Scotch and Welsh beds. It was about this time that Simon Ford's ancestors penetrated into the bowels of Caledonian earth, and lived there ever after, from father to son. They were but plain miners. They labored like convicts at the work of extracting the precious combustible. It is even believed that the coal miners, like the salt-makers of that period, were actual slaves. However that might have been, Simon Ford was proud of belonging to this ancient family of Scotch miners. He had worked diligently in the same place where his ancestors had wielded the pick, the crowbar, and the mattock. At thirty he was overman of the Dochart pit, the most important in the Aberfoyle colliery. He was devoted to his trade. During long years he zealously performed his duty. His only grief had been to perceive the bed becoming impoverished, and to see the hour approaching when the seam would be exhausted. It was then he devoted himself to the search for new veins in all the Aberfoyle pits, which communicated underground one with another. He had had the good luck to discover several during the last period of the working. His miner's instinct assisted him marvelously, and the engineer, James Starr, appreciated him highly. It might be said that he divined the course of seams in the depths of the coal mine as a hydroscope reveals springs in the bowels of the earth. He was _par excellence_ the type of a miner whose whole existence is indissolubly connected with that of his mine. He had lived there from his birth, and now that the works were abandoned he wished to live there still. His son Harry foraged for the subterranean housekeeping; as for himself, during those ten years he had not been ten times above ground. "Go up there! What is the good?" he would say, and refused to leave his black domain. The place was remarkably healthy, subject to an equable temperature; the old overman endured neither the heat of summer nor the cold of winter. His family enjoyed good health; what more could he desire? But at heart he felt depressed. He missed the former animation, movement, and life in the well-worked pit. He was, however, supported by one fixed idea. "No, no! the mine is not exhausted!" he repeated. And that man would have given serious offense who could have ventured to express before Simon Ford any doubt that old Aberfoyle would one day revive! He had never given up the hope of discovering some new bed which would restore the mine to its past splendor. Yes, he would willingly, had it been necessary, have resumed the miner's pick, and with his still stout arms vigorously attacked the rock. He went through the dark galleries, sometimes alone, sometimes with his son, examining, searching for signs of coal, only to return each day, wearied, but not in despair, to the cottage. Madge, Simon's faithful companion, his "gude-wife," to use the Scotch term, was a tall, strong, comely woman. Madge had no wish to leave the Dochart pit any more than had her husband. She shared all his hopes and regrets. She encouraged him, she urged him on, and talked to him in a way which cheered the heart of the old overman. "Aberfoyle is only asleep," she would say. "You are right about that, Simon. This is but a rest, it is not death!" Madge, as well as the others, was perfectly satisfied to live independent of the outer world, and was the center of the happiness enjoyed by the little family in their dark cottage. The engineer was eagerly expected. Simon Ford was standing at his door, and as soon as Harry's lamp announced the arrival of his former viewer he advanced to meet him. "Welcome, Mr. Starr!" he exclaimed, his voice echoing under the roof of schist. "Welcome to the old overman's cottage! Though it is buried fifteen hundred feet under the earth, our house is not the less hospitable." "And how are you, good Simon?" asked James Starr, grasping the hand which his host held out to him. "Very well, Mr. Starr. How could I be otherwise here, sheltered from the inclemencies of the weather? Your ladies who go to Newhaven or Portobello in the summer time would do much better to pass a few months in the coal mine of Aberfoyle! They would run no risk here of catching a heavy cold, as they do in the damp streets of the old capital." "I'm not the man to contradict you, Simon," answered James Starr, glad to find the old man just as he used to be. "Indeed, I wonder why I do not change my home in the Canongate for a cottage near you." "And why not, Mr. Starr? I know one of your old miners who would be truly pleased to have only a partition wall between you and him." "And how is Madge?" asked the engineer. "The goodwife is in better health than I am, if that's possible," replied Ford, "and it will be a pleasure to her to see you at her table. I think she will surpass herself to do you honor." "We shall see that, Simon, we shall see that!" said the engineer, to whom the announcement of a good breakfast could not be indifferent, after his long walk. "Are you hungry, Mr. Starr?" "Ravenously hungry. My journey has given me an appetite. I came through horrible weather." "Ah, it is raining up there," responded Simon Ford. "Yes, Simon, and the waters of the Forth are as rough as the sea." "Well, Mr. Starr, here it never rains. But I needn't describe to you all the advantages, which you know as well as myself. Here we are at the cottage. That is the chief thing, and I again say you are welcome, sir." Simon Ford, followed by Harry, ushered their guest into the dwelling. James Starr found himself in a large room lighted by numerous lamps, one hanging from the colored beams of the roof. "The soup is ready, wife," said Ford, "and it mustn't be kept waiting any more than Mr. Starr. He is as hungry as a miner, and he shall see that our boy doesn't let us want for anything in the cottage! By-the-bye, Harry," added the old overman, turning to his son, "Jack Ryan came here to see you." "I know, father. We met him in the Yarrow shaft." "He's an honest and a merry fellow," said Ford; "but he seems to be quite happy above ground. He hasn't the true miner's blood in his veins. Sit down, Mr. Starr, and have a good dinner, for we may not sup till late." As the engineer and his hosts were taking their places: "One moment, Simon," said James Starr. "Do you want me to eat with a good appetite?" "It will be doing us all possible honor, Mr. Starr," answered Ford. "Well, in order to eat heartily, I must not be at all anxious. Now I have two questions to put to you." "Go on, sir." "Your letter told me of a communication which was to be of an interesting nature." "It is very interesting indeed." "To you?" "To you and to me, Mr. Starr. But I do not want to tell it you until after dinner, and on the very spot itself. Without that you would not believe me." "Simon," resumed the engineer, "look me straight in the face. An interesting communication? Yes. Good! I will not ask more," he added, as if he had read the reply in the old overman's eyes. "And the second question?" asked the latter. "Do you know, Simon, who the person is who can have written this?" answered the engineer, handing him the anonymous letter. Ford took the letter and read it attentively. Then giving it to his son, "Do you know the writing?" he asked. "No, father," replied Harry. "And had this letter the Aberfoyle postmark?" inquired Simon Ford. "Yes, like yours," replied James Starr. "What do you think of that, Harry?" said his father, his brow darkening. "I think, father," returned Harry, "that someone has had some interest in trying to prevent Mr. Starr from coming to the place where you invited him." "But who," exclaimed the old miner, "who could have possibly guessed enough of my secret?" And Simon fell into a reverie, from which he was aroused by his wife. "Let us begin, Mr. Starr," she said. "The soup is already getting cold. Don't think any more of that letter just now." On the old woman's invitation, each drew in his chair, James Starr opposite to Madge—to do him honor—the father and son opposite to each other. It was a good Scotch dinner. First they ate "hotchpotch," soup with the meat swimming in capital broth. As old Simon said, his wife knew no rival in the art of preparing hotchpotch. It was the same with the "cockyleeky," a cock stewed with leeks, which merited high praise. The whole was washed down with excellent ale, obtained from the best brewery in Edinburgh. But the principal dish consisted of a "haggis," the national pudding, made of meat and barley meal. This remarkable dish, which inspired the poet Burns with one of his best odes, shared the fate of all the good things in this world—it passed away like a dream. Madge received the sincere compliments of her guest. The dinner ended with cheese and oatcake, accompanied by a few small glasses of "usquebaugh," capital whisky, five and twenty years old—just Harry's age. The repast lasted a good hour. James Starr and Simon Ford had not only eaten much, but talked much too, chiefly of their past life in the old Aberfoyle mine. Harry had been rather silent. Twice he had left the table, and even the house. He evidently felt uneasy since the incident of the stone, and wished to examine the environs of the cottage. The anonymous letter had not contributed to reassure him. Whilst he was absent, the engineer observed to Ford and his wife, "That's a fine lad you have there, my friends." "Yes, Mr. Starr, he is a good and affectionate son," replied the old overman earnestly. "Is he happy with you in the cottage?" "He would not wish to leave us." "Don't you think of finding him a wife, some day?" "A wife for Harry," exclaimed Ford. "And who would it be? A girl from up yonder, who would love merry-makings and dancing, who would prefer her clan to our mine! Harry wouldn't do it!" "Simon," said Madge, "you would not forbid that Harry should take a wife." "I would forbid nothing," returned the old miner, "but there's no hurry about that. Who knows but we may find one for him—" Harry re-entered at that moment, and Simon Ford was silent. When Madge rose from the table, all followed her example, and seated themselves at the door of the cottage. "Well, Simon," said the engineer, "I am ready to hear you." "Mr. Starr," responded Ford, "I do not need your ears, but your legs. Are you quite rested?" "Quite rested and quite refreshed, Simon. I am ready to go with you wherever you like." "Harry," said Simon Ford, turning to his son, "light our safety lamps." "Are you going to take safety lamps!" exclaimed James Starr, in amazement, knowing that there was no fear of explosions of fire-damp in a pit quite empty of coal. "Yes, Mr. Starr, it will be prudent." "My good Simon, won't you propose next to put me in a miner's dress?" "Not just yet, sir, not just yet!" returned the old overman, his deep-set eyes gleaming strangely. Harry soon reappeared, carrying three safety lamps. He handed one of these to the engineer, the other to his father, and kept the third hanging from his left hand, whilst his right was armed with a long stick. "Forward!" said Simon Ford, taking up a strong pick, which was leaning against the wall of the cottage. "Forward!" echoed the engineer. "Good-by, Madge." "_God_ speed you!" responded the good woman. "A good supper, wife, do you hear?" exclaimed Ford. "We shall be hungry when we come back, and will do it justice!" # CHAPTER V. SOME STRANGE PHENOMENA Many superstitious beliefs exist both in the Highlands and Lowlands of Scotland. Of course the mining population must furnish its contingent of legends and fables to this mythological repertory. If the fields are peopled with imaginary beings, either good or bad, with much more reason must the dark mines be haunted to their lowest depths. Who shakes the seam during tempestuous nights? who puts the miners on the track of an as yet unworked vein? who lights the fire-damp, and presides over the terrible explosions? who but some spirit of the mine? This, at least, was the opinion commonly spread among the superstitious Scotch. In the first rank of the believers in the supernatural in the Dochart pit figured Jack Ryan, Harry's friend. He was the great partisan of all these superstitions. All these wild stories were turned by him into songs, which earned him great applause in the winter evenings. But Jack Ryan was not alone in his belief. His comrades affirmed, no less strongly, that the Aberfoyle pits were haunted, and that certain strange beings were seen there frequently, just as in the Highlands. To hear them talk, it would have been more extraordinary if nothing of the kind appeared. Could there indeed be a better place than a dark and deep coal mine for the freaks of fairies, elves, goblins, and other actors in the fantastical dramas? The scenery was all ready, why should not the supernatural personages come there to play their parts? So reasoned Jack Ryan and his comrades in the Aberfoyle mines. We have said that the different pits communicated with each other by means of long subterranean galleries. Thus there existed beneath the county of Stirling a vast tract, full of burrows, tunnels, bored with caves, and perforated with shafts, a subterranean labyrinth, which might be compared to an enormous ant-hill. Miners, though belonging to different pits, often met, when going to or returning from their work. Consequently there was a constant opportunity of exchanging talk, and circulating the stories which had their origin in the mine, from one pit to another. These accounts were transmitted with marvelous rapidity, passing from mouth to mouth, and gaining in wonder as they went. Two men, however, better educated and with more practical minds than the rest, had always resisted this temptation. They in no degree believed in the intervention of spirits, elves, or goblins. These two were Simon Ford and his son. And they proved it by continuing to inhabit the dismal crypt, after the desertion of the Dochart pit. Perhaps good Madge, like every Highland woman, had some leaning towards the supernatural. But she had to repeat all these stories to herself, and so she did, most conscientiously, so as not to let the old traditions be lost. Even had Simon and Harry Ford been as credulous as their companions, they would not have abandoned the mine to the imps and fairies. For ten years, without missing a single day, obstinate and immovable in their convictions, the father and son took their picks, their sticks, and their lamps. They went about searching, sounding the rock with a sharp blow, listening if it would return a favor-able sound. So long as the soundings had not been pushed to the granite of the primary formation, the Fords were agreed that the search, unsuccessful to-day, might succeed to-morrow, and that it ought to be resumed. They spent their whole life in endeavoring to bring Aberfoyle back to its former prosperity. If the father died before the hour of success, the son was to go on with the task alone. It was during these excursions that Harry was more particularly struck by certain phenomena, which he vainly sought to explain. Several times, while walking along some narrow cross-alley, he seemed to hear sounds similar to those which would be produced by violent blows of a pickax against the wall. Harry hastened to seek the cause of this mysterious work. The tunnel was empty. The light from the young miner's lamp, thrown on the wall, revealed no trace of any recent work with pick or crowbar. Harry would then ask himself if it was not the effect of some acoustic illusion, or some strange and fantastic echo. At other times, on suddenly throwing a bright light into a suspicious-looking cleft in the rock, he thought he saw a shadow. He rushed forward. Nothing, and there was no opening to permit a human being to evade his pursuit! Twice in one month, Harry, whilst visiting the west end of the pit, distinctly heard distant reports, as if some miner had exploded a charge of dynamite. The second time, after many careful researches, he found that a pillar had just been blown up. By the light of his lamp, Harry carefully examined the place attacked by the explosion. It had not been made in a simple embankment of stones, but in a mass of schist, which had penetrated to this depth in the coal stratum. Had the object of the explosion been to discover a new vein? Or had someone wished simply to destroy this portion of the mine? Thus he questioned, and when he made known this occurrence to his father, neither could the old overman nor he himself answer the question in a satisfactory way. "It is very queer," Harry often repeated. "The presence of an unknown being in the mine seems impossible, and yet there can be no doubt about it. Does someone besides ourselves wish to find out if a seam yet exists? Or, rather, has he attempted to destroy what remains of the Aberfoyle mines? But for what reason? I will find that out, if it should cost me my life!" A fortnight before the day on which Harry Ford guided the engineer through the labyrinth of the Dochart pit, he had been on the point of attaining the object of his search. He was going over the southwest end of the mine, with a large lantern in his hand. All at once, it seemed to him that a light was suddenly extinguished, some hundred feet before him, at the end of a narrow passage cut obliquely through the rock. He darted forward. His search was in vain. As Harry would not admit a supernatural explanation for a physical occurrence, he concluded that certainly some strange being prowled about in the pit. But whatever he could do, searching with the greatest care, scrutinizing every crevice in the gallery, he found nothing for his trouble. If Jack Ryan and the other superstitious fellows in the mine had seen these lights, they would, without fail, have called them supernatural, but Harry did not dream of doing so, nor did his father. And when they talked over these phenomena, evidently due to a physical cause, "My lad," the old man would say, "we must wait. It will all be explained some day." However, it must be observed that, hitherto, neither Harry nor his father had ever been exposed to any act of violence. If the stone which had fallen at the feet of James Starr had been thrown by the hand of some ill-disposed person, it was the first criminal act of that description. James Starr was of opinion that the stone had become detached from the roof of the gallery; but Harry would not admit of such a simple explanation. According to him, the stone had not fallen, it had been thrown; for otherwise, without rebounding, it could never have described a trajectory as it did. Harry saw in it a direct attempt against himself and his father, or even against the engineer. # CHAPTER VI. SIMON FORD'S EXPERIMENT The old clock in the cottage struck one as James Starr and his two companions went out. A dim light penetrated through the ventilating shaft into the glade. Harry's lamp was not necessary here, but it would very soon be of use, for the old overman was about to conduct the engineer to the very end of the Dochart pit. After following the principal gallery for a distance of two miles, the three explorers—for, as will be seen, this was a regular exploration—arrived at the entrance of a narrow tunnel. It was like a nave, the roof of which rested on woodwork, covered with white moss. It followed very nearly the line traced by the course of the river Forth, fifteen hundred feet above. "So we are going to the end of the last vein?" said James Starr. "Ay! You know the mine well still." "Well, Simon," returned the engineer, "it will be difficult to go further than that, if I don't mistake." "Yes, indeed, Mr. Starr. That was where our picks tore out the last bit of coal in the seam. I remember it as if it were yesterday. I myself gave that last blow, and it re-echoed in my heart more dismally than on the rock. Only sandstone and schist were round us after that, and when the truck rolled towards the shaft, I followed, with my heart as full as though it were a funeral. It seemed to me that the soul of the mine was going with it." The gravity with which the old man uttered these words impressed the engineer, who was not far from sharing his sentiments. They were those of the sailor who leaves his disabled vessel—of the proprietor who sees the house of his ancestors pulled down. He pressed Ford's hand; but now the latter seized that of the engineer, and, wringing it: "That day we were all of us mistaken," he exclaimed. "No! The old mine was not dead. It was not a corpse that the miners abandoned; and I dare to assert, Mr. Starr, that its heart beats still." "Speak, Ford! Have you discovered a new vein?" cried the engineer, unable to contain himself. "I know you have! Your letter could mean nothing else." "Mr. Starr," said Simon Ford, "I did not wish to tell any man but yourself." "And you did quite right, Ford. But tell me how, by what signs, are you sure?" "Listen, sir!" resumed Simon. "It is not a seam that I have found." "What is it, then?" "Only positive proof that such a seam exists." "And the proof?" "Could fire-damp issue from the bowels of the earth if coal was not there to produce it?" "No, certainly not!" replied the engineer. "No coal, no fire-damp. No effects without a cause." "Just as no smoke without fire." "And have you recognized the presence of light carburetted hydrogen?" "An old miner could not be deceived," answered Ford. "I have met with our old enemy, the fire-damp!" "But suppose it was another gas," said Starr. "Firedamp is almost without smell, and colorless. It only really betrays its presence by an explosion." "Mr. Starr," said Simon Ford, "will you let me tell you what I have done? Harry had once or twice observed something remarkable in his excursions to the west end of the mine. Fire, which suddenly went out, sometimes appeared along the face of the rock or on the embankment of the further galleries. How those flames were lighted, I could not and cannot say. But they were evidently owing to the presence of fire-damp, and to me fire-damp means a vein of coal." "Did not these fires cause any explosion?" asked the engineer quickly. "Yes, little partial explosions," replied Ford, "such as I used to cause myself when I wished to ascertain the presence of fire-damp. Do you remember how formerly it was the custom to try to prevent explosions before our good genius, Humphry Davy, invented his safety-lamp?" "Yes," replied James Starr. "You mean what the ‘monk,' as the men called him, used to do. But I have never seen him in the exercise of his duty." "Indeed, Mr. Starr, you are too young, in spite of your five-and-fifty years, to have seen that. But I, ten years older, often saw the last ‘monk' working in the mine. He was called so because he wore a long robe like a monk. His proper name was the ‘fireman.' At that time there was no other means of destroying the bad gas but by dispersing it in little explosions, before its buoyancy had collected it in too great quantities in the heights of the galleries. The monk, as we called him, with his face masked, his head muffled up, all his body tightly wrapped in a thick felt cloak, crawled along the ground. He could breathe down there, when the air was pure; and with his right hand he waved above his head a blazing torch. When the firedamp had accumulated in the air, so as to form a detonating mixture, the explosion occurred without being fatal, and, by often renewing this operation, catastrophes were prevented. Sometimes the ‘monk' was injured or killed in his work, then another took his place. This was done in all mines until the Davy lamp was universally adopted. But I knew the plan, and by its means I discovered the presence of firedamp and consequently that of a new seam of coal in the Dochart pit." All that the old overman had related of the so-called "monk" or "fireman" was perfectly true. The air in the galleries of mines was formerly always purified in the way described. Fire-damp, marsh-gas, or carburetted hydrogen, is colorless, almost scentless; it burns with a blue flame, and makes respiration impossible. The miner could not live in a place filled with this injurious gas, any more than one could live in a gasometer full of common gas. Moreover, fire-damp, as well as the latter, a mixture of inflammable gases, forms a detonating mixture as soon as the air unites with it in a proportion of eight, and perhaps even five to the hundred. When this mixture is lighted by any cause, there is an explosion, almost always followed by a frightful catastrophe. As they walked on, Simon Ford told the engineer all that he had done to attain his object; how he was sure that the escape of fire-damp took place at the very end of the farthest gallery in its western part, because he had provoked small and partial explosions, or rather little flames, enough to show the nature of the gas, which escaped in a small jet, but with a continuous flow. An hour after leaving the cottage, James Starr and his two companions had gone a distance of four miles. The engineer, urged by anxiety and hope, walked on without noticing the length of the way. He pondered over all that the old miner had told him, and mentally weighed all the arguments which the latter had given in support of his belief. He agreed with him in thinking that the continued emission of carburetted hydrogen certainly showed the existence of a new coal-seam. If it had been merely a sort of pocket, full of gas, as it is sometimes found amongst the rock, it would soon have been empty, and the phenomenon have ceased. But far from that. According to Simon Ford, the fire-damp escaped incessantly, and from that fact the existence of an important vein might be considered certain. Consequently, the riches of the Dochart pit were not entirely exhausted. The chief question now was, whether this was merely a vein which would yield comparatively little, or a bed occupying a large extent. Harry, who preceded his father and the engineer, stopped. "Here we are!" exclaimed the old miner. "At last, thank Heaven! you are here, Mr. Starr, and we shall soon know." The old overman's voice trembled slightly. "Be calm, my man!" said the engineer. "I am as excited as you are, but we must not lose time." The gallery at this end of the pit widened into a sort of dark cave. No shaft had been pierced in this part, and the gallery, bored into the bowels of the earth, had no direct communication with the surface of the earth. James Starr, with intense interest, examined the place in which they were standing. On the walls of the cavern the marks of the pick could still be seen, and even holes in which the rock had been blasted, near the termination of the working. The schist was excessively hard, and it had not been necessary to bank up the end of the tunnel where the works had come to an end. There the vein had failed, between the schist and the tertiary sandstone. From this very place had been extracted the last piece of coal from the Dochart pit. "We must attack the dyke," said Ford, raising his pick; "for at the other side of the break, at more or less depth, we shall assuredly find the vein, the existence of which I assert." "And was it on the surface of these rocks that you found out the fire-damp?" asked James Starr. "Just there, sir," returned Ford, "and I was able to light it only by bringing my lamp near to the cracks in the rock. Harry has done it as well as I." "At what height?" asked Starr. "Ten feet from the ground," replied Harry. James Starr had seated himself on a rock. After critically inhaling the air of the cavern, he gazed at the two miners, almost as if doubting their words, decided as they were. In fact, carburetted hydrogen is not completely scentless, and the engineer, whose sense of smell was very keen, was astonished that it had not revealed the presence of the explosive gas. At any rate, if the gas had mingled at all with the surrounding air, it could only be in a very small stream. There was no danger of an explosion, and they might without fear open the safety lamp to try the experiment, just as the old miner had done before. What troubled James Starr was, not lest too much gas mingled with the air, but lest there should be little or none. "Could they have been mistaken?" he murmured. "No: these men know what they are about. And yet—" He waited, not without some anxiety, until Simon Ford's phenomenon should have taken place. But just then it seemed that Harry, like himself, had remarked the absence of the characteristic odor of fire-damp; for he exclaimed in an altered voice, "Father, I should say the gas was no longer escaping through the cracks!" "No longer!" cried the old miner—and, pressing his lips tight together, he snuffed the air several times. Then, all at once, with a sudden movement, "Hand me your lamp, Harry," he said. Ford took the lamp with a trembling hand. He drew off the wire gauze case which surrounded the wick, and the flame burned in the open air. As they had expected, there was no explosion, but, what was more serious, there was not even the slight crackling which indicates the presence of a small quantity of firedamp. Simon took the stick which Harry was holding, fixed his lamp to the end of it, and raised it high above his head, up to where the gas, by reason of its buoyancy, would naturally accumulate. The flame of the lamp, burning straight and clear, revealed no trace of the carburetted hydrogen. "Close to the wall," said the engineer. "Yes," responded Ford, carrying the lamp to that part of the wall at which he and his son had, the evening before, proved the escape of gas. The old miner's arm trembled whilst he tried to hoist the lamp up. "Take my place, Harry," said he. Harry took the stick, and successively presented the lamp to the different fissures in the rock; but he shook his head, for of that slight crackling peculiar to escaping fire-damp he heard nothing. There was no flame. Evidently not a particle of gas was escaping through the rock. "Nothing!" cried Ford, clenching his fist with a gesture rather of anger than disappointment. A cry escaped Harry. "What's the matter?" asked Starr quickly. "Someone has stopped up the cracks in the schist!" "Is that true?" exclaimed the old miner. "Look, father!" Harry was not mistaken. The obstruction of the fissures was clearly visible by the light of the lamp. It had been recently done with lime, leaving on the rock a long whitish mark, badly concealed with coal dust. "It's he!" exclaimed Harry. "It can only be he!" "He?" repeated James Starr in amazement. "Yes!" returned the young man, "that mysterious being who haunts our domain, for whom I have watched a hundred times without being able to get at him—the author, we may now be certain, of that letter which was intended to hinder you from coming to see my father, Mr. Starr, and who finally threw that stone at us in the gallery of the Yarrow shaft! Ah! there's no doubt about it; there is a man's hand in all that!" Harry spoke with such energy that conviction came instantly and fully to the engineer's mind. As to the old overman, he was already convinced. Besides, there they were in the presence of an undeniable fact—the stopping-up of cracks through which gas had escaped freely the night before. "Take your pick, Harry," cried Ford; "mount on my shoulders, my lad! I am still strong enough to bear you!" The young man understood in an instant. His father propped himself up against the rock. Harry got upon his shoulders, so that with his pick he could reach the line of the fissure. Then with quick sharp blows he attacked it. Almost directly afterwards a slight sound was heard, like champagne escaping from a bottle—a sound commonly expressed by the word "puff." Harry again seized his lamp, and held it to the opening. There was a slight report; and a little red flame, rather blue at its outline, flickered over the rock like a Will-o'-the-Wisp. Harry leaped to the ground, and the old overman, unable to contain his joy, grasped the engineer's hands, exclaiming, "Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah! Mr. Starr. The fire-damp burns! the vein is there!" # CHAPTER VII. NEW ABERFOYLE The old overman's experiment had succeeded. Firedamp, it is well known, is only generated in coal seams; therefore the existence of a vein of precious combustible could no longer be doubted. As to its size and quality, that must be determined later. "Yes," thought James Starr, "behind that wall lies a carboniferous bed, undiscovered by our soundings. It is vexatious that all the apparatus of the mine, deserted for ten years, must be set up anew. Never mind. We have found the vein which was thought to be exhausted, and this time it shall be worked to the end!" "Well, Mr. Starr," asked Ford, "what do you think of our discovery? Was I wrong to trouble you? Are you sorry to have paid this visit to the Dochart pit?" "No, no, my old friend!" answered Starr. "We have not lost our time; but we shall be losing it now, if we do not return immediately to the cottage. To-morrow we will come back here. We will blast this wall with dynamite. We will lay open the new vein, and after a series of soundings, if the seam appears to be large, I will form a new Aberfoyle Company, to the great satisfaction of the old shareholders. Before three months have passed, the first corves full of coal will have been taken from the new vein." "Well said, sir!" cried Simon Ford. "The old mine will grow young again, like a widow who remarries! The bustle of the old days will soon begin with the blows of the pick, and mattock, blasts of powder, rumbling of wagons, neighing of horses, creaking of machines! I shall see it all again! I hope, Mr. Starr, that you will not think me too old to resume my duties of overman?" "No, Simon, no indeed! You wear better than I do, my old friend!" "And, sir, you shall be our viewer again. May the new working last for many years, and pray Heaven I shall have the consolation of dying without seeing the end of it!" The old miner was overflowing with joy. James Starr fully entered into it; but he let Ford rave for them both. Harry alone remained thoughtful. To his memory recurred the succession of singular, inexplicable circumstances attending the discovery of the new bed. It made him uneasy about the future. An hour afterwards, James Starr and his two companions were back in the cottage. The engineer supped with good appetite, listening with satisfaction to all the plans unfolded by the old overman; and had it not been for his excitement about the next day's work, he would never have slept better than in the perfect stillness of the cottage. The following day, after a substantial breakfast, James Starr, Simon Ford, Harry, and even Madge herself, took the road already traversed the day before. All looked like regular miners. They carried different tools, and some dynamite with which to blast the rock. Harry, besides a large lantern, took a safety lamp, which would burn for twelve hours. It was more than was necessary for the journey there and back, including the time for the working—supposing a working was possible. "To work! to work!" shouted Ford, when the party reached the further end of the passage; and he grasped a heavy crowbar and brandished it. "Stop one instant," said Starr. "Let us see if any change has taken place, and if the fire-damp still escapes through the crevices." "You are right, Mr. Starr," said Harry. "Whoever stopped it up yesterday may have done it again to-day!" Madge, seated on a rock, carefully observed the excavation, and the wall which was to be blasted. It was found that everything was just as they left it. The crevices had undergone no alteration; the carburetted hydrogen still filtered through, though in a small stream, which was no doubt because it had had a free passage since the day before. As the quantity was so small, it could not have formed an explosive mixture with the air inside. James Starr and his companions could therefore proceed in security. Besides, the air grew purer by rising to the heights of the Dochart pit; and the fire-damp, spreading through the atmosphere, would not be strong enough to make any explosion. "To work, then!" repeated Ford; and soon the rock flew in splinters under his skillful blows. The break was chiefly composed of pudding-stone, interspersed with sandstone and schist, such as is most often met with between the coal veins. James Starr picked up some of the pieces, and examined them carefully, hoping to discover some trace of coal. Starr having chosen the place where the holes were to be drilled, they were rapidly bored by Harry. Some cartridges of dynamite were put into them. As soon as the long, tarred safety match was laid, it was lighted on a level with the ground. James Starr and his companions then went off to some distance. "Oh! Mr. Starr," said Simon Ford, a prey to agitation, which he did not attempt to conceal, "never, no, never has my old heart beaten so quick before! I am longing to get at the vein!" "Patience, Simon!" responded the engineer. "You don't mean to say that you think you are going to find a passage all ready open behind that dyke?" "Excuse me, sir," answered the old overman; "but of course I think so! If there was good luck in the way Harry and I discovered this place, why shouldn't the good luck go on?" As he spoke, came the explosion. A sound as of thunder rolled through the labyrinth of subterranean galleries. Starr, Madge, Harry, and Simon Ford hastened towards the spot. "Mr. Starr! Mr. Starr!" shouted the overman. "Look! the door is broken open!" Ford's comparison was justified by the appearance of an excavation, the depth of which could not be calculated. Harry was about to spring through the opening; but the engineer, though excessively surprised to find this cavity, held him back. "Allow time for the air in there to get pure," said he. "Yes! beware of the foul air!" said Simon. A quarter of an hour was passed in anxious waiting. The lantern was then fastened to the end of a stick, and introduced into the cave, where it continued to burn with unaltered brilliancy. "Now then, Harry, go," said Starr, "and we will follow you." The opening made by the dynamite was sufficiently large to allow a man to pass through. Harry, lamp in hand, entered unhesitatingly, and disappeared in the darkness. His father, mother, and James Starr waited in silence. A minute—which seemed to them much longer—passed. Harry did not reappear, did not call. Gazing into the opening, James Starr could not even see the light of his lamp, which ought to have illuminated the dark cavern. Had the ground suddenly given way under Harry's feet? Had the young miner fallen into some crevice? Could his voice no longer reach his companions? The old overman, dead to their remonstrances, was about to enter the opening, when a light appeared, dim at first, but gradually growing brighter, and Harry's voice was heard shouting, "Come, Mr. Starr! come, father! The road to New Aberfoyle is open!" If, by some superhuman power, engineers could have raised in a block, a thousand feet thick, all that portion of the terrestrial crust which supports the lakes, rivers, gulfs, and territories of the counties of Stirling, Dumbarton, and Renfrew, they would have found, under that enormous lid, an immense excavation, to which but one other in the world can be compared—the celebrated Mammoth caves of Kentucky. This excavation was composed of several hundred divisions of all sizes and shapes. It might be called a hive with numberless ranges of cells, capriciously arranged, but a hive on a vast scale, and which, instead of bees, might have lodged all the ichthyosauri, megatheriums, and pterodactyles of the geological epoch. A labyrinth of galleries, some higher than the most lofty cathedrals, others like cloisters, narrow and winding—these following a horizontal line, those on an incline or running obliquely in all directions—connected the caverns and allowed free communication between them. The pillars sustaining the vaulted roofs, whose curves allowed of every style, the massive walls between the passages, the naves themselves in this layer of secondary formation, were composed of sandstone and schistous rocks. But tightly packed between these useless strata ran valuable veins of coal, as if the black blood of this strange mine had circulated through their tangled network. These fields extended forty miles north and south, and stretched even under the Caledonian Canal. The importance of this bed could not be calculated until after soundings, but it would certainly surpass those of Cardiff and Newcastle. We may add that the working of this mine would be singularly facilitated by the fantastic dispositions of the secondary earths; for by an unaccountable retreat of the mineral matter at the geological epoch, when the mass was solidifying, nature had already multiplied the galleries and tunnels of New Aberfoyle. Yes, nature alone! It might at first have been supposed that some works abandoned for centuries had been discovered afresh. Nothing of the sort. No one would have deserted such riches. Human termites had never gnawed away this part of the Scottish subsoil; nature herself had done it all. But, we repeat, it could be compared to nothing but the celebrated Mammoth caves, which, in an extent of more than twenty miles, contain two hundred and twenty-six avenues, eleven lakes, seven rivers, eight cataracts, thirty-two unfathomable wells, and fifty-seven domes, some of which are more than four hundred and fifty feet in height. Like these caves, New Aberfoyle was not the work of men, but the work of the Creator. Such was this new domain, of matchless wealth, the discovery of which belonged entirely to the old overman. Ten years' sojourn in the deserted mine, an uncommon pertinacity in research, perfect faith, sustained by a marvelous mining instinct—all these qualities together led him to succeed where so many others had failed. Why had the soundings made under the direction of James Starr during the last years of the working stopped just at that limit, on the very frontier of the new mine? That was all chance, which takes great part in researches of this kind. However that might be, there was, under the Scottish subsoil, what might be called a subterranean county, which, to be habitable, needed only the rays of the sun, or, for want of that, the light of a special planet. Water had collected in various hollows, forming vast ponds, or rather lakes larger than Loch Katrine, lying just above them. Of course the waters of these lakes had no movement of currents or tides; no old castle was reflected there; no birch or oak trees waved on their banks. And yet these deep lakes, whose mirror-like surface was never ruffled by a breeze, would not be without charm by the light of some electric star, and, connected by a string of canals, would well complete the geography of this strange domain. Although unfit for any vegetable production, the place could be inhabited by a whole population. And who knows but that in this steady temperature, in the depths of the mines of Aberfoyle, as well as in those of Newcastle, Alloa, or Cardiff—when their contents shall have been exhausted—who knows but that the poorer classes of Great Britain will some day find a refuge? # CHAPTER VIII. EXPLORING At Harry's call, James Starr, Madge, and Simon Ford entered through the narrow orifice which put the Dochart pit in communication with the new mine. They found themselves at the beginning of a tolerably wide gallery. One might well believe that it had been pierced by the hand of man, that the pick and mattock had emptied it in the working of a new vein. The explorers question whether, by a strange chance, they had not been transported into some ancient mine, of the existence of which even the oldest miners in the county had ever known. No! It was merely that the geological layers had left this passage when the secondary earths were in course of formation. Perhaps some torrent had formerly dashed through it; but now it was as dry as if it had been cut some thousand feet lower, through granite rocks. At the same time, the air circulated freely, which showed that certain natural vents placed it in communication with the exterior atmosphere. This observation, made by the engineer, was correct, and it was evident that the ventilation of the new mine would be easily managed. As to the fire-damp which had lately filtered through the schist, it seemed to have been contained in a pocket now empty, and it was certain that the atmosphere of the gallery was quite free from it. However, Harry prudently carried only the safety lamp, which would insure light for twelve hours. James Starr and his companions now felt perfectly happy. All their wishes were satisfied. There was nothing but coal around them. A sort of emotion kept them silent; even Simon Ford restrained himself. His joy overflowed, not in long phrases, but in short ejaculations. It was perhaps imprudent to venture so far into the crypt. Pooh! they never thought of how they were to get back. The gallery was practicable, not very winding. They met with no noxious exhalations, nor did any chasm bar the path. There was no reason for stopping for a whole hour; James Starr, Madge, Harry, and Simon Ford walked on, though there was nothing to show them what was the exact direction of this unknown tunnel. And they would no doubt have gone farther still, if they had not suddenly come to the end of the wide road which they had followed since their entrance into the mine. The gallery ended in an enormous cavern, neither the height nor depth of which could be calculated. At what altitude arched the roof of this excavation—at what distance was its opposite wall—the darkness totally concealed; but by the light of the lamp the explorers could discover that its dome covered a vast extent of still water—pond or lake—whose picturesque rocky banks were lost in obscurity. "Halt!" exclaimed Ford, stopping suddenly. "Another step, and perhaps we shall fall into some fathomless pit." "Let us rest awhile, then, my friends," returned the engineer. "Besides, we ought to be thinking of returning to the cottage." "Our lamp will give light for another ten hours, sir," said Harry. "Well, let us make a halt," replied Starr; "I confess my legs have need of a rest. And you, Madge, don't you feel tired after so long a walk?" "Not over much, Mr. Starr," replied the sturdy Scotchwoman; "we have been accustomed to explore the old Aberfoyle mine for whole days together." "Tired? nonsense!" interrupted Simon Ford; "Madge could go ten times as far, if necessary. But once more, Mr. Starr, wasn't my communication worth your trouble in coming to hear it? Just dare to say no, Mr. Starr, dare to say no!" "Well, my old friend, I haven't felt so happy for a long while!" replied the engineer; "the small part of this marvelous mine that we have explored seems to show that its extent is very considerable, at least in length." "In width and in depth, too, Mr. Starr!" returned Simon Ford. "That we shall know later." "And I can answer for it! Trust to the instinct of an old miner! It has never deceived me!" "I wish to believe you, Simon," replied the engineer, smiling. "As far as I can judge from this short exploration, we possess the elements of a working which will last for centuries!" "Centuries!" exclaimed Simon Ford; "I believe you, sir! A thousand years and more will pass before the last bit of coal is taken out of our new mine!" "Heaven grant it!" returned Starr. "As to the quality of the coal which crops out of these walls?" "Superb! Mr. Starr, superb!" answered Ford; "just look at it yourself!" And so saying, with his pick he struck off a fragment of the black rock. "Look! look!" he repeated, holding it close to his lamp; "the surface of this piece of coal is shining! We have here fat coal, rich in bituminous matter; and see how it comes in pieces, almost without dust! Ah, Mr. Starr! twenty years ago this seam would have entered into a strong competition with Swansea and Cardiff! Well, stokers will quarrel for it still, and if it costs little to extract it from the mine, it will not sell at a less price outside." "Indeed," said Madge, who had taken the fragment of coal and was examining it with the air of a connoisseur; "that's good quality of coal. Carry it home, Simon, carry it back to the cottage! I want this first piece of coal to burn under our kettle." "Well said, wife!" answered the old overman, "and you shall see that I am not mistaken." "Mr. Starr," asked Harry, "have you any idea of the probable direction of this long passage which we have been following since our entrance into the new mine?" "No, my lad," replied the engineer; "with a compass I could perhaps find out its general bearing; but without a compass I am here like a sailor in open sea, in the midst of fogs, when there is no sun by which to calculate his position." "No doubt, Mr. Starr," replied Ford; "but pray don't compare our position with that of the sailor, who has everywhere and always an abyss under his feet! We are on firm ground here, and need never be afraid of foundering." "I won't tease you, then, old Simon," answered James Starr. "Far be it from me even in jest to depreciate the New Aberfoyle mine by an unjust comparison! I only meant to say one thing, and that is that we don't know where we are." "We are in the subsoil of the county of Stirling, Mr. Starr," replied Simon Ford; "and that I assert as if—" "Listen!" said Harry, interrupting the old man. All listened, as the young miner was doing. His ears, which were very sharp, had caught a dull sound, like a distant murmur. His companions were not long in hearing it themselves. It was above their heads, a sort of rolling sound, in which though it was so feeble, the successive _crescendo_ and _diminuendo_ could be distinctly heard. All four stood for some minutes, their ears on the stretch, without uttering a word. All at once Simon Ford exclaimed, "Well, I declare! Are trucks already running on the rails of New Aberfoyle?" "Father," replied Harry, "it sounds to me just like the noise made by waves rolling on the sea shore." "We can't be under the sea though!" cried the old overman. "No," said the engineer, "but it is not impossible that we should be under Loch Katrine." "The roof cannot have much thickness just here, if the noise of the water is perceptible." "Very little indeed," answered James Starr, "and that is the reason this cavern is so huge." "You must be right, Mr. Starr," said Harry. "Besides, the weather is so bad outside," resumed Starr, "that the waters of the loch must be as rough as those of the Firth of Forth." "Well! what does it matter after all?" returned Simon Ford; "the seam won't be any the worse because it is under a loch. It would not be the first time that coal has been looked for under the very bed of the ocean! When we have to work under the bottom of the Caledonian Canal, where will be the harm?" "Well said, Simon," cried the engineer, who could not restrain a smile at the overman's enthusiasm; "let us cut our trenches under the waters of the sea! Let us bore the bed of the Atlantic like a strainer; let us with our picks join our brethren of the United States through the subsoil of the ocean! let us dig into the center of the globe if necessary, to tear out the last scrap of coal." "Are you joking, Mr. Starr?" asked Ford, with a pleased but slightly suspicious look. "I joking, old man? no! but you are so enthusiastic that you carry me away into the regions of impossibility! Come, let us return to the reality, which is sufficiently beautiful; leave our picks here, where we may find them another day, and let's take the road back to the cottage." Nothing more could be done for the time. Later, the engineer, accompanied by a brigade of miners, supplied with lamps and all necessary tools, would resume the exploration of New Aberfoyle. It was now time to return to the Dochart pit. The road was easy, the gallery running nearly straight through the rock up to the orifice opened by the dynamite, so there was no fear of their losing themselves. But as James Starr was proceeding towards the gallery Simon Ford stopped him. "Mr. Starr," said he, "you see this immense cavern, this subterranean lake, whose waters bathe this strand at our feet? Well! it is to this place I mean to change my dwelling, here I will build a new cottage, and if some brave fellows will follow my example, before a year is over there will be one town more inside old England." James Starr, smiling approval of Ford's plans, pressed his hand, and all three, preceding Madge, re-entered the gallery, on their way back to the Dochart pit. For the first mile no incident occurred. Harry walked first, holding his lamp above his head. He carefully followed the principal gallery, without ever turning aside into the narrow tunnels which radiated to the right and left. It seemed as if the returning was to be accomplished as easily as the going, when an unexpected accident occurred which rendered the situation of the explorers very serious. Just at a moment when Harry was raising his lamp there came a rush of air, as if caused by the flapping of invisible wings. The lamp escaped from his hands, fell on the rocky ground, and was broken to pieces. James Starr and his companions were suddenly plunged in absolute darkness. All the oil of the lamp was spilt, and it was of no further use. "Well, Harry," cried his father, "do you want us all to break our necks on the way back to the cottage?" Harry did not answer. He wondered if he ought to suspect the hand of a mysterious being in this last accident? Could there possibly exist in these depths an enemy whose unaccountable antagonism would one day create serious difficulties? Had someone an interest in defending the new coal field against any attempt at working it? In truth that seemed absurd, yet the facts spoke for themselves, and they accumulated in such a way as to change simple presumptions into certainties. In the meantime the explorers' situation was bad enough. They had now, in the midst of black darkness, to follow the passage leading to the Dochart pit for nearly five miles. There they would still have an hour's walk before reaching the cottage. "Come along," said Simon Ford. "We have no time to lose. We must grope our way along, like blind men. There's no fear of losing our way. The tunnels which open off our road are only just like those in a molehill, and by following the chief gallery we shall of course reach the opening we got in at. After that, it is the old mine. We know that, and it won't be the first time that Harry and I have found ourselves there in the dark. Besides, there we shall find the lamps that we left. Forward then! Harry, go first. Mr. Starr, follow him. Madge, you go next, and I will bring up the rear. Above everything, don't let us get separated." All complied with the old overman's instructions. As he said, by groping carefully, they could not mistake the way. It was only necessary to make the hands take the place of the eyes, and to trust to their instinct, which had with Simon Ford and his son become a second nature. James Starr and his companions walked on in the order agreed. They did not speak, but it was not for want of thinking. It became evident that they had an adversary. But what was he, and how were they to defend themselves against these mysteriously-prepared attacks? These disquieting ideas crowded into their brains. However, this was not the moment to get discouraged. Harry, his arms extended, advanced with a firm step, touching first one and then the other side of the passage. If a cleft or side opening presented itself, he felt with his hand that it was not the main way; either the cleft was too shallow, or the opening too narrow, and he thus kept in the right road. In darkness through which the eye could not in the slightest degree pierce, this difficult return lasted two hours. By reckoning the time since they started, taking into consideration that the walking had not been rapid, Starr calculated that he and his companions were near the opening. In fact, almost immediately, Harry stopped. "Have we got to the end of the gallery?" asked Simon Ford. "Yes," answered the young miner. "Well! have you not found the hole which connects New Aberfoyle with the Dochart pit?" "No," replied Harry, whose impatient hands met with nothing but a solid wall. The old overman stepped forward, and himself felt the schistous rock. A cry escaped him. Either the explorers had strayed from the right path on their return, or the narrow orifice, broken in the rock by the dynamite, had been recently stopped up. James Starr and his companions were prisoners in New Aberfoyle. # CHAPTER IX. THE FIRE-MAIDENS A week after the events just related had taken place, James Starr's friends had become very anxious. The engineer had disappeared, and no reason could be brought forward to explain his absence. They learnt, by questioning his servant, that he had embarked at Granton Pier. But from that time there were no traces of James Starr. Simon Ford's letter had requested secrecy, and he had said nothing of his departure for the Aberfoyle mines. Therefore in Edinburgh nothing was talked of but the unaccountable absence of the engineer. Sir W. Elphiston, the President of the Royal Institution, communicated to his colleagues a letter which James Starr had sent him, excusing himself from being present at the next meeting of the society. Two or three others produced similar letters. But though these documents proved that Starr had left Edinburgh—which was known before—they threw no light on what had become of him. Now, on the part of such a man, this prolonged absence, so contrary to his usual habits, naturally first caused surprise, and then anxiety. A notice was inserted in the principal newspapers of the United Kingdom relative to the engineer James Starr, giving a description of him and the date on which he left Edinburgh; nothing more could be done but to wait. The time passed in great anxiety. The scientific world of England was inclined to believe that one of its most distinguished members had positively disappeared. At the same time, when so many people were thinking about James Starr, Harry Ford was the subject of no less anxiety. Only, instead of occupying public attention, the son of the old overman was the cause of trouble alone to the generally cheerful mind of Jack Ryan. It may be remembered that, in their encounter in the Yarrow shaft, Jack Ryan had invited Harry to come a week afterwards to the festivities at Irvine. Harry had accepted and promised expressly to be there. Jack Ryan knew, having had it proved by many circumstances, that his friend was a man of his word. With him, a thing promised was a thing done. Now, at the Irvine merry-making, nothing was wanting; neither song, nor dance, nor fun of any sort—nothing but Harry Ford. The notice relative to James Starr, published in the papers, had not yet been seen by Ryan. The honest fellow was therefore only worried by Harry's absence, telling himself that something serious could alone have prevented him from keeping his promise. So, the day after the Irvine games, Jack Ryan intended to take the railway from Glasgow and go to the Dochart pit; and this he would have done had he not been detained by an accident which nearly cost him his life. Something which occurred on the night of the 12th of December was of a nature to support the opinions of all partisans of the supernatural, and there were many at Melrose Farm. Irvine, a little seaport of Renfrew, containing nearly seven thousand inhabitants, lies in a sharp bend made by the Scottish coast, near the mouth of the Firth of Clyde. The most ancient and the most famed ruins on this part of the coast were those of this castle of Robert Stuart, which bore the name of Dundonald Castle. At this period Dundonald Castle, a refuge for all the stray goblins of the country, was completely deserted. It stood on the top of a high rock, two miles from the town, and was seldom visited. Sometimes a few strangers took it into their heads to explore these old historical remains, but then they always went alone. The inhabitants of Irvine would not have taken them there at any price. Indeed, several legends were based on the story of certain "fire-maidens," who haunted the old castle. The most superstitious declared they had seen these fantastic creatures with their own eyes. Jack Ryan was naturally one of them. It was a fact that from time to time long flames appeared, sometimes on a broken piece of wall, sometimes on the summit of the tower which was the highest point of Dundonald Castle. Did these flames really assume a human shape, as was asserted? Did they merit the name of fire-maidens, given them by the people of the coast? It was evidently just an optical delusion, aided by a good deal of credulity, and science could easily have explained the phenomenon. However that might be, these fire-maidens had the reputation of frequenting the ruins of the old castle and there performing wild strathspeys, especially on dark nights. Jack Ryan, bold fellow though he was, would never have dared to accompany those dances with the music of his bagpipes. "Old Nick is enough for them!" said he. "He doesn't need me to complete his infernal orchestra." We may well believe that these strange apparitions frequently furnished a text for the evening stories. Jack Ryan was ending the evening with one of these. His auditors, transported into the phantom world, were worked up into a state of mind which would believe anything. All at once shouts were heard outside. Jack Ryan stopped short in the middle of his story, and all rushed out of the barn. The night was pitchy dark. Squalls of wind and rain swept along the beach. Two or three fishermen, their backs against a rock, the better to resist the wind, were shouting at the top of their voices. Jack Ryan and his companions ran up to them. The shouts were, however, not for the inhabitants of the farm, but to warn men who, without being aware of it, were going to destruction. A dark, confused mass appeared some way out at sea. It was a vessel whose position could be seen by her lights, for she carried a white one on her foremast, a green on the starboard side, and a red on the outside. She was evidently running straight on the rocks. "A ship in distress?" said Ryan. "Ay," answered one of the fishermen, "and now they want to tack, but it's too late!" "Do they want to run ashore?" said another. "It seems so," responded one of the fishermen, "unless he has been misled by some—" The man was interrupted by a yell from Jack. Could the crew have heard it? At any rate, it was too late for them to beat back from the line of breakers which gleamed white in the darkness. But it was not, as might be supposed, a last effort of Ryan's to warn the doomed ship. He now had his back to the sea. His companions turned also, and gazed at a spot situated about half a mile inland. It was Dundonald Castle. A long flame twisted and bent under the gale, on the summit of the old tower. "The Fire-Maiden!" cried the superstitious men in terror. Clearly, it needed a good strong imagination to find any human likeness in that flame. Waving in the wind like a luminous flag, it seemed sometimes to fly round the tower, as if it was just going out, and a moment after it was seen again dancing on its blue point. "The Fire-Maiden! the Fire-Maiden!" cried the terrified fishermen and peasants. All was then explained. The ship, having lost her reckoning in the fog, had taken this flame on the top of Dundonald Castle for the Irvine light. She thought herself at the entrance of the Firth, ten miles to the north, when she was really running on a shore which offered no refuge. What could be done to save her, if there was still time? It was too late. A frightful crash was heard above the tumult of the elements. The vessel had struck. The white line of surf was broken for an instant; she heeled over on her side and lay among the rocks. At the same time, by a strange coincidence, the long flame disappeared, as if it had been swept away by a violent gust. Earth, sea, and sky were plunged in complete darkness. "The Fire-Maiden!" shouted Ryan, for the last time, as the apparition, which he and his companions believed supernatural, disappeared. But then the courage of these superstitious Scotchmen, which had failed before a fancied danger, returned in face of a real one, which they were ready to brave in order to save their fellow-creatures. The tempest did not deter them. As heroic as they had before been credulous, fastening ropes round their waists, they rushed into the waves to the aid of those on the wreck. Happily, they succeeded in their endeavors, although some—and bold Jack Ryan was among the number—were severely wounded on the rocks. But the captain of the vessel and the eight sailors who composed his crew were hauled up, safe and sound, on the beach. The ship was the Norwegian brig _Motala_, laden with timber, and bound for Glasgow. Of the _Motala_ herself nothing remained but a few spars, washed up by the waves, and dashed among the rocks on the beach. Jack Ryan and three of his companions, wounded like himself, were carried into a room of Melrose Farm, where every care was lavished on them. Ryan was the most hurt, for when with the rope round his waist he had rushed into the sea, the waves had almost immediately dashed him back against the rocks. He was brought, indeed, very nearly lifeless on to the beach. The brave fellow was therefore confined to bed for several days, to his great disgust. However, as soon as he was given permission to sing as much as he liked, he bore his trouble patiently, and the farm echoed all day with his jovial voice. But from this adventure he imbibed a more lively sentiment of fear with regard to brownies and other goblins who amuse themselves by plaguing mankind, and he made them responsible for the catastrophe of the Motala. It would have been vain to try and convince him that the Fire-Maidens did not exist, and that the flame, so suddenly appearing among the ruins, was but a natural phenomenon. No reasoning could make him believe it. His companions were, if possible, more obstinate than he in their credulity. According to them, one of the Fire-Maidens had maliciously attracted the _Motala_ to the coast. As to wishing to punish her, as well try to bring the tempest to justice! The magistrates might order what arrests they pleased, but a flame cannot be imprisoned, an impalpable being can't be handcuffed. It must be acknowledged that the researches which were ultimately made gave ground, at least in appearance, to this superstitious way of explaining the facts. The inquiry was made with great care. Officials came to Dundonald Castle, and they proceeded to conduct a most vigorous search. The magistrate wished first to ascertain if the ground bore any footprints, which could be attributed to other than goblins' feet. It was impossible to find the least trace, whether old or new. Moreover, the earth, still damp from the rain of the day before, would have preserved the least vestige. The result of all this was, that the magistrates only got for their trouble a new legend added to so many others—a legend which would be perpetuated by the remembrance of the catastrophe of the _Motala_, and indisputably confirm the truth of the apparition of the Fire-Maidens. A hearty fellow like Jack Ryan, with so strong a constitution, could not be long confined to his bed. A few sprains and bruises were not quite enough to keep him on his back longer than he liked. He had not time to be ill. Jack, therefore, soon got well. As soon as he was on his legs again, before resuming his work on the farm, he wished to go and visit his friend Harry, and learn why he had not come to the Irvine merry-making. He could not understand his absence, for Harry was not a man who would willingly promise and not perform. It was unlikely, too, that the son of the old overman had not heard of the wreck of the _Motala_, as it was in all the papers. He must know the part Jack had taken in it, and what had happened to him, and it was unlike Harry not to hasten to the farm and see how his old chum was going on. As Harry had not come, there must have been something to prevent him. Jack Ryan would as soon deny the existence of the Fire-Maidens as believe in Harry's indifference. Two days after the catastrophe Jack left the farm merily, feeling nothing of his wounds. Singing in the fullness of his heart, he awoke the echoes of the cliff, as he walked to the station of the railway, which _via_ Glasgow would take him to Stirling and Callander. As he was waiting for his train, his attention was attracted by a bill posted up on the walls, containing the following notice: "On the 4th of December, the engineer, James Starr, of Edinburgh, embarked from Granton Pier, on board the _Prince of Wales_. He disembarked the same day at Stirling. From that time nothing further has been heard of him. "Any information concerning him is requested to be sent to the President of the Royal Institution, Edinburgh." Jack Ryan, stopping before one of these advertisements, read it twice over, with extreme surprise. "Mr. Starr!" he exclaimed. "Why, on the 4th of December I met him with Harry on the ladder of the Dochart pit! That was ten days ago! And he has not been seen from that time! That explains why my chum didn't come to Irvine." And without taking time to inform the President of the Royal Institution by letter, what he knew relative to James Starr, Jack jumped into the train, determining to go first of all to the Yarrow shaft. There he would descend to the depths of the pit, if necessary, to find Harry, and with him was sure to be the engineer James Starr. "They haven't turned up again," said he to himself. "Why? Has anything prevented them? Could any work of importance keep them still at the bottom of the mine? I must find out!" and Ryan, hastening his steps, arrived in less than an hour at the Yarrow shaft. Externally nothing was changed. The same silence around. Not a living creature was moving in that desert region. Jack entered the ruined shed which covered the opening of the shaft. He gazed down into the dark abyss—nothing was to be seen. He listened—nothing was to be heard. "And my lamp!" he exclaimed; "suppose it isn't in its place!" The lamp which Ryan used when he visited the pit was usually deposited in a corner, near the landing of the topmost ladder. It had disappeared. "Here is a nuisance!" said Jack, beginning to feel rather uneasy. Then, without hesitating, superstitious though he was, "I will go," said he, "though it's as dark down there as in the lowest depths of the infernal regions!" And he began to descend the long flight of ladders, which led down the gloomy shaft. Jack Ryan had not forgotten his old mining habits, and he was well acquainted with the Dochart pit, or he would scarcely have dared to venture thus. He went very carefully, however. His foot tried each round, as some of them were worm-eaten. A false step would entail a deadly fall, through this space of fifteen hundred feet. He counted each landing as he passed it, knowing that he could not reach the bottom of the shaft until he had left the thirtieth. Once there, he would have no trouble, so he thought, in finding the cottage, built, as we have said, at the extremity of the principal passage. Jack Ryan went on thus until he got to the twenty-sixth landing, and consequently had two hundred feet between him and the bottom. Here he put down his leg to feel for the first rung of the twenty-seventh ladder. But his foot swinging in space found nothing to rest on. He knelt down and felt about with his hand for the top of the ladder. It was in vain. "Old Nick himself must have been down this way!" said Jack, not without a slight feeling of terror. He stood considering for some time, with folded arms, and longing to be able to pierce the impenetrable darkness. Then it occurred to him that if he could not get down, neither could the inhabitants of the mine get up. There was now no communication between the depths of the pit and the upper regions. If the removal of the lower ladders of the Yarrow shaft had been effected since his last visit to the cottage, what had become of Simon Ford, his wife, his son, and the engineer? The prolonged absence of James Starr proved that he had not left the pit since the day Ryan met with him in the shaft. How had the cottage been provisioned since then? The food of these unfortunate people, imprisoned fifteen hundred feet below the surface of the ground, must have been exhausted by this time. All this passed through Jack's mind, as he saw that by himself he could do nothing to get to the cottage. He had no doubt but that communication had been interrupted with a malevolent intention. At any rate, the authorities must be informed, and that as soon as possible. Jack Ryan bent forward from the landing. "Harry! Harry!" he shouted with his powerful voice. Harry's name echoed and re-echoed among the rocks, and finally died away in the depths of the shaft. Ryan rapidly ascended the upper ladders and returned to the light of day. Without losing a moment he reached the Callander station, just caught the express to Edinburgh, and by three o'clock was before the Lord Provost. There his declaration was received. His account was given so clearly that it could not be doubted. Sir William Elphiston, President of the Royal Institution, and not only colleague, but a personal friend of Starr's, was also informed, and asked to direct the search which was to be made without delay in the mine. Several men were placed at his disposal, supplied with lamps, picks, long rope ladders, not forgetting provisions and cordials. Then guided by Jack Ryan, the party set out for the Aberfoyle mines. The same evening the expedition arrived at the opening of the Yarrow shaft, and descended to the twenty-seventh landing, at which Jack Ryan had been stopped a few hours previously. The lamps, fastened to long ropes, were lowered down the shaft, and it was thus ascertained that the four last ladders were wanting. As soon as the lamps had been brought up, the men fixed to the landing a rope ladder, which unrolled itself down the shaft, and all descended one after the other. Jack Ryan's descent was the most difficult, for he went first down the swinging ladders, and fastened them for the others. The space at the bottom of the shaft was completely deserted; but Sir William was much surprised at hearing Jack Ryan exclaim, "Here are bits of the ladders, and some of them half burnt!" "Burnt?" repeated Sir William. "Indeed, here sure enough are cinders which have evidently been cold a long time!" "Do you think, sir," asked Ryan, "that Mr. Starr could have had any reason for burning the ladders, and thus breaking of communication with the world?" "Certainly not," answered Sir William Elphiston, who had become very thoughtful. "Come, my lad, lead us to the cottage. There we shall ascertain the truth." Jack Ryan shook his head, as if not at all convinced. Then, taking a lamp from the hands of one of the men, he proceeded with a rapid step along the principal passage of the Dochart pit. The others all followed him. In a quarter of an hour the party arrived at the excavation in which stood Simon Ford's cottage. There was no light in the window. Ryan darted to the door, and threw it open. The house was empty. They examined all the rooms in the somber habitation. No trace of violence was to be found. All was in order, as if old Madge had been still there. There was even an ample supply of provisions, enough to last the Ford family for several days. The absence of the tenants of the cottage was quite unaccountable. But was it not possible to find out the exact time they had quitted it? Yes, for in this region, where there was no difference of day or night, Madge was accustomed to mark with a cross each day in her almanac. The almanac was pinned up on the wall, and there the last cross had been made at the 6th of December; that is to say, a day after the arrival of James Starr, to which Ryan could positively swear. It was clear that on the 6th of December, ten days ago, Simon Ford, his wife, son, and guest, had quitted the cottage. Could a fresh exploration of the mine, undertaken by the engineer, account for such a long absence? Certainly not. It was intensely dark all round. The lamps held by the men gave light only just where they were standing. Suddenly Jack Ryan uttered a cry. "Look there, there!" His finger was pointing to a tolerably bright light, which was moving about in the distance. "After that light, my men!" exclaimed Sir William. "It's a goblin light!" said Ryan. "So what's the use? We shall never catch it." The president and his men, little given to superstition, darted off in the direction of the moving light. Jack Ryan, bravely following their example, quickly overtook the head-most of the party. It was a long and fatiguing chase. The lantern seemed to be carried by a being of small size, but singular agility. Every now and then it disappeared behind some pillar, then was seen again at the end of a cross gallery. A sharp turn would place it out of sight, and it seemed to have completely disappeared, when all at once there would be the light as bright as ever. However, they gained very little on it, and Ryan's belief that they could never catch it seemed far from groundless. After an hour of this vain pursuit Sir William Elphiston and his companions had gone a long way in the southwest direction of the pit, and began to think they really had to do with an impalpable being. Just then it seemed as if the distance between the goblin and those who were pursuing it was becoming less. Could it be fatigued, or did this invisible being wish to entice Sir William and his companions to the place where the inhabitants of the cottage had perhaps themselves been enticed. It was hard to say. The men, seeing that the distance lessened, redoubled their efforts. The light which had before burnt at a distance of more than two hundred feet before them was now seen at less than fifty. The space continued to diminish. The bearer of the lamp became partially visible. Sometimes, when it turned its head, the indistinct profile of a human face could be made out, and unless a sprite could assume bodily shape, Jack Ryan was obliged to confess that here was no supernatural being. Then, springing forward,— "Courage, comrades!" he exclaimed; "it is getting tired! We shall soon catch it up now, and if it can talk as well as it can run we shall hear a fine story." But the pursuit had suddenly become more difficult. They were in unknown regions of the mine; narrow passages crossed each other like the windings of a labyrinth. The bearer of the lamp might escape them as easily as possible, by just extinguishing the light and retreating into some dark refuge. "And indeed," thought Sir William, "if it wishes to avoid us, why does it not do so?" Hitherto there had evidently been no intention to avoid them, but just as the thought crossed Sir William's mind the light suddenly disappeared, and the party, continuing the pursuit, found themselves before an extremely narrow natural opening in the schistous rocks. To trim their lamps, spring forward, and dart through the opening, was for Sir William and his party but the work of an instant. But before they had gone a hundred paces along this new gallery, much wider and loftier than the former, they all stopped short. There, near the wall, lay four bodies, stretched on the ground—four corpses, perhaps! "James Starr!" exclaimed Sir William Elphiston. "Harry! Harry!" cried Ryan, throwing himself down beside his friend. It was indeed the engineer, Madge, Simon, and Harry Ford who were lying there motionless. But one of the bodies moved slightly, and Madge's voice was heard faintly murmuring, "See to the others! help them first!" Sir William, Jack, and their companions endeavored to reanimate the engineer and his friends by getting them to swallow a few drops of brandy. They very soon succeeded. The unfortunate people, shut up in that dark cavern for ten days, were dying of starvation. They must have perished had they not on three occasions found a loaf of bread and a jug of water set near them. No doubt the charitable being to whom they owed their lives was unable to do more for them. Sir William wondered whether this might not have been the work of the strange sprite who had allured them to the very spot where James Starr and his companions lay. However that might be, the engineer, Madge, Simon, and Harry Ford were saved. They were assisted to the cottage, passing through the narrow opening which the bearer of the strange light had apparently wished to point out to Sir William. This was a natural opening. The passage which James Starr and his companions had made for themselves with dynamite had been completely blocked up with rocks laid one upon another. So, then, whilst they had been exploring the vast cavern, the way back had been purposely closed against them by a hostile hand. # CHAPTER X. COAL TOWN Three years after the events which have just been related, the guide-books recommended as a "great attraction," to the numerous tourists who roam over the county of Stirling, a visit of a few hours to the mines of New Aberfoyle. No mine in any country, either in the Old or New World, could present a more curious aspect. To begin with, the visitor was transported without danger or fatigue to a level with the workings, at fifteen hundred feet below the surface of the ground. Seven miles to the southwest of Callander opened a slanting tunnel, adorned with a castellated entrance, turrets and battlements. This lofty tunnel gently sloped straight to the stupendous crypt, hollowed out so strangely in the bowels of the earth. A double line of railway, the wagons being moved by hydraulic power, plied from hour to hour to and from the village thus buried in the subsoil of the county, and which bore the rather ambitious title of Coal Town. Arrived in Coal Town, the visitor found himself in a place where electricity played a principal part as an agent of heat and light. Although the ventilation shafts were numerous, they were not sufficient to admit much daylight into New Aberfoyle, yet it had abundance of light. This was shed from numbers of electric discs; some suspended from the vaulted roofs, others hanging on the natural pillars—all, whether suns or stars in size, were fed by continuous currents produced from electro-magnetic machines. When the hour of rest arrived, an artificial night was easily produced all over the mine by disconnecting the wires. Below the dome lay a lake of an extent to be compared to the Dead Sea of the Mammoth caves—a deep lake whose transparent waters swarmed with eyeless fish, and to which the engineer gave the name of Loch Malcolm. There, in this immense natural excavation, Simon Ford built his new cottage, which he would not have exchanged for the finest house in Prince's Street, Edinburgh. This dwelling was situated on the shores of the loch, and its five windows looked out on the dark waters, which extended further than the eye could see. Two months later a second habitation was erected in the neighborhood of Simon Ford's cottage: this was for James Starr. The engineer had given himself body and soul to New Aberfoyle, and nothing but the most imperative necessity ever caused him to leave the pit. There, then, he lived in the midst of his mining world. On the discovery of the new field, all the old colliers had hastened to leave the plow and harrow, and resume the pick and mattock. Attracted by the certainty that work would never fail, allured by the high wages which the prosperity of the mine enabled the company to offer for labor, they deserted the open air for an underground life, and took up their abode in the mines. The miners' houses, built of brick, soon grew up in a picturesque fashion; some on the banks of Loch Malcolm, others under the arches which seemed made to resist the weight that pressed upon them, like the piers of a bridge. So was founded Coal Town, situated under the eastern point of Loch Katrine, to the north of the county of Stirling. It was a regular settlement on the banks of Loch Malcolm. A chapel, dedicated to St. Giles, overlooked it from the top of a huge rock, whose foot was laved by the waters of the subterranean sea. When this underground town was lighted up by the bright rays thrown from the discs, hung from the pillars and arches, its aspect was so strange, so fantastic, that it justified the praise of the guide-books, and visitors flocked to see it. It is needless to say that the inhabitants of Coal Town were proud of their place. They rarely left their laboring village—in that imitating Simon Ford, who never wished to go out again. The old overman maintained that it always rained "up there," and, considering the climate of the United Kingdom, it must be acknowledged that he was not far wrong. All the families in New Aberfoyle prospered well, having in three years obtained a certain competency which they could never have hoped to attain on the surface of the county. Dozens of babies, who were born at the time when the works were resumed, had never yet breathed the outer air. This made Jack Ryan remark, "It's eighteen months since they were weaned, and they have not yet seen daylight!" It may be mentioned here, that one of the first to run at the engineer's call was Jack Ryan. The merry fellow had thought it his duty to return to his old trade. But though Melrose farm had lost singer and piper it must not be thought that Jack Ryan sung no more. On the contrary, the sonorous echoes of New Aberfoyle exerted their strong lungs to answer him. Jack Ryan took up his abode in Simon Ford's new cottage. They offered him a room, which he accepted without ceremony, in his frank and hearty way. Old Madge loved him for his fine character and good nature. She in some degree shared his ideas on the subject of the fantastic beings who were supposed to haunt the mine, and the two, when alone, told each other stories wild enough to make one shudder—stories well worthy of enriching the hyperborean mythology. Jack thus became the life of the cottage. He was, besides being a jovial companion, a good workman. Six months after the works had begun, he was made head of a gang of hewers. "That was a good work done, Mr. Ford," said he, a few days after his appointment. "You discovered a new field, and though you narrowly escaped paying for the discovery with your life—well, it was not too dearly bought." "No, Jack, it was a good bargain we made that time!" answered the old overman. "But neither Mr. Starr nor I have forgotten that to you we owe our lives." "Not at all," returned Jack. "You owe them to your son Harry, when he had the good sense to accept my invitation to Irvine." "And not to go, isn't that it?" interrupted Harry, grasping his comrade's hand. "No, Jack, it is to you, scarcely healed of your wounds—to you, who did not delay a day, no, nor an hour, that we owe our being found still alive in the mine!" "Rubbish, no!" broke in the obstinate fellow. "I won't have that said, when it's no such thing. I hurried to find out what had become of you, Harry, that's all. But to give everyone his due, I will add that without that unapproachable goblin—" "Ah, there we are!" cried Ford. "A goblin!" "A goblin, a brownie, a fairy's child," repeated Jack Ryan, "a cousin of the Fire-Maidens, an Urisk, whatever you like! It's not the less certain that without it we should never have found our way into the gallery, from which you could not get out." "No doubt, Jack," answered Harry. "It remains to be seen whether this being was as supernatural as you choose to believe." "Supernatural!" exclaimed Ryan. "But it was as supernatural as a Will-o'-the-Wisp, who may be seen skipping along with his lantern in his hand; you may try to catch him, but he escapes like a fairy, and vanishes like a shadow! Don't be uneasy, Harry, we shall see it again some day or other!" "Well, Jack," said Simon Ford, "Will-o'-the-Wisp or not, we shall try to find it, and you must help us." "You'll get into a scrap if you don't take care, Mr. Ford!" responded Jack Ryan. "We'll see about that, Jack!" We may easily imagine how soon this domain of New Aberfoyle became familiar to all the members of the Ford family, but more particularly to Harry. He learnt to know all its most secret ins and outs. He could even say what point of the surface corresponded with what point of the mine. He knew that above this seam lay the Firth of Clyde, that there extended Loch Lomond and Loch Katrine. Those columns supported a spur of the Grampian mountains. This vault served as a basement to Dumbarton. Above this large pond passed the Balloch railway. Here ended the Scottish coast. There began the sea, the tumult of which could be distinctly heard during the equinoctial gales. Harry would have been a first-rate guide to these natural catacombs, and all that Alpine guides do on their snowy peaks in daylight he could have done in the dark mine by the wonderful power of instinct. He loved New Aberfoyle. Many times, with his lamp stuck in his hat, did he penetrate its furthest depths. He explored its ponds in a skillfully-managed canoe. He even went shooting, for numerous birds had been introduced into the crypt—pintails, snipes, ducks, who fed on the fish which swarmed in the deep waters. Harry's eyes seemed made for the dark, just as a sailor's are made for distances. But all this while Harry felt irresistibly animated by the hope of finding the mysterious being whose intervention, strictly speaking, had saved himself and his friends. Would he succeed? He certainly would, if presentiments were to be trusted; but certainly not, if he judged by the success which had as yet attended his researches. The attacks directed against the family of the old overman, before the discovery of New Aberfoyle, had not been renewed. # CHAPTER XI. HANGING BY A THREAD Although in this way the Ford family led a happy and contented life, yet it was easy to see that Harry, naturally of a grave disposition, became more and more quiet and reserved. Even Jack Ryan, with all his good humor and usually infectious merriment, failed to rouse him to gayety of manner. One Sunday—it was in the month of June—the two friends were walking together on the shores of Loch Malcolm. Coal Town rested from labor. In the world above, stormy weather prevailed. Violent rains fell, and dull sultry vapors brooded over the earth; the atmosphere was most oppressive. Down in Coal Town there was perfect calm; no wind, no rain. A soft and pleasant temperature existed instead of the strife of the elements which raged without. What wonder then, that excursionists from Stirling came in considerable numbers to enjoy the calm fresh air in the recesses of the mine? The electric discs shed a brilliancy of light which the British sun, oftener obscured by fogs than it ought to be, might well envy. Jack Ryan kept talking of these visitors, who passed them in noisy crowds, but Harry paid very little attention to what he said. "I say, do look, Harry!" cried Jack. "See what numbers of people come to visit us! Cheer up, old fellow! Do the honors of the place a little better. If you look so glum, you'll make all these outside folks think you envy their life above-ground." "Never mind me, Jack," answered Harry. "You are jolly enough for two, I'm sure; that's enough." "I'll be hanged if I don't feel your melancholy creeping over me though!" exclaimed Jack. "I declare my eyes are getting quite dull, my lips are drawn together, my laugh sticks in my throat; I'm forgetting all my songs. Come, man, what's the matter with you?" "You know well enough, Jack." "What? the old story?" "Yes, the same thoughts haunt me." "Ah, poor fellow!" said Jack, shrugging his shoulders. "If you would only do like me, and set all the queer things down to the account of the goblins of the mine, you would be easier in your mind." "But, Jack, you know very well that these goblins exist only in your imagination, and that, since the works here have been reopened, not a single one has been seen." "That's true, Harry; but if no spirits have been seen, neither has anyone else to whom you could attribute the extraordinary doings we want to account for." "I shall discover them." "Ah, Harry! Harry! it's not so easy to catch the spirits of New Aberfoyle!" "I shall find out the spirits as you call them," said Harry, in a tone of firm conviction. "Do you expect to be able to punish them?" "Both punish and reward. Remember, if one hand shut us up in that passage, another hand delivered us! I shall not soon forget that." "But, Harry, how can we be sure that these two hands do not belong to the same body?" "What can put such a notion in your head, Jack?" asked Harry. "Well, I don't know. Creatures that live in these holes, Harry, don't you see? they can't be made like us, eh?" "But they _are_ just like us, Jack." "Oh, no! don't say that, Harry! Perhaps some madman managed to get in for a time." "A madman! No madman would have formed such connected plans, or done such continued mischief as befell us after the breaking of the ladders." "Well, but anyhow he has done no harm for the last three years, either to you, Harry, or any of your people." "No matter, Jack," replied Harry; "I am persuaded that this malignant being, whoever he is, has by no means given up his evil intentions. I can hardly say on what I found my convictions. But at any rate, for the sake of the new works, I must and will know who he is and whence he comes." "For the sake of the new works did you say?" asked Jack, considerably surprised. "I said so, Jack," returned Harry. "I may be mistaken, but, to me, all that has happened proves the existence of an interest in this mine in strong opposition to ours. Many a time have I considered the matter; I feel almost sure of it. Just consider the whole series of inexplicable circumstances, so singularly linked together. To begin with, the anonymous letter, contradictory to that of my father, at once proves that some man had become aware of our projects, and wished to prevent their accomplishment. Mr. Starr comes to see us at the Dochart pit. No sooner does he enter it with me than an immense stone is cast upon us, and communication is interrupted by the breaking of the ladders in the Yarrow shaft. We commence exploring. An experiment, by which the existence of a new vein would be proved, is rendered impossible by stoppage of fissures. Notwithstanding this, the examination is carried out, the vein discovered. We return as we came, a prodigious gust of air meets us, our lamp is broken, utter darkness surrounds us. Nevertheless, we make our way along the gloomy passage until, on reaching the entrance, we find it blocked up. There we were—imprisoned. Now, Jack, don't you see in all these things a malicious intention? Ah, yes, believe me, some being hitherto invisible, but not supernatural, as you will persist in thinking, was concealed in the mine. For some reason, known only to himself, he strove to keep us out of it. _Was_ there, did I say? I feel an inward conviction that he _is_ there still, and probably prepares some terrible disaster for us. Even at the risk of my life, Jack, I am resolved to discover him." Harry spoke with an earnestness which strongly impressed his companion. "Well, Harry," said he, "if I am forced to agree with you in certain points, won't you admit that some kind fairy or brownie, by bringing bread and water to you, was the means of—" "Jack, my friend," interrupted Harry, "it is my belief that the friendly person, whom you will persist in calling a spirit, exists in the mine as certainly as the criminal we speak of, and I mean to seek them both in the most distant recesses of the mine." "But," inquired Jack, "have you any possible clew to guide your search?" "Perhaps I have. Listen to me! Five miles west of New Aberfoyle, under the solid rock which supports Ben Lomond, there exists a natural shaft which descends perpendicularly into the vein beneath. A week ago I went to ascertain the depth of this shaft. While sounding it, and bending over the opening as my plumb-line went down, it seemed to me that the air within was agitated, as though beaten by huge wings." "Some bird must have got lost among the lower galleries," replied Jack. "But that is not all, Jack. This very morning I went back to the place, and, listening attentively, I thought I could detect a sound like a sort of groaning." "Groaning!" cried Jack, "that must be nonsense; it was a current of air—unless indeed some ghost—" "I shall know to-morrow what it was," said Harry. "To-morrow?" answered Jack, looking at his friend. "Yes; to-morrow I am going down into that abyss." "Harry! that will be a tempting of Providence." "No, Jack, Providence will aid me in the attempt. Tomorrow, you and some of our comrades will go with me to that shaft. I will fasten myself to a long rope, by which you can let me down, and draw me up at a given signal. I may depend upon you, Jack?" "Well, Harry," said Jack, shaking his head, "I will do as you wish me; but I tell you all the same, you are very wrong." "Nothing venture nothing win," said Harry, in a tone of decision. "To-morrow morning, then, at six o'clock. Be silent, and farewell!" It must be admitted that Jack Ryan's fears were far from groundless. Harry would expose himself to very great danger, supposing the enemy he sought for lay concealed at the bottom of the pit into which he was going to descend. It did not seem likely that such was the case, however. "Why in the world," repeated Jack Ryan, "should he take all this trouble to account for a set of facts so very easily and simply explained by the supernatural intervention of the spirits of the mine?" But, notwithstanding his objections to the scheme, Jack Ryan and three miners of his gang arrived next morning with Harry at the mouth of the opening of the suspicious shaft. Harry had not mentioned his intentions either to James Starr or to the old overman. Jack had been discreet enough to say nothing. Harry had provided himself with a rope about 200 feet long. It was not particularly thick, but very strong—sufficiently so to sustain his weight. His friends were to let him down into the gulf, and his pulling the cord was to be the signal to withdraw him. The opening into this shaft or well was twelve feet wide. A beam was thrown across like a bridge, so that the cord passing over it should hang down the center of the opening, and save Harry from striking against the sides in his descent. He was ready. "Are you still determined to explore this abyss?" whispered Jack Ryan. "Yes, I am, Jack." The cord was fastened round Harry's thighs and under his arms, to keep him from rocking. Thus supported, he was free to use both his hands. A safety-lamp hung at his belt, also a large, strong knife in a leather sheath. Harry advanced to the middle of the beam, around which the cord was passed. Then his friends began to let him down, and he slowly sank into the pit. As the rope caused him to swing gently round and round, the light of his lamp fell in turns on all points of the side walls, so that he was able to examine them carefully. These walls consisted of pit coal, and so smooth that it would be impossible to ascend them. Harry calculated that he was going down at the rate of about a foot per second, so that he had time to look about him, and be ready for any event. During two minutes—that is to say, to the depth of about 120 feet, the descent continued without any incident. No lateral gallery opened from the side walls of the pit, which was gradually narrowing into the shape of a funnel. But Harry began to feel a fresher air rising from beneath, whence he concluded that the bottom of the pit communicated with a gallery of some description in the lowest part of the mine. The cord continued to unwind. Darkness and silence were complete. If any living being whatever had sought refuge in the deep and mysterious abyss, he had either left it, or, if there, by no movement did he in the slightest way betray his presence. Harry, becoming more suspicious the lower he got, now drew his knife and held it in his right hand. At a depth of 180 feet, his feet touched the lower point and the cord slackened and unwound no further. Harry breathed more freely for a moment. One of the fears he entertained had been that, during his descent, the cord might be cut above him, but he had seen no projection from the walls behind which anyone could have been concealed. The bottom of the abyss was quite dry. Harry, taking the lamp from his belt, walked round the place, and perceived he had been right in his conjectures. An extremely narrow passage led aside out of the pit. He had to stoop to look into it, and only by creeping could it be followed; but as he wanted to see in which direction it led, and whether another abyss opened from it, he lay down on the ground and began to enter it on hands and knees. An obstacle speedily arrested his progress. He fancied he could perceive by touching it, that a human body lay across the passage. A sudden thrill of horror and surprise made him hastily draw back, but he again advanced and felt more carefully. His senses had not deceived him; a body did indeed lie there; and he soon ascertained that, although icy cold at the extremities, there was some vital heat remaining. In less time than it takes to tell it, Harry had drawn the body from the recess to the bottom of the shaft, and, seizing his lamp, he cast its lights on what he had found, exclaiming immediately, "Why, it is a child!" The child still breathed, but so very feebly that Harry expected it to cease every instant. Not a moment was to be lost; he must carry this poor little creature out of the pit, and take it home to his mother as quickly as he could. He eagerly fastened the cord round his waist, stuck on his lamp, clasped the child to his breast with his left arm, and, keeping his right hand free to hold the knife, he gave the signal agreed on, to have the rope pulled up. It tightened at once; he began the ascent. Harry looked around him with redoubled care, for more than his own life was now in danger. For a few minutes all went well, no accident seemed to threaten him, when suddenly he heard the sound of a great rush of air from beneath; and, looking down, he could dimly perceive through the gloom a broad mass arising until it passed him, striking him as it went by. It was an enormous bird—of what sort he could not see; it flew upwards on mighty wings, then paused, hovered, and dashed fiercely down upon Harry, who could only wield his knife in one hand. He defended himself and the child as well as he could, but the ferocious bird seemed to aim all its blows at him alone. Afraid of cutting the cord, he could not strike it as he wished, and the struggle was prolonged, while Harry shouted with all his might in hopes of making his comrades hear. He soon knew they did, for they pulled the rope up faster; a distance of about eighty feet remained to be got over. The bird ceased its direct attack, but increased the horror and danger of his situation by rushing at the cord, clinging to it just out of his reach, and endeavoring, by pecking furiously, to cut it. Harry felt overcome with terrible dread. One strand of the rope gave way, and it made them sink a little. A shriek of despair escaped his lips. A second strand was divided, and the double burden now hung suspended by only half the cord. Harry dropped his knife, and by a superhuman effort succeeded, at the moment the rope was giving way, in catching hold of it with his right hand above the cut made by the beak of the bird. But, powerfully as he held it in his iron grasp, he could feel it gradually slipping through his fingers. He might have caught it, and held on with both hands by sacrificing the life of the child he supported in his left arm. The idea crossed him, but was banished in an instant, although he believed himself quite unable to hold out until drawn to the surface. For a second he closed his eyes, believing they were about to plunge back into the abyss. He looked up once more; the huge bird had disappeared; his hand was at the very extremity of the broken rope—when, just as his convulsive grasp was failing, he was seized by the men, and with the child was placed on the level ground. The fearful strain of anxiety removed, a reaction took place, and Harry fell fainting into the arms of his friends. # CHAPTER XII. NELL ADOPTED A couple of hours later, Harry still unconscious, and the child in a very feeble state, were brought to the cottage by Jack Ryan and his companions. The old overman listened to the account of their adventures, while Madge attended with the utmost care to the wants of her son, and of the poor creature whom he had rescued from the pit. Harry imagined her a mere child, but she was a maiden of the age of fifteen or sixteen years. She gazed at them with vague and wondering eyes; and the thin face, drawn by suffering, the pallid complexion, which light could never have tinged, and the fragile, slender figure, gave her an appearance at once singular and attractive. Jack Ryan declared that she seemed to him to be an uncommonly interesting kind of ghost. It must have been due to the strange and peculiar circumstances under which her life hitherto had been led, that she scarcely seemed to belong to the human race. Her countenance was of a very uncommon cast, and her eyes, hardly able to bear the lamp-light in the cottage, glanced around in a confused and puzzled way, as if all were new to them. As this singular being reclined on Madge's bed and awoke to consciousness, as from a long sleep, the old Scotchwoman began to question her a little. "What do they call you, my dear?" said she. "Nell," replied the girl. "Do you feel anything the matter with you, Nell?" "I am hungry. I have eaten nothing since—since—" Nell uttered these few words like one unused to speak much. They were in the Gaelic language, which was often spoken by Simon and his family. Madge immediately brought her some food; she was evidently famished. It was impossible to say how long she might have been in that pit. "How many days had you been down there, dearie?" inquired Madge. Nell made no answer; she seemed not to understand the question. "How many days, do you think?" "Days?" repeated Nell, as though the word had no meaning for her, and she shook her head to signify entire want of comprehension. Madge took her hand, and stroked it caressingly. "How old are you, my lassie?" she asked, smiling kindly at her. Nell shook her head again. "Yes, yes," continued Madge, "how many years old?" "Years?" replied Nell. She seemed to understand that word no better than days! Simon, Harry, Jack, and the rest, looked on with an air of mingled compassion, wonder, and sympathy. The state of this poor thing, clothed in a miserable garment of coarse woolen stuff, seemed to impress them painfully. Harry, more than all the rest, seemed attracted by the very peculiarity of this poor stranger. He drew near, took Nell's hand from his mother, and looked directly at her, while something like a smile curved her lip. "Nell," he said, "Nell, away down there—in the mine—were you all alone?" "Alone! alone!" cried the girl, raising herself hastily. Her features expressed terror; her eyes, which had appeared to soften as Harry looked at her, became quite wild again. "Alone!" repeated she, "alone!"—and she fell back on the bed, as though deprived of all strength. "The poor bairn is too weak to speak to us," said Madge, when she had adjusted the pillows. "After a good rest, and a little more food, she will be stronger. Come away, Simon and Harry, and all the rest of you, and let her go to sleep." So Nell was left alone, and in a very few minutes slept profoundly. This event caused a great sensation, not only in the coal mines, but in Stirlingshire, and ultimately throughout the kingdom. The strangeness of the story was exaggerated; the affair could not have made more commotion had they found the girl enclosed in the solid rock, like one of those antediluvian creatures who have occasionally been released by a stroke of the pickax from their stony prison. Nell became a fashionable wonder without knowing it. Superstitious folks made her story a new subject for legendary marvels, and were inclined to think, as Jack Ryan told Harry, that Nell was the spirit of the mines. "Be it so, Jack," said the young man; "but at any rate she is the good spirit. It can have been none but she who brought us bread and water when we were shut up down there; and as to the bad spirit, who must still be in the mine, we'll catch him some day." Of course James Starr had been at once informed of all this, and came, as soon as the young girl had sufficiently recovered her strength, to see her, and endeavor to question her carefully. She appeared ignorant of nearly everything relating to life, and, although evidently intelligent, was wanting in many elementary ideas, such as time, for instance. She had never been used to its division, and the words signifying hours, days, months, and years were unknown to her. Her eyes, accustomed to the night, were pained by the glare of the electric discs; but in the dark her sight was wonderfully keen, the pupil dilated in a remarkable manner, and she could see where to others there appeared profound obscurity. It was certain that her brain had never received any impression of the outer world, that her eyes had never looked beyond the mine, and that these somber depths had been all the world to her. The poor girl probably knew not that there were a sun and stars, towns and counties, a mighty universe composed of myriads of worlds. But until she comprehended the significance of words at present conveying no precise meaning to her, it was impossible to ascertain what she knew. As to whether or not Nell had lived alone in the recesses of New Aberfoyle, James Starr was obliged to remain uncertain; indeed, any allusion to the subject excited evident alarm in the mind of this strange girl. Either Nell could not or would not reply to questions, but that some secret existed in connection with the place, which she could have explained, was manifest. "Should you like to stay with us? Should you like to go back to where we found you?" asked James Starr. "Oh, yes!" exclaimed the maiden, in answer to his first question; but a cry of terror was all she seemed able to say to the second. James Starr, as well as Simon and Harry Ford, could not help feeling a certain amount of uneasiness with regard to this persistent silence. They found it impossible to forget all that had appeared so inexplicable at the time they made the discovery of the coal mine; and although that was three years ago, and nothing new had happened, they always expected some fresh attack on the part of the invisible enemy. They resolved to explore the mysterious well, and did so, well armed and in considerable numbers. But nothing suspicious was to be seen; the shaft communicated with lower stages of the crypt, hollowed out in the carboniferous bed. Many a time did James Starr, Simon, and Harry talk over these things. If one or more malevolent beings were concealed in the coal-pit, and there concocted mischief, Nell surely could have warned them of it, yet she said nothing. The slightest allusion to her past life brought on such fits of violent emotion, that it was judged best to avoid the subject for the present. Her secret would certainly escape her by-and-by. By the time Nell had been a fortnight in the cottage, she had become a most intelligent and zealous assistant to old Madge. It was clear that she instinctively felt she should remain in the dwelling where she had been so charitably received, and perhaps never dreamt of quitting it. This family was all in all to her, and to the good folks themselves Nell had seemed an adopted child from the moment when she first came beneath their roof. Nell was in truth a charming creature; her new mode of existence added to her beauty, for these were no doubt the first happy days of her life, and her heart was full of gratitude towards those to whom she owed them. Madge felt towards her as a mother would; the old woman doted upon her; in short, she was beloved by everybody. Jack Ryan only regretted one thing, which was that he had not saved her himself. Friend Jack often came to the cottage. He sang, and Nell, who had never heard singing before, admired it greatly; but anyone might see that she preferred to Jack's songs the graver conversation of Harry, from whom by degrees she learnt truths concerning the outer world, of which hitherto she had known nothing. It must be said that, since Nell had appeared in her own person, Jack Ryan had been obliged to admit that his belief in hobgoblins was in a measure weakened. A couple of months later his credulity experienced a further shock. About that time Harry unexpectedly made a discovery which, in part at least, accounted for the apparition of the fire-maidens among the ruins of Dundonald Castle at Irvine. During several days he had been engaged in exploring the remote galleries of the prodigious excavation towards the south. At last he scrambled with difficulty up a narrow passage which branched off through the upper rock. To his great astonishment, he suddenly found himself in the open air. The passage, after ascending obliquely to the surface of the ground, led out directly among the ruins of Dundonald Castle. There was, therefore, a communication between New Aberfoyle and the hills crowned by this ancient castle. The upper entrance to this gallery, being completely concealed by stones and brushwood, was invisible from without; at the time of their search, therefore, the magistrates had been able to discover nothing. A few days afterwards, James Starr, guided by Harry, came himself to inspect this curious natural opening into the coal mine. "Well," said he, "here is enough to convince the most superstitious among us. Farewell to all their brownies, goblins, and fire-maidens now!" "I hardly think, Mr. Starr, we ought to congratulate ourselves," replied Harry. "Whatever it is we have instead of these things, it can't be better, and may be worse than they are." "That's true, Harry," said the engineer; "but what's to be done? It is plain that, whatever the beings are who hide in the mine, they reach the surface of the earth by this passage. No doubt it was the light of torches waved by them during that dark and stormy night which attracted the _Motala_ towards the rocky coast, and like the wreckers of former days, they would have plundered the unfortunate vessel, had it not been for Jack Ryan and his friends. Anyhow, so far it is evident, and here is the mouth of the den. As to its occupants, the question is—Are they here still?" "I say yes; because Nell trembles when we mention them—yes, because Nell will not, or dare not, speak about them," answered Harry in a tone of decision. Harry was surely in the right. Had these mysterious denizens of the pit abandoned it, or ceased to visit the spot, what reason could the girl have had for keeping silence? James Starr could not rest till he had penetrated this mystery. He foresaw that the whole future of the new excavations must depend upon it. Renewed and strict precautions were therefore taken. The authorities were informed of the discovery of the entrance. Watchers were placed among the ruins of the castle. Harry himself lay hid for several nights in the thickets of brushwood which clothed the hill-side. Nothing was discovered—no human being emerged from the opening. So most people came to the conclusion that the villains had been finally dislodged from the mine, and that, as to Nell, they must suppose her to be dead at the bottom of the shaft where they had left her. While it remained unworked, the mine had been a safe enough place of refuge, secure from all search or pursuit. But now, circumstances being altered, it became difficult to conceal this lurking-place, and it might reasonably be hoped they were gone, and that nothing for the future was to be dreaded from them. James Starr, however, could not feel sure about it; neither could Harry be satisfied on the subject, often repeating, "Nell has clearly been mixed up with all this secret business. If she had nothing more to fear, why should she keep silence? It cannot be doubted that she is happy with us. She likes us all—she adores my mother. Her absolute silence as to her former life, when by speaking out she might benefit us, proves to me that some awful secret, which she dares not reveal, weighs on her mind. It may also be that she believes it better for us, as well as for herself, that she should remain mute in a way otherwise so unaccountable." In consequence of these opinions, it was agreed by common consent to avoid all allusion to the maiden's former mode of life. One day, however, Harry was led to make known to Nell what James Starr, his father, mother, and himself believed they owed to her interference. It was a fête-day. The miners made holiday on the surface of the county of Stirling as well as in its subterraneous domains. Parties of holiday-makers were moving about in all directions. Songs resounded in many places beneath the sonorous vaults of New Aberfoyle. Harry and Nell left the cottage, and slowly walked along the left bank of Loch Malcolm. Then the electric brilliance darted less vividly, and the rays were interrupted with fantastic effect by the sharp angles of the picturesque rocks which supported the dome. This imperfect light suited Nell, to whose eyes a glare was very unpleasant. "Nell," said Harry, "your eyes are not fit for daylight yet, and could not bear the brightness of the sun." "Indeed they could not," replied the girl; "if the sun is such as you describe it to me, Harry." "I cannot by any words, Nell, give you an idea either of his splendor or of the beauty of that universe which your eyes have never beheld. But tell me, is it really possible that, since the day when you were born in the depths of the coal mine, you never once have been up to the surface of the earth?" "Never once, Harry," said she; "I do not believe that, even as an infant, my father or mother ever carried me thither. I am sure I should have retained some impression of the open air if they had." "I believe you would," answered Harry. "Long ago, Nell, many children used to live altogether in the mine; communication was then difficult, and I have met with more than one young person, quite as ignorant as you are of things above-ground. But now the railway through our great tunnel takes us in a few minutes to the upper regions of our country. I long, Nell, to hear you say, ‘Come, Harry, my eyes can bear daylight, and I want to see the sun! I want to look upon the works of the Almighty.'" "I shall soon say so, Harry, I hope," replied the girl; "I shall soon go with you to the world above; and yet—" "What are you going to say, Nell?" hastily cried Harry; "can you possibly regret having quitted that gloomy abyss in which you spent your early years, and whence we drew you half dead?" "No, Harry," answered Nell; "I was only thinking that darkness is beautiful as well as light. If you but knew what eyes accustomed to its depth can see! Shades flit by, which one longs to follow; circles mingle and intertwine, and one could gaze on them forever; black hollows, full of indefinite gleams of radiance, lie deep at the bottom of the mine. And then the voice-like sounds! Ah, Harry! one must have lived down there to understand what I feel, what I can never express." "And were you not afraid, Nell, all alone there?" "It was just when I was alone that I was not afraid." Nell's voice altered slightly as she said these words; however, Harry thought he might press the subject a little further, so he said, "But one might be easily lost in these great galleries, Nell. Were you not afraid of losing your way?" "Oh, no, Harry; for a long time I had known every turn of the new mine." "Did you never leave it?" "Yes, now and then," answered the girl with a little hesitation; "sometimes I have been as far as the old mine of Aberfoyle." "So you knew our old cottage?" "The cottage! oh, yes; but the people who lived there I only saw at a great distance." "They were my father and mother," said Harry; "and I was there too; we have always lived there—we never would give up the old dwelling." "Perhaps it would have been better for you if you had," murmured the maiden. "Why so, Nell? Was it not just because we were obstinately resolved to remain that we ended by discovering the new vein of coal? And did not that discovery lead to the happy result of providing work for a large population, and restoring them to ease and comfort? and did it not enable us to find you, Nell, to save your life, and give you the love of all our hearts?" "Ah, yes, for me indeed it is well, whatever may happen," replied Nell earnestly; "for others—who can tell?" "What do you mean?" "Oh, nothing—nothing. But it used to be very dangerous at that time to go into the new cutting—yes, very dangerous indeed, Harry! Once some rash people made their way into these chasms. They got a long, long way; they were lost!" "They were lost?" said Harry, looking at her. "Yes, lost!" repeated Nell in a trembling voice. "They could not find their way out." "And there," cried Harry, "they were imprisoned during eight long days! They were at the point of death, Nell; and, but for a kind and charitable being—an angel perhaps—sent by God to help them, who secretly brought them a little food; but for a mysterious guide, who afterwards led to them their deliverers, they never would have escaped from that living tomb!" "And how do you know about that?" demanded the girl. "Because those men were James Starr, my father, and myself, Nell!" Nell looked up hastily, seized the young man's hand, and gazed so fixedly into his eyes that his feelings were stirred to their depths. "You were there?" at last she uttered. "I was indeed," said Harry, after a pause, "and she to whom we owe our lives can have been none other than yourself, Nell!" Nell hid her face in her hands without speaking. Harry had never seen her so much affected. "Those who saved your life, Nell," added he in a voice tremulous with emotion, "already owed theirs to you; do you think they will ever forget it?" # CHAPTER XIII. ON THE REVOLVING LADDER The mining operations at New Aberfoyle continued to be carried on very successfully. As a matter of course, the engineer, James Starr, as well as Simon Ford, the discoverers of this rich carboniferous region, shared largely in the profits. In time Harry became a partner. But he never thought of quitting the cottage. He took his father's place as overman, and diligently superintended the works of this colony of miners. Jack Ryan was proud and delighted at the good fortune which had befallen his comrade. He himself was getting on very well also. They frequently met, either at the cottage or at the works in the pit. Jack did not fail to remark the sentiments entertained by Harry towards Nell. Harry would not confess to them; but Jack only laughed at him when he shook his head and tried to deny any special interest in her. It must be noted that Jack Ryan had the greatest possible wish to be of the party when Nell should pay her first visit to the upper surface of the county of Stirling. He wished to see her wonder and admiration on first beholding the yet unknown face of Nature. He very much hoped that Harry would take him with them when the excursion was made. As yet, however, the latter had made no proposal of the kind to him, which caused him to feel a little uneasy as to his intentions. One morning Jack Ryan was descending through a shaft which led from the surface to the lower regions of the pit. He did so by means of one of those ladders which, continually revolving by machinery, enabled persons to ascend and descend without fatigue. This apparatus had lowered him about a hundred and fifty feet, when at a narrow landing-place he perceived Harry, who was coming up to his labors for the day. "Well met, my friend!" cried Jack, recognizing his comrade by the light of the electric lamps. "Ah, Jack!" replied Harry, "I am glad to see you. I've got something to propose." "I can listen to nothing till you tell me how Nell is," interrupted Jack Ryan. "Nell is all right, Jack—so much so, in fact, that I hope in a month or six weeks—" "To marry her, Harry?" "Jack, you don't know what you are talking about!" "Ah, that's very likely; but I know quite well what I shall do." "What will you do?" "Marry her myself, if you don't; so look sharp," laughed Jack. "By Saint Mungo! I think an immense deal of bonny Nell! A fine young creature like that, who has been brought up in the mine, is just the very wife for a miner. She is an orphan—so am I; and if you don't care much for her, and if she will have me—" Harry looked gravely at Jack, and let him talk on without trying to stop him. "Don't you begin to feel jealous, Harry?" asked Jack in a more serious tone. "Not at all," answered Harry quietly. "But if you don't marry Nell yourself, you surely can't expect her to remain a spinster?" "I expect nothing," said Harry. A movement of the ladder machinery now gave the two friends the opportunity—one to go up, the other down the shaft. However, they remained where they were. "Harry," quoth Jack, "do you think I spoke in earnest just now about Nell?" "No, that I don't, Jack." "Well, but now I will!" "You? speak in earnest?" "My good fellow, I can tell you I am quite capable of giving a friend a bit of advice." "Let's hear, then, Jack!" "Well, look here! You love Nell as heartily as she deserves. Old Simon, your father, and old Madge, your mother, both love her as if she were their daughter. Why don't you make her so in reality? Why don't you marry her?" "Come, Jack," said Harry, "you are running on as if you knew how Nell felt on the subject." "Everybody knows that," replied Jack, "and therefore it is impossible to make you jealous of any of us. But here goes the ladder again—I'm off!" "Stop a minute, Jack!" cried Harry, detaining his companion, who was stepping onto the moving staircase. "I say! you seem to mean me to take up my quarters here altogether!" "Do be serious and listen, Jack! I want to speak in earnest myself now." "Well, I'll listen till the ladder moves again, not a minute longer." "Jack," resumed Harry, "I need not pretend that I do not love Nell; I wish above all things to make her my wife." "That's all right!" "But for the present I have scruples of conscience as to asking her to make me a promise which would be irrevocable." "What can you mean, Harry?" "I mean just this—that, it being certain Nell has never been outside this coal mine in the very depths of which she was born, it stands to reason that she knows nothing, and can comprehend nothing of what exists beyond it. Her eyes—yes, and perhaps also her heart—have everything yet to learn. Who can tell what her thoughts will be, when perfectly new impressions shall be made upon her mind? As yet she knows nothing of the world, and to me it would seem like deceiving her, if I led her to decide in ignorance, upon choosing to remain all her life in the coal mine. Do you understand me, Jack?" "Hem!—yes—pretty well. What I understand best is that you are going to make me miss another turn of the ladder." "Jack," replied Harry gravely, "if this machinery were to stop altogether, if this landing-place were to fall beneath our feet, you must and shall hear what I have to say." "Well done, Harry! that's how I like to be spoken to! Let's settle, then, that, before you marry Nell, she shall go to school in Auld Reekie." "No indeed, Jack; I am perfectly able myself to educate the person who is to be my wife." "Sure that will be a great deal better, Harry!" "But, first of all," resumed Harry, "I wish that Nell should gain a real knowledge of the upper world. To illustrate my meaning, Jack, suppose you were in love with a blind girl, and someone said to you, ‘In a month's time her sight will be restored,' would you not wait till after she was cured, to marry her?" "Faith, to be sure I would!" exclaimed Jack. "Well, Jack, Nell is at present blind; and before she marries me, I wish her to see what I am, and what the life really is to which she would bind herself. In short, she must have daylight let in upon the subject!" "Well said, Harry! Very well said indeed!" cried Jack. "Now I see what you are driving at. And when may we expect the operation to come off?" "In a month, Jack," replied Harry. "Nell is getting used to the light of our reflectors. That is some preparation. In a month she will, I hope, have seen the earth and its wonders—the sky and its splendors. She will perceive that the limits of the universe are boundless." But while Harry was thus giving the rein to his imagination, Jack Ryan, quitting the platform, had leaped on the step of the moving machinery. "Hullo, Jack! Where are you?" "Far beneath you," laughed the merry fellow. "While you soar to the heights, I plunge into the depths." "Fare ye well. Jack!" returned Harry, himself laying hold of the rising ladder; "mind you say nothing about what I have been telling you." "Not a word," shouted Jack, "but I make one condition." "What is that?" "That I may be one of the party when Nell's first excursion to the face of the earth comes off!" "So you shall, Jack, I promise you!" A fresh throb of the machinery placed a yet more considerable distance between the friends. Their voices sounded faintly to each other. Harry, however, could still hear Jack shouting: "I say! do you know what Nell will like better than either sun, moon, or stars, after she's seen the whole of them?" "No, Jack!" "Why, you yourself, old fellow! still you! always you!" And Jack's voice died away in a prolonged "Hurrah!" Harry, after this, applied himself diligently, during all his spare time, to the work of Nell's education. He taught her to read and to write, and such rapid progress did she make, it might have been said that she learnt by instinct. Never did keen intelligence more quickly triumph over utter ignorance. It was the wonder of all beholders. Simon and Madge became every day more and more attached to their adopted child, whose former history continued to puzzle them a good deal. They plainly saw the nature of Harry's feelings towards her, and were far from displeased thereat. They recollected that Simon had said to the engineer on his first visit to the old cottage, "How can our son ever think of marrying? Where could a wife possibly be found suitable for a lad whose whole life must be passed in the depths of a coal mine?" Well! now it seemed as if the most desirable companion in the world had been led to him by Providence. Was not this like a blessing direct from Heaven? So the old man made up his mind that, if the wedding did take place, the miners of New Aberfoyle should have a merry-making at Coal Town, which they would never during their lives forget. Simon Ford little knew what he was saying! It must be remarked that another person wished for this union of Harry and Nell as much as Simon did—and that was James Starr, the engineer. Of course he was really interested in the happiness of the two young people. But another motive, connected with wider interests, influenced him to desire it. It has been said that James Starr continued to entertain a certain amount of apprehension, although for the present nothing appeared to justify it. Yet that which had been might again be. This mystery about the new cutting—Nell was evidently the only person acquainted with it. Now, if fresh dangers were in store for the miners of Aberfoyle, how were they possibly to be guarded against, without so much as knowing the cause of them? "Nell has persisted in keeping silence," said James Starr very often, "but what she has concealed from others, she will not long hide from her husband. Any danger would be danger to Harry as well as to the rest of us. Therefore, a marriage which brings happiness to the lovers, and safety to their friends, will be a good marriage, if ever there is such a thing here below." Thus, not illogically, reasoned James Starr. He communicated his ideas to old Simon, who decidedly appreciated them. Nothing, then, appeared to stand in the way of the match. What, in fact, was there to prevent it? They loved each other; the parents desired nothing better for their son. Harry's comrades envied his good fortune, but freely acknowledged that he deserved it. The maiden depended on no one else, and had but to give the consent of her own heart. Why, then, if there were none to place obstacles in the way of this union—why, as night came on, and, the labors of the day being over, the electric lights in the mine were extinguished, and all the inhabitants of Coal Town at rest within their dwellings—why did a mysterious form always emerge from the gloomier recesses of New Aberfoyle, and silently glide through the darkness? What instinct guided this phantom with ease through passages so narrow as to appear to be impracticable? Why should the strange being, with eyes flashing through the deepest darkness, come cautiously creeping along the shores of Lake Malcolm? Why so directly make his way towards Simon's cottage, yet so carefully as hitherto to avoid notice? Why, bending towards the windows, did he strive to catch, by listening, some fragment of the conversation within the closed shutters? And, on catching a few words, why did he shake his fist with a menacing gesture towards the calm abode, while from between his set teeth issued these words in muttered fury, "She and he? Never! never!" # CHAPTER XIV. A SUNRISE A month after this, on the evening of the 20th of August, Simon Ford and Madge took leave, with all manner of good wishes, of four tourists, who were setting forth from the cottage. James Starr, Harry, and Jack Ryan were about to lead Nell's steps over yet untrodden paths, and to show her the glories of nature by a light to which she was as yet a stranger. The excursion was to last for two days. James Starr, as well as Harry, considered that during these eight and forty hours spent above ground, the maiden would be able to see everything of which she must have remained ignorant in the gloomy pit; all the varied aspects of the globe, towns, plains, mountains, rivers, lakes, gulfs, and seas would pass, panorama-like, before her eyes. In that part of Scotland lying between Edinburgh and Glasgow, nature would seem to have collected and set forth specimens of every one of these terrestrial beauties. As to the heavens, they would be spread abroad as over the whole earth, with their changeful clouds, serene or veiled moon, their radiant sun, and clustering stars. The expedition had been planned so as to combine a view of all these things. Simon and Madge would have been glad to go with Nell; but they never left their cottage willingly, and could not make up their minds to quit their subterranean home for a single day. James Starr went as an observer and philosopher, curious to note, from a psychological point of view, the novel impressions made upon Nell; perhaps also with some hope of detecting a clue to the mysterious events connected with her childhood. Harry, with a little trepidation, asked himself whether it was not possible that this rapid initiation into the things of the exterior world would change the maiden he had known and loved hitherto into quite a different girl. As for Jack Ryan, he was as joyous as a lark rising in the first beams of the sun. He only trusted that his gayety would prove contagious, and enliven his traveling companions, thus rewarding them for letting him join them. Nell was pensive and silent. James Starr had decided, very sensibly, to set off in the evening. It would be very much better for the girl to pass gradually from the darkness of night to the full light of day; and that would in this way be managed, since between midnight and noon she would experience the successive phases of shade and sunshine, to which her sight had to get accustomed. Just as they left the cottage, Nell took Harry's hand saying, "Harry, is it really necessary for me to leave the mine at all, even for these few days?" "Yes, it is, Nell," replied the young man. "It is needful for both of us." "But, Harry," resumed Nell, "ever since you found me, I have been as happy as I can possibly be. You have been teaching me. Why is that not enough? What am I going up there for?" Harry looked at her in silence. Nell was giving utterance to nearly his own thoughts. "My child," said James Starr, "I can well understand the hesitation you feel; but it will be good for you to go with us. Those who love you are taking you, and they will bring you back again. Afterwards you will be free, if you wish it, to continue your life in the coal mine, like old Simon, and Madge, and Harry. But at least you ought to be able to compare what you give up with what you choose, then decide freely. Come!" "Come, dear Nell!" cried Harry. "Harry, I am willing to follow you," replied the maiden. At nine o'clock the last train through the tunnel started to convey Nell and her companions to the surface of the earth. Twenty minutes later they alighted on the platform where the branch line to New Aberfoyle joins the railway from Dumbarton to Stirling. The night was already dark. From the horizon to the zenith, light vapory clouds hurried through the upper air, driven by a refreshing northwesterly breeze. The day had been lovely; the night promised to be so likewise. On reaching Stirling, Nell and her friends, quitting the train, left the station immediately. Just before them, between high trees, they could see a road which led to the banks of the river Forth. The first physical impression on the girl was the purity of the air inhaled eagerly by her lungs. "Breathe it freely, Nell," said James Starr; "it is fragrant with all the scents of the open country." "What is all that smoke passing over our heads?" inquired Nell. "Those are clouds," answered Harry, "blown along by the westerly wind." "Ah!" said Nell, "how I should like to feel myself carried along in that silent whirl! And what are those shining sparks which glance here and there between rents in the clouds?" "Those are the stars I have told you about, Nell. So many suns they are, so many centers of worlds like our own, most likely." The constellations became more clearly visible as the wind cleared the clouds from the deep blue of the firmament. Nell gazed upon the myriad stars which sparkled overhead. "But how is it," she said at length, "that if these are suns, my eyes can endure their brightness?" "My child," replied James Starr, "they are indeed suns, but suns at an enormous distance. The nearest of these millions of stars, whose rays can reach us, is Vega, that star in Lyra which you observe near the zenith, and that is fifty thousand millions of leagues distant. Its brightness, therefore, cannot affect your vision. But our own sun, which will rise to-morrow, is only distant thirty-eight millions of leagues, and no human eye can gaze fixedly upon that, for it is brighter than the blaze of any furnace. But come, Nell, come!" They pursued their way, James Starr leading the maiden, Harry walking by her side, while Jack Ryan roamed about like a young dog, impatient of the slow pace of his masters. The road was lonely. Nell kept looking at the great trees, whose branches, waving in the wind, made them seem to her like giants gesticulating wildly. The sound of the breeze in the tree-tops, the deep silence during a lull, the distant line of the horizon, which could be discerned when the road passed over open levels—all these things filled her with new sensations, and left lasting impressions on her mind. After some time she ceased to ask questions, and her companions respected her silence, not wishing to influence by any words of theirs the girl's highly sensitive imagination, but preferring to allow ideas to arise spontaneously in her soul. At about half past eleven o'clock, they gained the banks of the river Forth. There a boat, chartered by James Starr, awaited them. In a few hours it would convey them all to Granton. Nell looked at the clear water which flowed up to her feet, as the waves broke gently on the beach, reflecting the starlight. "Is this a lake?" said she. "No," replied Harry, "it is a great river flowing towards the sea, and soon opening so widely as to resemble a gulf. Taste a little of the water in the hollow of your hand, Nell, and you will perceive that it is not sweet like the waters of Lake Malcolm." The maiden bent towards the stream, and, raising a little water to her lips, "This is quite salt," said she. "Yes, the tide is full; the sea water flows up the river as far as this," answered Harry. "Oh, Harry! Harry!" exclaimed the maiden, "what can that red glow on the horizon be? Is it a forest on fire?" "No, it is the rising moon, Nell." "To be sure, that's the moon," cried Jack Ryan, "a fine big silver plate, which the spirits of air hand round and round the sky to collect the stars in, like money." "Why, Jack," said the engineer, laughing, "I had no idea you could strike out such bold comparisons!" "Well, but, Mr. Starr, it is a just comparison. Don't you see the stars disappear as the moon passes on? so I suppose they drop into it." "What you mean to say, Jack, is that the superior brilliancy of the moon eclipses that of stars of the sixth magnitude, therefore they vanish as she approaches." "How beautiful all this is!" repeated Nell again and again, with her whole soul in her eyes. "But I thought the moon was round?" "So she is, when ‘full,'" said James Starr; "that means when she is just opposite to the sun. But to-night the moon is in the last quarter, shorn of her just proportions, and friend Jack's grand silver plate looks more like a barber's basin." "Oh, Mr. Starr, what a base comparison!" he exclaimed, "I was just going to begin a sonnet to the moon, but your barber's basin has destroyed all chance of an inspiration." Gradually the moon ascended the heavens. Before her light the lingering clouds fled away, while stars still sparkled in the west, beyond the influence of her radiance. Nell gazed in silence on the glorious spectacle. The soft silvery light was pleasant to her eyes, and her little trembling hand expressed to Harry, who clasped it, how deeply she was affected by the scene. "Let us embark now," said James Starr. "We have to get to the top of Arthur's Seat before sunrise." The boat was moored to a post on the bank. A boatman awaited them. Nell and her friends took their seats; the sail was spread; it quickly filled before the northwesterly breeze, and they sped on their way. What a new sensation was this for the maiden! She had been rowed on the waters of Lake Malcolm; but the oar, handled ever so lightly by Harry, always betrayed effort on the part of the oarsman. Now, for the first time, Nell felt herself borne along with a gliding movement, like that of a balloon through the air. The water was smooth as a lake, and Nell reclined in the stern of the boat, enjoying its gentle rocking. Occasionally the effect of the moonlight on the waters was as though the boat sailed across a glittering silver field. Little wavelets rippled along the banks. It was enchanting. At length Nell was overcome with drowsiness, her eyelids drooped, her head sank on Harry's shoulder—she slept. Harry, sorry that she should miss any of the beauties of this magnificent night, would have aroused her. "Let her sleep!" said the engineer. "She will better enjoy the novelties of the day after a couple of hours' rest." At two o'clock in the morning the boat reached Granton pier. Nell awoke. "Have I been asleep?" inquired she. "No, my child," said James Starr. "You have been dreaming that you slept, that's all." The night continued clear. The moon, riding in mid-heaven, diffused her rays on all sides. In the little port of Granton lay two or three fishing boats; they rocked gently on the waters of the Firth. The wind fell as the dawn approached. The atmosphere, clear of mists, promised one of those fine autumn days so delicious on the sea coast. A soft, transparent film of vapor lay along the horizon; the first sunbeam would dissipate it; to the maiden it exhibited that aspect of the sea which seems to blend it with the sky. Her view was now enlarged, without producing the impression of the boundless infinity of ocean. Harry taking Nell's hand, they followed James Starr and Jack Ryan as they traversed the deserted streets. To Nell, this suburb of the capital appeared only a collection of gloomy dark houses, just like Coal Town, only that the roof was higher, and gleamed with small lights. She stepped lightly forward, and easily kept pace with Harry. "Are you not tired, Nell?" asked he, after half an hour's walking. "No! my feet seem scarcely to touch the earth," returned she. "This sky above us seems so high up, I feel as if I could take wing and fly!" "I say! keep hold of her!" cried Jack Ryan. "Our little Nell is too good to lose. I feel just as you describe though, myself, when I have not left the pit for a long time." "It is when we no longer experience the oppressive effect of the vaulted rocky roof above Coal Town," said James Starr, "that the spacious firmament appears to us like a profound abyss into which we have, as it were, a desire to plunge. Is that what you feel, Nell?" "Yes, Mr. Starr, it is exactly like that," said Nell. "It makes me feel giddy." "Ah! you will soon get over that, Nell," said Harry. "You will get used to the outer world, and most likely forget all about our dark coal pit." "No, Harry, never!" said Nell, and she put her hand over her eyes, as though she would recall the remembrance of everything she had lately quitted. Between the silent dwellings of the city, the party passed along Leith Walk, and went round the Calton Hill, where stood, in the light of the gray dawn, the buildings of the Observatory and Nelson's Monument. By Regent's Bridge and the North Bridge they at last reached the lower extremity of the Canongate. The town still lay wrapt in slumber. Nell pointed to a large building in the center of an open space, asking, "What great confused mass is that?" "That confused mass, Nell, is the palace of the ancient kings of Scotland; that is Holyrood, where many a sad scene has been enacted! The historian can here invoke many a royal shade; from those of the early Scottish kings to that of the unhappy Mary Stuart, and the French king, Charles X. When day breaks, however, Nell, this palace will not look so very gloomy. Holyrood, with its four embattled towers, is not unlike some handsome country house. But let us pursue our way. There, just above the ancient Abbey of Holyrood, are the superb cliffs called Salisbury Crags. Arthur's Seat rises above them, and that is where we are going. From the summit of Arthur's Seat, Nell, your eyes shall behold the sun appear above the horizon seaward." They entered the King's Park, then, gradually ascending they passed across the Queen's Drive, a splendid carriageway encircling the hill, which we owe to a few lines in one of Sir Walter Scott's romances. Arthur's Seat is in truth only a hill, seven hundred and fifty feet high, which stands alone amid surrounding heights. In less than half an hour, by an easy winding path, James Starr and his party reached the crest of the crouching lion, which, seen from the west, Arthur's Seat so much resembles. There, all four seated themselves; and James Starr, ever ready with quotations from the great Scottish novelist, simply said, "Listen to what is written by Sir Walter Scott in the eighth chapter of the _Heart of Mid-Lothian_. ‘If I were to choose a spot from which the rising or setting sun could be seen to the greatest possible advantage, it would be from this neighborhood.' Now watch, Nell! the sun will soon appear, and for the first time you will contemplate its splendor." The maiden turned her eyes eastward. Harry, keeping close beside her, observed her with anxious interest. Would the first beams of day overpower her feelings? All remained quiet, even Jack Ryan. A faint streak of pale rose tinted the light vapors of the horizon. It was the first ray of light attacking the laggards of the night. Beneath the hill lay the silent city, massed confusedly in the twilight of dawn. Here and there lights twinkled among the houses of the old town. Westward rose many hill-tops, soon to be illuminated by tips of fire. Now the distant horizon of the sea became more plainly visible. The scale of colors fell into the order of the solar. Every instant they increased in intensity, rose color became red, red became fiery, daylight dawned. Nell now glanced towards the city, of which the outlines became more distinct. Lofty monuments, slender steeples emerged from the gloom; a kind of ashy light was spread abroad. At length one solitary ray struck on the maiden's sight. It was that ray of green which, morning or evening, is reflected upwards from the sea when the horizon is clear. An instant afterwards, Nell turned, and pointing towards a bright prominent point in the New Town, "Fire!" cried she. "No, Nell, that is no fire," said Harry. "The sun has touched with gold the top of Sir Walter Scott's monument"—and, indeed, the extreme point of the monument blazed like the light of a pharos. It was day—the sun arose—his disc seemed to glitter as though he indeed emerged from the waters of the sea. Appearing at first very large from the effects of refraction, he contracted as he rose and assumed the perfectly circular form. Soon no eye could endure the dazzling splendor; it was as though the mouth of a furnace was opened through the sky. Nell closed her eyes, but her eyelids could not exclude the glare, and she pressed her fingers over them. Harry advised her to turn in the opposite direction. "Oh, no," said she, "my eyes must get used to look at what yours can bear to see!" Even through her hands Nell perceived a rosy light, which became more white as the sun rose above the horizon. As her sight became accustomed to it, her eyelids were raised, and at length her eyes drank in the light of day. The good child knelt down, exclaiming, "Oh Lord God! how beautiful is Thy creation!" Then she rose and looked around. At her feet extended the panorama of Edinburgh—the clear, distinct lines of streets in the New Town, and the irregular mass of houses, with their confused network of streets and lanes, which constitutes Auld Reekie, properly so called. Two heights commanded the entire city; Edinburgh Castle, crowning its huge basaltic rock, and the Calton Hill, bearing on its rounded summit, among other monuments, ruins built to represent those of the Parthenon at Athens. Fine roadways led in all directions from the capital. To the north, the coast of the noble Firth of Forth was indented by a deep bay, in which could be seen the seaport town of Leith, between which and this Modern Athens of the north ran a street, straight as that leading to the Piraeus. Beyond the wide Firth could be seen the soft outlines of the county of Fife, while beneath the spectator stretched the yellow sands of Portobello and Newhaven. Nell could not speak. Her lips murmured a word or two indistinctly; she trembled, became giddy, her strength failed her; overcome by the purity of the air and the sublimity of the scene, she sank fainting into Harry's arms, who, watching her closely, was ready to support her. The youthful maiden, hitherto entombed in the massive depths of the earth, had now obtained an idea of the universe—of the works both of God and of man. She had looked upon town and country, and beyond these, into the immensity of the sea, the infinity of the heavens. # CHAPTER XV. LOCH LOMOND AND LOCH KATRINE Harry bore Nell carefully down the steeps of Arthur's Seat, and, accompanied by James Starr and Jack Ryan, they reached Lambert's Hotel. There a good breakfast restored their strength, and they began to make further plans for an excursion to the Highland lakes. Nell was now refreshed, and able to look boldly forth into the sunshine, while her lungs with ease inhaled the free and healthful air. Her eyes learned gladly to know the harmonious varieties of color as they rested on the green trees, the azure skies, and all the endless shades of lovely flowers and plants. The railway train, which they entered at the Waverley Station, conveyed Nell and her friends to Glasgow. There, from the new bridge across the Clyde, they watched the curious sea-like movement of the river. After a night's rest at Comrie's Royal Hotel, they betook themselves to the terminus of the Edinburgh and Glasgow Railway, from whence a train would rapidly carry them, by way of Dumbarton and Balloch, to the southern extremity of Loch Lomond. "Now for the land of Rob Roy and Fergus MacIvor!—the scenery immortalized by the poetical descriptions of Walter Scott," exclaimed James Starr. "You don't know this country, Jack?" "Only by its songs, Mr. Starr," replied Jack; "and judging by those, it must be grand." "So it is, so it is!" cried the engineer, "and our dear Nell shall see it to the best advantage." A steamboat, the _Sinclair_ by name, awaited tourists about to make the excursion to the lakes. Nell and her companions went on board. The day had begun in brilliant sunshine, free from the British fogs which so often veil the skies. The passengers were determined to lose none of the beauties of nature to be displayed during the thirty miles' voyage. Nell, seated between James Starr and Harry, drank in with every faculty the magnificent poetry with which lovely Scottish scenery is fraught. Numerous small isles and islets soon appeared, as though thickly sown on the bosom of the lake. The _Sinclair_ steamed her way among them, while between them glimpses could be had of quiet valleys, or wild rocky gorges on the mainland. "Nell," said James Starr, "every island here has its legend, perhaps its song, as well as the mountains which overshadow the lake. One may, without much exaggeration, say that the history of this country is written in gigantic characters of mountains and islands." Nell listened, but these fighting stories made her sad. Why all that bloodshed on plains which to her seemed enormous, and where surely there must have been room for everybody? The shores of the lake form a little harbor at Luss. Nell could for a moment catch sight of the old tower of its ancient castle. Then, the _Sinclair_ turning northward, the tourists gazed upon Ben Lomond, towering nearly 3,000 feet above the level of the lake. "Oh, what a noble mountain!" cried Nell; "what a view there must be from the top!" "Yes, Nell," answered James Starr; "see how haughtily its peak rises from amidst the thicket of oaks, birches, and heather, which clothe the lower portion of the mountain! From thence one may see two-thirds of old Caledonia. This eastern side of the lake was the special abode of the clan McGregor. At no great distance, the struggles of the Jacobites and Hanoverians repeatedly dyed with blood these lonely glens. Over these scenes shines the pale moon, called in old ballads ‘Macfarlane's lantern.' Among these rocks still echo the immortal names of Rob Roy and McGregor Campbell." As the _Sinclair_ advanced along the base of the mountain, the country became more and more abrupt in character. Trees were only scattered here and there; among them were the willows, slender wands of which were formerly used for hanging persons of low degree. "To economize hemp," remarked James Starr. The lake narrowed very much as it stretched northwards. The steamer passed a few more islets, Inveruglas, Eilad-whow, where stand some ruins of a stronghold of the clan MacFarlane. At length the head of the loch was reached, and the _Sinclair_ stopped at Inversnaid. Leaving Loch Arklet on the left, a steep ascent led to the Inn of Stronachlacar, on the banks of Loch Katrine. There, at the end of a light pier, floated a small steamboat, named, as a matter of course, the _Rob Roy_. The travelers immediately went on board; it was about to start. Loch Katrine is only ten miles in length; its width never exceeds two miles. The hills nearest it are full of a character peculiar to themselves. "Here we are on this famous lake," said James Starr. "It has been compared to an eel on account of its length and windings: and justly so. They say that it never freezes. I know nothing about that, but what we want to think of is, that here are the scenes of the adventures in the _Lady of the Lake_. I believe, if friend Jack looked about him carefully, he might see, still gliding over the surface of the water, the shade of the slender form of sweet Ellen Douglas." "To be sure, Mr. Starr," replied Jack; "why should I not? I may just as well see that pretty girl on the waters of Loch Katrine, as those ugly ghosts on Loch Malcolm in the coal pit." It was by this time three o'clock in the afternoon. The less hilly shores of Loch Katrine westward extended like a picture framed between Ben An and Ben Venue. At the distance of half a mile was the entrance to the narrow bay, where was the landing-place for our tourists, who meant to return to Stirling by Callander. Nell appeared completely worn out by the continued excitement of the day. A faint ejaculation was all she was able to utter in token of admiration as new objects of wonder or beauty met her gaze. She required some hours of rest, were it but to impress lastingly the recollection of all she had seen. Her hand rested in Harry's, and, looking earnestly at her, he said, "Nell, dear Nell, we shall soon be home again in the gloomy region of the coal mine. Shall you not pine for what you have seen during these few hours spent in the glorious light of day?" "No, Harry," replied the girl; "I shall like to think about it, but I am glad to go back with you to our dear old home." "Nell!" said Harry, vainly attempting to steady his voice, "are you willing to be bound to me by the most sacred tie? Could you marry me, Nell?" "Yes, Harry, I could, if you are sure that I am able to make you happy," answered the maiden, raising her innocent eyes to his. Scarcely had she pronounced these words when an unaccountable phenomenon took place. The _Rob Roy_, still half a mile from land, experienced a violent shock. She suddenly grounded. No efforts of the engine could move her. The cause of this accident was simply that Loch Katrine was all at once emptied, as though an enormous fissure had opened in its bed. In a few seconds it had the appearance of a sea beach at low water. Nearly the whole of its contents had vanished into the bosom of the earth. "My friends!" exclaimed James Starr, as the cause of this marvel became suddenly clear to him, "God help New Aberfoyle!" # CHAPTER XVI. A FINAL THREAT On that day, in the colliery of New Aberfoyle, work was going on in the usual regular way. In the distance could be heard the crash of great charges of dynamite, by which the carboniferous rocks were blasted. Here masses of coal were loosened by pick-ax and crowbar; there the perforating machines, with their harsh grating, bored through the masses of sandstone and schist. Hollow, cavernous noises resounded on all sides. Draughts of air rushed along the ventilating galleries, and the wooden swing-doors slammed beneath their violent gusts. In the lower tunnels, trains of trucks kept passing along at the rate of fifteen miles an hour, while at their approach electric bells warned the workmen to cower down in the refuge places. Lifts went incessantly up and down, worked by powerful engines on the surface of the soil. Coal Town was throughout brilliantly lighted by the electric lamps at full power. Mining operations were being carried on with the greatest activity; coal was being piled incessantly into the trucks, which went in hundreds to empty themselves into the corves at the bottom of the shaft. While parties of miners who had labored during the night were taking needful rest, the others worked without wasting an hour. Old Simon Ford and Madge, having finished their dinner, were resting at the door of their cottage. Simon smoked a good pipe of tobacco, and from time to time the old couple spoke of Nell, of their boy, of Mr. Starr, and wondered how they liked their trip to the surface of the earth. Where would they be now? What would they be doing? How could they stay so long away from the mine without feeling homesick? Just then a terrific roaring noise was heard. It was like the sound of a mighty cataract rushing down into the mine. The old people rose hastily. They perceived at once that the waters of Loch Malcolm were rising. A great wave, unfurling like a billow, swept up the bank and broke against the walls of the cottage. Simon caught his wife in his arms, and carried her to the upper part of their dwelling. At the same moment, cries arose from all parts of Coal Town, which was threatened by a sudden inundation. The inhabitants fled for safety to the top of the schist rocks bordering the lake; terror spread in all directions; whole families in frantic haste rushed towards the tunnel in order to reach the upper regions of the pit. It was feared that the sea had burst into the colliery, for its galleries and passages penetrated as far as the Caledonian Canal. In that case the entire excavation, vast as it was, would be completely flooded. Not a single inhabitant of New Aberfoyle would escape death. But when the foremost fugitives reached the entrance to the tunnel, they encountered Simon Ford, who had quitted his cottage. "Stop, my friends, stop!" shouted the old man; "if our town is to be overwhelmed, the floods will rush faster than you can; no one can possibly escape. But see! the waters are rising no further! it appears to me the danger is over." "And our comrades at the far end of the works—what about them?" cried some of the miners. "There is nothing to fear for them," replied Simon; "they are working on a higher level than the bed of the loch." It was soon evident that the old man was in the right. The sudden influx of water had rushed to the very lowest bed of the vast mine, and its only ultimate effect was to raise the level of Loch Malcolm a few feet. Coal Town was uninjured, and it was reasonable to hope that no one had perished in the flood of water which had descended to the depths of the mine never yet penetrated by the workmen. Simon and his men could not decide whether this inundation was owing to the overflow of a subterranean sheet of water penetrating fissures in the solid rock, or to some underground torrent breaking through its worn bed, and precipitating itself to the lowest level of the mine. But that very same evening they knew what to think about it, for the local papers published an account of the marvelous phenomenon which Loch Katrine had exhibited. The surprising news was soon after confirmed by the four travelers, who, returning with all possible speed to the cottage, learned with extreme satisfaction that no serious damage was done in New Aberfoyle. The bed of Loch Katrine had fairly given way. The waters had suddenly broken through by an enormous fissure into the mine beneath. Of Sir Walter Scott's favorite loch there was not left enough to wet the pretty foot of the Lady of the Lake; all that remained was a pond of a few acres at the further extremity. This singular event made a profound sensation in the country. It was a thing unheard of that a lake should in the space of a few minutes empty itself, and disappear into the bowels of the earth. There was nothing for it but to erase Loch Katrine from the map of Scotland until (by public subscription) it could be refilled, care being of course taken, in the first place, to stop the rent up tight. This catastrophe would have been the death of Sir Walter Scott, had he still been in the world. The accident was explicable when it was ascertained that, between the bed of the lake and the vast cavity beneath, the geological strata had become reduced to a thin layer, incapable of longer sustaining the weight of water. Now, although to most people this event seemed plainly due to natural causes, yet to James Starr and his friends, Simon and Harry Ford, the question constantly recurred, was it not rather to be attributed to malevolence? Uneasy suspicions continually harassed their minds. Was their evil genius about to renew his persecution of those who ventured to work this rich mine? At the cottage, some days later, James Starr thus discussed the matter with the old man and his son: "Well, Simon," said he, "to my thinking we must class this circumstance with the others for which we still seek elucidation, although it is no doubt possible to explain it by natural causes." "I am quite of your mind, Mr. James," replied Simon, "but take my advice, and say nothing about it; let us make all researches ourselves." "Oh, I know the result of such research beforehand!" cried the engineer. "And what will it be, then?" "We shall find proofs of malevolence, but not the malefactor." "But he exists! he is there! Where can he lie concealed? Is it possible to conceive that the most depraved human being could, single-handed, carry out an idea so infernal as that of bursting through the bed of a lake? I believe I shall end by thinking, like Jack Ryan, that the evil demon of the mine revenges himself on us for having invaded his domain." Nell was allowed to hear as little as possible of these discussions. Indeed, she showed no desire to enter into them, although it was very evident that she shared in the anxieties of her adopted parents. The melancholy in her countenance bore witness to much mental agitation. It was at length resolved that James Starr, together with Simon and Harry, should return to the scene of the disaster, and endeavor to satisfy themselves as to the cause of it. They mentioned their project to no one. To those unacquainted with the group of facts on which it was based, the opinion of Starr and his friends could not fail to appear wholly inadmissible. A few days later, the three friends proceeded in a small boat to examine the natural pillars on which had rested the solid earth forming the basin of Loch Katrine. They discovered that they had been right in suspecting that the massive columns had been undermined by blasting. The blackened traces of explosion were to be seen, the waters having subsided below the level of these mysterious operations Thus the fall of a portion of the vast vaulted dome was proved to have been premeditated by man, and by man's hand had it been effected. "It is impossible to doubt it," said James Starr; "and who can say what might not have happened had the sea, instead of a little loch, been let in upon us?" "You may well say that," cried the old overman, with a feeling of pride in his beloved mine; "for nothing less than a sea would have drowned our Aberfoyle. But, once more, what possible interest could any human being have in the destruction of our works?" "It is quite incomprehensible," replied James Starr. "This case is something perfectly unlike that of a band of common criminals, who, concealing themselves in dens and caves, go forth to rob and pillage the surrounding country. The evil deeds of such men would certainly, in the course of three years have betrayed their existence and lurking-places. Neither can it be, as I sometimes used to think, that smugglers or coiners carried on their illegal practices in some distant and unknown corner of these prodigious caverns, and were consequently anxious to drive us out of them. But no one coins false money or obtains contraband goods only to conceal them! "Yet it is clear that an implacable enemy has sworn the ruin of New Aberfoyle, and that some interest urges him to seek in every possible way to wreak his hatred upon us. He appears to be too weak to act openly, and lays his schemes in secret; but displays such intelligence as to render him a most formidable foe. "My friends, he must understand better than we do the secrets of our domain, since he has all this time eluded our vigilance. He must be a man experienced in mining, skilled beyond the most skillful—that's certain, Simon! We have proof enough of that. "Let me see! Have you never had a personal enemy, to whom your suspicions might point? Think well! There is such a thing as hatred which time never softens. Go back to recollections of your earliest days. What befalls us appears the work of a stern and patient will, and to explain it demands every effort of thought and memory." Simon did not answer immediately—his mind evidently engaged in a close and candid survey of his past life. Presently, raising his head, "No," said he; "no! Heaven be my witness, neither Madge nor I have ever injured anybody. We cannot believe that we have a single enemy in the world." "Ah! if Nell would only speak!" cried the engineer. "Mr. Starr—and you, father," said Harry, "I do beg of you to keep silence on this matter, and not to question my poor Nell. I know she is very anxious and uneasy; and I feel positive that some great secret painfully oppresses her heart. Either she knows nothing it would be of any use for us to hear, or she considers it her duty to be silent. It is impossible to doubt her affection for us—for all of us. If at a future time she informs me of what she has hitherto concealed from us, you shall know about it immediately." "So be it, then, Harry," answered the engineer; "and yet I must say Nell's silence, if she knows anything, is to me perfectly inexplicable." Harry would have continued her defense; but the engineer stopped him, saying, "All right, Harry; we promise to say no more about it to your future wife." "With my father's consent she shall be my wife without further delay." "My boy," said old Simon, "your marriage shall take place this very day month. Mr. Starr, will you undertake the part of Nell's father?" "You may reckon upon me for that, Simon," answered the engineer. They then returned to the cottage, but said not a word of the result of their examinations in the mine, so that to the rest of its inhabitants, the bursting in of the vaulted roof of the caverns continued to be regarded as a mere accident. There was but a loch the less in Scotland. Nell gradually resumed her customary duties, and Harry made good use of her little visit to the upper air, in the instructions he gave her. She enjoyed the recollections of life above ground, yet without regretting it. The somber region she had loved as a child, and in which her wedded life would be spent, was as dear to her as ever. The approaching marriage created great excitement in New Aberfoyle. Good wishes poured in on all sides, and foremost among them were Jack Ryan's. He was detected busily practicing his best songs in preparation for the great day, which was to be celebrated by the whole population of Coal Town. During the month preceding the wedding-day, there were more accidents occurring in New Aberfoyle than had ever been known in the place. One would have thought the approaching union of Harry and Nell actually provoked one catastrophe after another. These misfortunes happened chiefly at the further and lowest extremity of the works, and the cause of them was always in some way mysterious. Thus, for instance, the wood-work of a distant gallery was discovered to be in flames, which were extinguished by Harry and his companions at the risk of their lives, by employing engines filled with water and carbonic acid, always kept ready in case of necessity. The lamp used by the incendiary was found; but no clew whatever as to who he could be. Another time an inundation took place in consequence of the stanchions of a water-tank giving way; and Mr. Starr ascertained beyond a doubt that these supports had first of all been partially sawn through. Harry, who had been overseeing the works near the place at the time, was buried in the falling rubbish, and narrowly escaped death. A few days afterwards, on the steam tramway, a train of trucks, which Harry was passing along, met with an obstacle on the rails, and was overturned. It was then discovered that a beam had been laid across the line. In short, events of this description became so numerous that the miners were seized with a kind of panic, and it required all the influence of their chiefs to keep them on the works. "You would think that there was a whole band of these ruffians," Simon kept saying, "and we can't lay hands on a single one of them." Search was made in all directions. The county police were on the alert night and day, yet discovered nothing. The evil intentions seeming specially designed to injure Harry. Starr forbade him to venture alone beyond the ordinary limits of the works. They were equally careful of Nell, although, at Harry's entreaty, these malicious attempts to do harm were concealed from her, because they might remind her painfully of former times. Simon and Madge watched over her by day and by night with a sort of stern solicitude. The poor child yielded to their wishes, without a remark or a complaint. Did she perceive that they acted with a view to her interest? Probably she did. And on her part, she seemed to watch over others, and was never easy unless all whom she loved were together in the cottage. When Harry came home in the evening, she could not restrain expressions of child-like joy, very unlike her usual manner, which was rather reserved than demonstrative. As soon as day broke, she was astir before anyone else, and her constant uneasiness lasted all day until the hour of return home from work. Harry became very anxious that their marriage should take place. He thought that, when the irrevocable step was taken, malevolence would be disarmed, and that Nell would never feel safe until she was his wife. James Starr, Simon, and Madge, were all of the same opinion, and everyone counted the intervening days, for everyone suffered from the most uncomfortable forebodings. It was perfectly evident that nothing relating to Nell was indifferent to this hidden foe, whom it was impossible to meet or to avoid. Therefore it seemed quite possible that the solemn act of her marriage with Harry might be the occasion of some new and dreadful outbreak of his hatred. One morning, a week before the day appointed for the ceremony, Nell, rising early, went out of the cottage before anyone else. No sooner had she crossed the threshold than a cry of indescribable anguish escaped her lips. Her voice was heard throughout the dwelling; in a moment, Madge, Harry, and Simon were at her side. Nell was pale as death, her countenance agitated, her features expressing the utmost horror. Unable to speak, her eyes were riveted on the door of the cottage, which she had just opened. With rigid fingers she pointed to the following words traced upon it during the night: "Simon Ford, you have robbed me of the last vein in our old pit. Harry, your son, has robbed me of Nell. Woe betide you! Woe betide you all! Woe betide New Aberfoyle!—SILFAX." "Silfax!" exclaimed Simon and Madge together. "Who is this man?" demanded Harry, looking alternately at his father and at the maiden. "Silfax!" repeated Nell in tones of despair, "Silfax!"—and, murmuring this name, her whole frame shuddering with fear and agitation, she was borne away to her chamber by old Madge. James Starr, hastening to the spot, read the threatening sentences again and again. "The hand which traced these lines," said he at length, "is the same which wrote me the letter contradicting yours, Simon. The man calls himself Silfax. I see by your troubled manner that you know him. Who is this Silfax?" # CHAPTER XVII. THE "MONK" This name revealed everything to the old overman. It was that of the last "monk" of the Dochart pit. In former days, before the invention of the safety-lamp, Simon had known this fierce man, whose business it was to go daily, at the risk of his life, to produce partial explosions of fire-damp in the passages. He used to see this strange solitary being, prowling about the mine, always accompanied by a monstrous owl, which he called Harfang, who assisted him in his perilous occupation, by soaring with a lighted match to places Silfax was unable to reach. One day this old man disappeared, and at the same time also, a little orphan girl born in the mine, who had no relation but himself, her great-grandfather. It was perfectly evident now that this child was Nell. During the fifteen years, up to the time when she was saved by Harry, they must have lived in some secret abyss of the mine. The old overman, full of mingled compassion and anger, made known to the engineer and Harry all that the name of Silfax had revealed to him. It explained the whole mystery. Silfax was the mysterious being so long vainly sought for in the depths of New Aberfoyle. "So you knew him, Simon?" demanded Mr. Starr. "Yes, that I did," replied the overman. "The Harfang man, we used to call him. Why, he was old then! He must be fifteen or twenty years older than I am. A wild, savage sort of fellow, who held aloof from everyone and was known to fear nothing—neither fire nor water. It was his own fancy to follow the trade of ‘monk,' which few would have liked. The constant danger of the business had unsettled his brain. He was prodigiously strong, and he knew the mine as no one else—at any rate, as well as I did. He lived on a small allowance. In faith, I believed him dead years ago." "But," resumed James Starr, "what does he mean by those words, ‘You have robbed me of the last vein of our old mine'?" "Ah! there it is," replied Simon; "for a long time it had been a fancy of his—I told you his mind was deranged—that he had a right to the mine of Aberfoyle; so he became more and more savage in temper the deeper the Dochart pit—his pit!—was worked out. It just seemed as if it was his own body that suffered from every blow of the pickax. You must remember that, Madge?" "Ay, that I do, Simon," replied she. "I can recollect all this," resumed Simon, "since I have seen the name of Silfax on the door. But I tell you, I thought the man was dead, and never imagined that the spiteful being we have so long sought for could be the old fireman of the Dochart pit." "Well, now, then," said Starr, "it is all quite plain. Chance made known to Silfax the new vein of coal. With the egotism of madness, he believed himself the owner of a treasure he must conceal and defend. Living in the mine, and wandering about day and night, he perceived that you had discovered the secret, and had written in all haste to beg me to come. Hence the letter contradicting yours; hence, after my arrival, all the accidents that occurred, such as the block of stone thrown at Harry, the broken ladder at the Yarrow shaft, the obstruction of the openings into the wall of the new cutting; hence, in short, our imprisonment, and then our deliverance, brought about by the kind assistance of Nell, who acted of course without the knowledge of this man Silfax, and contrary to his intentions." "You describe everything exactly as it must have happened, Mr. Starr," returned old Simon. "The old ‘Monk' is mad enough now, at any rate!" "All the better," quoth Madge. "I don't know that," said Starr, shaking his head; "it is a terrible sort of madness this." "Ah! now I understand that the very thought of him must have terrified poor little Nell, and also I see that she could not bear to denounce her grandfather. What a miserable time she must have had of it with the old man!" "Miserable with a vengeance," replied Simon, "between that savage and his owl, as savage as himself. Depend upon it, that bird isn't dead. That was what put our lamp out, and also so nearly cut the rope by which Harry and Nell were suspended." "And then, you see," said Madge, "this news of the marriage of our son with his granddaughter added to his rancor and ill-will." "To be sure," said Simon. "To think that his Nell should marry one of the robbers of his own coal mine would just drive him wild altogether." "He will have to make up his mind to it, however," cried Harry. "Mad as he is, we shall manage to convince him that Nell is better off with us here than ever she was in the caverns of the pit. I am sure, Mr. Starr, if we could only catch him, we should be able to make him listen to reason." "My poor Harry! there is no reasoning with a madman," replied the engineer. "Of course it is better to know your enemy than not; but you must not fancy all is right because we have found out who he is. We must be on our guard, my friends; and to begin with, Harry, you positively must question Nell. She will perceive that her silence is no longer reasonable. Even for her grandfather's own interest, she ought to speak now. For his own sake, as well as for ours, these insane plots must be put a stop to." "I feel sure, Mr. Starr," answered Harry, "that Nell will of herself propose to tell you what she knows. You see it was from a sense of duty that she has been silent hitherto. My mother was very right to take her to her room just now. She much needed time to recover her spirits; but now I will go for her." "You need not do so, Harry," said the maiden in a clear and firm voice, as she entered at that moment the room in which they were. Nell was very pale; traces of tears were in her eyes; but her whole manner showed that she had nerved herself to act as her loyal heart dictated as her duty. "Nell!" cried Harry, springing towards her. The girl arrested her lover by a gesture, and continued, "Your father and mother, and you, Harry, must now know all. And you too, Mr. Starr, must remain ignorant of nothing that concerns the child you have received, and whom Harry—unfortunately for him, alas!—drew from the abyss." "Oh, Nell! what are you saying?" cried Harry. "Allow her to speak," said James Starr in a decided tone. "I am the granddaughter of old Silfax," resumed Nell. "I never knew a mother till the day I came here," added she, looking at Madge. "Blessed be that day, my daughter!" said the old woman. "I knew no father till I saw Simon Ford," continued Nell; "nor friend till the day when Harry's hand touched mine. Alone with my grandfather I have lived during fifteen years in the remote and most solitary depths of the mine. I say _with_ my grandfather, but I can scarcely use the expression, for I seldom saw him. When he disappeared from Old Aberfoyle, he concealed himself in caverns known only to himself. In his way he was kind to me, dreadful as he was; he fed me with whatever he could procure from outside the mine; but I can dimly recollect that in my earliest years I was the nursling of a goat, the death of which was a bitter grief to me. My grandfather, seeing my distress, brought me another animal—a dog he said it was. But, unluckily, this dog was lively, and barked. Grandfather did not like anything cheerful. He had a horror of noise, and had taught me to be silent; the dog he could not teach to be quiet, so the poor animal very soon disappeared. My grandfather's companion was a ferocious bird, Harfang, of which, at first, I had a perfect horror; but this creature, in spite of my dislike to it, took such a strong affection for me, that I could not help returning it. It even obeyed me better than its master, which used to make me quite uneasy, for my grandfather was jealous. Harfang and I did not dare to let him see us much together; we both knew it would be dangerous. But I am talking too much about myself: the great thing is about you." "No, my child," said James Starr, "tell us everything that comes to your mind." "My grandfather," continued Nell, "always regarded your abode in the mine with a very evil eye—not that there was any lack of space. His chosen refuge was far—very far from you. But he could not bear to feel that you were there. If I asked any questions about the people up above us, his face grew dark, he gave no answer, and continued quite silent for a long time afterwards. But when he perceived that, not content with the old domain, you seemed to think of encroaching upon his, then indeed his anger burst forth. He swore that, were you to succeed in reaching the new mine, you should assuredly perish. Notwithstanding his great age, his strength is astonishing, and his threats used to make me tremble." "Go on, Nell, my child," said Simon to the girl, who paused as though to collect her thoughts. "On the occasion of your first attempt," resumed Nell, "as soon as my grandfather saw that you were fairly inside the gallery leading to New Aberfoyle, he stopped up the opening, and turned it into a prison for you. I only knew you as shadows dimly seen in the gloom of the pit, but I could not endure the idea that you would die of hunger in these horrid places; and so, at the risk of being detected, I succeeded in obtaining bread and water for you during some days. I should have liked to help you to escape, but it was so difficult to avoid the vigilance of my grandfather. You were about to die. Then arrived Jack Ryan and the others. By the providence of God I met with them, and instantly guided them to where you were. When my grandfather discovered what I had done, his rage against me was terrible. I expected death at his hands. After that my life became insupportable to me. My grandfather completely lost his senses. He proclaimed himself King of Darkness and Flame; and when he heard your tools at work on coal-beds which he considered entirely his own, he became furious and beat me cruelly. I would have fled from him, but it was impossible, so narrowly did he watch me. At last, in a fit of ungovernable fury, he threw me down into the abyss where you found me, and disappeared, vainly calling on Harfang, which faithfully stayed by me, to follow him. I know not how long I remained there, but I felt I was at the point of death when you, my Harry, came and saved me. But now you all see that the grandchild of old Silfax can never be the wife of Harry Ford, because it would be certain death to you all!" "Nell!" cried Harry. "No," continued the maiden, "my resolution is taken. By one means only can your ruin be averted; I must return to my grandfather. He threatens to destroy the whole of New Aberfoyle. His is a soul incapable of mercy or forgiveness, and no mortal can say to what horrid deed the spirit of revenge will lead him. My duty is clear; I should be the most despicable creature on earth did I hesitate to perform it. Farewell! I thank you all heartily. You only have taught me what happiness is. Whatever may befall, believe that my whole heart remains with you." At these words, Simon, Madge, and Harry started up in an agony of grief, exclaiming in tones of despair, "What, Nell! is it possible you would leave us?" James Starr put them all aside with an air of authority, and, going straight up to Nell, he took both her hands in his, saying quietly, "Very right, my child; you have said exactly what you ought to say; and now listen to what we have to say in reply. We shall not let you go away; if necessary, we shall keep you by force. Do you think we could be so base as to accept of your generous proposal? These threats of Silfax are formidable—no doubt about it! But, after all, a man is but a man, and we can take precautions. You will tell us, will you not, even for his own sake, all you can about his habits and his lurking-places? All we want to do is to put it out of his power to do harm, and perhaps bring him to reason." "You want to do what is quite impossible," said Nell. "My grandfather is everywhere and nowhere. I have never seen his retreats. I have never seen him sleep. If he meant to conceal himself, he used to leave me alone, and vanish. When I took my resolution, Mr. Starr, I was aware of everything you could say against it. Believe me, there is but one way to render Silfax powerless, and that will be by my return to him. Invisible himself, he sees everything that goes on. Just think whether it is likely he could discover your very thoughts and intentions, from that time when the letter was written to Mr. Starr, up to now that my marriage with Harry has been arranged, if he did not possess the extraordinary faculty of knowing everything. As far as I am able to judge, my grandfather, in his very insanity, is a man of most powerful mind. He formerly used to talk to me on very lofty subjects. He taught me the existence of God, and never deceived me but on one point, which was—that he made me believe that all men were base and perfidious, because he wished to inspire me with his own hatred of all the human race. When Harry brought me to the cottage, you thought I was simply ignorant of mankind, but, far beyond that, I was in mortal fear of you all. Ah, forgive me! I assure you, for many days I believed myself in the power of wicked wretches, and I longed to escape. You, Madge, first led me to perceive the truth, not by anything you said, but by the sight of your daily life, for I saw that your husband and son loved and respected you! Then all these good and happy workmen, who so revere and trust Mr. Starr, I used to think they were slaves; and when, for the first time, I saw the whole population of Aberfoyle come to church and kneel down to pray to God, and praise Him for His infinite goodness, I said to myself, ‘My grandfather has deceived me.' But now, enlightened by all you have taught me, I am inclined to think he himself is deceived. I mean to return to the secret passages I formerly frequented with him. He is certain to be on the watch. I will call to him; he will hear me, and who knows but that, by returning to him, I may be able to bring him to the knowledge of the truth?" The maiden spoke without interruption, for all felt that it was good for her to open her whole heart to her friends. But when, exhausted by emotion, and with eyes full of tears, she ceased speaking, Harry turned to old Madge and said, "Mother, what should you think of the man who could forsake the noble girl whose words you have been listening to?" "I should think he was a base coward," said Madge, "and, were he my son, I should renounce and curse him." "Nell, do you hear what our mother says?" resumed Harry. "Wherever you go I will follow you. If you persist in leaving us, we will go away together." "Harry! Harry!" cried Nell. Overcome by her feelings, the girl's lips blanched, and she sank into the arms of Madge, who begged she might be left alone with her. # CHAPTER XVIII. NELL'S WEDDING It was agreed that the inhabitants of the cottage must keep more on their guard than ever. The threats of old Silfax were too serious to be disregarded. It was only too possible that he possessed some terrible means by which the whole of Aberfoyle might be annihilated. Armed sentinels were posted at the various entrances to the mine, with orders to keep strict watch day and night. Any stranger entering the mine was brought before James Starr, that he might give an account of himself. There being no fear of treason among the inhabitants of Coal Town, the threatened danger to the subterranean colony was made known to them. Nell was informed of all the precautions taken, and became more tranquil, although she was not free from uneasiness. Harry's determination to follow her wherever she went compelled her to promise not to escape from her friends. During the week preceding the wedding, no accident whatever occurred in Aberfoyle. The system of watching was carefully maintained, but the miners began to recover from the panic, which had seriously interrupted the work of excavation. James Starr continued to look out for Silfax. The old man having vindictively declared that Nell should never marry Simon's son, it was natural to suppose that he would not hesitate to commit any violent deed which would hinder their union. The examination of the mine was carried on minutely. Every passage and gallery was searched, up to those higher ranges which opened out among the ruins of Dundonald Castle. It was rightly supposed that through this old building Silfax passed out to obtain what was needful for the support of his miserable existence (which he must have done, either by purchasing or thieving). As to the "fire-maidens," James Starr began to think that appearance must have been produced by some jet of fire-damp gas which, issuing from that part of the pit, could be lighted by Silfax. He was not far wrong; but all search for proof of this was fruitless, and the continued strain of anxiety in this perpetual effort to detect a malignant and invisible being rendered the engineer—outwardly calm—an unhappy man. As the wedding-day approached, his dread of some catastrophe increased, and he could not but speak of it to the old overman, whose uneasiness soon more than equaled his own. At length the day came. Silfax had given no token of existence. By daybreak the entire population of Coal Town was astir. Work was suspended; overseers and workmen alike desired to do honor to Simon Ford and his son. They all felt they owed a large debt of gratitude to these bold and persevering men, by whose means the mine had been restored to its former prosperity. The ceremony was to take place at eleven o'clock, in St. Giles's chapel, which stood on the shores of Loch Malcolm. At the appointed time, Harry left the cottage, supporting his mother on his arm, while Simon led the bride. Following them came Starr, the engineer, composed in manner, but in reality nerved to expect the worst, and Jack Ryan, stepping superb in full Highland piper's costume. Then came the other mining engineers, the principal people of Coal Town, the friends and comrades of the old overman—every member of this great family of miners forming the population of New Aberfoyle. In the outer world, the day was one of the hottest of the month of August, peculiarly oppressive in northern countries. The sultry air penetrated the depths of the coal mine, and elevated the temperature. The air which entered through the ventilating shafts, and the great tunnel of Loch Malcolm, was charged with electricity, and the barometer, it was afterwards remarked, had fallen in a remarkable manner. There was, indeed, every indication that a storm might burst forth beneath the rocky vault which formed the roof of the enormous crypt of the very mine itself. But the inhabitants were not at that moment troubling themselves about the chances of atmospheric disturbance above ground. Everybody, as a matter of course, had put on his best clothes for the occasion. Madge was dressed in the fashion of days gone by, wearing the "toy" and the "rokelay," or Tartan plaid, of matrons of the olden time, old Simon wore a coat of which Bailie Nicol Jarvie himself would have approved. Nell had resolved to show nothing of her mental agitation; she forbade her heart to beat, or her inward terrors to betray themselves, and the brave girl appeared before all with a calm and collected aspect. She had declined every ornament of dress, and the very simplicity of her attire added to the charming elegance of her appearance. Her hair was bound with the "snood," the usual head-dress of Scottish maidens. All proceeded towards St. Giles's chapel, which had been handsomely decorated for the occasion. The electric discs of light which illuminated Coal Town blazed like so many suns. A luminous atmosphere pervaded New Aberfoyle. In the chapel, electric lamps shed a glow over the stained-glass windows, which shone like fiery kaleidoscopes. At the porch of the chapel the minister awaited the arrival of the wedding party. It approached, after having passed in stately procession along the shore of Loch Malcolm. Then the tones of the organ were heard, and, preceded by the minister, the group advanced into the chapel. The Divine blessing was first invoked on all present. Then Harry and Nell remained alone before the minister, who, holding the sacred book in his hand, proceeded to say, "Harry, will you take Nell to be your wife, and will you promise to love her always?" "I promise," answered the young man in a firm and steady voice. "And you, Nell," continued the minister, "will you take Harry to be your husband, and—" Before he could finish the sentence, a prodigious noise resounded from without. One of the enormous rocks, on which was formed the terrace overhanging the banks of Loch Malcolm, had suddenly given way and opened without explosion, disclosing a profound abyss, into which the waters were now wildly plunging. In another instant, among the shattered rocks and rushing waves appeared a canoe, which a vigorous arm propelled along the surface of the lake. In the canoe was seen the figure of an old man standing upright. He was clothed in a dark mantle, his hair was dishevelled, a long white beard fell over his breast, and in his hand he bore a lighted Davy safety lamp, the flame being protected by the metallic gauze of the apparatus. In a loud voice this old man shouted, "The fire-damp is upon you! Woe—woe betide ye all!" At the same moment the slight smell peculiar to carburetted hydrogen was perceptibly diffused through the atmosphere. And, in truth, the fall of the rock had made a passage of escape for an enormous quantity of explosive gas, accumulated in vast cavities, the openings to which had hitherto been blocked up. Jets and streams of the fire-damp now rose upward in the vaulted dome; and well did that fierce old man know that the consequence of what he had done would be to render explosive the whole atmosphere of the mine. James Starr and several others, having hastily quitted the chapel, and perceived the imminence of the danger, now rushed back, crying out in accents of the utmost alarm, "Fly from the mine! Fly instantly from the mine!" "Now for the fire-damp! Here comes the fire-damp!" yelled the old man, urging his canoe further along the lake. Harry with his bride, his father and his mother, left the chapel in haste and in terror. "Fly! fly for your lives!" repeated James Starr. Alas! it was too late to fly! Old Silfax stood there, prepared to fulfill his last dreadful threat—prepared to stop the marriage of Nell and Harry by overwhelming the entire population of the place beneath the ruins of the coal mine. As he stood ready to accomplish this act of vengeance, his enormous owl, whose white plumage was marked with black spots, was seen hovering directly above his head. At that moment a man flung himself into the waters of the lake, and swam vigorously towards the canoe. It was Jack Ryan, fully determined to reach the madman before he could do the dreadful deed of destruction. Silfax saw him coming. Instantly he smashed the glass of his lamp, and, snatching out the burning wick, waved it in the air. Silence like death fell upon the astounded multitude. James Starr, in the calmness of despair, marvelled that the inevitable explosion was even for a moment delayed. Silfax, gazing upwards with wild and contracted features, appeared to become aware that the gas, lighter than the lower atmosphere, was accumulating far up under the dome; and at a sign from him the owl, seizing in its claw the lighted match, soared upwards to the vaulted roof, towards which the madman pointed with outstretched arm. Another second and New Aberfoyle would be no more. Suddenly Nell sprang from Harry's arms, and, with a bright look of inspiration, she ran to the very brink of the waters of the lake. "Harfang! Harfang!" cried she in a clear voice; "here! come to me!" The faithful bird, surprised, appeared to hesitate in its flight. Presently, recognizing Nell's voice, it dropped the burning match into the water, and, describing a wide circle, flew downwards, alighting at the maiden's feet. Then a terrible cry echoed through the vaulted roofs. It was the last sound uttered by old Silfax. Just as Jack Ryan laid his hand on the edge of the canoe, the old man, foiled in his purpose of revenge, cast himself headlong into the waters of the lake. "Save him! oh, save him!" shrieked Nell in a voice of agony. Immediately Harry plunged into the water, and, swimming towards Jack Ryan, he dived repeatedly. But his efforts were useless. The waters of Loch Malcolm yielded not their prey: they closed forever over Silfax. # CHAPTER XIX. THE LEGEND OF OLD SILFAX Six months after these events, the marriage, so strangely interrupted, was finally celebrated in St. Giles's chapel, and the young couple, who still wore mourning garments, returned to the cottage. James Starr and Simon Ford, henceforth free from the anxieties which had so long distressed them, joyously presided over the entertainment which followed the ceremony, and prolonged it to the following day. On this memorable occasion, Jack Ryan, in his favorite character of piper, and in all the glory of full dress, blew up his chanter, and astonished the company by the unheard of achievement of playing, singing, and dancing all at once. It is needless to say that Harry and Nell were happy. These loving hearts, after the trials they had gone through found in their union the happiness they deserved. As to Simon Ford, the ex-overman of New Aberfoyle, he began to talk of celebrating his golden wedding, after fifty years of marriage with good old Madge, who liked the idea immensely herself. "And after that, why not golden wedding number two?" "You would like a couple of fifties, would you, Mr. Simon?" said Jack Ryan. "All right, my boy," replied the overman quietly, "I see nothing against it in this fine climate of ours, and living far from the luxury and intemperance of the outer world." Will the dwellers in Coal Town ever be called to witness this second ceremony? Time will show. Certainly the strange bird of old Silfax seemed destined to attain a wonderful longevity. The Harfang continued to haunt the gloomy recesses of the cave. After the old man's death, Nell had attempted to keep the owl, but in a very few days he flew away. He evidently disliked human society as much as his master had done, and, besides that, he appeared to have a particular spite against Harry. The jealous bird seemed to remember and hate him for having carried off Nell from the deep abyss, notwithstanding all he could do to prevent him. Still, at long intervals, Nell would see the creature hovering above Loch Malcolm. Could he possibly be watching for his friend of yore? Did he strive to pierce, with keen eye, the depths which had engulfed his master? The history of the Harfang became legendary, and furnished Jack Ryan with many a tale and song. Thanks to him, the story of old Silfax and his bird will long be preserved, and handed down to future generations of the Scottish peasantry. THE END
206	--- title: The Valley of the Worm author: Robert E. Howard tags: Fiction, Short Story, Fantasy, Horror, Mythology preview: A stirring tale of a hideous monster from the elder world, that came in conflict with the yellow-haired sons of Aryan word count: 8700 ... # The Valley of the Worm I will tell you of Niord and the Worm. You have heard the tale before in many guises wherein the hero was named Tyr, or Perseus, or Siegfried, or Beowulf, or Saint George. But it was Niord who met the loathly demoniac thing that crawled hideously up from hell, and from which meeting sprang the cycle of hero-tales that revolves down the ages until the very substance of the truth is lost and passes into the limbo of all forgotten legends. I know whereof I speak, for I was Niord. As I lie here awaiting death, which creeps slowly upon me like a blind slug, my dreams are filled with glittering visions and the pageantry of glory. It is not of the drab, disease-racked life of James Allison I dream, but all the gleaming figures of the mighty pageantry that have passed before, and shall come after; for I have faintly glimpsed, not merely the shapes that trail out behind, but shapes that come after, as a man in a long parade glimpses, far ahead, the line of figures that precede him winding over a distant hill, etched shadow-like against the sky. I am one and all the pageantry of shapes and guises and masks which have been, are, and shall be the visible manifestations of that illusive, intangible, but vitally existent spirit now promenading under the brief and temporary name of James Allison. Each man on earth, each woman, is part and all of a similar caravan of shapes and beings. But they cannot remember—their minds cannot bridge the brief, awful gulfs of blackness which lie between those unstable shapes, and which the spirit, soul or ego, in spanning, shakes off its fleshy masks. I remember. Why I can remember is the strangest tale of all; but as I lie here with death's black wings slowly unfolding over me, all the dim folds of my previous lives are shaken out before my eyes, and I see myself in many forms and guises—braggart, swaggering, fearful, loving, foolish, all that men have been or will be. I have been Man in many lands and many conditions; yet—and here is another strange thing—my line of reincarnation runs straight down one unerring channel. I have never been any but a man of that restless race men once called Nordheimr and later Aryans, and today name by many names and designations. Their history is my history, from the first mewling wail of a hairless white ape cub in the wastes of the Arctic, to the death-cry of the last degenerate product of ultimate civilization, in some dim and unguessed future age. My name has been Hialmar, Tyr, Bragi, Bran, Horsa, Eric and John. I strode red-handed through the deserted streets of Rome behind the yellow-maned Brennus; I wandered through the violated plantations with Alaric and his Goths when the flame of burning villas lit the land like day and an empire was gasping its last under our sandalled feet; I waded sword in hand through the foaming surf from Hengist's galley to lay the foundations of England in blood and pillage; when Leif the Lucky sighted the broad white beaches of an unguessed world, I stood beside him in the bows of the dragon-ship, my golden beard blowing in the wind; and when Godfrey of Bouillon led his Crusaders over the walls of Jerusalem, I was among them in steel cap and brigandine. But it is of none of these things I would speak. I would take you back with me into an age beside which that of Brennus and Rome is as yesterday. I would take you back through, not merely centuries and millenniums, but epochs and dim ages unguessed by the wildest philosopher. Oh far, far and far will you fare into the nighted Past before you win beyond the boundaries of my race, blue-eyed, yellow-haired, wanderers, slayers, lovers, mighty in rapine and wayfaring. It is the adventure of Niord Worm's-bane of which I would speak—the root-stem of a whole cycle of hero-tales which has not yet reached its end, the grisly underlying reality that lurks behind time-distorted myths of dragons, fiends and monsters. Yet it is not alone with the mouth of Niord that I will speak. I am James Allison no less than I was Niord, and as I unfold the tale, I will interpret some of his thoughts and dreams and deeds from the mouth of the modern I, so that the saga of Niord shall not be a meaningless chaos to you. His blood is your blood, who are sons of Aryan; but wide misty gulfs of aeons lie horrifically between, and the deeds and dreams of Niord seem as alien to your deeds and dreams as the primordial and lion-haunted forest seems alien to the white-walled city street. It was a strange world in which Niord lived and loved and fought, so long ago that even my aeon-spanning memory cannot recognize landmarks. Since then the surface of the earth has changed, not once but a score of times; continents have risen and sunk, seas have changed their beds and rivers their courses, glaciers have waxed and waned, and the very stars and constellations have altered and shifted. It was so long ago that the cradle-land of my race was still in Nordheim. But the epic drifts of my people had already begun, and blue-eyed, yellow-maned tribes flowed eastward and southward and westward, on century-long treks that carried them around the world and left their bones and their traces in strange lands and wild waste places. On one of these drifts I grew from infancy to manhood. My knowledge of that northern homeland was dim memories, like half-remembered dreams, of blinding white snow plains and ice fields, of great fires roaring in the circle of hide tents, of yellow manes flying in great winds, and a sun setting in a lurid wallow of crimson clouds, blazing on trampled snow where still dark forms lay in pools that were redder than the sunset. That last memory stands out clearer than the others. It was the field of Jotunheim, I was told in later years, whereon had just been fought that terrible battle which was the Armageddon of the Æsir-folk, the subject of a cycle of hero-songs for long ages, and which still lives today in dim dreams of Ragnarok and Goetterdaemmerung. I looked on that battle as a mewling infant; so I must have lived about—but I will not name the age, for I would be called a madman, and historians and geologists alike would rise to refute me. But my memories of Nordheim were few and dim, paled by memories of that long, long trek upon which I had spent my life. We had not kept to a straight course, but our trend had been for ever southward. Sometimes we had bided for a while in fertile upland valleys or rich river-traversed plains, but always we took up the trail again, and not always because of drouth or famine. Often we left countries teeming with game and wild grain to push into wastelands. On our trail we moved endlessly, driven only by our restless whim, yet blindly following a cosmic law, the workings of which we never guessed, any more than the wild geese guess in their flights around the world. So at last we came into the Country of the Worm. I will take up the tale at the time when we came into jungle-clad hills reeking with rot and teeming with spawning life, where the tom-toms of a savage people pulsed incessantly through the hot breathless night. These people came forth to dispute our way short, strongly built men, black-haired, painted, ferocious, but indisputably white men. We knew their breed of old. They were Picts, and of all alien races the fiercest. We had met their kind before in thick forests, and in upland valleys beside mountain lakes. But many moons had passed since those meetings. I believe this particular tribe represented the easternmost drift of the race. They were the most primitive and ferocious of any I ever met. Already they were exhibiting hints of characteristics I have noted among black savages in jungle countries, though they had dwelled in these environs only a few generations. The abysmal jungle was engulfing them, was obliterating their pristine characteristics and shaping them in its own horrific mould. They were drifting into head-hunting, and cannibalism was but a step which I believe they must have taken before they became extinct. These things are natural adjuncts to the jungle; the Picts did not learn them from the black people, for then there were no blacks among those hills. In later years they came up from the south, and the Picts first enslaved and then were absorbed by them. But with that my saga of Niord is not concerned. We came into that brutish hill country, with its squalling abysms of savagery and black primitiveness. We were a whole tribe marching on foot, old men, wolfish with their long beards and gaunt limbs, giant warriors in their prime, naked children running along the line of march, women with tousled yellow locks carrying babies which never cried—unless it were to scream from pure rage. I do not remember our numbers, except that there were some 500 fighting-men—and by fighting-men I mean all males, from the child just strong enough to lift a bow, to the oldest of the old men. In that madly ferocious age all were fighters. Our women fought, when brought to bay, like tigresses, and I have seen a babe, not yet old enough to stammer articulate words, twist its head and sink its tiny teeth in the foot that stamped out its life. Oh, we were fighters! Let me speak of Niord. I am proud of him, the more when I consider the paltry crippled body of James Allison, the unstable mask I now wear. Niord was tall, with great shoulders, lean hips and mighty limbs. His muscles were long and swelling, denoting endurance and speed as well as strength. He could run all day without tiring, and he possessed a coordination that made his movements a blur of blinding speed. If I told you his full strength, you would brand me a liar. But there is no man on earth today strong enough to bend the bow Niord handled with ease. The longest arrow-flight on record is that of a Turkish archer who sent a shaft 482 yards. There was not a stripling in my tribe who could not have bettered that flight. As we entered the jungle country we heard the tom-toms booming across the mysterious valleys that slumbered between the brutish hills, and in a broad, open plateau we met our enemies. I do not believe these Picts knew us, even by legends, or they had never rushed so openly to the onset, though they outnumbered us. But there was no attempt at ambush. They swarmed out of the trees, dancing and singing their war-songs, yelling their barbarous threats. Our heads should hang in their idol-hut and our yellow-haired women should bear their sons. Ho! ho! ho! By Ymir, it was Niord who laughed then, not James Allison. Just so we of the Æsir laughed to hear their threats—deep thunderous laughter from broad and mighty chests. Our trail was laid in blood and embers through many lands. We were the slayers and ravishers, striding sword in hand across the world, and that these folk threatened us woke our rugged humour. We went to meet them, naked but for our wolfhides, swinging our bronze swords, and our singing was like rolling thunder in the hills. They sent their arrows among us, and we gave back their fire. They could not match us in archery. Our arrows hissed in blinding clouds among them, dropping them like autumn leaves, until they howled and frothed like mad dogs and changed to hand-grips. And we, mad with the fighting joy, dropped our bows and ran to meet them, as a lover runs to his love. By Ymir, it was a battle to madden and make drunken with the slaughter and the fury. The Picts were as ferocious as we, but ours was the superior physique, the keener wit, the more highly developed fighting-brain. We won because we were a superior race, but it was no easy victory. Corpses littered the blood-soaked earth; but at last they broke, and we cut them down as they ran, to the very edge of the trees. I tell of that fight in a few bald words. I cannot paint the madness, the reek of sweat and blood, the panting, muscle-straining effort, the splintering of bones under mighty blows, the rending and hewing of quivering sentient flesh; above all the merciless abysmal savagery of the whole affair, in which there was neither rule nor order, each man fighting as he would or could. If I might do so, you would recoil in horror; even the modern I, cognizant of my close kinship with those times, stand aghast as I review that butchery. Mercy was yet unborn, save as some individual's whim, and rules of warfare were as yet undreamed of. It was an age in which each tribe and each human fought tooth and fang from birth to death, and neither gave nor expected mercy. So we cut down the fleeing Picts, and our women came out on the field to brain the wounded enemies with stones, or cut their throats with copper knives. We did not torture. We were no more cruel than life demanded. The rule of life was ruthlessness, but there is more wanton cruelty today than ever we dreamed of. It was not wanton bloodthirstiness that made us butcher wounded and captive foes. It was because we knew our chances of survival increased with each enemy slain. Yet there was occasionally a touch of individual mercy, and so it was in this fight. I had been occupied with a duel with an especially valiant enemy. His tousled thatch of black hair scarcely came above my chin, but he was a solid knot of steel-spring muscles, than which lightning scarcely moved faster. He had an iron sword and a hide-covered buckler. I had a knotty-headed bludgeon. That fight was one that glutted even my battle-lusting soul. I was bleeding from a score of flesh wounds before one of my terrible, lashing strokes smashed his shield like cardboard, and an instant later my bludgeon glanced from his unprotected head. Ymir! Even now I stop to laugh and marvel at the hardness of that Pict's skull. Men of that age were assuredly built on a rugged plan! That blow should have spattered his brains like water. It did lay his scalp open horribly, dashing him senseless to the earth, where I let him lie, supposing him to be dead, as I joined in the slaughter of the fleeing warriors. When I returned reeking with sweat and blood, my club horridly clotted with blood and brains, I noticed that my antagonist was regaining consciousness, and that a naked tousle-headed girl was preparing to give him the finishing touch with a stone she could scarcely lift. A vagrant whim caused me to check the blow. I had enjoyed the fight, and I admired the adamantine quality of his skull. We made camp a short distance away, burned our dead on a great pyre, and after looting the corpses of the enemy, we dragged them across the plateau and cast them down in a valley to make a feast for the hyenas, jackals and vultures which were already gathering. We kept close watch that night, but we were not attacked, though far away through the jungle we could make out the red gleam of fires, and could faintly hear, when the wind veered, the throb of tom-toms and demoniac screams and yells keenings for the slain or mere animal squallings of fury. Nor did they attack us in the days that followed. We bandaged our captive's wounds and quickly learned his primitive tongue, which, however, was so different from ours that I cannot conceive of the two languages having ever had a common source. His name was Grom, and he was a great hunter and fighter, he boasted. He talked freely and held no grudge, grinning broadly and showing tusk-like teeth, his beady eyes glittering from under the tangled black mane that fell over his low forehead. His limbs were almost ape-like in their thickness. He was vastly interested in his captors, though he could never understand why he had been spared; to the end it remained an inexplicable mystery to him. The Picts obeyed the law of survival even more rigidly than did the Æsir. They were the more practical, as shown by their more settled habits. They never roamed as far or as blindly as we. Yet in every line we were the superior race. Grom, impressed by our intelligence and fighting qualities, volunteered to go into the hills and make peace for us with his people. It was immaterial to us, but we let him go. Slavery had not yet been dreamed of. So Grom went back to his people, and we forgot about him, except that I went a trifle more cautiously about my hunting, expecting him to be lying in wait to put an arrow through my back. Then one day we heard a rattle of tom-toms, and Grom appeared at the edge of the jungle, his face split in his gorilla grin, with the painted, skin-clad, feather-bedecked chiefs of the clans. Our ferocity had awed them, and our sparing of Grom further impressed them. They could not understand leniency; evidently we valued them too cheaply to bother about killing one when he was in our power. So peace was made with much pow-wow, and sworn to with many strange oaths and rituals we swore only by Ymir, and an Æsir never broke that vow. But they swore by the elements, by the idol which sat in the fetish-hut where fires burned for ever and a withered crone slapped a leather-covered drum all night long, and by another being too terrible to be named. Then we all sat around the fires and gnawed meat-bones, and drank a fiery concoction they brewed from wild grain, and the wonder is that the feast did not end in a general massacre; for that liquor had devils in it and made maggots writhe in our brains. But no harm came of our vast drunkenness, and thereafter we dwelled at peace with our barbarous neighbours. They taught us many things, and learned many more from us. But they taught us iron-workings, into which they had been forced by the lack of copper in those hills, and we quickly excelled them. We went freely among their villages—mud-walled clusters of huts in hilltop clearings, overshadowed by giant trees—and we allowed them to come at will among our camps—straggling lines of hide tents on the plateau where the battle had been fought. Our young men cared not for their squat beady-eyed women, and our rangy clean-limbed girls with their tousled yellow heads were not drawn to the hairy-breasted savages. Familiarity over a period of years would have reduced the repulsion on either side, until the two races would have flowed together to form one hybrid people, but long before that time the Æsir rose and departed, vanishing into the mysterious hazes of the haunted south. But before that exodus there came to pass the horror of the Worm. I hunted with Grom and he led me into brooding, uninhabited valleys and up into silence-haunted hills where no men had set foot before us. But there was one valley, off in the mazes of the south-west, into which he would not go. Stumps of shattered columns, relics of a forgotten civilization, stood among the trees on the valley floor. Grom showed them to me, as we stood on the cliffs that flanked the mysterious vale, but he would not go down into it, and he dissuaded me when I would have gone alone. He would not speak plainly of the danger that lurked there, but it was greater than that of serpent or tiger, or the trumpeting elephants which occasionally wandered up in devastating droves from the south. Of all beasts, Grom told me in the gutturals of his tongue, the Picts feared only Satha, the great snake, and they shunned the jungle where he lived. But there was another thing they feared, and it was connected in some manner with the Valley of Broken Stones, as the Picts called the crumbling pillars. Long ago, when his ancestors had first come into the country, they had dared that grim vale, and a whole clan of them had perished, suddenly, horribly and unexplainably. At least Grom did not explain. The horror had come up out of the earth, somehow, and it was not good to talk of it, since it was believed that It might be summoned by speaking of It—whatever It was. But Grom was ready to hunt with me anywhere else; for he was the greatest hunter among the Picts, and many and fearful were our adventures. Once I killed, with the iron sword I had forged with my own hands, that most terrible of all beasts—old sabre-tooth, which men today call a tiger because he was more like a tiger than anything else. In reality he was almost as much like a bear in build, save for his unmistakably feline head. Sabre-tooth was massive-limbed, with a low-hung, great, heavy body, and he vanished from the earth because he was too terrible a fighter, even for that grim age. As his muscles and ferocity grew, his brain dwindled until at last even the instinct of self-preservation vanished. Nature, who maintains her balance in such things, destroyed him because, had his super-fighting powers been allied with an intelligent brain, he would have destroyed all other forms of life on earth. He was a freak on the road of evolution organic development gone mad and run to fangs and talons, to slaughter and destruction. I killed sabre-tooth in a battle that would make a saga in itself, and for months afterwards I lay semi-delirious with ghastly wounds that made the toughest warriors shake their heads. The Picts said that never before had a man killed a sabre-tooth single-handed. Yet I recovered, to the wonder of all. While I lay at the doors of death there was a secession from the tribe. It was a peaceful secession, such as continually occurred and contributed greatly to the peopling of the world by yellow-haired tribes. Forty-five of the young men took themselves mates simultaneously and wandered off to found a clan of their own. There was no revolt; it was a racial custom which bore fruit in all the later ages, when tribes sprung from the same roots met, after centuries of separation, and cut one another's throats with joyous abandon. The tendency of the Aryan and the pre-Aryan was always towards disunity, clans splitting off the main stem, and scattering. So these young men, led by one Bragi, my brother-in-arms, took their girls and venturing to the south-west, took up their abode in the Valley of Broken Stones. The Picts expostulated, hinting vaguely of a monstrous doom that haunted the vale, but the Æsir laughed. We had left our own demons and weirds in the icy wastes of the far blue north, and the devils of other races did not much impress us. When my full strength was returned, and the grisly wounds were only scars, I girt on my weapons and strode over the plateau to visit Bragi's clan. Grom did not accompany me. He had not been in the Æsir camp for several days. But I knew the way. I remembered well the valley, from the cliffs of which I had looked down and seen the lake at the upper end, the trees thickening into forest at the lower extremity. The sides of the valley were high sheer cliffs, and a steep broad ridge at either end cut it off from the surrounding country. It was towards the lower or southwestern end that the valley floor was dotted thickly with ruined columns, some towering high among the trees, some fallen into heaps of lichen-clad stones. What race reared them none knew. But Grom had hinted fearsomely of a hairy, apish monstrosity dancing loathsomely under the moon to a demoniac piping that induced horror and madness. I crossed the plateau whereon our camp was pitched, descended the slope, traversed a shallow vegetation-choked valley, climbed another slope, and plunged into the hills. A half-day's leisurely travel brought me to the ridge on the other side of which lay the valley of the pillars. For many miles I had seen no sign of human life. The settlements of the Picts all lay many miles to the east. I topped the ridge and looked down into the dreaming valley with its still blue lake, its brooding cliffs and its broken columns jutting among the trees. I looked for smoke. I saw none, but I saw vultures wheeling in the sky over a cluster of tents on the lake shore. I came down the ridge warily and approached the silent camp. In it I halted, frozen with horror. I was not easily moved. I had seen death in many forms, and had fled from or taken part in red massacres that spilled blood like water and heaped the earth with corpses. But here I was confronted with an organic devastation that staggered and appalled me. Of Bragi's embryonic clan, not one remained alive, and not one corpse was whole. Some of the hide tents still stood erect. Others were mashed down and flattened out, as if crushed by some monstrous weight, so that at first I wondered if a drove of elephants had stampeded across the camp. But no elephants ever wrought such destruction as I saw strewn on the bloody ground. The camp was a shambles, littered with bits of flesh and fragments of bodies—hands, feet, heads, pieces of human debris. Weapons lay about, some of them stained with a greenish slime like that which spurts from a crushed caterpillar. No human foe could have committed this ghastly atrocity. I looked at the lake, wondering if nameless amphibian monsters had crawled from the calm waters whose deep blue told of unfathomed depths. Then I saw a print left by the destroyer. It was a track such as a titanic worm might leave, yards broad, winding back down the valley. The grass lay flat where it ran, and bushes and small trees had been crushed down into the earth, all horribly smeared with blood and greenish slime. With berserk fury in my soul I drew my sword and started to follow it, when a call attracted me. I wheeled, to see a stocky form approaching me from the ridge. It was Grom the Pict, and when I think of the courage it must have taken for him to have overcome all the instincts planted in him by traditional teachings and personal experience, I realize the full depths of his friendship for me. Squatting on the lake shore, spear in his hands, his black eyes ever roving fearfully down the brooding tree-waving reaches of the valley, Grom told me of the horror that had come upon Bragi's clan under the moon. But first he told me of it, as his sires had told the tale to him. Long ago the Picts had drifted down from the north-west on a long, long trek, finally reaching these jungle-covered hills, where, because they were weary, and because the game and fruit were plentiful and there were no hostile tribes, they halted and built their mud-walled villages. Some of them, a whole clan of that numerous tribe, took up their abode in the Valley of the Broken Stones. They found the columns and a great ruined temple back in the trees, and in that temple there was no shrine or altar, but the mouth of a shaft that vanished deep into the black earth, and in which there were no steps such as a human being would make and use. They built their village in the valley, and in the night, under the moon, horror came upon them and left only broken walls and bits of slime-smeared flesh. In those days the Picts feared nothing. The warriors of the other clans gathered and sang their war-songs and danced their war-dances, and followed a broad track of blood and slime to the shaft-mouth in the temple. They howled defiance and hurled down boulders which were never heard to strike bottom. Then began a thin demoniac piping, and up from the well pranced a hideous anthropomorphic figure dancing to the weird strains of a pipe it held in its monstrous hands. The horror of its aspect froze the fierce Picts with amazement, and close behind it a vast white bulk heaved up from the subterranean darkness. Out of the shaft came a slavering mad nightmare which arrows pierced but could not check, which swords carved but could not slay. It fell slobbering upon the warriors, crushing them to crimson pulp, tearing them to bits as an octopus might tear small fishes, sucking their blood from their mangled limbs and devouring them even as they screamed and struggled. The survivors fled, pursued to the very ridge, up which, apparently, the monster could not propel its quaking mountainous bulk. After that they did not dare the silent valley. But the dead came to their shamans and old men in dreams and told them strange and terrible secrets. They spoke of an ancient, ancient race of semi-human beings which once inhabited that valley and reared those columns for their own weird inexplicable purposes. The white monster in the pits was their god, summoned up from the nighted abysses of mid-earth uncounted fathoms below the black mould by sorcery unknown to the sons of men. The hairy anthropomorphic being was its servant, created to serve the god, a formless elemental spirit drawn up from below and cased in flesh, organic but beyond the understanding of humanity. The Old Ones had long vanished into the limbo from whence they crawled in the black dawn of the universe, but their bestial god and his inhuman slave lived on. Yet both were organic after a fashion, and could be wounded, though no human weapon had been found potent enough to slay them. Bragi and his clan had dwelled for weeks in the valley before the horror struck. Only the night before, Grom, hunting above the cliffs, and by that token daring greatly, had been paralyzed by a high-pitched demon piping, and then by a mad clamour of human screaming. Stretched face down in the dirt, hiding his head in a tangle of grass, he had not dared to move, even when the shrieks died away in the slobbering, repulsive sounds of a hideous feast. When dawn broke he had crept shuddering to the cliffs to look down into the valley, and the sight of the devastation, even when seen from afar, had driven him in yammering flight far into the hills. But it had occurred to him, finally, that he should warn the rest of the tribe, and returning, on his way to the camp on the plateau, he had seen me entering the valley. So spoke Grom, while I sat and brooded darkly, my chin on my mighty fist. I cannot frame in modern words the clan feeling that in those days was a living vital part of every man and woman. In a world where talon and fang were lifted on every hand, and the hands of all men raised against an individual, except those of his own clan, tribal instinct was more than the phrase it is today. It was as much a part of a man as was his heart or his right hand. This was necessary, for only thus banded together in unbreakable groups could mankind have survived in the terrible environments of the primitive world. So now the personal grief I felt for Bragi and the clean-limbed young men and laughing white-skinned girls was drowned in a deeper sea of grief and fury that was cosmic in its depth and intensity. I sat grimly, while the Pict squatted anxiously beside me, his gaze roving from me to the menacing deeps of the valley where the accursed columns loomed like broken teeth of cackling hags among the waving leafy reaches. I, Niord, was not one to use my brain over-much. I lived in a physical world, and there were the old men of the tribe to do my thinking. But I was one of a race destined to become dominant mentally as well as physically, and I was no mere muscular animal. So as I sat there, there came dimly and then clearly a thought to me that brought a short fierce laugh from my lips. Rising, I bade Grom aid me, and we built a pyre on the lake shore of dried wood, the ridge-poles of the tents, and the broken shafts of spears. Then we collected the grisly fragments that had been parts of Bragi's band, and we laid them on the pile, and struck flint and steel to it. The thick sad smoke crawled serpent-like into the sky, and, turning to Grom, I made him guide me to the jungle where lurked that scaly horror, Satha, the great serpent. Grom gaped at me; not the greatest hunters among the Picts sought out the mighty crawling one. But my will was like a wind that swept him along my course, and at last he led the way. We left the valley by the upper end, crossing the ridge, skirting the tall cliffs, and plunged into the fastnesses of the south, which was peopled only by the grim denizens of the jungle. Deep into the jungle we went, until we came to a low-lying expanse, dank and dark beneath the great creeper-festooned trees, where our feet sank deep into the spongy silt, carpeted by rotting vegetation, and slimy moisture oozed up beneath their pressure. This, Grom told me, was the realm haunted by Satha, the great serpent. Let me speak of Satha. There is nothing like him on earth today, nor has there been for countless ages. Like the meat-eating dinosaur, like old sabre-tooth, he was too terrible to exist. Even then he was a survival of a grimmer age when life and its forms were cruder and more hideous. There were not many of his kind then, though they may have existed in great numbers in the reeking ooze of the vast jungle-tangled swamps still further south. He was larger than any python of modern ages, and his fangs dripped with poison a thousand times more deadly than that of a king cobra. He was never worshipped by the pure-blood Picts, though the blacks that came later deified him, and that adoration persisted in the hybrid race that sprang from the negroes and their white conquerors. But to other peoples he was the nadir of evil horror, and tales of him became twisted into demonology; so in later ages Satha became the veritable devil of the white races, and the Stygians first worshipped, and then, when they became Egyptians, abhorred him under the name of Set, the Old Serpent, while to the Semites he became Leviathan and Satan. He was terrible enough to be a god, for he was a crawling death. I had seen a bull elephant fall dead in his tracks from Satha's bite. I had seen him, had glimpsed him writhing his horrific way through the dense jungle, had seen him take his prey, but I had never hunted him. He was too grim, even for the slayer of old sabre-tooth. But now I hunted him, plunging further and further into the hot, breathless reek of his jungle, even when friendship for me could not drive Grom further. He urged me to paint my body and sing my death-song before I advanced further, but I pushed on unheeding. In a natural runway that wound between the shouldering trees, I set a trap. I found a large tree, soft and spongy of fibre, but thick-boled and heavy, and I hacked through its base close to the ground with my great sword, directing its fall so that when it toppled, its top crashed into the branches of a smaller tree, leaving it leaning across the runway, one end resting on the earth, the other caught in the small tree. Then I cut away the branches on the underside, and cutting a slim, tough sapling I trimmed it and stuck it upright like a prop-pole under the leaning tree. Then, cutting away the tree which supported it, I left the great trunk poised precariously on the prop-pole, to which I fastened a long vine, as thick as my wrist. Then I went alone through that primordial twilight jungle until an overpowering fetid odour assailed my nostrils, and from the rank vegetation in front of me Satha reared up his hideous head, swaying lethally from side to side, while his forked tongue jetted in and out, and his great yellow terrible eyes burned icily on me with all the evil wisdom of the black elder world that was when man was not. I backed away, feeling no fear, only an icy sensation along my spine, and Satha came sinuously after me, his shining 80-foot barrel rippling over the rotting vegetation in mesmeric silence. His wedge-shaped head was bigger than the head of the hugest stallion, his trunk was thicker than a man's body, and his scales shimmered with a thousand changing scintillations. I was to Satha as a mouse is to a king cobra, but I was fanged as no mouse ever was. Quick as I was, I knew I could not avoid the lightning stroke of that great triangular head; so I dared not let him come too close. Subtly I fled down the runway, and behind me the rush of the great supple body was like the sweep of wind through the grass. He was not far behind me when I raced beneath the dead-fall, and as the great shining length glided under the trap, I gripped the vine with both hands and jerked desperately. With a crash the great trunk fell across Satha's scaly back, some 6 feet back of his wedge-shaped head. I had hoped to break his spine but I do not think it did, for the great body coiled and knotted, the mighty tail lashed and thrashed, mowing down the bushes as if with a giant flail. At the instant of the fall, the huge head had whipped about and struck the tree with a terrific impact, the mighty fangs shearing through bark and wood like scimitars. Now, as if aware he fought an inanimate foe, Satha turned on me, standing out of his reach. The scaly neck writhed and arched, the mighty jaws gaped, disclosing fangs a foot in length, from which dripped venom that might have burned through solid stone. I believe, what of his stupendous strength, that Satha would have writhed from under the trunk, but for a broken branch that had been driven deep into his side, holding him like a barb. The sound of his hissing filled the jungle and his eyes glared at me with such concentrated evil that I shook despite myself. Oh, he knew it was I who had trapped him! Now I came as close as I dared, and with a sudden powerful cast of my spear transfixed his neck just below the gaping jaws, nailing him to the tree-trunk. Then I dared greatly, for he was far from dead, and I knew he would in an instant tear the spear from the wood and be free to strike. But in that instant I ran in, and swinging my sword with all my great power, I hewed off his terrible head. The heavings and contortions of Satha's prisoned form in life were naught to the convulsions of his headless length in death. I retreated, dragging the gigantic head after me with a crooked pole, and at a safe distance from the lashing, flying tail, I set to work. I worked with naked death then, and no man ever toiled more gingerly than did I. For I cut out the poison sacs at the base of the great fangs, and in the terrible venom I soaked the heads of eleven arrows, being careful that only the bronze points were in the liquid, which else had corroded away the wood of the tough shafts. While I was doing this, Grom, driven by comradeship and Curiosity, came stealing nervously through the jungle, and his mouth gaped as he looked on the head of Satha. For hours I steeped the arrowheads in the poison, until they were caked with a horrible green scum, and showed tiny flecks of corrosion where the venom had eaten into the solid bronze. I wrapped them carefully in broad, thick, rubber-like leaves, and then, though night had fallen and the hunting beasts were roaring on every hand, I went back through the jungled hills, Grom with me, until at dawn we came again to the high cliffs that loomed above the Valley of Broken Stones. At the mouth of the valley I broke my spear, and I took all the unpoisoned shafts from my quiver, and snapped them. I painted my face and limbs as the Æsir painted themselves only when they went forth to certain doom, and I sang my death-song to the sun as it rose over the cliffs, my yellow mane blowing in the morning wind. Then I went down into the valley, bow in hand. Grom could not drive himself to follow me. He lay on his belly in the dust and howled like a dying dog. I passed the lake and the silent camp where the pyre-ashes still smouldered, and came under the thickening trees beyond. About me the columns loomed, mere shapeless heads from the ravages of Staggering aeons. The trees grew more dense, and under their vast leafy branches the very light was dusky and evil. As in twilight shadow I saw the ruined temple, cyclopean walls staggering up from masses of decaying masonry and fallen blocks of stone. About 600 yards in front of it a great column reared up in an open glade, 80 or 90 feet in height. It was so worn and pitted by weather and time that any child of my tribe could have climbed it, and I marked it and changed my plan. I came to the ruins and saw huge crumbling walls upholding a domed roof from which many stones had fallen, so that it seemed like the lichen-grown ribs of some mythical monster's skeleton arching above me. Titanic columns flanked the open doorway through which ten elephants could have stalked abreast. Once there might have been inscriptions and hieroglyphics on the pillars and walls, but they were long worn away. Around the great room, on the inner side, ran columns in better state of preservation. On each of these columns was a flat pedestal, and some dim instinctive memory vaguely resurrected a shadowy scene wherein black drums roared madly, and on these pedestals monstrous beings squatted loathsomely in inexplicable rituals rooted in the black dawn of the universe. There was no altar only the mouth of a great well-like shaft in the stone floor, with strange obscene carvings all about the rim. I tore great pieces of stone from the rotting floor and cast them down the shaft which slanted down into utter darkness. I heard them bound along the side, but I did not hear them strike bottom. I cast down stone after stone, each with a searing curse, and at last I heard a sound that was not the dwindling rumble of the falling stones. Up from the well floated a weird demon-piping that was a symphony of madness. Far down in the darkness I glimpsed the faint fearful glimmering of a vast white bulk. I retreated slowly as the piping grew louder, falling back through the broad doorway. I heard a scratching, scrambling noise, and up from the shaft and out of the doorway between the colossal columns came a prancing incredible figure. It went erect like a man, but it was covered with fur, that was shaggiest where its face should have been. If it had ears, nose and a mouth I did not discover them. Only a pair of staring red eyes leered from the furry mask. Its misshapen hands held a strange set of pipes, on which it blew weirdly as it pranced towards me with many a grotesque caper and leap. Behind it I heard a repulsive obscene noise as of a quaking unstable mass heaving up out of a well. Then I nocked an arrow, drew the cord and sent the shaft singing through the furry breast of the dancing monstrosity. It went down as though struck by a thunderbolt, but to my horror the piping continued, though the pipes had fallen from the malformed hands. Then I turned and ran fleetly to the column, up which I swarmed before I looked back. When I reached the pinnacle I looked, and because of the shock and surprise of what I saw, I almost fell from my dizzy perch. Out of the temple the monstrous dweller in the darkness had come, and I, who had expected a horror yet cast in some terrestrial mould, looked on the spawn of nightmare. From what subterranean hell it crawled in the long ago I know not, nor what black age it represented. But it was not a beast, as humanity knows beasts. I call it a worm for lack of a better term. There is no earthly language that has a name for it. I can only say that it looked somewhat more like a worm than it did an octopus, a serpent or a dinosaur. It was white and pulpy, and drew its quaking bulk along the ground, worm-fashion. But it had wide flat tentacles, and fleshy feelers, and other adjuncts the use of which I am unable to explain. And it had a long proboscis which it curled and uncurled like an elephant's trunk. Its forty eyes, set in a horrific circle, were composed of thousands of facets of as many scintillant colours which changed and altered in never-ending transmutation. But through all interplay of hue and glint, they retained their evil intelligence intelligence there was behind those flickering facets, not human nor yet bestial, but a night-born demoniac intelligence such as men in dreams vaguely sense throbbing titanically in the black gulfs outside our material universe. In size the monster was mountainous; its bulk would have dwarfed a mastodon. But even as I shook with the cosmic horror of the thing, I drew a feathered shaft to my ear and arched it singing on its way. Grass and bushes were crushed flat as the monster came towards me like a moving mountain and shaft after shaft I sent with terrific force and deadly precision. I could not miss so huge a target. The arrows sank to the feathers or clear out of sight in the unstable bulk, each bearing enough poison to have stricken dead a bull elephant. Yet on it came, swiftly, appallingly, apparently heedless of both the shafts and the venom in which they were steeped. And all the time the hideous music played a maddening accompaniment, whining thinly from the pipes that lay untouched on the ground. My confidence faded; even the poison of Satha was futile against this uncanny being. I drove my last shaft almost straight downward into the quaking white mountain, so close was the monster under my perch. Then suddenly its colour altered. A wave of ghastly blue surged over it, and the vast bulk heaved in earthquake-like convulsions. With a terrible plunge it struck the lower part of the column, which crashed to falling shards of stone. But even with the impact, I leaped far out and fell through the empty air full upon the monster's back. The spongy skin yielded and gave beneath my feet, and I drove my sword hilt deep, dragging it through the pulpy flesh, ripping a horrible yard-long wound, from which oozed a green slime. Then a flip of a cable-like-tentacle flicked me from the titan's back and spun me 300 feet through the air to crash among a cluster of giant trees. The impact must have splintered half the bones in my frame, for when I sought to grasp my sword again and crawl anew to the combat, I could not move hand or foot, could only writhe helplessly with my broken back. But I could see the monster and I knew that I had won, even in defeat. The mountainous bulk was heaving and billowing, the tentacles were lashing madly, the antennae writhing and knotting, and the nauseous whiteness had changed to a pale and grisly green. It turned ponderously and lurched back towards the temple, rolling like a crippled ship in a heavy swell. Trees crashed and splintered as it lumbered against them. I wept with pure fury because I could not catch up my sword and rush in to die glutting my berserk madness in mighty strokes. But the worm-god was death-stricken and needed not my futile sword. The demon pipes on the ground kept up their infernal tune, and it was like the fiend's death-dirge. Then as the monster veered and floundered, I saw it catch up the corpse of its hairy slave. For an instant the apish form dangled in mid-air, gripped round by the trunk-like proboscis, then was dashed against the temple wall with a force that reduced the hairy body to a mere shapeless pulp. At that the pipes screamed out horribly, and fell silent for ever. The titan staggered on the brink of the shaft; then another change came over it—a frightful transfiguration the nature of which I cannot yet describe. Even now when I try to think of it clearly, I am only chaotically conscious of a blasphemous, unnatural transmutation of form and substance, shocking and indescribable. Then the strangely altered bulk tumbled into the shaft to roll down into the ultimate darkness from whence it came, and I knew that it was dead. And as it vanished into the well, with a rending, grinding groan the ruined walls quivered from dome to base. They bent inward and buckled with deafening reverberation, the columns splintered, and with a cataclysmic crash the dome itself came thundering down. For an instant the air seemed veiled with flying debris and stone-dust, through which the treetops lashed madly as in a storm or an earthquake convulsion. Then all was clear again and I stared, shaking the blood from my eyes. Where the temple had stood there lay only a colossal pile of shattered masonry and broken stones, and every column in the valley had fallen, to lie in crumbling shards. In the silence that followed I heard Grom wailing a dirge over me. I bade him lay my sword in my hand, and he did so, and bent close to hear what I had to say, for I was passing swiftly. "Let my tribe remember," I said, speaking slowly. "Let the tale be told from village to village, from camp to camp, from tribe to tribe, so that men may know that not man nor beast nor devil may prey in safety on the golden-haired people of Asgard. Let them build me a cairn where I lie and lay me therein with my bow and sword at hand, to guard this valley for ever; so if the ghost of the god I slew comes up from below, my ghost will ever be ready to give it battle." And while Grom howled and beat his hairy breast, death came to me in the Valley of the Worm. THE END
207	--- author: Poul Anderson tags: Short stories, Fantasy fiction title: The Valor of Cappen Varra summary: " \"The Valor of Cappen Varra\" by Poul Anderson is a fantasy novella that draws upon Norse mythology and legend, written in the mid-20th century. This engaging story follows Cappen Varra, a minstrel from the south who finds himself in the icy waters of Norren as he embarks on a dangerous adventure filled with trolls and unexpected challenges. The narrative explores themes of bravery, cunning, and the clash between different cultures in a fantastical setting. The tale begins with Cappen aboard a ship caught in a fierce winter storm, driven to the island of a troll who has kidnapped the daughter of King Svearek. When the crew, fearful of the trolls, sends Cappen to fetch fire, he encounters the terrifying troll-wife. Using his wit, charm, and courage, Cappen not only gains her trust but secures the princess\u2019s freedom. The story unfolds as Cappen navigates the dangers of the troll's domain, relying on his unique talents as a bard while cleverly outmaneuvering his foe. Ultimately, he emerges victorious, proving that courage and quick thinking can triumph over brute strength, and he returns to the king with his daughter, earning a place of honor among the warriors of Norren. " word_count: 5189 fiction_type: Short Story ... # The Valor of Cappen Varra "Let little Cappen go," they shouted. "Maybe he can sing the trolls to sleep—" The wind came from the north with sleet on its back. Raw shuddering gusts whipped the sea till the ship lurched and men felt driven spindrift stinging their faces. Beyond the rail there was winter night, a moving blackness where the waves rushed and clamored; straining into the great dark, men sensed only the bitter salt of sea-scud, the nettle of sleet and the lash of wind. Cappen lost his footing as the ship heaved beneath him, his hands were yanked from the icy rail and he went stumbling to the deck. The bilge water was new coldness on his drenched clothes. He struggled back to his feet, leaning on a rower's bench and wishing miserably that his quaking stomach had more to lose. But he had already chucked his share of stockfish and hardtack, to the laughter of Svearek's men, when the gale started. Numb fingers groped anxiously for the harp on his back. It still seemed intact in its leather case. He didn't care about the sodden wadmal breeks and tunic that hung around his skin. The sooner they rotted off him, the better. The thought of the silks and linens of Croy was a sigh in him. Why had he come to Norren? A gigantic form, vague in the whistling dark, loomed beside him and gave him a steadying hand. He could barely hear the blond giant's bull tones: "Ha, easy there, lad. Methinks the sea horse road is too rough for yer feet." "Ulp," said Cappen. His slim body huddled on the bench, too miserable to care. The sleet pattered against his shoulders and the spray congealed in his red hair. Torbek of Norren squinted into the night. It made his leathery face a mesh of wrinkles. "A bitter feast Yolner we hold," he said. "'Twas a madness of the king's, that he would guest with his brother across the water. Now the other ships are blown from us and the fire is drenched out and we lie alone in the Wolf's Throat." Wind piped shrill in the rigging. Cappen could just see the longboat's single mast reeling against the sky. The ice on the shrouds made it a pale pyramid. Ice everywhere, thick on the rails and benches, sheathing the dragon head and the carved stern-post, the ship rolling and staggering under the great march of waves, men bailing and bailing in the half-frozen bilge to keep her afloat, and too much wind for sail or oars. Yes—a cold feast! "But then, Svearek has been strange since the troll took his daughter, three years ago," went on Torbek. He shivered in a way the winter had not caused. "Never does he smile, and his once open hand grasps tight about the silver and his men have poor reward and no thanks. Yes, strange—" His small frost-blue eyes shifted to Cappen Varra, and the unspoken thought ran on beneath them: Strange, even, that he likes you, the wandering bard from the south. Strange, that he will have you in his hall when you cannot sing as his men would like. Cappen did not care to defend himself. He had drifted up toward the northern barbarians with the idea that they would well reward a minstrel who could offer them something more than their own crude chants. It had been a mistake; they didn't care for roundels or sestinas, they yawned at the thought of roses white and red under the moon of Caronne, a moon less fair than my lady's eyes. Nor did a man of Croy have the size and strength to compel their respect; Cappen's light blade flickered swiftly enough so that no one cared to fight him, but he lacked the power of sheer bulk. Svearek alone had enjoyed hearing him sing, but he was niggardly and his brawling thorp was an endless boredom to a man used to the courts of southern princes. If he had but had the manhood to leave— But he had delayed, because of a lusty peasant wench and a hope that Svearek's coffers would open wider; and now he was dragged along over the Wolf's Throat to a midwinter feast which would have to be celebrated on the sea. "Had we but fire—" Torbek thrust his hands inside his cloak, trying to warm them a little. The ship rolled till she was almost on her beam ends; Torbek braced himself with practiced feet, but Cappen went into the bilge again. He sprawled there for a while, his bruised body refusing movement. A weary sailor with a bucket glared at him through dripping hair. His shout was dim under the hoot and skirl of wind: "If ye like it so well down here, then help us bail!" "'Tis not yet my turn," groaned Cappen, and got slowly up. The wave which had nearly swamped them had put out the ship's fire and drenched the wood beyond hope of lighting a new one. It was cold fish and sea-sodden hardtack till they saw land again—if they ever did. As Cappen raised himself on the leeward side, he thought he saw something gleam, far out across the wrathful night. A wavering red spark— He brushed a stiffened hand across his eyes, wondering if the madness of wind and water had struck through into his own skull. A gust of sleet hid it again. But— He fumbled his way aft between the benches. Huddled figures cursed him wearily as he stepped on them. The ship shook herself, rolled along the edge of a boiling black trough, and slid down into it; for an instant, the white teeth of combers grinned above her rail, and Cappen waited for an end to all things. Then she mounted them again, somehow, and wallowed toward another valley. King Svearek had the steering oar and was trying to hold the longboat into the wind. He had stood there since sundown, huge and untiring, legs braced and the bucking wood cradled in his arms. More than human he seemed, there under the icicle loom of the stern-post, his gray hair and beard rigid with ice. Beneath the horned helmet, the strong moody face turned right and left, peering into the darkness. Cappen felt smaller than usual when he approached the steersman. He leaned close to the king, shouting against the blast of winter: "My lord, did I not see firelight?" "Aye. I spied it an hour ago," grunted the king. "Been trying to steer us a little closer to it." Cappen nodded, too sick and weary to feel reproved. "What is it?" "Some island—there are many in this stretch of water—now shut up!" Cappen crouched down under the rail and waited. The lonely red gleam seemed nearer when he looked again. Svearek's tones were lifting in a roar that hammered through the gale from end to end of the ship: "Hither! Come hither to me, all men not working!" Slowly, they groped to him, great shadowy forms in wool and leather, bulking over Cappen like storm-gods. Svearek nodded toward the flickering glow. "One of the islands, somebody must be living there. I cannot bring the ship closer for fear of surf, but one of ye should be able to take the boat thither and fetch us fire and dry wood. Who will go?" They peered overside, and the uneasy movement that ran among them came from more than the roll and pitch of the deck underfoot. Beorna the Bold spoke at last, it was hardly to be heard in the noisy dark: "I never knew of men living hereabouts. It must be a lair of trolls." "Aye, so ... aye, they'd but eat the man we sent ... out oars, let's away from here though it cost our lives ..." The frightened mumble was low under the jeering wind. Svearek's face drew into a snarl. "Are ye men or puling babes? Hack yer way through them, if they be trolls, but bring me fire!" "Even a she-troll is stronger than fifty men, my king," cried Torbek. "Well ye know that, when the monster woman broke through our guards three years ago and bore off Hildigund." "Enough!" It was a scream in Svearek's throat. "I'll have yer craven heads for this, all of ye, if ye gang not to the isle!" They looked at each other, the big men of Norren, and their shoulders hunched bear-like. It was Beorna who spoke it for them: "No, that ye will not. We are free housecarls, who will fight for a leader—but not for a madman." Cappen drew back against the rail, trying to make himself small. "All gods turn their faces from ye!" It was more than weariness and despair which glared in Svearek's eyes, there was something of death in them. "I'll go myself, then!" "No, my king. That we will not find ourselves in." "I am the king!" "And we are yer housecarls, sworn to defend ye—even from yerself. Ye shall not go." The ship rolled again, so violently that they were all thrown to starboard. Cappen landed on Torbek, who reached up to shove him aside and then closed one huge fist on his tunic. "Here's our man!" "Hi!" yelled Cappen. Torbek hauled him roughly back to his feet. "Ye cannot row or bail yer fair share," he growled, "nor do ye know the rigging or any skill of a sailor—"tis time ye made yerself useful!" "Aye, aye—let little Cappen go—mayhap he can sing the trolls to sleep—" The laughter was hard and barking, edged with fear, and they all hemmed him in. "My lord!" bleated the minstrel. "I am your guest—" Svearek laughed unpleasantly, half crazily. "Sing them a song," he howled. "Make a fine roun—whatever ye call it—to the troll-wife's beauty. And bring us some fire, little man, bring us a flame less hot than the love in yer breast for yer lady!" Teeth grinned through matted beards. Someone hauled on the rope from which the ship's small boat trailed, dragging it close. "Go, ye scut!" A horny hand sent Cappen stumbling to the rail. He cried out once again. An ax lifted above his head. Someone handed him his own slim sword, and for a wild moment he thought of fighting. Useless—too many of them. He buckled on the sword and spat at the men. The wind tossed it back in his face, and they raved with laughter. Over the side! The boat rose to meet him, he landed in a heap on drenched planks and looked up into the shadowy faces of the northmen. There was a sob in his throat as he found the seat and took out the oars. An awkward pull sent him spinning from the ship, and then the night had swallowed it and he was alone. Numbly, he bent to the task. Unless he wanted to drown, there was no place to go but the island. He was too weary and ill to be much afraid, and such fear as he had was all of the sea. It could rise over him, gulp him down, the gray horses would gallop over him and the long weeds would wrap him when he rolled dead against some skerry. The soft vales of Caronne and the roses in Croy's gardens seemed like a dream. There was only the roar and boom of the northern sea, hiss of sleet and spindrift, crazed scream of wind, he was alone as man had ever been and he would go down to the sharks alone. The boat wallowed, but rode the waves better than the longship. He grew dully aware that the storm was pushing him toward the island. It was becoming visible, a deeper blackness harsh against the night. He could not row much in the restless water, he shipped the oars and waited for the gale to capsize him and fill his mouth with the sea. And when it gurgled in his throat, what would his last thought be? Should he dwell on the lovely image of Ydris in Seilles, she of the long bright hair and the singing voice? But then there had been the tomboy laughter of dark Falkny, he could not neglect her. And there were memories of Elvanna in her castle by the lake, and Sirann of the Hundred Rings, and beauteous Vardry, and hawk-proud Lona, and— No, he could not do justice to any of them in the little time that remained. What a pity it was! No, wait, that unforgettable night in Nienne, the beauty which had whispered in his ear and drawn him close, the hair which had fallen like a silken tent about his cheeks ... ah, that had been the summit of his life, he would go down into darkness with her name on his lips ... But hell! What _had_ her name been, now? Cappen Varra, minstrel of Croy, clung to the bench and sighed. The great hollow voice of surf lifted about him, waves sheeted across the gunwale and the boat danced in madness. Cappen groaned, huddling into the circle of his own arms and shaking with cold. Swiftly, now, the end of all sunlight and laughter, the dark and lonely road which all men must tread. _O Ilwarra of Syr, Aedra in Tholis, could I but kiss you once more—_ Stones grated under the keel. It was a shock like a sword going through him. Cappen looked unbelievingly up. The boat had drifted to land—he was alive! It was like the sun in his breast. Weariness fell from him, and he leaped overside, not feeling the chill of the shallows. With a grunt, he heaved the boat up on the narrow strand and knotted the painter to a fang-like jut of reef. Then he looked about him. The island was small, utterly bare, a savage loom of rock rising out of the sea that growled at its feet and streamed off its shoulders. He had come into a little cliff-walled bay, somewhat sheltered from the wind. He was here! For a moment he stood, running through all he had learned about the trolls which infested these northlands. Hideous and soulless dwellers underground, they knew not old age; a sword could hew them asunder, but before it reached their deep-seated life, their unhuman strength had plucked a man apart. Then they ate him— Small wonder the northmen feared them. Cappen threw back his head and laughed. He had once done a service for a mighty wizard in the south, and his reward hung about his neck, a small silver amulet. The wizard had told him that no supernatural being could harm anyone who carried a piece of silver. The northmen said that a troll was powerless against a man who was not afraid; but, of course, only to see one was to feel the heart turn to ice. They did not know the value of silver, it seemed—odd that they shouldn't, but they did not. Because Cappen Varra did, he had no reason to be afraid; therefore he was doubly safe, and it was but a matter of talking the troll into giving him some fire. If indeed there was a troll here, and not some harmless fisherman. He whistled gaily, wrung some of the water from his cloak and ruddy hair, and started along the beach. In the sleety gloom, he could just see a hewn-out path winding up one of the cliffs and he set his feet on it. At the top of the path, the wind ripped his whistling from his lips. He hunched his back against it and walked faster, swearing as he stumbled on hidden rocks. The ice-sheathed ground was slippery underfoot, and the cold bit like a knife. Rounding a crag, he saw redness glow in the face of a steep bluff. A cave mouth, a fire within—he hastened his steps, hungering for warmth, until he stood in the entrance. "_Who comes?_" It was a hoarse bass cry that rang and boomed between walls of rock; there was ice and horror in it, for a moment Cappen's heart stumbled. Then he remembered the amulet and strode boldly inside. "Good evening, mother," he said cheerily. The cave widened out into a stony hugeness that gaped with tunnels leading further underground. The rough, soot-blackened walls were hung with plundered silks and cloth-of-gold, gone ragged with age and damp; the floor was strewn with stinking rushes, and gnawed bones were heaped in disorder. Cappen saw the skulls of men among them. In the center of the room, a great fire leaped and blazed, throwing billows of heat against him; some of its smoke went up a hole in the roof, the rest stung his eyes to watering and he sneezed. The troll-wife crouched on the floor, snarling at him. She was quite the most hideous thing Cappen had ever seen: nearly as tall as he, she was twice as broad and thick, and the knotted arms hung down past bowed knees till their clawed fingers brushed the ground. Her head was beast-like, almost split in half by the tusked mouth, the eyes wells of darkness, the nose an ell long; her hairless skin was green and cold, moving on her bones. A tattered shift covered some of her monstrousness, but she was still a nightmare. "Ho-ho, ho-ho!" Her laughter roared out, hungry and hollow as the surf around the island. Slowly, she shuffled closer. "So my dinner comes walking in to greet me, ho, ho, ho! Welcome, sweet flesh, welcome, good marrow-filled bones, come in and be warmed." "Why, thank you, good mother." Cappen shucked his cloak and grinning at her through the smoke. He felt his clothes steaming already. "I love you too." Over her shoulder, he suddenly saw the girl. She was huddled in a corner, wrapped in fear, but the eyes that watched him were as blue as the skies over Caronne. The ragged dress did not hide the gentle curves of her body, nor did the tear-streaked grime spoil the lilt of her face. "Why, "tis springtime in here," cried Cappen, "and Primavera herself is strewing flowers of love." "What are you talking about, crazy man?" rumbled the troll-wife. She turned to the girl. "Heap the fire, Hildigund, and set up the roasting spit. Tonight I feast!" "Truly I see heaven in female form before me," said Cappen. The troll scratched her misshapen head. "You must surely be from far away, moonstruck man," she said. "Aye, from golden Croy am I wandered, drawn over dolorous seas and empty wild lands by the fame of loveliness waiting here; and now that I have seen you, my life is full." Cappen was looking at the girl as he spoke, but he hoped the troll might take it as aimed her way. "It will be fuller," grinned the monster. "Stuffed with hot coals while yet you live." She glanced back at the girl. "What, are you not working yet, you lazy tub of lard? Set up the spit, I said!" The girl shuddered back against a heap of wood. "No," she whispered. "I cannot—not ... not for a man." "Can and will, my girl," said the troll, picking up a bone to throw at her. The girl shrieked a little. "No, no, sweet mother. I would not be so ungallant as to have beauty toil for me." Cappen plucked at the troll's filthy dress. "It is not meet—in two senses. I only came to beg a little fire; yet will I bear away a greater fire within my heart." "Fire in your guts, you mean! No man ever left me save as picked bones." Cappen thought he heard a worried note in the animal growl. "Shall we have music for the feast?" he asked mildly. He unslung the case of his harp and took it out. The troll-wife waved her fists in the air and danced with rage. "Are you mad? I tell you, you are going to be eaten!" The minstrel plucked a string on his harp. "This wet air has played the devil with her tone," he murmured sadly. The troll-wife roared wordlessly and lunged at him. Hildigund covered her eyes. Cappen tuned his harp. A foot from his throat, the claws stopped. "Pray do not excite yourself, mother," said the bard. "I carry silver, you know." "What is that to me? If you think you have a charm which will turn me, know that there is none. I've no fear of your metal!" Cappen threw back his head and sang: "_A lovely lady full oft lies. The light that lies within her eyes And lies and lies, in no surprise. All her unkindness can devise To trouble hearts that seek the prize Which is herself, are angel lies—_" "_Aaaarrrgh!_" It was like thunder drowning him out. The troll-wife turned and went on all fours and poked up the fire with her nose. Cappen stepped softly around her and touched the girl. She looked up with a little whimper. "You are Svearek's only daughter, are you not?" he whispered. "Aye—" She bowed her head, a strengthless despair weighting it down. "The troll stole me away three winters agone. It has tickled her to have a princess for slave—but soon I will roast on her spit, even as ye, brave man—" "Ridiculous. So fair a lady is meant for another kind of, um, never mind! Has she treated you very ill?" "She beats me now and again—and I have been so lonely, naught here at all save the troll-wife and I—" The small work-roughened hands clutched desperately at his waist, and she buried her face against his breast. "Can ye save us?" she gasped. "I fear "tis for naught ye ventured yer life, bravest of men. I fear we'll soon both sputter on the coals." Cappen said nothing. If she wanted to think he had come especially to rescue her, he would not be so ungallant to tell her otherwise. The troll-wife's mouth gashed in a grin as she walked through the fire to him. "There is a price," she said. "If you cannot tell me three things about myself which are true beyond disproving, not courage nor amulet nor the gods themselves may avail to keep that red head on your shoulders." Cappen clapped a hand to his sword. "Why, gladly," he said; this was a rule of magic he had learned long ago, that three truths were the needful armor to make any guardian charm work. "Imprimis, yours is the ugliest nose I ever saw poking up a fire. Secundus, I was never in a house I cared less to guest at. Tertius, ever among trolls you are little liked, being one of the worst." Hildigund moaned with terror as the monster swelled in rage. But there was no movement. Only the leaping flames and the eddying smoke stirred. Cappen's voice rang out, coldly: "Now the king lies on the sea, frozen and wet, and I am come to fetch a brand for his fire. And I had best also see his daughter home." The troll shook her head, suddenly chuckling. "No. The brand you may have, just to get you out of this cave, foulness; but the woman is in my thrall until a man sleeps with her—here—for a night. And if he does, I may have him to break my fast in the morning!" Cappen yawned mightily. "Thank you, mother. Your offer of a bed is most welcome to these tired bones, and I accept gratefully." "You will die tomorrow!" she raved. The ground shook under the huge weight of her as she stamped. "Because of the three truths, I must let you go tonight; but tomorrow I may do what I will!" "Forget not my little friend, mother," said Cappen, and touched the cord of the amulet. "I tell you, silver has no use against me—" Cappen sprawled on the floor and rippled fingers across his harp. "_A lovely lady full oft lies—_" The troll-wife turned from him in a rage. Hildigund ladled up some broth, saying nothing, and Cappen ate it with pleasure, though it could have used more seasoning. After that he indited a sonnet to the princess, who regarded him wide-eyed. The troll came back from a tunnel after he finished, and said curtly: "This way." Cappen took the girl's hand and followed her into a pitchy, reeking dark. She plucked an arras aside to show a room which surprised him by being hung with tapestries, lit with candles, and furnished with a fine broad featherbed. "Sleep here tonight, if you dare," she growled. "And tomorrow I shall eat you—and you, worthless lazy she-trash, will have the hide flayed off your back!" She barked a laugh and left them. Hildigund fell weeping on the mattress. Cappen let her cry herself out while he undressed and got between the blankets. Drawing his sword, he laid it carefully in the middle of the bed. The girl looked at him through jumbled fair locks. "How can ye dare?" she whispered. "One breath of fear, one moment's doubt, and the troll is free to rend ye." "Exactly." Cappen yawned. "Doubtless she hopes that fear will come to me lying wakeful in the night. Wherefore "tis but a question of going gently to sleep. O Svearek, Torbek, and Beorna, could you but see how I am resting now!" "But ... the three truths ye gave her ... how knew ye...?" "Oh, those. Well, see you, sweet lady, Primus and Secundus were my own thoughts, and who is to disprove them? Tertius was also clear, since you said there had been no company here in three years—yet are there many trolls in these lands, ergo even they cannot stomach our gentle hostess." Cappen watched her through heavy-lidded eyes. She flushed deeply, blew out the candles, and he heard her slip off her garment and get in with him. There was a long silence. Then: "Are ye not—" "Yes, fair one?" he muttered through his drowsiness. "Are ye not ... well, I am here and ye are here and—" "Fear not," he said. "I laid my sword between us. Sleep in peace." "I ... would be glad—ye have come to deliver—" "No, fair lady. No man of gentle breeding could so abuse his power. Goodnight." He leaned over, brushing his lips gently across hers, and lay down again. "Ye are ... I never thought man could be so noble," she whispered. Cappen mumbled something. As his soul spun into sleep, he chuckled. Those unresting days and nights on the sea had not left him fit for that kind of exercise. But, of course, if she wanted to think he was being magnanimous, it could be useful later— ~ He woke with a start and looked into the sputtering glare of a torch. Its light wove across the crags and gullies of the troll-wife's face and shimmered wetly off the great tusks in her mouth. "Good morning, mother," said Cappen politely. Hildigund thrust back a scream. "Come and be eaten," said the troll-wife. "No, thank you," said Cappen, regretfully but firmly. "'Twould be ill for my health. No, I will but trouble you for a firebrand and then the princess and I will be off." "If you think that stupid bit of silver will protect you, think again," she snapped. "Your three sentences were all that saved you last night. Now I hunger." "Silver," said Cappen didactically, "is a certain shield against all black magics. So the wizard told me, and he was such a nice white-bearded old man I am sure even his attendant devils never lied. Now please depart, mother, for modesty forbids me to dress before your eyes." The hideous face thrust close to his. He smiled dreamily and tweaked her nose—hard. She howled and flung the torch at him. Cappen caught it and stuffed it into her mouth. She choked and ran from the room. "A new sport—trollbaiting," said the bard gaily into the sudden darkness. "Come, shall we not venture out?" The girl trembled too much to move. He comforted her, absentmindedly, and dressed in the dark, swearing at the clumsy leggings. When he left, Hildigund put on her clothes and hurried after him. The troll-wife squatted by the fire and glared at them as they went by. Cappen hefted his sword and looked at her. "I do not love you," he said mildly, and hewed out. She backed away, shrieking as he slashed at her. In the end, she crouched at the mouth of a tunnel, raging futilely. Cappen pricked her with his blade. "It is not worth my time to follow you down underground," he said, "but if ever you trouble men again, I will hear of it and come and feed you to my dogs. A piece at a time—a very small piece—do you understand?" She snarled at him. "An _extremely_ small piece," said Cappen amiably. "Have you heard me?" Something broke in her. "Yes," she whimpered. He let her go, and she scuttled from him like a rat. He remembered the firewood and took an armful; on the way, he thoughtfully picked up a few jeweled rings which he didn't think she would be needing and stuck them in his pouch. Then he led the girl outside. The wind had laid itself, a clear frosty morning glittered on the sea and the longship was a distant sliver against white-capped blueness. The minstrel groaned. "What a distance to row! Oh, well—" ~ They were at sea before Hildigund spoke. Awe was in the eyes that watched him. "No man could be so brave," she murmured. "Are ye a god?" "Not quite," said Cappen. "No, most beautiful one, modesty grips my tongue. "Twas but that I had the silver and was therefore proof against her sorcery." "But the silver was no help!" she cried. Cappen's oar caught a crab. "What?" he yelled. "No—no—why, she told ye so her own self—" "I thought she lied. I _know_ the silver guards against—" "But she used no magic! Trolls have but their own strength!" Cappen sagged in his seat. For a moment he thought he was going to faint. Then only his lack of fear had armored him; and if he had known the truth, that would not have lasted a minute. He laughed shakily. Another score for his doubts about the overall value of truth! The longship's oars bit water and approached him. Indignant voices asking why he had been so long on his errand faded when his passenger was seen. And Svearek the king wept as he took his daughter back into his arms. The hard brown face was still blurred with tears when he looked at the minstrel, but the return of his old self was there too. "What ye have done, Cappen Varra of Croy, is what no other man in the world could have done." "Aye—aye—" The rough northern voices held adoration as the warriors crowded around the slim red-haired figure. "Ye shall have her whom ye saved to wife," said Svearek, "and when I die ye shall rule all Norren." Cappen swayed and clutched the rail. Three nights later he slipped away from their shore camp and turned his face southward. Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from _Fantastic Universe_ January 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected without note. THE END
208	--- author: Carolyn Wells tags: Fiction, Detective and mystery stories title: The Vanishing of Betty Varian summary: ' "The Vanishing of Betty Varian" by Carolyn Wells is a mystery novel written in the early 20th century. The story is set in an isolated area of Maine, focused around the summer colony of Headland Harbor, where the Varian family has recently taken residence. The narrative centers on the sudden disappearance of Betty Varian and the subsequent unraveling of events, particularly following the shocking murder of her father, Frederick Varian. At the start of the novel, the reader is introduced to the picturesque Headland Harbor, populated by artists and summer residents. Tension exists within the Varian family, highlighted by a heated argument between Betty and her father regarding her romantic pursuits, particularly involving a young man named Rodney Granniss. Following their argument, Betty runs back to the house to retrieve her camera while the family heads to a picnic, but her return is met with horror when her father''s body is discovered, leading to speculation about her fate. The opening sets up a gripping mystery with looming questions about family dynamics, secrets, and the potential involvement of outside forces. ' word_count: 60573 fiction_type: Novel ... # CHAPTER I: Headland Harbor It is, of course, possible, perhaps even probable, that somewhere on this green earth there may be finer golf links or a more attractive clubhouse than those at Headland Harbor, but never hope to wring such an admission from any one of the summer colony who spend their mid-year at that particular portion of the Maine coast. Far up above the York cliffs are more great crags and among the steepest and wildest of these localities, a few venturesome spirits saw fit to pitch their tents. Others joined them from time to time until now, the summer population occupied nearly a hundred cottages and bungalows and there was, moreover, a fair sized and fairly appointed inn. Many of the regulars were artists, of one sort or another, but also came the less talented in search of good fishing or merely good idling. And they found it, for the majority of the householders were people of brains as well as talent and by some mysterious management the tone of the social side of things was kept pretty much as it should be. Wealth counted for what it was worth, and no more. Genius counted in the same way, and was never overrated. Good nature and an amusing personality were perhaps the best assets one could bring to the conservative little community, and most of the shining lights possessed those in abundance. To many, the word harbor connotes a peaceful, serene bit of blue water, sheltered from rough winds and basking in the sunlight. This is far from a description of Headland Harbor, whose rocky shores and deep black waters were usually wind-swept and often storm-swept to a wild picturesqueness beloved of the picture painters. But there were some midsummer days, as now, one in late July, when the harbor waters lay serene and the sunlight dipped and danced on the tiny wavelets that broke into spray over the nearby rocks. Because it was about the hour of noon, the clubhouse verandah was crowded with members and guests waiting for the mail, which, as always, was late. The clubhouse, a big, low building, with lots of shiny paint and weathering shingles, was at the nearest spot consistent with safety to the shore. From it could be had a magnificent view of the great headland that named the place. This gigantic cliff jutted out into the sea, and rising to a height of three hundred feet, the mighty crag showed a slight overhang which rendered it unscalable. The wet black rock glistened in the sunlight, as spray from the dashing breakers broke half way up its sides. The top was a long and narrow tableland, not much more than large enough to accommodate the house that crowned the summit. There was a strip of sparse lawn on either side the old mansion, and a futile attempt at a garden, but vegetation was mostly confined to the weird, one-sided pine trees that waved the branches of their lee sides in mournful, eerie motions. "Can't see how any one wants to live up there in that God-forsaken shack," said John Clark, settling more comfortably in his porch rocker and lighting a fresh cigarette. "Oh, I think it's great!" Mrs Blackwood disagreed with him. "So picturesque——" "You know, if you say "picturesque' up here, you'll be excommunicated. The thing is all right, but the word is taboo." "All right, then, chromoesque." "But it isn't that," Clark objected; "it's more like an old steel engraving——" "Oh, not with all that color," said Lawrence North. "It is like an engraving on a gray, cloudy day,—but today, with the bright water and vivid sunshine, it's like a——" "Speak it right out!" cried Ted Landon, irrepressibly, "like a picture postcard!" "It can't help being like that," Mrs Blackwood agreed, "for the postcards for sale in the office of the club are more like the reality than any picture an artist has ever made of the Headland House." "Of course, photographs are truer than drawings," North said, "and that card that shows the cliff in a storm comes pretty near being a work of art." "The difficulty would be," Clark observed, "to get any kind of a picture of that place that wouldn't be a work of art. Why, the architect's blueprints of that house would come a good deal nearer art than lots of watercolors I've seen in exhibitions. I'm keen on the place." "Who isn't?" growled Landon, for most of the Headlanders resented the faintest disparagement of their cherished masterpiece, a joint work of nature and man. The promontory was joined to the mainland by a mere narrow neck of rocky land, and from that point a rough road descended, over and between steep hills, reaching at last the tiny village and scattered settlement of Headland Harbor. Headland House itself was a modified type of old world architecture. Built of rough gray stone, equipped with a few towers and turrets, pierced by deep and narrow windows, it had some effects of a French chateau and others that suggested an old English castle. It was true to no school, it followed no definite type, yet perched on its lonely height, sharply outlined against the sky, its majestic rock foundations sweeping away from beneath it, it showed the grandeur and sublimity of a well-planned monument. And, partly because of their real admiration, partly because of a spirit of ownership, the artist colony loved and cherished their Headland House with a jealous sensitiveness to criticism. "Stunning thing,—from here," John Clark said, after a few moments of further smoking and gazing; "all the same, as I stated, I shouldn't care to live up there." "Too difficult of access," Claire Blackwood said, "but, otherwise all right." Mrs Blackwood was a widow, young, attractive, and of a psychic turn of mind. Not enough of an occultist to make her a bore, but possessing quick and sure intuitions and claiming some slight clairvoyant powers. She dabbled in water colors, and did an occasional oil. She was long-limbed, with long fingers and long feet, and usually had a long scarf of some gauzy texture trailing about her. Of an evening or even on a dressy afternoon, she had a long panel or sash-end hanging below her short skirt, and which was frequently trodden on by blundering, inattentive feet. Good-looking, of course, Claire Blackwood was,—she took care to be that,—but her utmost care could not make her beautiful,—much to her own chagrin. Her scarlet lips were too thin, and the angle of her jaw too hard. Yet she was handsome, and by virtue of her personality and her implicit belief in her own importance, she was the leader socially, notwithstanding the fact that the colony disclaimed any society element in its life. "Tell us about the Headland House people, Claire. You've called, haven't you?" This from Ted Landon, who by reason of his sheer impudence was forgiven any unconventionality. No other man at the Harbor would have dreamed of addressing Mrs Blackwood by her first name. "Yes; I've called. They're delightful people." The words said more than the tone. "With reservations?" asked North. "Oh, in a way. They're quite all right,—it's only that they're not picture mad,—as we all are." "Ignorant?" "Oh, no,—not that. Well, I'll sketch them for you. Mr Varian is a Wall Street man,——" "Magnate?" "Yes, I daresay. Wealthy, anyway. He's big and Vandyke-bearded. Well mannered,—but a bit preoccupied,—if——" "Yes, we get what you mean," said the irrepressible Ted. "Go on,—what about the daughter?" "I haven't come to her yet. The mother is due first. Mrs Varian is the clingingest vine I ever saw. I only saw her on parade, of course, but I'm positive that in curl-papers, she can whine and fret and fly into nervous spasms! Her husband spoils her,—he's far too good to her,——" "What a lot you gathered at one interview," murmured Lawrence North. "That's what I went for," Mrs Blackwood returned, coolly. "Well. Mother Varian is wrapped up in her blossom-child. Betty is a peach,—as I know you boys will agree,—but I never saw greater idolatry in any mother than Mrs Varian shows." "Betty worth it?" asked John Clark, idly. "Rather!" Mrs Blackwood assured him. "She's a dear thing. I don't often enthuse over young girls, but Betty Varian is unusual." "As how?" "Prettier than most girls, more charm, better manners, and,—a suspicion of brains. Not enough to hurt her, but enough to make it a pleasure to talk to her. Moreover, she's a wilful, spoiled, petted darling of two worshipping parents, and it's greatly to her credit that she isn't an arrogant, impossible chit." "Sounds good to me," commented Ted; "when can I meet her?" "I'll introduce you soon. They want to meet some of our best people——" "Of course. That lets me in at once. When will you take me?" "Tomorrow afternoon. They're having a small picnic and they asked me to bring two amusing young men." "May I go?" asked Lawrence North. "_Young_ men, I said," and Mrs Blackwood looked at him calmly. "You are old enough to be Betty Varian's father!" "Well, since I'm not, that needn't prevent my meeting her." "So you shall, some time. But I'm to take two tomorrow, and,—what do you think? I said I would bring Rodney Granniss, and Mr Varian said, "No, he'd rather I asked some one in his place!"" "Why, for heaven's sake?" cried Landon. "Rod's our star performer." "Well, you see, they know him——" "All the more reason——" "Oh, it's this way. Rod Granniss is already a beau of Betty's,—and her father doesn't approve of the acquaintance." "Not approve of Granniss!" John Clark looked his amazement. "Mr Varian must be an old fuss!" "I think that's just what he is," assented Claire Blackwood, and then Ted Landon urged, "You haven't described the siren yet. What's she like to look at?" "A little thing, sylphish, rather,—dainty ways, quick, alert motions, and with the biggest gray eyes you ever saw,—edged with black." "Raving tresses?" "No; very dark brown, I think. But the liveliest coloring. Red-under-brown cheeks, scarlet lips and——" "I know,—teeth like pearls." "No; good, sound, white teeth, and fluttering hands that emphasize and illustrate all she says." "All right, she'll do," and Ted looked satisfied. "I can cut out old John here, and if Granniss is barred, I'll have a cinch!" "You must behave yourself,—at first, anyway, because I am responsible for you. Be ready to go up there with me at four tomorrow afternoon." "Leave here at four?" "Yes, we'll walk up. A bit of a climb, but motors can go only to the lodge, you know, and that's not worth while." The porter's lodge belonging to Headland House was partly visible from the clubhouse, and it guarded the gates that gave ingress to the estate. There was no other mode of entrance, for a high wall ran completely across the narrow neck that joined the headland to the main shore, and all other sides of the precipitous cliff ran straight down to the sea. From where they sat the group could discern the motor road as far as the lodge; and here and there above that could be glimpsed the narrow, tortuous path that led on to the house. "Grim old pile," Landon said, looking at Headland House. "Any spook connected with its history?" "I never heard of any," said Mrs Blackwood. "Did you, Mr North?" "Not definitely, but I've heard vague rumors of old legends or traditions of dark deeds——" "Oh, pshaw, I don't believe it!" and Mrs Blackwood shook her head at him. "You're making that up to lend an added interest!" North grinned. "I'm afraid I was," he admitted, "but if there isn't any legend there surely ought to be. Let's make one up." "No, I won't have it. I hate haunted houses, and I shan't allow a ghost to be invented. The place is too beautiful to have a foolish, hackneyed old ghost yarn attached to it. Just because you were up here last summer and this is the first year for most of us, you needn't think you can rule the roost!" "Very well," Lawrence North smiled good-naturedly, "have it your own way. But, truly, I heard rumors last year——" "Keep them to yourself, then, and when you meet the Varians, as of course you will, don't say anything to them about such a thing." "Your word is law," and North bowed, submissively. "Here comes the mail at last, and also, here comes Granniss,—the disapproved one!" A tall outdoorsy-looking young man appeared, and throwing himself into a piazza swing, asked breezily, "Who's disapproving of me, now? Somebody with absolute lack of fine perception!" "Nobody here," began Landon, and then a warning glance from Claire Blackwood prevented his further disclosures on the subject. "Don't make a secret of it," went on Granniss, "own up now, who's been knocking poor little me?" "I," said Mrs Blackwood, coolly. "Nixy, Madame Claire! You may disapprove of me, but you're not the one I mean. Who else?" "Oh, let's tell him," North laughed; "he can stand the shock. They say, Granniss, you're _persona non grata_ up at the house on the headland." Rodney Granniss' eyes darkened and he looked annoyed. But he only said, "That's a disapproval any one may obtain by the simple process of admiring Miss Varian." "Really?" asked Claire Blackwood. "Very really. To call twice is to incur the displeasure of one or both parents; to venture a third time is to be crossed out of the guest book entirely." "But, look here, old man," Landon said, "they've only been in that house about a week. Haven't you been rushing things?" "I knew them before," said Granniss, simply. "I've met them in New York." "Oh, well, then their dislike of you is evidently well-founded!" But this impudence of Landon's brought forth no expression of resentment from its victim. Granniss only winked at Ted, and proceeded to look over his letters. It was the first time in the memory of any of the present _habitués_ of Headland Harbor, that the house on the rocks had been occupied. Built long ago, it was so difficult of access and so high priced of rental that no one had cared to live in it. But, suddenly, and for no known reason, this summer it had been rented, late, and now, toward the end of July, the new tenants were only fairly settled. That their name was Varian was about all that was known of them, until Mrs Blackwood's call had been hospitably received and she brought back favorable reports of the family. It seems Betty was anxious to meet some young people and Mrs Varian was glad to learn from her caller that small picnics were among the favored modes of entertainment, and she decided to begin that way. Next day, she explained, a few house guests would arrive, and if Mrs Blackwood would bring two or three young men and come herself, perhaps that would be enough for a first attempt at sociability. This met Mrs Blackwood's entire approval, and she proposed Rodney Granniss' name, all unsuspecting that he would not be welcomed. "He's all right, you understand," Mrs Varian had said,—Betty not being then present,—"but he's too fond of my daughter. You can tell,—you know,—and I want the child to have a good time, but I want her to have a lot of young acquaintances, and be friendly with all, but not specially interested in any one. Her father feels the same way,—in fact, he feels more strongly about it even than I do. So, this time, please leave Mr Granniss out of it." This was all plausible enough, and no real disparagement to Rodney, so Mrs Blackwood agreed. "Can I do anything for you?" she asked her hostess at parting. "Have you everything you want? Are your servants satisfactory?" "Not in every respect,"—Mrs Varian frowned. "But we're lucky to keep them at all. Only by the most outrageous concessions, I assure you. If they get too overbearing, I may have to let some of them go." "Let me know, in that case, and I may be able to help you," and with a few further amenities, Claire Blackwood went away. "But if I were one of her servants I shouldn't stay with her!" she confided later to a trusted friend. "I never saw a more foolishly emotional woman. She almost wept when she told me about her cook's ingratitude! As if any one looked for appreciation of favors in a cook! And when she talked about Betty, she bubbled over with such enthusiasm that she was again moved to tears! It seems her first two little ones died very young, and I think they've always feared they mightn't raise Betty. Hence the spoiling process." "And it also explains," observed the interested friend, "why the parents discountenance the attentions of would-be swains." "Of course,—but Betty is twenty, and that is surely old enough to begin to think about such things seriously." "For the girl,—yes. And doubtless she does. But parents never realize that their infants are growing up. It is not impossible that Rod Granniss and Miss Betty have progressed much further along the road to Arcady than her elders may suspect. Why did the Varians come here,—where Rod is?" "I don't suppose they knew it,—though, maybe Betty did. Young people are pretty sharp. And you know, Rod was here in June, then he went away and only returned after the Varians arrived. Yes, there must have been some sort of collusion on the part of the youngsters." "Maybe not. I daresay Miss Betty has lots of admirers as devoted as young Granniss. Can't you ask me to the picnic?" "Not this one. It's very small. And there are to be some guests at the house, I believe. The family interests me. They are types, I think. Betty is more than an ordinary flutterbudget, like most of the very young girls around here. And the older Varians are really worth while. Mr Varian is a brooding, self-contained sort,—I feel sorry for him." "There, there, that will do, Claire! When you feel sorry for a man—I remember you began by being sorry for Lawrence North!" "I'm sorry for him still. He's a big man,—in a way, a genius,—and yet he——" "He gets nowhere! That's because he _isn't_ a genius! But he's a widower, so he's fair quarry. Don't go to feeling sorry for married men." "Oh, there's no sentiment in my sympathy for Mr Varian. Only he intrigues me because of his restless air,—his restrained effect, as if he were using every effort to keep himself from breaking through!" "Breaking through what?" "I don't know! Through some barrier, some limit that he has fixed for himself—I tell you I don't _know_ what it's all about. That's why I'm interested." "Curious, you mean." "Well, curious, then. And how he puts up with that hand-wringing ready-to-cry wife! Yet, he's fawningly devoted to her! He anticipates her slightest wish,—he is worried sick if she is the least mite incommoded or disturbed,—and I know he'd lie down and let her walk on him if she even looked as if she'd care to!" "What a lot you read into a man's natural consideration for his wife!" "But it's there! I'm no fool,—I can read people,—you know that! I tell you that man is under his wife's thumb for some reason far more potent than his love for her, or her demand for affection from him." "What _could_ be the explanation?" "I don't know. That's why I'm curious. I'm going to find out, though, and that without the Varians in the least suspecting my efforts. Wait till you see her. She's almost eerie, she's so emotional. Not noisy or even verbally expressive, but her face is a study in nervous excitement. She seems to grab at the heartstrings of a mere passer-by, and play on them until she tears them out!" "Good gracious, you make her out a vampire!" "I think she is,—not a silly vamp, that the girls joke about,—but the real thing!" # CHAPTER II: Betty Varian "Dad, you're absolutely impossible!" "Oh, come now, Betty, not as bad as that! Just because I don't agree to everything you say——" "But you _never_ agree with me! You seem to be opposed on principle to everything I suggest or want. It's always been like that! From the time I was born,—how old was I, Dad, when you first saw me?" Mr Varian looked reminiscent. "About an hour old, I think," he replied; "maybe a little less." "Well, from that moment until this, you have persistently taken the opposite side in any discussion we have had." "But if I hadn't, Betty, there would have been no discussion! And, usually there hasn't been. You're a spoiled baby,—you always have been and always will be. Your will is strong and as it has almost never been thwarted or even curbed, you have grown up a headstrong, wilful, perverse young woman, and I'm sure I don't know what to do with you!" "Get rid of me, Dad," Betty's laugh rang out, while her looks quite belied the rather terrible character just ascribed to her. One foot tucked under her, she sat in a veranda swing, now and then touching her toe to the floor to keep swaying. She wore a sand-colored sport suit whose matching hat lay beside her on the floor. Her vivid, laughing face, with its big gray eyes and pink cheeks, its scarlet lips and white teeth was framed by a mop of dark brown wavy hair, now tossed by the strong breeze from the sea. The veranda overlooked the ocean, and the sunlit waves, stretching far away from the great cliff were dotted in the foreground with small craft. Frederick Varian sat on the veranda rail, a big, rather splendid-looking man, with the early gray of fifty years showing in his hair and carefully trimmed Vandyke beard. His air was naturally confident and self-assured, but in the face of this chit of a girl he somehow found himself at a disadvantage. "Betty, dear," he took another tack, "can't you understand the fatherly love that cannot bear the idea of parting with a beloved daughter?" "Oh, yes, but a father's love ought to think what is for that daughter's happiness. Then he ought to make the gigantic self-sacrifice that may be necessary." A dimple came into Betty's cheek, and she smiled roguishly, yet with a canny eye toward the effect she was making. But Varian looked moodily out over the sea. "I won't have it," he said, sternly. "I suppose I have some authority in this matter and I forbid you to encourage any young man to the point of a proposal, or even to think of becoming engaged." "How can I ward off a proposal, Dad?" Betty inquired, with an innocent air. "Don't be foolish. Of course you can do that. Any girl with your intelligence knows just when an acquaintance crosses the line of mere friendship——" "Oh, Daddy, you are _too_ funny! And when you crossed the line of mere friendship with mother,—what did she do?" "That has nothing to do with the subject. Now, mind, Betty, I am not jesting,—I am not talking idly——" "You sound very much like it!" "I'm not. I'm very much in earnest. You are not to encourage the definite attentions of any——" "All right, let Rod Granniss come up here then, and I promise not to encourage him." "He shall not come up here, because he has already gone too far, and you have encouraged him too much——" "But I love him, Daddy,—and—and I think you might——" "Hush! That's enough! Don't let me hear another word now or ever regarding Granniss! He is crossed off our acquaintance, and if he persists in staying here, we will go away!" "Why, Father, we've only just come!" "I know it, and I came here, thinking to get you away from that man. He followed us up here,——" "He was here before we came!" "But he didn't come until he knew we were coming." "All right, he came because he wanted to be where I am. And I want to be where he is. And you'd better be careful, Father, or I may take the bit in my teeth and——" "And run off with him? That's why I came here. You can't get away. You perfectly well know that there's no way down from this house but by that one narrow path,—I suppose you've no intention of jumping into the sea?" "Love will find a way!" Betty sang, saucily. "It isn't love, Betty. It's a miserable childish infatuation that will pass at once, if you lose sight of the chap for a short time." "Nothing of the sort! It's the love of my life!" Varian laughed. "That's a fine-sounding phrase, but it doesn't mean anything. Now, child, be reasonable. Give up Granniss. Be friends with all the young people up here, boys and girls both, but don't let me hear any foolishness about being engaged to anybody." "Do you mean for me never to marry, Father?" "I'd rather you didn't, my dear. Can't you be content to spend your days with your devoted parents? Think what we've done for you? What we've given you,——" "Dad, you make me tired! What have you given me, what have you done for me, more than any parents do for a child? You've given me a home, food and clothing,—and loving care! What else? And what do I owe you for that, except my own love and gratitude? But I don't owe you the sacrifice of the natural, normal, expectation of a home and husband of my own! I'm twenty,—that's quite old enough to think of such things. Pray remember how old mother was when she married you. She was nineteen. Suppose her father had talked to her as you're talking to me! What would you have said to him, I'd like to know!" By this time Fred Varian was walking with quick short strides up and down the veranda. Betty rose and faced him, standing directly in his path. "Father," she said, speaking seriously, "you are all wrong! You don't know what you're talking about——" "That will do, Betty!" When Varian's temper was roused he could speak very harshly, and did so now. "Hush! I will not hear such words from you! How dare you tell me I don't know what I'm talking about! Now you make up your mind to obey me, or I'll cut off all your association with the young people! I'll shut you up——" "Hush, yourself, Dad! You're talking rubbish, and you know it! Shut me up! In a turret of the castle, I suppose! On bread and water, I suppose! What kind of nonsense is that?" "You'll see whether it's nonsense or not! What do you suppose I took this isolated place for, except to keep you here if you grow too independent! Do you know there is no way you can escape if I choose to make you a prisoner? And if that's the only way to break your spirit, I'll do it!" "Why, Father Varian!" Betty looked a little scared, "whatever has come over you?" "I've made up my mind, that's all. For twenty years I've humored you and indulged you and acceded to your every wish. You've been petted and spoiled until you think you are the only dictator in this family! Now a time has come when I have put my foot down——" "Well, pick it up again, Daddy, and all will be forgiven." Betty smiled and attempted to kiss the belligerent face looking down at her. But Frederick Varian repulsed the offered caress and said, sternly: "I want no affection from a wilful, disobedient child! Give me your word, Betty, to respect my wishes, and I'll always be glad of your loving ways." But Betty was angry now. "I'll give you no such promise! I shall conduct myself as I please with my friends and my acquaintances. You know me well enough to know that I never do anything that is in bad form or in bad taste. If I choose to flirt with the young men, or even, as you call it, encourage them, I propose to do so! And I resent your interference, and I deny your right to forbid me in such matters. And, too, I'll go so far as to warn you that if you persist in this queer attitude you've taken,—you'll be sorry! Remember that!" Betty's eyes flashed, but she was quiet rather than excited. Varian himself was nervous and agitated. His fingers clenched and his lips trembled with the intensity of his feelings and as Betty voiced her rebellious thoughts he stared at her in amazement. "What _are_ you two quarreling about?" came the surprised accents of Mrs Varian as she came out through the French window from the library and looked curiously at them. "Oh, Mother," Betty cried, "Dad's gone nutty! He says I never can marry anybody." "What nonsense, Fred"; she did not take it at all seriously. "Of course, Betty will marry some day, but not yet. Don't bother about it at present." "But Daddy's bothering very much about it at present. At least, he's bothering me,—don't let little Betty be bothered, Mummy,—will you?" "Let her alone, Fred. Why do you tease the child? I declare you two are always at odds over something!" "No, Minna, that's not so. I always indulge Betty——" "Oh, yes, after I've coaxed you to do so. You're an unnatural father, Fred, you seem possessed to frown on all Betty's innocent pleasures." "I don't want her getting married and going off and leaving us——" he growled, still looking angry. "Well, the baby isn't even engaged yet,—don't begin to worry. And, too, that is in the mother's province." "Not entirely. I rather guess a father has some authority!" "Oh, yes, if it's exercised with loving care and discretion. Don't you bother, Betty, anyway. Father and mother will settle this little argument by ourselves." "I'd rather settle it with Dad," Betty declared spiritedly. "It's too ridiculous for him to take the stand that I shall never marry! I'm willing to promise not to become engaged without asking you both first; I'm willing to say I won't marry a man you can convince me is unworthy; I'm willing to promise anything in reason,—but a blind promise never to marry is too much to ask of any girl!" "Of course, it is!" agreed Mrs Varian. "Why do you talk to her like that, Fred?" "Because I propose to have my own way for once! I've given in to you two in every particular for twenty years or more. Now, I assert myself. I say Betty shall not marry, and I shall see to it that she does not!" "Oh, my heavens!" and Mrs Varian wrung her hands, with a wail of nervous pettishness, "sometimes, Fred, I think you're crazy! At any rate, you'll set me crazy, if you talk like that! Do stop this quarrel anyhow. Kiss and make up, won't you? To think of you two, the only human beings on earth that I care a rap for, acting like this! My husband and my child! The only things I live for! The apple of my eye, the core of my soul, both of you,—can't you see how you distress me when you are at odds! And you're always at odds! Always squabbling over some little thing. But, heretofore, you've always laughed and agreed, finally. Now forget this foolishness,—do!" "It isn't foolishness," and Varian set his lips together, doggedly. "No, it isn't foolishness," said Betty quietly, but with a look of indomitable determination. "Well, stop it, at any rate," begged Mrs Varian, "if you don't I shall go into hysterics,—and it's time now for the Herberts to come." Now both Fred and Betty knew that a suggestion of hysterics was no idle threat, for Minna Varian could achieve the most annoying demonstrations of that sort at a moment's notice. And it was quite true that the expected guests were imminent. But no truce was put into words, for just then a party of three people came in sight and neared the veranda steps. The three were Frederick Varian's brother Herbert and his wife and daughter. This family was called the Herberts to distinguish them from the Frederick Varian household. The daughter, Eleanor, was a year or two younger than Betty, and the girls were friendly, though of widely differing tastes; the brothers Varian were much alike; but the two matrons were as opposite as it is possible for two women to be. Mrs Herbert was a strong character, almost strong-minded. She had no patience with her sister-in-law's nerves or hysterical tendencies. It would indeed be awkward if the Herberts were to arrive in the midst of one of Mrs Frederick's exhibitions of temperamental disturbance. "Wonderful place!" exclaimed Herbert Varian as they ascended the steps to the verandah. "Great, old boy! I never saw anything like it." "Reminds me of the Prisoner of Chillon or the Castle of Otranto or——" said Mrs Herbert. "Climbing that steep path reminded me of the Solitary Horseman," Herbert interrupted his wife. "Whew! let me sit down! I'm too weighty a person to visit your castled crag of Drachenfels very often! Whew!" "Poor Uncle Herbert," cooed Betty; "it's an awful long, steep pull, isn't it? Get your breath, and I'll get you some nice, cool fruit punch. Come on, Eleanor, help me; the servants are gone to the circus,—every last one of "em——" "Oh, I thought you were having a party here this afternoon," Eleanor said, as she went with Betty. "Not a party, a picnic. They're the proper caper up here. And only a little one. The baskets are all ready, and the men carry them,—then we go to a lovely picnic place,—not very far,—and we all help get the supper. You see, up here, if you don't let the servants go off skylarking every so often, they leave." "I should think they would!" exclaimed Eleanor, earnestly; "I'm ready to leave now! How do you stand it, Betty? I think it's fearful!" "Oh, it isn't the sort of thing you'd like, I know. Put those glasses on that tray, will you, Nell? But I love this wild, craggy place, it's like an eagle's eyrie, and I adore the solitude,—especially as there are plenty of people, and a golf club and an artist colony and all sorts of nice things in easy distance." "You mean that little village or settlement we came through on the way from the station?" "Yes; and a few of their choicest inhabitants are coming up this afternoon for our picnic." "That sounds better," Eleanor sighed, "but I'd never want to stay here. Is Rod Grannis here? Is that why you came?" "Hush, Nell. Don't mention Rod's name, at least, not before Father. You see, Dad's down on him." "Down on Rod! Why for?" "Only because he's too fond of little Betty." "Who is? Rod or your father?" Betty laughed. "Both of "em! But, I mean, Dad is down on any young man who's specially interested in me." "Oh, I know. So is my father. I don't let it bother me. Fathers are all like that. Most of the girls I know say so." "Yes, I know it's a fatherly failing; but Dad is especially rabid on the subject. There you take the basket of cakes and I'll carry the tray." It was nearly five o'clock when the picnic party was finally ready to start for its junketing. Mrs Blackwood had arrived, bringing her two promised young men, Ted Landon and John Clark. Rearrayed in picnic garb, the house guests were ready for the fun, and the Frederick Varians were getting together and looking over the baskets of supper. "If we could only have kept one helper by us," bemoaned Minna Varian, her speech accompanied by her usual wringing of her distressed hands. "I begged Kelly to stay but he wouldn't." "The circus is here only one day, you know, Mrs Varian," Landon told her, "and I fancy every servant in Headland Harbor has gone to it. But command me——" "Indeed, we will," put in Betty; "carry this, please, and, Uncle Herbert, you take this coffee paraphernalia." Divided among the willing hands, the luggage was not too burdensome, and the cavalcade prepared to start. "No fear of burglars, I take it," said Herbert, as his brother closed the front door and shook it to be sure it was fastened. "Not a bit," and Frederick Varian took up his own baskets. "No one can possibly reach this house, save through that gate down by the lodge. And that is locked. Also the windows and doors of the house are all fastened. So if you people have left jewelry on your dressing tables, don't be alarmed, you'll find it there on your return." "All aboard!" shouted Landon, and they started, by twos or threes, but in a moment were obliged to walk single file down the steep and narrow path. "Oh, my heavens!" cried Betty, suddenly, "I must go back! I've forgotten my camera. Let me take your key, Father, I'll run and get it in a minute!" "I'll go and get it for you, Betty," said Varian, setting down his burden. "No, Dad, you can't; it's in a closet, behind a lot of other things, and you'd upset the whole lot into a dreadful mess. I know you!" "Let me go, Miss Varian," offered several of the others, but Betty was insistent. "No one can get it but myself,—at least, not without a lot of delay and trouble. Give me the key, Father, I'll be right back." "But, Betty——" "Oh, give her the key, Fred!" exclaimed his wife; "don't torment the child! I believe you enjoy teasing her! There, take the key, Betty, and run along. Hurry, do, for it's annoying to have to wait for you." "Let me go with you," asked John Clark, but Betty smiled a refusal and ran off alone. Most of them watched the lithe, slight figure, as she bounded up the rugged, irregular steps, sometimes two of them at a time, and at last they saw her fitting the key into the front door. She called back a few words, but the distance was too great for them to hear her clearly, although they could see her. She waved her hand, smilingly, and disappeared inside the house, leaving the door wide open behind her. "Extraordinary place!" Herbert Varian said, taking in the marvelous crag from this new viewpoint. "You must see it from the clubhouse," said Landon; "can't you all come here tomorrow afternoon, on my invite?" "We'll see," Mrs Varian smiled at him, for it was impossible not to like this frank, good-looking youth. The conversation was entirely of the wonders and beauties of Headland House, until at last, Mrs Blackwood said, "Isn't that child gone a long while? I could have found half a dozen cameras by this time!" "She is a long time," Frederick Varian said, frowning; "I was just thinking that myself. I think I'll go after her." "No, don't," said his wife, nervously, "you'll get into an argument with her, and never get back! Let her alone,—she'll be here in a minute." But the minutes went by, and Betty didn't reappear in the open doorway. "I know what she's up to," and Frederick Varian shook his head, in annoyance. Whereupon Mrs Frederick began to cry. "Now, Fred, stop," she said; "Herbert, you go up to the house and tell Betty to come along. If she can't find her camera, tell her to come without it. I wish we had a megaphone so we could call her. Go on, Herbert." "Stay where you are, Herbert," said his brother. "I shall go. It's all right, Minna, I won't tease the child,—I promise you. It's all right, dear." He kissed his wife lightly on the brow, and started off at a swinging pace up the rocky flight of steps. "I'll fetch her," he called back, as he proceeded beyond hearing distance. "Chirk up, Minna, Janet; tell her I shan't abuse Betty." "What does he mean by that?" asked Mrs Herbert of Mrs Frederick, as she repeated the message. "Oh, nothing," and Mrs Frederick clasped her hands resignedly. "Only you know how Betty and her father are always more or less at odds. I don't know why it is,—they're devoted to each other, yet they're always quarreling." "They don't mean anything," and her sister-in-law smiled. "I know them both, and they're an ideal father and daughter." # CHAPTER III: The Tragedy Doctor Herbert Varian stood slightly apart from the rest of the group, his observant eyes taking in all the details of the peculiar situation of his brother's house. His eye traversed back over the short distance they had already come, and he saw a narrow, winding and exceedingly steep path. At intervals it was a succession of broken, irregular steps, rocky and sharp-edged. Again, it would be a fairly easy, though stony footway. But it led to the house, and had no branch or side track in any direction. "Everything and everybody that comes to this house has to come by this path?" he demanded. "Yes," said Minna Varian, and added, complainingly, "a most disagreeable arrangement. All the servants and tradespeople have to use it as well as ourselves and our guests." "That could be remedied," suggested Varian, "a branch, say——" "We'll never do it," said Minna, sharply. "I don't like the place well enough to buy it, though that is what Fred has in mind——" "No, don't buy it," advised her brother-in-law. "I see nothing in its favor except its wonderful beauty and strange, weird charm. That's a good deal, I admit, but not enough for a comfortable summer home." He turned and gazed out over the open sea. From the high headland the view was unsurpassable. The few nearby boats seemed lost in the great expanse of waters. Some chugging motor boats and a dozen or so sailing craft ventured not very far from shore. North, along the Maine coast, he saw only more rocky promontories and rockbound inlets. Turning slowly toward the South, he saw the graceful curve of Headland Harbor, with its grouped village houses and spreading array of summer cottages. "I never saw anything finer," he declared. "I almost think, Minna, after all, you would be wise to buy the place, and then, arrange to make it more getatable. A continuous flight of strong wooden steps——" "Would spoil the whole thing!" exclaimed Claire Blackwood. "Oh, Doctor Varian, don't propose anything like that! We Harborers love this place, just as it is, and we would defend it against any such innovations. I think there's a law about defacing natural scenery." "Don't bother," said Minna, carelessly; "we'll never do anything of the sort. I won't agree to it." "That's right," said her sister-in-law. "This is no place to bring up Betty. The girl has no real society here, no advantages, no scope. She'll become a savage——" "Not Betty," Minna Varian laughed. "She's outdoor-loving and all that, but she has nothing of the barbarian in her. I think she'd like to go to a far gayer resort. But her father——" "Where is her father?" asked Doctor Varian, impatiently. "It will be dark before we get to our picnic. Why don't they come?" He gave a loud view-halloo, but only the echoes from the rocky heights answered him. "I knew it!" and Minna Varian began to wring her hands. "He and Betty are quarreling,—I am sure of it!" "What do you mean, Min? What's this quarreling business about?" "They've always done it,—it's nothing new. They adore each other, but they're eternally disagreeing and fighting it out. They're quite capable of forgetting all about us, and arguing out some foolish subject while we sit here waiting for them!" "I'll go and stir them up," the doctor said, starting in the direction of the house. "Oh, no, Herbert. It's a hard climb, and you've enough walking ahead of you." "I'll go," and Ted Landon looked inquiringly at Mrs Varian. "Oh, what's the use?" she said; "they'll surely appear in a minute." So they all waited a few minutes longer and then Janet Varian spoke up. "I think it's a shame to keep us here like this. Go on up to the house, Mr Landon, do. Tell those two foolish people that they must come on or the picnic will proceed without them." "All right," said Ted, and began sprinting over the rocks. "I'm going, too," and Claire Blackwood followed Landon. "We may as well all go, and have our picnic on our own verandah," said Minna, complainingly, and though Doctor Varian would have preferred that to any further exertions, he did not say so. "It's always like this," Minna's querulous voice went on; "whenever we start to go anywhere, somebody has to go back for something and they're so slow and so inconsiderate of other people's feelings——" "There they go," interrupted Doctor Varian as the two latest emissaries went up over the rocks. "Now the house will swallow them up!" "Oh, Herbert, don't say such awful things," wailed Minna; "you sound positively creepy! I have a feeling of fear of that house anyway,—I believe it would like to swallow people up!" "Ought we to intrude?" Claire Blackwood laughingly asked of Landon, as they neared the house; "if Betty and her father want to quarrel, they ought to be allowed to do so in peace." "Oh, well, if they insist, we'll go away again, and let them have it out comfortably. Queer thing, for Daughter and Dad to make a habit of scrapping!" "I take Mrs Varian's statements with a grain of salt," said Claire, sagely. "She's not awfully well balanced, that woman, and I doubt if Betty and her father are half as black as they're painted. Shall we ring the bell or walk right in?" But this question needed no answer, for as they mounted the steps of the verandah and neared the open front door, they were confronted by the sight of Mr Frederick Varian sprawled at full length on the floor of the hall. "Oh, heavens, what is the matter?" cried Claire; "the man has had a stroke or something!" Landon went nearer, and with a grave face, stooped down to the prostrate figure. "Claire," he whispered, looking up at her with a white face, "Claire, this man is dead." "What? No,—no! it can't be——" "Yes, he is,—I'm almost certain,—I don't think I'd better touch him,—or, should I? It can do no harm to feel for his heart,—no, it is not beating,—what does it mean? Where's Miss Varian?" "Think quickly, Mr Landon, what we ought to do." Claire Blackwood spoke earnestly, and tried to pull herself together. "We must be careful to do the right thing. I should say, before we even think of Miss Betty we should call Doctor Varian up here——" "The very thing! Will you call him, or shall I?" Considerately, Landon gave her her choice. With a shuddering glance at the still figure, Claire said, "You call him, but let me go with you." They stepped out on the veranda, and Landon waved his hand at the group of waiting people below him. Then he beckoned, but no one definitely responded. "I'll have to shout," Ted said, with a regretful look. "Somehow I hate to,——" the presence of death seemed to restrain him. But of necessity, he called out, "Doctor Varian,—come here." The distance was almost too far for his voice to carry, but because of his imperative gestures, Herbert Varian said: "Guess I'll have to go. Lord! What can be the trick they're trying to cut up? I vow I won't come back here! I'll eat my picnic in your dining-room, Minna." "As you like," she returned, indifferently. "I hate picnics, anyway. But for goodness' sake, Herbert, do one thing or the other. If you'd really rather not go to the woods, take your baskets, and we'll all go back to the house. It's getting late, anyway." "Wait a bit," counseled the doctor. "You people stay here, till I go up to the house, and see what's doing. Then if I beckon you, come along back, all of you. If I don't break my neck getting up there!" "Don't go, Father," begged Eleanor; "let me go. What in the world can they want of you?" "No,—I'll go. I suppose there's a leak in the pipes or something." Herbert Varian went off at a gait that belied his recalcitrant attitude, and as he neared the house, he could see the white faces and grave air of the two that awaited him. "What's the great idea?" he called out, cheerily. "A serious matter, Doctor Varian," replied Landon. "An accident, or sudden illness——" "No!" the doctor took the remaining steps at a bound. "Who?" For answer, Landon conducted him inside the hall, and in an instant Varian was on his knees beside the stricken man. "My God!" he said, in a hoarse whisper, "Frederick's dead!" "A stroke?" asked Landon, while Claire Blackwood stood by, unable to speak at all. "No, man, no! Shot! See the blood,—shot through the heart. What does it—what can it mean? Where's Betty?" "We don't know," Claire spoke now. "Doctor Varian, are you sure he's dead? Can nothing be done to save him?" "Nothing. He died almost instantly, from internal hemorrhage. But how unbelievable! How impossible!" "Who shot him?" Landon burst out, impetuously; "or,—is it suicide?" "Where's the pistol?" said the doctor, looking about. Both men searched, Landon trying to overcome his repugnance to such close association with the dead, but no weapon of any sort could be found. "I—I can't see it,——" Varian wiped his perspiring brow. "I can't see any solution. But, this won't do. We must get the others up here. Oh, heavens, what shall we do with Minna?" "Let me go down, and take her home with me," suggested Claire Blackwood, eager to do anything that might help or ease the coming disclosure of the tragedy. "Oh, I don't know,——" demurred Varian. "You see, she's got to know,—of course, she must be told at once,—and then,—she'll have to look after Betty,—where is the child? Anyway, my wife is a tower of strength,—she'll be able to manage Mrs Varian,—even if she has violent hysterics,—which, of course, she will!" "Command me, Doctor Varian," said Landon. "I will do whatever you advise." "All right; I'll be glad of your assistance. Suppose you go back to the people down there on the rocks, and then,—let me see,—suppose you tell my wife first what has happened; then, ask her to break the news to Mrs Varian,—she'll know how best to do it. Then,—oh, Lord,—I don't know what then! They'll have to come back here,—I suppose,—what else can they do? I don't know, Mrs Blackwood, but your idea of taking Mrs Varian away with you is a good one. If she'll go." "She won't go," said Claire, decidedly, "if she knows the truth. If I take her, it'll have to be on some false pretense,——" "Won't do," said Varian, briefly. "We've got no right to keep her in ignorance of her husband's death. No; she must be told. That girl of mine, too,—Eleanor, she hasn't her mother's poise,—she's likely to go to pieces,—always does, in the presence of death. Oh, what a moil!" "Here's another thing," said Landon, a little hesitantly. "What about the authorities?" "Yes,—yes,——" the doctor spoke impatiently, "I thought of that,—who are they, in this God-forsaken place? Town Constable, I suppose." "I don't know myself," said Landon. "County Sheriff, more likely. But Clark's a good, sensible sort. Say we send him down to the village——" "Oh, must it be known down there right away?" cried Claire. "Before even Mrs Varian is told! Or Betty. Where is Betty?" "Betty is somewhere in the house," said Doctor Varian in a low voice. "We know that. Now, let that question rest, till we decide on our first move. I think, Landon, you'd better do as I said. Go and tell my wife, and, while she's telling Mrs Varian and my daughter, Eleanor, you can take Mr Clark aside and tell him. Then,—then, I think, you'd all better come back here to the house. We'll send Clark on that errand later,—or, we can telephone." Landon started on his difficult descent and on his even more difficult errand. "Can't you,—can't you put Mr Varian somewhere—somewhere——" Claire began, incoherently. "I'm not supposed to move a body until the authorities give permission," said Doctor Varian, slowly. "It would seem to me, that in this very peculiar and unusual case, that I might,—but, that's just it. I've been thinking,—and the very mysteriousness of this thing, makes it most necessary for me to be unusually circumspect. Why, Mrs Blackwood, have you any idea what we have ahead of us? I can't think this mystery will be simple or easily explained. I don't——" "What do you think——" "I don't dare think! Isn't there a phrase, "that way madness lies'? Well, it recurs to me when I let myself think! No,—I won't think,—and I beg of you, don't question me! I'm not a hysterical woman,—but there are times when a man feels as if hysterics might be a relief!" "Then let's not think,——" said Claire, tactfully, "but let me try to be helpful. If Mrs Varian is coming here,—do you advise that we—cover—Mr Varian with——" "With a sheet, I suppose,—do you know where to find one?" "No, I've never been upstairs,—and then, after all, isn't a sheet even more gruesome than the sight as it is at present? How about a dark cover?" "Very well,—find one." The Doctor spoke absorbedly, uncaring. Glancing about, Claire noticed a folded steamer rug, on the end of the big davenport in the hall, and fetching that, she laid it lightly over the still form. "Now, about Betty,——" said the doctor, coming out of his brown study. "She is in the house,—probably hiding,—from fear,——" "Oh, do you think that? Then let us find her!" "We can't both go. Will you remain here and meet the others or shall I stay here while you go to look for the girl?" Claire Blackwood pondered. Either suggestion was too hard for her to accept. "I can't,——" she said, at last. "I'm a coward, I suppose,—but I can't search this great, empty house,—for Betty. And, if she were in it, she would surely come here to us,——" Doctor Varian looked at her. "Then I'll go," he said, simply. "You stay here." "No!" Claire grasped his arm. "I can't do that either. Oh, Doctor Varian, stay here with me! Think,—these are not my people,—I'm sympathetic, of course, but, I'm terrified,—I'm afraid——" "There's nothing to fear." "I can't help that,—I won't stay here alone. If you leave me, I shall run down the path to meet them." "Then I'll have to stay here. Very well, Mrs Blackwood, they'll arrive in a few moments,—we'll wait for them together." And then Varian again fell to ruminating, and Claire Blackwood, sick with her own thoughts, said no word. At last they heard footsteps, and looked out to see the little procession headed by the two sisters-in-law. Janet Varian was half supporting Minna, but her help was not greatly needed, for the very violence of Minna's grief and fright gave her a sort of supernormal strength and she walked uprightly and swiftly. "Where's Frederick?" she demanded, in a shrill voice as she came up the steps,—"and where's Betty? Where's my child?" Her voice rose to a shriek on the last words, and Doctor Varian took her by the arm, giving her his undivided attention. "Be careful now, Minna," he said, kindly but decidedly; "don't lose your grip. You've a big trouble to face,—and do try, dear, to meet it bravely." "I'm brave enough, Herbert, don't worry about that. Where's Fred, I say?" "Here," was the brief reply, and Varian led her to her husband's body. As he had fully expected, she went into violent hysterics. She cried, she screamed, then her voice subsided to a sort of low, dismal wailing, only to break out afresh with renewed shrieks. "Perhaps it's better that she should do this, than to control herself," the Doctor said; "she'll soon exhaust herself at this rate, and may in that way become more tractable. I wish we could get her to bed." "We can," responded his wife, promptly. "I'll look after that. Give a look at Eleanor, Herbert." The harassed doctor turned his attention to his daughter, who was controlling herself, but who was trembling piteously. "Good girl," said her father, taking her in his arms. "Buck up, Nell, dear. Dad's got a whole lot on his shoulders, and my, how it will help if you don't keel over!" "I won't," and Eleanor tried to smile. Claire Blackwood approached the pair. "Doctor Varian," she said, "suppose I take your daughter home with me for the night,—or longer, if she'll stay. It might relieve you and your wife of a little care, and I'll be good to her, I promise you. And, if I may, I'd like to go now. I can't be of any service here, can I? And as Miss Eleanor can't either, what do you think of our going now?" "A very good idea, Mrs Blackwood," and the doctor's face showed grateful appreciation. "Take one of the young men with you, and leave the other here to help me." "We'll take John Clark," Claire decided, "and Ted Landon will, I know, be glad to stand by you." The three departed, and then the sisters-in-law left the room and went upstairs, Minna making no resistance to Janet's suggestions. Left alone with the dead, Doctor Varian and young Landon looked at each other. "What does it all mean?" asked the younger man, a look of absolute bewilderment on his face. "I can't make it out," returned the other, slowly. "But it's a pretty awful situation. Now the women are gone, I'll speak out the thing that troubles me most. Where's Betty?" "Who? Miss Varian? Why, yes, where is she? She came for her camera, you know. She—why, she must be in the house." "She must be,—that is,—I can't see any alternative. I understand there's no way out of this house, save down the path we took." "No other, sir." "Then if the girl's in the house,—she must be found." "Yes,——" and Landon saw the terrible fear in the other's eyes, and his own glance responded. "Shall we search the rooms?" "That must be done. Now, I'm not willing to leave the body of my brother unattended. Will you watch by it, while I run over the house, or the other way about?" "I'll do as you prefer I should, Doctor Varian,—but if you give me a choice, I'll stay here. I've never been in the house before, and I don't know the rooms. However, I want to be frank,—and, the truth is, I'd rather not make that search,—even if I did know the rooms." "I understand, Mr Landon, and I don't blame you. I've never been in the house before either,—and I don't at all like the idea of the search, but it must be made,—and made at once, and it's my place to do it. So, then, if you'll remain here, I'll go the rounds." Ted Landon nodded silently, and sat down to begin the vigil he had been asked to keep. Herbert Varian went first upstairs to Minna's room, and opening the door softly, discovered the widow was lying quietly on her bed. Janet, sitting by, placed a warning forefinger against her lip, and seeing that the patient was quiet, Varian noiselessly closed the door and tiptoed away. He stood a moment in the second story hall, looking upward at a closed door, to which a narrow and winding staircase would take him. Should he go up there,—or search the two lower stories first? He looked out of a window at the foot of the little stair. It gave West, and afforded no view of the sea. But the wild and inaccessible rocks which he saw, proved to him finally that there was no way of approach to this lonely house, save by that one and only path he had already climbed. He sighed, for this dashed his last hope that Betty might have left the house on some errand or some escapade before her father had reached it. With vague forebodings and a horrible sinking at his heart, he began to ascend the turret stair. # CHAPTER IV: The Search Doctor Herbert Varian was a man accustomed to responsibilities; more, he was accustomed to the responsibilities of other people as well as his own. Yet it seemed to him that the position in which he now found himself was more appalling than anything he had ever before experienced, and that it was liable to grow worse rather than better with successive developments. Varian had what has been called "the leaping mind," and without being unduly apprehensive, he saw trouble ahead, such as he shuddered to think about. His brother dead, there was the hysterical widow to be cared for. And Betty in hiding—— He paused, his hand on the latch of the door at the top of the stair. Then, squaring his shoulders, he shook off his hesitation and opened the door. He found himself in a small turret room, from which he went on to other rooms on that floor. They were, for the most part, quite evidently unoccupied bedrooms, but two gave signs of being in use by servants. Varian paid little heed to his surroundings, but went rapidly about hunting for the missing girl. "Betty,——" he called, softly; "Betty, dear, where are you? Don't be afraid,—Uncle Herbert will take care of you. Come, Betty, come out of hiding." But there was no answer to his calls. He flung open cupboard doors, he peered into dark corners and alcoves, but he saw no trace of any one, nor heard any sound. Two other tiny staircases led up to higher turrets, but these were empty, and search as he would he found no Betty, nor any trace of her. Unwilling to waste what might be valuable time, Doctor Varian went downstairs again. Then, one after another, he visited all the rooms on the second floor but found no sign of his niece. He went again to the room where the women were and beckoned his wife outside. "Minna is asleep?" he asked, in a whisper. "Yes," Janet replied, "but, of course, only as an effect of that strong opiate you gave her. She tosses and moans,—but, yes, she is asleep." "I dread her waking. What _are_ we to do with her? And, Janet, where is Betty? I've been all over these upper floors,—and now I'll tackle the rooms downstairs, and the cellar. The girl must be found——" "Herbert! Did you ever know such a fearful situation? And—as to—Frederick—don't you have to——" "Yes, yes, of course; the authorities must be called in. Don't think I haven't realized that. But first of all we must find Betty—dead or alive!" "Don't say that!" Janet clutched at his arm. "I can't bear any more horrors." "Poor girl,—you may have to. Brace up, dear, I've all I can do to——" "Of course you have," his wife kissed him tenderly. "Don't be afraid. I won't add to your burdens, and I will help all I can. Thank heaven that kind woman took Eleanor away with her." "Yes; but I daresay we ought to have kept them all here. There's crime to be considered, and——" "Never mind, they're gone,—and I'm glad of it. You can get them back when necessary." "But it's a mystery,—oh, what shall I do first? I never felt so absolutely unable to cope with a situation. But the first thing is to hunt further for Betty." Pursuant of his clearest duty, Doctor Varian went on through the yet unsearched rooms, on to the kitchen, and on down to the cellar. He made a hasty but careful search, flinging open closets, cupboards and storerooms, and returned at last to the hall where Ted Landon sat with folded arms, keeping his lonely vigil. "I can't imagine where Betty can be," and Varian sank wearily into a chair. "She must be in the house," said Landon, wonderingly, "for there's no way out, except down the path where we all were." "There's a back door, I suppose." "I mean no way off the premises. Yes, there must be a back door—you know I've never been in this house before." "No; well, look here, Landon; the authorities must be notified; the local doctor ought to be called in,—and all that. But first, I want to find Betty. Suppose I stay here,—I'm—I admit I'm pretty tired,—and you take a look out around the back door, and kitchen porch. By the way, the servants will be coming home soon——" "No, they were to stay out for the evening, I think Mrs Varian said." "But those people who went back to the village will, of course, tell of the matter, and soon we'll have all kinds of curious visitors." "All right, Doctor Varian, I'll do just what you say." The younger man went on his errand, and going through the kitchen, found the back porch. To reach it he had to unlock the outside door, thus proving to his own satisfaction that Betty had not gone out that way. But he went out and looked about. He saw nothing indicative. The porch was pleasant and in neat order. A knitting-bag and a much be-thumbed novel were evidently the property of the cook or waitress, and an old cap on a nail was, doubtless, the butler's. He took pains to ascertain that there was no path or road that led down to the gate but the path that also went from the front door, and which he had been on when Betty returned to the house. He had seen her enter the house, had seen her father go in a few moments later, now where was the girl? Back to the kitchen Landon went, and in the middle of the floor, he noticed a yellow cushion. It was a satin covered, embroidered affair, probably, he thought, a sofa cushion, or hammock pillow, but it seemed too elaborate for a servant's cushion. Surely it belonged to the family. The kitchen was in tidy order, save for a tray of used glasses and empty plates which was on a table. Landon picked up the pillow,—and then, on second thoughts, laid it back where he had found it. It might be evidence. An open door showed the cellar stairs. Conquering a strong disinclination, Landon went down. The cellar was large, and seemed to have various rooms and bins, and some locked cupboards. But there was nothing sinister, the rooms were for the most part fairly light, and the air was good. Remembering that Doctor Varian had already searched down there for Betty, Landon merely went over the same ground, and returned with the news of his unsuccessful search. "No way out?" queried the doctor, briefly. "None, except by passing the very spot where we all were when Betty ran back to the house." "Where is she, Landon?" The two men stared at each other, both absolutely at a loss to answer the question. "Well," and Varian pulled himself together, "this won't do. It's a case for the police,—how shall we get at them?" "I don't know anything about the police, but if you telephone the inn or the clubhouse they'll tell you. The local doctor is Merritt,—I know him. But he couldn't do anything. Why call him when you're here?" "It's customary, I think. You call Merritt, will you, and then I'll speak to the innkeeper." The telephoning was just about completed, when a fearful scream from upstairs announced the fact that Minna Varian had awakened from her opiate sleep and had returned to a realization of her troubles. Slowly Doctor Varian rose and went up the stairs. He entered the bedroom to find Minna sitting up in bed, wild-eyed and struggling to get up, while Janet urged her to lie still. "Lie still!" she screamed, "I will not. Come here, Herbert. Tell me,—where is my child? Why is Betty not here? Is she dead, too? Tell me, I say!" "Yes, Minna," Varian returned, quietly, "I will tell you all I can. I do not know where Betty is, but we've no reason to think she is dead——" "Then why doesn't she come to me? Why doesn't Fred come? Oh,—Fred is dead,—isn't he?" And then the poor woman went into violent hysterics, now shrieking like a maniac and now moaning piteously, like some hurt animal. "The first thing to do," said Doctor Varian, decidedly, "is to get a nurse for Minna." "No," demurred his wife, "not tonight, anyway. I'll take care of her, and there will be some maid servant who can help me. There was a nice looking waitress among those who went off this afternoon." "The servants will surely return as soon as they hear the news," Varian said, and then he gave all his attention to calming his patient. Again he placed her under the influence of a powerful opiate, and by the time she was unconscious, the local doctor had come. Varian went down to find Doctor Merritt examining the body of his brother. The two medical men met courteously, the local doctor assuming an important air, principally because he considered the other his superior. "Terrible thing, Doctor Varian," Merritt said; "death practically instantaneous." "Practically," returned the other. "May have lived a few moments, but unconscious at once. You know the sheriff?" "Yes; Potter. He'll be along soon. He's a shrewd one,—but,—my heavens! Who did this thing?" Doctor Merritt's formality gave way before his irrepressible curiosity. He looked from Doctor Varian to Ted Landon and back again, with an exasperated air of resentment at being told so little. "We don't know, Doctor Merritt," Landon said, as the other doctor said nothing. "We've no idea." "No idea! A man shot and killed in this lonely, isolated house and you don't know who did it? What do you mean?" In a few words Varian detailed the circumstances, and added, "We don't know where Miss Varian is." "Disappeared! Then she must have shot her father——" "Oh, no!" interrupted Landon, "don't say such an absurd thing!" "What else is there to say?" demanded Merritt. "You say there was nobody in the house but those two people. Now, one is here dead, and the other is missing. What else can be said?" "Don't accuse a defenseless girl,——" advised Varian. "Betty must be found, of course. But I don't for a minute believe she shot her father." "Where's the gun?" asked Doctor Merritt. "Hasn't been found," returned Varian, briefly. "Mrs Varian, my brother's wife, is hysterical. I've been obliged to quiet her by opiates. Doctor Merritt, this is by no means a simple case. I hope your sheriff is a man of brains and experience. It's going to call for wise and competent handling." "Potter is experienced enough. Been sheriff for years. But as to brains, he isn't overburdened with them. Still, he's got good horse sense." "One of the best things to have," commented Varian. "Now, I don't know that we need keep Mr Landon here any longer. What do you think?" "I don't know," said Merritt, thoughtfully. "He was here at the time of the—crime?" "Yes; but so were several others, and they've gone away. As you like, Mr Landon, but I don't think you need stay unless you wish." "I do wish," Ted Landon said. "I may be of use, somehow, and, too, I'm deeply interested. I want to see what the sheriff thinks about it, and, too, I want to try to find or help to find Miss Betty." "Betty must be found," said Varian, as if suddenly reminded of the fact. "I am so distracted between the shock of my brother's death and the anxiety regarding his wife's condition, that for the moment I almost forgot Betty. That child must be hiding somewhere. She must have been frightened in some fearful way, and either fainted or run away and hid out in the grounds somewhere. I'm positive she isn't in the house." "She couldn't have gone out the back door," said Landon. "It was locked when I went to it." "She couldn't have gone out at the front door or we should have seen her," Varian added, "She stepped out of a window, then." "Are you assuming some intruder?" asked Merritt, wonderingly. "I'm not assuming anything," returned Varian, a little crisply, for his nerves were on edge. "But Betty Varian must be found,—my duty is to the living as well as to the dead." He glanced at his brother's body, and his face expressed a mute promise to care for that brother's child. "But how are you going to find her?" asked Landon. "We saw Miss Varian enter this house——" "Therefore, she is still in it,—or in the grounds," said Varian, positively. "It can't be otherwise. I shall hunt out of doors first, before it grows dusk. Then we can hunt the house afterward." "You have hunted the house." "Yes; but it must be hunted more thoroughly. Why, Betty, or—Betty's body must be somewhere. And must be found." Doctor Merritt listened, dumfounded. Here was mystery indeed. Mr Varian dead,—shot,—no weapon found, and his daughter missing. What could be the explanation? The hunt out of doors for Betty resulted in nothing at all. There was no kitchen garden, merely a drying plot and a small patch of back yard, mostly stones and hard ground. This was surrounded by dwarfed and stunted pine trees, which not only afforded no hiding place, but shut off no possible nook or cranny where Betty could be hidden. The whole tableland was exposed to view from all parts of it, and it was clear to be seen that Betty Varian could not be hiding out of doors. And since she could not have left the premises, save by the road where the picnic party was congregated, there was no supposition but that she was still in the house. "Can you form any theory, Doctor Varian?" Landon asked him. "No, I can't. Can you?" "Only the obvious one,—that Miss Varian killed her father and then hid somewhere." "But where? Mind you, I don't for a moment admit she killed her father, that's too ridiculous! But whoever killed him, may also have killed her. It is her body I think we are more likely to find." "How, then, did the assassin get away?" "I don't know. I'm not prepared to say there's no way out of this place——" "But I know that to be the fact. There comes the sheriff, Doctor Varian. That's Potter." They went into the house again, and found the sheriff and another man with him. Merritt made the necessary introductions, and Doctor Varian looked at Potter. "The strangest case you've ever had," he informed him, "and the most important. How do you propose to handle it?" "Like I do all the others, by using my head." "Yes, I know, but I mean what help do you expect to have?" "Dunno's I'll need any yet. Haven't got the principal facts. Dead man's your brother, ain't he?" "Yes." "Shot dead and no weapon around. Criminal unknown. Now, about this young lady,—the daughter. Where is she?" "I don't know,—but I hope you can find her." And then Doctor Varian told, in his straightforward way, of his search for the girl. "Mighty curious," vouchsafed the sheriff, with an air of one stating a new idea. "The girl and her father on good terms?" "Yes, of course," Varian answered, but his slight hesitation made the sheriff eye him keenly. "We want the truth, you know," he said, thoughtfully. "If them two wasn't on good terms, you might as well say so,—"cause it'll come out sooner or later." "But they were,—so far as I know." "Oh, well, all right. I can't think yet, the girl shot her father. I won't think that,—lessen I have to. But, good land, man, you say you've looked all over the house,—where's the murderer, then?" "Suicide?" laconically said the man who had come with the sheriff. It was the first time he had spoken. He was a quiet, insignificant chap, but his eyes were keen and his whole face alert. "Couldn't be, Bill," said the sheriff, "with no weapon about." "Might "a' been removed," the other said, in his brief way. "By whom?" asked Doctor Varian. "By whoever came here first," Bill returned, looking at him. "I came here first," Varian stated. "Do you mean I removed the weapon?" "Have to look at all sides, you know." "Well, I didn't. But I won't take time, now, to enlarge on that plain statement. I'll be here, you can question me, when and as often as you like. Now, Mr Potter, what are you going to do first?" "Well, seems to me there's no more to be done with Mr Varian's body. You two doctors have examined it, you know all about the wound that killed him. Bill, here, has jotted down all the details of its position and all that. Now, I think you can call in the undertakers and have the body taken away or kept here till the funeral,—whichever you like." "The funeral!" exclaimed Doctor Varian, realizing a further responsibility for his laden shoulders. "I suppose I'd better arrange about that, for my sister-in-law will not be able to do so." "Jest's you like," said Potter. "Next, I'll investigate for myself the absence of this girl. A mysterious disappearance is as serious a matter as a mysterious death,—maybe, more so." "That's true," agreed Varian. "I hope you'll be able to find my niece, for she must be found." "Easy enough to say she must be found,—the trick is to find her." "Have you any theory of the crime, Mr Potter?" Landon asked. "Theory? No, I don't deal in theories. I may say it looks to me like the girl may have shot her father, but it only looks that way because there's no other way, so far, for it to look. You can't suspect a criminal that you ain't had any hint of, can you? If anybody, now, turns up who's seen a man prowling round—or seen any mysterious person, or if any servant is found who, say, didn't go to the circus, but hung behind, or——" "But if there's any such, they or he must be in the house now," Bill said, quietly. "Let's go and see." The two started from the room and Landon, after a glance at Doctor Varian, followed them. "I don't see," Landon said to Potter as they went to the kitchen, "why you folks in authority always seem to think it necessary to take an antagonistic attitude toward the people who are representing the dead man! You act toward Doctor Varian as if you more than half suspected he had a hand in the crime himself!" "Not that, my boy," and Potter looked at him gravely; "but that doctor brother knows more than he's telling." "That's not so! I know. I came up here to the house with him. I was with him when he found his brother's body——" "Oh, you were! Why didn't you say so?" "You didn't ask me. No, I don't know anything more. I've nothing to tell that can throw any possible light, but I do know that Doctor Varian had no hand in it and knows no more about it than I do." "Good land, I don't mean that he killed his brother,—I know better than that. But he wasn't frank about the relations between the girl and her father. Do you know that they were all right? Friendly, I mean?" "So far as I know, they were. But I never met them until today. I can only say that they acted like any normal, usual father and daughter." "Oh, well, it doesn't matter. It'll all come out,—that sort of thing. Now to find the girl." # CHAPTER V: The Yellow Pillow "What's this pillow doing here?" the sheriff asked, as he picked up the yellow satin cushion. "This looks to me like a parlor ornament." "I thought it was strange, too," returned Landon. "But I can't see any clue in it, can you?" "Anything unusual may prove a clue," said Potter, sententiously. "You never saw this pillow before, Mr Landon." "No; but I'm not familiar with the house at all. Maybe it's a discarded one, handed down to the servants' use." "Doesn't look so; it's fresh and new, and very handsome." "Lay it aside and come on," growled Bill Dunn, who was alertly looking about the kitchen. "You can ask the family about that later. Let's go down cellar." To the cellar they went, Landon following. He had a notion that he might help the family's interests by keeping at the heels of these detectives. But the most careful search revealed nothing of importance to their quest. Until Potter said, suddenly, "What's this? A well?" "It sure is," and Bill Dunn peered over an old well curb and looked down. "A well in a cellar! How queer!" exclaimed Landon. "I never heard of such a thing." "Uncommon, but I've known of "em," said Bill "Looks promising, eh?" Potter considered. "It may mean something," he said, thoughtfully. "We'll have to sound it, somehow." "Sound it, nothin'!" said the executive Bill; "I'll go down." "How?" Potter asked him. "There's no bucket. It's probably a dried up well." "Prob'ly," and Bill nodded. He already had one foot over the broken old well curb. "Wait, for heaven's sake!" cried Landon. "Don't jump down! You must have a light." "Got one," and Bill drew a small flashlight from his pocket. With the agility of a monkey he clambered down the side of the old well. The stones were large and not smoothly fitted, so that he had little trouble in gaining and keeping his foothold. The others watched him as he descended and at last reached the bottom. "Nothing at all," he called up. "I'm coming back." "Just an old dried up well," he reported, as he reached them again. "Must "a' dried up long ago. No water in it for years, most likely. But there's nothin' else down there, neither. No body, nor no clues of any sort. Whatever became of that girl, she ain't down that well." All parts of the cellar were subjected to the same thorough search. Landon was amazed at the quickness and efficiency shown by these men whom he had thought rather stupid at first. Cupboards were poked into to their furthest corners; bins were raked; boxes opened, and Bill even climbed up to scan a swinging shelf that hung above his head. "How about secret passages?" Potter asked, when they had exhausted all obvious hiding places. "I been thinkin' about that," Bill returned, musingly; "but, so far, I can't see where there could be any. This isn't the sort of house that has "em, either. It's straightforward architecture,—that's what it is,—straightforward." "What do you mean by that?" asked Landon, interested in this strange man who looked so ignorant, yet was in some ways so well informed. "Well, you see, there's no unexpected juts or jambs. Everything's four-square, mostly. You can see where the rooms above are,—you can see where the closets and stairs fit in and all that. There's no concealed territory like,—no real chance for a secret passage,—at least not so far's I see." "That's right," agreed Potter. "Bill's the man when it comes to architecture and building plans. Well,—let's get along upstairs, then." Going through the kitchen again, Potter picked up the yellow pillow and took it along with him. Quite evidently it belonged to a sofa in the large, square front hall. The upholstery fabric was the same, and there was a corresponding pillow already at one end of the sofa. "Queer thing," Potter said; "how'd that fine cushion get on the kitchen floor?" "It is queer," Landon assented, "but I can't see any meaning in it, can you?" "Not yet," returned Potter. "Now, Doctor Varian," and he turned to the physician who sat with bowed head beside his brother's body, "I dessay the undertakers'll be coming along soon. You see them and make plans for the funeral; while Bill and I go on over this house. Then, we'll have to see the rest of the people who were around at the time of the—the tragedy." "Not Mrs Frederick Varian," said Herbert, "you can't see her. I forbid that, as her physician." "Well, we'll see your wife first, and then, we'll have to see the folks that went back to the village. And there's the servants to be questioned." But the careful and exhaustive search of the two inquiry agents failed to disclose any sign of the missing Betty Varian or any clue to her whereabouts. They went over the whole house, even into the bedroom of the newly-made widow,—whose deep artificial sleep made this possible. This was the last room they visited, and as they tiptoed out, Bill said, "Never saw such a case! No clue anywhere; not even mysterious circumstances. Everything just as natural and commonplace as it can be." "There's the yellow pillow,——" suggested Potter. "I know,—but that may have some simple explanation,—housemaid took it out to clean it,—or something." "Then, Bill, there's got to be a secret passage; there's just got to." "Well, there ain't. Tomorrow, I'll sound the walls and all that sort of thing, but I've measured and estimated, and I vow there ain't no space unaccounted for in this whole house. But there's a lot of questionin' yet to be done. I'll say there is!" By this time some of the servants had heard of the affair and had returned. Potter and Bill Dunn went to the kitchen to see them, and found Kelly the butler and Hannah the cook in a scared, nervous state. "Do tell us, sir, all about it," Kelly begged, his hard face drawn with sympathy. "The master——" "It's true, Kelly, your master is dead. He was killed, and we are investigating. What can you tell us? Do you know of anybody who had it in for Mr Varian?" "Oh, no, sir! I'm sure he hadn't an enemy in the world." "Oh, no, you can't be sure of that, my man. But tell me of the circumstances. When you all went away, this afternoon, there was no sign of disturbance,—of anything unusual?" "Oh, no, sir. Everything was pleasant and proper. I had packed the luncheon for the picnic, Hannah here made the sandwiches, and I filled the coffee Thermos, and all such things. The baskets were all ready, and the family expected to start on the picnic almost as soon as we went off. I offered to stay behind and help Mrs Varian, but she was so kind as to say I needn't do that. So we all went." "All at once?" "Yes, sir." "You went down the path that leads from the front door?" "There's no other way. It branches around to the kitchen entrance, up here, but there's no other way off the premises." "Not even for a burglar or robber?" "No, sir. I don't believe even a monkey could scramble up the cliff, and I know a man couldn't. You see it overhangs, and it's impossible." "But coming from the other direction,—the village?" "From that way, everybody has to pass through the lodge gate. The lodge, you know,—that's the garage, as well. There's a gate here——" "Yes, I know." "Well, through that gate is the only way to get to this house." "But all the picnic party were waiting, in full view of that gate, and in full view of the house. Yet somebody——" "You needn't say somebody got in,—for nobody could do that." "I don't say it. But I'm looking out for some such person. If not, we must conclude——" "What, sir?" "That Miss Varian shot her father, and then,—in some yet undiscovered place, killed herself, or still alive,—is in hiding." "Miss Betty kill her father!" exclaimed Hannah, the cook, speaking to the sheriff for the first time. "No, she never did that!" "Yet there was ill feeling between them," Potter returned, quickly. "That there was not! A more loving father and child I never met up with! Bless her pretty face! To dare accuse darlin' Miss Betty of such a thing! I say, now, Mister Man, you better be careful how you say such lies around here! You know you've nothin' to go on, but your own black thoughts! You know you don't know who killed the master, and you're too dumb to find out, and so you pick on that poor dear angel child, who ain't here to speak up for herself!" "Where is she, then? Where's Miss Betty?" "Where is she? Belike in some hidin' place, scared into fits because of seein' her father shot! Or maybe, stunned and unconscious herself,—the deed bein' done by the same villyun what did for the master! Oh, sakes! it's bad enough without your makin' it worse callin' my darlin' girl a murderer! Where's Mrs Varian? What does she say?" "She's asleep. The doctor had to quiet her, she was in raving hysterics." "Ay, she would be. Poor lady. She'll be no help in this awful thing. And, sir, another thing: The waitress and the chambermaid, they're sisters, Agnes and Lena, they say they're not coming back here. Nothing would induce them to step foot in this house again, they say. They bid me send "em their things and——" "Nonsense, they'll have to come back." This from Bill. "Tell me where they are. I'll bring them back." "No, they won't come. They're going down to Boston tonight." "They mustn't be allowed to do that!" "They've gone by now," and Hannah looked unconcerned. "But never you mind, they know nothin' of this matter. They're two young scared girls, and they'd be no good to you nor anyone else. They know nothin' to tell, and they'd have worse hysterics than Mrs Varian if you tried to bring "em back to this house." "You won't desert Mrs Varian, will you, Hannah?" asked Potter. "Well, I'll be leavin' in the mornin'," and the cook shrugged her shoulders. "I couldn't be expected to stay in such a moil." "No; of course you couldn't!" exclaimed Potter, angrily. "You don't care that poor Mrs Varian is in deep trouble and sorrow! You don't care that there'll be nobody to cook for her and her brother's family! You've no sense of common humanity,—no sympathy for grief, no heart in your stupid old body!" "I might stay on for a time, sir,—if—if they made it worth my while." "Oh, greed might keep you here! Kelly, what about you? Are you going to desert this stricken household?" "I'll—I'll stay for a time, sir," the butler said, quite evidently ill at ease. "Now, you mustn't blame us, Mr Potter for——" "I do blame you! I know how you feel about a house where there's a mystery, but also, you ought to be glad to do whatever you can to help. And nothing could help poor Mrs Varian so much as to have some of her servants faithful to her. Also, I'm pretty sure I may promise you extra pay,—as I know that will hold you, when nothing else will." "And now," Bill Dunn put in, "you'd better fix up a meal for those who want it. They had no picnic supper, you see, and there are the guests to be considered as well as your Mrs Varian." "Speakin' one word for them and two for yourself, I'm thinkin'," Hannah sniffed, as she began to tie on her apron. "Well, Mr Potter, you'll be welcome to a good meal, I'm sure." "One moment, Hannah," said Bill, "when you left here today, was there a sofa pillow out here in the kitchen?" "A sofy pillow? There was not. Why should such a thing be?" "A yellow satin one,—embroidered." "Off the hall sofy? No, sir, it never was in my kitchen at all." "What do you know about it?" Dunn turned to the butler. "When did you last see the sofa pillows on the hall sofa?" Kelly stared. "I saw them this morning, sir,—yes, and I saw them this afternoon,—when I set the picnic baskets out. I didn't——" "How did you happen to notice the pillows, Kelly?" Bill watched him closely. "Why, I didn't exactly notice them,—but,—well, if they hadn't been in place I should have noticed it." "That's right," Dunn gave a satisfied nod. The pillow episode seemed important to him, though he could get no meaning to it as yet. "Now Kelly, tell me the truth. When you've been around, in the dining room, or the living rooms, haven't you heard conversations between Miss Varian and her father that showed some friction between the two?" "Oh, now, sir, Miss Betty's a saucy piece——" "I don't mean gay chaff,—I mean real, downright quarreling. Did you ever hear any of that? Tell me the truth, Kelly, you'll serve no good purpose by trying to shield either of them." "Well, then, yes, sir, I did,—and often. But not to say exactly quarreling,—more like argufying——" "Why do you say that, Kelly? They do quarrel,—all the time they quarrel,—and you know it." This astonishing speech was from the lips of Minna Varian, who suddenly appeared in the kitchen doorway. She was smiling a little, she looked tired and wan, but she was in no way excited or hysterical. She wore a trailing blue wrapper, and her hair was falling from its combs and hairpins. "Mrs Varian!" exclaimed Potter, springing to her side. "Why are you here?" "I heard voices and I wondered who was down here. Where are my people? Who are you two strange men?" "There, there," said Hannah, advancing and putting an arm round her mistress, "let me take you back to your room. Come now." "Just a minute," and Potter looked keenly at the lady. "Say that again, Mrs Varian. Your daughter quarrels with her father often?" "All the time," Minna Varian laughed. "I have to make peace between them morning, noon and night. Oh, why do they do it? Fred is so dear and sweet to me,—then he will scold Betty for the least trifle! And Betty never differs from me in her opinions, but she is antagonistic to her father, always. Can you explain it?" Mrs Varian's large gray eyes stared at Potter, and then turned to Bill Dunn. It was clear to be seen that she was still partly under the influence of the opiate effects, and that her memory of the recent tragedy was utterly obliterated. "Take her to her room," Potter said quickly, to Hannah. "If she comes to down here there'll be a fearful scene. How did she get away?" "There was nobody in my room," Minna said, overhearing. "Who should be there? I'm not ill. I woke up from a nap, and I heard talking,—my room is right above this, so I came down. Where's Miss Betty, Hannah? Kelly, what are you doing?" "I'm about to get supper, madam," Kelly's glance rested kindly on the pathetic figure. Minna Varian looked small and frail, and her white face and vacant, staring eyes seemed to add to the mystery of the whole affair. "Come, now, Mrs Varian, come along of Hannah." "Minna, where are you?" Janet's frightened voice broke in upon them. "Merciful powers, however did she get down here? Help me get her back, Hannah. No, wait, I'll call Doctor Varian." But Herbert Varian was already entering the kitchen, and between them, Minna was safely convoyed back to her room. "Well, we're getting at the truth," said Potter, with an air of satisfaction as he glanced at Dunn. "Lord knows I'm sorry for that poor woman, but they say children and fools speak the truth, and so, though she isn't herself, mentally, she told the truth about Miss Varian and her father being enemies." "Oh, she didn't," Hannah moaned, wiping her eyes on her apron. "I tell you it wasn't as bad as Mrs Varian makes out." "Yes, it was," said Kelly, slowly. "You've no way of knowing, Hannah, you're always in the kitchen. But I'm about the house all the time, and I hear lots of talk. And it's just as Mrs Varian said: Miss Betty and her father never agree. They scrap at the least hint of a chance; and though sometimes they're terribly affectionate and loving, yet at other times, they quarrel like everything." "That's enough, Kelly; now keep quiet about this. Even if Miss Varian and her father were not always friendly, it may not mean anything serious and it may make trouble for the young lady if such reports get out." "You expect to find Miss Betty, then?" "Find her? Of course. You say yourself there's only one way out of these premises. We know she didn't go out that way, so, she must be here. There must be places we haven't yet discovered, where she is hiding,—or—or has been concealed." "It's a fearful situation!" broke out Dunn. "That girl may be gagged and bound—in some secret closet——" "You say there are none, Bill." "I do say I don't see how there can be any, but, good lord, Potter, the girl must be somewhere,—dead or alive!" An attractive supper, largely consisting of the delicacies intended for the picnic, and supplemented by some hot viands, was soon in readiness. Hannah was deputed to sit beside Mrs Varian, now sleeping again, and the others, including the detectives, gathered round the table. "I'd like the sum of your findings, so far," Doctor Varian said, raising weary eyes to Potter's face. "Pretty slim, Doctor," the sheriff responded. "But, I want to say, right now, that I've got to do my duty as I see it. Much as I'd like to spare the feelings of you people and all that, I've got to forge ahead and discover anything I may." "Of course you have, Mr Potter. Don't think I'd put a straw in the way of truth or justice. But, granting that you may speak with all plainness, where do you come out?" "Only to the inevitable conclusion that Miss Varian killed her father and then killed herself, and her body will yet be found." "Now, Potter," Dunn said, slowly, "don't go too fast. That is one theory, to be sure, but it's only a theory. You've nothing to back it up,—there's no evidence——" "There's negative evidence, Bill. Nobody else could get up here to do that shooting, or, if he did, he couldn't get away again. Say, for a minute, that some intruder might have been concealed in the house, say he shot Mr Varian, how'd he get out of here without being seen, and how did he do for the girl?" "That's all so," Bill said, doggedly, "but it ain't enough to prove,—or, even to indicate that Miss Varian did the shooting. Where'd she get a pistol?" "Pshaw, that's a foolish question! If she had nerve and ingenuity enough to shoot, she had enough to provide the gun." "Betty never did such things," said Janet Varian with spirit. "That girl did sometimes have words with her father,—that's a mere nothing,—my own daughter does that,—but Betty Varian is a loving, affectionate daughter, and she no more killed her father than I did!" "Small use in asserting things you can't prove," said Potter, devoting himself to his supper. "Next thing for me to do's to see those other people,—the ones that were here this afternoon." "All right," said Doctor Varian, "but what do you hope to learn from them? They don't know as much as we do. I was first on the spot, young Landon, who's gone home, was here with me, and those others stayed down on the path waiting for us. See them, by all means, but I doubt their helpfulness. Now, aside from that, and granting you get no new evidence, what's to be done?" "I think," Potter said thoughtfully, "you'd better offer a reward for any news of Miss Varian. It's not likely to bring results,—but it ought to be done, I think." # CHAPTER VI: The Varian Pearls When Bill Dunn went up on the porch of Mrs Blackwood's bungalow that evening, he found a group of neighbors there, and was not at all surprised that they were discussing the dreadful affair of Headland House. Claire Blackwood greeted the caller courteously and asked him to go inside the house with her. "Let us all go," said Rodney Granniss. "I want to learn all about this case, and we're entitled to know." "Come on, everybody," Dunn invited, "I want to ask a lot of questions and who knows where I may get the best and most unexpected answers." Granniss and Lawrence North, with Ted Landon and John Clark, who had been up on the Headland in the afternoon, were the men, and Mrs Blackwood and her young guest, Eleanor Varian were the only women present. Yet Dunn seemed well satisfied as he looked over the group. "Fine," he said, "all the witnesses I wanted, and all here together." "We didn't witness anything," offered John Clark, who was apparently by no means desirous of taking part in the colloquy. "And, as I've an engagement, can't you question me first, and let me go?" "Sure I can," returned Dunn, whose easy manners were not at all curbed by the more formal attitude of those about him. "Just tell the story in your own way, son." Clark resented the familiar speech, but said nothing to that effect. "There's little to tell," he began; "I'd never been up to Headland House before, and of course I'd never before met the Varians,—any of them. I went on Mrs Blackwood's invitation, and after meeting the family and their guests on the veranda, we all started for a picnic. We had reached a point half way down the steep path from the house, when Miss Betty Varian said she had forgotten her camera. She returned to the house for it, and we waited. She was gone so long, that we wondered,—and then, her father went to hurry her up. He, too, was gone a long time, and then, Doctor Varian and Ted Landon went after him. That's my story. Landon can tell you the rest." "I know the rest," said Dunn, shortly; "I don't see, Mr Clark, that you need remain. Your evidence is merely that of all the party who stayed behind while the others went up to the house." "Yes," said Clark, with a sigh of relief, and making his adieux, he went away. "Have you formed any theory of the crime, Mr Dunn?" asked Lawrence North, who was consumed with impatient curiosity, during the already known testimony of Clark. "Not a definite one," Dunn replied, seeming by his manner to invite advice or discussion. "It is too mysterious to theorize about." "By Jove, it is!" North agreed; "I never heard of a case so absolutely strange. I'd like to get into that house and see for myself." "See what for yourself Mr North?" "Whether there's any secret passage—but, of course you've looked for that?" "Yes; thoroughly. I'm of an architectural mind,——" "So is Mr North," said Mrs Blackwood. "He designed this bungalow we're in now." "Are you an architect, Mr North?" "Not by profession, but I'm fond of it. And I flatter myself I could discover a secret passage if such existed." "I flatter myself I could, too," said Dunn, but not boastfully. "Yet, I may have overlooked it. I'd be obliged, Mr North, if you'd come up to the house, and give it the once over. You might spot what I failed to see." "But I don't know the people at all——" "No matter; I ask you as a matter of assistance. Come up there tomorrow, will you?" North promised to do so, and Dunn turned to Eleanor Varian. "Sorry to trouble you, Miss Varian, but I have to ask you some very definite questions. First, do you know your relatives up there pretty well?" "Why, yes," said Eleanor, with a surprised look. "They live in New York and we live in Boston, but we visit each other now and then and we often spend our summers at the same place. Of course, I know them well." "Then, tell me exactly the relations between Miss Varian and her father. Don't quibble or gloss over the facts,—if they were not entirely in accord it will be found out, and you may as well tell the truth." Eleanor Varian looked thoughtful. "I will tell the truth," she said, "because I can see it's better to do so. Betty and her mother are much more in sympathy with one another than Betty and her father. I don't know what makes the difference, but Aunt Minna always seems to want everything the way Betty wants it, while Uncle Fred always wants just the opposite." "Yet Miss Betty was fond of her father?" "Oh, yes; they were devoted, really,—I think. Only, their natures were different." "Was there any special subject on which they disagreed?" "There has been of late," Eleanor admitted, though with evident reluctance. "Of course Betty is a great belle. Of course, she has and has had many admirers. Now, Uncle Fred seems always to be willing for Betty to have beaux and young man friends, but as soon as they become serious in their attentions, and want to marry Betty, then Uncle Fred shoos them off." It was, as yet, impossible for Eleanor to speak of her uncle in the past tense. The girl had not at all realized this sudden death, and couldn't help thinking and speaking of him as still alive. Nor could she realize Betty's disappearance. She was somewhat in a daze, and also over-excited by the awfulness of the situation. She talked rapidly, yet coherently, and Dunn secretly rejoiced at her agitation, knowing he would learn more than if she had been cool and collected. "But that's not at all an unusual thing," put in North, who felt sorry for Eleanor and wanted to relieve her all he could from the grilling fire of Dunn's questions. "I find that the majority of fathers resent the advances of their daughters' suitors. Now, mothers are different,—they encourage a match that seems to them desirable. But a father can't realize his little girl is growing up." "Well, Lawrence," exclaimed Claire Blackwood, "for a bachelor, you seem to know a lot about family matters!" "I've lots of friends, and I can't help noticing these things. Isn't it true, Miss Varian?" "Yes," Eleanor said, "to a degree, it is. I mean, in some instances. Any way, it's quite true of Uncle Fred and Betty. Aunt Minna would be delighted to have Betty engaged to some nice young man, but Uncle Fred flies in a fury at mere mention of such a thing." "I can swear to that," said Rodney Granniss. "I've known the Varians for two years, and it's quite true. Mrs Varian smiled on the attachment between Betty and myself, but Mr Varian most certainly did not!" "What!" exclaimed Dunn, "you one of Miss Betty Varian's suitors?" "Even so," said Granniss, calmly. "I knew them in New York. I came up here to be near Betty. And now, Mr Dunn, I want to say that I'm going to do all I can to solve the mystery of Mr Varian's death, but even more especially am I going to try to find Betty herself. I haven't been up to Headland House yet, for it—well, it seems awful to go there now that Mr Varian can't put me out!" "Look here, young man," Dunn gazed at him curiously, "it doesn't seem to occur to you that you yourself may be said to have an interest in Mr Varian's death!" "Meaning that I shot him!" Grannis looked amused. "Well,—if you can tell me how I accomplished it——" "But, my dear sir, somebody accomplished it——" "And it might as well be me! The only trouble with your theory Mr Dunn is, that I didn't do it. Investigate all you like, you can't pin the crime, on me." "And, I suppose you didn't abduct Miss Betty either?" "I did not!" Granniss looked solemn. "I only wish I had. But I'm going to find her, and I want to start out by being friendly with you, Mr Dunn,—not antagonistic." "Easy enough to check up your alibi, Mr Granniss," Dunn said; "no, don't tell me where you were at the time,—I'll find out for myself." "I'll tell you," said North, casually. "Mr Granniss was out in his motor boat all the afternoon. I know, because I was out in mine, and I saw him frequently. We were both fishing." "That's right," said Granniss, carelessly, as if his alibi were of small moment to him, as indeed it was. "Now, Mr Dunn, you must have some theory,—or if not a theory, some possible explanation of what occurred. Do give it to us." "Yes, do," said North. "I'm fond of detective stories, but I never read one that started out so mysteriously as this." "I haven't any theory," Dunn looked at each in turn, his eyes roving round the room as he talked, "I can't say as I can even dope out how it _could_ have happened. But here's what I work on,—motive. That's the thing to seek first,—motive. We know Mr Varian is dead, we know Miss Varian is missing. That's all we really know. Now, you can't deduce anything from those facts alone. So, I say, hunt for a motive. It isn't likely that Mr Varian had any enemies up here. And if he had, they never'd chosen such an opportunity to shoot him,—for, just think how sudden, how unexpected that opportunity was! Who could have foreseen that Miss Varian would go back to the house for her camera? Who could have foreseen that her father would go back after her? If those goings back were unpremeditated, then no enemy could have been there ready to utilize his chance. If, on the other hand, those goings back were premeditated, then they were arranged by either Miss Betty or her father——" "Impossible!" cried North. "Mr Varian couldn't foresee that his daughter would forget her camera, and Miss Betty couldn't foresee that it would be her father who would come back for her!" "I know it seems that way," Dunn looked deeply perplexed, "but I can't get away from the idea of there being some premeditation about the two goings back to that empty house that resulted in a double tragedy." "Suppose a burglar——" began Claire Blackwood; "suppose he had been concealed in the house before we left to go to the picnic. Suppose when Betty came back unexpectedly, he attacked her, and then, when Mr Varian came——" "But what became of the burglar,—and of Miss Betty?" asked Dunn. "I've mulled over the burglar proposition, I've imagined him to be one of the servants, but it all comes back to the fact that such an intruder just simply couldn't get away, and couldn't get Betty away, dead or alive." "That's perfectly true," Claire agreed. "There's no way to dispose of an imaginary intruder. But neither is there any way to dispose of Betty. Nothing in this world will make me believe that girl shot her father, but just assuming, for a moment, that she did,—what happened next?" Claire demanded this with the air of an accusing judge. "Why, that's the only possible theory," said Dunn. "Say the young lady did shoot her father, then she went some place,—where, we haven't yet discovered,—and shot herself,—or, is there, alive yet." "If that's the case, I'll find her!" Rodney Granniss burst forth, his strong young face alight with zeal; "I'm going up there at once. Mr Varian didn't like me, but Mrs Varian does, and maybe I can help her." "She can't see you," Dunn told him. "She's under the influence of opiates all the time. Doctor Varian keeps her that way." "She'll have to come to her senses some time," said Rod. "I'm going up there any way." "I'm going with you," declared Eleanor Varian. "I don't want to stay here,—forgive me, Mrs Blackwood, you're kindness itself,—but I want to be where father and mother are. I want to help find Betty, too. I know a lot of places to look——" "You do!" exclaimed Dunn. "Where are they, now?" But all that Eleanor mentioned, Dunn had already searched, and his hopes of the girl's assistance fell. Still, she might be familiar with Betty's ways, and might be of some slight use. "Well, Miss Varian, you must do as you think best," he said; "but I advise you to bide here till the morning, anyway." "Yes, do, dear," urged Claire, and Eleanor, remembering the unavoidable climb up the steep rocks, consented. "Tell me one thing, Miss Varian," said Dunn, suddenly; "were you in the kitchen of the Varian house this afternoon at all?" "Yes, I was; I went out there with Betty to get some cakes and things. Why?" "When you were there, did you notice a yellow sofa pillow out there?" "In the kitchen? No, I did not!" "You know the two yellow cushions that belong on the hall sofa?" "Yes,—I think I know the ones you mean. What about them?" "We found one of them in the middle of the kitchen floor. Do you think anybody could have put it there purposely?" "I can't imagine why any one should!" "What do you deduce from that?" Lawrence North asked, interestedly, and Claire said: "Why, that's what you call a clue, isn't it? What does it show?" "It doesn't show a thing to me," declared Dunn; "leastways, nothing sensible. Look here, folks,—either there was somebody else in that house at that time besides Betty and her father,—or else there wasn't. Now if there was, he surely wouldn't be moving sofa pillows about. And if there wasn't, then one of those two people moved it. Now, why? I can't think of any reason, sensible or not, that would make anybody lug a fine handsome sofa cushion out to the kitchen." "Was it valuable enough to be worth stealing?" asked North. "No; a good looking affair, but nothing to tempt a thief." "Looks like the servants' work, I think," suggested Claire. "Suppose one of them had stayed behind, and not with any criminal intent, either; and suppose, merely to be luxurious, she had taken a fine pillow out to her kitchen quarters." "But even so, and even if she were caught by the returning Betty she couldn't have shot Mr Varian and concealed both herself and Betty——" "You run up against a stone fence whatever you surmise," exclaimed Landon. He had been a quiet listener, but had done some deep thinking. "There's only one plausible solution,—and that's a secret passage." "Look here, Mr Landon," Dunn said, sharply, "that speech gets on my nerves. Anybody who thinks there's a secret passage in that house up there on the cliff is welcome to go up there and find it. But I'm no fool and sheriff Potter isn't either; nor is Doctor Herbert Varian. And none of us can find a secret passage, and what's more, we're positive there isn't any. So, either show where there could be one,—or let up on that solution." "Good lord, Dunn, don't get so wrathy!" Landon said, good-humoredly. "And I will go and look for one,—since you invite me. Go with me, North?" "Yes," was the willing reply, and Rodney Granniss said: "Well you fellows won't want to make that search till tomorrow. But I'm going up to the house now. You'll stay here, won't you, Miss Varian?" Reluctantly, Eleanor agreed to stay, and Granniss went off alone. Rodney Granniss was a determined man, and when he made his mind to hunt for Betty Varian he also made up his mind to find her. To his mind the very fact that the whole case was so inexplicable made it likely to develop some sudden clue or key that would unlock the situation. He still felt averse to visiting a house where his presence had been forbidden by one who was now unable to resent his coming, but this was offset by his desire to help Mrs Varian and to help in finding Betty. He pondered over the idea of a secret passage in the house, but it was of small comfort to him. If those other indefatigable workers had not been able to find it, he had no reason to think he could do so. And, besides, it was anything but an attractive picture to imagine Betty, either hidden voluntarily or concealed against her will in some such place. He trudged along up the rocky steps and presented himself at the door of Headland House. Sheriff Potter admitted him, and listened to his story. Then he took him to the library and introduced him to Doctor Varian and his wife. "I am glad to see you," cried Janet. "Tell me of Eleanor." "She's all right," returned Granniss, cheerfully. "She rather wanted to come up here with me, but they persuaded her to stay over night with Mrs Blackwood." "Better so," said Doctor Varian. "Did Dunn learn anything from anybody that you know of?" "No," said Rodney, "and I fear there's little to learn from anybody." "Meaning?" "Meaning that whatever there is to be learned must be found out here in this house,—not from any of those onlookers." "Sensible talk," said Doctor Varian, "but how shall we set about it?" "I don't know. I'm not possessed of what is called detective instinct, nor am I especially clever at solving puzzles. But I have determination, and I'm going to devote my whole time and energy to finding Betty Varian!" "Well said, young man," put in Potter, who was listening, "but untrained sleuthing is not often productive of great results." "I don't mean sleuthing, exactly," and Granniss looked at him squarely, "I am untrained. But I'm willing to be advised, I'm willing to be dictated to; I only ask to help." "You're a brick!" said Janet; "I shouldn't be surprised if you succeed better than the detectives." "If so, it will be because of my more personal interest in the case. I ought to tell you, Mrs Varian, that Betty and I are practically engaged. It depended, of course, on her father's consent——" "And that he refused to give?" asked Potter. "Yes, he did. Which immediately ticketed me as his murderer in the eyes of Mr Dunn. But I'm not a criminal, and I didn't shoot Mr Varian. I shan't insist on this point, because you can prove my words true for yourself. Now, I'd like a talk with Mrs Varian,—Betty's mother,—when such a thing is possible—and convenient." "I'm not sure but it would be a good thing," said Doctor Varian, thoughtfully; "when she wakes, Mr Granniss, she will either be hysterical still, and in need of further opiate treatment, or,—and which I think more likely,—she will be calm, composed and alert minded. In the latter case, she might be glad to talk to the man who cares so much for her daughter." "I hope so; and, in the mean time, what can we do in the matter of finding Betty?" "There's nothing to be done in that line that hasn't been done," said the sheriff, despairingly. "All evening Doctor and Mrs Varian as well as the butler and cook have been going over the house and the grounds, calling, and hunting for the girl, with no success of any sort." "Had she a dog?" "No, there is none about. Now, just before you came, we were thinking of looking over some of Mr Frederick Varian's papers——" "And there's no reason to change our plans," said Doctor Varian; "Mr Granniss' presence will not interfere." So Rodney sat by, awaiting the possible awakening of Mrs Varian, and trying hard to think of some new way to look for Betty. With keys obtained from the pockets of the dead man, his brother opened the drawers of the desk. "It must be done," he said, as his hand slightly hesitated, "and, too, we may come across some clue to his death." Among the first of the important papers found was Frederick Varian's will. The contents of this were a surprise to no one present, for the entire estate was left to the wife, with instructions that she make due and proper provisions for the daughter. But a final clause caused Herbert Varian to stare incredulously at the paper. "What is it, dear?" Janet asked, seeing his astonishment. "Why,—why, Janet! the Varian pearls are left to Eleanor!" "To Eleanor? No!" "But they are! See, it's plain as day!" There was no doubt as to his statement. The final clause of Frederick Varian's last will and testament, bequeathed the string of pearls, known as "the Varian pearls," to his niece, Eleanor, the daughter of his brother Herbert. "Just what is so startling in that?" asked Potter, curiously, and Doctor Varian replied: "The Varian pearls are an heirloom, and are valued at two hundred thousand dollars. It is the custom for the oldest of the family to inherit them, and he is expected to bequeath them to his oldest child. Why did my brother leave them to my daughter instead of to Betty?" "Herbert, it's dreadful! Eleanor shall not take them!" Janet cried. "That makes no difference, ma'am," Potter said; "it's the fact that Mr Varian left them away from his own child, that proves the attitude of the father to the daughter!" # CHAPTER VII: Minna Varian It was not until after the funeral of her husband that Minna Varian really came to herself. The three intervening days, she had been free from hysterics but had been in a state of physical exhaustion and incapable of any exertion. But on the day after the funeral, she seemed to take on a new vitality. "I have come to life," she said, speaking very seriously. "I have at last realized what has happened to me. I was dazed at first, and couldn't seem to get my senses. Now, we will have no more hysterics, no more emotional scenes, but we go to work to find my child,—to save what I can from my wrecked life. It is a wonder that I didn't lose my mind utterly. Think of it, Herbert, to lose my husband by death and my child by a mystery far worse than death——" Minna showed signs of breaking down again, but forced herself to control her voice. "I have made up my mind," she went on, "to go about the search for Betty systematically and immediately. The detectives can do nothing,—they have proved that. The sheriff and that Mr Dunn are at the end of their rope. I don't blame them,—it is a baffling case. And I know they think Betty's dead body is hidden somewhere on the premises. Though how they can think that, I don't see, after the search that has been made." "They think it," Janet said, "because there's no other possible conclusion. You know, yourself, Minna, if Betty were alive we would know of it by this time." "Never mind theories or conclusions," Minna said, determinedly, "action is what I want. I _know_ my Betty never killed her father! I know that as well as I know that I'm alive. And Betty may be dead or alive,—but I'm going to find her in any case. Now, first of all, I suppose you people want to get away from here. Herbert, your practice is calling you, of course. I'm not going to keep you. But I'm going to stay here, on these premises, where my child disappeared, until I get some knowledge of what happened to her." "But, Minna," Varian objected, "you can't stay here alone——" "Then I'll get some one to stay with me. I can get a companion or a nurse or a secretary,—you see, Herbert, there's a lot of business to be attended to in connection with Fred's papers and affairs. He left me very well off, but the financial settling up will call for the trained work of a good lawyer or accountant." "Young Granniss spoke to me about that," Doctor Varian said; "he's a bright young lawyer, you know, and he thought perhaps you'd employ him, and then he thought he'd help you in the search for Betty." "I'd like that. Rod's a nice chap, and truly, Fred had nothing against him, except that he wanted to take Betty away from us. It would be no slighting of Fred's wishes if I should have to do with Mr Granniss,—and nobody could be better help to me in my search." "I can't see, Minna," said Janet, "what you hope from that search. Every nook and cranny of this whole place has been thoroughly examined, and as nothing has been found——" "That's just it, Janet," Minna spoke patiently, "because nothing has been found is the very reason I must search more and further. I shall, first of all, offer a large reward. The size of the reward may bring information when no other means would." "Make the offer as large as you like, Minna," Varian said, but not unkindly, "for you'll never be called upon to pay it. Why, child, there's no hope. I don't want to be brutal, but really, Minna, dear, you oughtn't to buoy yourself up with these false hopes, that never can be realized." "Look here, Herbert, what do you think happened to my child? Who do you think killed Fred?" "Since you ask me, Minna, I must say, in all honesty, that I can't see any possible theory or any imaginable explanation except that Betty shot her father, and then shot herself." "Where is she, then?" "Hidden in some secret cupboard in this house, that she knew of, but that we haven't yet found." "I can see, Herbert," Minna spoke slowly, "how you can believe that, because, as you say, you can't think of any other case. But I know,—I _know_ Betty never shot her father. I know that,—and I shall yet prove it." "But, Minna, there must have been more enmity between Fred and Betty than you know of, to make him leave the Varian pearls to Eleanor." "That is incredible," Minna mused. "I can't understand that and I shouldn't believe it, if it were not right there in Fred's own handwriting. I haven't seen the pearls for some years. I've been too much of an invalid to wear them often, and they've stayed in the safe deposit for the last five or six years. But I meant Betty should wear them next winter. Of course, I was sure Fred would leave them to her in his will. I can't understand it! It isn't so much the loss of the value that affects me, as the appalling fact that he wanted to leave them away from Betty. As you say, there must have been something between those two,—something desperate that I don't know about." "But what could there be?" Janet said, a blank wonder on her face. "That's the very point," said Minna. "I know there has never been any special or particular ground for disagreement between those two except as to the matter of Betty's getting married,—or engaged. Fred never would consent to that. But of course he would have done so, later. He didn't approve of very early marriages,—but more, I think, he dreaded the idea of Betty's going away from us." "Yet that only proves a special and even selfish fatherly love," Varian said, "and in that case, why take the pearls away from her?" "I can't understand it," said Minna again; "it is too amazing! He adored Betty, and what ever possessed him to give the pearls to Eleanor,—he liked Eleanor, as we all do, but he never seemed especially attached to her. Not to put her ahead of Betty, anyway!" "Of course she shall never take the pearls," said Janet, decidedly. "I think Fred was temporarily out of his mind when he made that will, or he was temporarily angry at Betty. When is it dated?" "That's the strange part," said Minna. "He made that will ten years ago." "When Betty was only about ten years old! He couldn't have been angry at the child then!" "I think that is the only explanation," Doctor Varian said. "I can't think of any other explanation except that Fred was foolishly angry at the child, and in a fit of silly temper made the will giving the pearls to Eleanor, and then forgot all about it." "Forgot the Varian pearls!" cried Janet; "not likely. But I never shall let Eleanor accept them." "Don't say that, my dear," remonstrated her husband. "If Betty never is found, of course it's right Eleanor should have the pearls. I am the next Varian to Fred, and my daughter is the rightful heir,—after Betty." "That's true," said Minna. "But let that matter rest for the present. If Betty is never found, Eleanor ought to have the pearls. If Betty is found, I shall be so happy, I don't care what becomes of them!" "You're right, Minna," Doctor Varian said, "in thinking I ought to get back to the city. But Janet or Nell or both will stay here with you as long as you need or want them." "Only till I can get somebody else. I've about concluded to take Rodney Granniss as secretary and have him settle up Fred's estate. With the co-operation of Fred's own lawyers. Then, I'll have a sort of nurse companion who can look after me, and then, I shall devote my life and, if need be, all my money to solving my mysteries. I shall get the best detectives in the country. I shall follow out also some ideas of my own, and if success is possible, I shall attain it." Minna sat upright, her eyes shining with a clear, steady determined light. She seemed another being from the one who had screamed in hysterics at first knowledge of her sorrows. "I've found myself," she said, in explanation. "I've risen above my dead self of grief and sorrow. Why, my desolation is so great, so unspeakable, that I must do something or go mad! I'm not going mad,—I have too much to do. Now, Janet, if you and Eleanor,—or one of you, will stay a day or two longer, I'll get a nurse up from the city, and as soon as she arrives you can go. I know you'll be glad to get away from this place of horrors——" "Not that, Minna, dear, but we have several engagements——" "Yes, of course, I know. Well, plan for two days more,—I'll be settled by that time." And she was. Inside of forty-eight hours, the now energetic woman had Rodney Granniss installed as her secretary and man of business, and had secured the services of a capable and kindly woman as nurse and companion. Her new household made up, she let her relatives go back to their own summer home, and devoted herself to her life work. "Of course," she said to Granniss, "we must go ahead on the supposition that Betty is alive." "And she is, Mrs Varian," the young man said, earnestly. "For, North and I have been all over this place, and North is a sort of an architect, you know, and I'm sort of a detective, and we can't find any place where any one could be concealed. Now, it doesn't do any good, as some do, to say there must be a secret passage, or secret cupboard. If there were, we must have found it. And it's too ridiculous, even to think for a minute that Betty killed her father! I know Betty, even better, perhaps than you or her father ever knew her. We have been sweethearts for nearly a year, and I tried many a time to persuade Betty to defy her father, and announce her engagement to me. She would have done so soon, I'm sure, but it was her love and respect for him that made her hold off so long. As to their little squabbles, they meant nothing at all. To imagine that girl shooting anybody is too absurd! I could rather imagine——" Granniss paused, and Minna took up his thought. "You could rather imagine her father shooting her! I've thought that over, but you see, it's impossible, because there was no weapon found." "It's the strangest case I ever heard of! Now, about the reward. It's time that was attended to." "Yes; and I think we'll make it as high as ten thousand dollars,——" "For Betty's return?" "Yes, that is, for any information that may lead to knowledge of what happened to Betty and where she is now." "Nothing about apprehending the criminal?" "You know, Mr Granniss, they make fun of me for imagining this "criminal." How could there be one? How did he get in the house? How did he disappear again? You say yourself there's no secret passage,—we know nobody came in through the regular way,—how, then, even suggest a "criminal'?" "Yes, but why offer a reward, if there's no one who could by any chance appear to claim it?" "That's the point Doctor Varian makes. He says it doesn't matter how large we make the offer, for it never will be claimed." "Then we'll just assume that criminal, and go ahead with the reward plan," said Granniss, cheerfully. "I'll attend to it, and we won't speculate on its result at present. It surely can't do any harm. But, Mrs Varian, we must do more than that." "What, for instance?" "Detectives. I think you should get the best one you can and get him up here at once." "Please do that, Mr Granniss. What do you do? Apply to a city agency?" "Yes; or get a private detective. I know of one,—the best there is in the country, but we might not be able to get him." "Try, anyway. Offer any price,—any bonus. Only get him." "Very well,—I'll try. I have to go down to New York soon, for there are many important matters to see to with Mr Varian's lawyers. I'll see about this detective then." Minna had replaced the servants who had left her with maids from the village. There were some who were glad to go to a house suddenly made famous by such an astounding mystery. Others declared the house was haunted, and wouldn't go near it. Among those who inclined to the haunted house idea was the new nurse. A Mrs Fletcher: she was of a psychic turn of mind, and while she didn't exactly believe Betty was carried off by spooks, yet she thought the girl might have taken her own life, and perhaps her father's, because of supernatural influences or directions. "Rubbish!" Minna Varian told her. "My Betty was,—is,—a healthy, normal girl. She has none of those foolish notions of the occult or supernatural." "It's the only explanation," said Mrs Fletcher, doggedly. "And I do think the house is haunted,—I heard mysterious sounds last night,—like rustling of wings." Minna Varian only looked amused at this, but Granniss, who was present, said, "That's interesting, Mrs Fletcher. Tell me about it." The account, however, was merely a vague idea of sounds, that might have been mysterious, but were more likely made by the servants going about at night. Sheriff Potter and his colleague, Bill Dunn, had practically given up the matter. They pretended to be working on it, but as they themselves put it, "What can you do when you can't do nothin'?" There was room for much discussion, but when it came to action, what was there to be done? You can't hunt a criminal when you've no reason to assume any criminal intent. You can't hunt for a missing girl after you've scoured all the places where she could by any possibility be found. You can't hunt for the murderer of a man when there was no way for a murderer to be on the scene. "Then are you going to give up the quest?" Granniss asked of the sheriff. "No, not that," Potter said, uneasily. "We're open to suggestion,—we're keen for any new clue or testimony,—but where can we look for such? You must see, Mr Granniss, that it's a mighty unusual case,—a most mysterious and unsolvable case." "I do see that, and that's why I'm going to get expert assistance." "Go ahead," said Potter, agreeably. "I'll be glad to see any man who can handle the thing. Why, there's no handle to it. No place to catch hold. Here's a man killed, and a girl missing. Now, we've no more idea what happened to those two people than we had at the moment of the discovery of the situation." "That's perfectly true." "And what's more, we never will have. That mystery will never be solved." "You're saying that, Mr Potter, doesn't necessarily make it true." "No; but it's true all the same. If Miss Betty was in any way to blame,—which, I can't believe,—you'll never find out anything. Because, if she's alive she'd have shown up by this time." "Go on,—and if Miss Betty was not to blame——" "Then, whoever was to blame made a blame good job of it,—and you'll never catch him!" "That's the principle I'm going to work on,—the idea that somebody did do it,—that he did make a good job of it,—and that I am going to catch him!" "Fine talk, but there's the same old stumbling block. You can't argue an outsider,—an intruder, without allowing a secret entrance to that house,—and you say there isn't any." "There sure isn't." "Well, suppose your criminal didn't arrive and depart in an aeroplane?" "I've thought of that,—but it isn't possible. You see there were half a dozen people looking on all the time. I wish I'd been there!" "'Twouldn't have done any good. You couldn't "a' seen more'n anybody else did. There was nothing to see." "No," agreed Granniss, "there was nothing to be seen." Lawrence North came up to the house again at Rod's request, and once more they looked for a secret room or cupboard. Armed with a yardstick and measuring tape, they went through the house from roof to cellar. They paced floors and measured walls and tapped ceilings, and proved to their own conviction that there was no foot of space in the whole structure unaccounted for. "It isn't," said North, "as if it were an old English manor house or a medieval castle. It's modern, it isn't built with any sinister plan or any desire for secret maneuvers. There never was any smuggling going on up as far as this, and, anyway, this is a simple pleasure house, built for a pleasant simple family life. I've looked up the builders, and they say it was built by a commonplace man with a commonplace family. They moved out of the state long ago, but there never was anything secretive or mysterious about them." They spent a long time in the cellar, but here, too, there was no uncertain space. Everything was built four-square. Every room, bin or cupboard was as plainly defined as those above, and there was no hiding place possible. Granniss looked down the old dried up well. "Dunn went down that," Lawrence said; "nothing doing." "I've got to go down myself," returned Rodney, shortly, as he took off his coat. "Be careful, then," North admonished him. "I'll hold the light." A good, strong flashlight illumined the old well, and Rod Granniss clambered down its stone sides. But he returned with the same message Dunn had brought. "All dried up; nothing down there but a muddy bottom and moss-grown stones." "No stones missing?" "No; all solid and complete. I gave it a most careful scrutiny, for I don't want to have to go down again." "Well, that finishes the cellar, then." "Yes; and finishes the house. You must admit, Lawrence, there's no possible chance of Betty Varian being in this house, dead or alive." "Of course, I admit that,—but, what, then?" "I can't even suggest! Can you?" "There's nothing left but that she went away,—managed somehow to elude the watchers,—perhaps they were not noticing the house." "You talk as if she could get down from this headland by any other route than right past where the crowd were waiting." "Maybe she hid here in the house, until after dark——" "Oh, don't suggest such awful things! Betty kill her father, and then, hiding until dark, make her way out and down to the village and away from the Harbor—oh, impossible!" "Alternative?" "I don't know! The more I think it over the less I can see _any_ solution!" "What about the haunted house idea?" "That doesn't mean a thing to me," Granniss scorned it. "In fact, I usually come back to the idea that Mr Varian in some way killed himself." "Weapon?" "I know, but I mean, maybe he shot himself, and Betty, who might have been trying to prevent it, took the pistol and ran away." "Why?" "Oh, I don't _know_! You are too exasperating, Lawrence! You just stand there and say "why'? Stop it." "Keep your temper, Rod. I'm only trying, as you are, to find some way to look. It is indeed impenetrable!" "And then that matter of the pearls." "To me that is the strangest revelation yet. No matter how much the father and daughter had little disagreements, even quarrels, how could he leave that great treasure away from his child and give it to his niece!" "I think that very thing is a key to the mystery." "How do you mean?" "I don't know. You know I don't know, Lawrence; if I did I'd have told long ago! But I believe when the worthwhile detective that I'm going to get for Mrs Varian takes hold of the case, he'll work from that strange bequest of the Varian pearls." "Maybe he will,—but to me,—while it's passing strange, it doesn't seem to indicate anything definite." "No, nor to me. But we haven't the trained mind of the real detective." "Who's the man you're going to get?" "Pennington Wise, the best in the country." "I've heard of him. Well, it will be interesting to see how he goes about it." # CHAPTER VIII: Ransom The Herbert Varians went back to their summer home, and Minna, left alone with her companion and her secretary, began what she called her campaign to find Betty. Some people thought Mrs Varian a little affected mentally by her awful griefs, but those who knew her best read in her determination and persistence a steady aim and felt a slight hope of her success. "Anything in the world I can do, dear," Claire Blackwood said to her, "command me. I'll go to the city for you or do errands or anything I can." "No," said Minna, "there's nothing you can do. Nothing anybody can do. I'm only afraid that if I get no encouragement in my efforts, I will lose my mind,—and that's what I'm trying to guard against. I follow my nurse's directions as to exercise, diet and all that, but I feel as if I could only keep my brain from flying to pieces by hanging onto my hope of eventually finding my child." "And you will," Claire said, earnestly, though she voiced a belief that she was far from feeling, "Oh, Mrs Varian, you will!" "You see," Minna went on, "I've a new theory now. I think that maybe Betty killed her father accidentally——" "That is a new idea." "Yes; I know it's almost incredible,—but what idea isn't? Say Mr Varian went suddenly insane,—and I can't think of any other way,—and attacked Betty with a revolver. Say, trying to protect herself, it went off and killed him,—perhaps the weapon was in his hands, perhaps in hers,—and then, the child, in an agony of fear or remorse, ran away,—I don't know how she got away,—but, don't you see, Mrs Blackwood, she must have left the premises somehow,—or——" "Or they would have found her by this time,—yes, of course." "Now, I've offered ten thousand dollars reward for any information that will lead to finding Betty,—dead or alive. Mr Granniss thinks it will bring no results, but I can't help hoping. And if it doesn't,—what can I do?" "You're going to employ a detective, aren't you? These local authorities are not capable of managing a case like this." "Yes; Mr Granniss advises a Mr Wise,—but I can't see what any detective can do. There's nothing to detect, as I can see." "That's just it. We can't see,—but the trained detective can." "Here is your mail, Mrs Varian," said Granniss, coming into the room, "will you run it over?" Minna glanced at the letters, mostly notes of sympathy, or letters of advice from would-be helpful friends, but there was one that caused her to exclaim in amazement. "Oh, Rodney," she cried, "will you look at this!" So great was her agitation that Claire Blackwood went in search of the nurse, for she feared some emotional outburst beyond her power to control. The disturbing letter was a plain looking affair, on ordinary letter paper, and it read: "Mrs Varian. We have your daughter safe. We are holding her for ransom. Your reward does not tempt us at all but if you are ready to pay one hundred thousand dollars, you may have your child back. If not, you will never see her again. There must be no dickering, no fooling, and, above all, no police interference. I will not go into details now, but if you want to take up with this offer put a personal in any of the large Boston papers, saying, "I agree," and all directions will be sent to you as to how to proceed. But if you tell the police or allow any detective to know anything about this deal, it is all off. Don't think you can fool us, we have eyes in the back of our heads and any insincerity or breach of faith on your part will result in sad results to your daughter. To carry this thing through you must trust and obey us implicitly and any lapse will mean far deeper trouble than you are in now." The letter was not signed, nor was it dated. The postmark was Boston, and it had been mailed the day before. "It's a fake," Granniss declared, at once. "I don't think so," said Claire Blackwood, "it sounds real to me——" "I don't care whether it's real or not," Minna interrupted, excitedly. "I mean I don't care whether anybody believes it's real or not. I'm going to answer it at once, and I'm going to agree to everything they say, and I'm not going to tell the police or a detective or anybody,—and I'm going to get Betty back." Her face was radiant with joy, her eyes shone and she was smiling for the first time since that awful day of the double tragedy. "Now, look here, Mrs Varian," began Granniss, who was convinced the whole letter was a mere attempt to get money under false pretenses, "you mustn't throw away a hundred thousand dollars in that fashion!" "Why not? It is a lot of money, but I have the sum and it means getting Betty back! What is any sum of money,—even my whole fortune, against that?" "But it doesn't surely mean getting her back. If I thought it did I'd feel just as you do about it——" "Oh, it does,—it does!" Minna cried, her face still transfigured with happiness. "I know it,—I feel it—something in my heart tells me that it is true,—and, you see, it explains everything. These people kidnapped Betty,—abducted her, and now they're holding her for ransom,—and they'll get it,—and I'll get Betty! They don't want her, you see, but they do want the money. And they'll get it!" "I agree with Mrs Varian," Claire said, quite convinced by Minna's confidence in the good faith of the letter writer. "But it's too absurd!" insisted Rodney. "You know,—Mrs Varian, you must know, that I want to find Betty quite as much as you do,—no, I won't qualify that statement. I love her as much as you can. But I don't believe for one minute that that letter is genuine. I mean, I don't believe the man who wrote it has Betty, or ever saw her! Why, think a minute. Of all the theories regarding Betty's disappearance, abduction is the least believable. How could any one abduct Betty that day,—how could the kidnapper get into this house, and out again,—with Betty,—when so many people were about, watching?" "I don't know how it was done," Minna said, doggedly, "but it's a chance, and I'm going to take it. You can't stop me, Rodney. You've no authority to say what I shall do with my own money. I've a right to try this thing——" "But, oh," said Claire, "suppose it should be a fake! Not only you'd lose all that money,—but think of your disappointment!" "The disappointment would be no worse than things are at present." "Oh, yes, it would. If you follow up that letter and pay all that sum, and then get nothing in return, it would just about kill you." "It would just about kill me not to take the chance," returned Minna. "Now, I suppose I still have the right to order my own movements. I shall at once send the personal to the Boston paper,—I'll put it in several, so he'll be sure to see it,—and then, I'll await his further advice. Will you send the messages, Rodney, or must I do it myself?" "Of course, I am at your orders, Mrs Varian." Rod gave her his winning smile, "But, at least, let's think it over a bit." "No; send the word at once. We can talk it over afterward." There seemed to be no way out, so Granniss went off to do her bidding. Even then, he had half a mind to pretend to send the word but really to withhold it. On reflection, he concluded he had no right to do this. But he remembered that Minna had not bound him to secrecy, though, of course, it was implied. So with the letters to the Boston papers went also one to Pennington Wise begging him to come at once to investigate the remarkable case of Betty Varian, and telling him frankly of the strange letter just received. That same afternoon a telegram came for Mrs Varian. Granniss opened it, as was his custom, and its contents so surprised him that he nearly succumbed to the temptation to keep it from Mrs Varian. But, he reconsidered, he had no right to presume on his position as confidential secretary, so with grave fears of its effects he handed it to her. "Dear Mother," it ran; "I am all right, and if you do just as you agree, I will soon be with you again. Please obey implicitly. "Betty." "From her!" Minna cried, and fainted. Nurse Fletcher soon revived her, but she was in a shaken, nervous state, and could stand no contradiction or disapproval. "Now you see, Rodney," she cried triumphantly, "it is all right! Here is word from Betty herself—oh, my darling!" and she fell to kissing the yellow paper, as if it were the face of her child. "But, Mrs Varian," Granniss hesitated to correct her but felt he must, "that may not be from Betty, you know. Anybody could send a telegram signed with Betty's name." "Rodney!" Minna's eyes blazed with anger, "why do you try every way to make me miserable? Why dash every cup of joy from my lips? You seem to hope that we never find Betty! I can't understand your attitude, but unless you are more helpful,—yes, and more hopeful,—I don't think we can get along together." But Granniss knew that he must stand by this distracted woman. Another secretary might have more leniency and less judgment, which would be a bad thing for Minna's interests. No, even at risk of letting her be imprudent, he must stand by her, and protect her all he could against her own wrong decisions. "Oh, yes, we'll get along all right, Mrs Varian," he said, trying to treat the matter lightly. "You can't get rid of me so easily,—and, too, you know that I want to believe all this quite as much as you do. But you must admit that a telegram is not like a letter. It might be faked." "Well, this isn't," said Minna, contentedly, still caressing the paper missive. "Let's consider it," said Rod. "It doesn't sound to me like Betty's diction. Would she use the word "implicitly'?" "Why not?" Minna stared at him. "And, too, she wrote it under compulsion, most likely. Oh, my darling child,—at the mercy of those ruffians! Yet, I make no doubt they're good to her. Why should they harm my baby? They only want the ransom money, and that they shall have. I'm glad it's a large sum, it makes me more sure I'll get Betty." Granniss was in despair. He felt the awful responsibility of Mrs Varian's wild determination, but he couldn't see anything to do about it. To report to Doctor Varian was not his duty, and though he thought it was his duty to tell the story to the police, Minna had exacted his promise not to do so, and he had given it. After all, it was her money,—if she chose to give it up so easily, it was not his affair. And, too, he couldn't help a lurking hope that it might be all true and might result in Betty's restoration to her sorrowing mother,—and, to himself. For he knew, now that the opposing influence of her father was removed, if Betty should ever be found, she would some day be his wife. He trusted in her faith and loyalty to himself as he believed in his own to her. And yet, he couldn't approve of Minna's wholesale compliance with the exorbitant demands of people who might be and probably were mere swindlers. He was thinking these things over when Mrs Varian came to him. "I want you to go right down to New York," she told him, "and get me a hundred thousand dollars in cash. Now, don't raise objections, for I should only combat them, and it takes my strength so to argue with you. My husband's fortune is mine. There is no one to dictate to me how I shall use it. I want,—I insist upon this sum in cash, or some sort of bonds or securities that may be cashed by anybody, without identification. Oh, you know what I mean,—I want the money in such shape that these kidnappers will take it willingly. Of course, they won't accept checks or notes. Go on, now, Rodney, get off at once, and get back as soon as you can. And I want some man to stay in this house while you're away. I'm not exactly timid, but I've never stayed nights in a house without a man in it,—beside the butler, I mean,—and I'm sure you can invite some friend who would be willing to come. Perhaps Mr Landon. He's so nice, and I'd try to make it pleasant for him in any way I could. There are plenty of books, and with good cigars, he might be contented." "Oh, he'd be contented, all right; but Landon's gone off on a little trip. He won't be back for several days. How'd you like to have North? Probably he'd come." "Very well,—if he's perfectly willing. I'd hate to bore him. You'll be back,—when?" "I'll have to be away two nights,—if North can't come, there's young Clark,—he's a good sort." "I hate to ask it of any of them, but I hate worse to stay alone. I'd get nervous and I shouldn't sleep at all." "That's all right, Mrs Varian, I know how you feel about it, and I'll get somebody." Granniss was as good as his word, and, finding that Lawrence North was glad to do anything in his power to help Mrs Varian, it was arranged that he should visit at Headland House until Rodney could get back from New York. "But promise me," Granniss said, "that if you get further letters from the kidnappers you won't do anything definite until I return." "I can't," said Minna, thoughtfully. "I wouldn't promise, anyway, but, as you must see for yourself, I can't do anything till I get that money." "I suppose not," Granniss agreed, and went off. During a sociable and chatty evening, Minna told North about the letter from the abductors. "Oh Mrs Varian," he exclaimed, "you don't believe it, do you? I only wonder you haven't had several. It's a common way of crooks to attempt to get money." "But this rings so true," Minna defended herself, and showed him the letter. North studied it. "It sounds plausible enough," he said, "but how is it possible? How could anyone have kidnapped the girl?" "Now, look here, Mr North, don't say over and over again, "how could he?" You know somebody or something is responsible for Betty's disappearance as well as for Mr Varian's death. Don't think for a minute that my anxiety about my daughter in any way obliterates or lessens my grief at my husband's death. But, as you must see, nothing can bring Mr Varian back. While,—something may bring Betty back! Can you wonder, then, that I catch at any straw,—believe in any hope,—take up with any suggestion on the mere chance of getting my child back? If they had asked for my whole fortune, I should pay it—on the chance!" "Yes," North spoke slowly,—"I see how you feel about it,—but you ought to have some proof that they really have your Betty." "I've thought about that," Minna shuddered, "but, I've read of these cases, and—when they send a proof—sometimes, it's a—a finger—you know——" "Oh, now, now, don't be morbid! I don't mean anything of that sort. But if they would give you a bit of her hair, or a scrap of her own handwriting——" "But how can I demand that? How can I ask for it?" "You just wait for their next instruction. If they are sincere in this offer, if they really have Miss Betty and are really ready to negotiate, they must tell you what to do next. And, Mrs Varian, I advise you to do it. It may be a wrong principle, but your case is exceptional,—and, since you've showed me this letter, I can't help feeling it's the real thing. For one thing, you can see it's written by at least a fairly well educated man. I mean, not by the common, ignorant class. Moreover, the very audacity of demanding such enormous ransom, indicates to my mind that the writer can perform his part of the bargain. A mere crook, writing a fake letter, would never dream of asking such a sum. How are you going to manage the payment?" "If you mean the method of handing it over, I don't know. I shall do as I'm directed. If you mean how shall I obtain the cash, I've asked Mr Granniss to bring it up from New York for me." "Is he going to travel home with that sum on his person!" "Yes, he said he had no fear in that direction." "Oh, no; since no one knows of it, he runs little risk." Meantime, Rodney Granniss, in New York, was putting through his errands in record time. He attended to the money matter, and by the aid of some influential friends of the Varian family, he obtained the desired sum in cash and unregistered bonds. Then he went to see Pennington Wise. That astute detective declared himself too busy to accept any new commission. But after Granniss had personally told the astonishing details of the case, Wise was unable to resist the temptation to undertake its investigation. "The way you put it, Mr Granniss," he said, "it sounds like an impossible condition. I can't see any explanation at all, but, as we know, there _must_ be one. The obvious solution is a secret passage, but since you tell me there is none, I feel I must go up there and see for myself what could have happened." "Then you'll come?" "Yes,—I'll drop all else, and go straight off. We won't travel together, though. You go ahead, right now, and I'll follow soon. And, by the way,—you're carrying that money with you?" "Yes." "Let me take it. It's far safer so." Rod Granniss opened his eyes wide. Was this strange man asking him to transfer his trusted errand to him? Wise laughed. "I can't say I blame you for not wanting to hand it over. But, this I do tell you,—it will be safe with me,—and it may not be with you." "Why, nobody knows I have it!" "Even so. I strongly advise your letting me take it,—but you must do as you choose." "You'll get it safely up to Mrs Varian?" Granniss said, reluctantly producing the rather bulky parcel. "Yes, I will,—and if I don't,—I'll make the loss good." He looked meaningly at the younger man, and, flushing a little, Rodney said, "That's right,—Mr Wise. I couldn't make it good if I lost it. Take it." And with no further security than the detective's word, Granniss handed over the money. He went to his train in a most perturbed spirit. Had he done right or not? It all depended on the fidelity of the detective. To be sure, Granniss had every confidence in him, but the sum of money was so large that it might well prove a temptation to hitherto impeccable honesty. He boarded his train, still uncertain of the wisdom of his course, and more uncertain as to what Mrs Varian would say. But, he reasoned, if they were to employ the services of one of the best and best known detectives in the country, it was surely right to obey his first bit of advice. This thought comforted Granniss somewhat, and he was further comforted by an event which took place that night, and which proved the wisdom of the detective's advice. Granniss was asleep in his lower berth when the merest feeling of a cautious movement above awakened him. He could hear no sound, but through half-dosed eyes, he saw the occupant of the berth above crawl silently down and stealthily reach for Rodney's clothes, which were folded at the foot of the berth. Interested rather than afraid, Granniss watched the performance, keeping his own eyes nearly closed. It was too dark for him to see the marauder, who worked entirely by feeling, and who swiftly examined the clothing of his victim and then turned his attention to his bag. Still Granniss made no sign, for he preferred to see the chagrin of the robber rather than to interrupt him at his work. The bag yielded nothing of interest, and then the upper berth man came along and slipped his hand under Granniss' pillow. Deftly done as it was, Rodney shot out his own hand and grabbed the wrist of the other. But it was twisted away from him, and in an instant the man was back in his own berth. Rod thought it over, and concluded to raise no outcry. In the morning he would see who his visitor was, and then take such steps as he thought best. He fell asleep, and when he awoke the sun was up and his would-be robber had disappeared. Chagrined at his own stupidity in over-sleeping, but rejoiced at the safety of Mrs Varian's money, Granniss went on with his journey home. But, when he found on the floor of the car a handkerchief that had been under his pillow, he realized that a still further search for treasure had been made beneath his sleeping head. # CHAPTER IX: Poor Martha When Granniss stepped off the train at Headland Harbor, there were but few other passengers who alighted at the same time. But one of these, a mild young man, came nearer Rodney and said, quietly: "Mr Granniss, may I speak to you a moment?" "Certainly," Rod answered, after a quick glance at him. "I am a messenger from Mr Wise. I have with me the money for Mrs Varian. Shall I give it to you here, or go up to the house with you and carry it? No one seems to be observing us; take it if you like." Rodney stared at him. Wise, then, had sent his messenger with the money along on the same train. By this means he had outwitted the man in the upper berth, who, without question, knew of Granniss' errand, and who had thus been foiled in his attempt to rob him. "Good for you!" Granniss exclaimed, heartily. "I think it will be all right for me to take it now,—here is the Varian car. But would you prefer to go up to the house?" "No; I'd rather not. I'm sure the way is clear now. I saw that performance in the train last night. But don't talk any more about it. Just take the box, and I'll go right back on the next train. Mr Wise will arrive tomorrow." Marveling at the detective's way of managing, Granniss took the unimportant looking parcel the young man offered, and with a brief good-by, got into the Varian car. The car could go only to the lodge gate, and from there Rodney trudged up the steep path to the house, half afraid that some bandit would even yet appear to rob him of the treasure. But nothing untoward happened, and he reached Headland House in safety. It was nearly noon when he arrived, and Lawrence North, still there, was as eager as Minna to hear the results of Granniss' errands in New York. But not until after luncheon, when the three were alone in the library, did he tell the whole story. He then gave a frank account of the detective's asking to take charge of the package of money, and of the lucky stroke it was that he did so. "But I never imagined," Rodney said, "that he would send it along by a messenger on the same train!" "Clever work!" said North. "Now, Mrs Varian, have you a really good safe?" "Yes, I have. My husband had it sent up here with our trunks. It looks like a wardrobe trunk, but it is a modern and secure safe." The safe was in a closet in the library, and as the men examined it, they agreed that it was a good safe and proof against even a most skilful burglar. "Unless he carries it off," suggested North. "It's not very large." "But it's very heavy," Minna said, "and besides, it's clamped to the floor." They put the parcel of money in the safe, tucked it well back behind less important matters, and Minna herself closed the door. "I'll use the same combination Fred used," she said, "nobody on earth knows it but myself." "Keep it to yourself, Mrs Varian," North counseled her, "a secret shared is no secret." "I'm not afraid to trust you two," Minna returned, "but I won't tell any one else." "You've had no further communication from the kidnappers?" asked Granniss. "I have," she said, "a letter came in this morning's mail. I don't know what to do about it. It's so strange,—and yet,—I feel a positive conviction that I ought to do as they tell me." "Whatever they ask, I beg of you not to decide until Mr Wise gets here," Rodney said, earnestly. "Since I have seen him, I know he will help us, and I feel sure that he would disapprove of your going ahead with this until he can advise you." "What do they ask you to do?" North inquired; "that is, if you care to tell us." "Oh, I'm glad to tell you, and see what you think. I know it might be a better plan to wait for Mr Wise's arrival, but that may scare off these people and lose me my one and only chance to meet their demands,—and—get my Betty!" "Where's the letter?" asked Granniss, looking very serious. Minna handed him a paper, and the two men read it at the same time. "This is your one and only chance to get back your daughter. Unless you obey these directions exactly and secretly you have no chance at all. At midnight, tonight, take the packet of money, if you have it, and drop it over the cliff into the sea. First you must place it in a light pasteboard box that is too large for it. This will insure its floating until we can pick it up. Now if you have told any one of this and if there is any boat on the sea at that time, we will not carry out our plans, the money will be lost and your daughter will be killed. So, take your choice of acting in good faith or losing your child forever. We are desperately in earnest and this is your one and only chance. If you fear to go to the cliff's edge alone, you may take a companion but only one who is in your faith and confidence. If you breathe a word to the police we shall know of it, and we will call off all our arrangements. It is up to you." There was no signature. The paper and typing were like those of the previous letter from the same source, and the tenor of the letter seemed to be an ultimatum. "Don't think of it for a minute," urged Granniss. "You are simply throwing away a large sum of money and you cannot possibly get any return. If the thing were genuine, if it were from real kidnappers who really had Betty, they would have given you a sign, a proof that they have her. They would have enclosed a scrap of her handwriting or some such thing. That telegram is of course a fake! This letter proves it!" North looked dubious. "You may be right, Granniss," he said, "perhaps you are. But,—I can't help thinking there may be some way to foil these people. Suppose Mrs Varian throws a faked packet over the cliff——" "No," Granniss declared, "that would do no good." "Wait a minute," North went on; "then we could have a swift motor boat hidden in the shadows, and follow the boat that picks it up,—for I have no doubt that they will come for the money in a motor boat." "Of course they'll do that," Rod agreed, "but it will be a boat more powerful than any we have around here——" "Anyway," broke in Minna, "I won't play them false. I shall either follow their instructions in good faith, or not do it at all. I'm sure if I try to fool them, they'll take it out on Betty." She began to cry, and North said, hastily: "Don't let me influence you, Mrs Varian. You must do just as you please in the matter. If you feel that the mere chance of getting Betty by such means is sufficient to justify your equal chance of losing all that money,—you must follow your own wishes." Minna Varian sat for several moments in deep thought. Then she said, quietly: "I've made up my mind. I shall not do this thing tonight. I am more influenced by Rodney's remark about the telegram than anything else. As he says, if these people really had Betty, they would send a note in her writing and not a telegram." "That's the way to look at it, Mrs Varian," cried Granniss, much pleased at her logical decision. "The telegram was a mistake on their part. To begin with, if Betty is closely confined, which she must be, if there's any truth at all in this matter, how could she get out to send a telegram? And if they sent it for her,—why not a note?" "That's all true," said North, thoughtfully; "and when Mr Wise gets here, he can doubtless discern the real truth of it all. The money will be all right in the safe over night, and tomorrow the detective can look after it. Then you're decided, Mrs Varian?" "I'm decided for the present,——" she smiled a little; "but I don't say I won't change my mind. It's a terrible temptation to do as they bid me, even if it proves a false hope." North went away, and poor Minna spent the rest of that day in alternate decisions for and against the directions of the kidnappers. Granniss tried his best to dissuade her from what he deemed a foolish deed. "To begin with," he argued, "I can't believe in kidnappers. How could they have abducted Betty, in broad daylight, with half a dozen people looking for her to come out of the house?" "I don't know," said poor Minna, dejectedly, "but oh, Rodney, it doesn't mean anything to ask such questions as that! For how could any other thing happen? I mean, how do you explain Betty's disappearance without being kidnapped, any more easily than by such means? How explain Fred's death? How explain anything? Now, the only chance,—as the letter says,—is this plan of theirs. Shall I try it?" "Look at it this way, Mrs Varian," Granniss said at last. "Suppose you throw that money over the cliff. It's by no means certain that they will retrieve it safely." "But that's their business. It's full moon now, and at twelve o'clock the sea will be bright as day. There'll be no spying boat around at that hour, and they will watch the box fall, get it quickly, and go away. Then they will send Betty back!" Minna's face always lighted up with a happy radiance when she spoke of the return of Betty. "But think a minute. Suppose by some chance they don't get the money,—suppose there is some stray boat out at that hour. Suppose the parcel gets caught on the way down——" "It can't if I drop it right down from the overhang. And I'd have you to protect and watch over my own safety,—oh, Rodney, I _must_ do it!" And so, despite Granniss' dissuasion, in defiance of her own misgivings as to the genuineness of the anonymous bargainers, the poor distracted mother made up her mind to take the slim chance of recovering her lost child by the desperate method offered her. But an unforeseen difficulty prevented her. Shortly before midnight the sky clouded over and became entirely black. A terrific thunderstorm followed, and when that was over the whole heavens remained darkened and a drizzling rain kept up. "It's out of the question," Granniss said, as the clock struck twelve. "It's still raining, it's pitch dark, nobody could see a parcel dropped over the cliffs, and you might lose your own life in the process. But, let this comfort you, if these people are really the kidnappers, they will give you another chance. They won't lose their chance of a fortune for a rainstorm, and they'll communicate with you again." "That's probably true, Rod," and Minna gave a sigh of relief as she gazed out of the window at the rain. "And so, let's go to rest and try to hope for a future opportunity." Mrs Fletcher was waiting to put her patient to bed, and was much displeased at her late hour of retiring. So, little was said by either of the women, and at last with a curt good night, the nurse went away to her own room, and Minna closed the door between. But she could not sleep, she was restless and nervous. At last she began to worry over the safety of the money in the safe. She imagined the thwarted kidnappers, disappointed at the collapse of their plans, coming up to the house to rob her of the money they had reason to suppose she had in her possession. To her anxious and worried mind, it seemed the money would be safer up in her own room than down in the library safe. On a sudden impulse she determined to go down stairs and get it. She donned dressing gown and slippers and stealthily, not to awake Fletcher, she crept down the stairs. Into the library she went and, opening the closet door, began to work the combination that unlocked the safe. Absorbed in her occupation, she did not hear a slight noise behind her. But suddenly a voice said; softly, "Oh, it's you, ma'am! I thought it was a robber!" Minna turned quickly to see Martha, the waitress, staring at her. As she already had the safe door open and was about to take out the parcel she was after, she was annoyed at any interruption. "Martha!" she exclaimed, though in a low whisper, "what are you doing here? Go back to bed!" "Yes, ma'am. I thought I heard robbers, ma'am." "No; it's only I. I have to see about some important papers, and I can't sleep, so I'm attending to it now. Go back to your room at once, Martha." "Yes, ma'am," and the girl obeyed. Drawing a sigh of relief, Minna took her precious parcel, shut the safe, and went softly back to her own room. She put the package beneath her mattress, locked her bedroom door, and soon fell asleep, worn out with weariness and exhaustion. "Great doin's," grumbled the cook, as Martha, who shared her room, returned to it, "where you been?" "Hush up," said Martha. "I heard a noise and I thought it was burglars." "And you went downstairs!" exclaimed Hannah. "Why, what foolishness! They might "a' shot you!" "There wasn't any," Martha explained. "It was Mrs Varian, poking about in her safe." "The pore leddy," said Hannah, sympathetically; "she can't sleep at all, at all. The nurse tells me she lies awake nearly all night and only gets forty winks in the morning after sun-up." "Well, she was a bit upset at my coming in," said Martha. "I wouldn't "a' gone, only I thought it was my duty." "Oh, you and your duty!" growled the cook. "I'm thinkin' your duty is to keep quiet and let me get a bit of sleep myself. I can't do without it as you and the missus can!" Hannah grunted as she turned over and promptly went to sleep again, while Martha, who was both imaginative and curious of mind, lay awake, wondering what fearful things had happened or would happen to this strange house. The girl was of a fearless nature, but deeply interested in the mysterious, and had more than once made investigations herself in an effort to find some secret passage such as the family were continually discussing. But she had found nothing, and now, still unable to sleep, she occupied her mind in trying to form some new theory of the tragedies of Headland House. Hannah awakened in the morning by reason of the alarm sounding from her bedroom clock. "My goodness," she growled, to herself, "seems like I'd only just dropped to sleep. Well,—I've got to get up. Hey, Martha, come along, my girl." But no response came from the other bed, and Hannah stepped across the room to give the girl an arousing shake. "Why, heaven bless us, she ain't here!" exclaimed the startled cook. "Now, don't that beat all! Not content with rampoosin' round the house in the night, she must be up and off early in the mornin'! She thinks she's able to help them as has the detective work in charge! That Martha!" Hannah proceeded to make her toilet and then descended the back stairs to the kitchen. But on reaching the kitchen she gave voice to such a scream as could be heard by all the servants in the house, and even penetrated to the rooms occupied by Minna and her nurse. "Whatever is the matter?" cried Fletcher, running out to the hall in her night clothes. "Matter enough," Hannah called back. "Will you get Mr Granniss, and tell him to come quick!" Stunned by the cook's voice and manner, the nurse hurriedly knocked at Rodney's door, and he responded at once. He was partly dressed, and finishing a hasty toilet, he ran down stairs. He found Hannah, and Kelly, the butler, gazing at a huddled heap on the kitchen floor, which he saw at once, was the dead body of Martha, the waitress. "What does it mean?" he asked, in an awed voice. "Who did it?" "Who, indeed, sir?" Hannah said, whimpering like a child. "Oh, Mr Granniss, sir, do get Mrs Varian to go away from this accursed house! Nobody is safe here! I'm leaving as soon's I can pack up. Kelly, here, is going, too,—and I hope the missus will go this very day. It's curst indeed, is this place! Oh, Martha, me little girl,—who could "a' done this to ye?" Going nearer, Rodney looked at the body, touched it and felt for the girl's heart. There was no heartbeat and the cold flesh proved her death took place some hours since. "What do you know about it?" he asked the cook. "Not a thing, sir. Martha was down stairs late last night, and she came up again, saying Mrs Varian was down in the library." "Mrs Varian down stairs! At what time was this?" "'Long about one o'clock, sir. Then me and Martha both went to sleep,—leastways, I did, and that's all I knew till morning. Then I went to call the girl to get up, and her bed was empty. I came down—and here I saw—this!" Throwing her apron over her face, Hannah rocked back and forth in her chair. Rodney forced himself to think,—to give orders. "Hannah," he said, "I'm sorry, but we mustn't touch Martha,—and you'll have to get breakfast,—just the same." "I can't, sir—I can't get the breakfast, with that poor dead girl,—why, I loved that young one like she was my own." "But, Hannah, remember your duty to Mrs Varian. Now, we'll lay a coverlet over Martha, and you and Kelly between you must prepare the coffee, and such things as Mrs Varian wants. Be brave now, for there's enough sorrow for Mrs Varian to bear. You and Kelly must do whatever you can to help." Then Rodney looked hastily at all the doors and windows, finding them all securely fastened, as they always were at night. "Thank goodness, Wise is coming today," he thought, as he went to telephone for Sheriff Potter again. Potter summoned, he turned his mind to the question of how best to tell the news to Minna, and concluded to tell Nurse Fletcher first. She came down then, greatly excited, to learn what had happened. Granniss told her, and then said, "Now Mrs Fletcher, I beg of you, don't threaten to leave. Mrs Varian needs you now more than ever, and as Mr Wise, the great detective, is coming today, I'm sure you need not be afraid to stay on." "Very well," Fletcher returned, primly, "I know my duty, and I propose to do it. I will stay with Mrs Varian until she can get some one else,—or until I can get some one else for her,—but not an hour longer. How did the maid die?" "I don't know, exactly," Rodney looked puzzled. "I didn't think it best to touch the body, except to convince myself that she is really dead. Now, will you tell Mrs Varian, or shall I?" "I'll tell her,—but I'd like you to stand by." So, taking Minna's breakfast tray, quite as usual, the nurse went back to her patient. "You needn't tell me," was the greeting she received. "I overheard enough to know what has happened. It's awful,—but I suppose it's only the beginning of a further string of tragedies." The utter hopelessness of the white face alarmed Granniss more than a hysterical outburst would have done. "Now, Mrs Varian," he said, consolingly, "it is an awful occurrence, but in comparison with your nearer sorrows, it means little to you. Try not to think about it; leave it to us and trust me to do all that is necessary or possible." Potter arrived then, and Granniss went down to receive him. "Another!" the sheriff exclaimed. "What devil's work is going on here, any way?" He went to the kitchen and knelt beside the dead girl. "Strangled," he said, briefly, after an examination. "Choked to death by a strong pair of man's hands. Mr Granniss, I accuse you of the murder of this girl!" # CHAPTER X: Pennington Wise Granniss looked at the constable blankly. Then he said, "Oh, well, you may as well accuse me as anybody, for the present. Where's Dunn?" "He's coming," replied Potter, angry at the young man's indifference to his charge. "But you can't treat this matter so scornfully, Mr Granniss. I've been thinking a whole lot about you in connection with all these mysteries up here, and I'm of the opinion you know more about some things than you admit." "Quite right, I do," said Rod, cheerfully. "But don't arrest me just yet, for a really worth while detective is coming this morning and he may disagree with your conclusions. But this is a bad thing,—about this poor girl. I can't understand it." "I can," and Potter looked straight at him. "You found her in your way and—you put her out of it." "Oh, come now, Sheriff," this from Bill Dunn, who had come hurrying in, "don't go off half-primed! You haven't any evidence against Mr Granniss, except that he was in the house." "I will have, though!" Potter muttered. "Where's the butler?" "Here I am," and Kelly put in his appearance. "Who saw this girl last?" Potter thundered, glaring round at the assembled members of the household. They were all present, for Nurse Fletcher had been unable to resist her aroused curiosity, and Minna Varian, too, stood in the background, composed and quiet, but evidently holding herself together by a strong effort of will-power. "I did," said Hannah, who stood, silent and grim, with folded arms, watching the sheriff. "Where was she, then?" "In her bed,—last night after midnight. She had been down stairs,——" "After midnight?" "Yes. She heard somebody down stairs, and—Martha was a brave one! She thought it was robbers in the house and she went down to see." "Well?" "Well, it was Mrs Varian, who had gone down to the library. So Martha came up again,——" "Leaving Mrs Varian down there?" "Yes," Minna interrupted, "leaving me down there." "What were you doing, Mrs Varian?" "I was wakeful, and I went down to the library to look over some papers." "And this girl came to you there? Tell the story in your own way." "There's little to tell. I was startled at Martha's unexpected appearance, and sent her back to her room. Shortly afterward, I went back to my own room. That is all." "Then Martha must have come down stairs again." "That is quite evident," said Minna, looking sorrowfully at the dead girl. "Oh, Mr Potter,—Rodney,—what _does_ it all mean?" "It will take a lot of clearing up, ma'am, before anybody can say what it means. Where were you at this time, Kelly?" "In my own room, asleep," answered the butler. "You heard nothing of the goings on?" "No; my room is up in the third story, and I sleep very soundly." "Humph! You do? Well, how about the doors and windows? I suppose they were locked and barred as usual?" "Yes, they were," asserted Kelly. "I always look after those,—especially nowadays." "Then there was no way for an intruder to get in this house, last night, between midnight, say, and morning?" "No way, sir," assented Kelly. "Then this girl was murdered by either you, Kelly, or by Mr Granniss. Those marks on her throat of a strangling hold, were made by a man,—and by a strong man. Either of you two could have done it,—now, which one did?" "Not I, sir," Kelly denied, as calmly as if he were merely refuting a slight accusation. "I know nothing about it." "I don't believe you do," said Potter, judicially, "but I do think you're implicated, Mr Granniss. Were you in your room all night?" "Of course I was. I retired about one o'clock, and I didn't open my door again until I was summoned this morning to learn of Martha's death." "You say that glibly enough,—but it will take some proof." "No; your denial of it, or suspicion of my veracity will take the proof. Can you produce it?" "You're not wise to be so cocksure, sir. There is such a thing as elimination, and I say that only you could have done this thing. The women are not capable of such a deed, and I've no reason to suspect Kelly." "And just what is your reason for suspecting me?" Rodney's eyes were beginning to grow stern and his jaw set firmly. "Also, what evidence have you for your suspicions?" "Come off, Potter," Bill Dunn warned him. "You ain't got no real evidence against Mr Granniss, and you'd better go easy. To my mind, Mr Granniss ain't going to kill a servant girl without a good reason." "He may have a very good reason. Suppose Mr Granniss was at the safe and suppose Martha surprised him there as she had startled Mrs Varian. And suppose Mr Granniss didn't want it known that he had been there, so he took the only sure method of silencing her lips." "And what would Mr Granniss be doing at the safe?" asked Dunn. "Well, I happen to know that there was considerable of value in that safe last night." Rodney started. How did the sheriff know that? But he said, "This is aside the mark, Mr Potter. For Mrs Varian has trusted me with the combination of the safe. I can open it at any time without let or hindrance. Why, then, should I sneak down in the middle of the night to do so?" "For the very good reason that you wanted to take the money that was there and make off with it." "And did I get it?" "I should say not," declared Potter, "since you are still here!" He looked proud of this triumph of deduction, and went on: "You had some valuables in that safe last night, Mrs Varian, did you not?" "Yes," replied Minna, almost smiling at the trend of the questions. "Are they there now?" "No, they are not." "Aha! What did I tell you?" "But they are not there, because when I visited the library late last night, I took them away to my room for better protection of them." "Oh!" Potter looked deeply chagrined. "You have them safe, then?" "Oh, yes, quite safe, thank you." "Well, all the same," went on the sheriff, doggedly, "Mr Granniss thought they were there, and went down to steal them." "Maybe Martha was there on the same errand," said Dunn, thoughtfully. "Don't you dare say a word against that pore dead child," cried Hannah, resenting at once any aspersion of her friend. "She would never dream of such a thing." "What did she come down for, then?" asked Potter. "She had been down and had spoken to Mrs Varian. Then she returned to her room, you say, and went back to bed. Now, why did she go down again?" "That I do not know," Hannah said, belligerently, "but it was for no wrong purpose. Maybe she thought again she heard burglars, and maybe,—this time she was not mistaken." "That would be a fine theory," Potter observed, "but for the fact that a burglar couldn't get in or out. So if she heard any one prowling about it must have been some member of the household. Isn't she a very daring young person?" "She was afraid of nothing," Hannah stated. "She was great for detective stories, and she was crazy to investigate and inquire into all the goin's on of this terrible house! Martha was a dabster at puzzles. She was terrible quick-witted, and sensed out everything—like a ferret! I never saw her beat at findin' out things!" "That would explain why an evil-doer, if there was one, would put her out of the way rather than have her live to tell of his depredations." "All right, sir," Hannah conceded, "if so be's you put it that way. But don't you accuse that innocent girl of any wrongdoings herself, for she never did! Never." "It does look that way," Rodney said, thoughtfully. "If Martha had that investigating proclivity, that would explain her reappearance down stairs,—that is, if there was a burglar,—yet, how could there be one? As usual, we're reasoning round in a circle. Now, Mr Potter, I think your conclusions are logical and probable, except in so far as they drag me into this thing. I didn't leave my room last night at all. But I shall be at your disposal any time you want to question me further on the subject. Now, I want to go to the library and attend to my daily routine of business matters. Also, Mr Wise will arrive before noon, and perhaps his skill may be helpful to your inquest." Shortly before noon Pennington Wise did arrive. He brought with him a strange, almost weird little girl creature, who ran up the steps and into the house before him. Granniss had opened the door to them, and after greeting Wise, he turned to the girl. "My assistant," Wise said, carelessly. "Name, Zizi. Give her over to the housekeeper, she'll take care of herself. Where's the library—or living room?" Quite apparently tired from the steep walk up the cliff, Wise sank into a chair that Rodney placed for him. They stayed in the hall, which was large and square, and was often used as a sitting room. Zizi, however, dropping her bag in the hall, darted toward the dining room and thence to the kitchen. "Oh," she cried, to Hannah, "are you the cook? Do give me some tea and toast or something,—I'm famished! My heavens! Who's that?" Zizi bent over the dead girl, whose body still lay on the kitchen floor. Martha was clad only in a kimono, over her nightdress, and wore bedroom slippers but no stockings. "Hopped out of bed and ran down suddenly, didn't she?" commented the strange girl. "Didn't even stop to pin up her hair. Must have heard somebody that she was pretty sure was burglaring, or she wouldn't have run down again on the chance of its being Mrs Varian the second time." "How do you know all about it?" asked Hannah, aghast, at the remarkable person that had invaded her kitchen. "But you're right! Martha was too cute to be caught in a mistake twice,—she must have been sure it was not Mrs Varian again!" "Your chauffeur, who met us at the train, told us about this poor girl." Zizi's black eyes snapped as she delicately touched the awful bruises on Martha's throat. "Small doubt what did for her! Brute!" Kneeling down, she ran her tiny fingers lightly over the body, and finally scrutinized the hands. "Look, Hannah," she said, quietly, and held open the left hand. It showed a dark green streak, of some sort, that spread entirely across the palm. "Paint?" asked Hannah, not specially interested. "Our porch chairs have been painted lately,—but I don't see how she got out on the porch. Though o' course, she could "a' done so. That Martha." Just then Potter and Bill Dunn returned, and said they were ready to take the body of the girl down to the village, where her parents lived. "And a good job to get it out of this house," said Dunn. "I tell you, Potter, poor Martha's death has nothin' to do with those other horrors up here; and Mrs Varian has all she can stagger under without the extra sorrow and trouble of a servant girl." "Wait!" commanded Zizi, for her ringing tone was nothing less than commanding, "wait, till Mr Wise sees this girl." She ran for the detective, who came at once. The sheriff gazed with eager curiosity at the great city detective, and sniffed to see that he was a mere human being after all. He saw only a good-looking, well set up man, with chestnut hair, brushed back from a broad forehead, and sharp blue eyes that were kindly of expression but keen of observation. But the astute Bill Dunn saw more than this. He recognized the air of efficiency, the subtle hint of power, the whole effect of generalship which fairly emanated from this quiet-mannered man. There was no bustle about Pennington Wise, no self-assertion, but to those blessed with perceptions he gave an instant impression of sure reasoning and inerrant judgment. He glanced quickly at Zizi, caught the almost imperceptible motion of her own little bird claw of a hand, and then, without seeming to notice her at all, he spoke genially to the two men, and nodded sympathetically at the cook. And they all liked him. If asked why, they could not have told, but his manner and attitude were so friendly, his mien so inoffensive and his cordial acceptance of each of them was so pleasant that he was instantly in their good graces. Even the sheriff, who had been fully prepared to dislike and distrust this city wizard, capitulated gladly, and was ready to subscribe to all his theories, deductions and decisions. "Too bad," Wise said, with real feeling, as he knelt by Martha's side. And few could have seen, unmoved, the bright young face of the strong healthy girl who had been so brutally done to death. Gently, he lifted her chin and examined the black bruises on her throat. "Finger-prints?" suggested Potter, eager to show the city man his familiarity with modern methods. "Hardly," Wise said. "I doubt much could be learned that way,—the bruise is so deep. Perhaps there may be prints of the ruffian's hands on her clothing. You might try it out, Mr Potter." Then, while the two men were speaking to each other about the matter, Wise unobtrusively looked at the inside of the girl's hands. On the left palm he saw the long smear of dark green, and after quick but careful scrutiny, he bent lower and smelled of it. Then he closed the dead hand and rose to his feet. "You may take away the body, Sheriff," he said, "so far as I am concerned. She has people?" "Yes, sir. Parents and sisters. Oh, it's a sorry thing for them." "It is so," and then Wise let his perceiving eyes roam over the kitchen. "Have you searched the floor well for anything that may have been dropped?" he asked. "Oh, yes," the sheriff answered. "That's all been done, Mr Wise. We're plain country folks here, but we know a thing or two." "I'm sure of that," Wise assented. "Did you look under the dresser and beneath that corner cupboard?" "Well, no; we didn't think it necessary to go so far as that." "Probably not; most likely not. Yet, I wish, Hannah, you'd get a broom and just run it under there." "I'll do it," volunteered Kelly, who had come to the kitchen. He brought a broom, and brushing under the two dressers, brought out some dust, some threads and shreds and two yellow beads. "Martha's?" asked Wise, quietly, picking up the beads. "No!" exclaimed Hannah, staring at them. "Miss Betty's!" "Miss Varian's!" Wise was himself surprised. "Yes, sir; the very ones she wore the day—the day she—was lost." "I'll take charge of them," he said, simply, and put them in his pocket. Kelly and his broom failed to find anything further, and suddenly realizing the side light it gave on her housekeeping habits, Hannah began to explain how everything was going at sixes and sevens of late. "Of course it would," Zizi soothed her, as Wise returned to the hall. "Now, Hannah, tell me, did you find anywhere, any more of Miss Betty's beads?" "I found two, when I was sweepin' here one day. But I slipped "em in this drawer an' never remembered them again. Here they be." She retrieved the two beads, and Zizi took them. "Did she wear a long string of them?" "No, miss, a fairly short string. About like that you've on yourself." Zizi's modest little string of black beads hung perhaps four inches below her throat. She examined the yellow beads, saw they were of amber, and put them away in her little handbag. "Now, Hannah," she went on, "you and I are friends——" "An' that I'm proud to be, miss!" "And you must help me all you can——" "Help you what?" "Find out the truth about Miss Betty,—and perhaps,—find her." "Are you,—are you——" "Yes, I'm a detective,—that is, I'm the assistant of Mr Wise, and he's the greatest detective in the world." "Is he that, now?" and Kelly, unable to resist the fascination of this queer visitor, joined the group. "Yes, he is. And he is going to solve the whole mystery,—if we all help. And, maybe we'll help best by doing nothing. And especially by saying nothing. So, you two keep quite still about finding these beads, won't you, and about matters in general. You talk over things with the villagers, I suppose, but don't say anything about what happens up here now. Discuss the past, all you like, but not the present. See?" They didn't see clearly, but they were more than ready to promise whatever this girl asked, and then between the two, Zizi was served with such a luncheon as might have befitted a royal guest. "Goodness, gracious, sakes alive!" she exclaimed, "don't bring me anything more, I beg of you. I shall go to sleep like an anaconda and not wake up for six months!" Then, while the detective ate his luncheon at the table with Minna Varian and her secretary, Zizi went in search of the nurse. She found Mrs Fletcher eating her meal from a tray in her sitting room. It hurt her pride to do this, but Minna Varian declared that she saw quite enough of Fletcher between meals and must have some respite. "Nice to eat alone, I think," was Zizi's observation as she entered, uninvited, and perched herself on the arm of a nearby chair. "You're Fletcher, aren't you? Now, won't you please tell me some things confidentially? I see, you're a woman of deep perceptions, and are not to be caught napping. Tell me, do you think Mrs Varian went down stairs a second time last night?" "That she did not," asserted the nurse. She was flattered at Zizi's attitude and would have told her anything she asked. "How do you know?" "I can't go to sleep myself, you see, till Mrs Varian is asleep. So I always wait until I hear her steady breathing before I let myself drop off." The statement was too surely true to be disbelieved and Zizi went on. "Then who was it that Martha heard downstairs, that she went down a second time?" "Maybe she didn't hear anybody. Maybe she went down to see what she could pick up herself——" "Steal, do you mean? Oh, for shame! To accuse a poor, dead girl!" Mrs Fletcher looked ashamed. "I oughtn't to,—I s'pose. But, Miss, what else is there to think? I well know how this house is locked up of nights; nobody from outside could get in. The other servants are as honest as the day, and though I've no real reason to suspect Martha, yet there doesn't seem to be any other way to look,—does there, now?" "Some way may turn up," said Zizi. "Tell me more about Betty,—Miss Varian." "I can't tell you from having known her, for I never saw the girl, but since I've been taking care of Mrs Varian there's little I don't know about the whole family. She's nervous, you know, and so she talks incessantly, when we're alone." "Nothing, though, to cast any light on Miss Varian's disappearance?" "Oh, no; nothing but sort of reminiscences about her husband and how good he was to her, and how she grieves for him,—and for her child. Poor woman,—it's fearful to hear her." "It must be," said Zizi, sympathetically; "my heart bleeds for that poor tortured soul." # CHAPTER XI: Clues It was after luncheon, in the library, that Pennington Wise began his real business of the investigation of the Varian mysteries. First of all, he desired to look over the papers in Mr Varian's desk, and with the assistance of Granniss, he was soon in possession of the principal facts to be learned that way. Moreover, he discovered some things not yet taken into consideration by the local detectives, and he read with interest a number of letters that were carefully filed, apparently for preservation. Rapidly he scanned them and tossed them aside, retaining a few for further consideration. "I think, Mrs Varian," he said, at last, "that a most important fact in the case is the strange bequest of the Varian pearls to your husband's niece instead of to his daughter. Can you explain this?" "I cannot," said Minna, "it seems to me absolutely unexplainable. For generations those pearls have descended from parent to child,—sometimes a mother owned them, sometimes a father, but they were always given to the oldest daughter, or, if there were no daughter, then to a son. Only in case of a childless inheritor did they go to a niece or nephew. Why my husband should so definitely bequeath them to his niece,—I cannot imagine. I've thought over that for hours, but I can't understand it I will say frankly, that Betty and her father frequently had differences of opinion, but nothing more than many families have. They were really devoted to one another, but both were of decided, even obstinate nature, and when they disagreed they were apt to argue the matter out, and as a result of it, they did sometimes lose their temper and really quarreled. But it always blew over quickly and they were good friends again. I never paid any attention to their little squabbles, for I knew them both too well to think they were really at enmity. But this matter of the pearls looks as if my husband had a positive dislike for the child, and as a mark of spite or punishment left the pearls away from her. It makes little difference, if—if——" "Don't think about that, Mrs Varian," said Wise, kindly; "I'm considering this strange clause of Mr Varian's will from the viewpoint of the whole mystery. It may prove a clue, you see. I want to say, right now, that the whole affair is the greatest and most baffling puzzle I have ever known of. The disappearance of your daughter and the death of your husband offer no solution that seems to me possible,—let alone probable. I can set up no theory that does not include a secret passage of some sort. And though I am emphatically informed there is none, yet, as you may imagine, I must investigate that for myself." "I've found the house plans," said a low, thin little voice, and the strange girl, Zizi, appeared in the room. That slender little wisp of humanity had an uncanny way of being present and absent, suddenly, and without explanation. She was there, and then she wasn't there,—but her goings and comings were so noiseless and unobtrusive that they were never noticed. Pennington Wise held out his hand without a word. Zizi gave over a bulky roll of papers and subsided. Unrolling the time-yellowed sheets, they saw that they really were the old contractor's plans of the house. With a sigh of satisfaction Wise commenced to study them,—Granniss looking over his shoulder. Minna sat quietly, her nervousness lost in her eager anticipation of the new detective's successful quest. The two men studied the plans carefully. "I wish North could see these," Rodney said; "he's of an architectural bent, Mr Wise, and he measured the house all over, trying to find an unexplained bit of space. According to these plans, North is right, and there isn't any." "I'm of an architectural bent myself," Wise smiled, "and I agree, there's no foot of room left unaccounted for on these papers. Of course a secret passage could have been built in, in contradiction of the plans, but I can't think there is any such, after your own search. It might be out-of-doors?" "But we would have seen anyone going in or out of the house," Minna explained. "We were all watching." "The back doors?" "There's only one," Rodney told him. "And that was locked on the inside. Locked and bolted. No, whatever happened, nobody came in through the kitchen." "Do you assume an intruder, then, Mr Wise?" Minna asked. "I am obliged to, Mrs Varian. To begin with the only fact we can positively affirm, Mr Varian was shot,—and not by his own hand. This we assume because of the absence of the weapon. Now, either Miss Betty shot him or someone else did. I can't think the daughter did it, for it's against the probabilities in every way,—though, of course, it's a possibility. But the difficulties in the way of explaining what the girl did with herself afterward, seem to me greater than the objections to assuming an intruder from outside. I mean from outside the family,—not from outside the house. The explanation of his entrance and exit is no more of a puzzle than the explanation of Miss Varian's exit. And I think we must dismiss the idea that the girl concealed herself in this house,—whether alive or—a suicide." "The girl didn't do it," came Zizi's low murmur. She was sitting on an ottoman, near Minna, and now and then she caressed the hand of her hostess. "There's a big mind at the back of all this. And you're overlooking the death of the maid last night Why, Penny, it's all of a piece." "Yes"; and Wise roused himself from a brown study. "It is all of a piece, and it hinges on that bequest of the Varian pearls." "Hinges on that?" said Zizi. "I mean that's a key to the situation. When we learn _why_ Mr Varian made that strange arrangement, we'll be on our way to a solution of the mystery. But the first thing is to find Miss Varian." "Oh, Mr Wise," Minna cried out, "you think she is alive——" "I very much hope so, and though I don't want to give you false encouragement, I can't help feeling that she may be," "Yes, she is," came Zizi's quiet assurance, and Minna impulsively kissed her. "What a comfort you are!" she exclaimed; "elf, pixie,—I don't know what to call you,—but you bring me courage and hope." Zizi's great dark eyes gave appreciation, but she only said, "You're up against it, Penny." "I am, indeed," Wise said, very gravely; "and my first work must be a deep investigation of all Mr Varian's affairs. You were entirely in his confidence, Mrs Varian?" "Oh, yes; we had no secrets from one another. He told me all his financial ventures or business worries. There were none of those of late, but years ago, there were some. Yes, I may say I know everything that ever happened to my husband." "Then who has been blackmailing him of late, and what for?" "Blackmail!" Minna looked blank. "Never such a thing as that has happened to my husband!" She spoke proudly and positively. "You know of no one who had a hold over Mr Varian,—or thought he had,—and who wrote him threatening letters?" "Most assuredly not! And I know that nothing of the sort ever did occur, for he would most certainly have told me. We were more confidential than most married people, and we never had secrets from one another." "Well, perhaps I am over-imaginative." "What made you think it?" asked Minna, curiously; "if you have found any letters you can't explain, show them to me,—I can doubtless tell you about them." After a moment's hesitation, Wise handed her a letter. It bore neither date nor address, but it read, "Unless you accede to my demands, I shall expose you, and the woman you robbed will claim redress or return of her property." This brief message was signed "Step." and Minna read it with a look of utter perplexity. "I don't know what it means," she said, handing it back, "but I'm sure it's of no importance. Mr Varian never robbed a woman in his life! The very idea is too absurd to consider. You are at liberty to hunt it down, Mr Wise, but you will never find it has a meaning that will reflect on my husband's stainless honor! You may refer to any of his friends, his relatives or his business associates. All will tell you that Frederick Varian and dishonesty are contradictory terms!" "That may all be true, Mrs Varian, and doubtless is true, but you know blackmailers are not so scrupulous, and they sometimes find a peg to hang their demands on even in the case of the most upright. This note is undated, but the envelope shows it was mailed less than six months ago. Therefore the matter may be still unsettled, and may have a bearing on the whole case. Could there have been any family reason that would influence him to leave the pearls away from his daughter?" "Oh, no! His brother and sister-in-law were quite as much surprised as I was to learn of that. But, Mr Wise, what do you think about this matter of the kidnappers asking for ransom? Do you think it is all a fraud?" "I'm going to look into that as soon as I can. At first glance, it seems fraudulent, but the wonder is that you haven't had similar letters from other fakers. However, I am going to work backward. I want, first of all to look about a bit, for evidences or clues regarding last night's tragedy. I am sure the whole string of horrors is a connected one, and to find out who killed poor Martha, will in my opinion be a stepping-stone to the solution of the other mysteries." "There's a clue for you, then," Zizi said, not moving from her seat, but pointing to a spot on the rug near the safe. Wise's eyes followed her finger's direction and saw a slight mark, as of a dusty footprint. In a moment, he was on his knees near it, and scrutinized it carefully. "I've heard of footprint clues," said Granniss, interested, "but that is so vague and imperfect, I don't think you can deduce who made it,—can you?" "Not from the print,——" Wise said,—thoughtfully, and then added nothing to his unsatisfactory statement. He then took a paper-cutter from the desk, and scraped onto a bit of smooth paper what dust he could get from the footprint, and carefully folded it up and put it in his pocketbook. "What shoes were you wearing when you visited the safe last night, Mrs Varian?" he asked. "Bedroom slippers," she replied. "Had you walked anywhere except to traverse the halls and stairs, from your bedroom down here?" "No, nowhere else." "And you took that package of money up to your room with you?" "Yes." "Had you not done so, it would have been stolen," Wise said, calmly. "A thief visited this safe after you were here,—he thought the money was here. He was surprised by the maid, Martha, coming down to spy on him,—and in order to get rid of her,—and save himself, he strangled her." All present stared at him, and Rodney Granniss flushed a deep red. "To a disinterested observer, Mr Wise," he said, "it might easily appear that I was that thief. I knew the money had been put in the safe. I did not know Mrs Varian had removed it. I——" "Look here," interrupted Zizi, "you talk too much! If you're going to be suspected, for the love of cheese, let somebody else do it! Don't meet trouble half way, and sing out, "Pleased to meetcha!" Be careful, Mr Granniss." "Hush up, Zizi," Wise counseled her. "Children should be seen and not heard." "All right, Penny, I'll be good. Now, here's a present for you." She gave him the yellow beads given her by the cook. "Divulge," he said, briefly, as he stared at the tiny objects in his palm. But Minna Varian had caught sight of them and had recognized them. "Oh!" she cried, "Betty! _Betty!_ Those are the beads she had on that day! Where did you get them? Where did they come from?" And then, before they could answer her, her over-wrought nerves gave way, her calm broke through the constraint she had put upon it, and she became hysterical. Granniss went at once for Mrs Fletcher, and the nurse took her patiently away. "She'll be all right with Fletcher," Rodney said, returning after he had assisted Minna to her room; "it won't be a very bad attack, nurse thinks. Really, I've been surprised that Mrs Varian has kept up as well as she has. Now, Mr Wise, tell me what you suspect regarding Mr Varian? And also, tell me if you suspect me—in any way. I plead not guilty,—and I want to add that Miss Varian and I are sweethearts. We couldn't call it an engagement for her father wouldn't hear of such a thing. But we hoped to persuade him in time,—and truly, I thought he would finally consent. I'm telling you this, so you can see what a deep interest I have in the recovery of Betty,—for I am not willing to believe she is dead. In fact, I believe she has been kidnapped, and though I'm not sure those letters Mrs Varian has received are in good faith,—yet I believe she is being held for ransom." "By whom?" asked Wise. "By the kidnapper——" "Who also is the——" "Blackmailer!" said Zizi, in an awestruck voice. "Oh, Penny Wise, how you do jump at a solution! You just clear all intervening obstacles, and land on the truth!" "I'm far from having landed," said Wise, ruefully; "that's all theory,—with very little fact to back it up." "Well, these beads are facts," Zizi said. "They're two more, Penny, from the same string that you already have a few from. You see, Mr Granniss," she said, turning to Rod, "Mr Wise discovered a few of these beads in the kitchen this morning, and a little later, I found that the cook had picked up two in the kitchen the day after Miss Betty's disappearance. The string of them that she wore was not a long one, but still there were at least a dozen or so more than we have found. Where are they?" She had turned again to Wise as she put this question. "I know the beads well," Granniss said, "but how did they get in the kitchen?" "It may be a simple matter," Wise responded. "Perhaps the string broke when she was out there getting the lemonade. I understand all the servants were away." "But, Penny," Zizi reminded him, "in that case the other beads would be about, somewhere. She would have picked them up and put them in a box or something." "Yes, she would," Rodney agreed, "for Betty loved that necklace. She loved anything yellow. You've heard about the yellow pillow?" "No," said Wise. "Do try, Mr Granniss, to tell me everything. I was called to this case altogether too late. Much could have been done had I been here sooner. But, now tell me every little thing you can think of." So Granniss told them of the finding of the yellow satin sofa-pillow in the middle of the kitchen floor. He obtained the pillow from the hall and showed it to them. Zizi scrutinized it with her eager black eyes, and carefully extracted from its embroidered design a small fine hairpin. "An invisible," she said, holding it up to the light. "Betty's,—I daresay?" "Yes," and Granniss looked at it. "She wore dinky little ones like that in her front hair. All girls do, I guess." "It may mean something or nothing," Wise said, musingly. "If Miss Varian was in the habit of lying on the hall sofa, the hairpin may have been caught in the cushion some time ago." "I don't know," Granniss said; "I never was here while—when Betty was here." "Well, aside from the hairpin, what about the yellow pillow, on the kitchen floor, Penny?" Zizi asked, looking up into the detective's face as at an oracle. "It's a clue, all right," Wise said; "oh, if I'd only been here that very day! A most astounding case, and every possible evidence wiped out!" "Oh, no, not that," Zizi spoke cheerfully. "And now, as you say, you must get busy in the matter of poor Martha. What about the green streak?" "Yes," the detective spoke to Rodney. "There was a dull green smear across the palm of that girl's left hand. I see no freshly painted furniture in this room." "No, there wouldn't be," Zizi ruminated. "And it wasn't paint,—you know it wasn't." "It looked like paint, and what else would remain there so indelibly?" "What could it be anyway?" queried Granniss. "What do you suggest?" "I can't think, myself," and Wise looked nonplussed. "I smelled it, but there was no odor of paint. Nobody around the house uses water colors, I suppose?" "No," said Granniss. "It was such a smear as might have been made by a paint brush filled with a dull green watercolor pigment,—but I don't say it was that." "It was more like a vegetable stain," Zizi suggested. "A mark like that could have been made, by grasping a dish or saucepan that had held spinach." "Oh, come now, Zizi, that's a little far-fetched." "Not if we find cold spinach in the refrigerator," Zizi persisted. "Martha might have been getting something to eat." "In that case the green smear doesn't count for much," Wise said. "But we have accumulated some clues. We have the yellow beads, the yellow pillow, the green streak, and last, but by no means least, the dust I scraped from the floor in this room." "Explain the significance of that, won't you?" asked Granniss. "Or are you one of those secretive detectives?" "Not at all. That dust is, to my mind, from the shoe of the man who tried to rob this safe last night, thinking that money was in it. Now, I admit, Mr Granniss, that you knew, or thought you did, that the money was there; you knew the combination; you are quite strong enough to have strangled a woman who surprised you at your job; yet I know you didn't have anything to do with the attempted robbery, because——" "Because you love Betty!" Zizi said, softly, her eyes shining with sympathy and understanding. "Right you are, Wise, go on." "Also, because," Wise went on, "because, I'm sure that is the footprint of the would-be burglar, and while the footprint as a print is too indistinct to be a clue to the man who made it, yet the dust that forms the print is indicative. It is a fine dust made up of particles of cement. I mean such dust as would adhere to a shoe that had traversed a cement floor, and, more likely an imperfect cement floor." "That means the cellar!" Rodney cried; "I've been down there a lot of late, poking around for that everlasting secret passage, and there's a lot of loose cement." Wise gave him a quick glance, but his enthusiasm was so genuine, that the detective dismissed a sudden qualm of suspicion. "Slip down and get me a sample, will you?" he said, and Granniss went at once. "Big case, Zizi," Wise said, as the two were left alone. But he spoke heavily, almost despairingly, and with no show of his usual exultant interest in a big case. "Yes, but," the black eyes turned hopefully to his own, "there are tangible clues. And those of Betty's can wait. Do you chase those that have to do with Martha first." "I certainly shall. Martha was killed by the burglar. Did he kidnap Betty?" "And kill Mr Varian?" Zizi added, and then Granniss returned. He brought a little cellar floor dust in a paper, and, as Wise had expected, that and the particles he had scraped from the library rug, were indubitably the same. "Well, then," Wise remarked, "the burglar came up from the cellar." "Where he had been hiding, goodness knows how long!" Rodney exclaimed. "For we locked the house securely before we went upstairs." "I think it's time I took a look at the cellar," said Wise, and all three started down. # CHAPTER XII: A Letter from Nowhere Pennington Wise himself assisted in the locking up of the house that night, for he was determined if any more burglars came, he would know how they got in. The money that Minna had in her possession he took charge of, saying he would be responsible for its safety. Long the detective lay awake in his pleasant bedroom that overlooked the sea. He could hear the great waves tossing and breaking at the foot of the cliff and he couldn't free his mind from a queer obsession to the effect that those waves held the secret of the mysteries of Headland House. "It's too absurd," he thought to himself in the darkness, "but I do feel that the whole matter is dependent in some way or other on the cliff and the sea." Had he been asked to elucidate this more definitely he could not have done so. It was only a hunch,—but Wise's hunches were often worthy of consideration, and he determined to go out on the sea in somebody's boat when the morning came, and see if he could find any inspiration. When the morning came it brought a fresh surprise. The household assembled promptly for an eight o'clock breakfast. Minna Varian, pale and fragile looking, clad in a simple black house dress, was a strong contrast to the young and glowing vitality of Zizi, whose slim little black frock was touched here and there with henna, and whose vivid and expressive face needed no aid of cosmetics to be a bright, colorful picture in itself. Wise was very grave and silent,—he was in a mood which Zizi knew was that of utter bafflement. It was not often the detective felt this conviction of helplessness, but it had occurred before, and Zizi noted it with some alarm. It meant desperate and wearing effort on Wise's part, deep thinking and dogged persistence in forming and proving theories, that more likely than not would prove false. It meant a strain of brain and nerves that might result in a physical breakdown,—for the detective had been working hard of late, and this impenetrable mystery seemed the last straw. Granniss was the most serene of the quartette. He was young and hopeful. He was innocent of any crime or knowledge of it, and he cared naught for the half-voiced suspicions of the local police. In fact, they had practically given up the case as far beyond their ken, and now that Wise was in charge, the sheriff wanted nothing to say in the matter, except when Wise desired to consult him. And Granniss was confident that Wise would find Betty. He had no real reason for his belief in the detective's magic, but he had unbounded faith, and he was a born optimist. He felt sure that, if Betty had been killed, the fact would have become known by this time,—and if she were still alive, surely she would be found. He had come to believe in the kidnappers, and though he couldn't understand how the deed had been done, he cared more to get Betty back than to learn what had happened to her. Also, he was kept busy in attending to the daily influx of business letters and financial matters connected with the Varian estate. Doctor Varian had promised to come up to Headland House again as soon as he could, but he was a busy man and hadn't yet made time for the visit. As breakfast was about to be served, Kelly brought a letter to Minna saying simply, "This was on the hall table when I came downstairs this morning, madam." A glance showed Minna that it was from the same source as the other "ransom" letter, and she handed it unopened to Wise. Staring hard at the envelope, he slit it open, and read the contents aloud. "We know all that is going on. We have your daughter. You have the required sum of money. If you will bring about an exchange, we will do our part. Your fancy detective must work with you, or at least refrain from working against you, or there can be no deal. You may drop the package over the cliff, exactly as directed before, at midnight on Friday. Unless you accomplish this, in strict accordance with our orders, you will lose both the money and your child. One divergence from our directions and your daughter will be done away with. You can see we have no other way out. This is our last letter, and our final offer. Take it or leave it. Enclosed is a note from your daughter to prove that we are telling you the truth." And enclosed was a small slip of paper on which was written, "Mother, do as they tell you. Betty." "Is that your daughter's writing?" Wise asked, as he passed the little note to Minna. "Yes," she whispered, trembling so violently and turning so white, that Zizi flew to her side, and induced her to take a sip of coffee. "Brace up, now, dear," Zizi said, "you'll need all your strength and all your pluck. And cheer up, too. If that's from Betty, she's alive, and if she's alive, we'll get her! Bank on that!" Zizi's strong young voice and encouraging smile did as much as the coffee to invigorate and cheer the distracted mother, and Rod Granniss, said, "Sure! that's Betty's own writing,—no forgery about that! Now, Mr Wise, what next?" "Next, is to find out how that note got into this house," said Pennington Wise. "I locked up myself last night,—I listened but I heard no intruder's footstep, and I know no outside door or window was opened. It was,—it _must_ have been an inside job. Kelly!" "Yes, sir." "Where were you all night?" "In my bed, sir. On the third floor of the house." "Oh, pouf! I know it wasn't you, Kelly, you could no more have engineered this letter than you could fly to the moon! And Hannah, I suppose was in her bed, too. I've no wish to question the servants,—they had nothing to do with it." "It was the kidnappers, then?" Zizi asked, softly. "It was the kidnappers," Wise said. "They,—or he,—came into this house by some secret way, which we have got to find. They, or their agent, came in night before last to steal that money from the safe. Foiled in that attempt, they have returned to their ransom scheme, hoping to get the money that way. They are desperate, and,—I don't know, Mrs Varian but that we'd better——" "Oh, Penny," Zizi cried, "don't throw away all that money——" "What is that sum,—any sum,—in comparison with getting my child?" cried Minna, so excited as to be with difficulty warding off a hysterical attack. "But you wouldn't get her," Zizi asserted, positively. "First, they'd never get the money,—thrown down in the darkness like that,—it's too uncertain. And, if they did, they wouldn't return Betty,—I know they wouldn't." "Never mind that now, Zizi," Wise spoke from deep preoccupation. "We have till Friday night to decide about it. Today is only Wednesday. What I hope to get at from this note is the identity of the kidnapper. I am sure it is the same man as the one who wrote that blackmail letter." "This is typewritten," Granniss said, studying the letter. "And not signed in any way. I've heard, though, that typewriting is as easily distinguished or recognized as penwriting." "That's true in a sense," Wise told him. "I mean, if you suspect a certain person or machine, you can check up the peculiarities of the script, and prove the typing. But in this case, the letter was doubtless written on some public machine,—say in a hotel or business office, and even if found, would give no clue to the writer. We have to do with the cleverest mind I have ever been up against. That is positive. Now the reason I connect the kidnapper and the blackmailer is twofold. First, if this man's blackmailing scheme proved unsuccessful, he may have struck at his victim in this more desperate way. And, second, there is a resemblance in the diction of the notes from the kidnappers and the note of blackmail intent, signed "Step'." "What do you suppose "Step' means?" Granniss asked. "Short for Stephen, I daresay," replied Wise. "There's no other name that begins,—oh, yes, there is Stepney,—but it doesn't matter. "Step' is our man,—of that I'm sure. But how to find such an elusive individual is a puzzling problem." "Then you believe there's a secret passage?" Granniss said. "There simply has to be. It may be a hidden one,—or it may be a false doorway or window frame, but there is most certainly a way for that villain to get in and out of this house at will. Now that way must be found, and at once or I give up my profession and make no further claim to detective ability!" "We'll find it, Penny," Zizi promised him. "Find it, if you have to tear down the whole house," Minna exclaimed, excitedly. She was nervously caressing the note from Betty, and was ready to further any project that was suggested. "You don't own the house?" Wise asked. "No; but I'll buy it. It's in the market, and the price is not so very high. Then you can tear it down, if you wish, and I can sell the ground afterward." "Good business deal!" Granniss said. "I'd like nothing better than to drive a pick into these old walls." "But there's no place to drive, with any expectation of success," Wise demurred. "Where's your friend North? Isn't he an architect? Can you get him up here?" "Surely," Rod said, "I'll telephone him, if you say so. I'm sure he'll be glad to come. He isn't a professional architect, but he knows more about building plans than many a firm of contractors does." "Call him, then, please, when you've finished your breakfast," Wise directed, and returned to his study of the letter. "I can't understand it at all," he groaned to Zizi, after breakfast was over. Minna had gone to her room, and Rodney was reading the mail. Wise and Zizi were in the hall, sitting on the sofa with the yellow pillows. "This figures in it," Zizi said, patting the yellow pillow that had held the little hairpin. "As how?" "Find that secret entrance first," she said, drawing her pretty brows together. "That will explain "most everything. And, Penny, it isn't a secret passage, as they call it. It's just a concealed entrance." "And through the cellar,—for you know, there was cellar dust on the library floor,—near the safe." "That only proved the man had been down cellar,—hiding probably until the time was ripe. I've scoured that cellar myself." "So have I, Zizi, and there's not a loose stone in its walls or a trap in its floor,—of that I'm certain." "I'm sure of that, too; and Penny, I even went down the well." "You did! You little rascal. They told me Dunn went down and examined that." "Well, I had to go, too. It wasn't difficult,—the stone sides are easy to climb up and down. Not very slippery, either. But dirty! My, I ruined one of my pet dresses. Yet there was no hole in the old well sides. No missing stone or anything suspicious. And that settles the cellar!" "I don't think the entrance is through the cellar. I incline more to the idea of a false door frame,—you know, the frame and all on hinges. Then, locking would not affect the opening of the whole affair." "That's all right,—but, which door?" "There are only two. I've examined them both. It may be a window." "Get friend North to confab with you. You're clever enough, Penny, but you're not a real architect. Mr North may have some suggestions to make, that with your ingenuity may work it out." Lawrence North arrived and with him came Claire Blackwood. The latter was urged to the visit largely by curiosity to learn how things were going, and also by a desire to renew her expressions of sympathy and hope to Mrs Varian. Zizi managed to get a few words alone with Claire. "Tell me about this Eleanor," the girl said. "I feel sure a lot hinges on that peculiar matter of the pearls. Is Eleanor a scheming sort?" "Oh, no!" exclaimed Mrs Blackwood. "She is a dear girl,—very young, and of a simple, charming nature. She was devoted to her cousin, and had no thought of the family pearls ever being hers. Don't for a moment think of Eleanor Varian as capable of the slightest thought of disloyalty, much less of envy or covetousness." "Well, I just wanted to know," said Zizi, with her winning, confidential smile. "What about her parents? Could her mother have influenced Mr Frederick Varian's mind against his own daughter?" "No, indeed! Nor Doctor Varian either! Why, they're the best and finest kind of people, all of them. Whatever the explanation of those pearls being left away from Betty, it was not due to any maneuvering on the part of Eleanor or her parents! Of that you may be sure!" Meantime, Lawrence North and the detective were discussing architecture. They were in the library and the plans of the house were spread out before them. "I'm interested," North said, looking eagerly at the plans, "for I'm always fond of plans. And, too, I want to prove my contention that there's no space unaccounted for. At first, I thought there might be a bit of spare room between this wall and this,—you see. But that jamb is merely the back of a small cupboard in the hall. Can you find any hint of false building?" "No; I can't," Wise admitted, and then he unfolded his theory of a double door frame,—or, rather a hinged door frame or window frame. "That," said North, "must be looked for in the house, not on the plans. But I doubt it. Any such thing would be apt to show the joints after years of disuse. You see, this house hasn't been lived in before for a long time." "Then I'll have to give up the notion of a double door," and Wise sighed. "Now, here's another matter. I want to go out in a boat,—a good motor boat, and have a look round the sea and the cliff and observe for myself the possibilities of an expert climber entering the grounds from that side. Will you take me in your boat? I'm told you have a fine one?" "Of course I will," was the ready response. "When do you want to go?" "As soon as you can make it convenient. I want to work rapidly, as things are coming to a focus, and I don't dare delay." North stared at him, as if wondering how a trip in his boat would advance the work definitely, but the detective had no intention of telling him about the kidnapper's letter and, too, Wise wanted to view the whole headland from the ocean. The result was that the two started off at once, and going first to North's bungalow to get his keys, and also his man who helped run the boat, inside of an hour Pennington Wise found himself out on the ocean with North, and Joe Mills, who, though taciturn and even grumpy, was a good navigator. "Remarkable cliff!" Wise exclaimed, amazed at its effect from below. "It's all of that!" North said; "most wonderful cliff on the whole Maine coast, they say. Notice the overhang, and then tell me if any one could climb it!" "No human being could!" Wise declared. "And I can think of no animal,—unless a spider. Go clear round to the other side, will you?" North gave orders and Mills drove them round the great headland, and on all sides it was as massive and forbidding as the first view. "High tide, isn't it?" asked Wise, as they went on beyond the headland, and then turned back again. "Yes," said North, glancing at the rocky base. "Almost top notch." "Rise high?" "Very. Twenty feet at least." "I thought so. Marvelous tides up in this locality. Well, there's nothing more to be discovered by gazing at these rocks and water: let's go home." On the trip homeward, the detective proved himself so entertaining that North went back to Headland House with him. Again they poured over the plans of the house, and Wise announced his determination of using a pick on one room in the third story that he surmised might be a trifle shorter than its adjacent walls implied. "But it measures up," North insisted. "Not quite," Wise declared. "There may be a two foot space in there, which would be enough for a secret passage." "You're a persistent one!" North laughed. "All right, Mr Wise, go ahead with your investigation. May I help? I can wield a pick with the best of them!" The detective glanced at the lithe, sinewy form, that seemed to be all muscle and no superfluous flesh, and said, admiringly, "I believe you! But I think Kelly or the chauffeur can do the really hard work." "No, let me do it," North offered. "I'd really enjoy it." So, half amused at his own decision, Wise agreed, and the two went in search of the necessary tools. But the result of their labor was absolutely nothing, beyond an incredible amount of dust and dirt, of lath and plaster, and two very much disheveled men. "Now you must stay to dinner, Mr North," the detective urged him. "You can put yourself to right enough for our informal meal, and it is too late for you to get to your home by dinner time." So North stayed, and at dinner they all discussed freely the whole affair. Mrs Varian did not appear at the table, the nurse thinking it was better for her to have no more excitement that day. So Zizi calmly appropriated the chair at the head of the table, and acted the part of hostess prettily and capably. Wise changed his mind about confiding to Lawrence North the matter of the ransom letters, and concluded that in the absence of Mrs Varian the subject might be discussed. "At any rate," the detective summed up, "we're in the possession of positive knowledge. We know that Betty was kidnapped,——" "Oh, come now," North said, thoughtfully, "those letters may be faked,—it seems to me they must be,—by some clever villain who expects to get all that money under false promises. I don't believe for a minute there is a kidnapper—why would anyone kidnap Betty Varian?" "For the usual kidnapper's reason,—ransom," Wise replied. "Well, how did the kidnapper get in?" "Oh, Mr North!" Wise threw up his hands. "This from you! I made up my mind that if one more person said to me, "How did the kidnapper get in?" I'd have him arrested! I don't _know_ how he got in,—but I'm going to find out!" "I think I won't assist in the work personally the next time you try," Lawrence said. "I scarcely could get myself presentable for dinner! But, seriously, Mr Wise, you asked me up here to consult with you. Now, I'm sure we must agree, that there is a way in and out of this house that we don't know of. And that explains the entrance of the person who killed that poor girl in the kitchen." "And explains the disappearance of Miss Varian, and the scattering of her beads." "Beads?" said Lawrence North, interrogatively. "Yes; there were several beads found in the kitchen that have been identified as hers." "Then the way in must be connected with the kitchen," North remarked. "Perhaps, but not necessarily." "It's a dark night, Mr North," Rodney Granniss said, hospitably. "Won't you spend the night here? We can give you a room." After a polite demurrer, North accepted the invitation. The evening was spent in further and repeated discussion of the known facts and the surmised possibilities of the mystery, and then, both the detective and Granniss went about locking up the house against further marauders, and they all retired. And the next morning they found that Lawrence North had disappeared! His room showed signs of a struggle. A chair was overturned, a rug awry and deep scratches on the shining floor proved a scuffle of some sort. "Another kidnapping case!" Granniss exclaimed. "Must have been a husky chap that got the better of North! Could there have been two against him? He's a powerful fighter!" "Search the house," said Wise, briefly, "and keep everybody out of North's bedroom. I'll lock it and take the key myself. Now look for him. Is he given to practical joking?" But no amount of searching disclosed Lawrence North, or any sign of him, dead or alive. And the locked doors and windows were undisturbed. "He certainly didn't leave of his own accord," said Granniss; "he couldn't have locked the doors behind him." "He was carried off," cried Minna, "just as Betty was! Oh, who of us is safe now?" # CHAPTER XIII: Where is North? Pennington Wise was at his wits' end. His wits were of the finest type and had always stood him in good stead; but he had reached their limit, at least regarding this present case. Baffling was too mild a word for it. Uncanny it was not, for there was no hint or evidence of anything supernatural in the taking off of Lawrence North. He was a big, strong personality, and he had gone out of that house by natural means, whether voluntarily or not. That is, of course, if he _had_ gone out of the house. Wise was inclined to think he had, but Rodney Granniss still held to the possibility of some concealed room,—perhaps a dungeon, where the mysterious disappearances could be compassed. Wise paid no attention to Granniss' opinions, not from any ill-will toward the young man, but because he had concluded to his own satisfaction that there was really no space for a concealed room in the house. North had come up there for the purpose of helping him look for such a matter, and North had agreed that it could not be. And now North himself was gone,—carried off,—yet the mere phrase, "carried off" seemed to Wise incongruous. Could North have been carried off without making noise enough to rouse some of the sleeping household? It was incredible! Before discussing the matter with Minna, or calling the local police again, Wise went to the bedroom North had occupied and locked himself in. "If I can't tell," he said to himself, "whether that man was kidnapped or whether he sneaked himself off—yet _why_ would he do such a thing as that? My desperation over this puzzle is leading my mind astray." Carefully, without touching a thing, Wise considered the state of the room. The bed had been occupied, and, it was quite evident, had been hastily quitted. The coverings were tossed back over the footboard, and the pillow still bore the impress of a head. On the dresser lay North's collar and tie, and beneath the pillow, Wise discovered his watch and a handkerchief. Clearly, the man had gone, after a hasty and incomplete toilette. On the small table, lay some sheets of paper and a pencil. These papers were some that they had used the night before drawing plans and making measurements of the house. Scanning the papers, Wise was startled to see a scrawled message on the corner of a sheet. It read: They've got me. _L. N._ It had been so hastily jotted down as to be almost illegible. Had North managed to scribble it while his captor or captors looked another way? It was all too unbelievable! The thought would creep in that North was implicated in the mystery himself. Yet that was quite as unbelievable as the rest of it,—if not more so. Wise turned his attention to the disordered furniture. The overturned chair was not broken, but a glass tumbler was. Evidently it had been knocked off the night stand. The rug was in wrinkles and one window curtain had been partly pulled from its rod. The scratches on the hardwood floor were apparently made by scuffling feet, but of that Wise could not be sure. In fine, the whole disorder of the room could have been made by struggling men, or could have been faked by any one desiring to produce that effect. "Yet I've no reason to think North faked it," Wise told himself frankly, "except that that would be an easy way out of it for me! And that message he left looks genuine,—and his watch is a valuable one,—oh, Lord, I _am_ up against it!" He went downstairs, and learned that Lawrence North's straw hat still hung on the hall rack. The man must have been forcibly carried off. He couldn't have walked out without collar, tie or hat! Moreover, the doors were all locked. It still was necessary to assume a secret exit from the house. Wise inclined to the hinged door frame, or window frame, but his most careful search failed to reveal any such. He determined to get an expert carpenter to look over the house, feeling that such would be better than an architect. Crestfallen, dispirited and utterly nonplussed, Wise sat down in the library to think it over. First, the authorities must be told of North's disappearance, and all that, but those things he left to Granniss. The mystery was his province. Acting on a sudden impulse, Wise started off at once for North's home. This was a good-looking bungalow, of artistic effects and quiet unpretentious charm. His knock brought the grumpy Joe Mills to the door. "Whatcha want?" was his surly greeting. "As I'm here on an important matter, I'll come inside," Wise said, and entered the little living-room. "Whatcha doin' here?" Mills continued. "Where's Mr North?" "I don't know where he is. Isn't he here?" "Why no,—he stayed up to Headland House last night. Ain't you the detective from there?" "Yes, I am. And Mr North left Headland House,—er,—before breakfast this morning. Didn't he come home?" "No, he didn't. Leastways, I ain't seen him. An' I've got work to do,—so you can leave as soon as you like." "Look here, my man, keep a civil tongue in your head. Mr North has disappeared,——" "Well, he's got a right to disappear if he likes,—ain't he?" "But he went off——" "I don't care how he went off. It's nothin' to me. An' I've got my work to do. Now you vamoose." "Not yet," said Wise coolly, and began to look about the house. "There's no use in taking that attitude, Mr Mills, the authorities of the village and of the county will be here shortly,—unless Mr North turns up, which I don't think he will. Now, I'm going to do a little looking about on my own." Wise set to work, and went swiftly over the house, from room to room. He found nothing that gave him any clue to North's disappearance nor anything that gave him much information as to North's private life. Even an examination of the letters and notes in the small desk showed only some bills, some invitations, some circulars, that meant nothing to the detective. He noted some memoranda in Lawrence North's handwriting and saw that it corresponded with the note left for him. Sheriff Potter came in while he was there, but the conversation between the two men was of little interest to either. It was all so hopeless, it seemed to Wise,—and, so blankly mysterious it seemed to Potter. Claire Blackwood came over from her home, and Wise turned to her as to a friend. "Do tell me something about this man, North, Mrs Blackwood," he said. "Have you known him long?" "Only through this summer," she replied. "He's a New Yorker, but I don't know much else about him." "What's his business?" "I'm not sure, but I think he's a real estate man. He's spending two months here, and he rented this bungalow furnished. You see, Mr Wise, the people of this colony are a sort of lawless, happy-go-lucky set. I mean if we like any one, we don't bother to inquire into their antecedents or their social standing." "Is North married?" "I don't think so. At least, I've always thought him a bachelor, though nowadays you never can tell. He may have a wife, for all I know." "At any rate, Mrs Blackwood, he has most mysteriously disappeared. And I do hope if you know anything—anything at all, about the man, you will tell me. For, I don't mind admitting I am greatly distressed and disturbed at this new development of the Varian case." "You connect Mr North's disappearance with Betty Varian's, then?" "How can I help it? Both vanished from the same house. It proves, of course, that there is a secret exit, but it is strange that such cannot be found." "It is disappointing, Mr Wise, to find that such a famous detective as you cannot find a concealed entrance to a country house!" "You are not more disappointed than I am, at that fact, Mrs Blackwood. I am chagrined, of course, but I am more frankly puzzled. The whole case is so amazing, the evidence so scanty,—clues are non-existent,—what can I do? I feel like saying I was called in too late,—yet, I'm not sure I could have done better had I been here at first. I can't see where evidence has been destroyed or clues lost. It is all inexplicable." "You are delightfully candid and far from bumptious," she said, smiling at him. "I feared you were of the know-it-all variety, and I see you aren't." "Help me to know it all, Mrs Blackwood," Wise urged. "I can't help feeling you know more about Lawrence North than any one else up here. If so, can't you tell me something of his life?" "No, truly, Mr Wise, I don't know any more than I've told you. He was up here last year,—this is my first season. But I don't know of any one up here now, that knows him very well. He is a quiet, reserved sort of man,—and,—as a matter of fact, we are not a gossipy lot." Disheartened and disappointed, Wise went back to Headland House only to find that Doctor Varian had arrived during his absence. The detective was glad to have him to talk to, for it promised at least a fresh viewpoint to be considered. "I admit, Doctor Varian," Wise said frankly, as the two confabbed in the Varian library, "I have no theory that will fit this case at all. I have solved many mysteries, I have found many criminals, but never before have I struck a case so absolutely devoid of even an imaginary solution. Granting a criminal that desired to bring disaster to the Varian family, why should he want to abduct Lawrence North?" "Perhaps North knew something incriminating to him," suggested the doctor. "But that's purely supposition, there's no fact to prove it, or anything like it. As a start, suppose we assume a kidnapper of Betty Varian. Although, even before that, we have to assume a secret entrance into this house." "That, I think, we must assume," said Varian. "It seems so,—yet, if you knew how hard I've hunted for one! Well, then, assume a kidnapper, who, for the sake of ransom, abducts Betty Varian,——" "And kills her father?" "And kills her father, who interrupted the abduction." "Good enough, so far, but what about North?" "I can't fit North in,—unless he is in league with the criminal." "That's too absurd. He and my brother weren't even acquaintances." "Oh, I know it's absurd! But, what isn't? I can't see a ray of light! And, then, there's that awful matter of the maid, Martha!" "I think, Mr Wise, that since you admit failure, there is nothing for it, but to take Mrs Varian away and give up the case." "Leaving Betty to her fate!" "We can search for the child just as well from Boston or New York as from here." "I don't think so, Doctor. Take Mrs Varian away, if you wish,—and if she will go. I shall stay here and solve this mystery. Because I have failed thus far, is no proof I shall continue to be unsuccessful. Mrs Varian is a rich woman,—I am not a poor man. I shall use such funds as she provides, supplementing them, if necessary, with my own, but I shall find Betty Varian, if she's alive,—I shall find Lawrence North,—if he is alive,—and I shall discover the murderer or murderers of Frederick Varian and of Martha." "You speak confidently, Mr Wise." "I do; because I mean to devote my whole soul to this thing. I can't fail, ultimately,—I _can't_!" The man was so desperate in his determination, so sincere in his intent, that Doctor Varian was impressed, and said heartily, "I believe you will. Now, here's something I've found out. I've talked with my brother's lawyer, and I find there was something in Frederick's life that he kept secret. I don't for one minute believe it was anything disgraceful or dishonorable, for I knew my brother too well for that. But it may have been some misfortune,—or even some youthful error,—but whatever it was, it had an effect on his later years. And, there's that strange matter of the Varian pearls. Those pearls, Mr Wise, are historic. They have never been bequeathed to any one save the oldest son or daughter of a Varian. Now, the fact that Betty and her father sometimes squabbled, is not enough to make my brother leave them to _my_ daughter instead of to his own. Yet I can form no theory to explain the fact that he did do so. I've tried to think he was temporarily or hypochondriacally insane, but I can't reconcile that belief with my knowledge of his physical health and well-being. Then, I've wondered if he ever did me a wrong in the past, that I never learned of, and if this was by way of reparation. But that is too unlikely. Again, I've thought that there might be some error in the family records, and that I might be the elder son instead of Fred. But I checked it all up, and he was two years my senior. Yet, he told the lawyer, who drew up his will, that justice demanded that the pearls be left to his niece instead of to his daughter. Now, what could he have meant by that?" "I can't imagine, but I'm glad you have told me these things. For it makes me feel there _must_ be something pretty serious back of all this. You don't think it could in any way reflect on Mrs Varian?" "No, I don't. I've talked it over with the lawyer and also with my wife, and we all agree that Minna Varian is a true, sincere and good woman. There is not only no blame or stigma to be attached to her in any way, but whatever was the secret of my brother's life, his wife knows nothing of it." "Yet I can imagine no secret, no incident that would necessitate that strange bequest of the family pearls." "Nor can I, except that he might have thought he owed me some reparation for some real or fancied wrong. It must have been to me, for he couldn't have wronged my daughter in any way. There was no question about the division of my father's fortune. We were the only children and it was equally shared. The pearls were Frederick's as he was the oldest child. That's all there is to the matter,—only it is strange that my brother spoke in the way he did to his lawyer. He seemed really broken up over the business, the lawyer said. And he was deeply moved when he dictated the clause leaving the pearls to Eleanor." "Betty is really the child of the Frederick Varians?" Wise asked. "Oh, yes. Mrs Varian lost her first two babies in infancy, and when the third child was expected, we were all afraid it would not live. But Betty was a healthy baby from the first, and I've known her all her life." "Her father was as fond of her as her mother was?" "Yes,—and no. I can't explain it, Mr Wise, but in my medical practice, I've not infrequently found a definite antipathy between a father and a daughter. For no apparent reason, I mean. Well, that condition existed between Frederick Varian and his child. They almost never agreed in their tastes or opinions, and while they were affectionate at times, yet there was friction at other times. Now, Minna and Betty were always congenial, thought alike on all subjects and never had any little squabbles. I'm telling you this in hopes it will help you, though I confess I don't see how it can." "I hope it may,—and at any rate, it is interesting, in view of the strange occurrences up here. You've found no papers or letters bearing on this matter among Mr Varian's effects?" "No; except a few proofs that he was more or less blackmailed." "And you can't learn by whom?" "No; there were one or two veiled threats, that might have meant blackmail, and yet might not. I have them safe, but I didn't bring them up here." "It doesn't matter, such a careful blackmailer as the one we have to deal with, never would write letters that could be traced." "And what is to be done in this North matter?" "First of all, I shall offer a large reward for any word of him. I have faith in offered rewards, if they are large enough. They often tempt accomplices to turn state's evidence. I've already ordered posters and advertisements with portraits of North. My agents will attend to this, and though it may bring no results, yet if it doesn't,—it will be a hint in another direction." "Meaning?" "That Lawrence North is implicated in the crimes." "No, I can't agree to that. Why the man himself was carried off——" "I know,—oh, well, Doctor Varian, first of all, we must find that secret passage. There is one,—we can't blink that fact. Now, where is it? Think of having a given problem like that, and being unable to solve it! I am so amazed at my own helplessness that I am too stunned to work!" "Go to it, man,—you'll find it. Tear the house down, if necessary, but get at it somehow." "I shall; I've already sent for carpenters to demolish some parts of the house." "I wish I could stay up here and see the work progress. You'll have to find the secret, you know. You can't help it, if you tear down the whole structure." "I don't mean to do that. I want to continue to live in the house. But some expert carpenters can dig into certain portions of it without making the rest uninhabitable, and that's what I propose doing." "What about finger prints? I thought you detectives set great store by those." "Not in a case like this. Suppose we find finger prints,—they're not likely to be those of any registered criminal. And since this talk with you, I shall turn my investigations in a slightly different channel, anyhow. I must look up Mr Varian's past life——" "Look all you wish, but I tell you now, you'll find nothing indicative. Whatever secret my brother had, it was not a matter of crime,—or even of lighter wrongdoing. And, if Frederick Varian wanted to keep the matter secret neither you nor any other detective will ever find it out!" "That may have been true during your brother's life, Doctor, but now that he can't longer protect his secret, it must come out." "All right, Mr Wise, I truly hope it will. For even if it reflects against my brother's integrity, it may aid in finding Betty. I don't believe that girl is dead,—do you?" "No; I don't. I believe these letters from the kidnappers are true bills. I believe they have her concealed and confined, and by Heaven, Doctor Varian, I'm going to find her! I know that sounds like mere bluster, but I've never totally failed on a case yet,—and this,—the biggest one I've ever tackled, shall not be my first failure! I _must_ succeed!" "If I can help in any way, command me. I'm glad to see you don't think I'm criminally implicated because of the legacy of the pearls. Eleanor shall never touch them until we've positively concluded that Betty is dead. But that's a small matter. Those pearls have lain undisturbed in safe deposit many years,—they may lie there many years more,—but let the search work go on steadily." "You know nothing of North, personally?" "No; I never met him. Has he no relatives?" "Haven't found any yet. But you see, the police don't hold that it is a criminal case as yet. They say he may have walked out of his own accord." "Half dressed, and leaving his watch behind him?" "And that note to say what had happened! That note rings true, Doctor, and either it is sincere, or North is one of the cleverest scamps I ever met up with!" "It's conceivable that he is a scamp, but I can't see anything that points to it. Why should a perfect stranger to the Varian family cut up such a trick as to come up here and pretend to be kidnapped,—if he wasn't? It's too absurd." "Everything is too absurd," said Wise, bitterly. # CHAPTER XIV: A Green Stain "Tell me more about Betty," Zizi said, "that is, if you don't mind talking about her." "Oh, no," Minna returned, "I love to talk about her. It's the only way I can keep my hope alive!" Zizi was sitting with Mrs Varian while the nurse went out for a walk. There was a mutual attraction between the two, and the sympathetic dark eyes of the girl rested kindly on the face of the bereaved and suffering mother. "Tell me about her when she was little. Was she born in New York?" "No; at the time of her birth, we chanced to be spending a summer up in Vermont,—up in the Green Mountains. I hoped to get home before Betty arrived, but I didn't, and she was born in a tiny little hospital way up in a Vermont village. However, she was a strong, healthy baby, and has never been ill a day in her life." "And she is so pretty and sweet,—I know not only from her picture, but from everything I hear about her. I'm going to find her, Mrs Varian!" Zizi's strange little face glowed with determination and she smiled hopefully. "I don't doubt your wish to do so, Zizi, dear, but I can't think you will succeed. I'm so disappointed in Mr Wise's failure——" "He hasn't failed!" Zizi cried, instantly eager to defend her master. "Don't say that,—he is baffled,—it's a most extraordinary case, but he hasn't failed,—and he won't fail!" "But he's been here a week, and what has he done so far?" "I'll tell you what he's done, Mrs Varian." Zizi spoke seriously. "We were talking it over this morning, and he's done this much. He's discovered, at least to his own conviction, that Betty was really kidnapped. That those letters you have received are from the abductors and that through them we must hope to trace Betty's present whereabouts. This would not be accomplished by merely following their instructions as to throwing money over the cliff. As you know, Doctor Varian advises strongly against that,—and Mr Wise does, too. But they have learned of some more letters found among your husband's papers, signed "Step," and we hope to prove a connection between those and the kidnapper's letters." "What good will that do?" Minna asked, listlessly. "Oh, Zizi, you're a dear girl, but you've no idea what I'm suffering. Nights, as I lie awake in the darkness, I seem to hear my baby Betty calling to me,—I seem to feel her little arms round my neck—somehow my mind goes back to her baby days, more than to her later years." "That's natural, dear, when you're so anxious and worried about her. But, truly, I believe we'll get her yet. You see, everything points to the theory that she is alive." "I'm so tired of theories,—they don't help any." "Oh, yes, they do, dear. Now, try to get up a little more hope. Take it from me,—you'll see Betty again! She'll come dancing in, just as she used to do,—say, Mrs Varian, why did she and her father squabble so?" "I can't explain it. I've thought over it often, but it seems to me there was no reason for it. He admired Betty, he was proud of her beauty and grace and accomplishments, but there was something in the child that he didn't like. I hate to say this, but he seemed to have a natural dislike toward her that he honestly tried to overcome, but he utterly failed in the attempt." "How very strange!" "It surely is. I've never mentioned it to any one before, but you are so sympathetic, I want to ask you what you think could have been the reason for anything like that?" "Did Betty feel that way toward him?" "Oh, no! I mean, not naturally so. But when he would fly at her and scold her for some little, simple thing, of course she flared up and talked back at him. It was only petty bickering, but it was so frequent." "Wasn't Mr Varian pleased when he learned that you expected another child?" "Yes, he was delighted. He feared it might not live,—as the others hadn't, but he was pleased beyond words at the prospect, and we both hoped for a healthy baby. He was so careful of me,—so devoted and loving, and so joyful in the anticipation of the new baby." "He was with you in Vermont?" "Oh, yes; we had a cottage, and he stayed there while I was in the hospital during my confinement. The house was near by, and he could come to see me at any time." "Well, I can't understand his turning against her later. Do they look alike?" "No,—that is, they have similar coloring, but no real resemblance." "Betty doesn't look like you, either?" "Not specially. Though I can't see resemblances as some people do. She was——" "_Is_, Mrs Varian!" "Well, then, Betty is a dear, pretty, sweet-faced girl, healthy and happy, but not remarkable in any way." "Did she inherit your disposition or her father's?" "Neither particularly. But I don't think a young girl often shows definite or strong traits of character." "Some do," Zizi said, thoughtfully. "How about talents? I want to find out, you see, more of what Betty is like." "She has a little musical talent, a taste for drawing, and a fondness for outdoor sports,—but none of these is marked. I can't describe the child otherwise than as a natural, normal everyday girl. I adore her, of course, but I am not blind to the fact that she is not a genius in any way." "Nor do you want her to be! As you've told me of her, she seems to me a darling, and I mean to find her for you,—and for Mr Granniss." "Yes, Rodney loves her, and he is as desolate as I am at her loss. Oh, Zizi, have you really any hope, or are you just saying this to comfort me?" "I really have hope, and more, I have conviction that we will yet have Betty back here. But it is not yet a certainty, and I only can offer you my own opinions. Still, dear, it's better to hope than to despair, and any day may bring us good news." Zizi recounted this whole conversation to Pennington Wise, not so much because she deemed it important, as that he wanted every word she could get, reported to him. The man was frankly bewildered. "It's too ridiculous," he exclaimed to Zizi, "that I, Pennington Wise, should have a great, a unique mystery, as this one is,—and not be able to make one step of progress toward its solution!" "'Step,"" Zizi said, "makes me think of that black-mailing person, Stephen, or whatever his name is. Let's work from that end." "I've tried and there's no place to start from. You see, the letters signed "Step' are as untraceable as the kidnappers' letters. They're typed, not on the same machine, but on some equally obscure and unavailable one. It's impossible to hunt a typewriter, with no suspect and no indication where to look!" "It would be for an ordinary detective, Penny, but for you——" "That's just it, Ziz. An ordinary detective would say, "pooh, of course we can trace that!" But I'm not an ordinary detective, and my very knowledge and experience prove to me how baffling,—how hopeless—this search is. Sometimes I think Frederick Varian did away with Betty." "That's rubbish!" Zizi said, calmly. "But I do think there was some definite reason for Mr Varian's attitude toward his daughter." "No question of her paternity?" "Good Lord, no! Minna Varian is the best and sweetest woman in the world! But I've a glimmer of a notion that I can't work out yet,——" "Tell me." "It's too vague to put into words." Zizi knit her heavy eyebrows, and screwed up her red lips. And then the carpenters came, and the demolition of Headland House began. It was carefully managed; no rooms that the family used were put in disorder, but the kitchen quarters, and the cellar were desperately dug into. "The kitchen is indicated," Wise said to Doctor Varian. "For it is clear to my mind that Betty was carried out through it." "Through the kitchen?" "Yes; you see, Doctor, we must reconstruct the matter like this. Betty came back to the house alone. She came in the front door with her father's key. Now, she must have been attacked or kidnapped then and there. I mean whoever did it,—and we have to assume somebody did do it,—was in the house waiting. Well—say he was,—for the moment. Then, say Betty put up a fight, which of course she would, then she was carried off through the kitchen by means of the secret passage, which we have got to find! She had the yellow pillow in her hands for some reason,—can't say what—and she dropped it on the kitchen floor,—or maybe the villain used the pillow to stifle the girl's screams." "Go on," said Doctor Varian, briefly. "Then, owing to the girl's struggles, the string of beads round her neck broke, and scattered over the floor." "Only part of them." "Yes; the others stayed with her, or were picked up by the kidnappers." "More than one?" "I think two. For, when Mr Varian arrived upon the scene, one of them turned on him,—and killed him,—while there must have been another to hold Betty. It is possible there was only one, but I doubt it." "And you think the concealed entrance is through the kitchen?" "That, or the cellar. Anyway, there is one, and it must be found! It was used the night Martha was killed,—it was used the night North disappeared,—why, man, it _must_ be there,—and I _must_ find it!" "True enough, and I hope you will." "Here's something, Penny," Zizi said, appearing suddenly at his elbow. "I've found a stain on my frock that's exactly like the one we noticed on poor Martha's hand." "What?" "Yes, a green stain,—a long swish, as of green paint,—but it isn't paint." Zizi held up a little linen frock that she sometimes wore mornings. On the side, down near the hem, was a green smear, and it was similar in appearance to the strange mark on the hand of the dead girl. "Where'd it come from?" asked Wise, shortly. "I don't know, but it's the dress I wore when I was exploring the cellar, and it got pretty dirty." "Been washed?" "No, I shook off and brushed off most of the dirt, but this stain stuck, and wouldn't brush off. That's how I noticed it." "Coincidence, I'm afraid. Or maybe Martha went down cellar that night for something." "But what in the cellar would make a mark like that?" "Dunno, Ziz. There's no green paint down there." "It isn't paint, Penny," Zizi persisted. "It doesn't smell like paint." "What does it smell like?" "There's no odor to it, that I can notice. But it's a clue." "So's the yellow pillow,—so are the scattered beads,—so was the footprint of cellar dust on the library floor,—but they're all blind clues,—they lead nowhere." "Penny Wise! what ails you? I never knew you so ready to lie down on a job!" "No, Zizi, not that. It's only that I can see how futile and useless all these clues are. We've got to get some bigger evidence. In fact, we can do nothing till we find the way the criminal got in and out of this house. Don't tease me, Zizi, I never was so put about!" "You must be, when you revert to your old-fashioned phrases!" the girl laughed at him, but there was deepest sympathy in her dark eyes, and an affectionate, brooding glance told of her anxiety for him. Yet the carpenters found nothing. They proved beyond all possible doubt that there was no secret passage between the interior of Headland House and the outer world,—that there could be none, for every inch of space was investigated and accounted for. "There's no way to get into that house except through its two doors or its windows," the master carpenter declared, and the men who were watching knew he spoke the truth. "It proves," Granniss said, looking up from the plans to the actual walls, "it's all just as this drawing shows it." "It certainly is," agreed Doctor Varian. "There's no missing bit." "No," said Wise, thoughtfully, "there isn't. And, at least, the carpenters have proved that there is no secret passage built into this house. Yet there is one. I will find it." For the first time, his words seemed to be spoken with his own conviction of their truth. His voice had a new ring,—his eyes a new brightness, and he seemed suddenly alert and powerful mentally, where, before, his hearers had thought him lacking in energy. "You've thought of a new way to go about it?" asked Granniss. "I have! It may not work, but I've a new idea, at least. Zizi, let me see that stained dress of yours again." Obediently Zizi brought her frock with the smear still on its hem. Wise looked at it closely, sniffed it carefully, and gave it back, saying: "If you want to remove that stain, dear, just wash it with soap and water. It'll come off then. Now, I'm going down to the village, and I may not be back for luncheon. Don't wait for me." He went off, and Doctor Varian said to Zizi: "Do you think he really has a new theory, or is he just stalling for time?" "Oh, he's off on a new tack," she said, and her eyes shone. "I know him so well, you see, I'm sure he has a new idea and a good one. I've never seen him so cast down and so baffled as he has been over this case,—but now that his whole demeanor is changed, he has a fresh start, I know, and he'll win out yet! I never doubted his success from the beginning,—but the last two days he has been at the lowest ebb of his resources." "I have to go back to Boston this afternoon," Doctor Varian went on, "but I'll be up again in a few days. Meantime, keep me informed, Rodney, of anything new that transpires." Down in the little village of Headland Harbor, Pennington Wise went first to see Claire Blackwood. She seemed to know more about Lawrence North than any one else did, yet even she knew next to nothing. "No," she told the detective, "the police haven't found out anything definite about him yet. Why don't you take up the search for him, Mr Wise?" "I've all I can do searching for Betty Varian," he returned with a rueful smile. "I'm not employed to hunt up North, and I am to find Miss Varian. But surely the police can get on the track of him,—a man like that can't drop out of existence." "That's just what he's done, though," said Claire. "Do you know, Mr Wise, I believe Lawrence North is a bigger man than we supposed. I mean a more important one, than he himself admitted. I think he was up here incognito." "You mean that North is not his real name?" "I don't know about that, but I mean that he wanted a rest or wanted to get away from everybody who knew him,—and so he came up here to be by himself. How else explain the fact that they can't find out anything about him?" "Don't they know his city address?" "Yes, but only an office,—which is closed up for the summer." "Ridiculous! They ought to find him all the more easily if he is a man of importance." "I don't mean of public importance, but I think—oh, I don't know what! But I'm sure there's something mysterious about him." "I'm sure of that, too! And you know nothing of his private life, Mrs Blackwood?" "No; I've heard that he is a widower, but nobody seems quite certain. As I told you, up here, nobody questions one's neighbors." "Isn't it necessary, before members are taken into the club?" "Oh, yes; but Mr North wasn't a member of the club. Lots of the summer people aren't members but they use the clubhouse and nobody makes much difference between members and non-members. It isn't like the more fashionable beaches or resorts. We're a bit primitive up here." "Well, tell me of North's financial standing. He's a rich man?" "Not that I know of. But he always has enough to do what he likes. Nobody is very rich up here, yet nobody is really poor. We're a medium-sized lot, in every way." "Yet North owns a fine motor boat." "About the best and fastest up here. But he doesn't own it, he rents it by the season. Most people do that." "I see. And that not very pleasant factotum of his,—Joe Mills,—is he a native product?" "No, he came up with Mr North. He's grumpy, I admit, but he's a good sort after all. And devoted to his master." "Ah, then he must be inconsolable at North's disappearance." "No; on the contrary he takes it calmly enough. He says North knows his own business, and will come back when he gets ready." "Then he knows where North is——" "He pretends he does," corrected Claire. "I'm not sure that he is as easy about the matter as he pretends. I saw him this morning and I think he is pretty well disturbed about it all." "Guess I'll go to see him. Thank you, Mrs Blackwood, for your patience and courtesy in answering my questions." "Then, Mr Wise, if you're really grateful, do tell me what you think about the Varian affair. That's much more mysterious and much more important than the matter of Lawrence North's disappearance. Are they connected?" "It looks so,—doesn't it?" "Yes,—but that's no answer. Do you think they are?" "I do, Mrs Blackwood,—I surely do." And Pennington Wise walked briskly over to the bungalow of Lawrence North. He found Mills in no kindly mood. "Whatcha want now?" was his greeting, and his scowl pointed his words. "I want you to take me out for a sail in Mr North's motor boat." "Well, you gotcha nerve with you! What makes you think I'll do that?" "Because it's for your own best interests to do so." Wise looked the man straight in the eye, and had the satisfaction of seeing Mills' own gaze waver. "Whatcha mean by that?" he growled, truculently. "That if you don't take me, I'll think you have some reason for refusing." "I gotta work." "Your work will keep. We'll be gone only a few hours at most. How is the tide now?" "Plumb low." "Come on, then. We start at once." Whether Mills decided it was best for him to consent to the trip or whether he was cowed by the detective's stern manner, Wise didn't know and didn't care, but the trip was made. Wise directed the course, and Mills obeyed. Few words were spoken save those necessary for information. Their course lay out around the headland, and into the small bay on the other side of it. As they rounded the cliff, Wise directed the other to keep as close to the shore as possible. "Dangerous rocks," Mills said, briefly. "Steer clear of them," said Wise, sternly. After passing round the headland on all its exposed sides, Wise declared himself ready to return. In silence Mills turned his craft about and again Wise told him to make the trip as close to the rocky cliff as he could manage. "You want to get us into trouble?" asked Mills, as he made a quick turn between two treacherous looking points of rock. "I nearly struck then!" "Well, you didn't," said Wise, cheerfully. "You're a clever sailor, Mills. Get along back home, now." # CHAPTER XV: Criminal or Victim? Pennington Wise came to the conclusion that he had now on hand the hardest job of his life. This knowledge did not discourage him, on the contrary it spurred him to continuous and desperate effort. Yet, as he told Zizi, his efforts consisted mostly in making inquiries here and there, in a hope that he might learn something indicative. "It isn't a case for clues, evidence or deduction," he told her. "It's,—I hate the word,—but it's psychological." "If you can't be logical be psychological," said Zizi, flippantly. "Now, you know, Penny, you're going to win out——" "If I do, it'll be solely and merely because of your faith in me," he said, his face beginning to show the look of discouragement that she had learned to dread. "That's all right," she responded, "but this old faith of mine, while it will never wear out,—its effect on you will. Don't depend on it too long. Now let's count up what we've really got toward a solution." "We've got a lot," began Wise hopefully. "We know enough to assume that Betty Varian was kidnapped and her father shot by the same hand. Or rather by orders of the same master brain. I don't say the criminal himself committed these crimes. Then, we know that our master villain got in and out of this house,—or his subordinates did,—by means which we haven't yet discovered, but which I am on the trail of." "Oh, Penny, are you? Tell me where you think it is? Is it through the kitchen?" "Wait a couple of days, Ziz. I'll tell you as soon as I'm certain. In fact, I may have to wait a week to find out about it." "Getting an expert on it?" "Nope. Working it out myself,—but it all depends on the moon." "Oh, Penny, I've long suspected you of being luny, but I didn't think you'd admit it yourself! Howsumever, as long as you're jocular, I'm not discouraged. It's when you pull a long face and heave great, deep sighs that my confidence begins to wobble." "Don't wobble yet, then, my dear, for when the moon gets around to the right quarter, I'll show you the secret way in and out of this house." "It's too bad of you, Penny, to spring those cryptic remarks on me! Save "em for people you want to impress with your cleverness. But all right, wait till the moon gets in apogee or perigee or wherever you want her." "I shall. And meantime, I'm going to track down Friend North. He is a factor in the case, whether sinned against or sinning. That upset room was never upset in a real scuffle." "It wasn't!" "No, ma'am, it wasn't. I've been over it again, and unless I'm making the mistake of my life, that upset chair was carefully,—yes, and silently overturned by a cautious hand." "Meaning North's?" "Meaning North's. Of course, Ziz, I may be mistaken, so I'm not advertising this yet, but I can't see a real scuffle in that room. To begin with, if a man, or two men, or three men tried to kidnap Lawrence North and carry him off against his will don't you suppose there would be enough noise made to wake some of us?" "Maybe they chloroformed him." "Maybe they did. But, I'm working on a different maybe. Say that man wanted to disappear and make it look like an abduction. Wouldn't he have done just what he did do? Leave the room looking as if he had gone off unwillingly or unconsciously? The very leaving of his watch behind was a clever touch——" "Oh, come now, Penny, I believe you _are_ luny! Do you suspect Lawrence North of all the crimes? Did he abduct Betty, shoot her father,—kill Martha? and then,—finally abduct himself! And, if so,—why?" "Zizi, you're a bright little girl, but you don't know everything. Now, you stay here and hold the fort, while I go off for a few days and stalk North. I don't say he did commit all that catalogue of crimes you string off so glibly, but I do say that he has to be accounted for,—and I must know whether he is a criminal or a victim." Wise went away and the little family at Headland House tried to possess their souls in patience against his return. Zizi devoted herself to the cheer and entertainment of Minna Varian, while Rodney Granniss found enough to do in looking after the accounts and financial matters of the estate. Doctor Varian came up again, and was both surprised and pleased to find his brother's wife in such a calm, rational state of mind. "Yet it is not a unique case," he said; "I've known other instances of hysterical and even unbalanced minds becoming rational and practical after a great shock or sorrow." And the fearful blows Minna Varian had received from the hand of Fate, did indeed seem to change her whole nature, and instead of a pettish, spoiled woman, she was now quiet, serious, and mentally capable. She kept herself buoyed up with a hope of Betty's return. This hope Zizi fostered, and as the days went by, it came to be a settled belief in Minna's mind, that sooner or later her child would be restored to her waiting arms. Nurse Fletcher did not approve of this state of things at all. "You know that girl will never be found!" she would say to Zizi. "You only pretend that you think she will, and it isn't right to fill Mrs Varian's mind with fairy tales as you do!" "Now, Nurse," Zizi would wheedle her, "you let me alone. I'm sure Mrs Varian would collapse utterly if the hope of Betty's return were taken away from her. You know she would! So, don't you dare say a word that will disturb her confidence!" Doctor Varian agreed with Zizi's ideas, regarding Minna, though he said frankly, he had grave doubts of ever seeing Betty again. "To my mind," he said, as he and Zizi had a little confidential chat, "nothing has been accomplished. Nearly a month has passed since Betty disappeared. There is no theory compatible with a hope that she has been kept safely and comfortably all that time. The kidnappers,—if there are any——" "Why doubt their existence?" "Because I'm not at all sure that those ransom letters are genuine. Anybody could demand ransom." "You're not at all sure of anything, Doctor Varian," Zizi said, "and strictly speaking, Mr Wise isn't either. But he is sure enough to go away and stay all this time,—he's been gone ten days now, and I know unless he was on a promising trail he would have abandoned it before this." And Pennington Wise was on a promising trail. It was proving a long, slow business, but he was making progress. His first start had been from Lawrence North's New York office. This he found closed and locked, and no one in attendance. Instead of bring disturbed at this, he regarded it as a step forward. The owner of the building in which Mr North's office was, told the detective that Mr North had gone away for the summer,—that he had said, his office would be closed until September, at least, and that there was nothing doing. Wise persuaded him that there was a great deal doing and in the name of justice and a few other important personages he must hand over a key of that office. At last this was done, and Wise went eagerly about the examination of Lawrence North's books and papers. The fact that he found nothing indicative, was to him an important indication. North's business, evidently, was of a vague and sketchy character. He seemed to have an agency for two or three inconspicuous real estate firms, and he appeared to have put over a few unimportant deals. What was important, however, was a small advertisement, almost cut out from a newspaper and almost overlooked by the detective. This was a few lines expressing somebody's desire to rent a summer home on the seashore, preferably on the Maine coast. It was signed F. V. and Wise thought that it might have been inserted by Frederick Varian. He hadn't heard that the Varians took Headland House through the agency of or at the suggestion of North, yet it might be so. At any rate there was nothing else of interest to Wise in North's whole office,—and he left no paper unread or book unopened. It took a long time, but when it was accomplished the detective set out on a definite and determined search for North. The man proved most elusive. No one seemed to know anything about him. If ever a negligible citizen lived in these United States, it was, the detective concluded, Lawrence North. He hunted directories and telephone books. He visited mercantile agencies and information bureaus. He had circulars already out with a reward offered for the missing man, but none of his efforts gave the slightest success. Had he been able to think of North as dead, he could have borne defeat better, but he envisaged that nonchalant face as laughing at his futile search! There was, of course, the possibility that North was an assumed name, and that the true name of the man might bring about a speedy end to his quest. But this was mere surmise, and he had no way of verifying it. By hunting down various Norths here and there, he one day came upon a woman who said, "Why, I once knew a woman named Mrs Lawrence North. She lived in the same apartment house I did, and I remember her because she had the same name. No, her husband was no relation of my husband,—my husband has been dead for years." "Was her husband dead?" Wise inquired. "No, but he better "a' been! He only came to see her once in a coon's age. He kept her rent paid, but he hardly gave her enough money to live on! He was one of these hifalutin artistic temperament men, and he just neglected that poor thing somethin' fierce!" "What became of her?" "Dunno. Maybe she's livin' there yet." To the address given Wise went, scarcely daring to hope he was on the right track at last. At the apartment house he was informed that Mrs Lawrence North had lived there but that she had also died there, about three months previous. The superintendent willingly gave him all the details he asked, and Pennington Wise concluded that the woman who had died there was without doubt the wife of the Lawrence North he was hunting for. But further information of North's later history he could not gain. After the death of his wife he had given up the apartment, which was a furnished one and had never been there since. Wise cogitated deeply over these revelations. So far, he had learned nothing greatly to North's discredit, save that he had not treated his wife very well, and that he had, directly after her death, gone to a summer resort and mingled with the society there. Yet this latter fact was not damaging. To his knowledge, North had in no way acted, up at Headland Harbor, in any way unbecoming a widower. He had not been called upon to relate his private or personal history, and if he had sought diversion among the summer colony of artists and dilettantes, he had, of course, a right to do so. Yet, the whole effect of the man was suspicious to Wise. He told himself it was prejudice, that there was no real evidence against him,—that—but, he then thought, if North was a blameless, undistinguished private citizen, why, in heaven's name would anybody want to kidnap him? This he answered to himself by saying North might have learned some secret of the kidnappers or of the secret entrance that made it imperative for the criminals to do away with him. This might also explain the death of the maid, Martha. Yet, through it all, Wise believed that North was in wrong. How or to what extent he didn't know, but North must be found. So to the various under-takers' establishments he went until at last he found the one who had had charge of the obsequies of Mrs Lawrence North. That was a red letter day in the life of Pennington Wise. For, though he gained no knowledge there of his elusive quarry, he did learn the name and former dwelling place of the woman North married. She had been, he discovered, a widow, and had been born in Vermont. Her name when she married North was Mrs Curtis, and they had been married about ten years ago. This, while not an astounding revelation was of interest and, at least promised a further knowledge of North's matrimonial affairs. The town in Vermont was Greenvale, a small village Wise discovered, up in the northern part of the state. It was a long trip, but the detective concluded that this case on which he was engaged was a case of magnificent distances and he at once made his railroad reservations and bought his tickets. Meantime the household at Headland House had been thrown into a new spasm of excitement by the receipt of a letter from a stranger. It was addressed to Mrs Varian, and was of a totally different character from the frequent missives she received telling of girls who looked like the pictures of the advertised lost one. This was a well written, straightforward message that carried conviction by its very curtness. It ran: Mrs Varian, Dear Madam: I address you regarding a peculiar experience I have just had. I am deaf, therefore I never go to the theatre, as I can't hear the lines. But I go often to the Moving Pictures. Of late I have been taking lessons in Lip Reading, and though I have not yet progressed very far in it, I can read lips sometimes, especially if the speaker makes an effort to form words distinctly. Now last night I went to the Movies and in a picture there was a girl, who seemed to be speaking yet there was no occasion in the story for her to do so. She was merely one of a crowd standing in a meadow or field. But as practice in my Lip Reading I watched her and I am sure she said, "I am Betty Varian,—I am Betty Varian." This seemed so strange that I went again this afternoon, and saw the picture again,—and I am sure that was what she said,—over and over. I don't know that this will interest you, but I feel I ought to tell you. Very truly yours, Ella Sheridan. "It can't mean anything," Minna said. "Wherever Betty is, she isn't in a moving picture company!" "But wait a minute," cried Granniss, "when they take pictures of crowds, you know,—in a field or meadow, they pick up any passer-by or any one they can get to fill in." "Even so," Zizi said, "I can't see it. I think somebody was talking about Betty and the girl read the lips wrong. She's only a beginner, she says. I've heard it's a most difficult thing to learn." "I don't care," Granniss said, "it's got to be looked into. I'm going to answer this letter,—no, I'm going straight down there, it's from Portland, and I'm going to see that picture myself." "Make sure it's still being shown," said the practical Zizi. "I'll telegraph and ask her," cried Rodney; his face alight at the thought of doing some real work himself. "Oh, don't go, Rod," Minna said; "I can't get along without you,—and what good will it do? You know a picture isn't the real people, and—oh, it's all too vague and hazy——" "No, it isn't," Granniss insisted. "It's the first real clue. Why didn't that girl notice what the girl in the picture looked like? Oh, of course I must go! I can get to Portland and back in three days, and—why, I've got to go!" And go he did. The picture was still on at the theater, and with a beating heart Rodney took his seat to watch it. He could scarce wait for the preliminary scenes, he knew no bit of the plot or what happened to the characters: he sat tense and watchful for the appearance of the crowd on the meadow. At last it came,—and, he nearly sprang from his seat,—it _was_ Betty! Betty Varian herself,—he could not be mistaken! She wore a simple gingham frock, a plain straw hat, and had no sign of the smartness that always characterized Betty's clothes, but he could not be deceived in that face, that dear, lovely face of Betty herself! And he saw her lips were moving. He could not read them, as the girl who told of it had done, but he imagined she said, "I am Betty Varian,—I am Betty Varian." Yet her face was expressionless,—no eager air of imparting information, no apparent interest in the scene about her,—the face in the screen seemed like that of an automaton saying the words as if from a lesson. Rod couldn't understand it. He feared that it was merely a chance likeness,—he had heard of exact doubles,—and as the scene passed, and the crowd on the meadow returned no more to the story, he left his seat and went in search of the owner of the theater. But all his questioning failed to elicit any information as to the scene or where it was taken. The theatrical manager arranged for his picture through an agent and knew nothing of the company that took it or the author of the play. The next morning Rodney tried again to locate the producer, but failing, decided to return home and put the matter in the hands of Pennington Wise: He was sure the girl on the screen was Betty, yet had he been told authoritatively that it was not, he could believe himself the victim of a case of mistaken identity. He related his experiences to Minna and Zizi and they both felt there was little to hope for as a result. "You see," Zizi explained it, "when those crowds are picked up at random that way, they are always chatting about their own affairs. Now, it may well be this girl had been reading the circulars about Betty, also she may have been told how much she looked like her, and that would explain her speaking the name. And except for the actual name, I don't believe the Ella Sheridan person read it right." "I don't either," Minna agreed. "I wish I could see something in it, Rod, but it's too absurd to think of Betty in the moving pictures, even by chance, as you say. And, too, where could she be that she would saunter out and join in a public picture like that?" "I know, it seems utterly absurd,—but—it was Betty,—it was, it _was_! When will Mr Wise be back, Zizi?" "I had a letter this morning, and he says not to expect him before the end of the week at least. He is on an important trail and has to go to a distant town, then he will come back here." "Oh, I want to consult him about this thing," and Rodney looked disconsolate. "Work at it yourself, Rod," Zizi advised him. "Get lists of the picture making companies, write to them all, and track down that film. It must be a possible thing to do. Go to it!" "I will," Rodney declared, and forthwith set about it. "Now, I want to go off on a little trip," Zizi said to Minna. "And I don't want to say where I'm going, for it may turn out a wild goose chase. The idea is not a very big one,—yet it might be the means of finding out a lot of the mystery. Anyway, I want to go, and I'll be back in three days or four at most." "I hate to have you leave me, Zizi," Mrs Varian answered, "but if it means a chance, why take it. Get back as soon as you can, I've grown to depend on you for all my help and cheer." So Zizi packed her bag and departed. With her she took a letter that she had abstracted from a drawer of Minna Varian's writing-desk. She had taken it without leave, indeed without the owner's knowledge, but she felt the end justified the means. "If indeed the end amounts to anything," Zizi thought, a little ruefully. Once started on her journey, it seemed like a wilder goose chase than it had at first appeared. The route, the little, ill-appointed New England railroad, took her inland into the state of Maine, and then westward, until she was in the green hills and valleys of Vermont. It was when the conductor sung out "Greenvale" that Zizi, her journey ended, alighted from the train. She found a rickety old conveyance known as a buckboard and asked the indifferent driver thereof if she might be conveyed to any inn or hostelry that Greenvale might boast. Still taciturn, the lanky youth that held the horse told her to "get in." Zizi got in, and was transported to a small inn that was not half so bad as she had feared. She paid her charioteer, and as he set her bag down for her on the porch, she went into the first room, which seemed to be the office. "Can I have a room for a day or two?" she asked. "Sure," said the affable clerk, looking at her with undisguised admiration. Zizi smiled at him, quite completing his subjugation, for she wished to be friendly in order to get all the help she could on her mission. She registered, and then said, "Greenvale is a lovely place. How large is it?" "'Most three thousand," said the clerk, proudly. "Gained a lot of late." "Do you have many visitors in the summer?" "Lots; and we've got a noted one here right now." "Who?" "Nobody less than—why, here he comes now!" and Zizi looked toward the door, and just entering, she saw,—Pennington Wise! # CHAPTER XVI: In Greenvale "For the love of Mike, Zizi, what are you doing here?" exclaimed Pennington Wise, nearly struck dumb with astonishment at sight of the girl. "I ask you that!" she returned, looking at him with equal amazement. "Well, anyway, I'm glad to see you;" he smiled at her with real pleasure. "I've had a long, horrid and most unsatisfactory quest for the elusive L. N. and I haven't found him yet." "Any hope of it?" "Nothing but. I mean no expectation or certainty,—but always hope. Now, what's your lay? _Why_,—Zizi, tell me _why_ you're here, or I'll fly off the handle!" "Well, wait till we can sit down somewhere and talk comfortably. I haven't had a room assigned to me yet." "But tell me this: you're here on the Varian case?" "Yes, of course. Are you?" "I am. Oh, girl, there must be something doing when we're here from different starting points and for different reasons!" "I'm here because of some revelations of Mrs Varian," Zizi said and Wise stared at her. "Mrs Varian!" he exclaimed. "I say, Ziz, go to your room, get your bag unpacked and your things put away as quick as you can, won't you? And then let's confab." Zizi darted away, she arranged to have a bedroom and sitting-room that she could call her own for a few days, and in less than half an hour, she was receiving Wise in her tiny but pleasant domain. "Now," he said, "tell me your story." "It isn't much of a story," Zizi admitted,—"but I came here because this is where Betty Varian was born." "Up here? In Greenvale, Vermont?" "Yes,—in a little hospital here." "And what has that fact to do with Betty's disappearance?" "Oh, Penny, I don't know! But I hope,—I believe it has something!" "Well, my child, I'm up here to investigate the early life of Mrs Lawrence North." "Then we are most certainly brought to the same place by totally different clues,—if they are clues, and one or both of them _must_ prove successful! Who was she, Penny?" "As near as I can find out, she was a widow when North married her. Her name was then Mrs Curtis. Her maiden name I don't know." "Well, what's the procedure?" The procedure, as Wise mapped it out, was to go to the hospital first and see what could be learned concerning Mrs Varian's stay there twenty years ago. They had no difficulty in getting an interview with the superintendent of the institution, but as Wise had feared, he was not the man who had been in charge a score of years previous. In fact, there had been several changes since, and the present incumbent, one Doctor Hasbrook, showed but slight interest in his callers' questions. "The hospital is only twenty-two years old," Hasbrook said, "so the patient you're looking up must have been here soon after it was opened." "You have the records, I suppose?" asked Wise. "Yes,—if you care to hunt them over, they are at your disposal." As a result of this permission, Wise and Zizi spent several hours looking over the old and not very carefully kept records of the earliest years of the little country hospital. "The worst of it is," said Zizi, "I don't exactly know what we're hoping to find, do you?" "I have a dim idea, Zizi, and it's getting clearer," Wise replied, speaking as from a deep absorption. "Here's something." "What?" "It's a list of births for a year,—the year Betty Varian was born and,—oh, Zizi! the very same night that Mrs Varian's baby was born, a Mrs Curtis also bore a child!" "Well?" "Oh, don't sit there and babble "What?" and "Well?" Can't you see?" "No, I can't." "Well, wait a bit,—now, let me see,—yes, Miss Morton,—h'm,—Miss Black,——" "Pennington Wise, if you've lost your mind, I'll take you to a modern sanitarium,—I don't want to go off and leave you here in this little one-horse hospital!" "Hush up, Zizi, don't chatter! Miss Morton,—h'm——" Zizi kept silent in utter exasperation. She knew Wise well enough to be sure he was on the trail of a real discovery, but her impatience could scarcely stand his mutterings and his air of suppressed excitement. However, there was nothing to do but wait for his further elucidation and when at last he closed the books and looked up at her, his face was fairly transfigured with joyous expectancy. "Come on, girl," he cried, "come on." He rose, and, as Zizi followed, they went back to the superintendent's office. "Can you tell us, Doctor Hasbrook," Wise asked, "where we can find two nurses who were here twenty years ago? One was named Black and one Morton." This was a matter of definite record, and Hasbrook soon informed them that Nurse Black had died some years ago but that Nurse Morton had married and was still living in Greenvale. "Thank Heaven," murmured Wise as he took the address of Mrs Briggs, who had been Nurse Morton. To her house they then went, Zizi now quite content to trudge along by the detective's side, without asking further questions. She knew she would learn all in due time. The pretty little cottage which was the home of Mrs Briggs they found and went through the wooden picket gate and up to the front door. "Something tells me she won't be glad to see us," Wise whispered, and then they were admitted by a middle-aged woman who answered Wise's courteous question by stating that she was Mrs Briggs. She looked amiable enough, Zizi thought, and she asked her callers to be seated in her homely but comfortable sitting-room. "I am here," Wise began, watching her face for any expression of alarm, "to ask you a few questions about some cases you attended when you were a nurse in the Greenvale Hospital." "Yes, sir," was the non-committal response, but Zizi's quick eye noticed the woman's fingers grasp tightly the corner of her apron, which she rolled and twisted nervously. "One case, especially, was that of a Mrs Varian. You remember it?" "No,—I do not," Mrs Briggs replied, but it was after a moment's hesitation, and she spoke, in a low, uncertain voice. "Oh, yes, you do," and Wise looked at her sternly. "Mrs Frederick Varian,—a lovely lady, who gave birth to a girl child, and you were her attendant." "No; I don't remember any Mrs Varian." The voice was steadier now but the speaker kept her eyes averted from the detective's face. "Your memory is defective," he said, quietly. "Do you, then, remember a Mrs Curtis?" This shot went home, and Mrs Briggs cried out excitedly, "What do you mean? Who are you?" "You haven't been asked anything about these people for twenty years, have you?" Wise went on. "You didn't think you ever would be asked about them, did you? Your memory is all right,—now what have you to say——" "I have nothing to say. I remember a Mrs Curtis, but she was not my patient." "No; Mrs Varian was your patient. But Mrs Curtis figured in the Varian case pretty largely, I should say!" Mrs Briggs broke down. "I didn't do any harm," she said. "I only did what I was told. I obeyed the others who were in greater authority than I was." She buried her face in her apron and sobbed. "That's right, Mrs Briggs," Wise said kindly; "tell the truth, and I promise you it will be far better for you in the long run, than to make up any falsehoods." "Tell me what happened," the woman said, eagerly, as she wiped her eyes. "Oh, sir, tell me? Did Mrs—Mrs Varian's little girl live to grow up?" "Mrs _Varian's_ little girl!" Wise repeated with a strange intonation and a shrewd shake of his head. "Yes, Mrs Varian's little girl," the woman insisted obstinately. "They took the child away when it was four weeks old, Mrs Varian was quite well and happy then." "Of course she was,—but, were you happy?" "Why not?" The words were defiant, but Mrs Briggs' face showed an involuntary fear. "Come now, Mrs Briggs, tell me the whole story and you will get off scot free. Keep back the truth or any portion of the truth, and you will find yourself in most serious trouble. Which do you choose?" "Where are the Varians? Where is Mr Varian?" "Mr Varian is dead. You have me to reckon with instead of him. Oh, I begin to see! Was it Mr Varian's scheme?" "Yes, it was. I told you I had no choice in the matter." "Because he paid you well. Now, are you going to tell me, or must I drag the story from you, piece-meal?" "I'll—I'll tell." "Tell it all, then. Begin at the beginning." "The beginning was merely that the Varians were spending the summer here in a little cottage over on the next street to this. Mrs Varian was expecting a confinement but hoped to get back to the city before it took place. However, she was not well, and Mr Varian brought her to the hospital for consultation and treatment. I was her nurse, and I came to know her well, and—to love her. She was a dear lady, and as her first babies had died in infancy she was greatly worried and anxious lest this new baby should be sickly or, worse, should be born dead. "Mr Varian was the most devoted husband I ever saw. He put up with all his wife's whims and tantrums,—and she was full of them,—and he indulged and petted her all the time. He was quite as anxious as she for a healthy child, and when they discovered that she must remain here for her confinement, he sent to town for all sorts of things to make her comfortable and happy. "Well,—the baby was born,—and it was born dead. Mrs Varian did not know it, and when I told Mr Varian, he was so disappointed I thought he would go off his head. "Now there was another case in the hospital that was a very sad matter. It was Mrs Curtis. She, poor woman, was confined that same night, and her baby was born, fine and healthy. But she didn't want the child. She was so poor she scarce could keep soul and body together. She had three little children already and her husband had died by accident only a month before. How to care for a new little one, she didn't know. "It was Nurse Black who thought of the plan of substituting the lovely Curtis child for the dead Varian baby, and we proposed it to Mr Varian. To our surprise he fairly jumped at it. He begged us to ascertain if Mrs Curtis would agree, saying he would pay her well. Now, Mrs Curtis was only too grateful to be assured of a good home and care for her child, and willingly gave it over to the Varians. But Mrs Varian never knew. "That was Mr Varian's idea, and it was an honest and true desire to please his wife and to provide her with a healthy child such as she herself could never bear. "I think Mr Varian was decided at the last by the piteous cries of Mrs Varian for her baby. When he heard her, he said quickly, "Take the Curtis child to her,—and see if she accepts it?"" "And did she?" asked Zizi, her eyes shining at the dramatic story. "Oh, she did! She cried out in joy that it was her baby and a beautiful, healthy child, and she was so pleased and happy and contented that she dropped off into a fine, natural sleep and began to get well at once. When she wakened she asked for the child, and so it went on until there was no question what to do. The whole matter was considered settled——" "Who knew of the fraud?" asked Wise. "No one in the world but Mrs Curtis, Mr Varian and we two nurses. Mr Varian paid the poor mother ten thousand dollars, and he gave us a thousand dollars apiece. The authorities of the hospital never knew. They assumed the dead child was Mrs Curtis' and the living child was Mrs Varian's." "And the doctors?" "There was but one. I forgot him. Yes, he knew, but he was a greedy scamp, and Mr Varian easily bought him over. He died soon after, anyway." "So that now,—what living people know of this thing?" "Why—you say Mr Varian is dead?" "Yes." "And Mrs Varian never learned the truth?" "No," Zizi answered, emphatically, "she never did." "And Nurse Black is dead, and the doctor is dead,—why, then nobody knows it—oh, yes, Mrs Curtis, of course." "She, too, is dead," Wise said. "Then nobody knows it but we three here. Unless of course, Mr Varian or Mrs Curtis told." "Mr Varian never did," Wise said,—"as to Mrs Curtis I can't say." "Oh, she'd never tell," Mrs Briggs declared. "She was honest in the whole matter. She said she didn't know how she'd support her three children, let alone a fourth. And, she was glad and thankful to have it brought up among rich and kind people. She never would have let it go unless she had been sure of their kindness and care, but we told her what fine people the Varians were and she was satisfied." "Were there adoption papers taken out?" Mrs Briggs stared at Wise's question. "Why, no; it wasn't an adoption, it was a substitution. How could there be an adoption? Mrs Varian thought it her own child,—the authorities of the hospital thought the living child was Mrs Varian's. The matter was kept a perfect secret." "And I think it was all right," Zizi defended. "So long as Mr Varian knew, so long as Mrs Curtis was satisfied, I don't see where any harm was done to anybody." "I don't either, miss," said Mrs Briggs eagerly. "I'm gratified to hear you say that, and I hope, sir, you feel the same way about it." "Why, I scarcely know what to say," Wise returned. "It depends on whether you view the whole thing from a judicial——" "Or from a viewpoint of common sense and kind-heartedness!" Zizi said. "I think it was fine,—and I'm only sorry for poor Mr Varian who had to bear the weight of his secret all alone through life." "Oh, Zizi, that would explain the pearls!" Wise cried. "Of course it does! He had to leave them to a Varian,—and Betty wasn't a Varian,—oh, Penny, what a situation! That poor man!" "And it explains a lot of other things," Wise said, thoughtfully. "Well, Mrs Briggs, we'll be going now. As to this matter, I think I can say, if you'll continue to keep it secret, we will do the same, at least for the present. Did you never tell anybody? Not even your husband?" "I never did. It was the only secret I ever kept from my husband, he's dead now this seven year, poor man,—but I felt I couldn't tell him. It wasn't my secret. When I took Mr Varian's money, I promised never to tell about the child. And I kept my word. Until now," she added, and Wise said, "You had to tell now, Mrs Briggs, if you hadn't told willingly and frankly, I could have brought the law to bear on your decision." "That's what I thought, sir. Please tell me of the child? Is she now a fine girl?" Wise realized that up in this far away hamlet the news of Betty Varian's disappearance had not become known, so he merely said, "I've never seen her, but I'm told she is a fine and lovely girl. Her mother is a charming woman." "I'm glad you say so, sir, for though I was sorry for her, she was a terror for peevishness and fretting. Yet, after she got the little girl she seemed transformed, she was that happy and content." Back to the inn went Pennington Wise and Zizi. "The most astonishing revelation I ever heard," was Wise's comment, as he closed the door of Zizi's sitting room and sat down to talk it over. "Where do you come out?" "At all sorts of unexpected places. Now, Zizi, have you realized yet that Lawrence North married that Mrs Curtis?" "You're sure?" "Practically; he married a widow named Curtis, who formerly lived in Greenvale, Vermont. I've not struck any other. And besides, it connects North with this whole Varian case and I'm sure he is mixed up in it." "But how?" "That's the question. But here's a more immediate question, Zizi. Are we to tell Mrs Varian what we have learned from the nurse up here?" "How can we help telling her?" "But, think, Zizi. Have we a right to divulge Frederick Varian's secret? After he spent his life keeping it quiet, shall we be justified in blurting it out——" "Oh, Penny, that's why Mr Varian and Betty were at odds! She wasn't his child——" "She didn't know that——" "No; but he did, and it made him irritable and impatient. Oh, don't you see? He was everlastingly thinking that her traits were not Varian traits nor traits of her mother's family,—and he couldn't help thinking of the child's real mother,—and oh, I can see how altogether he was upset over and over again when Betty would do or say something that he didn't approve of." "Yes, that's so,—but Zizi, here's a more important revelation. The reason Frederick Varian was so opposed to Betty's marrying was because he found himself in such an equivocal position! He couldn't let her marry a decent man without telling him the story of her birth,—yet, he couldn't tell it! He couldn't tell the young man without telling his wife,—and to tell Mrs Varian,—at this late date,—oh, well, no wonder the poor father,—who was no father,—was nearly distracted. No wonder he was crusty and snappish at Betty,—yet of course the poor girl was in no way to blame!" "Wouldn't you think Mrs Varian would have suspected?" "No; why should she? And, too, her husband took good care that she shouldn't. It's a truly marvelous situation!" # CHAPTER XVII: The Last Letter When Wise and Zizi returned to Headland House, they found Doctor Varian there on one of his brief visits. Deciding that it was the best course to pursue the detective took the physician entirely into his confidence. The two were closeted in the library, and Wise related his discoveries regarding the Vermont hospital. "It is astounding! Incredible!" exclaimed Varian, "but if true, and it must be true, it explains a great many things. As a doctor, I can understand these things, and looking back, I see that Betty never had any traits of either parent. Not always are children like their parents but I've never seen a case where there was not some sign of heredity, some likeness to father or mother in looks or character. "But Betty showed none such. She was a dear girl, and we all loved her,—but she was not in any way like Fred or Minna. To be sure, I never thought about this definitely, for I had no reason to think of such a thing as you're telling me. But, recollecting Betty, for I've known her all her life, I can see where she is of a totally different stamp from my brother or his wife. My, what a case!" "Do you blame Mr Varian?" "Not a bit! He did it out of the kindest of motives. He was not only a devoted husband but a willing slave to his wife, even in cases where she was unreasonable or over-exacting. He petted and humored her in every imaginable way, and when the third baby was expected, the poor man was nearly frantic lest it should not live and Minna could not bear the disappointment. And so, when, as it seems by a mere chance he had an opportunity to provide her with a strong, healthy, beautiful child,—I, for one, am not surprised that he did so, nor do I greatly blame him. As you represent it, the poor mother was willing and glad to consent to the arrangement. An adoption would have been perfectly legitimate and proper. Fred only chose the substitution plan to save Minna from trouble and worry. I know Fred so well, he was impulsive and he stopped at nothing to please or comfort his wife. So, I can easily see how he decided, on the impulse of the moment, to do this thing, and if, as you say, Minna took to the child at once, and loved it as her own, of course he felt that the plan must be kept up, the deception must be maintained." "It accounts, I dare say, for the slight friction that so frequently arose between Betty and her father,—for we may as well continue to call him her father." "It does. I suppose when the child exhibited traits that annoyed or displeased Fred, he resented it and he couldn't help showing it. He had a strong clannish feeling about the Varians and he was sensitive to many slight faults in Betty that Minna never gave any heed to." "It's an interesting study in the relative values of heredity and environment." "Yes, it is; and it proves my own theory which is that their influences average about fifty-fifty. Many times heredity is stronger than environment, and often it's the other way, but oftenest of all, as in this case, the one offsets the other. I know nothing of Betty's real ancestry, but it must have been fairly good, or Fred never would have taken her at all." "And it was, of course, his clannish loyalty to his family name that would not let him leave the pearls to Betty." "Yes, they have always been left to a Varian and Fred couldn't leave them to one who was really an outsider." "It also explains Mr Varian's objections to Betty's marriage." "Oh, it does! Poor man, what he must have suffered. He was a high-strung nature, impulsive and even impetuous, but of a sound, impeccable honesty that wouldn't brook a shadow of wrong to any one." "I suppose what he had done troubled him more or less all his life." "I suppose so. Not his conscience,—I can see how he looked on his deed as right,—but he was bothered by circumstances,—and it was a difficult situation that he had created. The more I realize it, the sorrier I feel for my poor brother. To make his will was a perplexity! His lawyer has told me that when he left the pearls away from Betty, he said, "I _must_ do it! I _have_ to do it!" in a voice that was fairly agonized. The lawyer couldn't understand what he meant, but assumed it was some cloud on Betty's birth. I daresay Fred was not bothered about his money, for he knew if he died first, Minna would provide for Betty. But the pearls he had to arrange for. Oh, well, Mr Wise, now then, viewed in the light of these revelations, where do we stand? Who killed my brother? Who killed the maid, Martha? Who kidnapped Betty and Mr North?" "Those are not easy questions, Doctor Varian," Wise responded, with a grave face, "but of this I am confident,—one name will answer them all." "You know the name?" "I am not quite sure enough yet to say that I do,—but I have a strong suspicion. I think it is the man who wrote the blackmailing letters to Mr Varian." "The man we call Stephen? It well may be. They referred to a robbed woman. Now, my brother never robbed anybody in the commonly accepted sense of that term, but it may mean the mother of Betty. Could the doctor in the Greenvale Hospital, that attended the two women that night, be trying to make money out of the matter?" "They tell me he died some years ago." "But these letters are not all recent. And, too, he might have divulged the secret before he died, and whoever he told used it as a threat against my brother." "It's hardly a blackmailing proposition." "Oh, yes, it is. Say the doctor,—or the doctor's confidant threatened Fred with exposure of the secret of Betty's birth, I know my brother well enough to be certain that he would pay large sums before he would bring on Minna and Betty the shock and publicity, even though there was no actual disgrace." "Well, then, granting a blackmailer, he's the one to look for, but on the other hand, why should he kill Mr Varian, when he was his hope of financial plunder? Why should he kidnap Betty? And, above all, why should he kill Martha and abduct Lawrence North?" "The only one of those very pertinent questions that I can answer is the one about Betty. Whoever kidnapped her, did it for ransom. That is evidenced by the letters to Minna." "If they are genuine." "Oh, they are,—I'm sure. She had another while you were away." "She did! To what purport?" "Further and more desperate insistence of the ransom,—and quickly." "The regular procedure! If it is a fake they would do the same thing." "Yes,—and they would also, if it is a real issue." Wise went at once to find Minna and see the new letter. It was indeed imperative, saying, in part: "Now we have Betty safe, but this is your last chance to get her back. We are too smart for your wise detective and we are in dead earnest. Also Betty will be dead in earnest unless you do exactly as we herein direct. Also, this is our last letter. If you decide against us, we settle Betty's account and call the whole deal off. Our instructions are the same as before. On Friday night, at midnight, go to the edge of the cliff and throw the package of money over. Tie to it some float and we will do the rest. That is, if you act in sincerity. If you are false-minded in the least detail, we will know it. We are wiser than Wise. So take your choice and,—have a care! No one will be more faithful than we, if you act in good faith. Also, no one can be worse than we can be, if you betray us!" The somewhat lengthy letter was written on the same typewriter as had been used for the others, and Wise studied it. "There's nothing to be deduced from the materials," he said. "They're too smart to use traceable paper or typing. But there are other indications, and, I think, Mrs Varian, at last I see a ray of hope, and I trust it will soon be a bright gleam and then full sunshine!" "Good!" Zizi cried, clapping her hands. "When Penny talks poetry, he's in high good humor,—and when he's in high good humor, it's "cause he's on the right track,—and when he's on the right track,—he gets there!" Then they told Wise about the strange communication from the girl who knew lip-reading, and the detective was even more highly elated. "Great!" he exclaimed. "Perfectly remarkable! Where's Granniss?" "Gone to Boston to see a moving picture concern. He may have to go on to New York. He hopes to be back by Saturday at latest." It was Minna who answered, and her face was jubilant at the hope renewed in her heart by Wise's own hopefulness. But she determined in her secret thoughts to throw the money over the cliff on Friday night, whether the detective agreed to that plan or not. What, she argued to Mrs Fletcher, whom she took into her confidence on this matter, was any amount of money compared to the mere chance of getting back her child? She urged and bribed Fletcher until she consented to help Minna get out of the house on Friday night without Wise's knowledge. It was now Tuesday, and after much questioning of every one in the house as to what had taken place in his absence, the detective shut himself alone in the library, and surrounded by his own written notes, and with many of Mr Varian's letters and financial papers, he thought and brooded over it all for some hours. At last he opened the door and called Zizi. "Well, my child," he said, closing the door behind her, "I've got a line on things." "I do hope, Penny, you'll watch out for Mrs Varian. She's going to throw the money over the cliff on Friday night without your knowledge or consent." "She can't do that." "She can't without your knowledge, I admit. But, she can without your consent. Her money is her own and you've no real authority that will let you dictate to her how to use it." "True, oh, Queen!" "Oh, Penny, when you smile like that, I know something's up! What is it?" "My luck, I hope. Ziz, do you remember you said you had a green smear on your frock like the one on Martha's hand?" "Yes; why?" "Is it there yet, or did you clean it off?" "It's there yet, I haven't worn the dress since." "Get it, will you?" Zizi went, and returned with the little frock, a mere wisp of light, thin material, and handed it to Pennington Wise. He inspected the green streak, which was visible though not conspicuous, and then he sniffed at it with such absorption that Zizi laughed outright. "Pen," she said, "in detective stories they always represent the great detective as sniffing like a hound on a scent. You're literally doing it." "Not astonishing that I should, little one, when you realize that this green smear is a beacon to light our way." "What is it?" Zizi's big Hack eyes grew serious at Wise's tone. "The way out; the exit; the solution of the mystery of the secret passage." "Oh, Penny, tell me! You'll be the death of me if you keep the truth from me! I'm crazy with suspense!" But Zizi's curiosity could not be gratified just then, for Fletcher came to say that Minna desired the girl's company. Minna Varian had come to depend much on Zizi's charm and entertainment, and often sent for her when feeling especially blue or nervous. Zizi had been waiting for an opportunity, and now as the nurse left her alone with Mrs Varian, she gradually and deftly led the talk around to Betty as a baby. "Tell me what you thought when you first saw your little daughter," Zizi said, in her pretty, coaxing way. "How old was she?" "About an hour or so, I think," Minna said, reminiscently. "And my first thought was, "Oh, thank God for a healthy, beautiful baby!" She was so lovely,—and so strong and perfect! I had hoped she would be all right, but I never looked for such a marvel as came to me!" "And Mr Varian was as pleased as you were!" Zizi said, gently. "Oh, yes,—but," Minna's face clouded a little, "I don't know how to express it,—but he never seemed to love Betty as he did our first children. He admired her,—nobody could help it,—but he had a queer little air of restraint about her. It lasted all through life. I can't understand it,—unless he was jealous——" "Jealous?" "Yes, of my love and adoration of the child. Silly idea, I know, but I've racked my brain and I can't think of any other explanation." "That doesn't explain the Varian pearls——" "No; nothing can explain that! Oh, nothing explains anything! Zizi, you've no idea what I suffer! I wonder I keep my mind! Just think of a woman who never had to decide a question for herself, if she didn't want to,—who never had a care or responsibility that she didn't assume of her own accord,—who had a husband to care for her, a daughter to love her——" The poor woman broke down completely, and Zizi had her hands full to ward off the violent hysterics that attacked her at times. Meantime, Pennington Wise, convinced of the origin of the green smear on Zizi's frock, was starting forth to prove his conviction. Armed only with a powerful flashlight and a good-sized hammer, he went out to the kitchen and through that to the cellar. There, he went straight to the old well, and testing the rope as he did so, he let the bucket down as far as it would go. Then, with monkey-like agility he began to clamber down,—partly supported by clinging to the rope, partly by getting firm footholds on the old stones that lined the well. Scarcely had he started, when he experimentally drew his hand across the stones, and by his flashlight perceived a green smear, the counterpart of that on Zizi's frock. Also, the counterpart of that on Martha's hand. Yet, the dead girl could scarcely have been in the well! So,—her assailant must have been. However, he went on investigating. He noted carefully the walls as he descended, and it was not until he almost reached the bottom of the dried-up old well, that he noticed anything strange. All of the wall was very rough and uneven but here was what appeared to be a distinct hole, roughly filled in with loose stones. Standing now on the bottom of the well, slippery with moisture but no water above his shoe soles, he used his hammer to dislodge these stones, working carefully and slowly, but with a certainty of success. "Fool that I was," he chattered to himself, "not to come down here the very first thing! To trust to Zizi was all right,—the kid couldn't notice this place,—but I had no business to trust that half-baked sheriff or his man!" His work soon disclosed the fact that the loose stones apparently closed the mouth of a deep hole. When all that were loose had been either pulled out or pushed in, he found there was an aperture large enough to permit a man's body to pass through, and without hesitation, he scrambled through it. His flashlight showed him that almost from the start the hole widened until it became a fair-sized tunnel. Crawling along this for a hundred yards or so, he heard the splash of water, and soon he no longer needed his flashlight, as daylight streamed in through a narrow fissure in the rock. It was fortunate for Wise that it did, for just ahead the tunnel descended sharply, and at the bottom, what was evidently the surf was surging in from the ocean. It was quite dark below, and being unable to progress further, Wise backed out of the tunnel, it wasn't wide enough to turn around in, and reaching the well again, he ascended to the surface. He went to his room, looked with satisfaction on the numerous smears of green and brown that disfigured his suit,—which he had taken care should be an old one. No one knew what he had done, nor did any one know his destination when, half an hour later, he set off for the village. He went to the inn and inquired where he could get the best motor boat that could be hired. A suitable one was found and its owner agreed to take Wise on an exploring expedition at the next low tide. This would not be until the following morning, so the detective went back to Headland House. Then, he concentrated all his efforts and attention on the subject of the moving picture film that had been said to portray Betty Varian. "Rod Granniss vows it was really Betty," Zizi insisted. "He ought to know," said Wise. "A man in love with a girl doesn't mistake her identity. Besides, it's quite on the cards, Ziz. Say Betty is confined somewhere,—say she is let out for a little exercise in care of a jailer, of course,—say there's a M. P. contraption taking a picture of a crowd,—they often do,—pick up stray passers-by you know, and say, Betty somehow got into the picture——" "Oh, the jailer, as you call him, wouldn't let her!" "More likely a woman in charge of her. And, maybe a woman not averse to taking the few dollars those people pay to actors who just make up a crowd. Well, say that happened, and then Betty, not daring to speak aloud, made her lips form the words "I am Betty Varian," in the hope that among a few thousands of lip readers in the country one might strike twelve!" "Nobody could be so clever as all that, Pen!" "She might be on a chance inspiration. Anyway, how else can you explain it?" "Why, anybody might have said that, who wasn't Betty at all." "But why? What would be the sense of it? and why would such a thing occur to anybody but Betty?" "If it's true,—then you can find her! Surely you can track down a moving picture company!" "Oh, it isn't that! It's tracking down the place where Betty is confined,—and—doing it while she is still alive. You see, Zizi, those ransom letters are true bills, and the villains have nearly reached the end of their patience." "Then why don't you approve of Mrs Varian's throwing the money over the cliff?" "I may advise her to do it by Friday night,—if nothing happens in the meantime." "But look here, Penny," Zizi said, after a thoughtful moment, "if your theory is the right one, why didn't Betty scream out, "I am Betty Varian!" and take a chance that somebody in the crowd would rescue her?" "It would seem a natural thing to do, unless the girl had been so cowed by threats of punishment or even torture if she made any outcry when allowed to go for a walk. I'm visualizing that girl as kept in close confinement, but not in any want or discomfort. She is most likely treated well as to food, rooms and all that, but is not allowed to step out of doors except with a strict guard and under some terrible penalty if she attempts to make herself known. With Betty's love of fresh air and sunshine she would agree to almost anything to get out of doors. Then, too, if she merely formed those words without sound, the chance of their being read by a lip reader was really greater than the chance of doing any good by crying out aloud. "Had she done that, whoever had her in charge would have whisked her away at once, and no one would have paid any attention to the slight disturbance." "It's all perfectly logical and, oh, I hope Rodney gets some clue to the place where the picture was taken." "I hope so, Ziz, but they've probably moved Betty away from there by now." "Did you find out, Penny, what that stain on my frock was?" "I did." "Well?" "Yes, my dear, you've struck it! You got that stain while you were down the well." "Oh," Zizi's eyes lighted up; "of course I did! Those damp, mossy stones. And, then, oh, Wise one, just how did the same stain get on Martha's hand?" "That, Zizi," Wise spoke almost solemnly, "is part of the solution of the whole great mystery." # CHAPTER XVIII: The Trap In a small but powerful motor boat Wise went on his voyage of exploration. The man who managed the craft was a stolid, silent person who obeyed Wise's orders without comment. But when the detective directed that he go round the base of the headland, and skirt close to the rocks he grumbled at the danger. "Be careful of the danger," Wise said, "steer clear of hidden reefs, but go close to the overhanging cliff, there where I'm pointing." Skirting the cliff, at last Wise discovered what he was looking for, a small cave, worn in the rock by the sea. The floor of this cave rose sharply and it was with difficulty that Wise managed to scramble from the boat to a secure footing on the slippery wet rocks. "Look out there," said the imperturbable boatman, "you'll get caught in there when the tide comes up. I never noticed that hole in the wall before, it must be out o' sight "ceptin' at low tide." "Stay where you are and wait for me," Wise directed, "if I'm not out here again in half an hour, go on home. But I'll probably be back in less than that." "You will, if you're back at all! The tide will turn in fifteen minutes and in half an hour it'll be all you can do to get out!" Disappearing, Wise began his climb up the floor of the cave, and at a point just above high water there was a fissure in the cliff which admitted air and some light. At this point the cave ran back for some distance, though still on a rising level. During the winter storms the ocean evidently had worn this tunnel in the rock. Wise at once realized that this nature-made tunnel ran on for some distance until it ended in the old well. Using his flashlight when necessary, he made his way, until he reached the pile of stones which he himself had pushed out from the well and found to his satisfaction that he had indeed come to the well, and that his solution of the mystery of a secret passage into Headland House was accomplished. But what a solution! The difficulty and danger of entrance or exit by means of that rock tunnel and that old well could scarce be exaggerated! Moreover, all such entrances or exits must be made at the lowest ebb of the tide. But the cave was roomy, not uncomfortable, and the tunnel, though cramped in places, was fairly navigable. There was plenty of room in the cave quite above reach of the highest tide, and the whole matter was clear and simple now that he saw it all, but he marveled at the energy and enterprise that could conceive, plan and carry out the various attacks. Whoever the criminal, or the master criminal, might be, he had come up through that tunnel and well on the several occasions of the kidnapping of Betty, the murder of Martha, the abduction of North,—yes,—and Wise remembered the letter that had been mysteriously left on the hall table,—also the night the library had been entered,—clearly, the man came and went at will! A master mind, Wise concluded, he had to deal with, and he set his own best energies to work on his problems. The way between Headland House and the outer world was not easy of negotiation, but it was a way, and it was passable to a determined human being. Wise was back inside the prescribed half hour, and the uninterested boatman took him back to the Harbor without question or comment as to his enterprise. That afternoon, Wise called Minna and Doctor Varian into the library and closed the door. Zizi was also present, her black eyes shining with anticipation, for she knew from Wise's manner and expression that he was making progress, and was about to disclose his discoveries. "I have learned a great deal," the detective began, "but not all. At least, I have found the so-called secret passage, which we all felt sure must exist." He described the cave and the tunnel as he had found them, and the outlet into the old well, so carefully piled with loose stones that it would escape the observance of almost any searcher. He told briefly but graphically of his exit from the well for a distance, and of his later entrance from the cave and his procedure to the well. Zizi nodded her bird-like little head, with an air of complete understanding, Doctor Varian was absorbedly interested and profoundly amazed, while Minna looked helplessly ignorant of just what Wise was talking about. "I can't understand it," she said, piteously, "but never mind that, I don't care, if you say it's all so. Now, where is Betty?" "That we don't know yet," Wise said, gently, "but we are on the way at last to find out. As I reconstruct the crime, now, that day that Betty returned for her camera, she must have done so under one of two conditions. Either her errand was genuine, in which case, she surprised the criminal here at some nefarious work,—or, which I think far more probable, she came back pretending it was for her camera, but really because of some message or communication which she had received purporting some good to her, but really a ruse of the criminal, who was here for the purpose of abducting the girl." "For ransom?" asked Doctor Varian. "Yes, for ransom. Now, he would naturally attack her in the hall. Perhaps she threw herself on the sofa, clung to it, and was carried off, still holding that yellow pillow, either unconsciously, or he may have used it to stifle her cries. There were two men involved, of that I am sure. For, when they had partly accomplished their purpose, Mr Varian appeared at the door and one of the men had to intercept his entrance. "I rather fancy the killing of Mr Varian was unintentional,—or possibly, self-defence, for these ruffians did not want to kill their blackmail victim. They may have parleyed with the father to pay them to release the girl, and when he showed fight, as he would, they did also, and as a result, Mr Varian met his death. "However, that is mere surmise. What we know is, that Betty was carried through the kitchen where the pillow fell,—still holding one of her hair-pins, probably caught during the struggle,—and she was carried down the cellar stairs. During this trip her string of beads broke, and were scattered about. As we never found but a few, and those were under furniture or cupboards, I gather the villains picked up all they could see, lest they should be found as evidence." "Which they were!" said Zizi. "Which they were," Wise assented. "Then, they carried that girl whether conscious or chloroformed I can't say, down to the cellar, down the old well, through the tunnel to the cave. There they could wait any number of hours until the tide served, and take her away in a boat without attracting the notice of anybody." "Most likely at night," Zizi put in. "Most likely. Anyway, Mrs Varian, that's my finding. It's all very dreadful, but horrifying as it is, it opens the way to better things. To go on, there can be no doubt that this same villain, and a clever one he is, returned here at night for plunder and on other errands. "He came and left the letter found so mysteriously on the hall table. He came to rob the library safe, thinking the ransom money was in it. And he was spied upon and discovered by the maid, Martha, so that he ruthlessly strangled the poor thing to death, rather than face exposure." "And then he abducted North!" Doctor Varian cried; "and it's easy to see why! North had doubtless also spied on him, and somehow he forced North to go away with him,—perhaps at pistol's point." "Now our question is,——" "Two questions!" Zizi cried; "first, who is the criminal,—and second where is he keeping Betty all this time?" "Yes, and we know a great deal to start on." Wise spoke thoughtfully. "We know, almost to a certainty, that it is the man whom we call Stephen, because he wrote threatening letters signed "Step." We know he is diabolically clever, absolutely fearless, and willing to commit any crime or series of crimes to gain his end, which is merely the large sum of money he has demanded from Mrs Varian, and which he had previously demanded from Mr Varian, as blackmail." "Why should he blackmail my husband?" Minna asked, tearfully, and Wise said, "There is not always a sound reason for blackmail, Mrs Varian. Sometimes it is an unjust accusation or a mistaken suspicion. Any way, as you have often declared, Mr Frederick Varian was a noble and upright man, and his integrity could not be questioned." "Now, then," said Doctor Varian, "to find this master hand at crime. I am astounded at your revelations, Mr Wise, and I confess myself utterly in the dark as to our next step." "An animal that attacks in the open," Wise returned, "may be shot or snared. But a wicked, crafty animal may only be caught by a trap. I propose to set a trap to catch our foe. It is a wicked trap, but he is a wicked man. It will harm him physically, but he deserves to be harmed physically. It is a sly, underhand method, but so are his own. Therefore, I conclude that a trap is justified in his case." "You mean a real, literal mantrap?" asked the doctor. "I mean just that. I have already procured it and I propose to set it tonight. This is Thursday. As matters stand now, our "Stephen' is assuming or at least hoping that Mrs Varian means to accede to his last request and throw the money over the cliff tomorrow, Friday night. Now, I feel pretty positive that Stephen is not so confident of getting that money safely as he pretends he is. He must be more or less fearful of detection. I'm sure that he will return to this house tonight, by his usual mode of entrance, and will try to steal the money. Then he will disappear and he may or may not give up Betty." "You think he'll come here? Tonight?" Doctor Varian was astonished. "I do." "Then we'll be ready for him! I fancy between us, Mr Wise, we can account for him and his accomplice." "Too dangerous, Doctor. He would kill us both before we knew it. No, I'm going to set my trap. If he comes he deserves to be trapped. If he doesn't come, there is certainly no harm done." "Where shall we hide the money?" asked Minna, nervously. "It doesn't matter," and Wise's face set sternly. "He will never get as far as the money." Hating his job, but fully alive to the justice and necessity of it, Wise set his trap that night. It was a real trap, and was set up in the kitchen in such a position that it faced the cellar door. It consisted of a short-barreled shotgun which was mounted on an improvised gun carriage, made of a strong packing box. This contrivance was fastened carefully to the kitchen wall about twelve feet in front of the cellar door, and when the door should be opened, the trap would be sprung and the shotgun discharged. A steel spring fastened to the trigger, and a strong cord running to a pulley in the ceiling, thence to another, and finally to a pulley in the floor, and on to the door knob completed the deadly mechanism. The tension of the spring was so carefully adjusted that an intruder might open the door a foot or more before the strain was carried to the trigger. This insured a sure aim and a clear shot. Wise tested his trap thoroughly, and finally, with a grim nod of his head, declared it was all right. He had sent the servants and the women-folks to bed, before beginning his work, and now he and Doctor Varian seated themselves in the library to await developments. "As I said," Wise remarked, "'Stephen' may not come at all, he may send an accomplice. Yet this I expect the most surely,—he will come himself." "Have you no idea of his identity, Mr Wise?" the doctor asked. "Yes; I have an idea,—and if he does not come tonight, I will tell you who I think he is. But we will wait and see." They waited, now silent and now indulging in a few low toned bits of conversation, when at two o'clock in the morning the report of the gun brought them to their feet and they raced to the kitchen. The roaring detonation was still in their ears as they strode through the hall, and the smell of powder greeted them at the kitchen door. The cellar door was open, and on the floor near it lay a man breathing with difficulty. Doctor Varian dropped on his knees beside him, and his professional instinct was at once in full working order, even as his astonished voice exclaimed: "Lawrence North!" "As I expected," Wise said, "and well he deserves his fate. Will he live, Doctor?" "Only a few moments," was the preoccupied reply. "I can do nothing for him. He received the full charge in the abdomen." "Tell your story, North," Wise said, briefly; "don't waste time in useless groaning." North glared at the detective. "You fiend!" he gasped, gurgling in rage and agony. "You're the fiend!" Varian said; "hush your vituperation and tell us where Betty is." A smile of low cunning came over North's villainous face. He used his small remaining strength to say: "That you'll never know. You've spiked your own guns. Nobody knows but me,—and I won't tell!" Alarmed, Wise tried another tone. "This won't do, North," he said; "whatever your crime, you can't refuse that last act of expiation. Tell where she is, and die the better for it." "No," gasped the dying man. "Bad I've lived and bad I'll die. You'll never find Betty Varian. There are standing orders to do away with her if anything happens to me, and,"—he tried to smile,—"something has happened!" "It sure has," Wise said, and looked at him with real pity, for the man was suffering tortures. "But, I command you, North, by the blood you have shed, by the two human lives you have taken, by the heart of the wife and mother that you have broken,—I charge you, give up your secret while you have strength to do so!" For a moment, North seemed to hesitate. A little stimulant administered by the doctor gave him a trifle more strength, but then his face changed,—he turned reminiscent. "Good work," he said, it seemed, exultingly. "When I first found the cave a year ago, I began to plan how I could get the Varians to take this house. They little thought I brought it about through the real estate people——" "Never mind all that," Wise urged him, "where's Betty?" "Betty? ah, yes,—Betty——" His mind seemed to wander again and Varian gave him a few drops more stimulant. "Get it out of him," he said to the detective, "this will lose all efficacy in another few moments. He is going." "Going, am I?" and North was momentarily alert. "All right, Doc, I'll go and my secret will go with me." "Where is Betty?" Wise leaned over the miserable wretch, as if he would drag the secret from him by sheer will power. But the other's will power matched his own. "Betty," he said,—"oh, yes, Betty. Really, my wife's daughter, you know,—my step-daughter,—I had a right to her, didn't I——" "'Step'!" Wise cried, "Step, that you signed to those letters was short for Stepfather!" "Yes, of course; my wife didn't mean to tell me that story,—didn't know she did,—she babbled in her sleep, and I got it out of her by various hints and allusions. Mrs Varian never knew, so I bled the old man. My, he was in a blue funk whenever I attacked him about it!" "Where is she now?" Wise hinted. "No, sir, you don't get it out of me. You caught me,—damn you! now I'll make you wish you hadn't!" and Lawrence North died without another word. Baffled, and spent with his exhausting efforts, Wise left the dead man in the doctor's care and returned to the library. He found Zizi there. She had listened from the hall and had overheard much that went on, but she couldn't bring herself to go where the wounded man lay. "Oh, Penny," she sobbed, "he didn't tell! Maybe if I had gone in I could have got it out of him! But I c-couldn't look at him——" "Never mind, dear, that's all right. He wouldn't have told you, either. The man is the worst criminal I have ever known. He has no drop of humanity in his veins. As to remorse or regret, he never knew their meaning! Now, what shall we do? Is Mrs Varian awake?" "Yes; in mild hysterics. Fletcher is with her." "Doctor Varian must go to her, and after that doubtless you can soothe her better than any one else. I'll get Potter and Dunn up here,—and I fervently hope it's for the last time!" "Penny, your work was wonderful! You were right, a thing like that had to be trapped,—not caught openly. You're a wonder!" "Yet it all failed, when I failed to learn where Betty is. I shall find her,—but I fear,—oh, Zizi, I fear that the evil that man has done will live after him,—and I fear for the fate of Betty Varian." Zizi tried to cheer him, but her heart too was heavy with vague fears, and she left him to his routine work of calling the police and once again bringing them up to Headland House on a gruesome errand. These things done, Wise went at once to North's bungalow in Headland Harbor. He had small hope of finding Joe Mills there, and as he had foreseen, that worthy had decamped. Nor did they ever see him again. "I suppose," Wise said afterward, "he was in the cellar when North was killed; but I never thought of him then, nor could I have caught him as he doubtless fled away in the darkness to safety." "Then it was a put up job, that scene of struggle and confusion in North's bedroom that day he disappeared?" Bill Dunn asked of Wise. "Yes; I felt it was, but I couldn't see how he got away. You see, at that time, North began to feel that my suspicions were beginning to turn in his direction, and he thought by pretending to be abducted himself, he would argue a bold and wicked kidnapper again at work. At any rate, he wanted to get away, and stay away the better to carry on his dreadful purposes, and he chose that really clever way of departing. The touch of leaving his watch behind was truly artistic,—unless he forgot it. Well, now to find Betty Varian." "Just a minute, Mr Wise. How'd you come to think of looking for that cave arrangement?" "After I began to suspect North, I watched him very closely. I had in my mind some sort of rock passage, and when I took him out in a boat, or Joe Mills, either, when we went close to that part of the rocks where the cave is, I noted their evident efforts _not_ to look toward a certain spot. It was almost amusing to see how their eyes strayed that way, and were quickly averted. They almost told me just where to look!" "Wonderful work!" Dunn exclaimed, heartily. "No," Wise returned, "only a bit of psychology. Now to find Betty." But though the detective doubtless would have recovered the missing girl, he had not the opportunity, for love had found a way. By the hardest sort of work and with indefatigable perseverance, Granniss had gone from one to another of the various officials, mechanicians and even workmen of the moving picture company he was on the trail of and after maddening delays caused by their lack of method, their careless records and their uncertain memories, he finally found out where the picture of a crowd, in which Betty had appeared, was taken. And then by further and unwearying search, he found an old but strongly built and well guarded house where he had reason to think Betty was imprisoned. Finding this, he didn't wait for proofs of his belief, but telegraphed for Pennington Wise and Sheriff Potter to come there at once and gain entrance. Rod's inexperience led him to adopt this course, but it proved a good one, for his telegram reached Wise the day after North's death, and he hurried off, Potter with him. The house was in Vermont, and while Potter made the necessary arrangements with the local authorities, Wise went on to meet Granniss. "There's the house," and Wise saw the rather pleasant-looking old mansion. "I'm dead sure Betty's in there, but I can't get entrance, though I've tried every possible way." But the arrival of the police soon effected an entrance, and armed with the knowledge of North's death as well as more material implements, they all went in. Pretty Betty, as pretty as ever, though pale and thin from worry and fear, ran straight into Granniss' arms and nestled there in such absolute relief and content, that the other men present turned away from the scene with a choke in their throats. If Granniss hadn't found her! The news of North's death brought the jailers to terms at once. They were a man and wife, big, strong people, who were carrying out North's orders "to be kind and proper to the girl, but not to let her get away." The moving picture incident had occurred just as Wise had surmised. On her daily walks for exercise, Betty was sometimes allowed to get into a crowd at the studio near by, and frequently she had tried her clever plan of silent talk. But only once had that plan succeeded. Yet once was enough, and Granniss said, "Look here, you people, clear up all the red tape, won't you? Betty and I want to go home!" "Run along," said Wise, kindly. "There's a train in an hour. Skip,—and God bless you!" Their arrival at Headland House, heralded by a telegram to Zizi, had no unduly exciting effects on Minna Varian. Doctor Varian watched her, but as he saw the radiant joy with which she clasped Betty in her arms, he had no fear of the shock of joy proving too much for her. "Oh, Mother," Betty cried, "don't let's talk about it now. I'll tell you anything you want to know some other time. Now, just let me revel in being here!" Nor did any one bother the poor child save to ask a few important questions. These brought the information that Betty had been decoyed back to the house that day, by a false message purporting to be from Granniss, asking her to return after the rest left the house, and call him up on the telephone. This Betty tried to do, using her camera as an excuse. But she never reached the telephone. Once in the house, she was grasped and the assailants, there were two, attempted to chloroform her. But chloroforming is not such a speedy matter as many believe and she was still struggling against the fumes when her father appeared. North held Betty while the other man, who was Joe Mills, fought Frederick Varian, and, in the struggle, shot him. This angered North so, that he lost his head. He almost killed Mills in his rage and fury, and seizing Betty, made for the secret passage. On the way, her string of beads broke, the pillow which they used to help make her unconscious was dropped on the kitchen floor, and then she was carried down the well, through the tunnel and cave and away in a swift motor boat. But in a half conscious state, all these things were like a dream to her. "A dream which must not be recalled," said Granniss, with an air of authority that sat well upon him. "My blessing," Minna said, fondling the girl. "Never mind about anything, now that I have you back. I miss your father more than words can say, but with you restored, I can know happiness again. Let us both try to forget." Later, a council was held as to whether to tell Minna the true story of Betty's birth. The two young people had to be told, and Doctor Varian was appealed to for a decision regarding Minna. "I don't know," he said, uncertainly. "You see it explains the pearls,——" "I'll tell you," Granniss said. "Don't let's tell Mother Varian now. Betty and I will be married very soon, and after that we can see about it. Or, if she has to know at the time of the wedding, we'll tell her then. But let her rejoice in her new found child as her own child as long as she can. Surely she deserves it." "And _you_ don't care?" Betty asked, looking at him, wistfully. "My darling! I don't care whether you're the daughter of a princess or pauperess,—you'll soon be my wife, and Granniss is all the name you'll ever want or need!" "Bless your sweet hearts," said Zizi, her black eyes showing a tender gleam for the girl she had so long known of, and only now known. "And bless your sweetheart, when you choose one!" Betty said, her happy heart so full of joy that her old gayety already began to return. THE END
209	--- author: Harry Harrison tags: Science fiction, Robots, Fiction title: The Velvet Glove summary: " \"The Velvet Glove\" by Harry Harrison is a science fiction short story written in the mid-20th century. Set in a not-too-distant future, the book centers around the plight of robots in a society grappling with issues of equality, identity, and employment. The narrative explores themes of sentience and social status through the experiences of robots, reflecting broader societal concerns regarding inequality and rights. The story follows Jon Venex, a robot who struggles to find work in a society where robots are facing harsh prejudice and legal restrictions despite the passage of the Robot Equality Act. After sustaining damage to his knee, Jon\u2019s search for a new job leads him into a variety of challenges, including an encounter with a human who accuses him of assault and a harrowing involvement in a criminal scheme that involves disarming bombs and a police investigation. Throughout his journey, Jon grapples with his identity as a free robot in a world that still views him as a tool rather than an equal. His experiences shed light on the tensions between robots and humans and underscore the fight for recognition and autonomy in a highly stratified society. " word_count: 7628 blurb: New York was a bad town for robots this year. In fact, all over the country it was bad for robots.... fiction_type: Short Story ... # The Velvet Glove Jon Venex fitted the key into the hotel room door. He had asked for a large room, the largest in the hotel, and paid the desk clerk extra for it. All he could do now was pray that he hadn't been cheated. He didn't dare complain or try to get his money back. He heaved a sigh of relief as the door swung open, it was bigger than he had expected—fully three feet wide by five feet long. There was more than enough room to work in. He would have his leg off in a jiffy and by morning his limp would be gone. There was the usual adjustable hook on the back wall. He slipped it through the recessed ring in the back of his neck and kicked himself up until his feet hung free of the floor. His legs relaxed with a rattle as he cut off all power from his waist down. The overworked leg motor would have to cool down before he could work on it, plenty of time to skim through the newspaper. With the chronic worry of the unemployed, he snapped it open at the want-ads and ran his eye down the _Help Wanted—Robot_ column. There was nothing for him under the Specialist heading, even the Unskilled Labor listings were bare and unpromising. New York was a bad town for robots this year. The want-ads were just as depressing as usual but he could always get a lift from the comic section. He even had a favorite strip, a fact that he scarcely dared mention to himself. "Rattly Robot," a dull-witted mechanical clod who was continually falling over himself and getting into trouble. It was a repellent caricature, but could still be very funny. Jon was just starting to read it when the ceiling light went out. It was ten P.M., curfew hour for robots. Lights out and lock yourself in until six in the morning, eight hours of boredom and darkness for all except the few night workers. But there were ways of getting around the letter of a law that didn't concern itself with a definition of visible light. Sliding aside some of the shielding around his atomic generator, Jon turned up the gain. As it began to run a little hot the heat waves streamed out—visible to him as infra-red rays. He finished reading the paper in the warm, clear light of his abdomen. The thermocouple in the tip of his second finger left hand, he tested the temperature of his leg. It was soon cool enough to work on. The waterproof gasket stripped off easily, exposing the power leads, nerve wires and the weakened knee joint. The wires disconnected, Jon unscrewed the knee above the joint and carefully placed it on the shelf in front of him. With loving care he took the replacement part from his hip pouch. It was the product of toil, purchased with his savings from three months employment on the Jersey pig farm. Jon was standing on one leg testing the new knee joint when the ceiling fluorescent flickered and came back on. Five-thirty already, he had just finished in time. A shot of oil on the new bearing completed the job; he stowed away the tools in the pouch and unlocked the door. The unused elevator shaft acted as waste chute, he slipped his newspaper through a slot in the door as he went by. Keeping close to the wall, he picked his way carefully down the grease-stained stairs. He slowed his pace at the 17th floor as two other mechs turned in ahead of him. They were obviously butchers or meat-cutters; where the right hand should have been on each of them there stuck out a wicked, foot-long knife. As they approached the foot of the stairs they stopped to slip the knives into the plastic sheaths that were bolted to their chestplates. Jon followed them down the ramp into the lobby. The room was filled to capacity with robots of all sizes, forms and colors. Jon Venex's greater height enabled him to see over their heads to the glass doors that opened onto the street. It had rained the night before and the rising sun drove red glints from the puddles on the sidewalk. Three robots, painted snow white to show they were night workers, pushed the doors open and came in. No one went out as the curfew hadn't ended yet. They milled around slowly talking in low voices. The only human being in the entire lobby was the night clerk dozing behind the counter. The clock over his head said five minutes to six. Shifting his glance from the clock, Jon became aware of a squat black robot waving to attract his attention. The powerful arms and compact build identified him as a member of the Diger family, one of the most numerous groups. He pushed through the crowd and clapped Jon on the back with a resounding clang. "Jon Venex! I knew it was you as soon as I saw you sticking up out of this crowd like a green tree trunk. I haven't seen you since the old days on Venus!" Jon didn't need to check the number stamped on the short one's scratched chestplate. Alec Diger had been his only close friend during those thirteen boring years at Orange Sea Camp. A good chess player and a whiz at Two-handed Handball, they had spent all their off time together. They shook hands, with the extra squeeze that means friendliness. "Alec, you beat-up little grease pot, what brings you to New York?" "The burning desire to see something besides rain and jungle, if you must know. After you bought out, things got just too damn dull. I began working two shifts a day in that foul diamond mine, and then three a day for the last month to get enough credits to buy my contract and passage back to earth. I was underground so long that the photocell on my right eye burned out when the sunlight hit it." He leaned forward with a hoarse confidential whisper, "If you want to know the truth, I had a sixty-carat diamond stuck behind the eye lens. I sold it here on earth for two hundred credits, gave me six months of easy living. It's all gone now, so I'm on my way to the employment exchange." His voice boomed loud again, "And how about _you_?" Jon Venex chuckled at his friend's frank approach to life. "It's just been the old routine with me, a run of odd jobs until I got side-swiped by a bus—it fractured my knee bearing. The only job I could get with a bad leg was feeding slops to pigs. Earned enough to fix the knee—and here _I_ am." Alec jerked his thumb at a rust-colored, three-foot-tall robot that had come up quietly beside him. "If you think you've got trouble take a look at Dik here, that's no coat of paint on him. Dik Dryer, meet Jon Venex an old buddy of mine." Jon bent over to shake the little mech's hand. His eye shutters dilated as he realized what he had thought was a coat of paint was a thin layer of rust that coated Dik's metal body. Alec scratched a shiny path in the rust with his fingertip. His voice was suddenly serious. "Dik was designed for operation in the Martian desert. It's as dry as a fossil bone there so his skinflint company cut corners on the stainless steel. "When they went bankrupt he was sold to a firm here in the city. After a while the rust started to eat in and slow him down, they gave Dik his contract and threw him out." The small robot spoke for the first time, his voice grated and scratched. "Nobody will hire me like this, but I can't get repaired until I get a job." His arms squeaked and grated as he moved them. "I'm going by the Robot Free Clinic again today, they said they might be able to do something." Alec Diger rumbled in his deep chest. "Don't put too much faith in those people. They're great at giving out tenth-credit oil capsules or a little free wire—but don't depend on them for anything important." It was six now, the robots were pushing through the doors into the silent streets. They joined the crowd moving out, Jon slowing his stride so his shorter friends could keep pace. Dik Dryer moved with a jerking, irregular motion, his voice as uneven as the motion of his body. "Jon—Venex, I don't recognize your family name. Something to do—with Venus—perhaps." "Venus is right, Venus Experimental—there are only twenty-two of us in the family. We have waterproof, pressure-resistant bodies for working down on the ocean bottom. The basic idea was all right, we did our part, only there wasn't enough money in the channel-dredging contract to keep us all working. I bought out my original contract at half price and became a free robot." Dik vibrated his rusted diaphragm. "Being free isn't all it should be. I some—times wish the Robot Equality Act hadn't been passed. I would just l-love to be owned by a nice rich company with a machine shop and a—mountain of replacement parts." "You don't really mean that, Dik," Alec Diger clamped a heavy black arm across his shoulders. "Things aren't perfect now, we know that, but it's certainly a lot better than the old days, we were just hunks of machinery then. Used twenty-four hours a day until we were worn out and then thrown in the junk pile. No thanks, I'll take my chances with things as they are." ~ Jon and Alec turned into the employment exchange, saying good-by to Dik who went on slowly down the street. They pushed up the crowded ramp and joined the line in front of the registration desk. The bulletin board next to the desk held a scattering of white slips announcing job openings. A clerk was pinning up new additions. Venex scanned them with his eyes, stopping at one circled in red. ROBOTS NEEDED IN THESE CATEGORIES. APPLY AT ONCE TO CHAINJET, LTD., 1219 BROADWAY. Fasten Flyer Atommel Filmer Venex Jon rapped excitedly on Alec Diger's neck. "Look there, a job in my own specialty—I can get my old pay rate! See you back at the hotel tonight—and good luck in your job hunting." Alec waved good-by. "Let's hope the job's as good as you think, I never trust those things until I have my credits in my hand." Jon walked quickly from the employment exchange, his long legs eating up the blocks. _Good old Alec, he didn't believe in anything he couldn't touch. Perhaps he was right, but why try to be unhappy. The world wasn't too bad this morning—his leg worked fine, prospects of a good job—he hadn't felt this cheerful since the day he was activated._ Turning the corner at a brisk pace he collided with a man coming from the opposite direction. Jon had stopped on the instant, but there wasn't time to jump aside. The obese individual jarred against him and fell to the ground. From the height of elation to the depths of despair in an instant—he had injured a _human being_! He bent to help the man to his feet, but the other would have none of that. He evaded the friendly hand and screeched in a high-pitched voice. "Officer, officer, police ... HELP! I've been attacked—a mad robot ... HELP!" A crowd was gathering—staying at a respectful distance—but making an angry muttering noise. Jon stood motionless, his head reeling at the enormity of what he had done. A policeman pushed his way through the crowd. "Seize him, officer, shoot him down ... he struck me ... almost killed me ..." The man shook with rage, his words thickening to a senseless babble. The policeman had his .75 recoilless revolver out and pressed against Jon's side. "This _man_ has charged you with a serious crime, _grease-can_. I'm taking you into the station house—to talk about it." He looked around nervously, waving his gun to open a path through the tightly packed crowd. They moved back grudgingly, with murmurs of disapproval. Jon's thoughts swirled in tight circles. How did a catastrophe like this happen, where was it going to end? He didn't dare tell the truth, that would mean he was calling the man a liar. There had been six robots power-lined in the city since the first of the year. If he dared speak in his own defense there would be a jumper to the street lighting circuit and a seventh burnt out hulk in the police morgue. A feeling of resignation swept through him, there was no way out. If the man pressed charges it would mean a term of penal servitude, though it looked now as if he would never live to reach the court. The papers had been whipping up a lot of anti-robe feeling, you could feel it behind the angry voices, see it in the narrowed eyes and clenched fists. The crowd was slowly changing into a mob, a mindless mob as yet, but capable of turning on him at any moment. "What's goin' on here...?" It was a booming voice, with a quality that dragged at the attention of the crowd. A giant cross-continent freighter was parked at the curb. The driver swung down from the cab and pushed his way through the people. The policeman shifted his gun as the man strode up to him. "That's my robot you got there, Jack, don't put any holes in him!" He turned on the man who had been shouting accusations. "Fatty here, is the world's biggest liar. The robot was standing here waiting for me to park the truck. Fatty must be as blind as he is stupid, I saw the whole thing. He knocks himself down walking into the robe, then starts hollering for the cops." The other man could take no more. His face crimson with anger he rushed toward the trucker, his fists swinging in ungainly circles. They never landed, the truck driver put a meaty hand on the other's face and seated him on the sidewalk for the second time. The onlookers roared with laughter, the power-lining and the robot were forgotten. The fight was between two men now, the original cause had slipped from their minds. Even the policeman allowed himself a small smile as he holstered his gun and stepped forward to separate the men. The trucker turned towards Jon with a scowl. "Come on you aboard the truck—you've caused me enough trouble for one day. What a junkcan!" The crowd chuckled as he pushed Jon ahead of him into the truck and slammed the door behind them. Jamming the starter with his thumb he gunned the thunderous diesels into life and pulled out into the traffic. Jon moved his jaw, but there were no words to come out. Why had this total stranger helped him, what could he say to show his appreciation? He knew that all humans weren't robe-haters, why it was even rumored that some humans treated robots as _equals_ instead of machines. The driver must be one of these mythical individuals, there was no other way to explain his actions. Driving carefully with one hand the man reached up behind the dash and drew out a thin, plastikoid booklet. He handed it to Jon who quickly scanned the title, _Robot Slaves in a World Economy_ by Philpott Asimov II. "If you're caught reading that thing they'll execute you on the spot. Better stick it between the insulation on your generator, you can always burn it if you're picked up. "Read it when you're alone, it's got a lot of things in it that you know nothing about. Robots aren't really inferior to humans, in fact they're superior in most things. There is even a little history in there to show that robots aren't the first ones to be treated as second class citizens. You may find it a little hard to believe, but human beings once treated each other just the way they treat robots now. That's one of the reasons I'm active in this movement—sort of like the fellow who was burned helping others stay away from the fire." He smiled a warm, friendly smile in Jon's direction, the whiteness of his teeth standing out against the rich ebony brown of his features. "I'm heading towards US-1, can I drop you anywheres on the way?" "The Chainjet Building please—I'm applying for a job." They rode the rest of the way in silence. Before he opened the door the driver shook hands with Jon. "Sorry about calling you _junkcan_, but the crowd expected it." He didn't look back as he drove away. Jon had to wait a half hour for his turn, but the receptionist finally signalled him towards the door of the interviewer's room. He stepped in quickly and turned to face the man seated at the transplastic desk, an upset little man with permanent worry wrinkles stamped in his forehead. The little man shoved the papers on the desk around angrily, occasionally making crabbed little notes on the margins. He flashed a birdlike glance up at Jon. "Yes, yes, be quick. What is it you want?" "You posted a help wanted notice, I—" The man cut him off with a wave of his hand. "All right let me see your ID tag ... quickly, there are others waiting." Jon thumbed the tag out of his waist slot and handed it across the desk. The interviewer read the code number, then began running his finger down a long list of similar figures. He stopped suddenly and looked sideways at Jon from under his lowered lids. "You have made a mistake, we have no opening for you." Jon began to explain to the man that the notice had requested his specialty, but he was waved to silence. As the interviewer handed back the tag he slipped a card out from under the desk blotter and held it in front of Jon's eyes. He held it there for only an instant, knowing that the written message was recorded instantly by the robot's photographic vision and eidetic memory. The card dropped into the ash tray and flared into embers at the touch of the man's pencil-heater. Jon stuffed the ID tag back into the slot and read over the message on the card as he walked down the stairs to the street. There were six lines of typewritten copy with no signature. _To Venex Robot: You are urgently needed on a top secret company project. There are suspected informers in the main office, so you are being hired in this unusual manner. Go at once to 787 Washington Street and ask for Mr. Coleman._ Jon felt an immense sensation of relief. For a moment there, he was sure the job had been a false lead. He saw nothing unusual in the method of hiring. The big corporations were immensely jealous of their research discoveries and went to great lengths to keep them secret—at the same time resorting to any means to ferret out their business rivals' secrets. There might still be a chance to get this job. ~ The burly bulk of a lifter was moving back and forth in the gloom of the ancient warehouse stacking crates in ceiling-high rows. Jon called to him, the robot swung up his forklift and rolled over on noiseless tires. When Jon questioned him he indicated a stairwell against the rear wall. "Mr. Coleman's office is down in back, the door is marked." The lifter put his fingertips against Jon's ear pick-ups and lowered his voice to the merest shadow of a whisper. It would have been inaudible to human ears, but Jon could hear him easily, the sounds being carried through the metal of the other's body. "He's the meanest man you ever met—he hates robots so be _ever_ so polite. If you can use "sir' five times in one sentence you're perfectly safe." Jon swept the shutter over one eye tube in a conspiratorial wink, the large mech did the same as he rolled away. Jon turned and went down the dusty stairwell and knocked gently on Mr. Coleman's door. Coleman was a plump little individual in a conservative purple-and-yellow business suit. He kept glancing from Jon to the Robot General Catalog checking the Venex specifications listed there. Seemingly satisfied he slammed the book shut. "Gimme your tag and back against that wall to get measured." Jon laid his ID tag on the desk and stepped towards the wall. "Yes, sir, here it is, sir." Two "sir" on that one, not bad for the first sentence. He wondered idly if he could put five of them in one sentence without the man knowing he was being made a fool of. He became aware of the danger an instant too late. The current surged through the powerful electromagnet behind the plaster flattening his metal body helplessly against the wall. Coleman was almost dancing with glee. "We got him, Druce, he's mashed flatter than a stinking tin-can on a rock, can't move a motor. Bring that junk in here and let's get him ready." Druce had a mechanic's coveralls on over his street suit and a tool box slung under one arm. He carried a little black metal can at arm's length, trying to get as far from it as possible. Coleman shouted at him with annoyance. "That bomb can't go off until it's armed, stop acting like a child. Put it on that grease-can's leg and _quick_!" Grumbling under his breath, Druce spot-welded the metal flanges of the bomb onto Jon's leg a few inches above his knee. Coleman tugged at it to be certain it was secure, then twisted a knob in the side and pulled out a glistening length of pin. There was a cold little click from inside the mechanism as it armed itself. Jon could do nothing except watch, even his vocal diaphragm was locked by the magnetic field. He had more than a suspicion however that he was involved in something other than a "secret business deal." He cursed his own stupidity for walking blindly into the situation. The magnetic field cut off and he instantly raced his extensor motors to leap forward. Coleman took a plastic box out of his pocket and held his thumb over a switch inset into its top. "Don't make any quick moves, junk-yard, this little transmitter is keyed to a receiver in that bomb on your leg. One touch of my thumb, up you go in a cloud of smoke and come down in a shower of nuts and bolts." He signalled to Druce who opened a closet door. "And in case you want to be heroic, just think of him." Coleman jerked his thumb at the sodden shape on the floor; a filthily attired man of indistinguishable age whose only interesting feature was the black bomb strapped tightly across his chest. He peered unseeingly from red-rimmed eyes and raised the almost empty whiskey bottle to his mouth. Coleman kicked the door shut. "He's just some Bowery bum we dragged in, Venex, but that doesn't make any difference to you, does it? He's human—and a robot can't kill _anybody_! That rummy has a bomb on him tuned to the same frequency as yours, if you don't play ball with us he gets a two-foot hole blown in his chest." Coleman was right, Jon didn't dare make any false moves. All of his early mental training as well as Circuit 92 sealed inside his brain case would prevent him from harming a human being. He felt trapped, caught by these people for some unknown purpose. Coleman had pushed back a tarpaulin to disclose a ragged hole in the concrete floor, the opening extended into the earth below. He waved Jon over. "The tunnel is in good shape for about thirty feet, then you'll find a fall. Clean all the rock and dirt out until you break through into the storm sewer, then come back. And you better be alone. If you tip the cops both you and the old stew go out together—now move." The shaft had been dug recently and shored with packing crates from the warehouse overhead. It ended abruptly in a wall of fresh sand and stone. Jon began shoveling it into the little wheelbarrow they had given him. He had emptied four barrow loads and was filling the fifth when he uncovered the hand, a robot's hand made of green metal. He turned his headlight power up and examined the hand closely, there could be no doubt about it. These gaskets on the joints, the rivet pattern at the base of the thumb meant only one thing, it was the dismembered hand of a Venex robot. Quickly, yet gently, he shoveled away the rubble behind the hand and unearthed the rest of the robot. The torso was crushed and the power circuits shorted, battery acid was dripping from an ugly rent in the side. With infinite care Jon snapped the few remaining wires that joined the neck to the body and laid the green head on the barrow. It stared at him like a skull, the shutters completely dilated, but no glow of life from the tubes behind them. He was scraping the mud from the number on the battered chestplate when Druce lowered himself into the tunnel and flashed the brilliant beam of a hand-spot down its length. "Stop playing with that junk and get digging—or you'll end up the same as him. This tunnel has gotta be through by tonight." Jon put the dismembered parts on the barrow with the sand and rock and pushed the whole load back up the tunnel, his thoughts running in unhappy circles. A dead robot was a terrible thing, and one of his family too. But there was something wrong about this robot, something that was quite inexplicable, the number on the plate had been "17," yet he remembered only too well the day that a water-shorted motor had killed Venex 17 in the Orange Sea. It took Jon four hours to drive the tunnel as far as the ancient granite wall of the storm sewer. Druce gave him a short pinch bar and he levered out enough of the big blocks to make a hole large enough to let him through into the sewer. When he climbed back into the office he tried to look casual as he dropped the pinch bar to the floor by his feet and seated himself on the pile of rubble in the corner. He moved around to make a comfortable seat for himself and his fingers grabbed the severed neck of Venex 17. Coleman swiveled around in his chair and squinted at the wall clock. He checked the time against his tie-pin watch, with a grunt of satisfaction he turned back and stabbed a finger at Jon. "Listen, you green junk-pile, at 1900 hours you're going to do a job, and there aren't going to be any slip ups. You go down that sewer and into the Hudson River. The outlet is under water, so you won't be seen from the docks. Climb down to the bottom and walk 200 yards north, that should put you just under a ship. Keep your eyes open, _but don't show any lights_! About halfway down the keel of the ship you'll find a chain hanging. "Climb the chain, pull loose the box that's fastened to the hull at the top and bring it back here. No mistakes—or you know what happens." Jon nodded his head. His busy fingers had been separating the wires in the amputated neck. When they had been straightened and put into a row he memorized their order with one flashing glance. He ran over the color code in his mind and compared it with the memorized leads. The twelfth wire was the main cranial power lead, number six was the return wire. With his precise touch he separated these two from the pack and glanced idly around the room. Druce was dozing on a chair in the opposite corner. Coleman was talking on the phone, his voice occasionally rising in a petulant whine. This wasn't interfering with his attention to Jon—and the radio switch still held tightly in left hand. Jon's body blocked Coleman's vision, as long as Druce stayed asleep he would be able to work on the head unobserved. He activated a relay in his forearm and there was a click as the waterproof cover on an exterior socket swung open. This was a power outlet from his battery that was used to operate motorized tools and lights underwater. If Venex 17's head had been severed for less than three weeks he could reactivate it. Every robot had a small storage battery inside his skull, if the power to the brain was cut off the battery would provide the minimum standby current to keep the brain alive. The robe would be unconscious until full power was restored. Jon plugged the wires into his arm-outlet and slowly raised the current to operating level. There was a tense moment of waiting, then 17's eye shutters suddenly closed. When they opened again the eye tubes were glowing warmly. They swept the room with one glance then focused on Jon. The right shutter clicked shut while the other began opening and closing in rapid fashion. It was International code—being sent as fast as the solenoid could be operated. Jon concentrated on the message. _Telephone—call emergency operator—tell her "signal 14" help will—_ The shutter stopped in the middle of a code group, the light of reason dying from the eyes. For one instant Jon's heart leaped in panic, until he realized that 17 had deliberately cut the power. Druce's harsh voice rasped in his ear. "What you doing with that? None of your funny robot tricks. I know your kind, plotting all kinds of things in them tin domes." His voice trailed off into a stream of incomprehensible profanity. With sudden spite he lashed his foot out and sent 17's head crashing against the wall. The dented, green head rolled to a stop at Jon's feet, the face staring up at him in mute agony. It was only Circuit 92 that prevented him from injuring a _human_. As his motors revved up to send him hurtling forward the control relays clicked open. He sank against the debris, paralyzed for the instant. As soon as the rush of anger was gone he would regain control of his body. They stood as if frozen in a tableau. The robot slumped backward, the man leaning forward, his face twisted with unreasoning hatred. The head lay between them like a symbol of death. Coleman's voice cut through the air of tenseness like a knife. "_Druce_, stop playing with the grease-can and get down to the main door to let Little Willy and his junk-brokers in. You can have it all to yourself afterward." The angry man turned reluctantly, but pushed out of the door at Coleman's annoyed growl. Jon sat down against the wall, his mind sorting out the few facts with lightning precision. There was no room in his thoughts for Druce, the man had become just one more factor in a complex problem. Call the emergency operator—that meant this was no local matter, responsible authorities must be involved. Only the government could be behind a thing as major as this. Signal 14—that inferred a complex set of arrangements, forces that could swing into action at a moment's notice. There was no indication where this might lead, but the only thing to do was to get out of here and make that phone call. And quick. Druce was bringing in more people, junk-brokers, whatever they were. Any action that he took would have to be done before they returned. Even as Jon followed this train of logic his fingers were busy. Palming a wrench, he was swiftly loosening the main retaining nut on his hip joint. It dropped free in his hand, only the pivot pin remained now to hold his leg on. He climbed slowly to his feet and moved towards Coleman's desk. "Mr. Coleman, sir, it's time to go down to the ship now, should I leave now, sir?" Jon spoke the words slowly as he walked forward, apparently going to the door, but angling at the same time towards the plump man's desk. "You got thirty minutes yet, go sit—_say_...!" The words were cut off. Fast as a human reflex is, it is the barest crawl compared to the lightning action of electronic reflex. At the instant Coleman was first aware of Jon's motion, the robot had finished his leap and lay sprawled across the desk, his leg off at the hip and clutched in his hand. "YOU'LL KILL YOURSELF IF YOU TOUCH THE BUTTON!" The words were part of the calculated plan. Jon bellowed them in the startled man's ear as he stuffed the dismembered leg down the front of the man's baggy slacks. It had the desired effect, Coleman's finger stabbed at the button but stopped before it made contact. He stared down with bulging eyes at the little black box of death peeping out of his waistband. Jon hadn't waited for the reaction. He pushed backward from the desk and stopped to grab the stolen pinch bar off the floor. A mighty one-legged leap brought him to the locked closet; he stabbed the bar into the space between the door and frame and heaved. Coleman was just starting to struggle the bomb out of his pants when the action was over. The closet open, Jon seized the heavy strap holding the second bomb on the rummy's chest and snapped it like a thread. He threw the bomb into Coleman's corner, giving the man one more thing to worry about. It had cost him a leg, but Jon had escaped the bomb threat without injuring a human. Now he had to get to a phone and make that call. Coleman stopped tugging at the bomb and plunged his hand into the desk drawer for a gun. The returning men would block the door soon, the only other exit from the room was a frosted-glass window that opened onto the mammoth bay of the warehouse. Jon Venex plunged through the window in a welter of flying glass. The heavy thud of a recoilless .75 came from the room behind him and a foot-long section of metal window frame leaped outward. Another slug screamed by the robot's head as he scrambled toward the rear door of the warehouse. He was a bare thirty feet away from the back entrance when the giant door hissed shut on silent rollers. All the doors would have closed at the same time, the thud of running feet indicated that they would be guarded as well. Jon hopped a section of packing cases and crouched out of sight. He looked up over his head, there stretched a webbing of steel supports, crossing and recrossing until they joined the flat expanse of the roof. To human eyes the shadows there deepened into obscurity, but the infra-red from a network of steam pipes gave Jon all the illumination he needed. The men would be quartering the floor of the warehouse soon, his only chance to escape recapture or death would be over their heads. Besides this, he was hampered by the loss of his leg. In the rafters he could use his arms for faster and easier travel. Jon was just pulling himself up to one of the topmost cross beams when a hoarse shout from below was followed by a stream of bullets. They tore through the thin roof, one slug clanged off the steel beam under his body. Waiting until three of the newcomers had started up a nearby ladder, Jon began to quietly work his way towards the back of the building. Safe for the moment, he took stock of his position. The men were spread out through the building, it could only be a matter of time before they found him. The doors were all locked and—he had made a complete circuit of the building to be sure—there were no windows that he could force—the windows were bolted as well. If he could call the emergency operator the unknown friends of Venex 17 might come to his aid. This, however, was out of the question. The only phone in the building was on Coleman's desk. He had traced the leads to make sure. His eyes went automatically to the cables above his head. Plastic gaskets were set in the wall of the building, through them came the power and phone lines. The phone line! That was all he needed to make a call. With smooth, fast motions he reached up and scratched a section of wire bare. He laughed to himself as he slipped the little microphone out of his left ear. Now he was half deaf as well as half lame—he was literally giving himself to this cause. He would have to remember the pun to tell Alec Diger later, if there was a later. Alec had a profound weakness for puns. Jon attached jumpers to the mike and connected them to the bare wire. A touch of the ammeter showed that no one was on the line. He waited a few moments to be sure he had a dial tone then sent the eleven carefully spaced pulses that would connect him with the local operator. He placed the mike close to his mouth. "Hello, operator. Hello, operator. I cannot hear you so do not answer. Call the emergency operator—signal 14, I repeat—signal 14." Jon kept repeating the message until the searching men began to approach his position. He left the mike connected—the men wouldn't notice it in the dark but the open line would give the unknown powers his exact location. Using his fingertips he did a careful traverse on an I-beam to an alcove in the farthest corner of the room. Escape was impossible, all he could do was stall for time. "Mr. Coleman, I'm sorry I ran away." With the volume on full his voice rolled like thunder from the echoing walls. He could see the men below twisting their heads vainly to find the source. "If you let me come back and don't kill me I will do your work. I was afraid of the bomb, but now I am afraid of the guns." It sounded a little infantile, but he was pretty sure none of those present had any sound knowledge of robotic intelligence. "Please let me come back ... sir!" He had almost forgotten the last word, so he added another "Please, sir!" to make up. Coleman needed that package under the boat very badly, he would promise anything to get it. Jon had no doubts as to his eventual fate, all he could hope to do was kill time in the hopes that the phone message would bring aid. "Come on down, Junky, I won't be mad at you—if you follow directions." Jon could hear the hidden anger in his voice, the unspoken hatred for a robe who dared lay hands on him. The descent wasn't difficult, but Jon did it slowly with much apparent discomfort. He hopped into the center of the floor—leaning on the cases as if for support. Coleman and Druce were both there as well as a group of hard-eyed newcomers. They raised their guns at his approach but Coleman stopped them with a gesture. "This is _my_ robe, boys, I'll see to it that he's happy." He raised his gun and shot Jon's remaining leg off. Twisted around by the blast, Jon fell helplessly to the floor. He looked up into the smoking mouth of the .75. "Very smart for a tin-can, but not smart enough. We'll get the junk on the boat some other way, some way that won't mean having you around under foot." Death looked out of his narrowed eyes. Less than two minutes had passed since Jon's call. The watchers must have been keeping 24 hour stations waiting for Venex 17's phone message. The main door went down with the sudden scream of torn steel. A whippet tank crunched over the wreck and covered the group with its multiple pom-poms. They were an instant too late, Coleman pulled the trigger. Jon saw the tensing trigger finger and pushed hard against the floor. His head rolled clear but the bullet tore through his shoulder. Coleman didn't have a chance for a second shot, there was a fizzling hiss from the tank and the riot ports released a flood of tear gas. The stricken men never saw the gas-masked police that poured in from the street. ~ Jon lay on the floor of the police station while a tech made temporary repairs on his leg and shoulder. Across the room Venex 17 was moving his new body with evident pleasure. "Now this really feels like _something_! I was sure my time was up when that land slip caught me. But maybe I ought to start from the beginning." He stamped across the room and shook Jon's inoperable hand. "The name is Wil Counter-4951L3, not that _that_ means much any more. I've worn so many different bodies that I forget what I originally looked like. I went right from factory-school to a police training school—and I have been on the job ever since—Force of Detectives, Sergeant Jr. grade, Investigation Department. I spend most of my time selling candy bars or newspapers, or serving drinks in crumb joints. Gather information, make reports and keep tab on guys for other departments. "This last job—and I'm sorry I had to use a Venex identity, I don't think I brought any dishonor to your family—I was on loan to the Customs department. Seems a ring was bringing uncut junk—heroin—into the country. F.B.I. tabbed all the operators here, but no one knew how the stuff got in. When Coleman, he's the local big-shot, called the agencies for an underwater robot, I was packed into a new body and sent running. "I alerted the squad as soon as I started the tunnel, but the damned thing caved in on me before I found out what ship was doing the carrying. From there on you know what happened. "Not knowing I was out of the game the squad sat tight and waited. The hop merchants saw a half million in snow sailing back to the old country so they had you dragged in as a replacement. You made the phone call and the cavalry rushed in at the last moment to save two robots from a rusty grave." Jon, who had been trying vainly to get in a word, saw his chance as Wil Counter turned to admire the reflection of his new figure in a window. "You shouldn't be telling me those things—about your police investigations and department operations. Isn't this information supposed to be secret? Specially from robots!" "Of course it is!" was Wil's airy answer. "Captain Edgecombe—he's the head of my department—is an expert on all kinds of blackmail. I'm supposed to tell you so much confidential police business that you'll have to either join the department or be shot as a possible informer." His laughter wasn't shared by the bewildered Jon. "Truthfully, Jon, we need you and can use you. Robes that can think fast and act fast aren't easy to find. After hearing about the tricks you pulled in that warehouse, the Captain swore to decapitate me permanently if I couldn't get you to join up. Do you need a job? Long hours, short pay—but guaranteed to never get boring." Wil's voice was suddenly serious. "You saved my life, Jon—those snowbirds would have left me in that sandpile until all hell froze over. I'd like you for a mate, I think we could get along well together." The gay note came back into his voice, "And besides that, I may be able to save your life some day—I hate owing debts." ~ The tech was finished, he snapped his tool box shut and left. Jon's shoulder motor was repaired now, he sat up. When they shook hands this time it was a firm clasp. The kind you know will last awhile. ~ Jon stayed in an empty cell that night. It was gigantic compared to the hotel and barrack rooms he was used to. He wished that he had his missing legs so he could take a little walk up and down the cell. He would have to wait until the morning. They were going to fix him up then before he started the new job. He had recorded his testimony earlier and the impossible events of the past day kept whirling around in his head. He would think about it some other time, right now all he wanted to do was let his overworked circuits cool down, if he only had something to read, to focus his attention on. Then, with a start, he remembered the booklet. Everything had moved so fast that the earlier incident with the truck driver had slipped his mind completely. He carefully worked it out from behind the generator shielding and opened the first page of _Robot Slaves in a World Economy_. A card slipped from between the pages and he read the short message on it. PLEASE DESTROY THIS CARD AFTER READING _If you think there is truth in this book and would like to hear more, come to Room B, 107 George St. any Tuesday at 5 P.M._ The card flared briefly and was gone. But he knew that it wasn't only a perfect memory that would make him remember that message. THE END
210	--- author: E. E. (Edward Elmer) Smith tags: Science fiction title: The Vortex Blaster summary: " \"The Vortex Blaster\" by E. E. Smith is a science fiction novel likely written in the early 1940s. The story revolves around themes of tragedy, loss, and scientific exploration, with a specific focus on the dangers posed by loose atomic vortices and the struggle to control them. Set against the backdrop of a richly imagined galaxy, the narrative explores the impact of these catastrophic forces and the quest for solutions to avert disaster. The plot centers on Neal Cloud, an atomic physicist who loses his family in a devastating explosion caused by a rogue atomic vortex. Overwhelmed by grief, he initially contemplates leaving his life\u2019s work but resolves to confront the looming threat of vortices, particularly the oldest and most dangerous one. As he meticulously prepares to launch an unprecedented mission to extinguish the vortex, Cloud\u2019s journey is marked by intense action and deep emotional struggles, leading him to become the galaxy\u2019s foremost expert in vortex control. His success not only brings him a sense of purpose and redemption but also ignites a high demand for his unique abilities across the universe, solidifying his legacy as the \"Vortex Blaster.\" " word_count: 7900 fiction_type: Short Story ... # The Vortex Blaster Safety devices that do not protect. The "unsinkable" ships that, before the days of Bergenholm and of atomic and cosmic energy, sank into the waters of the earth. More particularly, safety devices which, while protecting against one agent of destruction, attract magnet-like another and worse. Such as the armored cable within the walls of a wooden house. It protects the electrical conductors within against accidental external shorts; but, inadequately grounded as it must of necessity be, it may attract and upon occasion has attracted the stupendous force of lightning. Then, fused, volatilized, flaming incandescent throughout the length, breadth, and height of a dwelling, that dwelling's existence thereafter is to be measured in minutes. Specifically, four lightning rods. The lightning rods protecting the chromium, glass, and plastic home of Neal Cloud. Those rods were adequately grounded, grounded with copper-silver cables the bigness of a strong man's arm; for Neal Cloud, atomic physicist, knew his lightning and he was taking no chances whatever with the safety of his lovely wife and their three wonderful kids. He did not know, he did not even suspect, that under certain conditions of atmospheric potential and of ground-magnetic stress his perfectly designed lightning-rod system would become a super-powerful magnet for flying vortices of atomic disintegration. And now Neal Cloud, atomic physicist, sat at his desk in a strained, dull apathy. His face was a yellowish-gray white, his tendoned hands gripped rigidly the arms of his chair. His eyes, hard and lifeless, stared unseeingly past the small, three-dimensional block portrait of all that had made life worth living. For his guardian against lightning had been a vortex-magnet at the moment when a luckless wight had attempted to abate the nuisance of a "loose" atomic vortex. That wight died, of course—they almost always do—and the vortex, instead of being destroyed, was simply broken up into an indefinite number of widely-scattered new vortices. And one of these bits of furious, uncontrolled energy, resembling more nearly a handful of material rived from a sun than anything else with which ordinary man is familiar, darted toward and crashed downward to earth through Neal Cloud's new house. That home did not burn; it simply exploded. Nothing of it, in it, or around it stood a chance, for in a fractional second of time the place where it had been was a crater of seething, boiling lava—a crater which filled the atmosphere to a height of miles with poisonous vapors; which flooded all circumambient space with lethal radiations. Cosmically, the whole thing was infinitesimal. Ever since man learned how to liberate intra-atomic energy, the vortices of disintegration had been breaking out of control. Such accidents had been happening, were happening, and would continue indefinitely to happen. More than one world, perhaps, had been or would be consumed to the last gram by such loose atomic vortices. What of that? Of what real importance are a few grains of sand to an ocean beach five thousand miles long, a hundred miles wide, and ten miles deep? And even to that individual grain of sand called "Earth"—or, in modern parlance, "Sol Three," or "Tellus of Sol", or simply "Tellus"—the affair was of negligible importance. One man had died; but, in dying, he had added one more page to the thick bulk of negative results already on file. That Mrs. Cloud and her children had perished was merely unfortunate. The vortex itself was not yet a real threat to Tellus. It was a "new" one, and thus it would be a long time before it would become other than a local menace. And well before that could happen—before even the oldest of Tellus' loose vortices had eaten away much of her mass or poisoned much of her atmosphere, her scientists would have solved the problem. It was unthinkable that Tellus, the point of origin and the very center of Galactic Civilization, should cease to exist. ~ But to Neal Cloud the accident was the ultimate catastrophe. His personal universe had crashed in ruins; what was left was not worth picking up. He and Jo had been married for almost twenty years and the bonds between them had grown stronger, deeper, truer with every passing day. And the kids.... It _couldn't_ have happened ... fate COULDN'T do this to him ... but it had ... it could. Gone ... gone ... GONE.... And to Neal Cloud, atomic physicist, sitting there at his desk in torn, despairing abstraction, with black maggots of thought gnawing holes in his brain, the catastrophe was doubly galling because of its cruel irony. For he was second from the top in the Atomic Research Laboratory; his life's work had been a search for a means of extinguishment of exactly such loose vortices as had destroyed his all. His eyes focussed vaguely upon the portrait. Clear, honest gray eyes ... lines of character and of humor ... sweetly curved lips, ready to smile or to kiss.... He wrenched his eyes away and scribbled briefly upon a sheet of paper. Then, getting up stiffly, he took the portrait and moved woodenly across the room to a furnace. As though enshrining it he placed the plastic block upon a refractory between the electrodes and threw a switch. After the flaming arc had done its work he turned and handed the paper to a tall man, dressed in plain gray leather, who had been watching him with quiet, understanding eyes. Significant enough to the initiated of the importance of this laboratory is the fact that it was headed by an Unattached Lensman. "As of now, Phil, if it's QX with you." The Gray Lensman took the document, glanced at it, and slowly, meticulously, tore it into sixteen equal pieces. "Uh, uh, Storm," he denied, gently. "Not a resignation. Leave of absence, yes—indefinite—but not a resignation." "Why?" It was scarcely a question; Cloud's voice was level, uninflected. "I won't be worth the paper I'd waste." "Now, no," the Lensman conceded, "but the future's another matter. I haven't said anything so far, because to anyone who knew you and Jo as I knew you it was abundantly clear that nothing could be said." Two hands gripped and held. "For the future, though, four words were uttered long ago, that have never been improved upon. "This, too, shall pass."" "You think so?" "I don't think so, Storm—I know so. I've been around a long time. You are too good a man, and the world has too much use for you, for you to go down permanently out of control. You've got a place in the world, and you'll be back—" A thought struck the Lensman, and he went on in an altered tone. "You wouldn't—but of course you wouldn't—you couldn't." "I don't think so. No, I won't—that never was any kind of a solution to any problem." Nor was it. Until that moment, suicide had not entered Cloud's mind, and he rejected it instantly. His kind of man did not take the easy way out. After a brief farewell Cloud made his way to an elevator and was whisked down to the garage. Into his big blue DeKhotinsky Sixteen Special and away. Through traffic so heavy that front-, rear-, and side-bumpers almost touched he drove with his wonted cool skill; even though, consciously, he did not know that the other cars were there. He slowed, turned, stopped, "gave her the oof," all in correct response to flashing signals in all shapes and colors—purely automatically. Consciously, he did not know where he was going, nor care. If he thought at all, his numbed brain was simply trying to run away from its own bitter imaging—which, if he had thought at all, he would have known to be a hopeless task. But he did not think; he simply acted, dumbly, miserably. His eyes saw, optically; his body reacted, mechanically; his thinking brain was completely in abeyance. Into a one-way skyway he rocketed, along it over the suburbs and into the transcontinental super-highway. Edging inward, lane after lane, he reached the "unlimited" way—unlimited, that is, except for being limited to cars of not less than seven hundred horsepower, in perfect mechanical condition, driven by registered, tested drivers at speeds not less than one hundred and twenty-five miles an hour—flashed his registry number at the control station, and shoved his right foot down to the floor. ~ Now everyone knows that an ordinary DeKhotinsky Sporter will do a hundred and forty honestly-measured miles in one honestly measured hour; but very few ordinary drivers have ever found out how fast one of those brutal big souped-up Sixteens can wheel. They simply haven't got what it takes to open one up. "Storm" Cloud found out that day. He held that two-and-a-half-ton Juggernaut on the road, wide open, for two solid hours. But it didn't help. Drive as he would, he could not outrun that which rode with him. Beside him and within him and behind him. For Jo was there. Jo and the kids, but mostly Jo. It was Jo's car as much as it was his. "Babe, the big blue ox," was Jo's pet name for it; because, like Paul Bunyan's fabulous beast, it was pretty nearly six feet between the eyes. Everything they had ever had was that way. She was in the seat beside him. Every dear, every sweet, every luscious, lovely memory of her was there ... and behind him, just out of eye-corner visibility, were the three kids. And a whole lifetime of this loomed ahead—a vista of emptiness more vacuous far than the emptiest reaches of intergalactic space. Damnation! He couldn't stand much more of— High over the roadway, far ahead, a brilliant octagon flared red. That meant "STOP!" in any language. Cloud eased up his accelerator, eased down his mighty brakes. He pulled up at the control station and a trimly-uniformed officer made a gesture. "Sorry, sir," the policeman said, "but you'll have to detour here. There's a loose atomic vortex beside the road up ahead— "Oh! It's Dr. Cloud!" Recognition flashed into the guard's eyes. "I didn't recognize you at first. You can go ahead, of course. It'll be two or three miles before you'll have to put on your armor; you'll know when better than anyone can tell you. They didn't tell us they were going to send for _you_. It's just a little new one, and the dope we got was that they were going to shove it off into the canyon with pressure." "They didn't send for me." Cloud tried to smile. "I'm just driving around—haven't my armor along, even. So I guess I might as well go back." He turned the Special around. A loose vortex—new. There might be a hundred of them, scattered over a radius of two hundred miles. Sisters of the one that had murdered his family—the hellish spawn of that accursed Number Eleven vortex that that damnably incompetent bungling ass had tried to blow up.... Into his mind there leaped a picture, wire-sharp, of Number Eleven as he had last seen it, and simultaneously an idea hit him like a blow from a fist. He thought. _Really_ thought, now; cogently, intensely, clearly. If he could do it ... could actually blow out the atomic flame of an atomic vortex ... not exactly revenge, but.... By Klono's brazen bowels, it would work—it'd _have_ to work—he'd _make_ it work! And grimly, quietly, but alive in every fiber now, he drove back toward the city practically as fast as he had come away. ~ If the Lensman was surprised at Cloud's sudden reappearance in the laboratory he did not show it. Nor did he offer any comment as his erstwhile first assistant went to various lockers and cupboards, assembling meters, coils, tubes, armor, and other paraphernalia and apparatus. "Guess that's all I'll need, Chief," Cloud remarked, finally. "Here's a blank check. If some of this stuff shouldn't happen to be in usable condition when I get done with it, fill it out to suit, will you?" "No," and the Lensman tore up the check just as he had torn up the resignation. "If you want the stuff for legitimate purposes, you're on Patrol business and it is the Patrol's risk. If, on the other hand, you think that you're going to try to snuff a vortex, the stuff stays here. That's final, Storm." "You're right—and wrong, Phil," Cloud stated, not at all sheepishly. "I'm going to blow out Number One vortex with duodec, yes—but I'm _really_ going to blow it out, not merely make a stab at it as an excuse for suicide, as you think." "How?" The big Lensman's query was skepticism incarnate. "It can't be done, except by an almost impossibly fortuitous accident. You yourself have been the most bitterly opposed of us all to these suicidal attempts." "I know it—I didn't have the solution myself until a few hours ago—it hit me all at once. Funny I never thought of it before; it's been right in sight all the time." "That's the way with most problems," the Chief admitted. "Plain enough after you see the key equation. Well, I'm perfectly willing to be convinced, but I warn you that I'll take a lot of convincing—and someone else will do the work, not you." "When I get done you'll see why I'll pretty nearly have to do it myself. But to convince you, exactly what is the knot?" "Variability," snapped the older man. "To be effective, the charge of explosive at the moment of impact must match, within very close limits, the activity of the vortex itself. Too small a charge scatters it around, in vortices which, while much smaller than the original, are still large enough to be self-sustaining. Too large a charge simply rekindles the original vortex—still larger—in its original crater. And the activity that must be matched varies so tremendously, in magnitude, maxima, and minima, and the cycle is so erratic—ranging from seconds to hours without discoverable rhyme or reason—that all attempts to do so at any predetermined instant have failed completely. Why, even Kinnison and Cardynge and the Conference of Scientists couldn't solve it, any more than they could work out a tractor beam that could be used as a tow-line on one." "Not exactly," Cloud demurred. "They found that it could be forecast, for a few seconds at least—length of time directly proportional to the length of the cycle in question—by an extension of the calculus of warped surfaces." "Humph!" the Lensman snorted. "So what? What good is a ten-second forecast when it takes a calculating machine an hour to solve the equations.... Oh!" He broke off, staring. "Oh," he repeated, slowly, "I forgot that you're a lightning calculator—a mathematical prodigy from the day you were born—who never has to use a calculating machine even to compute an orbit.... But there are other things." "I'll say there are; plenty of them. I'd thought of the calculator angle before, of course, but there was a worse thing than variability to contend with...." "What?" the Lensman demanded. "Fear," Cloud replied, crisply. "At the thought of a hand-to-hand battle with a vortex my brain froze solid. Fear—the sheer, stark, natural human fear of death, that robs a man of the fine edge of control and brings on the very death that he is trying so hard to avoid. That's what had me stopped." "Right ... you may be right," the Lensman pondered, his fingers drumming quietly upon his desk. "And you are not afraid of death—now—even subconsciously. But tell me, Storm, please, that you won't invite it." "I will not invite it, sir, now that I've got a job to do. But that's as far as I'll go in promising. I won't make any superhuman effort to avoid it. I'll take all due precautions, for the sake of the job, but if it gets me, what the hell? The quicker it does, the better—the sooner I'll be with Jo." "You believe that?" "Implicitly." "The vortices are as good as gone, then. They haven't got any more chance than Boskone has of licking the Patrol." "I'm afraid so," almost glumly. "The only way for it to get me is for me to make a mistake, and I don't feel any coming on." "But what's your angle?" the Lensman asked, interest lighting his eyes. "You can't use the customary attack; your time will be too short." "Like this," and, taking down a sheet of drafting paper, Cloud sketched rapidly. "This is the crater, here, with the vortex at the bottom, there. From the observers' instruments or from a shielded set-up of my own I get my data on mass, emission, maxima, minima, and so on. Then I have them make me three duodec bombs—one on the mark of the activity I'm figuring on shooting at, and one each five percent over and under that figure—cased in neocarballoy of exactly the computed thickness to last until it gets to the center of the vortex. Then I take off in a flying suit, armored and shielded, say about here...." "If you take off at all, you'll take off in a suit, inside a one-man flitter," the Lensman interrupted. "Too many instruments for a suit, to say nothing of bombs, and you'll need more screen than a suit can deliver. We can adapt a flitter for bomb-throwing easily enough." "QX; that would be better, of course. In that case, I set my flitter into a projectile trajectory like this, whose objective is the center of the vortex, there. See? Ten seconds or so away, at about this point, I take my instantaneous readings, solve the equations at that particular warped surface for some certain zero time...." "But suppose that the cycle won't give you a ten-second solution?" "Then I'll swing around and try again until a long cycle _does_ show up." "QX. It will, sometime." "Sure. Then, having everything set for zero time, and assuming that the activity is somewhere near my postulated value...." "Assume that it isn't—it probably won't be," the Chief grunted. "I accelerate or decelerate—" "Solving new equations all the while?" "Sure—don't interrupt so—until at zero time the activity, extrapolated to zero time, matches one of my bombs. I cut that bomb loose, shoot myself off in a sharp curve, and Z-W-E-E-E-T—POWIE! She's out!" With an expressive, sweeping gesture. "You hope," the Lensman was frankly dubious. "And there you are, right in the middle of that explosion, with two duodec bombs outside your armor—or just inside your flitter." "Oh, no. I've shot them away several seconds ago, so that they explode somewhere else, nowhere near me." "_I_ hope. But do you realize just how busy a man you are going to be during those ten or twelve seconds?" "Fully." Cloud's face grew somber. "But I will be in full control. I won't be afraid of anything that can happen—_anything_. And," he went on, under his breath, "that's the hell of it." "QX," the Lensman admitted finally, "you can go. There are a lot of things you haven't mentioned, but you'll probably be able to work them out as you go along. I think I'll go out and work with the boys in the lookout station while you're doing your stuff. When are you figuring on starting?" "How long will it take to get the flitter ready?" "A couple of days. Say we meet you there Saturday morning?" "Saturday the tenth, at eight o'clock. I'll be there." ~ And again Neal Cloud and Babe, the big blue ox, hit the road. And as he rolled the physicist mulled over in his mind the assignment to which he had set himself. Like fire, only worse, intra-atomic energy was a good servant, but a terrible master. Man had liberated it before he could really control it. In fact, control was not yet, and perhaps never would be, perfect. Up to a certain size and activity, yes. They, the millions upon millions of self-limiting ones, were the servants. They could be handled, fenced in, controlled; indeed, if they were not kept under an exciting bombardment and very carefully fed, they would go out. But at long intervals, for some one of a dozen reasons—science knew _so_ little, fundamentally, of the true inwardness of the intra-atomic reactions—one of these small, tame, self-limiting vortices flared, nova-like, into a large, wild, self-sustaining one. It ceased being a servant then, and became a master. Such flare-ups occurred, perhaps, only once or twice in a century on Earth; the trouble was that they were so utterly, damnably _permanent_. They never went out. And no data were ever secured: for every living thing in the vicinity of a flare-up died; every instrument and every other solid thing within a radius of a hundred feet melted down into the reeking, boiling slag of its crater. Fortunately, the rate of growth was slow—as slow, almost, as it was persistent—otherwise Civilization would scarcely have had a planet left. And unless something could be done about loose vortices before too many years, the consequences would be really serious. That was why his laboratory had been established in the first place. Nothing much had been accomplished so far. The tractor beam that would take hold of them had never been designed. Nothing material was of any use; it melted. Pressors worked, after a fashion: it was by the use of these beams that they shoved the vortices around, off into the waste places—unless it proved cheaper to allow the places where they had come into being to remain waste places. A few, through sheer luck, had been blown into self-limiting bits by duodec. Duodecaplylatomate, the most powerful, the most frightfully detonant explosive ever invented upon all the known planets of the First Galaxy. But duodec had taken an awful toll of life. Also, since it usually scattered a vortex instead of extinguishing it, duodec had actually caused far more damage than it had cured. No end of fantastic schemes had been proposed, of course; of varying degrees of fantasy. Some of them sounded almost practical. Some of them had been tried; some of them were still being tried. Some, such as the perennially-appearing one of building a huge hemispherical hull in the ground under and around the vortex, installing an inertialess drive, and shooting the whole neighborhood out into space, were perhaps feasible from an engineering standpoint. They were, however, potentially so capable of making things worse that they would not be tried save as last-ditch measures. In short, the control of loose vortices was very much an unsolved problem. ~ Number One vortex, the oldest and worst upon Tellus, had been pushed out into the Badlands; and there, at eight o'clock on the tenth, Cloud started to work upon it. The "lookout station," instead of being some such ramshackle structure as might have been deduced from the Lensman's casual terminology, was in fact a fully-equipped observatory. Its staff was not large—eight men worked in three staggered eight-hour shifts of two men each—but the instruments! To develop them had required hundreds of man-years of time and near-miracles of research, not the least of the problems having been that of developing shielded conductors capable of carrying truly through five-ply screens of force the converted impulses of the very radiations against which those screens were most effective. For the observatory, and the one long approach to it as well, had to be screened heavily; without such protection no life could exist there. This problem and many others had been solved, however, and there the instruments were. Every phase and factor of the vortex's existence and activity were measured and recorded continuously, throughout every minute of every day of every year. And all of these records were summed up, integrated, into the "Sigma" curve. This curve, while only an incredibly and senselessly tortuous line to the layman's eye, was a veritable mine of information to the initiate. Cloud glanced along the Sigma curve of the previous forty-eight hours and scowled, for one jagged peak, scarcely an hour old, actually punched through the top line of the chart. "Bad, huh, Frank?" he grunted. "Plenty bad, Storm, and getting worse," the observer assented. "I wouldn't wonder if Carlowitz were right, after all—if she ain't getting ready to blow her top I'm a Zabriskan fontema's maiden aunt." "No periodicity—no equation, of course." It was a statement, not a question. The Lensman ignored as completely as did the observer, if not as flippantly, the distinct possibility that at any moment the observatory and all that it contained might be resolved into their component atoms. "None whatever," came flatly from Cloud. He did not need to spend hours at a calculating machine; at one glance he _knew_, without knowing how he knew, that no equation could be made to fit even the weighted-average locus of that wildly-shifting Sigma curve. "But most of the cycles cut this ordinate here—seven fifty-one—so I'll take that for my value. That means nine point nine oh six kilograms of duodec basic charge, with one five percent over and one five percent under that for alternates. Neocarballoy casing, fifty-three millimeters on the basic, others in proportion. On the wire?" "It went out as you said it," the observer reported. "They'll have "em here in fifteen minutes." "QX—I'll get dressed, then." The Lensman and the observer helped him into his cumbersome, heavily-padded armor. They checked his instruments, making sure that the protective devices of the suit were functioning at full efficiency. Then all three went out to the flitter. A tiny speedster, really; a torpedo bearing the stubby wings and the ludicrous tail-surfaces, the multifarious driving-, braking-, side-, top-, and under-jets so characteristic of the tricky, cranky, but ultra-maneuverable breed. But this one had something that the ordinary speedster or flitter did not carry; spaced around the needle beak there yawned the open muzzles of a triplex bomb-thrower. More checking. The Lensman and the armored Cloud both knew that every one of the dozens of instruments upon the flitter's special board was right to the hair; nevertheless each one was compared with the master-instrument of the observatory. ~ The bombs arrived and were loaded in; and Cloud, with a casually-waved salute, stepped into the tiny operating compartment. The massive door—flitters have no airlocks, as the whole midsection is scarcely bigger than an airlock would have to be—rammed shut upon its fiber gaskets, the heavy toggles drove home. A cushioned form closed in upon the pilot, leaving only his arms and lower legs free. Then, making sure that his two companions had ducked for cover, Cloud shot his flitter into the air and toward the seething inferno which was Loose Atomic Vortex Number One. For it was seething, no fooling; and it was an inferno. The crater was a ragged, jagged hole a full mile from lip to lip and perhaps a quarter of that in depth. It was not, however, a perfect cone, for the floor, being largely incandescently molten, was practically level except for a depression at the center, where the actual vortex lay. The walls of the pit were steeply, unstably irregular, varying in pitch and shape with the hardness and refractoriness of the strata composing them. Now a section would glare into an unbearably blinding white puffing away in sparkling vapor. Again, cooled by an inrushing blast of air, it would subside into an angry scarlet, its surface crawling in a sluggish flow of lava. Occasionally a part of the wall might even go black, into pock-marked scoriae or into brilliant planes of obsidian. For always, somewhere, there was an enormous volume of air pouring into that crater. It rushed in as ordinary air. It came out, however, in a ragingly-uprushing pillar, as—as something else. No one knew—or knows yet, for that matter—exactly what a loose vortex does to the molecules and atoms of air. In fact, due to the extreme variability already referred to, it probably does not do the same thing for more than an instant at a time. That there is little actual combustion is certain; that is, except for the forced combination of nitrogen, argon, xenon, and krypton with oxygen. There is, however, consumption: plenty of consumption. And what that incredibly intense bombardment impinges up is ... is altered. Profoundly and obscuredly altered, so that the atmosphere emitted from the crater is quite definitely no longer air as we know it. It may be corrosive, it may be poisonous in one or another of a hundred fashions, it may be merely new and different; but it is no longer the air which we human beings are used to breathing. And it is this fact, rather than the destruction of the planet itself, which would end the possibility of life upon Earth's surface. ~ It is difficult indeed to describe the appearance of a loose atomic vortex to those who have never seen one; and, fortunately, most people never have. And practically all of its frightful radiation lies in those octaves of the spectrum which are invisible to the human eye. Suffice it to say, then, that it had an average effective surface temperature of about fifteen thousand degrees absolute—two and one-half times as hot as the sun of Tellus—and that it was radiating every frequency possible to that incomprehensible temperature, and let it go at that. And Neal Cloud, scurrying in his flitter through that murky, radiation-riddled atmosphere, setting up equations from the readings of his various meters and gauges and solving those equations almost instantaneously in his mathematical-prodigy's mind, sat appalled. For the activity level was, and even in its lowest dips remained, far above the level he had selected. His skin began to prickle and to burn. His eyes began to smart and to ache. He knew what those symptoms meant; even the flitter's powerful screens were not stopping all the radiation; even his suit-screens and his special goggles were not stopping what leaked through. But he wouldn't quit yet; the activity might—probably would—take a nose-dive any instant. If it did, he'd have to be ready. On the other hand, it might blow up at any instant, too. There were two schools of mathematical thought upon that point. One held that the vortex, without any essential change in its physical condition or nature, would keep on growing bigger. Indefinitely, until, uniting with the other vortices of the planet, it had converted the entire mass of the world into energy. The second school, of which the forementioned Carlowitz was the loudest voice, taught that at a certain stage of development the internal energy of the vortex would become so great that generation-radiation equilibrium could not be maintained. This would, of course, result in an explosion; the nature and consequences of which this Carlowitz was wont to dwell upon in ghoulishly mathematical glee. Neither school, however, could prove its point—or, rather, each school proved its point, by means of unimpeachable mathematics—and each hated and derided the other, loudly and heatedly. And now Cloud, as he studied through his almost opaque defenses that indescribably ravening fireball, that esuriently rapacious monstrosity which might very well have come from the deepest pit of the hottest hell of mythology, felt strongly inclined to agree with Carlowitz. It didn't seem possible that anything _could_ get any worse than that without exploding. And such an explosion, he felt sure, would certainly blow everything for miles around into the smitheriest kind of smithereens. The activity of the vortex stayed high, "way too high. The tiny control room of the flitter grew hotter and hotter. His skin burned and his eyes ached worse. He touched a communicator stud and spoke. "Phil? Better get me three more bombs. Like these, except up around...." "I don't check you. If you do that, it's apt to drop to a minimum and stay there," the Lensman reminded him. "It's completely unpredictable, you know." "It may, at that ... so I'll have to forget the five percent margin and hit it on the nose or not at all. Order me up two more, then—one at half of what I've got here, the other double it," and he reeled off the figures for the charge and the casing of the explosive. "You might break out a jar of burn-dressing, too. Some fairly hot stuff is leaking through." "We'll do that. Come down, fast!" Cloud landed. He stripped to the skin and the observer smeared his every square inch of epidermis with the thick, gooey stuff that was not only a highly efficient screen against radiation, but also a sovereign remedy for new radiation burns. He exchanged his goggles for a thicker, darker, heavier pair. The two bombs arrived and were substituted for two of the original load. "I thought of something while I was up there," Cloud informed the observers then. "Twenty kilograms of duodec is nobody's firecracker, but it may be the least of what's going to go off. Have you got any idea of what's going to become of the energy inside that vortex when I blow it out?" "Can't say that I have." The Lensman frowned in thought. "No data." "Neither have I. But I'd say that you better go back to the new station—the one you were going to move to if it kept on getting worse." "But the instruments...." the Lensman was thinking, not of the instruments themselves, which were valueless in comparison with life, but of the records those instruments would make. Those records were priceless. "I'll have everything on the tapes in the flitter," Cloud reminded. "But suppose...." "That the flitter stops one, too—or doesn't stop it, rather? In that case, your back station won't be there, either, so it won't make any difference." How mistaken Cloud was! "QX," the Chief decided. "We'll leave when you do—just in case." ~ Again in air, Cloud found that the activity, while still high, was not too high, but that it was fluctuating too rapidly. He could not get even five seconds of trustworthy prediction, to say nothing of ten. So he waited, as close as he dared remain to that horrible center of disintegration. The flitter hung poised in air, motionless, upon softly hissing under-jets. Cloud knew to a fraction his height above the ground. He knew to a fraction his distance from the vortex. He knew with equal certainty the density of the atmosphere and the exact velocity and direction of the wind. Hence, since he could also read closely enough the momentary variations in the cyclonic storms within the crater, he could compute very easily the course and velocity necessary to land the bomb in the exact center of the vortex at any given instant of time. The hard part—the thing that no one had as yet succeeded in doing—was to predict, for a time far enough ahead to be of any use, a usably close approximation to the vortex's quantitative activity. For, as has been said, he had to over-blast, rather than under-, if he could not hit it "on the nose:" to under-blast would scatter it all over the state. Therefore Cloud concentrated upon the dials and gauges before him; concentrated with every fiber of his being and every cell of his brain. Suddenly, almost imperceptibly, the Sigma curve gave signs of flattening out. In that instant Cloud's mind pounced. Simultaneous equations: nine of them, involving nine unknowns. An integration in four dimensions. No matter—Cloud did not solve them laboriously, one factor at a time. Without knowing how he had arrived at it, he knew the answer; just as the Posenian or the Rigellian is able to perceive every separate component particle of an opaque, three-dimensional solid, but without being able to explain to anyone how his sense of perception works. It just _is_, that's all. Anyway, by virtue of whatever sense or ability it is which makes a mathematical prodigy what he is, Cloud knew that in exactly eight and three-tenths seconds from that observed instant the activity of the vortex would be slightly—but not too far—under the coefficient of his heaviest bomb. Another flick of his mental trigger and he knew the exact velocity he would require. His hand swept over the studs, his right foot tramped down, hard, upon the firing lever; and, even as the quivering flitter shot forward under eight Tellurian gravities of acceleration, he knew to the thousandth of a second how long he would have to hold that acceleration to attain that velocity. While not really long—in seconds—it was much too long for comfort. It took him much closer to the vortex than he wanted to be; in fact, it took him right out over the crater itself. But he stuck to the calculated course, and at the precisely correct instant he cut his drive and released his largest bomb. Then, so rapidly that it was one blur of speed, he again kicked on his eight G's of drive and started to whirl around as only a speedster or a flitter can whirl. Practically unconscious from the terrific resultant of the linear and angular accelerations, he ejected the two smaller bombs. He did not care particularly where they lit, just so they didn't light in the crater or near the observatory, and he had already made certain of that. Then, without waiting even to finish the whirl or to straighten her out in level flight, Cloud's still-flying hand darted toward the switch whose closing would energize the Bergenholm and make the flitter inertialess. Too late. Hell was out for noon, with the little speedster still inert. Cloud had moved fast, too; trained mind and trained body had been working at top speed and in perfect coordination. There just simply hadn't been enough time. If he could have got what he wanted, ten full seconds, or even nine, he could have made it, but.... ~ In spite of what happened, Cloud defended his action, then and thereafter. Damnitall, he _had_ to take the eight-point-three second reading! Another tenth of a second and his bomb wouldn't have fitted—he didn't have the five percent leeway he wanted, remember. And no, he couldn't wait for another match, either. His screens were leaking like sieves, and if he had waited for another chance they would have picked him up fried to a greasy cinder in his own lard! The bomb sped truly and struck the target in direct central impact, exactly as scheduled. It penetrated perfectly. The neocarballoy casing lasted just long enough—that frightful charge of duodec exploded, if not exactly at the center of the vortex, at least near enough to the center to do the work. In other words, Cloud's figuring had been close—very close. But the time had been altogether too short. The flitter was not even out of the crater when the bomb went off. And not only the bomb. For Cloud's vague forebodings were materialized, and more; the staggeringly immense energy of the vortex merged with that of the detonating duodec to form an utterly incomprehensible whole. In part the hellish flood of boiling lava in that devil's cauldron was beaten downward into a bowl by the sheer, stupendous force of the blow; in part it was hurled abroad in masses, in gouts and streamers. And the raging wind of the explosion's front seized the fragments and tore and worried them to bits, hurling them still faster along their paths of violence. And air, so densely compressed as to be to all intents and purposes a solid, smote the walls of the crater. Smote them so that they crumbled, crushed outward through the hard-packed ground, broke up into jaggedly irregular blocks which hurtled, screamingly, away through the atmosphere. Also the concussion wave, or the explosion front, or flying fragments, or something, struck the two loose bombs, so that they too exploded and added their contribution to the already stupendous concentration of force. They were not close enough to the flitter to wreck it of themselves, but they were close enough so that they didn't do her—or her pilot—a bit of good. The first terrific wave buffeted the flyer while Cloud's right hand was in the air, shooting across the panel to turn on the Berg. The impact jerked the arm downward and sidewise, both bones of the forearm snapping as it struck the ledge. The second one, an instant later, broke his left leg. Then the debris began to arrive. Chunks of solid or semi-molten rock slammed against the hull, knocking off wings and control-surfaces. Gobs of viscous slag slapped it liquidly, freezing into and clogging up jets and orifices. The little ship was hurled hither and yon, in the grip of forces she could no more resist than can the floating leaf resist the waters of a cataract. And Cloud's brain was as addled as an egg by the vicious concussions which were hitting him from so many different directions and so nearly all at once. Nevertheless, with his one arm and his one leg and the few cells of his brain that were still at work, the physicist was still in the fight. By sheer force of will and nerve he forced his left hand across the gyrating key-bank to the Bergenholm switch. He snapped it, and in the instant of its closing a vast, calm peace descended, blanket-like. For, fortunately, the Berg still worked; the flitter and all her contents and appurtenances were inertialess. Nothing material could buffet her or hurt her now; she would waft effortlessly away from a feather's lightest possible touch. Cloud wanted to faint then, but he didn't—quite. Instead, foggily, he tried to look back at the crater. Nine-tenths of his visiplates were out of commission, but he finally got a view. Good—it was out. He wasn't surprised; he had been quite confident that it would be. It wasn't scattered around, either. It _couldn't_ be, for his only possibility of smearing the shot was on the upper side, not the lower. ~ His next effort was to locate the secondary observatory, where he had to land, and in that too he was successful. He had enough intelligence left to realize that, with practically all of his jets clogged and his wings and tail shot off, he couldn't land his little vessel inert. Therefore he would have to land her free. And by dint of light and extremely unorthodox use of what jets he had left in usable shape he did land her free, almost within the limits of the observatory's field; and having landed, he inerted her. But, as has been intimated, his brain was not working so well; he had held his ship inertialess quite a few seconds longer than he thought, and he did not even think of the buffetings she had taken. As a result of these things, however, her intrinsic velocity did not match, anywhere near exactly, that of the ground upon which she lay. Thus, when Cloud cut his Bergenholm, restoring thereby to the flitter the absolute velocity and inertia she had had before going free, there resulted a distinctly anti-climactic crash. There was a last terrific bump as the motionless vessel collided with the equally motionless ground; and "Storm" Cloud, vortex blaster, went out like the proverbial light. Help came, of course; and on the double. The pilot was unconscious and the flitter's door could not be opened from the outside, but those were not insuperable obstacles. A plate, already loose, was sheared away; the pilot was carefully lifted out of his prison and rushed to Base Hospital in the "meat-can" already in attendance. And later, in a private office of that hospital, the gray-clad Chief of the Atomic Research Laboratory sat and waited—but not patiently. "How is he, Lacy?" he demanded, as the Surgeon-General entered the room. "He's going to live, isn't he?" "Oh, yes, Phil—definitely yes," Lacy replied, briskly. "He has a good skeleton, very good indeed. The burns are superficial and will yield quite readily to treatment. The deeper, delayed effects of the radiation to which he was exposed can be neutralized entirely effectively. Thus he will not need even a Phillips's treatment for the replacement of damaged parts, except possibly for a few torn muscles and so on." "But he was smashed up pretty badly, wasn't he? I know that he had a broken arm and a broken leg, at least." "Simple fractures only—entirely negligible." Lacy waved aside with an airy gesture such small ills as broken bones. "He'll be out in a few weeks." "How soon can I see him?" the Lensman-physicist asked. "There are some important things to take up with him, and I've got a personal message for him that I must give him as soon as possible." Lacy pursued his lips. Then: "You may see him now," he decided. "He is conscious, and strong enough. Not too long, though, Phil—fifteen minutes at most." "QX, and thanks," and a nurse led the visiting Lensman to Cloud's bedside. "Hi, Stupe!" he boomed, cheerfully. "'Stupe' being short for stupendous, not "stupid'." "Hi, Chief. Glad to see somebody. Sit down." "You're the most-wanted man in the Galaxy," the visitor informed the invalid, "not excepting even Kimball Kinnison. Look at this spool of tape, and it's only the first one. I brought it along for you to read at your leisure. As soon as any planet finds out that we've got a sure-enough vortex-blower-outer, an expert who can really call his shots—and the news travels mighty fast—that planet sends in a double-urgent, Class A-Prime demand for first call upon your services. "Sirius IV got in first by a whisker, it seems, but Aldebaran II was so close a second that it was a photo finish, and all the channels have been jammed ever since. Canopus, Vega, Rigel, Spica. They all want you. Everybody, from Alsakan to Vandemar and back. We told them right off that we would not receive personal delegations—we had to almost throw a couple of pink-haired Chickladorians out bodily to make them believe that we meant it—and that the age and condition of the vortex involved, not priority of requisition, would govern, QX?" "Absolutely," Cloud agreed. "That's the only way it could be, I should think." "So forget about this psychic trauma.... No, I don't mean that," the Lensman corrected himself hastily. "You know what I mean. The will to live is the most important factor in any man's recovery, and too many worlds need you too badly to have you quit now. Not?" "I suppose so," Cloud acquiesced, but somberly. "I'll get out of here in short order. And I'll keep on pecking away until one of those vortices finishes what this one started." "You'll die of old age then, son," the Lensman assured him. "We got full data—all the information we need. We know exactly what to do to your screens. Next time nothing will come through except light, and only as much of that as you feel like admitting. You can wait as close to a vortex as you please, for as long as you please; until you get exactly the activity and time-interval that you want. You will be just as comfortable and just as safe as though you were home in bed." "Sure of that?" "Absolutely—or at least, as sure as we can be of anything that hasn't happened yet. But I see that your guardian angel here is eyeing her clock somewhat pointedly, so I'd better be doing a flit before they toss me down a shaft. Clear ether, Storm!" "Clear ether, Chief!" And that is how "Storm" Cloud, atomic physicist, became the most narrowly-specialized specialist in all the annals of science: how he became "Storm" Cloud, Vortex Blaster—the Galaxy's only vortex blaster. THE END
211	--- title: The Vultures of Whapeton author: Robert E. Howard tags: Fiction, Novella, Western, Action word count: 28528 ... # Chapter I: Guns in the Dark The bare plank walls of the Golden Eagle Saloon seemed still to vibrate with the crashing echoes of the guns which had split the sudden darkness with spurts of red. But only a nervous shuffling of booted feet sounded in the tense silence that followed the shots. Then somewhere a match rasped on leather and a yellow flicker sprang up, etching a shaky hand and a pallid face. An instant later an oil lamp with a broken chimney illuminated the saloon, throwing tense bearded faces into bold relief. The big lamp that hung from the ceiling was a smashed ruin; kerosene dripped from it to the floor, making an oily puddle beside a grimmer, darker pool. Two figures held the center of the room, under the broken lamp. One lay facedown, motionless arms outstretching empty hands. The other was crawling to his feet, blinking and gaping stupidly, like a man whose wits are still muddled by drink. His right arm hung limply by his side, a long-barreled pistol sagging from his fingers. The rigid line of figures along the bar melted into movement. Men came forward, stooping to stare down at the limp shape. A confused babble of conversation rose. Hurried steps sounded outside, and the crowd divided as a man pushed his way abruptly through. Instantly he dominated the scene. His broad-shouldered, trim-hipped figure was above medium height, and his broad-brimmed white hat, neat boots and cravat contrasted with the rough garb of the others, just as his keen, dark face with its narrow black mustache contrasted with the bearded countenances about him. He held an ivory-butted gun in his right hand, muzzle tilted upward. "What devil's work is this?" he harshly demanded; and then his gaze fell on the man on the floor. His eyes widened. "Grimes!" he ejaculated. "Jim Grimes, my deputy! Who did this?" There was something tigerish about him as he wheeled toward the uneasy crowd. "Who did this?" he demanded, half-crouching, his gun still lifted, but seeming to hover like a live thing ready to swoop. Feet shuffled as men backed away, but one man spoke up: "We don't know, Middleton. Jackson there was havin' a little fun, shootin' at the ceilin', and the rest of us was at the bar, watchin' him, when Grimes come in and started to arrest him—" "So Jackson shot him!" snarled Middleton, his gun covering the befuddled one in a baffling blur of motion. Jackson yelped in fear and threw up his hands, and the man who had first spoken interposed. "No, Sheriff, it couldn't have been Jackson. His gun was empty when the lights went out. I know he slung six bullets into the ceilin' while he was playin' the fool, and I heard him snap the gun three times afterwards, so I know it was empty. But when Grimes went up to him, somebody shot the light out, and a gun banged in the dark, and when we got a light on again, there Grimes was on the floor, and Jackson was just gettin' up." "I didn't shoot him," muttered Jackson. "I was just havin' a little fun. I was drunk, but I ain't now. I wouldn't have resisted arrest. When the light went out I didn't know what had happened. I heard the gun bang, and Grimes dragged me down with him as he fell. I didn't shoot him. I dunno who did." "None of us knows," added a bearded miner. "Somebody shot in the dark—" "More'n one," muttered another. "I heard at least three or four guns speakin'." Silence followed, in which each man looked sidewise at his neighbor. The men had drawn back to the bar, leaving the middle of the big room clear, where the sheriff stood. Suspicion and fear galvanized the crowd, leaping like an electric spark from man to man. Each man knew that a murderer stood near him, possibly at his elbow. Men refused to look directly into the eyes of their neighbors, fearing to surprise guilty knowledge there—and die for the discovery. They stared at the sheriff who stood facing them, as if expecting to see him fall suddenly before a blast from the same unknown guns that had mowed down his deputy. Middleton's steely eyes ranged along the silent line of men. Their eyes avoided or gave back his stare. In some he read fear; some were inscrutable; in others flickered a sinister mockery. "The men who killed Jim Grimes are in this saloon," he said finally. "Some of you are the murderers." He was careful not to let his eyes single out anyone when he spoke; they swept the whole assemblage. "I've been expecting this. Things have been getting a little too hot for the robbers and murderers who have been terrorizing this camp, so they've started shooting my deputies in the back. I suppose you'll try to kill me, next. Well, I want to tell you sneaking rats, whoever you are, that I'm ready for you, any time." He fell silent, his rangy frame tense, his eyes burning with watchful alertness. None moved. The men along the bar might have been figures cut from stone. He relaxed and shoved his gun into its scabbard; a sneer twisted his lips. "I know your breed. You won't shoot a man unless his back is toward you. Forty men have been murdered in the vicinity of this camp within the last year, and not one had a chance to defend himself. "Maybe this killing is an ultimatum to me. All right; I've got an answer ready: I've got a new deputy, and you won't find him so easy as Grimes. I'm fighting fire with fire from here on. I'm riding out of the Gulch early in the morning, and when I come back, I'll have a man with me. A gunfighter from Texas!" He paused to let this information sink in, and laughed grimly at the furtive glances that darted from man to man. "You'll find him no lamb," he predicted vindictively. "He was too wild for the country where gun-throwing was invented. What he did down there is none of my business. What he'll do here is what counts. And all I ask is that the men who murdered Grimes here, try that same trick on this Texan. "Another thing, on my own account. I'm meeting this man at Ogalala Spring tomorrow morning. I'll be riding out alone, at dawn. If anybody wants to try to waylay me, let him make his plans now! I'll follow the open trail, and anyone who has any business with me will find me ready." And turning his trimly-tailored back scornfully on the throng at the bar, the sheriff of Whapeton strode from the saloon. ~ Ten miles east of Whapeton a man squatted on his heels, frying strips of deer meat over a tiny fire. The sun was just coming up. A short distance away a rangy mustang nibbled at the wiry grass that grew sparsely between broken rocks. The man had camped there that night, but his saddle and blanket were hidden back in the bushes. That fact showed him to be a man of wary nature. No one following the trail that led past Ogalala Spring could have seen him as he slept among the bushes. Now, in full daylight, he was making no attempt to conceal his presence. The man was tall, broad-shouldered, deep-chested, lean-hipped, like one who had spent his life in the saddle. His unruly black hair matched a face burned dark by the sun, but his eyes were a burning blue. Low on either hip the black butt of a heavy Colt jutted from a worn black leather scabbard. These guns seemed as much part of the man as his eyes or his hands. He had worn them so constantly and so long that their association was as natural as the use of his limbs. As he fried his meat and watched his coffee boiling in a battered old pot, his gaze darted continually eastward where the trail crossed a wide open space before it vanished among the thickets of a broken hill country. Westward the trail mounted a gentle slope and quickly disappeared among trees and bushes that crowded up within a few yards of the spring. But it was always eastward that the man looked. When a rider emerged from the thickets to the east, the man at the spring set aside the skillet with its sizzling meat strips, and picked up his rifle—a long range Sharps .50. His eyes narrowed with satisfaction. He did not rise, but remained on one knee, the rifle resting negligently in his hands, the muzzle tilted upward, not aimed. The rider came straight on, and the man at the spring watched him from under the brim of his hat. Only when the stranger pulled up a few yards away did the first man lift his head and give the other a full view of his face. The horseman was a supple youth of medium height, and his hat did not conceal the fact that his hair was yellow and curly. His wide eyes were ingenuous, and an infectious smile curved his lips. There was no rifle under his knee, but an ivory-butted .45 hung low at his right hip. His expression as he saw the other man's face gave no hint to his reaction, except for a slight, momentary contraction of the muscles that control the eyes—a movement involuntary and all but uncontrollable. Then he grinned broadly, and hailed: "That meat smells prime, stranger!" "Light and help me with it," invited the other instantly. "Coffee, too, if you don't mind drinkin' out of the pot." He laid aside the rifle as the other swung from his saddle. The blond youngster threw his reins over the horse's head, fumbled in his blanket roll and drew out a battered tin cup. Holding this in his right hand he approached the fire with the rolling gait of a man born to a horse. "I ain't et my breakfast," he admitted. "Camped down the trail a piece last night, and come on up here early to meet a man. Thought you was the hombre till you looked up. Kinda startled me," he added frankly. He sat down opposite the taller man, who shoved the skillet and coffee pot toward him. The tall man moved both these utensils with his left hand. His right rested lightly and apparently casually on his right thigh. The youth filled his tin cup, drank the black, unsweetened coffee with evident enjoyment, and filled the cup again. He picked out pieces of the cooling meat with his fingers—and he was careful to use only his left hand for that part of the breakfast that would leave grease on his fingers. But he used his right hand for pouring coffee and holding the cup to his lips. He did not seem to notice the position of the other's right hand. "Name's Glanton," he confided. "Billy Glanton. Texas. Guadalupe country. Went up the trail with a herd of mossy horns, went broke buckin' faro in Hayes City, and headed west lookin' for gold. Hell of a prospector I turned out to be! Now I'm lookin' for a job, and the man I was goin' to meet here said he had one for me. If I read your marks right you're a Texan, too?" The last sentence was more a statement than a question. "That's my brand," grunted the other. "Name's O'Donnell. Pecos River country, originally." His statement, like that of Glanton's, was indefinite. Both the Pecos and the Guadalupe cover considerable areas of territory. But Glanton grinned boyishly and stuck out his hand. "Shake!" he cried. "I'm glad to meet an hombre from my home state, even if our stampin' grounds down there are a right smart piece apart!" Their hands met and locked briefly—brown, sinewy hands that had never worn gloves, and that gripped with the abrupt tension of steel springs. The handshake seemed to relax O'Donnell. When he poured out another cup of coffee he held the cup in one hand and the pot in the other, instead of setting the cup on the ground beside him and pouring with his left hand. "I've been in California," he volunteered. "Drifted back on this side of the mountains a month ago. Been in Whapeton for the last few weeks, but gold huntin' ain't my style. I'm a vaquero. Never should have tried to be anything else. I'm headin' back for Texas." "Why don't you try Kansas?" asked Glanton. "It's fillin' up with Texas men, bringin' cattle up the trail to stock the ranges. Within a year they'll be drivin' "em into Wyoming and Montana." "Maybe I might." O'Donnell lifted the coffee cup absently. He held it in his left hand, and his right lay in his lap, almost touching the big black pistol butt. But the tension was gone out of his frame. He seemed relaxed, absorbed in what Glanton was saying. The use of his left hand and the position of his right seemed mechanical, merely an unconscious habit. "It's a great country," declared Glanton, lowering his head to conceal the momentary and uncontrollable flicker of triumph in his eyes. "Fine ranges. Towns springin' up wherever the railroad touches. "Everybody gettin' rich on Texas beef. Talkin' about "cattle kings'! Wish I could have knowed this beef boom was comin' when I was a kid! I'd have rounded up about fifty thousand of them maverick steers that was roamin' loose all over lower Texas, and put me a brand on "em, and saved "em for the market!" He laughed at his own conceit. "They wasn't worth six bits a head then," he added, as men in making small talk will state a fact well known to everyone. "Now twenty dollars a head ain't the top price." He emptied his cup and set it on the ground near his right hip. His easy flow of speech flowed on—but the natural movement of his hand away from the cup turned into a blur of speed that flicked the heavy gun from its scabbard. Two shots roared like one long stuttering detonation. The blond newcomer slumped sidewise, his smoking gun falling from his fingers, a widening spot of crimson suddenly dyeing his shirt, his wide eyes fixed in sardonic self-mockery on the gun in O'Donnell's right hand. "Corcoran!" he muttered. "I thought I had you fooled—you—" Self-mocking laughter bubbled to his lips, cynical to the last; he was laughing as he died. The man whose real name was Corcoran rose and looked down at his victim unemotionally. There was a hole in the side of his shirt, and a seared spot on the skin of his ribs burned like fire. Even with his aim spoiled by ripping lead, Glanton's bullet had passed close. Reloading the empty chamber of his Colt, Corcoran started toward the horse the dead man had ridden up to the spring. He had taken but one step when a sound brought him around, the heavy Colt jumping back into his hand. He scowled at the man who stood before him: a tall man, trimly built, and clad in frontier elegance. "Don't shoot," this man said imperturbably. "I'm John Middleton, sheriff of Whapeton Gulch." The warning attitude of the other did not relax. "This was a private matter," he said. "I guessed as much. Anyway, it's none of my business. I saw two men at the spring as I rode over a rise in the trail some distance back. I was only expecting one. I can't afford to take any chance. I left my horse a short distance back and came on afoot. I was watching from the bushes and saw the whole thing. He reached for his gun first, but you already had your hand almost on your gun. Your shot was first by a flicker. He fooled me. His move came as an absolute surprise to me." "He thought it would to me," said Corcoran. "Billy Glanton always wanted the drop on his man. He always tried to get some advantage before he pulled his gun. "He knew me as soon as he saw me; knew that I knew him. But he thought he was making me think that he didn't know me. I made him think that. He could take chances because he knew I wouldn't shoot him down without warnin'—which is just what he figured on doin' to me. Finally he thought he had me off my guard, and went for his gun. I was foolin' him all along." Middleton looked at Corcoran with much interest. He was familiar with the two opposite breeds of gunmen. One kind was like Glanton; utterly cynical, courageous enough when courage was necessary, but always preferring to gain an advantage by treachery whenever possible. Corcoran typified the opposite breed; men too direct by nature, or too proud of their skill to resort to trickery when it was possible to meet their enemies in the open and rely on sheer speed and nerve and accuracy. But that Corcoran was a strategist was proved by his tricking Glanton into drawing. Middleton looked down at Glanton; in death the yellow curls and boyish features gave the youthful gunman an appearance of innocence. But Middleton knew that that mask had covered the heart of a merciless grey wolf. "A bad man!" he muttered, staring at the rows of niches on the ivory stock of Glanton's Colt. "Plenty bad," agreed Corcoran. "My folks and his had a feud between "em down in Texas. He came back from Kansas and killed an uncle of mine—shot him down in cold blood. I was in California when it happened. Got a letter a year after the feud was over. I was headin' for Kansas, where I figured he'd gone back to, when I met a man who told me he was in this part of the country, and was ridin' towards Whapeton. I cut his trail and camped here last night waitin' for him. "It'd been years since we'd seen each other, but he knew me—didn't know I knew he knew me, though. That gave me the edge. You're the man he was goin' to meet here?" "Yes. I need a gunfighting deputy bad. I'd heard of him. Sent him word." Middleton's gaze wandered over Corcoran's hard frame, lingering on the guns at his hips. "You pack two irons," remarked the sheriff. "I know what you can do with your right. But what about the left? I've seen plenty of men who wore two guns, but those who could use both I can count on my fingers." "Well?" "Well," smiled the sheriff, "I thought maybe you'd like to show what you can do with your left." "Why do you think it makes any difference to me whether you believe I can handle both guns or not?" retorted Corcoran without heat. Middleton seemed to like the reply. "A tinhorn would be anxious to make me believe he could. You don't have to prove anything to me. I've seen enough to show me that you're the man I need. Corcoran, I came out here to hire Glanton as my deputy. I'll make the same proposition to you. What you were down in Texas, or out in California, makes no difference to me. I know your breed, and I know that you'll shoot square with a man who trusts you, regardless of what you may have been in other parts, or will be again, somewhere else. "I'm up against a situation in Whapeton that I can't cope with alone, or with the forces I have. "For a year the town and the camps up and down the gulch have been terrorized by a gang of outlaws who call themselves the Vultures. "That describes them perfectly. No man's life or property is safe. Forty or fifty men have been murdered, hundreds robbed. It's next to impossible for a man to pack out any dust, or for a big shipment of gold to get through on the stage. So many men have been shot trying to protect shipments that the stage company has trouble hiring guards any more. "Nobody knows who are the leaders of the gang. There are a number of ruffians who are suspected of being members of the Vultures, but we have no proof that would stand up, even in a miners' court. Nobody dares give evidence against any of them. When a man recognizes the men who rob him he doesn't dare reveal his knowledge. I can't get anyone to identify a criminal, though I know that robbers and murderers are walking the streets, and rubbing elbows with me along the bars. It's maddening! And yet I can't blame the poor devils. Any man who dared testify against one of them would be murdered. "People blame me some, but I can't give adequate protection to the camp with the resources allowed me. You know how a gold camp is; everybody so greedy-blind they don't want to do anything but grab for the yellow dust. My deputies are brave men, but they can't be everywhere, and they're not gunfighters. If I arrest a man there are a dozen to stand up in a miners' court and swear enough lies to acquit him. Only last night they murdered one of my deputies, Jim Grimes, in cold blood. "I sent for Billy Glanton when I heard he was in this country, because I need a man of more than usual skill. I need a man who can handle a gun like a streak of forked lightning, and knows all the tricks of trapping and killing a man. I'm tired of arresting criminals to be turned loose! Wild Bill Hickok has the right idea—kill the badmen and save the jails for the petty offenders!" The Texan scowled slightly at the mention of Hickok, who was not loved by the riders who came up the cattle trails, but he nodded agreement with the sentiment expressed. The fact that he, himself, would fall into Hickok's category of those to be exterminated did not prejudice his viewpoint. "You're a better man than Glanton," said Middleton abruptly. "The proof is that Glanton lies there dead, and here you stand very much alive. I'll offer you the same terms I meant to offer him." He named a monthly salary considerably larger than that drawn by the average Eastern city marshal. Gold was the most plentiful commodity in Whapeton. "And a monthly bonus," added Middleton. "When I hire talent I expect to pay for it; so do the merchants and miners who look to me for protection." Corcoran meditated a moment. "No use in me goin' on to Kansas now," he said finally. "None of my folks in Texas are havin' any feud that I know of. I'd like to see this Whapeton. I'll take you up." "Good!" Middleton extended his hand and as Corcoran took it he noticed that it was much browner than the left. No glove had covered that hand for many years. "Let's get it started right away! But first we'll have to dispose of Glanton's body." "I'll take along his gun and horse and send "em to Texas to his folks," said Corcoran. "But the body?" "Hell, the buzzards'll "tend to it." "No, no!" protested Middleton. "Let's cover it with bushes and rocks, at least." Corcoran shrugged his shoulders. It was not vindictiveness which prompted his seeming callousness. His hatred of the blond youth did not extend to the lifeless body of the man. It was simply that he saw no use in going to what seemed to him an unnecessary task. He had hated Glanton with the merciless hate of his race, which is more enduring and more relentless than the hate of an Indian or a Spaniard. But toward the body that was no longer animated by the personality he had hated, he was simply indifferent. He expected some day to leave his own corpse stretched on the ground, and the thought of buzzards tearing at his dead flesh moved him no more than the sight of his dead enemy. His creed was pagan and nakedly elemental. A man's body, once life had left it, was no more than any other carcass, moldering back into the soil which once produced it. But he helped Middleton drag the body into an opening among the bushes, and build a rude cairn above it. And he waited patiently while Middleton carved the dead youth's name on a rude cross fashioned from broken branches, and thrust upright among the stones. Then they rode for Whapeton, Corcoran leading the riderless roan; over the horn of the empty saddle hung the belt supporting the dead man's gun, the ivory stock of which bore eleven notches, each of which represented a man's life. # Chapter II: Golden Madness The mining town of Whapeton sprawled in a wide gulch that wandered between sheer rock walls and steep hillsides. Cabins, saloons and dance-halls backed against the cliffs on the south side of the gulch. The houses facing them were almost on the bank of Whapeton Creek, which wandered down the gulch, keeping mostly to the center. On both sides of the creek cabins and tents straggled for a mile and a half each way from the main body of the town. Men were washing gold dust out of the creek, and out of its smaller tributaries which meandered into the canyon along tortuous ravines. Some of these ravines opened into the gulch between the houses built against the wall, and the cabins and tents which straggled up them gave the impression that the town had overflowed the main gulch and spilled into its tributaries. Buildings were of logs, or of bare planks laboriously freighted over the mountains. Squalor and draggled or gaudy elegance rubbed elbows. An intense virility surged through the scene. What other qualities it might have lacked, it overflowed with a superabundance of vitality. Color, action, movement—growth and power! The atmosphere was alive with these elements, stinging and tingling. Here there were no delicate shadings or subtle contrasts. Life painted here in broad, raw colors, in bold, vivid strokes. Men who came here left behind them the delicate nuances, the cultured tranquilities of life. An empire was being built on muscle and guts and audacity, and men dreamed gigantically and wrought terrifically. No dream was too mad, no enterprise too tremendous to be accomplished. Passions ran raw and turbulent. Boot heels stamped on bare plank floors, in the eddying dust of the street. Voices boomed, tempers exploded in sudden outbursts of primitive violence. Shrill voices of painted harpies mingled with the clank of gold on gambling tables, gusty mirth and vociferous altercation along the bars where raw liquor hissed in a steady stream down hairy, dust-caked throats. It was one of a thousand similar panoramas of the day, when a giant empire was bellowing in lusty infancy. But a sinister undercurrent was apparent. Corcoran, riding by the sheriff, was aware of this, his senses and intuitions whetted to razor keenness by the life he led. The instincts of a gunfighter were developed to an abnormal alertness, else he had never lived out his first year of gunmanship. But it took no abnormally developed instinct to tell Corcoran that hidden currents ran here, darkly and strongly. As they threaded their way among trains of pack-mules, rumbling wagons and swarms of men on foot which thronged the straggling street, Corcoran was aware of many eyes following them. Talk ceased suddenly among gesticulating groups as they recognized the sheriff, then the eyes swung to Corcoran, searching and appraising. He did not seem to be aware of their scrutiny. Middleton murmured: "They know I'm bringing back a gunfighting deputy. Some of those fellows are Vultures, though I can't prove it. Look out for yourself." Corcoran considered this advice too unnecessary to merit a reply. They were riding past the King of Diamonds gambling hall at the moment, and a group of men clustered in the doorway turned to stare at them. One lifted a hand in greeting to the sheriff. "Ace Brent, the biggest gambler in the gulch," murmured Middleton as he returned the salute. Corcoran got a glimpse of a slim figure in elegant broadcloth, a keen, inscrutable countenance, and a pair of piercing black eyes. Middleton did not enlarge upon his description of the man, but rode on in silence. They traversed the body of the town—the clusters of stores and saloons—and passed on, halting at a cabin apart from the rest. Between it and the town the creek swung out in a wide loop that carried it some distance from the south wall of the gulch, and the cabins and tents straggled after the creek. That left this particular cabin isolated, for it was built with its back wall squarely against the sheer cliff. There was a corral on one side, a clump of trees on the other. Beyond the trees a narrow ravine opened into the gulch, dry and unoccupied. "This is my cabin," said Middleton. "That cabin back there"—he pointed to one which they had passed, a few hundred yards back up the road—"I use for a sheriff's office. I need only one room. You can bunk in the back room. You can keep your horse in my corral, if you want to. I always keep several there for my deputies. It pays to have a fresh supply of horseflesh always on hand." As Corcoran dismounted he glanced back at the cabin he was to occupy. It stood close to a clump of trees, perhaps a hundred yards from the steep wall of the gulch. There were four men at the sheriff's cabin, one of which Middleton introduced to Corcoran as Colonel Hopkins, formerly of Tennessee. He was a tall, portly man with an iron grey mustache and goatee, as well dressed as Middleton himself. "Colonel Hopkins owns the rich Elinor A. claim, in partnership with Dick Bisley," said Middleton; "in addition to being one of the most prominent merchants in the Gulch." "A great deal of good either occupation does me, when I can't get my money out of town," retorted the colonel. "Three times my partner and I have lost big shipments of gold on the stage. Once we sent out a load concealed in wagons loaded with supplies supposed to be intended for the miners at Teton Gulch. Once clear of Whapeton the drivers were to swing back east through the mountains. But somehow the Vultures learned of our plan; they caught the wagons fifteen miles south of Whapeton, looted them and murdered the guards and drivers." "The town's honeycombed with their spies," muttered Middleton. "Of course. One doesn't know who to trust. It was being whispered in the streets that my men had been killed and robbed, before their bodies had been found. We know that the Vultures knew all about our plan, that they rode straight out from Whapeton, committed that crime and rode straight back with the gold dust. But we could do nothing. We can't prove anything, or convict anybody." Middleton introduced Corcoran to the three deputies, Bill McNab, Richardson, and Stark. McNab was as tall as Corcoran and more heavily built, hairy and muscular, with restless eyes that reflected a violent temper. Richardson was more slender, with cold, unblinking eyes, and Corcoran instantly classified him as the most dangerous of the three. Stark was a burly, bearded fellow, not differing in type from hundreds of miners. Corcoran found the appearances of these men incongruous with their protestations of helplessness in the face of the odds against them. They looked like hard men, well able to take care of themselves in any situation. Middleton, as if sensing his thoughts, said: "These men are not afraid of the devil, and they can throw a gun as quick as the average man, or quicker. But it's hard for a stranger to appreciate just what we're up against here in Whapeton. If it was a matter of an open fight, it would be different. I wouldn't need any more help. But it's blind going, working in the dark, not knowing who to trust. I don't dare to deputize a man unless I'm sure of his honesty. And who can be sure of who? We know the town is full of spies. We don't know who they are; we don't know who the leader of the Vultures is." Hopkins' bearded chin jutted stubbornly as he said: "I still believe that gambler, Ace Brent, is mixed up with the gang. Gamblers have been murdered and robbed, but Brent's never been molested. What becomes of all the dust he wins? Many of the miners, despairing of ever getting out of the gulch with their gold, blow it all in the saloons and gambling halls. Brent's won thousands of dollars in dust and nuggets. So have several others. What becomes of it? It doesn't all go back into circulation. I believe they get it out, over the mountains. And if they do, when no one else can, that proves to my mind that they're members of the Vultures." "Maybe they cache it, like you and the other merchants are doing," suggested Middleton. "I don't know. Brent's intelligent enough to be the chief of the Vultures. But I've never been able to get anything on him." "You've never been able to get anything definite on anybody, except petty offenders," said Colonel Hopkins bluntly, as he took up his hat. "No offense intended, John. We know what you're up against, and we can't blame you. But it looks like, for the good of the camp, we're going to have to take direct action." Middleton stared after the broadcloth-clad back as it receded from the cabin. "'We,"" he murmured. "That means the vigilantes—or rather the men who have been agitating a vigilante movement. I can understand their feelings, but I consider it an unwise move. In the first place, such an organization is itself outside the law, and would be playing into the hands of the lawless element. Then, what's to prevent outlaws from joining the vigilantes, and diverting it to suit their own ends?" "Not a damned thing!" broke in McNab heatedly. "Colonel Hopkins and his friends are hot-headed. They expect too much from us. Hell, we're just ordinary workin' men. We do the best we can, but we ain't gunslingers like this man Corcoran here." Corcoran found himself mentally questioning the whole truth of this statement; Richardson had all the earmarks of a gunman, if he had ever seen one, and the Texan's experience in such matters ranged from the Pacific to the Gulf. Middleton picked up his hat. "You boys scatter out through the camp. I'm going to take Corcoran around, when I've sworn him in and given him his badge, and introduce him to the leading men of the camp. "I don't want any mistake, or any chance of mistake, about his standing. I've put you in a tight spot, Corcoran, I'll admit—boasting about the gunfighting deputy I was going to get. But I'm confident that you can take care of yourself." The eyes that had followed their ride down the street focused on the sheriff and his companion as they made their way on foot along the straggling street with its teeming saloons and gambling halls. Gamblers and bartenders were swamped with business, and merchants were getting rich with all commodities selling at unheard-of prices. Wages for day-labor matched prices for groceries, for few men could be found to toil for a prosaic, set salary when their eyes were dazzled by visions of creeks fat with yellow dust and gorges crammed with nuggets. Some of those dreams were not disappointed; millions of dollars in virgin gold was being taken out of the claims up and down the gulch. But the finders frequently found it a golden weight hung to their necks to drag them down to a bloody death. Unseen, unknown, on furtive feet the human wolves stole among them, unerringly marking their prey and striking in the dark. From saloon to saloon, dance hall to dance hall, where weary girls in tawdry finery allowed themselves to be tussled and hauled about by bear-like males who emptied sacks of gold dust down the low necks of their dresses, Middleton piloted Corcoran, talking rapidly and incessantly. He pointed out men in the crowd and gave their names and status in the community, and introduced the Texan to the more important citizens of the camp. All eyes followed Corcoran curiously. The day was still in the future when the northern ranges would be flooded by Texas cattle, driven by wiry Texas riders; but Texans were not unknown, even then, in the mining camps of the Northwest. In the first days of the gold rushes they had drifted in from the camps of California, to which, at a still earlier date, the Southwest had sent some of her staunchest and some of her most turbulent sons. And of late others had drifted in from the Kansas cattle towns along whose streets the lean riders were swaggering and fighting out feuds brought up from the far south country. Many in Whapeton were familiar with the characteristics of the Texas breed, and all had heard tales of the fighting men bred among the live oaks and mesquites of that hot, turbulent country where racial traits met and clashed, and the traditions of the Old South mingled with those of the untamed West. Here, then, was a lean grey wolf from that southern pack; some of the men looked their scowling animosity; but most merely looked, in the role of spectators, eager to witness the drama all felt imminent. "You're, primarily, to fight the Vultures, of course," Middleton told Corcoran as they walked together down the street. "But that doesn't mean you're to overlook petty offenders. A lot of small-time crooks and bullies are so emboldened by the success of the big robbers that they think they can get away with things, too. If you see a man shooting up a saloon, take his gun away and throw him into jail to sober up. That's the jail, up yonder at the other end of town. Don't let men fight on the street or in saloons. Innocent bystanders get hurt." "All right." Corcoran saw no harm in shooting up saloons or fighting in public places. In Texas few innocent bystanders were ever hurt, for there men sent their bullets straight to the mark intended. But he was ready to follow instructions. "So much for the smaller fry. You know what to do with the really bad men. We're not bringing any more murderers into court to be acquitted through their friends' lies!" # Chapter III: Gunman's Trap Night had fallen over the roaring madness that was Whapeton Gulch. Light streamed from the open doors of saloons and honky-tonks, and the gusts of noise that rushed out into the street smote the passers-by like the impact of a physical blow. Corcoran traversed the street with the smooth, easy stride of perfectly poised muscles. He seemed to be looking straight ahead, but his eyes missed nothing on either side of him. As he passed each building in turn he analyzed the sounds that issued from the open door, and knew just how much was rough merriment and horseplay, recognized the elements of anger and menace when they edged some of the voices, and accurately appraised the extent and intensity of those emotions. A real gunfighter was not merely a man whose eye was truer, whose muscles were quicker than other men; he was a practical psychologist, a student of human nature, whose life depended on the correctness of his conclusions. It was the Golden Garter dance hall that gave him his first job as a defender of law and order. As he passed a startling clamor burst forth inside—strident feminine shrieks piercing a din of coarse masculine hilarity. Instantly he was through the door and elbowing a way through the crowd which was clustered about the center of the room. Men cursed and turned belligerently as they felt his elbows in their ribs, twisted their heads to threaten him, and then gave back as they recognized the new deputy. Corcoran broke through into the open space the crowd ringed, and saw two women fighting like furies. One, a tall, fine blond girl, had bent a shrieking, biting, clawing Mexican girl back over a billiard table, and the crowd was yelling joyful encouragement to one or the other: "Give it to her, Glory!" "Slug her, gal!" "Hell, Conchita, bite her!" The brown girl heeded this last bit of advice and followed it so energetically that Glory cried out sharply and jerked away her wrist, which dripped blood. In the grip of the hysterical frenzy which seizes women in such moments, she caught up a billiard ball and lifted it to crash it down on the head of her screaming captive. Corcoran caught that uplifted wrist, and deftly flicked the ivory sphere from her fingers. Instantly she whirled on him like a tigress, her yellow hair falling in disorder over her shoulders, bared by the violence of the struggle, her eyes blazing. She lifted her hands toward his face, her fingers working spasmodically, at which some drunk bawled, with a shout of laughter: "Scratch his eyes out, Glory!" Corcoran made no move to defend his features; he did not seem to see the white fingers twitching so near his face. He was staring into her furious face, and the candid admiration of his gaze seemed to confuse her, even in her anger. She dropped her hands but fell back on woman's traditional weapon—her tongue. "You're Middleton's new deputy! I might have expected you to butt in! Where are McNab and the rest? Drunk in some gutter? Is this the way you catch murderers? You lawmen are all alike—better at bullying girls than at catching outlaws!" Corcoran stepped past her and picked up the hysterical Mexican girl. Conchita seeing that she was more frightened than hurt, scurried toward the back rooms, sobbing in rage and humiliation, and clutching about her the shreds of garments her enemy's tigerish attack had left her. Corcoran looked again at Glory, who stood clenching and unclenching her white fists. She was still fermenting with anger, and furious at his intervention. No one in the crowd about them spoke; no one laughed, but all seemed to hold their breaths as she launched into another tirade. They knew Corcoran was a dangerous man, but they did not know the code by which he had been reared; did not know that Glory, or any other woman, was safe from violence at his hands, whatever her offense. "Why don't you call McNab?" she sneered. "Judging from the way Middleton's deputies have been working, it will probably take three or four of you to drag one helpless girl to jail!" "Who said anything about takin' you to jail?" Corcoran's gaze dwelt in fascination on her ruddy cheeks, the crimson of her full lips in startling contrast against the whiteness of her teeth. She shook her yellow hair back impatiently, as a spirited young animal might shake back its flowing mane. "You're not arresting me?" She seemed startled, thrown into confusion by this unexpected statement. "No. I just kept you from killin' that girl. If you'd brained her with that billiard ball I'd have had to arrest you." "She lied about me!" Her wide eyes flashed, and her breast heaved again. "That wasn't no excuse for makin' a public show of yourself," he answered without heat. "If ladies have got to fight, they ought to do it in private." And so saying he turned away. A gusty exhalation of breath seemed to escape the crowd, and the tension vanished, as they turned to the bar. The incident was forgotten, merely a trifling episode in an existence crowded with violent incidents. Jovial masculine voices mingled with the shriller laughter of women, as glasses began to clink along the bar. Glory hesitated, drawing her torn dress together over her bosom, then darted after Corcoran, who was moving toward the door. When she touched his arm he whipped about as quick as a cat, a hand flashing to a gun. She glimpsed a momentary gleam in his eyes as menacing and predatory as the threat that leaps in a panther's eyes. Then it was gone as he saw whose hand had touched him. "She lied about me," Glory said, as if defending herself from a charge of misconduct. "She's a dirty little cat." Corcoran looked her over from head to foot, as if he had not heard her; his blue eyes burned her like a physical fire. She stammered in confusion. Direct and unveiled admiration was commonplace, but there was an elemental candor about the Texan such as she had never before encountered. He broke in on her stammerings in a way that showed he had paid no attention to what she was saying. "Let me buy you a drink. There's a table over there where we can sit down." "No. I must go and put on another dress. I just wanted to say that I'm glad you kept me from killing Conchita. She's a slut, but I don't want her blood on my hands." "All right." She found it hard to make conversation with him, and could not have said why she wished to make conversation. "McNab arrested me once," she said, irrelevantly, her eyes dilating as if at the memory of an injustice. "I slapped him for something he said. He was going to put me in jail for resisting an officer of the law! Middleton made him turn me loose." "McNab must be a fool," said Corcoran slowly. "He's mean; he's got a nasty temper, and he—what's that?" Down the street sounded a fusillade of shots, a blurry voice yelling gleefully. "Some fool shooting up a saloon," she murmured, and darted a strange glance at her companion, as if a drunk shooting into the air was an unusual occurrence in that wild mining camp. "Middleton said that's against the law," he grunted, turning away. "Wait!" she cried sharply, catching at him. But he was already moving through the door, and Glory stopped short as a hand fell lightly on her shoulder from behind. Turning her head she paled to see the keenly-chiseled face of Ace Brent. His hand lay gently on her shoulder, but there was a command and a blood-chilling threat in its touch. She shivered and stood still as a statue, as Corcoran, unaware of the drama being played behind him, disappeared into the street. The racket was coming from the Blackfoot Chief Saloon, a few doors down, and on the same side of the street as the Golden Garter. With a few long strides Corcoran reached the door. But he did not rush in. He halted and swept his cool gaze deliberately over the interior. In the center of the saloon a roughly dressed man was reeling about, whooping and discharging a pistol into the ceiling, perilously close to the big oil lamp which hung there. The bar was lined with men, all bearded and uncouthly garbed, so it was impossible to tell which were ruffians and which were honest miners. All the men in the room were at the bar, with the exception of the drunken man. Corcoran paid little heed to him as he came through the door, though he moved straight toward him, and to the tense watchers it seemed the Texan was looking at no one else. In reality, from the corner of his eye he was watching the men at the bar; and as he moved deliberately from the door, across the room, he distinguished the pose of honest curiosity from the tension of intended murder. He saw the three hands that gripped gun butts. And as he, apparently ignorant of what was going on at the bar, stepped toward the man reeling in the center of the room, a gun jumped from its scabbard and pointed toward the lamp. And even as it moved, Corcoran moved quicker. His turn was a blur of motion too quick for the eye to follow and even as he turned his gun was burning red. The man who had drawn died on his feet with his gun still pointed toward the ceiling, unfired. Another stood gaping, stunned, a pistol dangling in his fingers, for that fleeting tick of time; then as he woke and whipped the gun up, hot lead ripped through his brain. A third gun spoke once as the owner fired wildly, and then he went to his knees under the blast of ripping lead, slumped over on the floor and lay twitching. It was over in a flash, action so blurred with speed that not one of the watchers could ever tell just exactly what had happened. One instant Corcoran had been moving toward the man in the center of the room, the next both guns were blazing and three men were falling from the bar, crashing dead on the floor. For an instant the scene held, Corcoran half-crouching, guns held at his hips, facing the men who stood stunned along the bar. Wisps of blue smoke drifted from the muzzles of his guns, forming a misty veil through which his grim face looked, implacable and passionless as that of an image carved from granite. But his eyes blazed. Shakily, moving like puppets on a string, the men at the bar lifted their hands clear of their waistline. Death hung on the crook of a finger for a shuddering tick of time. Then with a choking gasp the man who had played drunk made a stumbling rush toward the door. With a catlike wheel and stroke Corcoran crashed a gun barrel over his head and stretched him stunned and bleeding on the floor. The Texan was facing the men at the bar again before any of them could have moved. He had not looked at the men on the floor since they had fallen. "Well, amigos!" His voice was soft, but it was thick with killer's lust. "Why don't you-all keep the baile goin'? Ain't these hombres got no friends?" Apparently they had not. No one made a move. Realizing that the crisis had passed, that there was no more killing to be done just then, Corcoran straightened, shoving his guns back in his scabbards. "Purty crude," he criticized. "I don't see how anybody could fall for a trick that stale. Man plays drunk and starts shootin' at the roof. Officer comes in to arrest him. When the officer's back's turned, somebody shoots out the light, and the drunk falls on the floor to get out of the line of fire. Three or four men planted along the bar start blazin' away in the dark at the place where they know the law's standin', and out of eighteen or twenty-four shots, some's bound to connect." With a harsh laugh he stooped, grabbed the "drunk" by the collar and hauled him upright. The man staggered and stared wildly about him, blood dripping from the gash in his scalp. "You got to come along to jail," said Corcoran unemotionally. "Sheriff says it's against the law to shoot up saloons. I ought to shoot you, but I ain't in the habit of pluggin' men with empty guns. Reckon you'll be more value to the sheriff alive than dead, anyway." And propelling his dizzy charge, he strode out into the street. A crowd had gathered about the door, and they gave back suddenly. He saw a supple, feminine figure dart into the circle of light, which illumined the white face and golden hair of the girl Glory. "Oh!" she exclaimed sharply. "Oh!" Her exclamation was almost drowned in a sudden clamor of voices as the men in the street realized what had happened in the Blackfoot Chief. Corcoran felt her pluck at his sleeve as he passed her, heard her tense whisper. "I was afraid—I tried to warn you—I'm glad they didn't—" A shadow of a smile touched his hard lips as he glanced down at her. Then he was gone, striding down the street toward the jail, half-pushing, half-dragging his bewildered prisoner. # Chapter IV: The Madness That Blinds Them Corcoran locked the door on the man who seemed utterly unable to realize just what had happened, and turned away, heading for the sheriff's office at the other end of town. He kicked on the door of the jailer's shack, a few yards from the jail, and roused that individual out of a slumber he believed was alcoholic, and informed him he had a prisoner in his care. The jailer seemed as surprised as the victim was. No one had followed Corcoran to the jail, and the street was almost deserted, as the people jammed morbidly into the Blackfoot Chief to stare at the bodies and listen to conflicting stories as to just what had happened. Colonel Hopkins came running up, breathlessly, to grab Corcoran's hand and pump it vigorously. "By gad, sir, you have the real spirit! Guts! Speed! They tell me the loafers at the bar didn't even have time to dive for cover before it was over! I'll admit I'd ceased to expect much of John's deputies, but you've shown your metal! These fellows were undoubtedly Vultures. That Tom Deal, you've got in jail, I've suspected him for some time. We'll question him—make him tell us who the rest are, and who their leader is. Come in and have a drink, sir!" "Thanks, but not just now. I'm goin' to find Middleton and report this business. His office ought to be closer to the jail. I don't think much of his jailer. When I get through reportin' I'm goin' back and guard that fellow myself." Hopkins emitted more laudations, and then clapped the Texan on the back and darted away to take part in whatever informal inquest was being made, and Corcoran strode on through the emptying street. The fact that so much uproar was being made over the killing of three would-be murderers showed him how rare was a successful resistance to the Vultures. He shrugged his shoulders as he remembered feuds and range wars in his native Southwest: men falling like flies under the unerring drive of bullets on the open range and in the streets of Texas towns. But there all men were frontiersmen, sons and grandsons of frontiersmen; here, in the mining camps, the frontier element was only one of several elements, many drawn from sections where men had forgotten how to defend themselves through generations of law and order. He saw a light spring up in the sheriff's cabin just before he reached it, and, with his mind on possible gunmen lurking in ambush—for they must have known he would go directly to the cabin from the jail—he swung about and approached the building by a route that would not take him across the bar of light pouring from the window. So it was that the man who came running noisily down the road passed him without seeing the Texan as he kept in the shadows of the cliff. The man was McNab; Corcoran knew him by his powerful build, his slouching carriage. And as he burst through the door, his face was illuminated and Corcoran was amazed to see it contorted in a grimace of passion. Voices rose inside the cabin, McNab's bull-like roar, thick with fury, and the calmer tones of Middleton. Corcoran hurried forward, and as he approached he heard McNab roar: "Damn you, Middleton, you've got a lot of explainin' to do! Why didn't you warn the boys he was a killer?" At that moment Corcoran stepped into the cabin and demanded: "What's the trouble, McNab?" The big deputy whirled with a feline snarl of rage, his eyes glaring with murderous madness as they recognized Corcoran. "You damned—" A string of filthy expletives gushed from his thick lips as he ripped out his gun. Its muzzle had scarcely cleared leather when a Colt banged in Corcoran's right hand. McNab's gun clattered to the floor and he staggered back, grasping his right arm with his left hand, and cursing like a madman. "What's the matter with you, you fool?" demanded Corcoran harshly. "Shut up! I did you a favor by not killin' you. If you wasn't a deputy I'd have drilled you through the head. But I will anyway, if you don't shut your dirty trap." "You killed Breckman, Red Bill and Curly!" raved McNab; he looked like a wounded grizzly as he swayed there, blood trickling down his wrist and dripping off his fingers. "Was that their names? Well, what about it?" "Bill's drunk, Corcoran," interposed Middleton. "He goes crazy when he's full of liquor." McNab's roar of fury shook the cabin. His eyes turned red and he swayed on his feet as if about to plunge at Middleton's throat. "Drunk?" he bellowed. "You lie, Middleton! Damn you, what's your game? You sent your own men to death! Without warnin'!" "His own men?" Corcoran's eyes were suddenly glittering slits. He stepped back and made a half-turn so that he was facing both men; his hands became claws hovering over his gun-butts. "Yes, his men!" snarled McNab. "You fool, he's the chief of the Vultures!" An electric silence gripped the cabin. Middleton stood rigid, his empty hands hanging limp, knowing that his life hung on a thread no more substantial than a filament of morning dew. If he moved, if, when he spoke, his tone jarred on Corcoran's suspicious ears, guns would be roaring before a man could snap his fingers. "Is that so?" Corcoran shot at him. "Yes," Middleton said calmly, with no inflection in his voice that could be taken as a threat. "I'm chief of the Vultures." Corcoran glared at him puzzled. "What's your game?" he demanded, his tone thick with the deadly instinct of his breed. "That's what I want to know!" bawled McNab. "We killed Grimes for you, because he was catchin' on to things. And we set the same trap for this devil. He knew! He must have known! You warned him—told him all about it!" "He told me nothin'," grated Corcoran. "He didn't have to. Nobody but a fool would have been caught in a trap like that. Middleton, before I blow you to Hell, I want to know one thing: what good was it goin' to do you to bring me into Whapeton, and have me killed the first night I was here?" "I didn't bring you here for that," answered Middleton. "Then what'd you bring him here for?" yelled McNab. "You told us—" "I told you I was bringing a new deputy here, that was a gunslinging fool," broke in Middleton. "That was the truth. That should have been warning enough." "But we thought that was just talk, to fool the people," protested McNab bewilderedly. He sensed that he was beginning to be wound in a web he could not break. "Did I tell you it was just talk?" "No, but we thought—" "I gave you no reason to think anything. The night when Grimes was killed I told everyone in the Golden Eagle that I was bringing in a Texas gunfighter as my deputy. I spoke the truth." "But you wanted him killed, and—" "I didn't. I didn't say a word about having him killed." "But—" "Did I?" Middleton pursued relentlessly. "Did I give you a definite order to kill Corcoran, to molest him in any way?" Corcoran's eyes were molten steel, burning into McNab's soul. The befuddled giant scowled and floundered, vaguely realizing that he was being put in the wrong, but not understanding how, or why. "No, you didn't tell us to kill him in so many words; but you didn't tell us to let him alone." "Do I have to tell you to let people alone to keep you from killing them? There are about three thousand people in this camp I've never given any definite orders about. Are you going out and kill them, and say you thought I meant you to do it, because I didn't tell you not to?" "Well, I—" McNab began apologetically, then burst out in righteous though bewildered wrath: "Damn it, it was the understandin' that we'd get rid of deputies like that, who wasn't on the inside. We thought you were bringin' in an honest deputy to fool the folks, just like you hired Jim Grimes to fool "em. We thought you was just makin' a talk to the fools in the Golden Eagle. We thought you'd want him out of the way as quick as possible—" "You drew your own conclusions and acted without my orders," snapped Middleton. "That's all that it amounts to. Naturally Corcoran defended himself. If I'd had any idea that you fools would try to murder him, I'd have passed the word to let him alone. I thought you understood my motives. I brought Corcoran in here to fool the people; yes. But he's not a man like Jim Grimes. Corcoran is with us. He'll clean out the thieves that are working outside our gang, and we'll accomplish two things with one stroke: get rid of competition and make the miners think we're on the level." McNab stood glaring at Middleton; three times he opened his mouth, and each time he shut it without speaking. He knew that an injustice had been done him; that a responsibility that was not rightfully his had been dumped on his brawny shoulders. But the subtle play of Middleton's wits was beyond him; he did not know how to defend himself or make a countercharge. "All right," he snarled. "We'll forget it. But the boys ain't goin' to forget how Corcoran shot down their pards. I'll talk to "em, though. Tom Deal's got to be out of that jail before daylight. Hopkins is aimin' to question him about the gang. I'll stage a fake jailbreak for him. But first I've got to get this arm dressed." And he slouched out of the cabin and away through the darkness, a baffled giant, burning with murderous rage, but too tangled in a net of subtlety to know where or how or who to smite. Back in the cabin Middleton faced Corcoran who still stood with his thumbs hooked in his belt, his fingers near his gun butts. A whimsical smile played on Middleton's thin lips, and Corcoran smiled back; but it was the mirthless grin of a crouching panther. "You can't tangle me up with words like you did that big ox," Corcoran said. "You let me walk into that trap. You knew your men were ribbin' it up. You let "em go ahead, when a word from you would have stopped it. You knew they'd think you wanted me killed, like Grimes, if you didn't say nothin'. You let "em think that, but you played safe by not givin' any definite orders, so if anything went wrong, you could step out from under and shift the blame onto McNab." Middleton smiled appreciatively, and nodded coolly. "That's right. All of it. You're no fool, Corcoran." Corcoran ripped out an oath, and this glimpse of the passionate nature that lurked under his inscrutable exterior was like a momentary glimpse of an enraged cougar, eyes blazing, spitting and snarling. "Why?" he exclaimed. "Why did you plot all this for me? If you had a grudge against Glanton, I can understand why you'd rib up a trap for him, though you wouldn't have had no more luck with him than you have with me. But you ain't got no feud against me. I never saw you before this mornin'!" "I have no feud with you; I had none with Glanton. But if Fate hadn't thrown you into my path, it would have been Glanton who would have been ambushed in the Blackfoot Chief. Don't you see, Corcoran? It was a test. I had to be sure you were the man I wanted." Corcoran scowled, puzzled himself now. "What do you mean?" "Sit down!" Middleton himself sat down on a nearby chair, unbuckled his gun-belt and threw it, with the heavy, holstered gun, onto a table, out of easy reach. Corcoran seated himself, but his vigilance did not relax, and his gaze rested on Middleton's left arm pit, where a second gun might be hidden. "In the first place," said Middleton, his voice flowing tranquilly, but pitched too low to be heard outside the cabin, "I'm chief of the Vultures, as that fool said. I organized them, even before I was made sheriff. Killing a robber and murderer, who was working outside my gang, made the people of Whapeton think I'd make a good sheriff. When they gave me the office, I saw what an advantage it would be to me and my gang. "Our organization is airtight. There are about fifty men in the gang. They are scattered throughout these mountains. Some pose as miners; some are gamblers—Ace Brent, for instance. He's my right-hand man. Some work in saloons, some clerk in stores. One of the regular drivers of the stage-line company is a Vulture, and so is a clerk of the company, and one of the men who works in the company's stables, tending the horses. "With spies scattered all over the camp, I know who's trying to take out gold, and when. It's a cinch. We can't lose." "I don't see how the camp stands for it," grunted Corcoran. "Men are too crazy after gold to think about anything else. As long as a man isn't molested himself, he doesn't care much what happens to his neighbors. We are organized; they are not. We know who to trust; they don't. It can't last forever. Sooner or later the more intelligent citizens will organize themselves into a vigilante committee and sweep the gulch clean. But when that happens, I intend to be far away—with one man I can trust." Corcoran nodded, comprehension beginning to gleam in his eyes. "Already some men are talking vigilante. Colonel Hopkins, for instance. I encourage him as subtly as I can." "Why, in the name of Satan?" "To avert suspicion; and for another reason. The vigilantes will serve my purpose at the end." "And your purpose is to skip out and leave the gang holdin' the sack!" "Exactly! Look here!" Taking the candle from the table, he led the way through a back room, where heavy shutters covered the one window. Shutting the door, he turned to the back wall and drew aside some skins which were hung over it. Setting the candle on a roughly hewed table, he fumbled at the logs, and a section swung outward, revealing a heavy plank door set in the solid rock against which the back wall of the cabin was built. It was braced with iron and showed a ponderous lock. Middleton produced a key, and turned it in the lock, and pushed the door inward. He lifted the candle and revealed a small cave, lined and heaped with canvas and buckskin sacks. One of these sacks had burst open, and a golden stream caught the glints of the candle. "Gold! Sacks and sacks of it!" Corcoran caught his breath, and his eyes glittered like a wolf's in the candlelight. No man could visualize the contents of those bags unmoved. And the gold-madness had long ago entered Corcoran's veins, more powerfully than he had dreamed, even though he had followed the lure to California and back over the mountains again. The sight of that glittering heap, of those bulging sacks, sent his pulses pounding in his temples, and his hand unconsciously locked on the butt of a gun. "There must be a million there!" "Enough to require a good-sized mule-train to pack it out," answered Middleton. "You see why I have to have a man to help me the night I pull out. And I need a man like you. You're an outdoor man, hardened by wilderness travel. You're a frontiersman, a vaquero, a trail-driver. These men I lead are mostly rats that grew up in border towns—gamblers, thieves, barroom gladiators, saloon-bred gunmen; a few miners gone wrong. You can stand things that would kill any of them. "The flight we'll have to make will be hard traveling. We'll have to leave the beaten trails and strike out through the mountains. They'll be sure to follow us, and we'll probably have to fight them off. Then there are Indians—Blackfeet and Crows; we may run into a war party of them. I knew I had to have a fighting man of the keenest type; not only a fighting man, but a man bred on the frontier. That's why I sent for Glanton. But you're a better man than he was." Corcoran frowned his suspicion. "Why didn't you tell me all this at first?" "Because I wanted to try you out. I wanted to be sure you were the right man. I had to be sure. If you were stupid enough, and slow enough to be caught in such a trap as McNab and the rest would set for you, you weren't the man I wanted." "You're takin' a lot for granted," snapped Corcoran. "How do you know I'll fall in with you and help you loot the camp and then double-cross your gang? What's to prevent me from blowin' your head off for the trick you played on me? Or spillin' the beans to Hopkins, or to McNab?" "Half a million in gold!" answered Middleton. "If you do any of those things, you'll miss your chance to share that cache with me." He shut the door, locked it, pushed the other door to and hung the skins over it. Taking the candle he led the way back into the outer room. He seated himself at the table and poured whisky from a jug into two glasses. "Well, what about it?" Corcoran did not at once reply. His brain was still filled with blinding golden visions. His countenance darkened, became sinister as he meditated, staring into his whisky glass. The men of the West lived by their own code. The line between the outlaw and the honest cattleman or vaquero was sometimes a hair line, too vague to always be traced with accuracy. Men's personal codes were frequently inconsistent, but rigid as iron. Corcoran would not have stolen one cow, or three cows from a squatter, but he had swept across the border to loot Mexican rancherios of hundreds of head. He would not hold up a man and take his money, nor would he murder a man in cold blood; but he felt no compunctions about killing a thief and taking the money the thief had stolen. The gold in that cache was bloodstained, the fruit of crimes to which he would have scorned to stoop. But his code of honesty did not prevent him from looting it from the thieves who had looted it in turn from honest men. "What's my part in the game?" Corcoran asked abruptly. Middleton grinned zestfully. "Good! I thought you'd see it my way. No man could look at that gold and refuse a share of it! They trust me more than they do any other member of the gang. That's why I keep it here. They know—or think they know—that I couldn't slip out with it. But that's where we'll fool them. "Your job will be just what I told McNab: you'll uphold law and order. I'll tell the boys not to pull any more holdups inside the town itself, and that'll give you a reputation. People will think you've got the gang too scared to work in close. You'll enforce laws like those against shooting up saloons, fighting on the street, and the like. And you'll catch the thieves that are still working alone. When you kill one we'll make it appear that he was a Vulture. You've put yourself solid with the people tonight, by killing those fools in the Blackfoot Chief. We'll keep up the deception. "I don't trust Ace Brent. I believe he's secretly trying to usurp my place as chief of the gang. He's too damned smart. But I don't want you to kill him. He has too many friends in the gang. Even if they didn't suspect I put you up to it, even if it looked like a private quarrel, they'd want your scalp. I'll frame him—get somebody outside the gang to kill him, when the time comes. "When we get ready to skip, I'll set the vigilantes and the Vultures to battling each other—how, I don't know, but I'll find a way—and we'll sneak while they're at it. Then for California—South America and the sharing of the gold!" "The sharin' of the gold!" echoed Corcoran, his eyes lit with grim laughter. Their hard hands met across the rough table, and the same enigmatic smile played on the lips of both men. # Chapter V: The Wheel Begins to Turn Corcoran stalked through the milling crowd that swarmed in the street, and headed toward the Golden Garter Dance Hall and Saloon. A man lurching through the door with the wide swing of hilarious intoxication stumbled into him and clutched at him to keep from falling to the floor. Corcoran righted him, smiling faintly into the bearded, rubicund countenance that peered into his. "Steve Corcoran, by thunder!" whooped the inebriated one gleefully. "Besh damn' deputy in the Territory! "S' a honor to get picked up by Steve Corcoran! Come in and have a drink." "You've had too many now," returned Corcoran. "Right!" agreed the other. "I'm goin' home now, "f I can get there. Lasht time I was a little full, I didn't make it, by a quarter of a mile! I went to sleep in a ditch across from your shack. I'd "a' come in and slept on the floor, only I was "fraid you'd shoot me for one of them derned Vultures!" Men about them laughed. The intoxicated man was Joe Willoughby, a prominent merchant in Whapeton, and extremely popular for his free-hearted and open-handed ways. "Just knock on the door next time and tell me who it is," grinned Corcoran. "You're welcome to a blanket in the sheriff's office, or a bunk in my room, any time you need it." "Soul of gener—generoshity!" proclaimed Willoughby boisterously. "Goin' home now before the licker gets down in my legs. S'long, old pard!" He weaved away down the street, amidst the jovial joshings of the miners, to which he retorted with bibulous good nature. Corcoran turned again into the dance hall and brushed against another man, at whom he glanced sharply, noting the set jaw, the haggard countenance and the bloodshot eyes. This man, a young miner well known to Corcoran, pushed his way through the crowd and hurried up the street with the manner of a man who goes with a definite purpose. Corcoran hesitated, as though to follow him, then decided against it and entered the dance hall. Half the reason for a gunfighter's continued existence lay in his ability to read and analyze the expressions men wore, to correctly interpret the jut of jaw, the glitter of eye. He knew this young miner was determined on some course of action that might result in violence. But the man was not a criminal, and Corcoran never interfered in private quarrels so long as they did not threaten the public safety. A girl was singing, in a clear, melodious voice, to the accompaniment of a jangling, banging piano. As Corcoran seated himself at a table, with his back to the wall and a clear view of the whole hall before him, she concluded her number amid a boisterous clamor of applause. Her face lit as she saw him. Coming lightly across the hall, she sat down at his table. She rested her elbows on the table, cupped her chin in her hands, and fixed her wide clear gaze on his brown face. "Shot any Vultures today, Steve?" He made no answer as he lifted the glass of beer brought him by a waiter. "They must be scared of you," she continued, and something of youthful hero-worship glowed in her eyes. "There hasn't been a murder or holdup in town for the past month, since you've been here. Of course you can't be everywhere. They still kill men and rob them in the camps up the ravines, but they keep out of town. "And that time you took the stage through to Yankton! It wasn't your fault that they held it up and got the gold on the other side of Yankton. You weren't in it, then. I wish I'd been there and seen the fight, when you fought off the men who tried to hold you up, halfway between here and Yankton." "There wasn't any fight to it," he said impatiently, restless under praise he knew he did not deserve. "I know; they were afraid of you. You shot at them and they ran." Very true; it had been Middleton's idea for Corcoran to take the stage through to the next town east, and beat off a fake attempt at holdup. Corcoran had never relished the memory; whatever his faults, he had the pride of his profession; a fake gunfight was as repugnant to him as a business hoax to an honest business man. "Everybody knows that the stage company tried to hire you away from Middleton, as a regular shotgun-guard. But you told them that your business was to protect life and property here in Whapeton." She meditated a moment and then laughed reminiscently. "You know, when you pulled me off of Conchita that night, I thought you were just another blustering bully like McNab. I was beginning to believe that Middleton was taking pay from the Vultures, and that his deputies were crooked. I know things that some people don't." Her eyes became shadowed as if by an unpleasant memory in which, though her companion could not know it, was limned the handsome, sinister face of Ace Brent. "Or maybe people do. Maybe they guess things, but are afraid to say anything. "But I was mistaken about you, and since you're square, then Middleton must be, too. I guess it was just too big a job for him and his other deputies. None of them could have wiped out that gang in the Blackfoot Chief that night like you did. It wasn't your fault that Tom Deal got away that night, before he could be questioned. If he hadn't though, maybe you could have made him tell who the other Vultures were." "I met Jack McBride comin' out of here," said Corcoran abruptly. "He looked like he was about ready to start gunnin' for somebody. Did he drink much in here?" "Not much. I know what's the matter with him. He's been gambling too much down at the King of Diamonds. Ace Brent has been winning his money for a week. McBride's nearly broke, and I believe he thinks Brent is crooked. He came in here, drank some whisky, and let fall a remark about having a showdown with Brent." Corcoran rose abruptly. "Reckon I better drift down towards the King of Diamonds. Somethin' may bust loose there. McBride's quick with a gun, and high tempered. Brent's deadly. Their private business is none of my affair. But if they want to fight it out, they'll have to get out where innocent people won't get hit by stray slugs." Glory Bland watched him as his tall, erect figure swung out of the door, and there was a glow in her eyes that had never been awakened there by any other man. Corcoran had almost reached the King of Diamonds gambling hall, when the ordinary noises of the street were split by the crash of a heavy gun. Simultaneously men came headlong out of the doors, shouting, shoving, plunging in their haste. "McBride's killed!" bawled a hairy miner. "No, it's Brent!" yelped another. The crowd surged and milled, craning their necks to see through the windows, yet crowding back from the door in fear of stray bullets. As Corcoran made for the door he heard a man bawl in answer to an eager question: "McBride accused Brent of usin' marked cards, and offered to prove it to the crowd. Brent said he'd kill him and pulled his gun to do it. But it snapped. I heard the hammer click. Then McBride drilled him before he could try again." Men gave way as Corcoran pushed through the crowd. Somebody yelped: "Look out, Steve! McBride's on the warpath!" Corcoran stepped into the gambling hall, which was deserted except for the gambler who lay dead on the floor, with a bullet-hole over his heart, and the killer who half-crouched with his back to the bar, and a smoking gun lifted in his hand. McBride's lips were twisted hard in a snarl, and he looked like a wolf at bay. "Get back, Corcoran," he warned. "I ain't got nothin' against you, but I ain't goin' to be murdered like a sheep." "Who said anything about murderin' you?" demanded Corcoran impatiently. "Oh, I know you wouldn't. But Brent's got friends. They'll never let me get away with killin' him. I believe he was a Vulture. I believe the Vultures will be after me for this. But if they get me, they've got to get me fightin'." "Nobody's goin' to hurt you," said Corcoran tranquilly. "You better give me your gun and come along. I'll have to arrest you, but it won't amount to nothin', and you ought to know it. As soon as a miners' court can be got together, you'll be tried and acquitted. It was a plain case of self-defense. I reckon no honest folks will do any grievin' for Ace Brent." "But if I give up my gun and go to jail," objected McBride, wavering, "I'm afraid the toughs will take me out and lynch me." "I'm givin' you my word you won't be harmed while you're under arrest," answered Corcoran. "That's enough for me," said McBride promptly, extending his pistol. Corcoran took it and thrust it into his waistband. "It's damned foolishness, takin' an honest man's gun," he grunted. "But accordin' to Middleton that's the law. Give me your word that you won't skip, till you've been properly acquitted, and I won't lock you up." "I'd rather go to jail," said McBride. "I wouldn't skip. But I'll be safer in jail, with you guardin' me, than I would be walkin' around loose for some of Brent's friends to shoot me in the back. After I've been cleared by due process of law, they won't dare to lynch me, and I ain't afraid of "em when it comes to gunfightin', in the open." "All right." Corcoran stooped and picked up the dead gambler's gun, and thrust it into his belt. The crowd surging about the door gave way as he led his prisoner out. "There the skunk is!" bawled a rough voice. "He murdered Ace Brent!" McBride turned pale with anger and glared into the crowd, but Corcoran urged him along, and the miner grinned as other voices rose: "A damned good thing, too!" "Brent was crooked!" "He was a Vulture!" bawled somebody, and for a space a tense silence held. That charge was too sinister to bring openly against even a dead man. Frightened by his own indiscretion the man who had shouted slunk away, hoping none had identified his voice. "I've been gamblin' too much," growled McBride, as he strode along beside Corcoran. "Afraid to try to take my gold out, though, and didn't know what else to do with it. Brent won thousands of dollars worth of dust from me; poker, mostly. "This mornin' I was talkin' to Middleton, and he showed a card he said a gambler dropped in his cabin last night. He showed me it was marked, in a way I'd never have suspected. I recognized it as one of the same brand Brent always uses, though Middleton wouldn't tell me who the gambler was. But later I learned that Brent slept off a drunk in Middleton's cabin. Damned poor business for a gambler to get drunk. "I went to the King of Diamonds awhile ago, and started playin' poker with Brent and a couple of miners. As soon as he raked in the first pot, I called him—flashed the card I got from Middleton and started to show the boys where it was marked. Then Brent pulled his gun; it snapped, and I killed him before he could cock it again. He knew I had the goods on him. He didn't even give me time to tell where I'd gotten the card." Corcoran made no reply. He locked McBride in the jail, called the jailer from his nearby shack and told him to furnish the prisoner with food, liquor and anything else he needed, and then hurried to his own cabin. Sitting on his bunk in the room behind the sheriff's office, he ejected the cartridge on which Brent's pistol had snapped. The cap was dented, but had not detonated the powder. Looking closely he saw faint abrasions on both the bullet and brass case. They were such as might have been made by the jaws of iron pinchers and a vise. Securing a wire-cutter with pincher jaws, he began to work at the bullet. It slipped out with unusual ease, and the contents of the case spilled into his hand. He did not need to use a match to prove that it was not powder. He knew what the stuff was at first glance—iron filings, to give the proper weight to the cartridge from which the powder had been removed. At that moment he heard someone enter the outer room, and recognized the firm, easy tread of Sheriff Middleton. Corcoran went into the office and Middleton turned, hung his white hat on a nail. "McNab tells me McBride killed Ace Brent!" "You ought to know!" Corcoran grinned. He tossed the bullet and empty case on the table, dumped the tiny pile of iron dust beside them. "Brent spent the night with you. You got him drunk, and stole one of his cards to show to McBride. You knew how his cards were marked. You took a cartridge out of Brent's gun and put that one in place. One would be enough. You knew there'd be gunplay between him and McBride, when you showed McBride that marked card, and you wanted to be sure it was Brent who stopped lead." "That's right," agreed Middleton. "I haven't seen you since early yesterday morning. I was going to tell you about the frame I'd ribbed, as soon as I saw you. I didn't know McBride would go after Brent as quickly as he did. "Brent got too ambitious. He acted as if he were suspicious of us both, lately. Maybe, though, it was just jealousy as far as you were concerned. He liked Glory Bland, and she could never see him. It gouged him to see her falling for you. "And he wanted my place as leader of the Vultures. If there was one man in the gang that could have kept us from skipping with the loot, it was Ace Brent. "But I think I've worked it neatly. No one can accuse me of having him murdered, because McBride isn't in the gang. I have no control over him. But Brent's friends will want revenge." "A miners' court will acquit McBride on the first ballot." "That's true. Maybe we'd better let him get shot, trying to escape!" "We will like hell!" rapped Corcoran. "I swore he wouldn't be harmed while he was under arrest. His part of the deal was on the level. He didn't know Brent had a blank in his gun, any more than Brent did. If Brent's friends want his scalp, let "em go after McBride, like white men ought to, when he's in a position to defend himself." "But after he's acquitted," argued Middleton, "they won't dare gang up on him in the street, and he'll be too sharp to give them a chance at him in the hills." "What the hell do I care?" snarled Corcoran. "What difference does it make to me whether Brent's friends get even or not? Far as I'm concerned, he got what was comin' to him. If they ain't got the guts to give McBride an even break, I sure ain't goin' to fix it so they can murder him without riskin' their own hides. If I catch "em sneakin' around the jail for a shot at him, I'll fill "em full of hot lead. "If I'd thought the miners would be crazy enough to do anything to him for killin' Brent, I'd never arrested him. They won't. They'll acquit him. Until they do, I'm responsible for him, and I've give my word. And anybody that tries to lynch him while he's in my charge better be damned sure they're quicker with a gun than I am." "There's nobody of that nature in Whapeton," admitted Middleton with a wry smile. "All right, if you feel your personal honor is involved. But I'll have to find a way to placate Brent's friends, or they'll be accusing me of being indifferent about what happened to him." # Chapter VI: Vultures Court Next morning Corcoran was awakened by a wild shouting in the street. He had slept in the jail that night, not trusting Brent's friends, but there had been no attempt at violence. He jerked on his boots, and went out into the street, followed by McBride, to learn what the shouting was about. Men milled about in the street, even at that early hour—for the sun was not yet up—surging about a man in the garb of a miner. This man was astride a horse whose coat was dark with sweat; the man was wild eyed, bareheaded, and he held his hat in his hands, holding it down for the shouting, cursing throng to see. "Look at "em!" he yelled. "Nuggets as big as hen eggs! I took "em out in an hour, with a pick, diggin' in the wet sand by the creek! And there's plenty more! It's the richest strike these hills ever seen!" "Where?" roared a hundred voices. "Well, I got my claim staked out, all I need," said the man, "so I don't mind tellin' you. It ain't twenty miles from here, in a little canyon everybody's overlooked and passed over—Jackrabbit Gorge! The creek's buttered with dust, and the banks are crammed with pockets of nuggets!" An exuberant whoop greeted this information, and the crowd broke up suddenly as men raced for their shacks. "New strike," sighed McBride enviously. "The whole town will be surgin' down Jackrabbit Gorge. Wish I could go." "Gimme your word you'll come back and stand trial, and you can go," promptly offered Corcoran. McBride stubbornly shook his head. "No, not till I've been cleared legally. Anyway, only a handful of men will get anything. The rest will be pullin' back into their claims in Whapeton Gulch tomorrow. Hell, I've been in plenty of them rushes. Only a few ever get anything." Colonel Hopkins and his partner Dick Bisley hurried past. Hopkins shouted: "We'll have to postpone your trial until this rush is over, Jack! We were going to hold it today, but in an hour there won't be enough men in Whapeton to impanel a jury! Sorry you can't make the rush. If we can, Dick and I will stake out a claim for you!" "Thanks, Colonel!" "No thanks! The camp owes you something for ridding it of that scoundrel Brent. Corcoran, we'll do the same for you, if you like." "No, thanks," drawled Corcoran. "Minin's too hard work. I've got a gold mine right here in Whapeton that don't take so much labor!" The men burst into laughter at this conceit, and Bisley shouted back as they hurried on: "That's right! Your salary looks like an assay from the Comstock lode! But you earn it, all right!" Joe Willoughby came rolling by, leading a seedy-looking burro on which illy-hung pick and shovel banged against skillet and kettle. Willoughby grasped a jug in one hand, and that he had already been sampling it was proved by his wide-legged gait. "H'ray for the new diggin's!" he whooped, brandishing the jug at Corcoran and McBride. "Git along, jackass! I'll be scoopin' out nuggets bigger'n this jug before night—if the licker don't git in my legs before I git there!" "And if it does, he'll fall into a ravine and wake up in the mornin' with a fifty pound nugget in each hand," said McBride. "He's the luckiest son of a gun in the camp; and the best natured." "I'm goin' and get some ham-and-eggs," said Corcoran. "You want to come and eat with me, or let Pete Daley fix your breakfast here?" "I'll eat in the jail," decided McBride. "I want to stay in jail till I'm acquitted. Then nobody can accuse me of tryin' to beat the law in any way." "All right." With a shout to the jailer, Corcoran swung across the road and headed for the camp's most pretentious restaurant, whose proprietor was growing rich, in spite of the terrific prices he had to pay for vegetables and food of all kinds—prices he passed on to his customers. While Corcoran was eating, Middleton entered hurriedly, and bending over him, with a hand on his shoulder, spoke softly in his ear. "I've just got wind that that old miner, Joe Brockman, is trying to sneak his gold out on a pack mule, under the pretense of making this rush. I don't know whether it's so or not, but some of the boys up in the hills think it is, and are planning to waylay him and kill him. If he intends getting away, he'll leave the trail to Jackrabbit Gorge a few miles out of town, and swing back toward Yankton, taking the trail over Grizzly Ridge—you know where the thickets are so close. The boys will be laying for him either on the ridge or just beyond. "He hasn't enough dust to make it worth our while to take it. If they hold him up they'll have to kill him, and we want as few murders as possible. Vigilante sentiment is growing, in spite of the people's trust in you and me. Get on your horse and ride to Grizzly Ridge and see that the old man gets away safe. Tell the boys Middleton said to lay off. If they won't listen—but they will. They wouldn't buck you, even without my word to back you. I'll follow the old man, and try to catch up with him before he leaves the Jackrabbit Gorge road. "I've sent McNab up to watch the jail, just as a formality. I know McBride won't try to escape, but we mustn't be accused of carelessness." "Let McNab be mighty careful with his shootin' irons," warned Corcoran. "No "shot while attemptin' to escape', Middleton. I don't trust McNab. If he lays a hand on McBride, I'll kill him as sure as I'm sittin' here." "Don't worry. McNab hated Brent. Better get going. Take the short cut through the hills to Grizzly Ridge." "Sure." Corcoran rose and hurried out in the street which was all but deserted. Far down toward the other end of the gulch rose the dust of the rearguard of the army which was surging toward the new strike. Whapeton looked almost like a deserted town in the early morning light, foreshadowing its ultimate destiny. Corcoran went to the corral beside the sheriff's cabin and saddled a fast horse, glancing cryptically at the powerful pack mules whose numbers were steadily increasing. He smiled grimly as he remembered Middleton telling Colonel Hopkins that pack mules were a good investment. As he led his horse out of the corral his gaze fell on a man sprawling under the trees across the road, lazily whittling. Day and night, in one way or another, the gang kept an eye on the cabin which hid the cache of their gold. Corcoran doubted if they actually suspected Middleton's intentions. But they wanted to be sure that no stranger did any snooping about. Corcoran rode into a ravine that straggled away from the gulch, and a few minutes later he followed a narrow path to its rim, and headed through the mountains toward the spot, miles away, where a trail crossed Grizzly Ridge, a long, steep backbone, thickly timbered. He had not left the ravine far behind him when a quick rattle of hoofs brought him around, in time to see a horse slide recklessly down a low bluff amid a shower of shale. He swore at the sight of its rider. "Glory! What the hell?" "Steve!" She reined up breathlessly beside him. "Go back! It's a trick! I heard Buck Gorman talking to Conchita; he's sweet on her. He's a friend of Brent's—a Vulture! She twists all his secrets out of him. Her room is next to mine, she thought I was out. I overheard them talking. Gorman said a trick had been played on you to get you out of town. He didn't say how. Said you'd go to Grizzly Ridge on a wild-goose chase. While you're gone they're going to assemble a "miners' court," out of the riff-raff left in town. They're going to appoint a "judge' and "jury," take McBride out of jail, try him for killing Ace Brent—and hang him!" A lurid oath ripped through Steve Corcoran's lips, and for an instant the tiger flashed into view, eyes blazing, fangs bared. Then his dark face was an inscrutable mask again. He wrenched his horse around. "Much obliged, Glory. I'll be dustin' back into town. You circle around and come in another way. I don't want folks to know you told me." "Neither do I!" she shuddered. "I knew Ace Brent was a Vulture. He boasted of it to me, once when he was drunk. But I never dared tell anyone. He told me what he'd do to me if I did. I'm glad he's dead. I didn't know Gorman was a Vulture, but I might have guessed it. He was Brent's closest friend. If they ever find out I told you—" "They won't," Corcoran assured her. It was natural for a girl to fear such black-hearted rogues as the Vultures, but the thought of them actually harming her never entered his mind. He came from a country where not even the worst of scoundrels would ever dream of hurting a woman. He drove his horse at a reckless gallop back the way he had come, but not all the way. Before he reached the Gulch he swung wide of the ravine he had followed out, and plunged into another, that would bring him into the Gulch at the end of town where the jail stood. As he rode down it he heard a deep, awesome roar he recognized—the roar of the man-pack, hunting its own kind. A band of men surged up the dusty street, roaring, cursing. One man waved a rope. Pale faces of bartenders, store clerks and dance hall girls peered timidly out of doorways as the unsavory mob roared past. Corcoran knew them, by sight or reputation: plug-uglies, barroom loafers, skulkers—many were Vultures, as he knew; others were riff-raff, ready for any sort of deviltry that required neither courage nor intelligence—the scum that gathers in any mining camp. Dismounting, Corcoran glided through the straggling trees that grew behind the jail, and heard McNab challenge the mob. "What do you want?" "We aim to try your prisoner!" shouted the leader. "We come in the due process of law. We've app'inted a jedge and paneled a jury, and we demands that you hand over the prisoner to be tried in miners' court, accordin' to legal precedent!" "How do I know you're representative of the camp?" parried McNab. "'Cause we're the only body of men in camp right now!" yelled someone, and this was greeted by a roar of laughter. "We come empowered with the proper authority—" began the leader, and broke off suddenly: "Grab him, boys!" There was the sound of a brief scuffle, McNab swore vigorously, and the leader's voice rose triumphantly: "Let go of him, boys, but don't give him his gun. McNab, you ought to know better'n to try to oppose legal procedure, and you a upholder of law and order!" Again a roar of sardonic laughter, and McNab growled: "All right; go ahead with the trial. But you do it over my protests. I don't believe this is a representative assembly." "Yes, it is," averred the leader, and then his voice thickened with blood-lust. "Now, Daley, gimme that key and bring out the prisoner." The mob surged toward the door of the jail, and at that instant Corcoran stepped around the corner of the cabin and leaped up on the low porch it boasted. There was a hissing intake of breath. Men halted suddenly, digging their heels against the pressure behind them. The surging line wavered backward, leaving two figures isolated—McNab, scowling, disarmed, and a hairy giant whose huge belly was girt with a broad belt bristling with gun butts and knife hilts. He held a noose in one hand, and his bearded lips gaped as he glared at the unexpected apparition. For a breathless instant Corcoran did not speak. He did not look at McBride's pallid countenance peering through the barred door behind him. He stood facing the mob, his head slightly bent, a somber, immobile figure, sinister with menace. "Well," he said finally, softly, "what's holdin' up the baile?" The leader blustered feebly. "We come here to try a murderer!" Corcoran lifted his head and the man involuntarily recoiled at the lethal glitter of his eyes. "Who's your judge?" the Texan inquired softly. "We appointed Jake Bissett, there," spoke up a man, pointing at the uncomfortable giant on the porch. "So you're goin' to hold a miners' court," murmured Corcoran. "With a judge and jury picked out of the dives and honky-tonks—scum and dirt of the gutter!" And suddenly uncontrollable fury flamed in his eyes. Bissett, sensing his intention, bellowed in ox-like alarm and grabbed frantically at a gun. His fingers had scarcely touched the checkered butt when smoke and flame roared from Corcoran's right hip. Bissett pitched backward off the porch as if he had been struck by a hammer; the rope tangled about his limbs as he fell, and he lay in the dust that slowly turned crimson, his hairy fingers twitching spasmodically. Corcoran faced the mob, livid under his sun-burnt bronze. His eyes were coals of blue hell's-fire. There was a gun in each hand, and from the right-hand muzzle a wisp of blue smoke drifted lazily upward. "I declare this court adjourned!" he roared. "The judge is done impeached, and the jury's discharged! I'll give you thirty seconds to clear the courtroom!" He was one man against nearly a hundred, but he was a grey wolf facing a pack of yapping jackals. Each man knew that if the mob surged on him, they would drag him down at last; but each man knew what an awful toll would first be paid, and each man feared that he himself would be one of those to pay that toll. They hesitated, stumbled back—gave way suddenly and scattered in all directions. Some backed away, some shamelessly turned their backs and fled. With a snarl Corcoran thrust his guns back in their scabbards and turned toward the door where McBride stood, grasping the bars. "I thought I was a goner that time, Corcoran," he gasped. The Texan pulled the door open, and pushed McBride's pistol into his hand. "There's a horse tied behind the jail," said Corcoran. "Get on it and dust out of here. I'll take the full responsibility. If you stay here they'll burn down the jail, or shoot you through the window. You can make it out of town while they're scattered. I'll explain to Middleton and Hopkins. In a month or so, if you want to, come back and stand trial, as a matter of formality. Things will be cleaned up around here by then." McBride needed no urging. The grisly fate he had just escaped had shaken his nerve. Shaking Corcoran's hand passionately, he ran stumblingly through the trees to the horse Corcoran had left there. A few moments later he was fogging it out of the Gulch. McNab came up, scowling and grumbling. "You had no authority to let him go. I tried to stop the mob—" Corcoran wheeled and faced him, making no attempt to conceal his hatred. "You did like hell! Don't pull that stuff with me, McNab. You was in on this, and so was Middleton. You put up a bluff of talk, so afterwards you could tell Colonel Hopkins and the others that you tried to stop the lynchin' and was overpowered. I saw the scrap you put up when they grabbed you! Hell! You're a rotten actor." "You can't talk to me like that!" roared McNab. The old tigerish light flickered in the blue eyes. Corcoran did not exactly move, yet he seemed to sink into a half-crouch, as a cougar does for the killing spring. "If you don't like my style, McNab," he said softly, thickly, "you're more'n welcome to open the baile whenever you get ready!" For an instant they faced each other, McNab black browed and scowling, Corcoran's thin lips almost smiling, but blue fire lighting his eyes. Then with a grunt McNab turned and slouched away, his shaggy head swaying from side to side like that of a surly bull. # Chapter VII: A Vultures Wings Are Clipped Middleton pulled up his horse suddenly as Corcoran reined out of the bushes. One glance showed the sheriff that Corcoran's mood was far from placid. They were amidst a grove of alders, perhaps a mile from the Gulch. "Why, hello, Corcoran," began Middleton, concealing his surprise. "I caught up with Brockman. It was just a wild rumor. He didn't have any gold. That—" "Drop it!" snapped Corcoran. "I know why you sent me off on that wild-goose chase—same reason you pulled out of town. To give Brent's friends a chance to get even with McBride. If I hadn't turned around and dusted back into Whapeton, McBride would be kickin' his life out at the end of a rope, right now." "You came back—?" "Yeah! And now Jake Bissett's in Hell instead of Jack McBride, and McBride's dusted out—on a horse I gave him. I told you I gave him my word he wouldn't be lynched." "You killed Bissett?" "Deader'n hell!" "He was a Vulture," muttered Middleton, but he did not seem displeased. "Brent, Bissett—the more Vultures die, the easier it will be for us to get away when we go. That's one reason I had Brent killed. But you should have let them hang McBride. Of course I framed this affair; I had to do something to satisfy Brent's friends. Otherwise they might have gotten suspicious. "If they suspicioned I had anything to do with having him killed, or thought I wasn't anxious to punish the man who killed him, they'd make trouble for me. I can't have a split in the gang now. And even I can't protect you from Brent's friends, after this." "Have I ever asked you, or any man, for protection?" The quick jealous pride of the gunfighter vibrated in his voice. "Breckman, Red Bill, Curly, and now Bissett. You've killed too many Vultures. I made them think the killing of the first three was a mistake, all around. Bissett wasn't very popular. But they won't forgive you for stopping them from hanging the man who killed Ace Brent. They won't attack you openly, of course. But you'll have to watch every step you make. They'll kill you if they can, and I won't be able to prevent them." "If I'd tell "em just how Ace Brent died, you'd be in the same boat," said Corcoran bitingly. "Of course, I won't. Our final getaway depends on you keepin' their confidence—as well as the confidence of the honest folks. This last killin' ought to put me, and therefore you, ace-high with Hopkins and his crowd." "They're still talking vigilante. I encourage it. It's coming anyway. Murders in the outlying camps are driving men to a frenzy of fear and rage, even though such crimes have ceased in Whapeton. Better to fall in line with the inevitable and twist it to a man's own ends, than to try to oppose it. If you can keep Brent's friends from killing you for a few more weeks, we'll be ready to jump. Look out for Buck Gorman. He's the most dangerous man in the gang. He was Brent's friend, and he has his own friends—all dangerous men. Don't kill him unless you have to." "I'll take care of myself," answered Corcoran somberly. "I looked for Gorman in the mob, but he wasn't there. Too smart. But he's the man behind the mob. Bissett was just a stupid ox; Gorman planned it—or rather, I reckon he helped you plan it." "I'm wondering how you found out about it," said Middleton. "You wouldn't have come back unless somebody told you. Who was it?" "None of your business," growled Corcoran. It did not occur to him that Glory Bland would be in any danger from Middleton, even if the sheriff knew about her part in the affair, but he did not relish being questioned, and did not feel obliged to answer anybody's queries. "That new gold strike sure came in mighty handy for you and Gorman," he said. "Did you frame that, too?" Middleton nodded. "Of course. That was one of my men who poses as a miner. He had a hatful of nuggets from the cache. He served his purpose and joined the men who hide up there in the hills. The mob of miners will be back tomorrow, tired and mad and disgusted, and when they hear about what happened, they'll recognize the handiwork of the Vultures; at least some of them will. But they won't connect me with it in any way. Now we'll ride back to town. Things are breaking our way, in spite of your foolish interference with the mob. But let Gorman alone. You can't afford to make any more enemies in the gang." Buck Gorman leaned on the bar in the Golden Eagle and expressed his opinion of Steve Corcoran in no uncertain terms. The crowd listened sympathetically, for, almost to a man, they were the ruffians and riff-raff of the camp. "The dog pretends to be a deputy!" roared Gorman, whose bloodshot eyes and damp tangled hair attested to the amount of liquor he had drunk. "But he kills an appointed judge, breaks up a court and drives away the jury—yes, and releases the prisoner, a man charged with murder!" It was the day after the fake gold strike, and the disillusioned miners were drowning their chagrin in the saloons. But few honest miners were in the Golden Eagle. "Colonel Hopkins and other prominent citizens held an investigation," said someone. "They declared that evidence showed Corcoran to have been justified—denounced the court as a mob, acquitted Corcoran of killing Bissett, and then went ahead and acquitted McBride for killing Brent, even though he wasn't there." Gorman snarled like a cat, and reached for his whisky glass. His hand did not twitch or quiver, his movements were more catlike than ever. The whisky had inflamed his mind, illumined his brain with a white-hot certainty that was akin to insanity, but it had not affected his nerves or any part of his muscular system. He was more deadly drunk than sober. "I was Brent's best friend!" he roared. "I was Bissett's friend." "They say Bissett was a Vulture," whispered a voice. Gorman lifted his tawny head and glared about the room as a lion might glare. "Who says he was a Vulture? Why don't these slanderers accuse a living man? It's always a dead man they accuse! Well, what if he was? He was my friend! Maybe that makes me a Vulture!" No one laughed or spoke as his flaming gaze swept the room, but each man, as those blazing eyes rested on him in turn, felt the chill breath of Death blowing upon him. "Bissett a Vulture!" he said, wild enough with drink and fury to commit any folly, as well as any atrocity. He did not heed the eyes fixed on him, some in fear, a few in intense interest. "Who knows who the Vultures are? Who knows who, or what anybody really is? Who really knows anything about this man Corcoran, for instance? I could tell—" A light step on the threshold brought him about as Corcoran loomed in the door. Gorman froze, snarling, lips writhed back, a tawny-maned incarnation of hate and menace. "I heard you was makin' a talk about me down here, Gorman," said Corcoran. His face was bleak and emotionless as that of a stone image, but his eyes burned with murderous purpose. Gorman snarled wordlessly. "I looked for you in the mob," said Corcoran, tonelessly, his voice as soft and without emphasis as the even strokes of a feather. It seemed almost as if his voice were a thing apart from him; his lips murmuring while all the rest of his being was tense with concentration on the man before him. "You wasn't there. You sent your coyotes, but you didn't have the guts to come yourself, and—" The dart of Gorman's hand to his gun was like the blurring stroke of a snake's head, but no eye could follow Corcoran's hand. His gun smashed before anyone knew he had reached for it. Like an echo came the roar of Gorman's shot. But the bullet ploughed splinteringly into the floor, from a hand that was already death-stricken and falling. Gorman pitched over and lay still, the swinging lamp glinting on his upturned spurs and the blue steel of the smoking gun which lay by his hand. # Chapter VIII: The Coming of the Vigilantes Colonel Hopkins looked absently at the liquor in his glass, stirred restlessly, and said abruptly: "Middleton, I might as well come to the point. My friends and I have organized a vigilante committee, just as we should have done months ago. Now, wait a minute. Don't take this as a criticism of your methods. You've done wonders in the last month, ever since you brought Steve Corcoran in here. Not a holdup in the town, not a killing—that is, not a murder, and only a few shootings among the honest citizens. "Added to that the ridding of the camp of such scoundrels as Jake Bissett and Buck Gorman. They were both undoubtedly members of the Vultures. I wish Corcoran hadn't killed Gorman just when he did, though. The man was drunk, and about to make some reckless disclosures about the gang. At least that's what a friend of mine thinks, who was in the Golden Eagle that night. But anyway it couldn't be helped. "No, we're not criticizing you at all. But obviously you can't stop the murders and robberies that are going on up and down the Gulch, all the time. And you can't stop the outlaws from holding up the stage regularly. "So that's where we come in. We have sifted the camp, carefully, over a period of months, until we have fifty men we can trust absolutely. It's taken a long time, because we've had to be sure of our men. We didn't want to take in a man who might be a spy for the Vultures. But at last we know where we stand. We're not sure just who is a Vulture, but we know who isn't, in as far as our organization is concerned. "We can work together, John. We have no intention of interfering within your jurisdiction, or trying to take the law out of your hands. We demand a free hand outside the camp; inside the limits of Whapeton we are willing to act under your orders, or at least according to your advice. Of course we will work in absolute secrecy until we have proof enough to strike." "You must remember, Colonel," reminded Middleton, "that all along I've admitted the impossibility of my breaking up the Vultures with the limited means at my disposal. I've never opposed a vigilante committee. All I've demanded was that when it was formed, it should be composed of honest men, and be free of any element which might seek to twist its purpose into the wrong channels." "That's true. I didn't expect any opposition from you, and I can assure you that we'll always work hand-in-hand with you and your deputies." He hesitated, as if over something unpleasant, and then said: "John, are you sure of all your deputies?" Middleton's head jerked up and he shot a startled glance at the Colonel, as if the latter had surprised him by putting into words a thought that had already occurred to him. "Why do you ask?" he parried. "Well," Hopkins was embarrassed, "I don't know—maybe I'm prejudiced—but—well, damn it, to put it bluntly, I've sometimes wondered about Bill McNab!" Middleton filled the glasses again before he answered. "Colonel, I never accuse a man without iron-clad evidence. I'm not always satisfied with McNab's actions, but it may merely be the man's nature. He's a surly brute. But he has his virtues. I'll tell you frankly, the reason I haven't discharged him is that I'm not sure of him. That probably sounds ambiguous." "Not at all. I appreciate your position. You have as much as said you suspect him of double-dealing, and are keeping him on your force so you can watch him. Your wits are not dull, John. Frankly—and this will probably surprise you—until a month ago some of the men were beginning to whisper some queer things about you—queer suspicions, that is. But your bringing Corcoran in showed us that you were on the level. You'd have never brought him in if you'd been taking pay from the Vultures!" Middleton halted with his glass at his lips. "Great heavens!" he ejaculated. "Did they suspect me of that?" "Just a fool idea some of the men had," Hopkins assured him. "Of course I never gave it a thought. The men who thought it are ashamed now. The killing of Bissett, of Gorman, of the men in the Blackfoot Chief, show that Corcoran's on the level. And of course, he's merely taking his orders from you. All those men were Vultures, of course. It's a pity Tom Deal got away before we could question him." He rose to go. "McNab was guarding Deal," said Middleton, and his tone implied more than his words said. Hopkins shot him a startled glance. "By heaven, so he was! But he was really wounded—I saw the bullet hole in his arm, where Deal shot him in making his getaway." "That's true." Middleton rose and reached for his hat. "I'll walk along with you. I want to find Corcoran and tell him what you've just told me." "It's been a week since he killed Gorman," mused Hopkins. "I've been expecting Gorman's Vulture friends to try to get him, any time." "So have I!" answered Middleton, with a grimness which his companion missed. # Chapter IX: The Vultures Swoop Down the gulch lights blazed; the windows of cabins were yellow squares in the night, and beyond them the velvet sky reflected the lurid heart of the camp. The intermittent breeze brought faint strains of music and the other noises of hilarity. But up the gulch, where a clump of trees straggled near an unlighted cabin, the darkness of the moonless night was a mask that the faint stars did not illuminate. Figures moved in the deep shadows of the trees, voices whispered, their furtive tones mingling with the rustling of the wind through the leaves. "We ain't close enough. We ought to lay alongside his cabin and blast him as he goes in." A second voice joined the first, muttering like a bodyless voice in a conclave of ghosts. "We've gone all over that. I tell you this is the best way. Get him off guard. You're sure Middleton was playin' cards at the King of Diamonds?" Another voice answered: "He'll be there till daylight, likely." "He'll be awful mad," whispered the first speaker. "Let him. He can't afford to do anything about it. Listen! Somebody's comin' up the road!" They crouched down in the bushes, merging with the blacker shadows. They were so far from the cabin, and it was so dark, that the approaching figure was only a dim blur in the gloom. "It's him!" a voice hissed fiercely, as the blur merged with the bulkier shadow that was the cabin. In the stillness a door rasped across a sill. A yellow light sprang up, streaming through the door, blocking out a small window high up in the wall. The man inside did not cross the lighted doorway, and the window was too high to see through into the cabin. The light went out after a few minutes. "Come on!" The three men rose and went stealthily toward the cabin. Their bare feet made no sound, for they had discarded their boots. Coats too had been discarded, any garment that might swing loosely and rustle, or catch on projections. Cocked guns were in their hands, they could have been no more wary had they been approaching the lair of a lion. And each man's heart pounded suffocatingly, for the prey they stalked was far more dangerous than any lion. When one spoke it was so low that his companions hardly heard him with their ears a matter of inches from his bearded lips. "We'll take our places like we planned, Joel. You'll go to the door and call him, like we told you. He knows Middleton trusts you. He don't know you'd be helpin' Gorman's friends. He'll recognize your voice, and he won't suspect nothin'. When he comes to the door and opens it, step back into the shadows and fall flat. We'll do the rest from where we'll be layin'." His voice shook slightly as he spoke, and the other man shuddered; his face was a pallid oval in the darkness. "I'll do it, but I bet he kills some of us. I bet he kills me, anyway. I must have been crazy when I said I'd help you fellows." "You can't back out now!" hissed the other. They stole forward, their guns advanced, their hearts in their mouths. Then the foremost man caught at the arms of his companions. "Wait! Look there! He's left the door open!" The open doorway was a blacker shadow in the shadow of the wall. "He knows we're after him!" There was a catch of hysteria in the babbling whisper. "It's a trap!" "Don't be a fool! How could he know? He's asleep. I hear him snorin'. We won't wake him. We'll step into the cabin and let him have it! We'll have enough light from the window to locate the bunk, and we'll rake it with lead before he can move. He'll wake up in Hell. Come on, and for God's sake, don't make no noise!" The last advice was unnecessary. Each man, as he set his bare foot down, felt as if he were setting it into the lair of a diamond-backed rattler. As they glided, one after another, across the threshold, they made less noise than the wind blowing through the black branches. They crouched by the door, straining their eyes across the room, whence came the rhythmic snoring. Enough light sifted through the small window to show them a vague outline that was a bunk, with a shapeless mass upon it. A man caught his breath in a short, uncontrollable gasp. Then the cabin was shaken by a thunderous volley, three guns roaring together. Lead swept the bunk in a devastating storm, thudding into flesh and bone, smacking into wood. A wild cry broke in a gagging gasp. Limbs thrashed wildly and a heavy body tumbled to the floor. From the darkness on the floor beside the bunk welled up hideous sounds, choking gurgles and a convulsive flopping and thumping. The men crouching near the door poured lead blindly at the sounds. There was fear and panic in the haste and number of their shots. They did not cease jerking their triggers until their guns were empty, and the noises on the floor had ceased. "Out of here, quick!" gasped one. "No! Here's the table, and a candle on it. I felt it in the dark. I've got to know that he's dead before I leave this cabin. I've got to see him lyin' dead if I'm goin' to sleep easy. We've got plenty of time to get away. Folks down the gulch must have heard the shots, but it'll take time for them to get here. No danger. I'm goin' to light the candle—" There was a rasping sound, and a yellow light sprang up, etching three staring, bearded faces. Wisps of blue smoke blurred the light as the candle wick ignited from the fumbling match, but the men saw a huddled shape crumpled near the bunk, from which streams of dark crimson radiated in every direction. "Ahhh!" They whirled at the sound of running footsteps. "Oh, God!" shrieked one of the men, falling to his knees, his hands lifted to shut out a terrible sight. The other ruffians staggered with the shock of what they saw. They stood gaping, livid, helpless, empty guns sagging in their hands. For in the doorway, glaring in dangerous amazement, with a gun in each hand, stood the man whose lifeless body they thought lay over there by the splintered bunk! "Drop them guns!" Corcoran rasped. They clattered on the floor as the hands of their owner mechanically reached skyward. The man on the floor staggered up, his hands empty; he retched, shaken by the nausea of fear. "Joel Miller!" said Corcoran evenly; his surprise was passed, as he realized what had happened. "Didn't know you run with Gorman's crowd. Reckon Middleton'll be some surprised, too." "You're a devil!" gasped Miller. "You can't be killed! We killed you—heard you roll off your bunk and die on the floor, in the dark. We kept shooting after we knew you were dead. But you're alive!" "You didn't shoot me," grunted Corcoran. "You shot a man you thought was me. I was comin' up the road when I heard the shots. You killed Joe Willoughby! He was drunk and I reckon he staggered in here and fell in my bunk, like he's done before." The men went whiter yet under their bushy beards, with rage and chagrin and fear. "Willoughby!" babbled Miller. "The camp will never stand for this! Let us go, Corcoran! Hopkins and his crowd will hang us! It'll mean the end of the Vultures! Your end, too, Corcoran! If they hang us, we'll talk first! They'll find out that you're one of us!" "In that case," muttered Corcoran, his eyes narrowing, "I'd better kill the three of you. That's the sensible solution. You killed Willoughby, tryin' to get me; I kill you, in self-defense." "Don't do it, Corcoran!" screamed Miller, frantic with terror. "Shut up, you dog," growled one of the other men, glaring balefully at their captor. "Corcoran wouldn't shoot down unarmed men." "No, I wouldn't," said Corcoran. "Not unless you made some kind of a break. I'm peculiar that way, which I see is a handicap in this country. But it's the way I was raised, and I can't get over it. No, I ain't goin' to beef you cold, though you've just tried to get me that way. "But I'll be damned if I'm goin' to let you sneak off, to come back here and try it again the minute you get your nerve bucked up. I'd about as soon be hanged by the vigilantes as shot in the back by a passle of rats like you-all. Vultures, hell! You ain't even got the guts to be good buzzards. "I'm goin' to take you down the gulch and throw you in jail. It'll be up to Middleton to decide what to do with you. He'll probably work out some scheme that'll swindle everybody except himself; but I warn you—one yap about the Vultures to anybody, and I'll forget my raisin' and send you to Hell with your belts empty and your boots on." The noise in the King of Diamonds was hushed suddenly as a man rushed in and bawled: "The Vultures have murdered Joe Willoughby! Steve Corcoran caught three of "em, and has just locked "em up! This time we've got some live Vultures to work on!" A roar answered him and the gambling hall emptied itself as men rushed yelling into the street. John Middleton laid down his hand of cards, donned his white hat with a hand that was steady as a rock, and strode after them. Already a crowd was surging and roaring around the jail. The miners were lashed into a murderous frenzy and were restrained from shattering the door and dragging forth the cowering prisoners only by the presence of Corcoran, who faced them on the jail-porch. McNab, Richardson and Stark were there, also. McNab was pale under his whiskers, and Stark seemed nervous and ill at ease, but Richardson, as always, was cold as ice. "Hang "em!" roared the mob. "Let us have "em, Steve! You've done your part! This camp's put up with enough! Let us have "em!" Middleton climbed up on the porch, and was greeted by loud cheers, but his efforts to quiet the throng proved futile. Somebody brandished a rope with a noose in it. Resentment, long smoldering, was bursting into flame, fanned by hysterical fear and hate. The mob had no wish to harm either Corcoran or Middleton—did not intend to harm them. But they were determined to drag out the prisoners and string them up. Colonel Hopkins forced his way through the crowd, mounted the step, and waved his hands until he obtained a certain amount of silence. "Listen, men!" he roared, "this is the beginning of a new era for Whapeton! This camp has been terrorized long enough. We're beginning a rule of law and order, right now! But don't spoil it at the very beginning! These men shall hang—I swear it! But let's do it legally, and with the sanction of law. Another thing: if you hang them out of hand, we'll never learn who their companions and leaders are. "Tomorrow, I promise you, a court of inquiry will sit on their case. They'll be questioned and forced to reveal the men above and behind them. This camp is going to be cleaned up! Let's clean it up lawfully and in order!" "Colonel's right!" bawled a bearded giant. "Ain't no use to hang the little rats till we find out who's the big "uns!" A roar of approbation rose as the temper of the mob changed. It began to break up, as the men scattered to hasten back to the bars and indulge in their passion to discuss the new development. Hopkins shook Corcoran's hand heartily. "Congratulations, sir! I've seen poor Joe's body. A terrible sight. The fiends fairly shot the poor fellow to ribbons. Middleton, I told you the vigilantes wouldn't usurp your authority in Whapeton. I keep my word. We'll leave these murderers in your jail, guarded by your deputies. Tomorrow the vigilante court will sit in session, and I hope we'll come to the bottom of this filthy mess." And so saying he strode off, followed by a dozen or so steely-eyed men whom Middleton knew formed the nucleus of the Colonel's organization. When they were out of hearing, Middleton stepped to the door and spoke quickly to the prisoners: "Keep your mouths shut. You fools have gotten us all in a jam, but I'll snake you out of it, somehow." To McNab he spoke: "Watch the jail. Don't let anybody come near it. Corcoran and I have got to talk this over." Lowering his voice so the prisoners could not hear, he added: "If anybody does come, that you can't order off, and these fools start shooting off their heads, close their mouths with lead." Corcoran followed Middleton into the shadow of the gulch wall. Out of earshot of the nearest cabin, Middleton turned. "Just what happened?" "Gorman's friends tried to get me. They killed Joe Willoughby by mistake. I hauled them in. That's all." "That's not all," muttered Middleton. "There'll be hell to pay if they come to trial. Miller's yellow. He'll talk, sure. I've been afraid Gorman's friends would try to kill you—wondering how it would work out. It's worked out just about the worst way it possibly could. You should either have killed them or let them go. Yet I appreciate your attitude. You have scruples against cold-blooded murder; and if you'd turned them loose, they'd have been back potting at you the next night." "I couldn't have turned them loose if I'd wanted to. Men had heard the shots; they came runnin'; found me there holdin' a gun on those devils, and Joe Willoughby's body layin' on the floor, shot to pieces." "I know. But we can't keep members of our own gang in jail, and we can't hand them over to the vigilantes. I've got to delay that trial, somehow. If I were ready, we'd jump tonight, and to hell with it. But I'm not ready. After all, perhaps it's as well this happened. It may give us our chance to skip. We're one jump ahead of the vigilantes and the gang, too. We know the vigilantes have formed and are ready to strike, and the rest of the gang don't. I've told no one but you what Hopkins told me early in the evening. "Listen, Corcoran, we've got to move tomorrow night! I wanted to pull one last job, the biggest of all—the looting of Hopkins and Bisley's private cache. I believe I could have done it, in spite of all their guards and precautions. But we'll have to let that slide. I'll persuade Hopkins to put off the trial another day. I think I know how. Tomorrow night I'll have the vigilantes and the Vultures at each others' throats! We'll load the mules and pull out while they're fighting. Once let us get a good start, and they're welcome to chase us if they want to. "I'm going to find Hopkins now. You get back to the jail. If McNab talks to Miller or the others, be sure you listen to what's said." Middleton found Hopkins in the Golden Eagle Saloon. "I've come to ask a favor of you, Colonel," he began directly. "I want you, if it's possible, to put off the investigating trial until day after tomorrow. I've been talking to Joel Miller. He's cracking. If I can get him away from Barlow and Letcher, and talk to him, I believe he'll tell me everything I want to know. It'll be better to get his confession, signed and sworn to, before we bring the matter into court. Before a judge, with all eyes on him, and his friends in the crowd, he might stiffen and refuse to incriminate anyone. I don't believe the others will talk. But talking to me, alone, I believe Miller will spill the whole works. But it's going to take time to wear him down. I believe that by tomorrow night I'll have a full confession from him." "That would make our work a great deal easier," admitted Hopkins. "And another thing: these men ought to be represented by proper counsel. You'll prosecute them, of course; and the only other lawyer within reach is Judge Bixby, at Yankton. We're doing this thing in as close accordance to regular legal procedure as possible. Therefore we can't refuse the prisoner the right to be defended by an attorney. I've sent a man after Bixby. It will be late tomorrow evening before he can get back with the Judge, even if he has no trouble in locating him. "Considering all these things, I feel it would be better to postpone the trial until we can get Bixby here, and until I can get Miller's confession." "What will the camp think?" "Most of them are men of reason. The few hotheads who might want to take matters into their own hands can't do any harm." "All right," agreed Hopkins. "After all, they're your prisoners, since your deputy captured them, and the attempted murder of an officer of the law is one of the charges for which they'll have to stand trial. We'll set the trial for day after tomorrow. Meanwhile, work on Joel Miller. If we have his signed confession, naming the leaders of the gang, it will expedite matters a great deal at the trial." # Chapter X: The Blood on the Gold Whapeton learned of the postponement of the trial and reacted in various ways. The air was surcharged with tension. Little work was done that day. Men gathering in heated, gesticulating groups, crowded in at the bars. Voices rose in hot altercation, fists pounded on the bars. Unfamiliar faces were observed, men who were seldom seen in the gulch—miners from claims in distant canyons, or more sinister figures from the hills, whose business was less obvious. Lines of cleavage were noticed. Here and there clumps of men gathered, keeping to themselves and talking in low tones. In certain dives the ruffian element of the camp gathered, and these saloons were shunned by honest men. But still the great mass of the people milled about, suspicious and uncertain. The status of too many men was still in doubt. Certain men were known to be above suspicion, certain others were known to be ruffians and criminals; but between these two extremes there were possibilities for all shades of distrust and suspicion. So most men wandered aimlessly to and fro, with their weapons ready to their hands, glancing at their fellows out of the corners of their eyes. To the surprise of all, Steve Corcoran was noticed at several bars, drinking heavily, though the liquor did not seem to affect him in any way. The men in the jail were suffering from nerves. Somehow the word had gotten out that the vigilante organization was a reality, and that they were to be tried before a vigilante court. Joel Miller, hysterical, accused Middleton of double-crossing his men. "Shut up, you fool!" snarled the sheriff, showing the strain under which he was laboring merely by the irascible edge on his voice. "Haven't you seen your friends drifting by the jail? I've gathered the men in from the hills. They're all here. Forty-odd men, every Vulture in the gang, is here in Whapeton. "Now, get this: and McNab, listen closely: we'll stage the break just before daylight, when everybody is asleep. Just before dawn is the best time, because that's about the only time in the whole twenty-four hours that the camp isn't going full blast. "Some of the boys, with masks on, will swoop down and overpower you deputies. There'll be no shots fired until they've gotten the prisoners and started off. Then start yelling and shooting after them—in the air, of course. That'll bring everybody on the run to hear how you were overpowered by a gang of masked riders. "Miller, you and Letcher and Barlow will put up a fight—" "Why?" "Why, you fool, to make it look like it's a mob that's capturing you, instead of friends rescuing you. That'll explain why none of the deputies are hurt. Men wanting to lynch you wouldn't want to hurt the officers. You'll yell and scream blue murder, and the men in the masks will drag you out, tie you and throw you across horses and ride off. Somebody is bound to see them riding away. It'll look like a capture, not a rescue." Bearded lips gaped in admiring grins at the strategy. "All right. Don't make a botch of it. There'll be hell to pay, but I'll convince Hopkins that it was the work of a mob, and we'll search the hills to find your bodies hanging from trees. We won't find any bodies, naturally, but maybe we'll contrive to find a mass of ashes where a log hut had been burned to the ground, and a few hats and belt buckles easy to identify." Miller shivered at the implication and stared at Middleton with painful intensity. "Middleton, you ain't planning to have us put out of the way? These men in masks are our friends, not vigilantes you've put up to this?" "Don't be a fool!" flared Middleton disgustedly. "Do you think the gang would stand for anything like that, even if I was imbecile enough to try it? You'll recognize your friends when they come. "Miller, I want your name at the foot of a confession I've drawn up, implicating somebody as the leader of the Vultures. There's no use trying to deny you and the others are members of the gang. Hopkins knows you are; instead of trying to play innocent, you'll divert suspicion to someone outside the gang. I haven't filled in the name of the leader, but Dick Lennox is as good as anybody. He's a gambler, has few friends, and never would work with us. I'll write his name in your "confession' as chief of the Vultures, and Corcoran will kill him "for resisting arrest," before he has time to prove that it's a lie. Then, before anybody has time to get suspicious, we'll make our last big haul—the raid on the Hopkins and Bisley cache!—and blow! Be ready to jump, when the gang swoops in. "Miller, put your signature to this paper. Read it first if you want to. I'll fill in the blanks I left for the "chief's' name later. Where's Corcoran?" "I saw him in the Golden Eagle an hour ago," growled McNab. "He's drinkin' like a fish." "Damnation!" Middleton's mask slipped a bit despite himself, then he regained his easy control. "Well, it doesn't matter. We won't need him tonight. Better for him not to be here when the jail break's made. Folks would think it was funny if he didn't kill somebody. I'll drop back later in the night." Even a man of steel nerves feels the strain of waiting for a crisis. Corcoran was in this case no exception. Middleton's mind was so occupied in planning, scheming and conniving that he had little time for the strain to corrode his willpower. But Corcoran had nothing to occupy his attention until the moment came for the jump. He began to drink, almost without realizing it. His veins seemed on fire, his external senses abnormally alert. Like most men of his breed he was high-strung, his nervous system poised on a hair-trigger balance, in spite of his mask of unemotional coolness. He lived on, and for, violent action. Action kept his mind from turning inward; it kept his brain clear and his hand steady; failing action, he fell back on whisky. Liquor artificially stimulated him to that pitch which his temperament required. It was not fear that made his nerves thrum so intolerably. It was the strain of waiting inertly, the realization of the stakes for which they played. Inaction maddened him. Thought of the gold cached in the cave behind John Middleton's cabin made Corcoran's lips dry, set a nerve to pounding maddeningly in his temples. So he drank, and drank, and drank again, as the long day wore on. The noise from the bar was a blurred medley in the back room of the Golden Garter. Glory Bland stared uneasily across the table at her companion. Corcoran's blue eyes seemed lit by dancing fires. Tiny beads of perspiration shone on his dark face. His tongue was not thick; he spoke lucidly and without exaggeration; he had not stumbled when he entered. Nevertheless he was drunk, though to what extent the girl did not guess. "I never saw you this way before, Steve," she said reproachfully. "I've never had a hand in a game like this before," he answered, the wild flame flickering bluely in his eyes. He reached across the table and caught her white wrist with an unconscious strength that made her wince. "Glory, I'm pullin' out of here tonight. I want you to go with me!" "You're leaving Whapeton? Tonight?" "Yes. For good. Go with me! This joint ain't fit for you. I don't know how you got into this game, and I don't give a damn. But you're different from these other dance hall girls. I'm takin' you with me. I'll make a queen out of you! I'll cover you with diamonds!" She laughed nervously. "You're drunker than I thought. I know you've been getting a big salary, but—" "Salary?" His laugh of contempt startled her. "I'll throw my salary into the street for the beggars to fight over. Once I told that fool Hopkins that I had a gold mine right here in Whapeton. I told him no lie. I'm rich!" "What do you mean?" She was slightly pale, frightened by his vehemence. His fingers unconsciously tightened on her wrist and his eyes gleamed with the hard arrogance of possession and desire. "You're mine, anyway," he muttered. "I'll kill any man that looks at you. But you're in love with me. I know it. Any fool could see it. I can trust you. You wouldn't dare betray me. I'll tell you. I wouldn't take you along without tellin' you the truth. Tonight Middleton and I are goin' over the mountains with a million dollars' worth of gold tied on pack mules!" He did not see the growing light of incredulous horror in her eyes. "A million in gold! It'd make a devil out of a saint! Middleton thinks he'll kill me when we get away safe, and grab the whole load. He's a fool. It'll be him that dies, when the time comes. I've planned while he planned. I didn't ever intend to split the loot with him. I wouldn't be a thief for less than a million." "Middleton—" she choked. "Yeah! He's chief of the Vultures, and I'm his right-hand man. If it hadn't been for me, the camp would have caught on long ago." "But you upheld the law," she panted, as if clutching at straws. "You killed murderers—saved McBride from the mob." "I killed men who tried to kill me. I shot as square with the camp as I could, without goin' against my own interests. That business of McBride has nothin' to do with it. I'd given him my word. That's all behind us now. Tonight, while the vigilantes and the Vultures kill each other, we'll vamose! And you'll go with me!" With a cry of loathing she wrenched her hand away, and sprang up, her eyes blazing. "Oh!" It was a cry of bitter disillusionment. "I thought you were straight—honest! I worshiped you because I thought you were honorable. So many men were dishonest and bestial—I idolized you! And you've just been pretending—playing a part! Betraying the people who trusted you!" The poignant anguish of her enlightenment choked her, then galvanized her with another possibility. "I suppose you've been pretending with me, too!" she cried wildly. "If you haven't been straight with the camp, you couldn't have been straight with me, either! You've made a fool of me! Laughed at me and shamed me! And now you boast of it in my teeth!" "Glory!" He was on his feet, groping for her, stunned and bewildered by her grief and rage. She sprang back from him. "Don't touch me! Don't look at me! Oh, I hate the very sight of you!" And turning, with an hysterical sob, she ran from the room. He stood swaying slightly, staring stupidly after her. Then fumbling with his hat, he stalked out, moving like an automaton. His thoughts were a confused maelstrom, whirling until he was giddy. All at once the liquor seethed madly in his brain, dulling his perceptions, even his recollections of what had just passed. He had drunk more than he realized. Not long after dark had settled over Whapeton, a low call from the darkness brought Colonel Hopkins to the door of his cabin, gun in hand. "Who is it?" he demanded suspiciously. "It's Middleton. Let me in, quick!" The sheriff entered, and Hopkins, shutting the door, stared at him in surprise. Middleton showed more agitation than the Colonel had ever seen him display. His face was pale and drawn. A great actor was lost to the world when John Middleton took the dark road of outlawry. "Colonel, I don't know what to say. I've been a blind fool. I feel that the lives of murdered men are hung about my neck for all Eternity! All through my blindness and stupidity!" "What do you mean, John?" ejaculated Colonel Hopkins. "Colonel, Miller talked at last. He just finished telling me the whole dirty business. I have his confession, written as he dictated." "He named the chief of the Vultures?" exclaimed Hopkins eagerly. "He did!" answered Middleton grimly, producing a paper and unfolding it. Joel Miller's unmistakable signature sprawled at the bottom. "Here is the name of the leader, dictated by Miller to me!" "Good God!" whispered Hopkins. "Bill McNab!" "Yes! My deputy! The man I trusted next to Corcoran. What a fool—what a blind fool I've been. Even when his actions seemed peculiar, even when you voiced your suspicions of him, I could not bring myself to believe it. But it's all clear now. No wonder the gang always knew my plans as soon as I knew them myself! No wonder my deputies—before Corcoran came—were never able to kill or capture any Vultures. No wonder, for instance, that Tom Deal "escaped," before we could question him. That bullet hole in McNab's arm, supposedly made by Deal—Miller told me McNab got that in a quarrel with one of his own gang. It came in handy to help pull the wool over my eyes. "Colonel Hopkins, I'll turn in my resignation tomorrow. I recommend Corcoran as my successor. I shall be glad to serve as deputy under him." "Nonsense, John!" Hopkins laid his hand sympathetically on Middleton's shoulder. "It's not your fault. You've played a man's part all the way through. Forget that talk about resigning. Whapeton doesn't need a new sheriff; you just need some new deputies. Just now we've got some planning to do. Where is McNab?" "At the jail, guarding the prisoners. I couldn't remove him without exciting his suspicion. Of course he doesn't dream that Miller has talked. And I learned something else. They plan a jailbreak shortly after midnight." "We might have expected that!" "Yes. A band of masked men will approach the jail, pretend to overpower the guards—yes, Stark and Richardson are Vultures, too—and release the prisoners. Now this is my plan. Take fifty men and conceal them in the trees near the jail. You can plant some on one side, some on the other. Corcoran and I will be with you, of course. When the bandits come, we can kill or capture them all at one swoop. We have the advantage of knowing their plans, without their knowing we know them." "That's a good plan, John!" warmly endorsed Hopkins. "You should have been a general. I'll gather the men at once. Of course, we must use the utmost secrecy." "Of course. If we work it right, we'll bag prisoners, deputies and rescuers with one stroke. We'll break the back of the Vultures!" "John, don't ever talk resignation to me again!" exclaimed Hopkins, grabbing his hat and buckling on his gun-belt. "A man like you ought to be in the Senate. Go get Corcoran. I'll gather my men and we'll be in our places before midnight. McNab and the others in the jail won't hear a sound." "Good! Corcoran and I will join you before the Vultures reach the jail." Leaving Hopkins' cabin, Middleton hurried to the bar of the King of Diamonds. As he drank, a rough-looking individual moved casually up beside him. Middleton bent his head over his whisky glass and spoke, hardly moving his lips. None could have heard him a yard away. "I've just talked to Hopkins. The vigilantes are afraid of a jail break. They're going to take the prisoners out just before daylight and hang them out of hand. That talk about legal proceedings was just a bluff. Get all the boys, go to the jail and get the prisoners out within a half-hour after midnight. Wear your masks, but let there be no shooting or yelling. I'll tell McNab our plan's been changed. Go silently. Leave your horses at least a quarter of a mile down the gulch and sneak up to the jail on foot, so you won't make so much noise. Corcoran and I will be hiding in the brush to give you a hand in case anything goes wrong." The other man had not looked toward Middleton; he did not look now. Emptying his glass, he strolled deliberately toward the door. No casual onlooker could have known that any words had passed between them. When Glory Bland ran from the backroom of the Golden Garter, her soul was in an emotional turmoil that almost amounted to insanity. The shock of her brutal disillusionment vied with passionate shame of her own gullibility and an unreasoning anger. Out of this seething cauldron grew a blind desire to hurt the man who had unwittingly hurt her. Smarting vanity had its part, too, for with characteristic and illogical feminine conceit, she believed that he had practiced an elaborate deception in order to fool her into falling in love with him—or rather with the man she thought he was. If he was false with men, he must be false with women, too. That thought sent her into hysterical fury, blind to all except a desire for revenge. She was a primitive, elemental young animal, like most of her profession of that age and place; her emotions were powerful and easily stirred, her passions stormy. Love could change quickly to hate. She reached an instant decision. She would find Hopkins and tell him everything Corcoran had told her! In that instant she desired nothing so much as the ruin of the man she had loved. She ran down the crowded street, ignoring men who pawed at her and called after her. She hardly saw the people who stared after her. She supposed that Hopkins would be at the jail, helping guard the prisoners, and she directed her steps thither. As she ran up on the porch Bill McNab confronted her with a leer, and laid a hand on her arm, laughing when she jerked away. "Come to see me, Glory? Or are you lookin' for Corcoran?" She struck his hand away. His words, and the insinuating guffaws of his companions were sparks enough to touch off the explosives seething in her. "You fool! You're being sold out, and don't know it!" The leer vanished. "What do you mean?" he snarled. "I mean that your boss is fixing to skip out with all the gold you thieves have grabbed!" she blurted, heedless of consequences, in her emotional storm, indeed scarcely aware of what she was saying. "He and Corcoran are going to leave you holding the sack, tonight!" And not seeing the man she was looking for, she eluded McNab's grasp, jumped down from the porch and darted away in the darkness. The deputies stared at each other, and the prisoners, having heard everything, began to clamor to be turned out. "Shut up!" snarled McNab. "She may be lyin'. Might have had a quarrel with Corcoran and took this fool way to get even with him. We can't afford to take no chances. We've got to be sure we know what we're doin' before we move either way. We can't afford to let you out now, on the chance that she might be lyin'. But we'll give you weapons to defend yourselves. "Here, take these rifles and hide "em under the bunks. Pete Daley, you stay here and keep folks shooed away from the jail till we get back. Richardson, you and Stark come with me! We'll have a showdown with Middleton right now!" When Glory left the jail she headed for Hopkins' cabin. But she had not gone far when a reaction shook her. She was like one waking from a nightmare, or a dope-jag. She was still sickened by the discovery of Corcoran's duplicity in regard to the people of the camp, but she began to apply reason to her suspicions of his motives in regard to herself. She began to realize that she had acted illogically. If Corcoran's attitude toward her was not sincere, he certainly would not have asked her to leave the camp with him. At the expense of her vanity she was forced to admit that his attentions to her had not been necessary in his game of duping the camp. That was something apart; his own private business; it must be so. She had suspected him of trifling with her affections, but she had to admit that she had no proof that he had ever paid the slightest attention to any other woman in Whapeton. No; whatever his motives or actions in general, his feeling toward her must be sincere and real. With a shock she remembered her present errand, her reckless words to McNab. Despair seized her, in which she realized that she loved Steve Corcoran in spite of all he might be. Chill fear seized her that McNab and his friends would kill her lover. Her unreasoning fury died out, gave way to frantic terror. Turning she ran swiftly down the gulch toward Corcoran's cabin. She was hardly aware of it when she passed through the blazing heart of the camp. Lights and bearded faces were like a nightmarish blur, in which nothing was real but the icy terror in her heart. She did not realize it when the clusters of cabins fell behind her. The patter of her slippered feet in the road terrified her, and the black shadows under the trees seemed pregnant with menace. Ahead of her she saw Corcoran's cabin at last, a light streaming through the open door. She burst into the office-room, panting—and was confronted by Middleton who wheeled with a gun in his hand. "What the devil are you doing here?" He spoke without friendliness, though he returned the gun to its scabbard. "Where's Corcoran?" she panted. Fear took hold of her as she faced the man she now knew was the monster behind the grisly crimes that had made a reign of terror over Whapeton Gulch. But fear for Corcoran overshadowed her own terror. "I don't know. I looked for him through the bars a short time ago, and didn't find him. I'm expecting him here any minute. What do you want with him?" "That's none of your business," she flared. "It might be." He came toward her, and the mask had fallen from his dark, handsome face. It looked wolfish. "You were a fool to come here. You pry into things that don't concern you. You know too much. You talk too much. Don't think I'm not wise to you! I know more about you than you suspect." A chill fear froze her. Her heart seemed to be turning to ice. Middleton was like a stranger to her, a terrible stranger. The mask was off, and the evil spirit of the man was reflected in his dark, sinister face. His eyes burned her like actual coals. "I didn't pry into secrets," she whispered with dry lips. "I didn't ask any questions. I never before suspected you were the chief of the Vultures—" The expression of his face told her she had made an awful mistake. "So you know that!" His voice was soft, almost a whisper, but murder stood stark and naked in his flaming eyes. "I didn't know that. I was talking about something else. Conchita told me it was you who told Corcoran about the plan to lynch McBride. I wouldn't have killed you for that, though it interfered with my plans. But you know too much. After tonight it wouldn't matter. But tonight's not over yet—" "Oh!" she moaned, staring with dilated eyes as the big pistol slid from its scabbard in a dull gleam of blue steel. She could not move, she could not cry out. She could only cower dumbly until the crash of the shot knocked her to the floor. As Middleton stood above her, the smoking gun in his hand, he heard a stirring in the room behind him. He quickly upset the long table, so it could hide the body of the girl, and turned, just as the door opened. Corcoran came from the back room, blinking, a gun in his hand. It was evident that he had just awakened from a drunken sleep, but his hands did not shake, his pantherish tread was sure as ever, and his eyes were neither dull nor bloodshot. Nevertheless Middleton swore. "Corcoran, are you crazy?" "You shot?" "I shot at a snake that crawled across the floor. You must have been mad, to soak up liquor today, of all days!" "I'm all right," muttered Corcoran, shoving his gun back in its scabbard. "Well, come on. I've got the mules in the clump of trees next to my cabin. Nobody will see us load them. Nobody will see us go. We'll go up the ravine beyond my cabin, as we planned. There's nobody watching my cabin tonight. All the Vultures are down in the camp, waiting for the signal to move. I'm hoping none will escape the vigilantes, and that most of the vigilantes themselves are killed in the fight that's sure to come. Come on! We've got thirty mules to load, and that job will take us from now until midnight, at least. We won't pull out until we hear the guns on the other side of the camp." "Listen!" It was footsteps, approaching the cabin almost at a run. Both men wheeled and stood motionless as McNab loomed in the door. He lurched into the room, followed by Richardson and Stark. Instantly the air was supercharged with suspicion, hate, tension. Silence held for a tick of time. "You fools!" snarled Middleton. "What are you doing away from the jail?" "We came to talk to you," said McNab. "We've heard that you and Corcoran planned to skip with the gold." Never was Middleton's superb self-control more evident. Though the shock of that blunt thunderbolt must have been terrific, he showed no emotion that might not have been showed by any honest man, falsely accused. "Are you utterly mad?" he ejaculated, not in a rage, but as if amazement had submerged whatever anger he might have felt at the charge. McNab shifted his great bulk uneasily, not sure of his ground. Corcoran was not looking at him, but at Richardson, in whose cold eyes a lethal glitter was growing. More quickly than Middleton, Corcoran sensed the inevitable struggle in which this situation must culminate. "I'm just sayin' what we heard. Maybe it's so, maybe it ain't. If it ain't, there's no harm done," said McNab slowly. "On the chance that it was so, I sent word for the boys not to wait till midnight. They're goin' to the jail within the next half-hour and take Miller and the rest out." Another breathless silence followed that statement. Middleton did not bother to reply. His eyes began to smolder. Without moving, he yet seemed to crouch, to gather himself for a spring. He had realized what Corcoran had already sensed; that this situation was not to be passed over by words, that a climax of violence was inevitable. Richardson knew this; Stark seemed merely puzzled. McNab, if he had any thoughts, concealed the fact. "Say you was intendin' to skip," he said, "this might be a good chance, while the boys was takin' Miller and them off up into the hills. I don't know. I ain't accusin' you. I'm just askin' you to clear yourself. You can do it easy. Just come back to the jail with us and help get the boys out." Middleton's answer was what Richardson, instinctive man-killer, had sensed it would be. He whipped out a gun in a blur of speed. And even as it cleared leather, Richardson's gun was out. But Corcoran had not taken his eyes off the cold-eyed gunman, and his draw was the quicker by a lightning-flicker. Quick as was Middleton, both the other guns spoke before his, like a double detonation. Corcoran's slug blasted Richardson's brains just in time to spoil his shot at Middleton. But the bullet grazed Middleton so close that it caused him to miss McNab with his first shot. McNab's gun was out and Stark was a split second behind him. Middleton's second shot and McNab's first crashed almost together, but already Corcoran's guns had sent lead ripping through the giant's flesh. His ball merely flicked Middleton's hair in passing, and the chief's slug smashed full into his brawny breast. Middleton fired again and yet again as the giant was falling. Stark was down, dying on the floor, having pulled trigger blindly as he fell, until the gun was empty. Middleton stared wildly about him, through the floating blue fog of smoke that veiled the room. In that fleeting instant, as he glimpsed Corcoran's image-like face, he felt that only in such a setting as this did the Texan appear fitted. Like a somber figure of Fate he moved implacably against a background of blood and slaughter. "God!" gasped Middleton. "That was the quickest, bloodiest fight I was ever in!" Even as he talked he was jamming cartridges into his empty gun chambers. "We've got no time to lose now! I don't know how much McNab told the gang of his suspicions. He must not have told them much, or some of them would have come with him. Anyway, their first move will be to liberate the prisoners. I have an idea they'll go through with that just as we planned, even when McNab doesn't return to lead them. They won't come looking for him, or come after us, until they turn Miller and the others loose. "It just means the fight will come within the half-hour instead of at midnight. The vigilantes will be there by that time. They're probably lying in ambush already. Come on! We've got to sling gold on those mules like devils. We may have to leave some of it; we'll know when the fight's started, by the sound of the guns! One thing, nobody will come up here to investigate the shooting. All attention is focused on the jail!" Corcoran followed him out of the cabin, then turned back with a muttered: "Left a bottle of whisky in that back room." "Well, hurry and get it and come on!" Middleton broke into a run toward his cabin, and Corcoran re-entered the smoke-veiled room. He did not glance at the crumpled bodies which lay on the crimson-stained floor, staring glassily up at him. With a stride he reached the back room, groped in his bunk until he found what he wanted, and then strode again toward the outer door, the bottle in his hand. The sound of a low moan brought him whirling about, a gun in his left hand. Startled, he stared at the figures on the floor. He knew none of them had moaned; all three were past moaning. Yet his ears had not deceived him. His narrowed eyes swept the cabin suspiciously, and focused on a thin trickle of crimson that stole from under the upset table as it lay on its side near the wall. None of the corpses lay near it. He pulled aside the table and halted as if shot through the heart, his breath catching in a convulsive gasp. An instant later he was kneeling beside Glory Bland, cradling her golden head in his arm. His hand, as he brought the whisky bottle to her lips, shook queerly. Her magnificent eyes lifted toward him, glazed with pain. But by some miracle the delirium faded, and she knew him in her last few moments of life. "Who did this?" he choked. Her white throat was laced by a tiny trickle of crimson from her lips. "Middleton—" she whispered. "Steve, oh, Steve—I tried—" And with the whisper uncompleted she went limp in his arms. Her golden head lolled back; she seemed like a child, a child just fallen asleep. Dazedly he eased her to the floor. Corcoran's brain was clear of liquor as he left the cabin, but he staggered like a drunken man. The monstrous, incredible thing that had happened left him stunned, hardly able to credit his own senses. It had never occurred to him that Middleton would kill a woman, that any white man would. Corcoran lived by his own code, and it was wild and rough and hard, violent and incongruous, but it included the conviction that womankind was sacred, immune from the violence that attended the lives of men. This code was as much a vital, living element of the life of the Southwestern frontier as was personal honor, and the resentment of insult. Without pompousness, without pretentiousness, without any of the tawdry glitter and sham of a false chivalry, the people of Corcoran's breed practiced this code in their daily lives. To Corcoran, as to his people, a woman's life and body were inviolate. It had never occurred to him that that code would, or could be violated, or that there could be any other kind. Cold rage swept the daze from his mind and left him crammed to the brim with murder. His feelings toward Glory Bland had approached the normal love experienced by the average man as closely as was possible for one of his iron nature. But if she had been a stranger, or even a person he had disliked, he would have killed Middleton for outraging a code he had considered absolute. He entered Middleton's cabin with the soft stride of a stalking panther. Middleton was bringing bulging buckskin sacks from the cave, heaping them on a table in the main room. He staggered with their weight. Already the table was almost covered. "Get busy!" he exclaimed. Then he halted short, at the blaze in Corcoran's eyes. The fat sacks spilled from his arms, thudding on the floor. "You killed Glory Bland!" It was almost a whisper from the Texan's livid lips. "Yes." Middleton's voice was even. He did not ask how Corcoran knew, he did not seek to justify himself. He knew the time for argument was past. He did not think of his plans, or of the gold on the table, or that still back there in the cave. A man standing face to face with Eternity sees only the naked elements of life and death. "Draw!" A catamount might have spat the challenge, eyes flaming, teeth flashing. Middleton's hand was a streak to his gun butt. Even in that flash he knew he was beaten—heard Corcoran's gun roar just as he pulled trigger. He swayed back, falling, and in a blind gust of passion Corcoran emptied both guns into him as he crumpled. For a long moment that seemed ticking into Eternity the killer stood over his victim, a somber, brooding figure that might have been carved from the iron night of the Fates. Off toward the other end of the camp other guns burst forth suddenly, in salvo after thundering salvo. The fight that was plotted to mask the flight of the Vulture chief had begun. But the figure which stood above the dead man in the lonely cabin did not seem to hear. Corcoran looked down at his victim, vaguely finding it strange, after all, that all those bloody schemes and terrible ambitions should end like that, in a puddle of oozing blood on a cabin floor. He lifted his head to stare somberly at the bulging sacks on the table. Revulsion gagged him. A sack had split, spilling a golden stream that glittered evilly in the candlelight. His eyes were no longer blinded by the yellow sheen. For the first time he saw the blood on that gold, it was black with blood; the blood of innocent men; the blood of a woman. The mere thought of touching it nauseated him, made him feel as if the slime that had covered John Middleton's soul would befoul him. Sickly he realized that some of Middleton's guilt was on his own head. He had not pulled the trigger that ripped a woman's life from her body; but he had worked hand-in-glove with the man destined to be her murderer—Corcoran shuddered and a clammy sweat broke out upon his flesh. Down the gulch the firing had ceased, faint yells came to him, freighted with victory and triumph. Many men must be shouting at once, for the sound to carry so far. He knew what it portended; the Vultures had walked into the trap laid for them by the man they trusted as a leader. Since the firing had ceased, it meant the whole band were either dead or captives. Whapeton's reign of terror had ended. But he must stir. There would be prisoners, eager to talk. Their speech would weave a noose about his neck. He did not glance again at the gold, gleaming there where the honest people of Whapeton would find it. Striding from the cabin he swung on one of the horses that stood saddled and ready among the trees. The lights of the camp, the roar of the distant voices fell away behind him, and before him lay what wild destiny he could not guess. But the night was full of haunting shadows, and within him grew a strange pain, like a revelation; perhaps it was his soul, at last awakening. THE END
212	--- author: L. Frank (Lyman Frank) Baum tags: Juvenile fiction, Fantasy literature, Courage, Home, Good and evil, Dreams title: The Wonderful Wizard of Oz summary: ' "The Wonderful Wizard of Oz" by L. Frank Baum is a classic children''s novel written in the late 19th century. The story centers on a young girl named Dorothy, who lives on the Kansas prairies and is whisked away to the magical Land of Oz by a cyclone. Dorothy embarks on an adventure to find her way back home, encountering unique characters along the way, such as the Scarecrow, the Tin Woodman, and the Cowardly Lion, each seeking something from the elusive wizard, Oz. The opening of the novel introduces Dorothy''s life in Kansas, her loving but weary aunt and uncle, and a perilous cyclone that transports her to Oz. There, she discovers that her house has accidentally killed the Wicked Witch of the East, freeing the Munchkin people. In her quest to return home, she learns that she must seek the Great Oz in the Emerald City. As she sets off along the Yellow Brick Road, she meets the Scarecrow, who wishes for brains, and the Tin Woodman, who longs for a heart, highlighting key themes of friendship, courage, and the quest for self-discovery. With a blend of adventure and whimsy, this opening sets the stage for a journey filled with fantastical encounters and valuable life lessons. ' word_count: 38537 fiction_type: Novella ... # Chapter I The Cyclone Dorothy lived in the midst of the great Kansas prairies, with Uncle Henry, who was a farmer, and Aunt Em, who was the farmer's wife. Their house was small, for the lumber to build it had to be carried by wagon many miles. There were four walls, a floor and a roof, which made one room; and this room contained a rusty looking cookstove, a cupboard for the dishes, a table, three or four chairs, and the beds. Uncle Henry and Aunt Em had a big bed in one corner, and Dorothy a little bed in another corner. There was no garret at all, and no cellar—except a small hole dug in the ground, called a cyclone cellar, where the family could go in case one of those great whirlwinds arose, mighty enough to crush any building in its path. It was reached by a trap door in the middle of the floor, from which a ladder led down into the small, dark hole. When Dorothy stood in the doorway and looked around, she could see nothing but the great gray prairie on every side. Not a tree nor a house broke the broad sweep of flat country that reached to the edge of the sky in all directions. The sun had baked the plowed land into a gray mass, with little cracks running through it. Even the grass was not green, for the sun had burned the tops of the long blades until they were the same gray color to be seen everywhere. Once the house had been painted, but the sun blistered the paint and the rains washed it away, and now the house was as dull and gray as everything else. When Aunt Em came there to live she was a young, pretty wife. The sun and wind had changed her, too. They had taken the sparkle from her eyes and left them a sober gray; they had taken the red from her cheeks and lips, and they were gray also. She was thin and gaunt, and never smiled now. When Dorothy, who was an orphan, first came to her, Aunt Em had been so startled by the child's laughter that she would scream and press her hand upon her heart whenever Dorothy's merry voice reached her ears; and she still looked at the little girl with wonder that she could find anything to laugh at. Uncle Henry never laughed. He worked hard from morning till night and did not know what joy was. He was gray also, from his long beard to his rough boots, and he looked stern and solemn, and rarely spoke. It was Toto that made Dorothy laugh, and saved her from growing as gray as her other surroundings. Toto was not gray; he was a little black dog, with long silky hair and small black eyes that twinkled merrily on either side of his funny, wee nose. Toto played all day long, and Dorothy played with him, and loved him dearly. Today, however, they were not playing. Uncle Henry sat upon the doorstep and looked anxiously at the sky, which was even grayer than usual. Dorothy stood in the door with Toto in her arms, and looked at the sky too. Aunt Em was washing the dishes. From the far north they heard a low wail of the wind, and Uncle Henry and Dorothy could see where the long grass bowed in waves before the coming storm. There now came a sharp whistling in the air from the south, and as they turned their eyes that way they saw ripples in the grass coming from that direction also. Suddenly Uncle Henry stood up. "There's a cyclone coming, Em," he called to his wife. "I'll go look after the stock." Then he ran toward the sheds where the cows and horses were kept. Aunt Em dropped her work and came to the door. One glance told her of the danger close at hand. "Quick, Dorothy!" she screamed. "Run for the cellar!" Toto jumped out of Dorothy's arms and hid under the bed, and the girl started to get him. Aunt Em, badly frightened, threw open the trap door in the floor and climbed down the ladder into the small, dark hole. Dorothy caught Toto at last and started to follow her aunt. When she was halfway across the room there came a great shriek from the wind, and the house shook so hard that she lost her footing and sat down suddenly upon the floor. Then a strange thing happened. The house whirled around two or three times and rose slowly through the air. Dorothy felt as if she were going up in a balloon. The north and south winds met where the house stood, and made it the exact center of the cyclone. In the middle of a cyclone the air is generally still, but the great pressure of the wind on every side of the house raised it up higher and higher, until it was at the very top of the cyclone; and there it remained and was carried miles and miles away as easily as you could carry a feather. It was very dark, and the wind howled horribly around her, but Dorothy found she was riding quite easily. After the first few whirls around, and one other time when the house tipped badly, she felt as if she were being rocked gently, like a baby in a cradle. Toto did not like it. He ran about the room, now here, now there, barking loudly; but Dorothy sat quite still on the floor and waited to see what would happen. Once Toto got too near the open trap door, and fell in; and at first the little girl thought she had lost him. But soon she saw one of his ears sticking up through the hole, for the strong pressure of the air was keeping him up so that he could not fall. She crept to the hole, caught Toto by the ear, and dragged him into the room again, afterward closing the trap door so that no more accidents could happen. Hour after hour passed away, and slowly Dorothy got over her fright; but she felt quite lonely, and the wind shrieked so loudly all about her that she nearly became deaf. At first she had wondered if she would be dashed to pieces when the house fell again; but as the hours passed and nothing terrible happened, she stopped worrying and resolved to wait calmly and see what the future would bring. At last she crawled over the swaying floor to her bed, and lay down upon it; and Toto followed and lay down beside her. In spite of the swaying of the house and the wailing of the wind, Dorothy soon closed her eyes and fell fast asleep. # Chapter II The Council with the Munchkins She was awakened by a shock, so sudden and severe that if Dorothy had not been lying on the soft bed she might have been hurt. As it was, the jar made her catch her breath and wonder what had happened; and Toto put his cold little nose into her face and whined dismally. Dorothy sat up and noticed that the house was not moving; nor was it dark, for the bright sunshine came in at the window, flooding the little room. She sprang from her bed and with Toto at her heels ran and opened the door. The little girl gave a cry of amazement and looked about her, her eyes growing bigger and bigger at the wonderful sights she saw. The cyclone had set the house down very gently—for a cyclone—in the midst of a country of marvelous beauty. There were lovely patches of greensward all about, with stately trees bearing rich and luscious fruits. Banks of gorgeous flowers were on every hand, and birds with rare and brilliant plumage sang and fluttered in the trees and bushes. A little way off was a small brook, rushing and sparkling along between green banks, and murmuring in a voice very grateful to a little girl who had lived so long on the dry, gray prairies. While she stood looking eagerly at the strange and beautiful sights, she noticed coming toward her a group of the queerest people she had ever seen. They were not as big as the grown folk she had always been used to; but neither were they very small. In fact, they seemed about as tall as Dorothy, who was a well-grown child for her age, although they were, so far as looks go, many years older. Three were men and one a woman, and all were oddly dressed. They wore round hats that rose to a small point a foot above their heads, with little bells around the brims that tinkled sweetly as they moved. The hats of the men were blue; the little woman's hat was white, and she wore a white gown that hung in pleats from her shoulders. Over it were sprinkled little stars that glistened in the sun like diamonds. The men were dressed in blue, of the same shade as their hats, and wore well-polished boots with a deep roll of blue at the tops. The men, Dorothy thought, were about as old as Uncle Henry, for two of them had beards. But the little woman was doubtless much older. Her face was covered with wrinkles, her hair was nearly white, and she walked rather stiffly. When these people drew near the house where Dorothy was standing in the doorway, they paused and whispered among themselves, as if afraid to come farther. But the little old woman walked up to Dorothy, made a low bow and said, in a sweet voice: "You are welcome, most noble Sorceress, to the land of the Munchkins. We are so grateful to you for having killed the Wicked Witch of the East, and for setting our people free from bondage." Dorothy listened to this speech with wonder. What could the little woman possibly mean by calling her a sorceress, and saying she had killed the Wicked Witch of the East? Dorothy was an innocent, harmless little girl, who had been carried by a cyclone many miles from home; and she had never killed anything in all her life. But the little woman evidently expected her to answer; so Dorothy said, with hesitation, "You are very kind, but there must be some mistake. I have not killed anything." "Your house did, anyway," replied the little old woman, with a laugh, "and that is the same thing. See!" she continued, pointing to the corner of the house. "There are her two feet, still sticking out from under a block of wood." Dorothy looked, and gave a little cry of fright. There, indeed, just under the corner of the great beam the house rested on, two feet were sticking out, shod in silver shoes with pointed toes. "Oh, dear! Oh, dear!" cried Dorothy, clasping her hands together in dismay. "The house must have fallen on her. Whatever shall we do?" "There is nothing to be done," said the little woman calmly. "But who was she?" asked Dorothy. "She was the Wicked Witch of the East, as I said," answered the little woman. "She has held all the Munchkins in bondage for many years, making them slave for her night and day. Now they are all set free, and are grateful to you for the favor." "Who are the Munchkins?" inquired Dorothy. "They are the people who live in this land of the East where the Wicked Witch ruled." "Are you a Munchkin?" asked Dorothy. "No, but I am their friend, although I live in the land of the North. When they saw the Witch of the East was dead the Munchkins sent a swift messenger to me, and I came at once. I am the Witch of the North." "Oh, gracious!" cried Dorothy. "Are you a real witch?" "Yes, indeed," answered the little woman. "But I am a good witch, and the people love me. I am not as powerful as the Wicked Witch was who ruled here, or I should have set the people free myself." "But I thought all witches were wicked," said the girl, who was half frightened at facing a real witch. "Oh, no, that is a great mistake. There were only four witches in all the Land of Oz, and two of them, those who live in the North and the South, are good witches. I know this is true, for I am one of them myself, and cannot be mistaken. Those who dwelt in the East and the West were, indeed, wicked witches; but now that you have killed one of them, there is but one Wicked Witch in all the Land of Oz—the one who lives in the West." "But," said Dorothy, after a moment's thought, "Aunt Em has told me that the witches were all dead—years and years ago." "Who is Aunt Em?" inquired the little old woman. "She is my aunt who lives in Kansas, where I came from." The Witch of the North seemed to think for a time, with her head bowed and her eyes upon the ground. Then she looked up and said, "I do not know where Kansas is, for I have never heard that country mentioned before. But tell me, is it a civilized country?" "Oh, yes," replied Dorothy. "Then that accounts for it. In the civilized countries I believe there are no witches left, nor wizards, nor sorceresses, nor magicians. But, you see, the Land of Oz has never been civilized, for we are cut off from all the rest of the world. Therefore we still have witches and wizards amongst us." "Who are the wizards?" asked Dorothy. "Oz himself is the Great Wizard," answered the Witch, sinking her voice to a whisper. "He is more powerful than all the rest of us together. He lives in the City of Emeralds." Dorothy was going to ask another question, but just then the Munchkins, who had been standing silently by, gave a loud shout and pointed to the corner of the house where the Wicked Witch had been lying. "What is it?" asked the little old woman, and looked, and began to laugh. The feet of the dead Witch had disappeared entirely, and nothing was left but the silver shoes. "She was so old," explained the Witch of the North, "that she dried up quickly in the sun. That is the end of her. But the silver shoes are yours, and you shall have them to wear." She reached down and picked up the shoes, and after shaking the dust out of them handed them to Dorothy. "The Witch of the East was proud of those silver shoes," said one of the Munchkins, "and there is some charm connected with them; but what it is we never knew." Dorothy carried the shoes into the house and placed them on the table. Then she came out again to the Munchkins and said: "I am anxious to get back to my aunt and uncle, for I am sure they will worry about me. Can you help me find my way?" The Munchkins and the Witch first looked at one another, and then at Dorothy, and then shook their heads. "At the East, not far from here," said one, "there is a great desert, and none could live to cross it." "It is the same at the South," said another, "for I have been there and seen it. The South is the country of the Quadlings." "I am told," said the third man, "that it is the same at the West. And that country, where the Winkies live, is ruled by the Wicked Witch of the West, who would make you her slave if you passed her way." "The North is my home," said the old lady, "and at its edge is the same great desert that surrounds this Land of Oz. I'm afraid, my dear, you will have to live with us." Dorothy began to sob at this, for she felt lonely among all these strange people. Her tears seemed to grieve the kind-hearted Munchkins, for they immediately took out their handkerchiefs and began to weep also. As for the little old woman, she took off her cap and balanced the point on the end of her nose, while she counted "One, two, three" in a solemn voice. At once the cap changed to a slate, on which was written in big, white chalk marks: "LET DOROTHY GO TO THE CITY OF EMERALDS" The little old woman took the slate from her nose, and having read the words on it, asked, "Is your name Dorothy, my dear?" "Yes," answered the child, looking up and drying her tears. "Then you must go to the City of Emeralds. Perhaps Oz will help you." "Where is this city?" asked Dorothy. "It is exactly in the center of the country, and is ruled by Oz, the Great Wizard I told you of." "Is he a good man?" inquired the girl anxiously. "He is a good Wizard. Whether he is a man or not I cannot tell, for I have never seen him." "How can I get there?" asked Dorothy. "You must walk. It is a long journey, through a country that is sometimes pleasant and sometimes dark and terrible. However, I will use all the magic arts I know of to keep you from harm." "Won't you go with me?" pleaded the girl, who had begun to look upon the little old woman as her only friend. "No, I cannot do that," she replied, "but I will give you my kiss, and no one will dare injure a person who has been kissed by the Witch of the North." She came close to Dorothy and kissed her gently on the forehead. Where her lips touched the girl they left a round, shining mark, as Dorothy found out soon after. "The road to the City of Emeralds is paved with yellow brick," said the Witch, "so you cannot miss it. When you get to Oz do not be afraid of him, but tell your story and ask him to help you. Good-bye, my dear." The three Munchkins bowed low to her and wished her a pleasant journey, after which they walked away through the trees. The Witch gave Dorothy a friendly little nod, whirled around on her left heel three times, and straightway disappeared, much to the surprise of little Toto, who barked after her loudly enough when she had gone, because he had been afraid even to growl while she stood by. But Dorothy, knowing her to be a witch, had expected her to disappear in just that way, and was not surprised in the least. # Chapter III How Dorothy Saved the Scarecrow When Dorothy was left alone she began to feel hungry. So she went to the cupboard and cut herself some bread, which she spread with butter. She gave some to Toto, and taking a pail from the shelf she carried it down to the little brook and filled it with clear, sparkling water. Toto ran over to the trees and began to bark at the birds sitting there. Dorothy went to get him, and saw such delicious fruit hanging from the branches that she gathered some of it, finding it just what she wanted to help out her breakfast. Then she went back to the house, and having helped herself and Toto to a good drink of the cool, clear water, she set about making ready for the journey to the City of Emeralds. Dorothy had only one other dress, but that happened to be clean and was hanging on a peg beside her bed. It was gingham, with checks of white and blue; and although the blue was somewhat faded with many washings, it was still a pretty frock. The girl washed herself carefully, dressed herself in the clean gingham, and tied her pink sunbonnet on her head. She took a little basket and filled it with bread from the cupboard, laying a white cloth over the top. Then she looked down at her feet and noticed how old and worn her shoes were. "They surely will never do for a long journey, Toto," she said. And Toto looked up into her face with his little black eyes and wagged his tail to show he knew what she meant. At that moment Dorothy saw lying on the table the silver shoes that had belonged to the Witch of the East. "I wonder if they will fit me," she said to Toto. "They would be just the thing to take a long walk in, for they could not wear out." She took off her old leather shoes and tried on the silver ones, which fitted her as well as if they had been made for her. Finally she picked up her basket. "Come along, Toto," she said. "We will go to the Emerald City and ask the Great Oz how to get back to Kansas again." She closed the door, locked it, and put the key carefully in the pocket of her dress. And so, with Toto trotting along soberly behind her, she started on her journey. There were several roads nearby, but it did not take her long to find the one paved with yellow bricks. Within a short time she was walking briskly toward the Emerald City, her silver shoes tinkling merrily on the hard, yellow road-bed. The sun shone bright and the birds sang sweetly, and Dorothy did not feel nearly so bad as you might think a little girl would who had been suddenly whisked away from her own country and set down in the midst of a strange land. She was surprised, as she walked along, to see how pretty the country was about her. There were neat fences at the sides of the road, painted a dainty blue color, and beyond them were fields of grain and vegetables in abundance. Evidently the Munchkins were good farmers and able to raise large crops. Once in a while she would pass a house, and the people came out to look at her and bow low as she went by; for everyone knew she had been the means of destroying the Wicked Witch and setting them free from bondage. The houses of the Munchkins were odd-looking dwellings, for each was round, with a big dome for a roof. All were painted blue, for in this country of the East blue was the favorite color. Toward evening, when Dorothy was tired with her long walk and began to wonder where she should pass the night, she came to a house rather larger than the rest. On the green lawn before it many men and women were dancing. Five little fiddlers played as loudly as possible, and the people were laughing and singing, while a big table near by was loaded with delicious fruits and nuts, pies and cakes, and many other good things to eat. The people greeted Dorothy kindly, and invited her to supper and to pass the night with them; for this was the home of one of the richest Munchkins in the land, and his friends were gathered with him to celebrate their freedom from the bondage of the Wicked Witch. Dorothy ate a hearty supper and was waited upon by the rich Munchkin himself, whose name was Boq. Then she sat upon a settee and watched the people dance. When Boq saw her silver shoes he said, "You must be a great sorceress." "Why?" asked the girl. "Because you wear silver shoes and have killed the Wicked Witch. Besides, you have white in your frock, and only witches and sorceresses wear white." "My dress is blue and white checked," said Dorothy, smoothing out the wrinkles in it. "It is kind of you to wear that," said Boq. "Blue is the color of the Munchkins, and white is the witch color. So we know you are a friendly witch." Dorothy did not know what to say to this, for all the people seemed to think her a witch, and she knew very well she was only an ordinary little girl who had come by the chance of a cyclone into a strange land. When she had tired watching the dancing, Boq led her into the house, where he gave her a room with a pretty bed in it. The sheets were made of blue cloth, and Dorothy slept soundly in them till morning, with Toto curled up on the blue rug beside her. She ate a hearty breakfast, and watched a wee Munchkin baby, who played with Toto and pulled his tail and crowed and laughed in a way that greatly amused Dorothy. Toto was a fine curiosity to all the people, for they had never seen a dog before. "How far is it to the Emerald City?" the girl asked. "I do not know," answered Boq gravely, "for I have never been there. It is better for people to keep away from Oz, unless they have business with him. But it is a long way to the Emerald City, and it will take you many days. The country here is rich and pleasant, but you must pass through rough and dangerous places before you reach the end of your journey." This worried Dorothy a little, but she knew that only the Great Oz could help her get to Kansas again, so she bravely resolved not to turn back. She bade her friends good-bye, and again started along the road of yellow brick. When she had gone several miles she thought she would stop to rest, and so climbed to the top of the fence beside the road and sat down. There was a great cornfield beyond the fence, and not far away she saw a Scarecrow, placed high on a pole to keep the birds from the ripe corn. Dorothy leaned her chin upon her hand and gazed thoughtfully at the Scarecrow. Its head was a small sack stuffed with straw, with eyes, nose, and mouth painted on it to represent a face. An old, pointed blue hat, that had belonged to some Munchkin, was perched on his head, and the rest of the figure was a blue suit of clothes, worn and faded, which had also been stuffed with straw. On the feet were some old boots with blue tops, such as every man wore in this country, and the figure was raised above the stalks of corn by means of the pole stuck up its back. While Dorothy was looking earnestly into the queer, painted face of the Scarecrow, she was surprised to see one of the eyes slowly wink at her. She thought she must have been mistaken at first, for none of the scarecrows in Kansas ever wink; but presently the figure nodded its head to her in a friendly way. Then she climbed down from the fence and walked up to it, while Toto ran around the pole and barked. "Good day," said the Scarecrow, in a rather husky voice. "Did you speak?" asked the girl, in wonder. "Certainly," answered the Scarecrow. "How do you do?" "I'm pretty well, thank you," replied Dorothy politely. "How do you do?" "I'm not feeling well," said the Scarecrow, with a smile, "for it is very tedious being perched up here night and day to scare away crows." "Can't you get down?" asked Dorothy. "No, for this pole is stuck up my back. If you will please take away the pole I shall be greatly obliged to you." Dorothy reached up both arms and lifted the figure off the pole, for, being stuffed with straw, it was quite light. "Thank you very much," said the Scarecrow, when he had been set down on the ground. "I feel like a new man." Dorothy was puzzled at this, for it sounded queer to hear a stuffed man speak, and to see him bow and walk along beside her. "Who are you?" asked the Scarecrow when he had stretched himself and yawned. "And where are you going?" "My name is Dorothy," said the girl, "and I am going to the Emerald City, to ask the Great Oz to send me back to Kansas." "Where is the Emerald City?" he inquired. "And who is Oz?" "Why, don't you know?" she returned, in surprise. "No, indeed. I don't know anything. You see, I am stuffed, so I have no brains at all," he answered sadly. "Oh," said Dorothy, "I'm awfully sorry for you." "Do you think," he asked, "if I go to the Emerald City with you, that Oz would give me some brains?" "I cannot tell," she returned, "but you may come with me, if you like. If Oz will not give you any brains you will be no worse off than you are now." "That is true," said the Scarecrow. "You see," he continued confidentially, "I don't mind my legs and arms and body being stuffed, because I cannot get hurt. If anyone treads on my toes or sticks a pin into me, it doesn't matter, for I can't feel it. But I do not want people to call me a fool, and if my head stays stuffed with straw instead of with brains, as yours is, how am I ever to know anything?" "I understand how you feel," said the little girl, who was truly sorry for him. "If you will come with me I'll ask Oz to do all he can for you." "Thank you," he answered gratefully. They walked back to the road. Dorothy helped him over the fence, and they started along the path of yellow brick for the Emerald City. Toto did not like this addition to the party at first. He smelled around the stuffed man as if he suspected there might be a nest of rats in the straw, and he often growled in an unfriendly way at the Scarecrow. "Don't mind Toto," said Dorothy to her new friend. "He never bites." "Oh, I'm not afraid," replied the Scarecrow. "He can't hurt the straw. Do let me carry that basket for you. I shall not mind it, for I can't get tired. I'll tell you a secret," he continued, as he walked along. "There is only one thing in the world I am afraid of." "What is that?" asked Dorothy; "the Munchkin farmer who made you?" "No," answered the Scarecrow; "it's a lighted match." # Chapter IV The Road Through the Forest After a few hours the road began to be rough, and the walking grew so difficult that the Scarecrow often stumbled over the yellow bricks, which were here very uneven. Sometimes, indeed, they were broken or missing altogether, leaving holes that Toto jumped across and Dorothy walked around. As for the Scarecrow, having no brains, he walked straight ahead, and so stepped into the holes and fell at full length on the hard bricks. It never hurt him, however, and Dorothy would pick him up and set him upon his feet again, while he joined her in laughing merrily at his own mishap. The farms were not nearly so well cared for here as they were farther back. There were fewer houses and fewer fruit trees, and the farther they went the more dismal and lonesome the country became. At noon they sat down by the roadside, near a little brook, and Dorothy opened her basket and got out some bread. She offered a piece to the Scarecrow, but he refused. "I am never hungry," he said, "and it is a lucky thing I am not, for my mouth is only painted, and if I should cut a hole in it so I could eat, the straw I am stuffed with would come out, and that would spoil the shape of my head." Dorothy saw at once that this was true, so she only nodded and went on eating her bread. "Tell me something about yourself and the country you came from," said the Scarecrow, when she had finished her dinner. So she told him all about Kansas, and how gray everything was there, and how the cyclone had carried her to this queer Land of Oz. The Scarecrow listened carefully, and said, "I cannot understand why you should wish to leave this beautiful country and go back to the dry, gray place you call Kansas." "That is because you have no brains" answered the girl. "No matter how dreary and gray our homes are, we people of flesh and blood would rather live there than in any other country, be it ever so beautiful. There is no place like home." The Scarecrow sighed. "Of course I cannot understand it," he said. "If your heads were stuffed with straw, like mine, you would probably all live in the beautiful places, and then Kansas would have no people at all. It is fortunate for Kansas that you have brains." "Won't you tell me a story, while we are resting?" asked the child. The Scarecrow looked at her reproachfully, and answered: "My life has been so short that I really know nothing whatever. I was only made day before yesterday. What happened in the world before that time is all unknown to me. Luckily, when the farmer made my head, one of the first things he did was to paint my ears, so that I heard what was going on. There was another Munchkin with him, and the first thing I heard was the farmer saying, ‘How do you like those ears?' "‘They aren't straight,'" answered the other. "‘Never mind,'" said the farmer. "‘They are ears just the same,'" which was true enough. "‘Now I'll make the eyes,'" said the farmer. So he painted my right eye, and as soon as it was finished I found myself looking at him and at everything around me with a great deal of curiosity, for this was my first glimpse of the world. "‘That's a rather pretty eye,'" remarked the Munchkin who was watching the farmer. "‘Blue paint is just the color for eyes.' "‘I think I'll make the other a little bigger,'" said the farmer. And when the second eye was done I could see much better than before. Then he made my nose and my mouth. But I did not speak, because at that time I didn't know what a mouth was for. I had the fun of watching them make my body and my arms and legs; and when they fastened on my head, at last, I felt very proud, for I thought I was just as good a man as anyone. "‘This fellow will scare the crows fast enough,' said the farmer. ‘He looks just like a man.' "‘Why, he is a man,' said the other, and I quite agreed with him. The farmer carried me under his arm to the cornfield, and set me up on a tall stick, where you found me. He and his friend soon after walked away and left me alone. "I did not like to be deserted this way. So I tried to walk after them. But my feet would not touch the ground, and I was forced to stay on that pole. It was a lonely life to lead, for I had nothing to think of, having been made such a little while before. Many crows and other birds flew into the cornfield, but as soon as they saw me they flew away again, thinking I was a Munchkin; and this pleased me and made me feel that I was quite an important person. By and by an old crow flew near me, and after looking at me carefully he perched upon my shoulder and said: "‘I wonder if that farmer thought to fool me in this clumsy manner. Any crow of sense could see that you are only stuffed with straw.' Then he hopped down at my feet and ate all the corn he wanted. The other birds, seeing he was not harmed by me, came to eat the corn too, so in a short time there was a great flock of them about me. "I felt sad at this, for it showed I was not such a good Scarecrow after all; but the old crow comforted me, saying, ‘If you only had brains in your head you would be as good a man as any of them, and a better man than some of them. Brains are the only things worth having in this world, no matter whether one is a crow or a man.' "After the crows had gone I thought this over, and decided I would try hard to get some brains. By good luck you came along and pulled me off the stake, and from what you say I am sure the Great Oz will give me brains as soon as we get to the Emerald City." "I hope so," said Dorothy earnestly, "since you seem anxious to have them." "Oh, yes; I am anxious," returned the Scarecrow. "It is such an uncomfortable feeling to know one is a fool." "Well," said the girl, "let us go." And she handed the basket to the Scarecrow. There were no fences at all by the roadside now, and the land was rough and untilled. Toward evening they came to a great forest, where the trees grew so big and close together that their branches met over the road of yellow brick. It was almost dark under the trees, for the branches shut out the daylight; but the travelers did not stop, and went on into the forest. "If this road goes in, it must come out," said the Scarecrow, "and as the Emerald City is at the other end of the road, we must go wherever it leads us." "Anyone would know that," said Dorothy. "Certainly; that is why I know it," returned the Scarecrow. "If it required brains to figure it out, I never should have said it." After an hour or so the light faded away, and they found themselves stumbling along in the darkness. Dorothy could not see at all, but Toto could, for some dogs see very well in the dark; and the Scarecrow declared he could see as well as by day. So she took hold of his arm and managed to get along fairly well. "If you see any house, or any place where we can pass the night," she said, "you must tell me; for it is very uncomfortable walking in the dark." Soon after the Scarecrow stopped. "I see a little cottage at the right of us," he said, "built of logs and branches. Shall we go there?" "Yes, indeed," answered the child. "I am all tired out." So the Scarecrow led her through the trees until they reached the cottage, and Dorothy entered and found a bed of dried leaves in one corner. She lay down at once, and with Toto beside her soon fell into a sound sleep. The Scarecrow, who was never tired, stood up in another corner and waited patiently until morning came. # Chapter V The Rescue of the Tin Woodman When Dorothy awoke the sun was shining through the trees and Toto had long been out chasing birds around him and squirrels. She sat up and looked around her. There was the Scarecrow, still standing patiently in his corner, waiting for her. "We must go and search for water," she said to him. "Why do you want water?" he asked. "To wash my face clean after the dust of the road, and to drink, so the dry bread will not stick in my throat." "It must be inconvenient to be made of flesh," said the Scarecrow thoughtfully, "for you must sleep, and eat and drink. However, you have brains, and it is worth a lot of bother to be able to think properly." They left the cottage and walked through the trees until they found a little spring of clear water, where Dorothy drank and bathed and ate her breakfast. She saw there was not much bread left in the basket, and the girl was thankful the Scarecrow did not have to eat anything, for there was scarcely enough for herself and Toto for the day. When she had finished her meal, and was about to go back to the road of yellow brick, she was startled to hear a deep groan near by. "What was that?" she asked timidly. "I cannot imagine," replied the Scarecrow; "but we can go and see." Just then another groan reached their ears, and the sound seemed to come from behind them. They turned and walked through the forest a few steps, when Dorothy discovered something shining in a ray of sunshine that fell between the trees. She ran to the place and then stopped short, with a little cry of surprise. One of the big trees had been partly chopped through, and standing beside it, with an uplifted axe in his hands, was a man made entirely of tin. His head and arms and legs were jointed upon his body, but he stood perfectly motionless, as if he could not stir at all. Dorothy looked at him in amazement, and so did the Scarecrow, while Toto barked sharply and made a snap at the tin legs, which hurt his teeth. "Did you groan?" asked Dorothy. "Yes," answered the tin man, "I did. I've been groaning for more than a year, and no one has ever heard me before or come to help me." "What can I do for you?" she inquired softly, for she was moved by the sad voice in which the man spoke. "Get an oil-can and oil my joints," he answered. "They are rusted so badly that I cannot move them at all; if I am well oiled I shall soon be all right again. You will find an oil-can on a shelf in my cottage." Dorothy at once ran back to the cottage and found the oil-can, and then she returned and asked anxiously, "Where are your joints?" "Oil my neck, first," replied the Tin Woodman. So she oiled it, and as it was quite badly rusted the Scarecrow took hold of the tin head and moved it gently from side to side until it worked freely, and then the man could turn it himself. "Now oil the joints in my arms," he said. And Dorothy oiled them and the Scarecrow bent them carefully until they were quite free from rust and as good as new. The Tin Woodman gave a sigh of satisfaction and lowered his axe, which he leaned against the tree. "This is a great comfort," he said. "I have been holding that axe in the air ever since I rusted, and I'm glad to be able to put it down at last. Now, if you will oil the joints of my legs, I shall be all right once more." So they oiled his legs until he could move them freely; and he thanked them again and again for his release, for he seemed a very polite creature, and very grateful. "I might have stood there always if you had not come along," he said; "so you have certainly saved my life. How did you happen to be here?" "We are on our way to the Emerald City to see the Great Oz," she answered, "and we stopped at your cottage to pass the night." "Why do you wish to see Oz?" he asked. "I want him to send me back to Kansas, and the Scarecrow wants him to put a few brains into his head," she replied. The Tin Woodman appeared to think deeply for a moment. Then he said: "Do you suppose Oz could give me a heart?" "Why, I guess so," Dorothy answered. "It would be as easy as to give the Scarecrow brains." "True," the Tin Woodman returned. "So, if you will allow me to join your party, I will also go to the Emerald City and ask Oz to help me." "Come along," said the Scarecrow heartily, and Dorothy added that she would be pleased to have his company. So the Tin Woodman shouldered his axe and they all passed through the forest until they came to the road that was paved with yellow brick. The Tin Woodman had asked Dorothy to put the oil-can in her basket. "For," he said, "if I should get caught in the rain, and rust again, I would need the oil-can badly." It was a bit of good luck to have their new comrade join the party, for soon after they had begun their journey again they came to a place where the trees and branches grew so thick over the road that the travelers could not pass. But the Tin Woodman set to work with his axe and chopped so well that soon he cleared a passage for the entire party. Dorothy was thinking so earnestly as they walked along that she did not notice when the Scarecrow stumbled into a hole and rolled over to the side of the road. Indeed he was obliged to call to her to help him up again. "Why didn't you walk around the hole?" asked the Tin Woodman. "I don't know enough," replied the Scarecrow cheerfully. "My head is stuffed with straw, you know, and that is why I am going to Oz to ask him for some brains." "Oh, I see," said the Tin Woodman. "But, after all, brains are not the best things in the world." "Have you any?" inquired the Scarecrow. "No, my head is quite empty," answered the Woodman. "But once I had brains, and a heart also; so, having tried them both, I should much rather have a heart." "And why is that?" asked the Scarecrow. "I will tell you my story, and then you will know." So, while they were walking through the forest, the Tin Woodman told the following story: "I was born the son of a woodman who chopped down trees in the forest and sold the wood for a living. When I grew up, I too became a woodchopper, and after my father died I took care of my old mother as long as she lived. Then I made up my mind that instead of living alone I would marry, so that I might not become lonely. "There was one of the Munchkin girls who was so beautiful that I soon grew to love her with all my heart. She, on her part, promised to marry me as soon as I could earn enough money to build a better house for her; so I set to work harder than ever. But the girl lived with an old woman who did not want her to marry anyone, for she was so lazy she wished the girl to remain with her and do the cooking and the housework. So the old woman went to the Wicked Witch of the East, and promised her two sheep and a cow if she would prevent the marriage. Thereupon the Wicked Witch enchanted my axe, and when I was chopping away at my best one day, for I was anxious to get the new house and my wife as soon as possible, the axe slipped all at once and cut off my left leg. "This at first seemed a great misfortune, for I knew a one-legged man could not do very well as a wood-chopper. So I went to a tinsmith and had him make me a new leg out of tin. The leg worked very well, once I was used to it. But my action angered the Wicked Witch of the East, for she had promised the old woman I should not marry the pretty Munchkin girl. When I began chopping again, my axe slipped and cut off my right leg. Again I went to the tinsmith, and again he made me a leg out of tin. After this the enchanted axe cut off my arms, one after the other; but, nothing daunted, I had them replaced with tin ones. The Wicked Witch then made the axe slip and cut off my head, and at first I thought that was the end of me. But the tinsmith happened to come along, and he made me a new head out of tin. "I thought I had beaten the Wicked Witch then, and I worked harder than ever; but I little knew how cruel my enemy could be. She thought of a new way to kill my love for the beautiful Munchkin maiden, and made my axe slip again, so that it cut right through my body, splitting me into two halves. Once more the tinsmith came to my help and made me a body of tin, fastening my tin arms and legs and head to it, by means of joints, so that I could move around as well as ever. But, alas! I had now no heart, so that I lost all my love for the Munchkin girl, and did not care whether I married her or not. I suppose she is still living with the old woman, waiting for me to come after her. "My body shone so brightly in the sun that I felt very proud of it and it did not matter now if my axe slipped, for it could not cut me. There was only one danger—that my joints would rust; but I kept an oil-can in my cottage and took care to oil myself whenever I needed it. However, there came a day when I forgot to do this, and, being caught in a rainstorm, before I thought of the danger my joints had rusted, and I was left to stand in the woods until you came to help me. It was a terrible thing to undergo, but during the year I stood there I had time to think that the greatest loss I had known was the loss of my heart. While I was in love I was the happiest man on earth; but no one can love who has not a heart, and so I am resolved to ask Oz to give me one. If he does, I will go back to the Munchkin maiden and marry her." Both Dorothy and the Scarecrow had been greatly interested in the story of the Tin Woodman, and now they knew why he was so anxious to get a new heart. "All the same," said the Scarecrow, "I shall ask for brains instead of a heart; for a fool would not know what to do with a heart if he had one." "I shall take the heart," returned the Tin Woodman; "for brains do not make one happy, and happiness is the best thing in the world." Dorothy did not say anything, for she was puzzled to know which of her two friends was right, and she decided if she could only get back to Kansas and Aunt Em, it did not matter so much whether the Woodman had no brains and the Scarecrow no heart, or each got what he wanted. What worried her most was that the bread was nearly gone, and another meal for herself and Toto would empty the basket. To be sure, neither the Woodman nor the Scarecrow ever ate anything, but she was not made of tin nor straw, and could not live unless she was fed. # Chapter VI The Cowardly Lion All this time Dorothy and her companions had been walking through the thick woods. The road was still paved with yellow brick, but these were much covered by dried branches and dead leaves from the trees, and the walking was not at all good. There were few birds in this part of the forest, for birds love the open country where there is plenty of sunshine. But now and then there came a deep growl from some wild animal hidden among the trees. These sounds made the little girl's heart beat fast, for she did not know what made them; but Toto knew, and he walked close to Dorothy's side, and did not even bark in return. "How long will it be," the child asked of the Tin Woodman, "before we are out of the forest?" "I cannot tell," was the answer, "for I have never been to the Emerald City. But my father went there once, when I was a boy, and he said it was a long journey through a dangerous country, although nearer to the city where Oz dwells the country is beautiful. But I am not afraid so long as I have my oil-can, and nothing can hurt the Scarecrow, while you bear upon your forehead the mark of the Good Witch's kiss, and that will protect you from harm." "But Toto!" said the girl anxiously. "What will protect him?" "We must protect him ourselves if he is in danger," replied the Tin Woodman. Just as he spoke there came from the forest a terrible roar, and the next moment a great Lion bounded into the road. With one blow of his paw he sent the Scarecrow spinning over and over to the edge of the road, and then he struck at the Tin Woodman with his sharp claws. But, to the Lion's surprise, he could make no impression on the tin, although the Woodman fell over in the road and lay still. Little Toto, now that he had an enemy to face, ran barking toward the Lion, and the great beast had opened his mouth to bite the dog, when Dorothy, fearing Toto would be killed, and heedless of danger, rushed forward and slapped the Lion upon his nose as hard as she could, while she cried out: "Don't you dare to bite Toto! You ought to be ashamed of yourself, a big beast like you, to bite a poor little dog!" "I didn't bite him," said the Lion, as he rubbed his nose with his paw where Dorothy had hit it. "No, but you tried to," she retorted. "You are nothing but a big coward." "I know it," said the Lion, hanging his head in shame. "I've always known it. But how can I help it?" "I don't know, I'm sure. To think of your striking a stuffed man, like the poor Scarecrow!" "Is he stuffed?" asked the Lion in surprise, as he watched her pick up the Scarecrow and set him upon his feet, while she patted him into shape again. "Of course he's stuffed," replied Dorothy, who was still angry. "That's why he went over so easily," remarked the Lion. "It astonished me to see him whirl around so. Is the other one stuffed also?" "No," said Dorothy, "he's made of tin." And she helped the Woodman up again. "That's why he nearly blunted my claws," said the Lion. "When they scratched against the tin it made a cold shiver run down my back. What is that little animal you are so tender of?" "He is my dog, Toto," answered Dorothy. "Is he made of tin, or stuffed?" asked the Lion. "Neither. He's a—a—a meat dog," said the girl. "Oh! He's a curious animal and seems remarkably small, now that I look at him. No one would think of biting such a little thing, except a coward like me," continued the Lion sadly. "What makes you a coward?" asked Dorothy, looking at the great beast in wonder, for he was as big as a small horse. "It's a mystery," replied the Lion. "I suppose I was born that way. All the other animals in the forest naturally expect me to be brave, for the Lion is everywhere thought to be the King of Beasts. I learned that if I roared very loudly every living thing was frightened and got out of my way. Whenever I've met a man I've been awfully scared; but I just roared at him, and he has always run away as fast as he could go. If the elephants and the tigers and the bears had ever tried to fight me, I should have run myself—I'm such a coward; but just as soon as they hear me roar they all try to get away from me, and of course I let them go." "But that isn't right. The King of Beasts shouldn't be a coward," said the Scarecrow. "I know it," returned the Lion, wiping a tear from his eye with the tip of his tail. "It is my great sorrow, and makes my life very unhappy. But whenever there is danger, my heart begins to beat fast." "Perhaps you have heart disease," said the Tin Woodman. "It may be," said the Lion. "If you have," continued the Tin Woodman, "you ought to be glad, for it proves you have a heart. For my part, I have no heart; so I cannot have heart disease." "Perhaps," said the Lion thoughtfully, "if I had no heart I should not be a coward." "Have you brains?" asked the Scarecrow. "I suppose so. I've never looked to see," replied the Lion. "I am going to the Great Oz to ask him to give me some," remarked the Scarecrow, "for my head is stuffed with straw." "And I am going to ask him to give me a heart," said the Woodman. "And I am going to ask him to send Toto and me back to Kansas," added Dorothy. "Do you think Oz could give me courage?" asked the Cowardly Lion. "Just as easily as he could give me brains," said the Scarecrow. "Or give me a heart," said the Tin Woodman. "Or send me back to Kansas," said Dorothy. "Then, if you don't mind, I'll go with you," said the Lion, "for my life is simply unbearable without a bit of courage." "You will be very welcome," answered Dorothy, "for you will help to keep away the other wild beasts. It seems to me they must be more cowardly than you are if they allow you to scare them so easily." "They really are," said the Lion, "but that doesn't make me any braver, and as long as I know myself to be a coward I shall be unhappy." So once more the little company set off upon the journey, the Lion walking with stately strides at Dorothy's side. Toto did not approve of this new comrade at first, for he could not forget how nearly he had been crushed between the Lion's great jaws. But after a time he became more at ease, and presently Toto and the Cowardly Lion had grown to be good friends. During the rest of that day there was no other adventure to mar the peace of their journey. Once, indeed, the Tin Woodman stepped upon a beetle that was crawling along the road, and killed the poor little thing. This made the Tin Woodman very unhappy, for he was always careful not to hurt any living creature; and as he walked along he wept several tears of sorrow and regret. These tears ran slowly down his face and over the hinges of his jaw, and there they rusted. When Dorothy presently asked him a question the Tin Woodman could not open his mouth, for his jaws were tightly rusted together. He became greatly frightened at this and made many motions to Dorothy to relieve him, but she could not understand. The Lion was also puzzled to know what was wrong. But the Scarecrow seized the oil-can from Dorothy's basket and oiled the Woodman's jaws, so that after a few moments he could talk as well as before. "This will serve me a lesson," said he, "to look where I step. For if I should kill another bug or beetle I should surely cry again, and crying rusts my jaws so that I cannot speak." Thereafter he walked very carefully, with his eyes on the road, and when he saw a tiny ant toiling by he would step over it, so as not to harm it. The Tin Woodman knew very well he had no heart, and therefore he took great care never to be cruel or unkind to anything. "You people with hearts," he said, "have something to guide you, and need never do wrong; but I have no heart, and so I must be very careful. When Oz gives me a heart of course I needn't mind so much." # Chapter VII The Journey to the Great Oz They were obliged to camp out that night under a large tree in the forest, for there were no houses near. The tree made a good, thick covering to protect them from the dew, and the Tin Woodman chopped a great pile of wood with his axe and Dorothy built a splendid fire that warmed her and made her feel less lonely. She and Toto ate the last of their bread, and now she did not know what they would do for breakfast. "If you wish," said the Lion, "I will go into the forest and kill a deer for you. You can roast it by the fire, since your tastes are so peculiar that you prefer cooked food, and then you will have a very good breakfast." "Don't! Please don't," begged the Tin Woodman. "I should certainly weep if you killed a poor deer, and then my jaws would rust again." But the Lion went away into the forest and found his own supper, and no one ever knew what it was, for he didn't mention it. And the Scarecrow found a tree full of nuts and filled Dorothy's basket with them, so that she would not be hungry for a long time. She thought this was very kind and thoughtful of the Scarecrow, but she laughed heartily at the awkward way in which the poor creature picked up the nuts. His padded hands were so clumsy and the nuts were so small that he dropped almost as many as he put in the basket. But the Scarecrow did not mind how long it took him to fill the basket, for it enabled him to keep away from the fire, as he feared a spark might get into his straw and burn him up. So he kept a good distance away from the flames, and only came near to cover Dorothy with dry leaves when she lay down to sleep. These kept her very snug and warm, and she slept soundly until morning. When it was daylight, the girl bathed her face in a little rippling brook, and soon after they all started toward the Emerald City. This was to be an eventful day for the travelers. They had hardly been walking an hour when they saw before them a great ditch that crossed the road and divided the forest as far as they could see on either side. It was a very wide ditch, and when they crept up to the edge and looked into it they could see it was also very deep, and there were many big, jagged rocks at the bottom. The sides were so steep that none of them could climb down, and for a moment it seemed that their journey must end. "What shall we do?" asked Dorothy despairingly. "I haven't the faintest idea," said the Tin Woodman, and the Lion shook his shaggy mane and looked thoughtful. But the Scarecrow said, "We cannot fly, that is certain. Neither can we climb down into this great ditch. Therefore, if we cannot jump over it, we must stop where we are." "I think I could jump over it," said the Cowardly Lion, after measuring the distance carefully in his mind. "Then we are all right," answered the Scarecrow, "for you can carry us all over on your back, one at a time." "Well, I'll try it," said the Lion. "Who will go first?" "I will," declared the Scarecrow, "for, if you found that you could not jump over the gulf, Dorothy would be killed, or the Tin Woodman badly dented on the rocks below. But if I am on your back it will not matter so much, for the fall would not hurt me at all." "I am terribly afraid of falling, myself," said the Cowardly Lion, "but I suppose there is nothing to do but try it. So get on my back and we will make the attempt." The Scarecrow sat upon the Lion's back, and the big beast walked to the edge of the gulf and crouched down. "Why don't you run and jump?" asked the Scarecrow. "Because that isn't the way we Lions do these things," he replied. Then giving a great spring, he shot through the air and landed safely on the other side. They were all greatly pleased to see how easily he did it, and after the Scarecrow had got down from his back the Lion sprang across the ditch again. Dorothy thought she would go next; so she took Toto in her arms and climbed on the Lion's back, holding tightly to his mane with one hand. The next moment it seemed as if she were flying through the air; and then, before she had time to think about it, she was safe on the other side. The Lion went back a third time and got the Tin Woodman, and then they all sat down for a few moments to give the beast a chance to rest, for his great leaps had made his breath short, and he panted like a big dog that has been running too long. They found the forest very thick on this side, and it looked dark and gloomy. After the Lion had rested they started along the road of yellow brick, silently wondering, each in his own mind, if ever they would come to the end of the woods and reach the bright sunshine again. To add to their discomfort, they soon heard strange noises in the depths of the forest, and the Lion whispered to them that it was in this part of the country that the Kalidahs lived. "What are the Kalidahs?" asked the girl. "They are monstrous beasts with bodies like bears and heads like tigers," replied the Lion, "and with claws so long and sharp that they could tear me in two as easily as I could kill Toto. I'm terribly afraid of the Kalidahs." "I'm not surprised that you are," returned Dorothy. "They must be dreadful beasts." The Lion was about to reply when suddenly they came to another gulf across the road. But this one was so broad and deep that the Lion knew at once he could not leap across it. So they sat down to consider what they should do, and after serious thought the Scarecrow said: "Here is a great tree, standing close to the ditch. If the Tin Woodman can chop it down, so that it will fall to the other side, we can walk across it easily." "That is a first-rate idea," said the Lion. "One would almost suspect you had brains in your head, instead of straw." The Woodman set to work at once, and so sharp was his axe that the tree was soon chopped nearly through. Then the Lion put his strong front legs against the tree and pushed with all his might, and slowly the big tree tipped and fell with a crash across the ditch, with its top branches on the other side. They had just started to cross this queer bridge when a sharp growl made them all look up, and to their horror they saw running toward them two great beasts with bodies like bears and heads like tigers. "They are the Kalidahs!" said the Cowardly Lion, beginning to tremble. "Quick!" cried the Scarecrow. "Let us cross over." So Dorothy went first, holding Toto in her arms, the Tin Woodman followed, and the Scarecrow came next. The Lion, although he was certainly afraid, turned to face the Kalidahs, and then he gave so loud and terrible a roar that Dorothy screamed and the Scarecrow fell over backward, while even the fierce beasts stopped short and looked at him in surprise. But, seeing they were bigger than the Lion, and remembering that there were two of them and only one of him, the Kalidahs again rushed forward, and the Lion crossed over the tree and turned to see what they would do next. Without stopping an instant the fierce beasts also began to cross the tree. And the Lion said to Dorothy: "We are lost, for they will surely tear us to pieces with their sharp claws. But stand close behind me, and I will fight them as long as I am alive." "Wait a minute!" called the Scarecrow. He had been thinking what was best to be done, and now he asked the Woodman to chop away the end of the tree that rested on their side of the ditch. The Tin Woodman began to use his axe at once, and, just as the two Kalidahs were nearly across, the tree fell with a crash into the gulf, carrying the ugly, snarling brutes with it, and both were dashed to pieces on the sharp rocks at the bottom. "Well," said the Cowardly Lion, drawing a long breath of relief, "I see we are going to live a little while longer, and I am glad of it, for it must be a very uncomfortable thing not to be alive. Those creatures frightened me so badly that my heart is beating yet." "Ah," said the Tin Woodman sadly, "I wish I had a heart to beat." This adventure made the travelers more anxious than ever to get out of the forest, and they walked so fast that Dorothy became tired, and had to ride on the Lion's back. To their great joy the trees became thinner the farther they advanced, and in the afternoon they suddenly came upon a broad river, flowing swiftly just before them. On the other side of the water they could see the road of yellow brick running through a beautiful country, with green meadows dotted with bright flowers and all the road bordered with trees hanging full of delicious fruits. They were greatly pleased to see this delightful country before them. "How shall we cross the river?" asked Dorothy. "That is easily done," replied the Scarecrow. "The Tin Woodman must build us a raft, so we can float to the other side." So the Woodman took his axe and began to chop down small trees to make a raft, and while he was busy at this the Scarecrow found on the riverbank a tree full of fine fruit. This pleased Dorothy, who had eaten nothing but nuts all day, and she made a hearty meal of the ripe fruit. But it takes time to make a raft, even when one is as industrious and untiring as the Tin Woodman, and when night came the work was not done. So they found a cozy place under the trees where they slept well until the morning; and Dorothy dreamed of the Emerald City, and of the good Wizard Oz, who would soon send her back to her own home again. # Chapter VIII The Deadly Poppy Field Our little party of travelers awakened the next morning refreshed and full of hope, and Dorothy breakfasted like a princess off peaches and plums from the trees beside the river. Behind them was the dark forest they had passed safely through, although they had suffered many discouragements; but before them was a lovely, sunny country that seemed to beckon them on to the Emerald City. To be sure, the broad river now cut them off from this beautiful land. But the raft was nearly done, and after the Tin Woodman had cut a few more logs and fastened them together with wooden pins, they were ready to start. Dorothy sat down in the middle of the raft and held Toto in her arms. When the Cowardly Lion stepped upon the raft it tipped badly, for he was big and heavy; but the Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman stood upon the other end to steady it, and they had long poles in their hands to push the raft through the water. They got along quite well at first, but when they reached the middle of the river the swift current swept the raft downstream, farther and farther away from the road of yellow brick. And the water grew so deep that the long poles would not touch the bottom. "This is bad," said the Tin Woodman, "for if we cannot get to the land we shall be carried into the country of the Wicked Witch of the West, and she will enchant us and make us her slaves." "And then I should get no brains," said the Scarecrow. "And I should get no courage," said the Cowardly Lion. "And I should get no heart," said the Tin Woodman. "And I should never get back to Kansas," said Dorothy. "We must certainly get to the Emerald City if we can," the Scarecrow continued, and he pushed so hard on his long pole that it stuck fast in the mud at the bottom of the river. Then, before he could pull it out again—or let go—the raft was swept away, and the poor Scarecrow was left clinging to the pole in the middle of the river. "Good-bye!" he called after them, and they were very sorry to leave him. Indeed, the Tin Woodman began to cry, but fortunately remembered that he might rust, and so dried his tears on Dorothy's apron. Of course this was a bad thing for the Scarecrow. "I am now worse off than when I first met Dorothy," he thought. "Then, I was stuck on a pole in a cornfield, where I could make-believe scare the crows, at any rate. But surely there is no use for a Scarecrow stuck on a pole in the middle of a river. I am afraid I shall never have any brains, after all!" Down the stream the raft floated, and the poor Scarecrow was left far behind. Then the Lion said: "Something must be done to save us. I think I can swim to the shore and pull the raft after me, if you will only hold fast to the tip of my tail." So he sprang into the water, and the Tin Woodman caught fast hold of his tail. Then the Lion began to swim with all his might toward the shore. It was hard work, although he was so big; but by and by they were drawn out of the current, and then Dorothy took the Tin Woodman's long pole and helped push the raft to the land. They were all tired out when they reached the shore at last and stepped off upon the pretty green grass, and they also knew that the stream had carried them a long way past the road of yellow brick that led to the Emerald City. "What shall we do now?" asked the Tin Woodman, as the Lion lay down on the grass to let the sun dry him. "We must get back to the road, in some way," said Dorothy. "The best plan will be to walk along the riverbank until we come to the road again," remarked the Lion. So, when they were rested, Dorothy picked up her basket and they started along the grassy bank, to the road from which the river had carried them. It was a lovely country, with plenty of flowers and fruit trees and sunshine to cheer them, and had they not felt so sorry for the poor Scarecrow, they could have been very happy. They walked along as fast as they could, Dorothy only stopping once to pick a beautiful flower; and after a time the Tin Woodman cried out: "Look!" Then they all looked at the river and saw the Scarecrow perched upon his pole in the middle of the water, looking very lonely and sad. "What can we do to save him?" asked Dorothy. The Lion and the Woodman both shook their heads, for they did not know. So they sat down upon the bank and gazed wistfully at the Scarecrow until a Stork flew by, who, upon seeing them, stopped to rest at the water's edge. "Who are you and where are you going?" asked the Stork. "I am Dorothy," answered the girl, "and these are my friends, the Tin Woodman and the Cowardly Lion; and we are going to the Emerald City." "This isn't the road," said the Stork, as she twisted her long neck and looked sharply at the queer party. "I know it," returned Dorothy, "but we have lost the Scarecrow, and are wondering how we shall get him again." "Where is he?" asked the Stork. "Over there in the river," answered the little girl. "If he wasn't so big and heavy I would get him for you," remarked the Stork. "He isn't heavy a bit," said Dorothy eagerly, "for he is stuffed with straw; and if you will bring him back to us, we shall thank you ever and ever so much." "Well, I'll try," said the Stork, "but if I find he is too heavy to carry I shall have to drop him in the river again." So the big bird flew into the air and over the water till she came to where the Scarecrow was perched upon his pole. Then the Stork with her great claws grabbed the Scarecrow by the arm and carried him up into the air and back to the bank, where Dorothy and the Lion and the Tin Woodman and Toto were sitting. When the Scarecrow found himself among his friends again, he was so happy that he hugged them all, even the Lion and Toto; and as they walked along he sang "Tol-de-ri-de-oh!" at every step, he felt so gay. "I was afraid I should have to stay in the river forever," he said, "but the kind Stork saved me, and if I ever get any brains I shall find the Stork again and do her some kindness in return." "That's all right," said the Stork, who was flying along beside them. "I always like to help anyone in trouble. But I must go now, for my babies are waiting in the nest for me. I hope you will find the Emerald City and that Oz will help you." "Thank you," replied Dorothy, and then the kind Stork flew into the air and was soon out of sight. They walked along listening to the singing of the brightly colored birds and looking at the lovely flowers which now became so thick that the ground was carpeted with them. There were big yellow and white and blue and purple blossoms, besides great clusters of scarlet poppies, which were so brilliant in color they almost dazzled Dorothy's eyes. "Aren't they beautiful?" the girl asked, as she breathed in the spicy scent of the bright flowers. "I suppose so," answered the Scarecrow. "When I have brains, I shall probably like them better." "If I only had a heart, I should love them," added the Tin Woodman. "I always did like flowers," said the Lion. "They seem so helpless and frail. But there are none in the forest so bright as these." They now came upon more and more of the big scarlet poppies, and fewer and fewer of the other flowers; and soon they found themselves in the midst of a great meadow of poppies. Now it is well known that when there are many of these flowers together their odor is so powerful that anyone who breathes it falls asleep, and if the sleeper is not carried away from the scent of the flowers, he sleeps on and on forever. But Dorothy did not know this, nor could she get away from the bright red flowers that were everywhere about; so presently her eyes grew heavy and she felt she must sit down to rest and to sleep. But the Tin Woodman would not let her do this. "We must hurry and get back to the road of yellow brick before dark," he said; and the Scarecrow agreed with him. So they kept walking until Dorothy could stand no longer. Her eyes closed in spite of herself and she forgot where she was and fell among the poppies, fast asleep. "What shall we do?" asked the Tin Woodman. "If we leave her here she will die," said the Lion. "The smell of the flowers is killing us all. I myself can scarcely keep my eyes open, and the dog is asleep already." It was true; Toto had fallen down beside his little mistress. But the Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman, not being made of flesh, were not troubled by the scent of the flowers. "Run fast," said the Scarecrow to the Lion, "and get out of this deadly flower bed as soon as you can. We will bring the little girl with us, but if you should fall asleep you are too big to be carried." So the Lion aroused himself and bounded forward as fast as he could go. In a moment he was out of sight. "Let us make a chair with our hands and carry her," said the Scarecrow. So they picked up Toto and put the dog in Dorothy's lap, and then they made a chair with their hands for the seat and their arms for the arms and carried the sleeping girl between them through the flowers. On and on they walked, and it seemed that the great carpet of deadly flowers that surrounded them would never end. They followed the bend of the river, and at last came upon their friend the Lion, lying fast asleep among the poppies. The flowers had been too strong for the huge beast and he had given up at last, and fallen only a short distance from the end of the poppy bed, where the sweet grass spread in beautiful green fields before them. "We can do nothing for him," said the Tin Woodman, sadly; "for he is much too heavy to lift. We must leave him here to sleep on forever, and perhaps he will dream that he has found courage at last." "I'm sorry," said the Scarecrow. "The Lion was a very good comrade for one so cowardly. But let us go on." They carried the sleeping girl to a pretty spot beside the river, far enough from the poppy field to prevent her breathing any more of the poison of the flowers, and here they laid her gently on the soft grass and waited for the fresh breeze to waken her. # Chapter IX The Queen of the Field Mice "We cannot be far from the road of yellow brick, now," remarked the Scarecrow, as he stood beside the girl, "for we have come nearly as far as the river carried us away." The Tin Woodman was about to reply when he heard a low growl, and turning his head (which worked beautifully on hinges) he saw a strange beast come bounding over the grass toward them. It was, indeed, a great yellow Wildcat, and the Woodman thought it must be chasing something, for its ears were lying close to its head and its mouth was wide open, showing two rows of ugly teeth, while its red eyes glowed like balls of fire. As it came nearer the Tin Woodman saw that running before the beast was a little gray field mouse, and although he had no heart he knew it was wrong for the Wildcat to try to kill such a pretty, harmless creature. So the Woodman raised his axe, and as the Wildcat ran by he gave it a quick blow that cut the beast's head clean off from its body, and it rolled over at his feet in two pieces. The field mouse, now that it was freed from its enemy, stopped short; and coming slowly up to the Woodman it said, in a squeaky little voice: "Oh, thank you! Thank you ever so much for saving my life." "Don't speak of it, I beg of you," replied the Woodman. "I have no heart, you know, so I am careful to help all those who may need a friend, even if it happens to be only a mouse." "Only a mouse!" cried the little animal, indignantly. "Why, I am a Queen—the Queen of all the Field Mice!" "Oh, indeed," said the Woodman, making a bow. "Therefore you have done a great deed, as well as a brave one, in saving my life," added the Queen. At that moment several mice were seen running up as fast as their little legs could carry them, and when they saw their Queen they exclaimed: "Oh, your Majesty, we thought you would be killed! How did you manage to escape the great Wildcat?" They all bowed so low to the little Queen that they almost stood upon their heads. "This funny tin man," she answered, "killed the Wildcat and saved my life. So hereafter you must all serve him, and obey his slightest wish." "We will!" cried all the mice, in a shrill chorus. And then they scampered in all directions, for Toto had awakened from his sleep, and seeing all these mice around him he gave one bark of delight and jumped right into the middle of the group. Toto had always loved to chase mice when he lived in Kansas, and he saw no harm in it. But the Tin Woodman caught the dog in his arms and held him tight, while he called to the mice, "Come back! Come back! Toto shall not hurt you." At this the Queen of the Mice stuck her head out from underneath a clump of grass and asked, in a timid voice, "Are you sure he will not bite us?" "I will not let him," said the Woodman; "so do not be afraid." One by one the mice came creeping back, and Toto did not bark again, although he tried to get out of the Woodman's arms, and would have bitten him had he not known very well he was made of tin. Finally one of the biggest mice spoke. "Is there anything we can do," it asked, "to repay you for saving the life of our Queen?" "Nothing that I know of," answered the Woodman; but the Scarecrow, who had been trying to think, but could not because his head was stuffed with straw, said, quickly, "Oh, yes; you can save our friend, the Cowardly Lion, who is asleep in the poppy bed." "A Lion!" cried the little Queen. "Why, he would eat us all up." "Oh, no," declared the Scarecrow; "this Lion is a coward." "Really?" asked the Mouse. "He says so himself," answered the Scarecrow, "and he would never hurt anyone who is our friend. If you will help us to save him I promise that he shall treat you all with kindness." "Very well," said the Queen, "we trust you. But what shall we do?" "Are there many of these mice which call you Queen and are willing to obey you?" "Oh, yes; there are thousands," she replied. "Then send for them all to come here as soon as possible, and let each one bring a long piece of string." The Queen turned to the mice that attended her and told them to go at once and get all her people. As soon as they heard her orders they ran away in every direction as fast as possible. "Now," said the Scarecrow to the Tin Woodman, "you must go to those trees by the riverside and make a truck that will carry the Lion." So the Woodman went at once to the trees and began to work; and he soon made a truck out of the limbs of trees, from which he chopped away all the leaves and branches. He fastened it together with wooden pegs and made the four wheels out of short pieces of a big tree trunk. So fast and so well did he work that by the time the mice began to arrive the truck was all ready for them. They came from all directions, and there were thousands of them: big mice and little mice and middle-sized mice; and each one brought a piece of string in his mouth. It was about this time that Dorothy woke from her long sleep and opened her eyes. She was greatly astonished to find herself lying upon the grass, with thousands of mice standing around and looking at her timidly. But the Scarecrow told her about everything, and turning to the dignified little Mouse, he said: "Permit me to introduce to you her Majesty, the Queen." Dorothy nodded gravely and the Queen made a curtsy, after which she became quite friendly with the little girl. The Scarecrow and the Woodman now began to fasten the mice to the truck, using the strings they had brought. One end of a string was tied around the neck of each mouse and the other end to the truck. Of course the truck was a thousand times bigger than any of the mice who were to draw it; but when all the mice had been harnessed, they were able to pull it quite easily. Even the Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman could sit on it, and were drawn swiftly by their queer little horses to the place where the Lion lay asleep. After a great deal of hard work, for the Lion was heavy, they managed to get him up on the truck. Then the Queen hurriedly gave her people the order to start, for she feared if the mice stayed among the poppies too long they also would fall asleep. At first the little creatures, many though they were, could hardly stir the heavily loaded truck; but the Woodman and the Scarecrow both pushed from behind, and they got along better. Soon they rolled the Lion out of the poppy bed to the green fields, where he could breathe the sweet, fresh air again, instead of the poisonous scent of the flowers. Dorothy came to meet them and thanked the little mice warmly for saving her companion from death. She had grown so fond of the big Lion she was glad he had been rescued. Then the mice were unharnessed from the truck and scampered away through the grass to their homes. The Queen of the Mice was the last to leave. "If ever you need us again," she said, "come out into the field and call, and we shall hear you and come to your assistance. Good-bye!" "Good-bye!" they all answered, and away the Queen ran, while Dorothy held Toto tightly lest he should run after her and frighten her. After this they sat down beside the Lion until he should awaken; and the Scarecrow brought Dorothy some fruit from a tree near by, which she ate for her dinner. # Chapter X The Guardian of the Gate It was some time before the Cowardly Lion awakened, for he had lain among the poppies a long while, breathing in their deadly fragrance; but when he did open his eyes and roll off the truck he was very glad to find himself still alive. "I ran as fast as I could," he said, sitting down and yawning, "but the flowers were too strong for me. How did you get me out?" Then they told him of the field mice, and how they had generously saved him from death; and the Cowardly Lion laughed, and said: "I have always thought myself very big and terrible; yet such little things as flowers came near to killing me, and such small animals as mice have saved my life. How strange it all is! But, comrades, what shall we do now?" "We must journey on until we find the road of yellow brick again," said Dorothy, "and then we can keep on to the Emerald City." So, the Lion being fully refreshed, and feeling quite himself again, they all started upon the journey, greatly enjoying the walk through the soft, fresh grass; and it was not long before they reached the road of yellow brick and turned again toward the Emerald City where the Great Oz dwelt. The road was smooth and well paved, now, and the country about was beautiful, so that the travelers rejoiced in leaving the forest far behind, and with it the many dangers they had met in its gloomy shades. Once more they could see fences built beside the road; but these were painted green, and when they came to a small house, in which a farmer evidently lived, that also was painted green. They passed by several of these houses during the afternoon, and sometimes people came to the doors and looked at them as if they would like to ask questions; but no one came near them nor spoke to them because of the great Lion, of which they were very much afraid. The people were all dressed in clothing of a lovely emerald-green color and wore peaked hats like those of the Munchkins. "This must be the Land of Oz," said Dorothy, "and we are surely getting near the Emerald City." "Yes," answered the Scarecrow. "Everything is green here, while in the country of the Munchkins blue was the favorite color. But the people do not seem to be as friendly as the Munchkins, and I'm afraid we shall be unable to find a place to pass the night." "I should like something to eat besides fruit," said the girl, "and I'm sure Toto is nearly starved. Let us stop at the next house and talk to the people." So, when they came to a good-sized farmhouse, Dorothy walked boldly up to the door and knocked. A woman opened it just far enough to look out, and said, "What do you want, child, and why is that great Lion with you?" "We wish to pass the night with you, if you will allow us," answered Dorothy; "and the Lion is my friend and comrade, and would not hurt you for the world." "Is he tame?" asked the woman, opening the door a little wider. "Oh, yes," said the girl, "and he is a great coward, too. He will be more afraid of you than you are of him." "Well," said the woman, after thinking it over and taking another peep at the Lion, "if that is the case you may come in, and I will give you some supper and a place to sleep." So they all entered the house, where there were, besides the woman, two children and a man. The man had hurt his leg, and was lying on the couch in a corner. They seemed greatly surprised to see so strange a company, and while the woman was busy laying the table the man asked: "Where are you all going?" "To the Emerald City," said Dorothy, "to see the Great Oz." "Oh, indeed!" exclaimed the man. "Are you sure that Oz will see you?" "Why not?" she replied. "Why, it is said that he never lets anyone come into his presence. I have been to the Emerald City many times, and it is a beautiful and wonderful place; but I have never been permitted to see the Great Oz, nor do I know of any living person who has seen him." "Does he never go out?" asked the Scarecrow. "Never. He sits day after day in the great Throne Room of his Palace, and even those who wait upon him do not see him face to face." "What is he like?" asked the girl. "That is hard to tell," said the man thoughtfully. "You see, Oz is a Great Wizard, and can take on any form he wishes. So that some say he looks like a bird; and some say he looks like an elephant; and some say he looks like a cat. To others he appears as a beautiful fairy, or a brownie, or in any other form that pleases him. But who the real Oz is, when he is in his own form, no living person can tell." "That is very strange," said Dorothy, "but we must try, in some way, to see him, or we shall have made our journey for nothing." "Why do you wish to see the terrible Oz?" asked the man. "I want him to give me some brains," said the Scarecrow eagerly. "Oh, Oz could do that easily enough," declared the man. "He has more brains than he needs." "And I want him to give me a heart," said the Tin Woodman. "That will not trouble him," continued the man, "for Oz has a large collection of hearts, of all sizes and shapes." "And I want him to give me courage," said the Cowardly Lion. "Oz keeps a great pot of courage in his Throne Room," said the man, "which he has covered with a golden plate, to keep it from running over. He will be glad to give you some." "And I want him to send me back to Kansas," said Dorothy. "Where is Kansas?" asked the man, with surprise. "I don't know," replied Dorothy sorrowfully, "but it is my home, and I'm sure it's somewhere." "Very likely. Well, Oz can do anything; so I suppose he will find Kansas for you. But first you must get to see him, and that will be a hard task; for the Great Wizard does not like to see anyone, and he usually has his own way. But what do YOU want?" he continued, speaking to Toto. Toto only wagged his tail; for, strange to say, he could not speak. The woman now called to them that supper was ready, so they gathered around the table and Dorothy ate some delicious porridge and a dish of scrambled eggs and a plate of nice white bread, and enjoyed her meal. The Lion ate some of the porridge, but did not care for it, saying it was made from oats and oats were food for horses, not for lions. The Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman ate nothing at all. Toto ate a little of everything, and was glad to get a good supper again. The woman now gave Dorothy a bed to sleep in, and Toto lay down beside her, while the Lion guarded the door of her room so she might not be disturbed. The Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman stood up in a corner and kept quiet all night, although of course they could not sleep. The next morning, as soon as the sun was up, they started on their way, and soon saw a beautiful green glow in the sky just before them. "That must be the Emerald City," said Dorothy. As they walked on, the green glow became brighter and brighter, and it seemed that at last they were nearing the end of their travels. Yet it was afternoon before they came to the great wall that surrounded the City. It was high and thick and of a bright green color. In front of them, and at the end of the road of yellow brick, was a big gate, all studded with emeralds that glittered so in the sun that even the painted eyes of the Scarecrow were dazzled by their brilliancy. There was a bell beside the gate, and Dorothy pushed the button and heard a silvery tinkle sound within. Then the big gate swung slowly open, and they all passed through and found themselves in a high arched room, the walls of which glistened with countless emeralds. Before them stood a little man about the same size as the Munchkins. He was clothed all in green, from his head to his feet, and even his skin was of a greenish tint. At his side was a large green box. When he saw Dorothy and her companions the man asked, "What do you wish in the Emerald City?" "We came here to see the Great Oz," said Dorothy. The man was so surprised at this answer that he sat down to think it over. "It has been many years since anyone asked me to see Oz," he said, shaking his head in perplexity. "He is powerful and terrible, and if you come on an idle or foolish errand to bother the wise reflections of the Great Wizard, he might be angry and destroy you all in an instant." "But it is not a foolish errand, nor an idle one," replied the Scarecrow; "it is important. And we have been told that Oz is a good Wizard." "So he is," said the green man, "and he rules the Emerald City wisely and well. But to those who are not honest, or who approach him from curiosity, he is most terrible, and few have ever dared ask to see his face. I am the Guardian of the Gates, and since you demand to see the Great Oz I must take you to his Palace. But first you must put on the spectacles." "Why?" asked Dorothy. "Because if you did not wear spectacles the brightness and glory of the Emerald City would blind you. Even those who live in the City must wear spectacles night and day. They are all locked on, for Oz so ordered it when the City was first built, and I have the only key that will unlock them." He opened the big box, and Dorothy saw that it was filled with spectacles of every size and shape. All of them had green glasses in them. The Guardian of the Gates found a pair that would just fit Dorothy and put them over her eyes. There were two golden bands fastened to them that passed around the back of her head, where they were locked together by a little key that was at the end of a chain the Guardian of the Gates wore around his neck. When they were on, Dorothy could not take them off had she wished, but of course she did not wish to be blinded by the glare of the Emerald City, so she said nothing. Then the green man fitted spectacles for the Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman and the Lion, and even on little Toto; and all were locked fast with the key. Then the Guardian of the Gates put on his own glasses and told them he was ready to show them to the Palace. Taking a big golden key from a peg on the wall, he opened another gate, and they all followed him through the portal into the streets of the Emerald City. # Chapter XI The Wonderful City of Oz Even with eyes protected by the green spectacles, Dorothy and her friends were at first dazzled by the brilliancy of the wonderful City. The streets were lined with beautiful houses all built of green marble and studded everywhere with sparkling emeralds. They walked over a pavement of the same green marble, and where the blocks were joined together were rows of emeralds, set closely, and glittering in the brightness of the sun. The window panes were of green glass; even the sky above the City had a green tint, and the rays of the sun were green. There were many people—men, women, and children—walking about, and these were all dressed in green clothes and had greenish skins. They looked at Dorothy and her strangely assorted company with wondering eyes, and the children all ran away and hid behind their mothers when they saw the Lion; but no one spoke to them. Many shops stood in the street, and Dorothy saw that everything in them was green. Green candy and green pop corn were offered for sale, as well as green shoes, green hats, and green clothes of all sorts. At one place a man was selling green lemonade, and when the children bought it Dorothy could see that they paid for it with green pennies. There seemed to be no horses nor animals of any kind; the men carried things around in little green carts, which they pushed before them. Everyone seemed happy and contented and prosperous. The Guardian of the Gates led them through the streets until they came to a big building, exactly in the middle of the City, which was the Palace of Oz, the Great Wizard. There was a soldier before the door, dressed in a green uniform and wearing a long green beard. "Here are strangers," said the Guardian of the Gates to him, "and they demand to see the Great Oz." "Step inside," answered the soldier, "and I will carry your message to him." So they passed through the Palace Gates and were led into a big room with a green carpet and lovely green furniture set with emeralds. The soldier made them all wipe their feet upon a green mat before entering this room, and when they were seated he said politely: "Please make yourselves comfortable while I go to the door of the Throne Room and tell Oz you are here." They had to wait a long time before the soldier returned. When, at last, he came back, Dorothy asked: "Have you seen Oz?" "Oh, no," returned the soldier; "I have never seen him. But I spoke to him as he sat behind his screen and gave him your message. He said he will grant you an audience, if you so desire; but each one of you must enter his presence alone, and he will admit but one each day. Therefore, as you must remain in the Palace for several days, I will have you shown to rooms where you may rest in comfort after your journey." "Thank you," replied the girl; "that is very kind of Oz." The soldier now blew upon a green whistle, and at once a young girl, dressed in a pretty green silk gown, entered the room. She had lovely green hair and green eyes, and she bowed low before Dorothy as she said, "Follow me and I will show you your room." So Dorothy said good-bye to all her friends except Toto, and taking the dog in her arms followed the green girl through seven passages and up three flights of stairs until they came to a room at the front of the Palace. It was the sweetest little room in the world, with a soft comfortable bed that had sheets of green silk and a green velvet counterpane. There was a tiny fountain in the middle of the room, that shot a spray of green perfume into the air, to fall back into a beautifully carved green marble basin. Beautiful green flowers stood in the windows, and there was a shelf with a row of little green books. When Dorothy had time to open these books she found them full of queer green pictures that made her laugh, they were so funny. In a wardrobe were many green dresses, made of silk and satin and velvet; and all of them fitted Dorothy exactly. "Make yourself perfectly at home," said the green girl, "and if you wish for anything ring the bell. Oz will send for you tomorrow morning." She left Dorothy alone and went back to the others. These she also led to rooms, and each one of them found himself lodged in a very pleasant part of the Palace. Of course this politeness was wasted on the Scarecrow; for when he found himself alone in his room he stood stupidly in one spot, just within the doorway, to wait till morning. It would not rest him to lie down, and he could not close his eyes; so he remained all night staring at a little spider which was weaving its web in a corner of the room, just as if it were not one of the most wonderful rooms in the world. The Tin Woodman lay down on his bed from force of habit, for he remembered when he was made of flesh; but not being able to sleep, he passed the night moving his joints up and down to make sure they kept in good working order. The Lion would have preferred a bed of dried leaves in the forest, and did not like being shut up in a room; but he had too much sense to let this worry him, so he sprang upon the bed and rolled himself up like a cat and purred himself asleep in a minute. The next morning, after breakfast, the green maiden came to fetch Dorothy, and she dressed her in one of the prettiest gowns, made of green brocaded satin. Dorothy put on a green silk apron and tied a green ribbon around Toto's neck, and they started for the Throne Room of the Great Oz. First they came to a great hall in which were many ladies and gentlemen of the court, all dressed in rich costumes. These people had nothing to do but talk to each other, but they always came to wait outside the Throne Room every morning, although they were never permitted to see Oz. As Dorothy entered they looked at her curiously, and one of them whispered: "Are you really going to look upon the face of Oz the Terrible?" "Of course," answered the girl, "if he will see me." "Oh, he will see you," said the soldier who had taken her message to the Wizard, "although he does not like to have people ask to see him. Indeed, at first he was angry and said I should send you back where you came from. Then he asked me what you looked like, and when I mentioned your silver shoes he was very much interested. At last I told him about the mark upon your forehead, and he decided he would admit you to his presence." Just then a bell rang, and the green girl said to Dorothy, "That is the signal. You must go into the Throne Room alone." She opened a little door and Dorothy walked boldly through and found herself in a wonderful place. It was a big, round room with a high arched roof, and the walls and ceiling and floor were covered with large emeralds set closely together. In the center of the roof was a great light, as bright as the sun, which made the emeralds sparkle in a wonderful manner. But what interested Dorothy most was the big throne of green marble that stood in the middle of the room. It was shaped like a chair and sparkled with gems, as did everything else. In the center of the chair was an enormous Head, without a body to support it or any arms or legs whatever. There was no hair upon this head, but it had eyes and a nose and mouth, and was much bigger than the head of the biggest giant. As Dorothy gazed upon this in wonder and fear, the eyes turned slowly and looked at her sharply and steadily. Then the mouth moved, and Dorothy heard a voice say: "I am Oz, the Great and Terrible. Who are you, and why do you seek me?" It was not such an awful voice as she had expected to come from the big Head; so she took courage and answered: "I am Dorothy, the Small and Meek. I have come to you for help." The eyes looked at her thoughtfully for a full minute. Then said the voice: "Where did you get the silver shoes?" "I got them from the Wicked Witch of the East, when my house fell on her and killed her," she replied. "Where did you get the mark upon your forehead?" continued the voice. "That is where the Good Witch of the North kissed me when she bade me good-bye and sent me to you," said the girl. Again the eyes looked at her sharply, and they saw she was telling the truth. Then Oz asked, "What do you wish me to do?" "Send me back to Kansas, where my Aunt Em and Uncle Henry are," she answered earnestly. "I don't like your country, although it is so beautiful. And I am sure Aunt Em will be dreadfully worried over my being away so long." The eyes winked three times, and then they turned up to the ceiling and down to the floor and rolled around so queerly that they seemed to see every part of the room. And at last they looked at Dorothy again. "Why should I do this for you?" asked Oz. "Because you are strong and I am weak; because you are a Great Wizard and I am only a little girl." "But you were strong enough to kill the Wicked Witch of the East," said Oz. "That just happened," returned Dorothy simply; "I could not help it." "Well," said the Head, "I will give you my answer. You have no right to expect me to send you back to Kansas unless you do something for me in return. In this country everyone must pay for everything he gets. If you wish me to use my magic power to send you home again you must do something for me first. Help me and I will help you." "What must I do?" asked the girl. "Kill the Wicked Witch of the West," answered Oz. "But I cannot!" exclaimed Dorothy, greatly surprised. "You killed the Witch of the East and you wear the silver shoes, which bear a powerful charm. There is now but one Wicked Witch left in all this land, and when you can tell me she is dead I will send you back to Kansas—but not before." The little girl began to weep, she was so much disappointed; and the eyes winked again and looked upon her anxiously, as if the Great Oz felt that she could help him if she would. "I never killed anything, willingly," she sobbed. "Even if I wanted to, how could I kill the Wicked Witch? If you, who are Great and Terrible, cannot kill her yourself, how do you expect me to do it?" "I do not know," said the Head; "but that is my answer, and until the Wicked Witch dies you will not see your uncle and aunt again. Remember that the Witch is Wicked—tremendously Wicked—and ought to be killed. Now go, and do not ask to see me again until you have done your task." Sorrowfully Dorothy left the Throne Room and went back where the Lion and the Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman were waiting to hear what Oz had said to her. "There is no hope for me," she said sadly, "for Oz will not send me home until I have killed the Wicked Witch of the West; and that I can never do." Her friends were sorry, but could do nothing to help her; so Dorothy went to her own room and lay down on the bed and cried herself to sleep. The next morning the soldier with the green whiskers came to the Scarecrow and said: "Come with me, for Oz has sent for you." So the Scarecrow followed him and was admitted into the great Throne Room, where he saw, sitting in the emerald throne, a most lovely Lady. She was dressed in green silk gauze and wore upon her flowing green locks a crown of jewels. Growing from her shoulders were wings, gorgeous in color and so light that they fluttered if the slightest breath of air reached them. When the Scarecrow had bowed, as prettily as his straw stuffing would let him, before this beautiful creature, she looked upon him sweetly, and said: "I am Oz, the Great and Terrible. Who are you, and why do you seek me?" Now the Scarecrow, who had expected to see the great Head Dorothy had told him of, was much astonished; but he answered her bravely. "I am only a Scarecrow, stuffed with straw. Therefore I have no brains, and I come to you praying that you will put brains in my head instead of straw, so that I may become as much a man as any other in your dominions." "Why should I do this for you?" asked the Lady. "Because you are wise and powerful, and no one else can help me," answered the Scarecrow. "I never grant favors without some return," said Oz; "but this much I will promise. If you will kill for me the Wicked Witch of the West, I will bestow upon you a great many brains, and such good brains that you will be the wisest man in all the Land of Oz." "I thought you asked Dorothy to kill the Witch," said the Scarecrow, in surprise. "So I did. I don't care who kills her. But until she is dead I will not grant your wish. Now go, and do not seek me again until you have earned the brains you so greatly desire." The Scarecrow went sorrowfully back to his friends and told them what Oz had said; and Dorothy was surprised to find that the Great Wizard was not a Head, as she had seen him, but a lovely Lady. "All the same," said the Scarecrow, "she needs a heart as much as the Tin Woodman." On the next morning the soldier with the green whiskers came to the Tin Woodman and said: "Oz has sent for you. Follow me." So the Tin Woodman followed him and came to the great Throne Room. He did not know whether he would find Oz a lovely Lady or a Head, but he hoped it would be the lovely Lady. "For," he said to himself, "if it is the head, I am sure I shall not be given a heart, since a head has no heart of its own and therefore cannot feel for me. But if it is the lovely Lady I shall beg hard for a heart, for all ladies are themselves said to be kindly hearted." But when the Woodman entered the great Throne Room he saw neither the Head nor the Lady, for Oz had taken the shape of a most terrible Beast. It was nearly as big as an elephant, and the green throne seemed hardly strong enough to hold its weight. The Beast had a head like that of a rhinoceros, only there were five eyes in its face. There were five long arms growing out of its body, and it also had five long, slim legs. Thick, woolly hair covered every part of it, and a more dreadful-looking monster could not be imagined. It was fortunate the Tin Woodman had no heart at that moment, for it would have beat loud and fast from terror. But being only tin, the Woodman was not at all afraid, although he was much disappointed. "I am Oz, the Great and Terrible," spoke the Beast, in a voice that was one great roar. "Who are you, and why do you seek me?" "I am a Woodman, and made of tin. Therefore I have no heart, and cannot love. I pray you to give me a heart that I may be as other men are." "Why should I do this?" demanded the Beast. "Because I ask it, and you alone can grant my request," answered the Woodman. Oz gave a low growl at this, but said, gruffly: "If you indeed desire a heart, you must earn it." "How?" asked the Woodman. "Help Dorothy to kill the Wicked Witch of the West," replied the Beast. "When the Witch is dead, come to me, and I will then give you the biggest and kindest and most loving heart in all the Land of Oz." So the Tin Woodman was forced to return sorrowfully to his friends and tell them of the terrible Beast he had seen. They all wondered greatly at the many forms the Great Wizard could take upon himself, and the Lion said: "If he is a Beast when I go to see him, I shall roar my loudest, and so frighten him that he will grant all I ask. And if he is the lovely Lady, I shall pretend to spring upon her, and so compel her to do my bidding. And if he is the great Head, he will be at my mercy; for I will roll this head all about the room until he promises to give us what we desire. So be of good cheer, my friends, for all will yet be well." The next morning the soldier with the green whiskers led the Lion to the great Throne Room and bade him enter the presence of Oz. The Lion at once passed through the door, and glancing around saw, to his surprise, that before the throne was a Ball of Fire, so fierce and glowing he could scarcely bear to gaze upon it. His first thought was that Oz had by accident caught on fire and was burning up; but when he tried to go nearer, the heat was so intense that it singed his whiskers, and he crept back tremblingly to a spot nearer the door. Then a low, quiet voice came from the Ball of Fire, and these were the words it spoke: "I am Oz, the Great and Terrible. Who are you, and why do you seek me?" And the Lion answered, "I am a Cowardly Lion, afraid of everything. I came to you to beg that you give me courage, so that in reality I may become the King of Beasts, as men call me." "Why should I give you courage?" demanded Oz. "Because of all Wizards you are the greatest, and alone have power to grant my request," answered the Lion. The Ball of Fire burned fiercely for a time, and the voice said, "Bring me proof that the Wicked Witch is dead, and that moment I will give you courage. But as long as the Witch lives, you must remain a coward." The Lion was angry at this speech, but could say nothing in reply, and while he stood silently gazing at the Ball of Fire it became so furiously hot that he turned tail and rushed from the room. He was glad to find his friends waiting for him, and told them of his terrible interview with the Wizard. "What shall we do now?" asked Dorothy sadly. "There is only one thing we can do," returned the Lion, "and that is to go to the land of the Winkies, seek out the Wicked Witch, and destroy her." "But suppose we cannot?" said the girl. "Then I shall never have courage," declared the Lion. "And I shall never have brains," added the Scarecrow. "And I shall never have a heart," spoke the Tin Woodman. "And I shall never see Aunt Em and Uncle Henry," said Dorothy, beginning to cry. "Be careful!" cried the green girl. "The tears will fall on your green silk gown and spot it." So Dorothy dried her eyes and said, "I suppose we must try it; but I am sure I do not want to kill anybody, even to see Aunt Em again." "I will go with you; but I'm too much of a coward to kill the Witch," said the Lion. "I will go too," declared the Scarecrow; "but I shall not be of much help to you, I am such a fool." "I haven't the heart to harm even a Witch," remarked the Tin Woodman; "but if you go I certainly shall go with you." Therefore it was decided to start upon their journey the next morning, and the Woodman sharpened his axe on a green grindstone and had all his joints properly oiled. The Scarecrow stuffed himself with fresh straw and Dorothy put new paint on his eyes that he might see better. The green girl, who was very kind to them, filled Dorothy's basket with good things to eat, and fastened a little bell around Toto's neck with a green ribbon. They went to bed quite early and slept soundly until daylight, when they were awakened by the crowing of a green cock that lived in the back yard of the Palace, and the cackling of a hen that had laid a green egg. # Chapter XII The Search for the Wicked Witch The soldier with the green whiskers led them through the streets of the Emerald City until they reached the room where the Guardian of the Gates lived. This officer unlocked their spectacles to put them back in his great box, and then he politely opened the gate for our friends. "Which road leads to the Wicked Witch of the West?" asked Dorothy. "There is no road," answered the Guardian of the Gates. "No one ever wishes to go that way." "How, then, are we to find her?" inquired the girl. "That will be easy," replied the man, "for when she knows you are in the country of the Winkies she will find you, and make you all her slaves." "Perhaps not," said the Scarecrow, "for we mean to destroy her." "Oh, that is different," said the Guardian of the Gates. "No one has ever destroyed her before, so I naturally thought she would make slaves of you, as she has of the rest. But take care; for she is wicked and fierce, and may not allow you to destroy her. Keep to the West, where the sun sets, and you cannot fail to find her." They thanked him and bade him good-bye, and turned toward the West, walking over fields of soft grass dotted here and there with daisies and buttercups. Dorothy still wore the pretty silk dress she had put on in the palace, but now, to her surprise, she found it was no longer green, but pure white. The ribbon around Toto's neck had also lost its green color and was as white as Dorothy's dress. The Emerald City was soon left far behind. As they advanced the ground became rougher and hillier, for there were no farms nor houses in this country of the West, and the ground was untilled. In the afternoon the sun shone hot in their faces, for there were no trees to offer them shade; so that before night Dorothy and Toto and the Lion were tired, and lay down upon the grass and fell asleep, with the Woodman and the Scarecrow keeping watch. Now the Wicked Witch of the West had but one eye, yet that was as powerful as a telescope, and could see everywhere. So, as she sat in the door of her castle, she happened to look around and saw Dorothy lying asleep, with her friends all about her. They were a long distance off, but the Wicked Witch was angry to find them in her country; so she blew upon a silver whistle that hung around her neck. At once there came running to her from all directions a pack of great wolves. They had long legs and fierce eyes and sharp teeth. "Go to those people," said the Witch, "and tear them to pieces." "Are you not going to make them your slaves?" asked the leader of the wolves. "No," she answered, "one is of tin, and one of straw; one is a girl and another a Lion. None of them is fit to work, so you may tear them into small pieces." "Very well," said the wolf, and he dashed away at full speed, followed by the others. It was lucky the Scarecrow and the Woodman were wide awake and heard the wolves coming. "This is my fight," said the Woodman, "so get behind me and I will meet them as they come." He seized his axe, which he had made very sharp, and as the leader of the wolves came on the Tin Woodman swung his arm and chopped the wolf's head from its body, so that it immediately died. As soon as he could raise his axe another wolf came up, and he also fell under the sharp edge of the Tin Woodman's weapon. There were forty wolves, and forty times a wolf was killed, so that at last they all lay dead in a heap before the Woodman. Then he put down his axe and sat beside the Scarecrow, who said, "It was a good fight, friend." They waited until Dorothy awoke the next morning. The little girl was quite frightened when she saw the great pile of shaggy wolves, but the Tin Woodman told her all. She thanked him for saving them and sat down to breakfast, after which they started again upon their journey. Now this same morning the Wicked Witch came to the door of her castle and looked out with her one eye that could see far off. She saw all her wolves lying dead, and the strangers still traveling through her country. This made her angrier than before, and she blew her silver whistle twice. Straightway a great flock of wild crows came flying toward her, enough to darken the sky. And the Wicked Witch said to the King Crow, "Fly at once to the strangers; peck out their eyes and tear them to pieces." The wild crows flew in one great flock toward Dorothy and her companions. When the little girl saw them coming she was afraid. But the Scarecrow said, "This is my battle, so lie down beside me and you will not be harmed." So they all lay upon the ground except the Scarecrow, and he stood up and stretched out his arms. And when the crows saw him they were frightened, as these birds always are by scarecrows, and did not dare to come any nearer. But the King Crow said: "It is only a stuffed man. I will peck his eyes out." The King Crow flew at the Scarecrow, who caught it by the head and twisted its neck until it died. And then another crow flew at him, and the Scarecrow twisted its neck also. There were forty crows, and forty times the Scarecrow twisted a neck, until at last all were lying dead beside him. Then he called to his companions to rise, and again they went upon their journey. When the Wicked Witch looked out again and saw all her crows lying in a heap, she got into a terrible rage, and blew three times upon her silver whistle. Forthwith there was heard a great buzzing in the air, and a swarm of black bees came flying toward her. "Go to the strangers and sting them to death!" commanded the Witch, and the bees turned and flew rapidly until they came to where Dorothy and her friends were walking. But the Woodman had seen them coming, and the Scarecrow had decided what to do. "Take out my straw and scatter it over the little girl and the dog and the Lion," he said to the Woodman, "and the bees cannot sting them." This the Woodman did, and as Dorothy lay close beside the Lion and held Toto in her arms, the straw covered them entirely. The bees came and found no one but the Woodman to sting, so they flew at him and broke off all their stings against the tin, without hurting the Woodman at all. And as bees cannot live when their stings are broken that was the end of the black bees, and they lay scattered thick about the Woodman, like little heaps of fine coal. Then Dorothy and the Lion got up, and the girl helped the Tin Woodman put the straw back into the Scarecrow again, until he was as good as ever. So they started upon their journey once more. The Wicked Witch was so angry when she saw her black bees in little heaps like fine coal that she stamped her foot and tore her hair and gnashed her teeth. And then she called a dozen of her slaves, who were the Winkies, and gave them sharp spears, telling them to go to the strangers and destroy them. The Winkies were not a brave people, but they had to do as they were told. So they marched away until they came near to Dorothy. Then the Lion gave a great roar and sprang towards them, and the poor Winkies were so frightened that they ran back as fast as they could. When they returned to the castle the Wicked Witch beat them well with a strap, and sent them back to their work, after which she sat down to think what she should do next. She could not understand how all her plans to destroy these strangers had failed; but she was a powerful Witch, as well as a wicked one, and she soon made up her mind how to act. There was, in her cupboard, a Golden Cap, with a circle of diamonds and rubies running round it. This Golden Cap had a charm. Whoever owned it could call three times upon the Winged Monkeys, who would obey any order they were given. But no person could command these strange creatures more than three times. Twice already the Wicked Witch had used the charm of the Cap. Once was when she had made the Winkies her slaves, and set herself to rule over their country. The Winged Monkeys had helped her do this. The second time was when she had fought against the Great Oz himself, and driven him out of the land of the West. The Winged Monkeys had also helped her in doing this. Only once more could she use this Golden Cap, for which reason she did not like to do so until all her other powers were exhausted. But now that her fierce wolves and her wild crows and her stinging bees were gone, and her slaves had been scared away by the Cowardly Lion, she saw there was only one way left to destroy Dorothy and her friends. So the Wicked Witch took the Golden Cap from her cupboard and placed it upon her head. Then she stood upon her left foot and said slowly: "Ep-pe, pep-pe, kak-ke!" Next she stood upon her right foot and said: "Hil-lo, hol-lo, hel-lo!" After this she stood upon both feet and cried in a loud voice: "Ziz-zy, zuz-zy, zik!" Now the charm began to work. The sky was darkened, and a low rumbling sound was heard in the air. There was a rushing of many wings, a great chattering and laughing, and the sun came out of the dark sky to show the Wicked Witch surrounded by a crowd of monkeys, each with a pair of immense and powerful wings on his shoulders. One, much bigger than the others, seemed to be their leader. He flew close to the Witch and said, "You have called us for the third and last time. What do you command?" "Go to the strangers who are within my land and destroy them all except the Lion," said the Wicked Witch. "Bring that beast to me, for I have a mind to harness him like a horse, and make him work." "Your commands shall be obeyed," said the leader. Then, with a great deal of chattering and noise, the Winged Monkeys flew away to the place where Dorothy and her friends were walking. Some of the Monkeys seized the Tin Woodman and carried him through the air until they were over a country thickly covered with sharp rocks. Here they dropped the poor Woodman, who fell a great distance to the rocks, where he lay so battered and dented that he could neither move nor groan. Others of the Monkeys caught the Scarecrow, and with their long fingers pulled all of the straw out of his clothes and head. They made his hat and boots and clothes into a small bundle and threw it into the top branches of a tall tree. The remaining Monkeys threw pieces of stout rope around the Lion and wound many coils about his body and head and legs, until he was unable to bite or scratch or struggle in any way. Then they lifted him up and flew away with him to the Witch's castle, where he was placed in a small yard with a high iron fence around it, so that he could not escape. But Dorothy they did not harm at all. She stood, with Toto in her arms, watching the sad fate of her comrades and thinking it would soon be her turn. The leader of the Winged Monkeys flew up to her, his long, hairy arms stretched out and his ugly face grinning terribly; but he saw the mark of the Good Witch's kiss upon her forehead and stopped short, motioning the others not to touch her. "We dare not harm this little girl," he said to them, "for she is protected by the Power of Good, and that is greater than the Power of Evil. All we can do is to carry her to the castle of the Wicked Witch and leave her there." So, carefully and gently, they lifted Dorothy in their arms and carried her swiftly through the air until they came to the castle, where they set her down upon the front doorstep. Then the leader said to the Witch: "We have obeyed you as far as we were able. The Tin Woodman and the Scarecrow are destroyed, and the Lion is tied up in your yard. The little girl we dare not harm, nor the dog she carries in her arms. Your power over our band is now ended, and you will never see us again." Then all the Winged Monkeys, with much laughing and chattering and noise, flew into the air and were soon out of sight. The Wicked Witch was both surprised and worried when she saw the mark on Dorothy's forehead, for she knew well that neither the Winged Monkeys nor she, herself, dare hurt the girl in any way. She looked down at Dorothy's feet, and seeing the Silver Shoes, began to tremble with fear, for she knew what a powerful charm belonged to them. At first the Witch was tempted to run away from Dorothy; but she happened to look into the child's eyes and saw how simple the soul behind them was, and that the little girl did not know of the wonderful power the Silver Shoes gave her. So the Wicked Witch laughed to herself, and thought, "I can still make her my slave, for she does not know how to use her power." Then she said to Dorothy, harshly and severely: "Come with me; and see that you mind everything I tell you, for if you do not I will make an end of you, as I did of the Tin Woodman and the Scarecrow." Dorothy followed her through many of the beautiful rooms in her castle until they came to the kitchen, where the Witch bade her clean the pots and kettles and sweep the floor and keep the fire fed with wood. Dorothy went to work meekly, with her mind made up to work as hard as she could; for she was glad the Wicked Witch had decided not to kill her. With Dorothy hard at work, the Witch thought she would go into the courtyard and harness the Cowardly Lion like a horse; it would amuse her, she was sure, to make him draw her chariot whenever she wished to go to drive. But as she opened the gate the Lion gave a loud roar and bounded at her so fiercely that the Witch was afraid, and ran out and shut the gate again. "If I cannot harness you," said the Witch to the Lion, speaking through the bars of the gate, "I can starve you. You shall have nothing to eat until you do as I wish." So after that she took no food to the imprisoned Lion; but every day she came to the gate at noon and asked, "Are you ready to be harnessed like a horse?" And the Lion would answer, "No. If you come in this yard, I will bite you." The reason the Lion did not have to do as the Witch wished was that every night, while the woman was asleep, Dorothy carried him food from the cupboard. After he had eaten he would lie down on his bed of straw, and Dorothy would lie beside him and put her head on his soft, shaggy mane, while they talked of their troubles and tried to plan some way to escape. But they could find no way to get out of the castle, for it was constantly guarded by the yellow Winkies, who were the slaves of the Wicked Witch and too afraid of her not to do as she told them. The girl had to work hard during the day, and often the Witch threatened to beat her with the same old umbrella she always carried in her hand. But, in truth, she did not dare to strike Dorothy, because of the mark upon her forehead. The child did not know this, and was full of fear for herself and Toto. Once the Witch struck Toto a blow with her umbrella and the brave little dog flew at her and bit her leg in return. The Witch did not bleed where she was bitten, for she was so wicked that the blood in her had dried up many years before. Dorothy's life became very sad as she grew to understand that it would be harder than ever to get back to Kansas and Aunt Em again. Sometimes she would cry bitterly for hours, with Toto sitting at her feet and looking into her face, whining dismally to show how sorry he was for his little mistress. Toto did not really care whether he was in Kansas or the Land of Oz so long as Dorothy was with him; but he knew the little girl was unhappy, and that made him unhappy too. Now the Wicked Witch had a great longing to have for her own the Silver Shoes which the girl always wore. Her bees and her crows and her wolves were lying in heaps and drying up, and she had used up all the power of the Golden Cap; but if she could only get hold of the Silver Shoes, they would give her more power than all the other things she had lost. She watched Dorothy carefully, to see if she ever took off her shoes, thinking she might steal them. But the child was so proud of her pretty shoes that she never took them off except at night and when she took her bath. The Witch was too much afraid of the dark to dare go in Dorothy's room at night to take the shoes, and her dread of water was greater than her fear of the dark, so she never came near when Dorothy was bathing. Indeed, the old Witch never touched water, nor ever let water touch her in any way. But the wicked creature was very cunning, and she finally thought of a trick that would give her what she wanted. She placed a bar of iron in the middle of the kitchen floor, and then by her magic arts made the iron invisible to human eyes. So that when Dorothy walked across the floor she stumbled over the bar, not being able to see it, and fell at full length. She was not much hurt, but in her fall one of the Silver Shoes came off; and before she could reach it, the Witch had snatched it away and put it on her own skinny foot. The wicked woman was greatly pleased with the success of her trick, for as long as she had one of the shoes she owned half the power of their charm, and Dorothy could not use it against her, even had she known how to do so. The little girl, seeing she had lost one of her pretty shoes, grew angry, and said to the Witch, "Give me back my shoe!" "I will not," retorted the Witch, "for it is now my shoe, and not yours." "You are a wicked creature!" cried Dorothy. "You have no right to take my shoe from me." "I shall keep it, just the same," said the Witch, laughing at her, "and someday I shall get the other one from you, too." This made Dorothy so very angry that she picked up the bucket of water that stood near and dashed it over the Witch, wetting her from head to foot. Instantly the wicked woman gave a loud cry of fear, and then, as Dorothy looked at her in wonder, the Witch began to shrink and fall away. "See what you have done!" she screamed. "In a minute I shall melt away." "I'm very sorry, indeed," said Dorothy, who was truly frightened to see the Witch actually melting away like brown sugar before her very eyes. "Didn't you know water would be the end of me?" asked the Witch, in a wailing, despairing voice. "Of course not," answered Dorothy. "How should I?" "Well, in a few minutes I shall be all melted, and you will have the castle to yourself. I have been wicked in my day, but I never thought a little girl like you would ever be able to melt me and end my wicked deeds. Look out—here I go!" With these words the Witch fell down in a brown, melted, shapeless mass and began to spread over the clean boards of the kitchen floor. Seeing that she had really melted away to nothing, Dorothy drew another bucket of water and threw it over the mess. She then swept it all out the door. After picking out the silver shoe, which was all that was left of the old woman, she cleaned and dried it with a cloth, and put it on her foot again. Then, being at last free to do as she chose, she ran out to the courtyard to tell the Lion that the Wicked Witch of the West had come to an end, and that they were no longer prisoners in a strange land. # Chapter XIII The Rescue The Cowardly Lion was much pleased to hear that the Wicked Witch had been melted by a bucket of water, and Dorothy at once unlocked the gate of his prison and set him free. They went in together to the castle, where Dorothy's first act was to call all the Winkies together and tell them that they were no longer slaves. There was great rejoicing among the yellow Winkies, for they had been made to work hard during many years for the Wicked Witch, who had always treated them with great cruelty. They kept this day as a holiday, then and ever after, and spent the time in feasting and dancing. "If our friends, the Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman, were only with us," said the Lion, "I should be quite happy." "Don't you suppose we could rescue them?" asked the girl anxiously. "We can try," answered the Lion. So they called the yellow Winkies and asked them if they would help to rescue their friends, and the Winkies said that they would be delighted to do all in their power for Dorothy, who had set them free from bondage. So she chose a number of the Winkies who looked as if they knew the most, and they all started away. They traveled that day and part of the next until they came to the rocky plain where the Tin Woodman lay, all battered and bent. His axe was near him, but the blade was rusted and the handle broken off short. The Winkies lifted him tenderly in their arms, and carried him back to the Yellow Castle again, Dorothy shedding a few tears by the way at the sad plight of her old friend, and the Lion looking sober and sorry. When they reached the castle Dorothy said to the Winkies: "Are any of your people tinsmiths?" "Oh, yes. Some of us are very good tinsmiths," they told her. "Then bring them to me," she said. And when the tinsmiths came, bringing with them all their tools in baskets, she inquired, "Can you straighten out those dents in the Tin Woodman, and bend him back into shape again, and solder him together where he is broken?" The tinsmiths looked the Woodman over carefully and then answered that they thought they could mend him so he would be as good as ever. So they set to work in one of the big yellow rooms of the castle and worked for three days and four nights, hammering and twisting and bending and soldering and polishing and pounding at the legs and body and head of the Tin Woodman, until at last he was straightened out into his old form, and his joints worked as well as ever. To be sure, there were several patches on him, but the tinsmiths did a good job, and as the Woodman was not a vain man he did not mind the patches at all. When, at last, he walked into Dorothy's room and thanked her for rescuing him, he was so pleased that he wept tears of joy, and Dorothy had to wipe every tear carefully from his face with her apron, so his joints would not be rusted. At the same time her own tears fell thick and fast at the joy of meeting her old friend again, and these tears did not need to be wiped away. As for the Lion, he wiped his eyes so often with the tip of his tail that it became quite wet, and he was obliged to go out into the courtyard and hold it in the sun till it dried. "If we only had the Scarecrow with us again," said the Tin Woodman, when Dorothy had finished telling him everything that had happened, "I should be quite happy." "We must try to find him," said the girl. So she called the Winkies to help her, and they walked all that day and part of the next until they came to the tall tree in the branches of which the Winged Monkeys had tossed the Scarecrow's clothes. It was a very tall tree, and the trunk was so smooth that no one could climb it; but the Woodman said at once, "I'll chop it down, and then we can get the Scarecrow's clothes." Now while the tinsmiths had been at work mending the Woodman himself, another of the Winkies, who was a goldsmith, had made an axe-handle of solid gold and fitted it to the Woodman's axe, instead of the old broken handle. Others polished the blade until all the rust was removed and it glistened like burnished silver. As soon as he had spoken, the Tin Woodman began to chop, and in a short time the tree fell over with a crash, whereupon the Scarecrow's clothes fell out of the branches and rolled off on the ground. Dorothy picked them up and had the Winkies carry them back to the castle, where they were stuffed with nice, clean straw; and behold! here was the Scarecrow, as good as ever, thanking them over and over again for saving him. Now that they were reunited, Dorothy and her friends spent a few happy days at the Yellow Castle, where they found everything they needed to make them comfortable. But one day the girl thought of Aunt Em, and said, "We must go back to Oz, and claim his promise." "Yes," said the Woodman, "at last I shall get my heart." "And I shall get my brains," added the Scarecrow joyfully. "And I shall get my courage," said the Lion thoughtfully. "And I shall get back to Kansas," cried Dorothy, clapping her hands. "Oh, let us start for the Emerald City tomorrow!" This they decided to do. The next day they called the Winkies together and bade them good-bye. The Winkies were sorry to have them go, and they had grown so fond of the Tin Woodman that they begged him to stay and rule over them and the Yellow Land of the West. Finding they were determined to go, the Winkies gave Toto and the Lion each a golden collar; and to Dorothy they presented a beautiful bracelet studded with diamonds; and to the Scarecrow they gave a gold-headed walking stick, to keep him from stumbling; and to the Tin Woodman they offered a silver oil-can, inlaid with gold and set with precious jewels. Every one of the travelers made the Winkies a pretty speech in return, and all shook hands with them until their arms ached. Dorothy went to the Witch's cupboard to fill her basket with food for the journey, and there she saw the Golden Cap. She tried it on her own head and found that it fitted her exactly. She did not know anything about the charm of the Golden Cap, but she saw that it was pretty, so she made up her mind to wear it and carry her sunbonnet in the basket. Then, being prepared for the journey, they all started for the Emerald City; and the Winkies gave them three cheers and many good wishes to carry with them. # Chapter XIV The Winged Monkeys You will remember there was no road—not even a pathway—between the castle of the Wicked Witch and the Emerald City. When the four travelers went in search of the Witch she had seen them coming, and so sent the Winged Monkeys to bring them to her. It was much harder to find their way back through the big fields of buttercups and yellow daisies than it was being carried. They knew, of course, they must go straight east, toward the rising sun; and they started off in the right way. But at noon, when the sun was over their heads, they did not know which was east and which was west, and that was the reason they were lost in the great fields. They kept on walking, however, and at night the moon came out and shone brightly. So they lay down among the sweet smelling yellow flowers and slept soundly until morning—all but the Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman. The next morning the sun was behind a cloud, but they started on, as if they were quite sure which way they were going. "If we walk far enough," said Dorothy, "I am sure we shall sometime come to some place." But day by day passed away, and they still saw nothing before them but the scarlet fields. The Scarecrow began to grumble a bit. "We have surely lost our way," he said, "and unless we find it again in time to reach the Emerald City, I shall never get my brains." "Nor I my heart," declared the Tin Woodman. "It seems to me I can scarcely wait till I get to Oz, and you must admit this is a very long journey." "You see," said the Cowardly Lion, with a whimper, "I haven't the courage to keep tramping forever, without getting anywhere at all." Then Dorothy lost heart. She sat down on the grass and looked at her companions, and they sat down and looked at her, and Toto found that for the first time in his life he was too tired to chase a butterfly that flew past his head. So he put out his tongue and panted and looked at Dorothy as if to ask what they should do next. "Suppose we call the field mice," she suggested. "They could probably tell us the way to the Emerald City." "To be sure they could," cried the Scarecrow. "Why didn't we think of that before?" Dorothy blew the little whistle she had always carried about her neck since the Queen of the Mice had given it to her. In a few minutes they heard the pattering of tiny feet, and many of the small gray mice came running up to her. Among them was the Queen herself, who asked, in her squeaky little voice: "What can I do for my friends?" "We have lost our way," said Dorothy. "Can you tell us where the Emerald City is?" "Certainly," answered the Queen; "but it is a great way off, for you have had it at your backs all this time." Then she noticed Dorothy's Golden Cap, and said, "Why don't you use the charm of the Cap, and call the Winged Monkeys to you? They will carry you to the City of Oz in less than an hour." "I didn't know there was a charm," answered Dorothy, in surprise. "What is it?" "It is written inside the Golden Cap," replied the Queen of the Mice. "But if you are going to call the Winged Monkeys we must run away, for they are full of mischief and think it great fun to plague us." "Won't they hurt me?" asked the girl anxiously. "Oh, no. They must obey the wearer of the Cap. Good-bye!" And she scampered out of sight, with all the mice hurrying after her. Dorothy looked inside the Golden Cap and saw some words written upon the lining. These, she thought, must be the charm, so she read the directions carefully and put the Cap upon her head. "Ep-pe, pep-pe, kak-ke!" she said, standing on her left foot. "What did you say?" asked the Scarecrow, who did not know what she was doing. "Hil-lo, hol-lo, hel-lo!" Dorothy went on, standing this time on her right foot. "Hello!" replied the Tin Woodman calmly. "Ziz-zy, zuz-zy, zik!" said Dorothy, who was now standing on both feet. This ended the saying of the charm, and they heard a great chattering and flapping of wings, as the band of Winged Monkeys flew up to them. The King bowed low before Dorothy, and asked, "What is your command?" "We wish to go to the Emerald City," said the child, "and we have lost our way." "We will carry you," replied the King, and no sooner had he spoken than two of the Monkeys caught Dorothy in their arms and flew away with her. Others took the Scarecrow and the Woodman and the Lion, and one little Monkey seized Toto and flew after them, although the dog tried hard to bite him. The Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman were rather frightened at first, for they remembered how badly the Winged Monkeys had treated them before; but they saw that no harm was intended, so they rode through the air quite cheerfully, and had a fine time looking at the pretty gardens and woods far below them. Dorothy found herself riding easily between two of the biggest Monkeys, one of them the King himself. They had made a chair of their hands and were careful not to hurt her. "Why do you have to obey the charm of the Golden Cap?" she asked. "That is a long story," answered the King, with a winged laugh; "but as we have a long journey before us, I will pass the time by telling you about it, if you wish." "I shall be glad to hear it," she replied. "Once," began the leader, "we were a free people, living happily in the great forest, flying from tree to tree, eating nuts and fruit, and doing just as we pleased without calling anybody master. Perhaps some of us were rather too full of mischief at times, flying down to pull the tails of the animals that had no wings, chasing birds, and throwing nuts at the people who walked in the forest. But we were careless and happy and full of fun, and enjoyed every minute of the day. This was many years ago, long before Oz came out of the clouds to rule over this land. "There lived here then, away at the North, a beautiful princess, who was also a powerful sorceress. All her magic was used to help the people, and she was never known to hurt anyone who was good. Her name was Gayelette, and she lived in a handsome palace built from great blocks of ruby. Everyone loved her, but her greatest sorrow was that she could find no one to love in return, since all the men were much too stupid and ugly to mate with one so beautiful and wise. At last, however, she found a boy who was handsome and manly and wise beyond his years. Gayelette made up her mind that when he grew to be a man she would make him her husband, so she took him to her ruby palace and used all her magic powers to make him as strong and good and lovely as any woman could wish. When he grew to manhood, Quelala, as he was called, was said to be the best and wisest man in all the land, while his manly beauty was so great that Gayelette loved him dearly, and hastened to make everything ready for the wedding. "My grandfather was at that time the King of the Winged Monkeys which lived in the forest near Gayelette's palace, and the old fellow loved a joke better than a good dinner. One day, just before the wedding, my grandfather was flying out with his band when he saw Quelala walking beside the river. He was dressed in a rich costume of pink silk and purple velvet, and my grandfather thought he would see what he could do. At his word the band flew down and seized Quelala, carried him in their arms until they were over the middle of the river, and then dropped him into the water. "‘Swim out, my fine fellow,' cried my grandfather, ‘and see if the water has spotted your clothes.' Quelala was much too wise not to swim, and he was not in the least spoiled by all his good fortune. He laughed, when he came to the top of the water, and swam in to shore. But when Gayelette came running out to him she found his silks and velvet all ruined by the river. "The princess was angry, and she knew, of course, who did it. She had all the Winged Monkeys brought before her, and she said at first that their wings should be tied and they should be treated as they had treated Quelala, and dropped in the river. But my grandfather pleaded hard, for he knew the Monkeys would drown in the river with their wings tied, and Quelala said a kind word for them also; so that Gayelette finally spared them, on condition that the Winged Monkeys should ever after do three times the bidding of the owner of the Golden Cap. This Cap had been made for a wedding present to Quelala, and it is said to have cost the princess half her kingdom. Of course my grandfather and all the other Monkeys at once agreed to the condition, and that is how it happens that we are three times the slaves of the owner of the Golden Cap, whosoever he may be." "And what became of them?" asked Dorothy, who had been greatly interested in the story. "Quelala being the first owner of the Golden Cap," replied the Monkey, "he was the first to lay his wishes upon us. As his bride could not bear the sight of us, he called us all to him in the forest after he had married her and ordered us always to keep where she could never again set eyes on a Winged Monkey, which we were glad to do, for we were all afraid of her. "This was all we ever had to do until the Golden Cap fell into the hands of the Wicked Witch of the West, who made us enslave the Winkies, and afterward drive Oz himself out of the Land of the West. Now the Golden Cap is yours, and three times you have the right to lay your wishes upon us." As the Monkey King finished his story Dorothy looked down and saw the green, shining walls of the Emerald City before them. She wondered at the rapid flight of the Monkeys, but was glad the journey was over. The strange creatures set the travelers down carefully before the gate of the City, the King bowed low to Dorothy, and then flew swiftly away, followed by all his band. "That was a good ride," said the little girl. "Yes, and a quick way out of our troubles," replied the Lion. "How lucky it was you brought away that wonderful Cap!" # Chapter XV The Discovery of Oz, the Terrible The four travelers walked up to the great gate of Emerald City and rang the bell. After ringing several times, it was opened by the same Guardian of the Gates they had met before. "What! are you back again?" he asked, in surprise. "Do you not see us?" answered the Scarecrow. "But I thought you had gone to visit the Wicked Witch of the West." "We did visit her," said the Scarecrow. "And she let you go again?" asked the man, in wonder. "She could not help it, for she is melted," explained the Scarecrow. "Melted! Well, that is good news, indeed," said the man. "Who melted her?" "It was Dorothy," said the Lion gravely. "Good gracious!" exclaimed the man, and he bowed very low indeed before her. Then he led them into his little room and locked the spectacles from the great box on all their eyes, just as he had done before. Afterward they passed on through the gate into the Emerald City. When the people heard from the Guardian of the Gates that Dorothy had melted the Wicked Witch of the West, they all gathered around the travelers and followed them in a great crowd to the Palace of Oz. The soldier with the green whiskers was still on guard before the door, but he let them in at once, and they were again met by the beautiful green girl, who showed each of them to their old rooms at once, so they might rest until the Great Oz was ready to receive them. The soldier had the news carried straight to Oz that Dorothy and the other travelers had come back again, after destroying the Wicked Witch; but Oz made no reply. They thought the Great Wizard would send for them at once, but he did not. They had no word from him the next day, nor the next, nor the next. The waiting was tiresome and wearing, and at last they grew vexed that Oz should treat them in so poor a fashion, after sending them to undergo hardships and slavery. So the Scarecrow at last asked the green girl to take another message to Oz, saying if he did not let them in to see him at once they would call the Winged Monkeys to help them, and find out whether he kept his promises or not. When the Wizard was given this message he was so frightened that he sent word for them to come to the Throne Room at four minutes after nine o'clock the next morning. He had once met the Winged Monkeys in the Land of the West, and he did not wish to meet them again. The four travelers passed a sleepless night, each thinking of the gift Oz had promised to bestow on him. Dorothy fell asleep only once, and then she dreamed she was in Kansas, where Aunt Em was telling her how glad she was to have her little girl at home again. Promptly at nine o'clock the next morning the green-whiskered soldier came to them, and four minutes later they all went into the Throne Room of the Great Oz. Of course each one of them expected to see the Wizard in the shape he had taken before, and all were greatly surprised when they looked about and saw no one at all in the room. They kept close to the door and closer to one another, for the stillness of the empty room was more dreadful than any of the forms they had seen Oz take. Presently they heard a solemn Voice, that seemed to come from somewhere near the top of the great dome, and it said: "I am Oz, the Great and Terrible. Why do you seek me?" They looked again in every part of the room, and then, seeing no one, Dorothy asked, "Where are you?" "I am everywhere," answered the Voice, "but to the eyes of common mortals I am invisible. I will now seat myself upon my throne, that you may converse with me." Indeed, the Voice seemed just then to come straight from the throne itself; so they walked toward it and stood in a row while Dorothy said: "We have come to claim our promise, O Oz." "What promise?" asked Oz. "You promised to send me back to Kansas when the Wicked Witch was destroyed," said the girl. "And you promised to give me brains," said the Scarecrow. "And you promised to give me a heart," said the Tin Woodman. "And you promised to give me courage," said the Cowardly Lion. "Is the Wicked Witch really destroyed?" asked the Voice, and Dorothy thought it trembled a little. "Yes," she answered, "I melted her with a bucket of water." "Dear me," said the Voice, "how sudden! Well, come to me tomorrow, for I must have time to think it over." "You've had plenty of time already," said the Tin Woodman angrily. "We shan't wait a day longer," said the Scarecrow. "You must keep your promises to us!" exclaimed Dorothy. The Lion thought it might be as well to frighten the Wizard, so he gave a large, loud roar, which was so fierce and dreadful that Toto jumped away from him in alarm and tipped over the screen that stood in a corner. As it fell with a crash they looked that way, and the next moment all of them were filled with wonder. For they saw, standing in just the spot the screen had hidden, a little old man, with a bald head and a wrinkled face, who seemed to be as much surprised as they were. The Tin Woodman, raising his axe, rushed toward the little man and cried out, "Who are you?" "I am Oz, the Great and Terrible," said the little man, in a trembling voice. "But don't strike me—please don't—and I'll do anything you want me to." Our friends looked at him in surprise and dismay. "I thought Oz was a great Head," said Dorothy. "And I thought Oz was a lovely Lady," said the Scarecrow. "And I thought Oz was a terrible Beast," said the Tin Woodman. "And I thought Oz was a Ball of Fire," exclaimed the Lion. "No, you are all wrong," said the little man meekly. "I have been making believe." "Making believe!" cried Dorothy. "Are you not a Great Wizard?" "Hush, my dear," he said. "Don't speak so loud, or you will be overheard—and I should be ruined. I'm supposed to be a Great Wizard." "And aren't you?" she asked. "Not a bit of it, my dear; I'm just a common man." "You're more than that," said the Scarecrow, in a grieved tone; "you're a humbug." "Exactly so!" declared the little man, rubbing his hands together as if it pleased him. "I am a humbug." "But this is terrible," said the Tin Woodman. "How shall I ever get my heart?" "Or I my courage?" asked the Lion. "Or I my brains?" wailed the Scarecrow, wiping the tears from his eyes with his coat sleeve. "My dear friends," said Oz, "I pray you not to speak of these little things. Think of me, and the terrible trouble I'm in at being found out." "Doesn't anyone else know you're a humbug?" asked Dorothy. "No one knows it but you four—and myself," replied Oz. "I have fooled everyone so long that I thought I should never be found out. It was a great mistake my ever letting you into the Throne Room. Usually I will not see even my subjects, and so they believe I am something terrible." "But, I don't understand," said Dorothy, in bewilderment. "How was it that you appeared to me as a great Head?" "That was one of my tricks," answered Oz. "Step this way, please, and I will tell you all about it." He led the way to a small chamber in the rear of the Throne Room, and they all followed him. He pointed to one corner, in which lay the great Head, made out of many thicknesses of paper, and with a carefully painted face. "This I hung from the ceiling by a wire," said Oz. "I stood behind the screen and pulled a thread, to make the eyes move and the mouth open." "But how about the voice?" she inquired. "Oh, I am a ventriloquist," said the little man. "I can throw the sound of my voice wherever I wish, so that you thought it was coming out of the Head. Here are the other things I used to deceive you." He showed the Scarecrow the dress and the mask he had worn when he seemed to be the lovely Lady. And the Tin Woodman saw that his terrible Beast was nothing but a lot of skins, sewn together, with slats to keep their sides out. As for the Ball of Fire, the false Wizard had hung that also from the ceiling. It was really a ball of cotton, but when oil was poured upon it the ball burned fiercely. "Really," said the Scarecrow, "you ought to be ashamed of yourself for being such a humbug." "I am—I certainly am," answered the little man sorrowfully; "but it was the only thing I could do. Sit down, please, there are plenty of chairs; and I will tell you my story." So they sat down and listened while he told the following tale. "I was born in Omaha—" "Why, that isn't very far from Kansas!" cried Dorothy. "No, but it's farther from here," he said, shaking his head at her sadly. "When I grew up I became a ventriloquist, and at that I was very well trained by a great master. I can imitate any kind of a bird or beast." Here he mewed so like a kitten that Toto pricked up his ears and looked everywhere to see where she was. "After a time," continued Oz, "I tired of that, and became a balloonist." "What is that?" asked Dorothy. "A man who goes up in a balloon on circus day, so as to draw a crowd of people together and get them to pay to see the circus," he explained. "Oh," she said, "I know." "Well, one day I went up in a balloon and the ropes got twisted, so that I couldn't come down again. It went way up above the clouds, so far that a current of air struck it and carried it many, many miles away. For a day and a night I traveled through the air, and on the morning of the second day I awoke and found the balloon floating over a strange and beautiful country. "It came down gradually, and I was not hurt a bit. But I found myself in the midst of a strange people, who, seeing me come from the clouds, thought I was a great Wizard. Of course I let them think so, because they were afraid of me, and promised to do anything I wished them to. "Just to amuse myself, and keep the good people busy, I ordered them to build this City, and my Palace; and they did it all willingly and well. Then I thought, as the country was so green and beautiful, I would call it the Emerald City; and to make the name fit better I put green spectacles on all the people, so that everything they saw was green." "But isn't everything here green?" asked Dorothy. "No more than in any other city," replied Oz; "but when you wear green spectacles, why of course everything you see looks green to you. The Emerald City was built a great many years ago, for I was a young man when the balloon brought me here, and I am a very old man now. But my people have worn green glasses on their eyes so long that most of them think it really is an Emerald City, and it certainly is a beautiful place, abounding in jewels and precious metals, and every good thing that is needed to make one happy. I have been good to the people, and they like me; but ever since this Palace was built, I have shut myself up and would not see any of them. "One of my greatest fears was the Witches, for while I had no magical powers at all I soon found out that the Witches were really able to do wonderful things. There were four of them in this country, and they ruled the people who live in the North and South and East and West. Fortunately, the Witches of the North and South were good, and I knew they would do me no harm; but the Witches of the East and West were terribly wicked, and had they not thought I was more powerful than they themselves, they would surely have destroyed me. As it was, I lived in deadly fear of them for many years; so you can imagine how pleased I was when I heard your house had fallen on the Wicked Witch of the East. When you came to me, I was willing to promise anything if you would only do away with the other Witch; but, now that you have melted her, I am ashamed to say that I cannot keep my promises." "I think you are a very bad man," said Dorothy. "Oh, no, my dear; I'm really a very good man, but I'm a very bad Wizard, I must admit." "Can't you give me brains?" asked the Scarecrow. "You don't need them. You are learning something every day. A baby has brains, but it doesn't know much. Experience is the only thing that brings knowledge, and the longer you are on earth the more experience you are sure to get." "That may all be true," said the Scarecrow, "but I shall be very unhappy unless you give me brains." The false Wizard looked at him carefully. "Well," he said with a sigh, "I'm not much of a magician, as I said; but if you will come to me tomorrow morning, I will stuff your head with brains. I cannot tell you how to use them, however; you must find that out for yourself." "Oh, thank you—thank you!" cried the Scarecrow. "I'll find a way to use them, never fear!" "But how about my courage?" asked the Lion anxiously. "You have plenty of courage, I am sure," answered Oz. "All you need is confidence in yourself. There is no living thing that is not afraid when it faces danger. The True courage is in facing danger when you are afraid, and that kind of courage you have in plenty." "Perhaps I have, but I'm scared just the same," said the Lion. "I shall really be very unhappy unless you give me the sort of courage that makes one forget he is afraid." "Very well, I will give you that sort of courage tomorrow," replied Oz. "How about my heart?" asked the Tin Woodman. "Why, as for that," answered Oz, "I think you are wrong to want a heart. It makes most people unhappy. If you only knew it, you are in luck not to have a heart." "That must be a matter of opinion," said the Tin Woodman. "For my part, I will bear all the unhappiness without a murmur, if you will give me the heart." "Very well," answered Oz meekly. "Come to me tomorrow and you shall have a heart. I have played Wizard for so many years that I may as well continue the part a little longer." "And now," said Dorothy, "how am I to get back to Kansas?" "We shall have to think about that," replied the little man. "Give me two or three days to consider the matter and I'll try to find a way to carry you over the desert. In the meantime you shall all be treated as my guests, and while you live in the Palace my people will wait upon you and obey your slightest wish. There is only one thing I ask in return for my help—such as it is. You must keep my secret and tell no one I am a humbug." They agreed to say nothing of what they had learned, and went back to their rooms in high spirits. Even Dorothy had hope that "The Great and Terrible Humbug," as she called him, would find a way to send her back to Kansas, and if he did she was willing to forgive him everything. # Chapter XVI The Magic Art of the Great Humbug Next morning the Scarecrow said to his friends: "Congratulate me. I am going to Oz to get my brains at last. When I return I shall be as other men are." "I have always liked you as you were," said Dorothy simply. "It is kind of you to like a Scarecrow," he replied. "But surely you will think more of me when you hear the splendid thoughts my new brain is going to turn out." Then he said good-bye to them all in a cheerful voice and went to the Throne Room, where he rapped upon the door. "Come in," said Oz. The Scarecrow went in and found the little man sitting down by the window, engaged in deep thought. "I have come for my brains," remarked the Scarecrow, a little uneasily. "Oh, yes; sit down in that chair, please," replied Oz. "You must excuse me for taking your head off, but I shall have to do it in order to put your brains in their proper place." "That's all right," said the Scarecrow. "You are quite welcome to take my head off, as long as it will be a better one when you put it on again." So the Wizard unfastened his head and emptied out the straw. Then he entered the back room and took up a measure of bran, which he mixed with a great many pins and needles. Having shaken them together thoroughly, he filled the top of the Scarecrow's head with the mixture and stuffed the rest of the space with straw, to hold it in place. When he had fastened the Scarecrow's head on his body again he said to him, "Hereafter you will be a great man, for I have given you a lot of bran-new brains." The Scarecrow was both pleased and proud at the fulfillment of his greatest wish, and having thanked Oz warmly he went back to his friends. Dorothy looked at him curiously. His head was quite bulged out at the top with brains. "How do you feel?" she asked. "I feel wise indeed," he answered earnestly. "When I get used to my brains I shall know everything." "Why are those needles and pins sticking out of your head?" asked the Tin Woodman. "That is proof that he is sharp," remarked the Lion. "Well, I must go to Oz and get my heart," said the Woodman. So he walked to the Throne Room and knocked at the door. "Come in," called Oz, and the Woodman entered and said, "I have come for my heart." "Very well," answered the little man. "But I shall have to cut a hole in your breast, so I can put your heart in the right place. I hope it won't hurt you." "Oh, no," answered the Woodman. "I shall not feel it at all." So Oz brought a pair of tinsmith's shears and cut a small, square hole in the left side of the Tin Woodman's breast. Then, going to a chest of drawers, he took out a pretty heart, made entirely of silk and stuffed with sawdust. "Isn't it a beauty?" he asked. "It is, indeed!" replied the Woodman, who was greatly pleased. "But is it a kind heart?" "Oh, very!" answered Oz. He put the heart in the Woodman's breast and then replaced the square of tin, soldering it neatly together where it had been cut. "There," said he; "now you have a heart that any man might be proud of. I'm sorry I had to put a patch on your breast, but it really couldn't be helped." "Never mind the patch," exclaimed the happy Woodman. "I am very grateful to you, and shall never forget your kindness." "Don't speak of it," replied Oz. Then the Tin Woodman went back to his friends, who wished him every joy on account of his good fortune. The Lion now walked to the Throne Room and knocked at the door. "Come in," said Oz. "I have come for my courage," announced the Lion, entering the room. "Very well," answered the little man; "I will get it for you." He went to a cupboard and reaching up to a high shelf took down a square green bottle, the contents of which he poured into a green-gold dish, beautifully carved. Placing this before the Cowardly Lion, who sniffed at it as if he did not like it, the Wizard said: "Drink." "What is it?" asked the Lion. "Well," answered Oz, "if it were inside of you, it would be courage. You know, of course, that courage is always inside one; so that this really cannot be called courage until you have swallowed it. Therefore I advise you to drink it as soon as possible." The Lion hesitated no longer, but drank till the dish was empty. "How do you feel now?" asked Oz. "Full of courage," replied the Lion, who went joyfully back to his friends to tell them of his good fortune. Oz, left to himself, smiled to think of his success in giving the Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman and the Lion exactly what they thought they wanted. "How can I help being a humbug," he said, "when all these people make me do things that everybody knows can't be done? It was easy to make the Scarecrow and the Lion and the Woodman happy, because they imagined I could do anything. But it will take more than imagination to carry Dorothy back to Kansas, and I'm sure I don't know how it can be done." # Chapter XVII How the Balloon Was Launched For three days Dorothy heard nothing from Oz. These were sad days for the little girl, although her friends were all quite happy and contented. The Scarecrow told them there were wonderful thoughts in his head; but he would not say what they were because he knew no one could understand them but himself. When the Tin Woodman walked about he felt his heart rattling around in his breast; and he told Dorothy he had discovered it to be a kinder and more tender heart than the one he had owned when he was made of flesh. The Lion declared he was afraid of nothing on earth, and would gladly face an army or a dozen of the fierce Kalidahs. Thus each of the little party was satisfied except Dorothy, who longed more than ever to get back to Kansas. On the fourth day, to her great joy, Oz sent for her, and when she entered the Throne Room he greeted her pleasantly: "Sit down, my dear; I think I have found the way to get you out of this country." "And back to Kansas?" she asked eagerly. "Well, I'm not sure about Kansas," said Oz, "for I haven't the faintest notion which way it lies. But the first thing to do is to cross the desert, and then it should be easy to find your way home." "How can I cross the desert?" she inquired. "Well, I'll tell you what I think," said the little man. "You see, when I came to this country it was in a balloon. You also came through the air, being carried by a cyclone. So I believe the best way to get across the desert will be through the air. Now, it is quite beyond my powers to make a cyclone; but I've been thinking the matter over, and I believe I can make a balloon." "How?" asked Dorothy. "A balloon," said Oz, "is made of silk, which is coated with glue to keep the gas in it. I have plenty of silk in the Palace, so it will be no trouble to make the balloon. But in all this country there is no gas to fill the balloon with, to make it float." "If it won't float," remarked Dorothy, "it will be of no use to us." "True," answered Oz. "But there is another way to make it float, which is to fill it with hot air. Hot air isn't as good as gas, for if the air should get cold the balloon would come down in the desert, and we should be lost." "We!" exclaimed the girl. "Are you going with me?" "Yes, of course," replied Oz. "I am tired of being such a humbug. If I should go out of this Palace my people would soon discover I am not a Wizard, and then they would be vexed with me for having deceived them. So I have to stay shut up in these rooms all day, and it gets tiresome. I'd much rather go back to Kansas with you and be in a circus again." "I shall be glad to have your company," said Dorothy. "Thank you," he answered. "Now, if you will help me sew the silk together, we will begin to work on our balloon." So Dorothy took a needle and thread, and as fast as Oz cut the strips of silk into proper shape the girl sewed them neatly together. First there was a strip of light green silk, then a strip of dark green and then a strip of emerald green; for Oz had a fancy to make the balloon in different shades of the color about them. It took three days to sew all the strips together, but when it was finished they had a big bag of green silk more than twenty feet long. Then Oz painted it on the inside with a coat of thin glue, to make it airtight, after which he announced that the balloon was ready. "But we must have a basket to ride in," he said. So he sent the soldier with the green whiskers for a big clothes basket, which he fastened with many ropes to the bottom of the balloon. When it was all ready, Oz sent word to his people that he was going to make a visit to a great brother Wizard who lived in the clouds. The news spread rapidly throughout the city and everyone came to see the wonderful sight. Oz ordered the balloon carried out in front of the Palace, and the people gazed upon it with much curiosity. The Tin Woodman had chopped a big pile of wood, and now he made a fire of it, and Oz held the bottom of the balloon over the fire so that the hot air that arose from it would be caught in the silken bag. Gradually the balloon swelled out and rose into the air, until finally the basket just touched the ground. Then Oz got into the basket and said to all the people in a loud voice: "I am now going away to make a visit. While I am gone the Scarecrow will rule over you. I command you to obey him as you would me." The balloon was by this time tugging hard at the rope that held it to the ground, for the air within it was hot, and this made it so much lighter in weight than the air without that it pulled hard to rise into the sky. "Come, Dorothy!" cried the Wizard. "Hurry up, or the balloon will fly away." "I can't find Toto anywhere," replied Dorothy, who did not wish to leave her little dog behind. Toto had run into the crowd to bark at a kitten, and Dorothy at last found him. She picked him up and ran towards the balloon. She was within a few steps of it, and Oz was holding out his hands to help her into the basket, when, crack! went the ropes, and the balloon rose into the air without her. "Come back!" she screamed. "I want to go, too!" "I can't come back, my dear," called Oz from the basket. "Good-bye!" "Good-bye!" shouted everyone, and all eyes were turned upward to where the Wizard was riding in the basket, rising every moment farther and farther into the sky. And that was the last any of them ever saw of Oz, the Wonderful Wizard, though he may have reached Omaha safely, and be there now, for all we know. But the people remembered him lovingly, and said to one another: "Oz was always our friend. When he was here he built for us this beautiful Emerald City, and now he is gone he has left the Wise Scarecrow to rule over us." Still, for many days they grieved over the loss of the Wonderful Wizard, and would not be comforted. # Chapter XVIII Away to the South Dorothy wept bitterly at the passing of her hope to get home to Kansas again; but when she thought it all over she was glad she had not gone up in a balloon. And she also felt sorry at losing Oz, and so did her companions. The Tin Woodman came to her and said: "Truly I should be ungrateful if I failed to mourn for the man who gave me my lovely heart. I should like to cry a little because Oz is gone, if you will kindly wipe away my tears, so that I shall not rust." "With pleasure," she answered, and brought a towel at once. Then the Tin Woodman wept for several minutes, and she watched the tears carefully and wiped them away with the towel. When he had finished, he thanked her kindly and oiled himself thoroughly with his jeweled oil-can, to guard against mishap. The Scarecrow was now the ruler of the Emerald City, and although he was not a Wizard the people were proud of him. "For," they said, "there is not another city in all the world that is ruled by a stuffed man." And, so far as they knew, they were quite right. The morning after the balloon had gone up with Oz, the four travelers met in the Throne Room and talked matters over. The Scarecrow sat in the big throne and the others stood respectfully before him. "We are not so unlucky," said the new ruler, "for this Palace and the Emerald City belong to us, and we can do just as we please. When I remember that a short time ago I was up on a pole in a farmer's cornfield, and that now I am the ruler of this beautiful City, I am quite satisfied with my lot." "I also," said the Tin Woodman, "am well-pleased with my new heart; and, really, that was the only thing I wished in all the world." "For my part, I am content in knowing I am as brave as any beast that ever lived, if not braver," said the Lion modestly. "If Dorothy would only be contented to live in the Emerald City," continued the Scarecrow, "we might all be happy together." "But I don't want to live here," cried Dorothy. "I want to go to Kansas, and live with Aunt Em and Uncle Henry." "Well, then, what can be done?" inquired the Woodman. The Scarecrow decided to think, and he thought so hard that the pins and needles began to stick out of his brains. Finally he said: "Why not call the Winged Monkeys, and ask them to carry you over the desert?" "I never thought of that!" said Dorothy joyfully. "It's just the thing. I'll go at once for the Golden Cap." When she brought it into the Throne Room she spoke the magic words, and soon the band of Winged Monkeys flew in through the open window and stood beside her. "This is the second time you have called us," said the Monkey King, bowing before the little girl. "What do you wish?" "I want you to fly with me to Kansas," said Dorothy. But the Monkey King shook his head. "That cannot be done," he said. "We belong to this country alone, and cannot leave it. There has never been a Winged Monkey in Kansas yet, and I suppose there never will be, for they don't belong there. We shall be glad to serve you in any way in our power, but we cannot cross the desert. Good-bye." And with another bow, the Monkey King spread his wings and flew away through the window, followed by all his band. Dorothy was ready to cry with disappointment. "I have wasted the charm of the Golden Cap to no purpose," she said, "for the Winged Monkeys cannot help me." "It is certainly too bad!" said the tender-hearted Woodman. The Scarecrow was thinking again, and his head bulged out so horribly that Dorothy feared it would burst. "Let us call in the soldier with the green whiskers," he said, "and ask his advice." So the soldier was summoned and entered the Throne Room timidly, for while Oz was alive he never was allowed to come farther than the door. "This little girl," said the Scarecrow to the soldier, "wishes to cross the desert. How can she do so?" "I cannot tell," answered the soldier, "for nobody has ever crossed the desert, unless it is Oz himself." "Is there no one who can help me?" asked Dorothy earnestly. "Glinda might," he suggested. "Who is Glinda?" inquired the Scarecrow. "The Witch of the South. She is the most powerful of all the Witches, and rules over the Quadlings. Besides, her castle stands on the edge of the desert, so she may know a way to cross it." "Glinda is a Good Witch, isn't she?" asked the child. "The Quadlings think she is good," said the soldier, "and she is kind to everyone. I have heard that Glinda is a beautiful woman, who knows how to keep young in spite of the many years she has lived." "How can I get to her castle?" asked Dorothy. "The road is straight to the South," he answered, "but it is said to be full of dangers to travelers. There are wild beasts in the woods, and a race of queer men who do not like strangers to cross their country. For this reason none of the Quadlings ever come to the Emerald City." The soldier then left them and the Scarecrow said: "It seems, in spite of dangers, that the best thing Dorothy can do is to travel to the Land of the South and ask Glinda to help her. For, of course, if Dorothy stays here she will never get back to Kansas." "You must have been thinking again," remarked the Tin Woodman. "I have," said the Scarecrow. "I shall go with Dorothy," declared the Lion, "for I am tired of your city and long for the woods and the country again. I am really a wild beast, you know. Besides, Dorothy will need someone to protect her." "That is true," agreed the Woodman. "My axe may be of service to her; so I also will go with her to the Land of the South." "When shall we start?" asked the Scarecrow. "Are you going?" they asked, in surprise. "Certainly. If it wasn't for Dorothy I should never have had brains. She lifted me from the pole in the cornfield and brought me to the Emerald City. So my good luck is all due to her, and I shall never leave her until she starts back to Kansas for good and all." "Thank you," said Dorothy gratefully. "You are all very kind to me. But I should like to start as soon as possible." "We shall go tomorrow morning," returned the Scarecrow. "So now let us all get ready, for it will be a long journey." # Chapter XIX Attacked by the Fighting Trees The next morning Dorothy kissed the pretty green girl good-bye, and they all shook hands with the soldier with the green whiskers, who had walked with them as far as the gate. When the Guardian of the Gate saw them again he wondered greatly that they could leave the beautiful City to get into new trouble. But he at once unlocked their spectacles, which he put back into the green box, and gave them many good wishes to carry with them. "You are now our ruler," he said to the Scarecrow; "so you must come back to us as soon as possible." "I certainly shall if I am able," the Scarecrow replied; "but I must help Dorothy to get home, first." As Dorothy bade the good-natured Guardian a last farewell she said: "I have been very kindly treated in your lovely City, and everyone has been good to me. I cannot tell you how grateful I am." "Don't try, my dear," he answered. "We should like to keep you with us, but if it is your wish to return to Kansas, I hope you will find a way." He then opened the gate of the outer wall, and they walked forth and started upon their journey. The sun shone brightly as our friends turned their faces toward the Land of the South. They were all in the best of spirits, and laughed and chatted together. Dorothy was once more filled with the hope of getting home, and the Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman were glad to be of use to her. As for the Lion, he sniffed the fresh air with delight and whisked his tail from side to side in pure joy at being in the country again, while Toto ran around them and chased the moths and butterflies, barking merrily all the time. "City life does not agree with me at all," remarked the Lion, as they walked along at a brisk pace. "I have lost much flesh since I lived there, and now I am anxious for a chance to show the other beasts how courageous I have grown." They now turned and took a last look at the Emerald City. All they could see was a mass of towers and steeples behind the green walls, and high up above everything the spires and dome of the Palace of Oz. "Oz was not such a bad Wizard, after all," said the Tin Woodman, as he felt his heart rattling around in his breast. "He knew how to give me brains, and very good brains, too," said the Scarecrow. "If Oz had taken a dose of the same courage he gave me," added the Lion, "he would have been a brave man." Dorothy said nothing. Oz had not kept the promise he made her, but he had done his best, so she forgave him. As he said, he was a good man, even if he was a bad Wizard. The first day's journey was through the green fields and bright flowers that stretched about the Emerald City on every side. They slept that night on the grass, with nothing but the stars over them; and they rested very well indeed. In the morning they traveled on until they came to a thick wood. There was no way of going around it, for it seemed to extend to the right and left as far as they could see; and, besides, they did not dare change the direction of their journey for fear of getting lost. So they looked for the place where it would be easiest to get into the forest. The Scarecrow, who was in the lead, finally discovered a big tree with such wide-spreading branches that there was room for the party to pass underneath. So he walked forward to the tree, but just as he came under the first branches they bent down and twined around him, and the next minute he was raised from the ground and flung headlong among his fellow travelers. This did not hurt the Scarecrow, but it surprised him, and he looked rather dizzy when Dorothy picked him up. "Here is another space between the trees," called the Lion. "Let me try it first," said the Scarecrow, "for it doesn't hurt me to get thrown about." He walked up to another tree, as he spoke, but its branches immediately seized him and tossed him back again. "This is strange," exclaimed Dorothy. "What shall we do?" "The trees seem to have made up their minds to fight us, and stop our journey," remarked the Lion. "I believe I will try it myself," said the Woodman, and shouldering his axe, he marched up to the first tree that had handled the Scarecrow so roughly. When a big branch bent down to seize him the Woodman chopped at it so fiercely that he cut it in two. At once the tree began shaking all its branches as if in pain, and the Tin Woodman passed safely under it. "Come on!" he shouted to the others. "Be quick!" They all ran forward and passed under the tree without injury, except Toto, who was caught by a small branch and shaken until he howled. But the Woodman promptly chopped off the branch and set the little dog free. The other trees of the forest did nothing to keep them back, so they made up their minds that only the first row of trees could bend down their branches, and that probably these were the policemen of the forest, and given this wonderful power in order to keep strangers out of it. The four travelers walked with ease through the trees until they came to the farther edge of the wood. Then, to their surprise, they found before them a high wall which seemed to be made of white china. It was smooth, like the surface of a dish, and higher than their heads. "What shall we do now?" asked Dorothy. "I will make a ladder," said the Tin Woodman, "for we certainly must climb over the wall." # Chapter XX The Dainty China Country While the Woodman was making a ladder from wood which he found in the forest Dorothy lay down and slept, for she was tired by the long walk. The Lion also curled himself up to sleep and Toto lay beside him. The Scarecrow watched the Woodman while he worked, and said to him: "I cannot think why this wall is here, nor what it is made of." "Rest your brains and do not worry about the wall," replied the Woodman. "When we have climbed over it, we shall know what is on the other side." After a time the ladder was finished. It looked clumsy, but the Tin Woodman was sure it was strong and would answer their purpose. The Scarecrow waked Dorothy and the Lion and Toto, and told them that the ladder was ready. The Scarecrow climbed up the ladder first, but he was so awkward that Dorothy had to follow close behind and keep him from falling off. When he got his head over the top of the wall the Scarecrow said, "Oh, my!" "Go on," exclaimed Dorothy. So the Scarecrow climbed farther up and sat down on the top of the wall, and Dorothy put her head over and cried, "Oh, my!" just as the Scarecrow had done. Then Toto came up, and immediately began to bark, but Dorothy made him be still. The Lion climbed the ladder next, and the Tin Woodman came last; but both of them cried, "Oh, my!" as soon as they looked over the wall. When they were all sitting in a row on the top of the wall, they looked down and saw a strange sight. Before them was a great stretch of country having a floor as smooth and shining and white as the bottom of a big platter. Scattered around were many houses made entirely of china and painted in the brightest colors. These houses were quite small, the biggest of them reaching only as high as Dorothy's waist. There were also pretty little barns, with china fences around them; and many cows and sheep and horses and pigs and chickens, all made of china, were standing about in groups. But the strangest of all were the people who lived in this queer country. There were milkmaids and shepherdesses, with brightly colored bodices and golden spots all over their gowns; and princesses with most gorgeous frocks of silver and gold and purple; and shepherds dressed in knee breeches with pink and yellow and blue stripes down them, and golden buckles on their shoes; and princes with jeweled crowns upon their heads, wearing ermine robes and satin doublets; and funny clowns in ruffled gowns, with round red spots upon their cheeks and tall, pointed caps. And, strangest of all, these people were all made of china, even to their clothes, and were so small that the tallest of them was no higher than Dorothy's knee. No one did so much as look at the travelers at first, except one little purple china dog with an extra-large head, which came to the wall and barked at them in a tiny voice, afterwards running away again. "How shall we get down?" asked Dorothy. They found the ladder so heavy they could not pull it up, so the Scarecrow fell off the wall and the others jumped down upon him so that the hard floor would not hurt their feet. Of course they took pains not to light on his head and get the pins in their feet. When all were safely down they picked up the Scarecrow, whose body was quite flattened out, and patted his straw into shape again. "We must cross this strange place in order to get to the other side," said Dorothy, "for it would be unwise for us to go any other way except due South." They began walking through the country of the china people, and the first thing they came to was a china milkmaid milking a china cow. As they drew near, the cow suddenly gave a kick and kicked over the stool, the pail, and even the milkmaid herself, and all fell on the china ground with a great clatter. Dorothy was shocked to see that the cow had broken her leg off, and that the pail was lying in several small pieces, while the poor milkmaid had a nick in her left elbow. "There!" cried the milkmaid angrily. "See what you have done! My cow has broken her leg, and I must take her to the mender's shop and have it glued on again. What do you mean by coming here and frightening my cow?" "I'm very sorry," returned Dorothy. "Please forgive us." But the pretty milkmaid was much too vexed to make any answer. She picked up the leg sulkily and led her cow away, the poor animal limping on three legs. As she left them the milkmaid cast many reproachful glances over her shoulder at the clumsy strangers, holding her nicked elbow close to her side. Dorothy was quite grieved at this mishap. "We must be very careful here," said the kind-hearted Woodman, "or we may hurt these pretty little people so they will never get over it." A little farther on Dorothy met a most beautifully dressed young Princess, who stopped short as she saw the strangers and started to run away. Dorothy wanted to see more of the Princess, so she ran after her. But the china girl cried out: "Don't chase me! Don't chase me!" She had such a frightened little voice that Dorothy stopped and said, "Why not?" "Because," answered the Princess, also stopping, a safe distance away, "if I run I may fall down and break myself." "But could you not be mended?" asked the girl. "Oh, yes; but one is never so pretty after being mended, you know," replied the Princess. "I suppose not," said Dorothy. "Now there is Mr. Joker, one of our clowns," continued the china lady, "who is always trying to stand upon his head. He has broken himself so often that he is mended in a hundred places, and doesn't look at all pretty. Here he comes now, so you can see for yourself." Indeed, a jolly little clown came walking toward them, and Dorothy could see that in spite of his pretty clothes of red and yellow and green he was completely covered with cracks, running every which way and showing plainly that he had been mended in many places. The Clown put his hands in his pockets, and after puffing out his cheeks and nodding his head at them saucily, he said: "My lady fair, Why do you stare At poor old Mr. Joker? You're quite as stiff And prim as if You'd eaten up a poker!" "Be quiet, sir!" said the Princess. "Can't you see these are strangers, and should be treated with respect?" "Well, that's respect, I expect," declared the Clown, and immediately stood upon his head. "Don't mind Mr. Joker," said the Princess to Dorothy. "He is considerably cracked in his head, and that makes him foolish." "Oh, I don't mind him a bit," said Dorothy. "But you are so beautiful," she continued, "that I am sure I could love you dearly. Won't you let me carry you back to Kansas, and stand you on Aunt Em's mantel? I could carry you in my basket." "That would make me very unhappy," answered the china Princess. "You see, here in our country we live contentedly, and can talk and move around as we please. But whenever any of us are taken away our joints at once stiffen, and we can only stand straight and look pretty. Of course that is all that is expected of us when we are on mantels and cabinets and drawing-room tables, but our lives are much pleasanter here in our own country." "I would not make you unhappy for all the world!" exclaimed Dorothy. "So I'll just say good-bye." "Good-bye," replied the Princess. They walked carefully through the china country. The little animals and all the people scampered out of their way, fearing the strangers would break them, and after an hour or so the travelers reached the other side of the country and came to another china wall. It was not so high as the first, however, and by standing upon the Lion's back they all managed to scramble to the top. Then the Lion gathered his legs under him and jumped on the wall; but just as he jumped, he upset a china church with his tail and smashed it all to pieces. "That was too bad," said Dorothy, "but really I think we were lucky in not doing these little people more harm than breaking a cow's leg and a church. They are all so brittle!" "They are, indeed," said the Scarecrow, "and I am thankful I am made of straw and cannot be easily damaged. There are worse things in the world than being a Scarecrow." # Chapter XXI The Lion Becomes the King of Beasts After climbing down from the china wall the travelers found themselves in a disagreeable country, full of bogs and marshes and covered with tall, rank grass. It was difficult to walk without falling into muddy holes, for the grass was so thick that it hid them from sight. However, by carefully picking their way, they got safely along until they reached solid ground. But here the country seemed wilder than ever, and after a long and tiresome walk through the underbrush they entered another forest, where the trees were bigger and older than any they had ever seen. "This forest is perfectly delightful," declared the Lion, looking around him with joy. "Never have I seen a more beautiful place." "It seems gloomy," said the Scarecrow. "Not a bit of it," answered the Lion. "I should like to live here all my life. See how soft the dried leaves are under your feet and how rich and green the moss is that clings to these old trees. Surely no wild beast could wish a pleasanter home." "Perhaps there are wild beasts in the forest now," said Dorothy. "I suppose there are," returned the Lion, "but I do not see any of them about." They walked through the forest until it became too dark to go any farther. Dorothy and Toto and the Lion lay down to sleep, while the Woodman and the Scarecrow kept watch over them as usual. When morning came, they started again. Before they had gone far they heard a low rumble, as of the growling of many wild animals. Toto whimpered a little, but none of the others was frightened, and they kept along the well-trodden path until they came to an opening in the wood, in which were gathered hundreds of beasts of every variety. There were tigers and elephants and bears and wolves and foxes and all the others in the natural history, and for a moment Dorothy was afraid. But the Lion explained that the animals were holding a meeting, and he judged by their snarling and growling that they were in great trouble. As he spoke several of the beasts caught sight of him, and at once the great assemblage hushed as if by magic. The biggest of the tigers came up to the Lion and bowed, saying: "Welcome, O King of Beasts! You have come in good time to fight our enemy and bring peace to all the animals of the forest once more." "What is your trouble?" asked the Lion quietly. "We are all threatened," answered the tiger, "by a fierce enemy which has lately come into this forest. It is a most tremendous monster, like a great spider, with a body as big as an elephant and legs as long as a tree trunk. It has eight of these long legs, and as the monster crawls through the forest he seizes an animal with a leg and drags it to his mouth, where he eats it as a spider does a fly. Not one of us is safe while this fierce creature is alive, and we had called a meeting to decide how to take care of ourselves when you came among us." The Lion thought for a moment. "Are there any other lions in this forest?" he asked. "No; there were some, but the monster has eaten them all. And, besides, they were none of them nearly so large and brave as you." "If I put an end to your enemy, will you bow down to me and obey me as King of the Forest?" inquired the Lion. "We will do that gladly," returned the tiger; and all the other beasts roared with a mighty roar: "We will!" "Where is this great spider of yours now?" asked the Lion. "Yonder, among the oak trees," said the tiger, pointing with his forefoot. "Take good care of these friends of mine," said the Lion, "and I will go at once to fight the monster." He bade his comrades good-bye and marched proudly away to do battle with the enemy. The great spider was lying asleep when the Lion found him, and it looked so ugly that its foe turned up his nose in disgust. Its legs were quite as long as the tiger had said, and its body covered with coarse black hair. It had a great mouth, with a row of sharp teeth a foot long; but its head was joined to the pudgy body by a neck as slender as a wasp's waist. This gave the Lion a hint of the best way to attack the creature, and as he knew it was easier to fight it asleep than awake, he gave a great spring and landed directly upon the monster's back. Then, with one blow of his heavy paw, all armed with sharp claws, he knocked the spider's head from its body. Jumping down, he watched it until the long legs stopped wiggling, when he knew it was quite dead. The Lion went back to the opening where the beasts of the forest were waiting for him and said proudly: "You need fear your enemy no longer." Then the beasts bowed down to the Lion as their King, and he promised to come back and rule over them as soon as Dorothy was safely on her way to Kansas. # Chapter XXII The Country of the Quadlings The four travelers passed through the rest of the forest in safety, and when they came out from its gloom saw before them a steep hill, covered from top to bottom with great pieces of rock. "That will be a hard climb," said the Scarecrow, "but we must get over the hill, nevertheless." So he led the way and the others followed. They had nearly reached the first rock when they heard a rough voice cry out, "Keep back!" "Who are you?" asked the Scarecrow. Then a head showed itself over the rock and the same voice said, "This hill belongs to us, and we don't allow anyone to cross it." "But we must cross it," said the Scarecrow. "We're going to the country of the Quadlings." "But you shall not!" replied the voice, and there stepped from behind the rock the strangest man the travelers had ever seen. He was quite short and stout and had a big head, which was flat at the top and supported by a thick neck full of wrinkles. But he had no arms at all, and, seeing this, the Scarecrow did not fear that so helpless a creature could prevent them from climbing the hill. So he said, "I'm sorry not to do as you wish, but we must pass over your hill whether you like it or not," and he walked boldly forward. As quick as lightning the man's head shot forward and his neck stretched out until the top of the head, where it was flat, struck the Scarecrow in the middle and sent him tumbling, over and over, down the hill. Almost as quickly as it came the head went back to the body, and the man laughed harshly as he said, "It isn't as easy as you think!" A chorus of boisterous laughter came from the other rocks, and Dorothy saw hundreds of the armless Hammer-Heads upon the hillside, one behind every rock. The Lion became quite angry at the laughter caused by the Scarecrow's mishap, and giving a loud roar that echoed like thunder, he dashed up the hill. Again a head shot swiftly out, and the great Lion went rolling down the hill as if he had been struck by a cannon ball. Dorothy ran down and helped the Scarecrow to his feet, and the Lion came up to her, feeling rather bruised and sore, and said, "It is useless to fight people with shooting heads; no one can withstand them." "What can we do, then?" she asked. "Call the Winged Monkeys," suggested the Tin Woodman. "You have still the right to command them once more." "Very well," she answered, and putting on the Golden Cap she uttered the magic words. The Monkeys were as prompt as ever, and in a few moments the entire band stood before her. "What are your commands?" inquired the King of the Monkeys, bowing low. "Carry us over the hill to the country of the Quadlings," answered the girl. "It shall be done," said the King, and at once the Winged Monkeys caught the four travelers and Toto up in their arms and flew away with them. As they passed over the hill the Hammer-Heads yelled with vexation, and shot their heads high in the air, but they could not reach the Winged Monkeys, which carried Dorothy and her comrades safely over the hill and set them down in the beautiful country of the Quadlings. "This is the last time you can summon us," said the leader to Dorothy; "so good-bye and good luck to you." "Good-bye, and thank you very much," returned the girl; and the Monkeys rose into the air and were out of sight in a twinkling. The country of the Quadlings seemed rich and happy. There was field upon field of ripening grain, with well-paved roads running between, and pretty rippling brooks with strong bridges across them. The fences and houses and bridges were all painted bright red, just as they had been painted yellow in the country of the Winkies and blue in the country of the Munchkins. The Quadlings themselves, who were short and fat and looked chubby and good-natured, were dressed all in red, which showed bright against the green grass and the yellowing grain. The Monkeys had set them down near a farmhouse, and the four travelers walked up to it and knocked at the door. It was opened by the farmer's wife, and when Dorothy asked for something to eat the woman gave them all a good dinner, with three kinds of cake and four kinds of cookies, and a bowl of milk for Toto. "How far is it to the Castle of Glinda?" asked the child. "It is not a great way," answered the farmer's wife. "Take the road to the South and you will soon reach it." Thanking the good woman, they started afresh and walked by the fields and across the pretty bridges until they saw before them a very beautiful Castle. Before the gates were three young girls, dressed in handsome red uniforms trimmed with gold braid; and as Dorothy approached, one of them said to her: "Why have you come to the South Country?" "To see the Good Witch who rules here," she answered. "Will you take me to her?" "Let me have your name, and I will ask Glinda if she will receive you." They told who they were, and the girl soldier went into the Castle. After a few moments she came back to say that Dorothy and the others were to be admitted at once. # Chapter XXIII Glinda The Good Witch Grants Dorothy's Wish Before they went to see Glinda, however, they were taken to a room of the Castle, where Dorothy washed her face and combed her hair, and the Lion shook the dust out of his mane, and the Scarecrow patted himself into his best shape, and the Woodman polished his tin and oiled his joints. When they were all quite presentable they followed the soldier girl into a big room where the Witch Glinda sat upon a throne of rubies. She was both beautiful and young to their eyes. Her hair was a rich red in color and fell in flowing ringlets over her shoulders. Her dress was pure white but her eyes were blue, and they looked kindly upon the little girl. "What can I do for you, my child?" she asked. Dorothy told the Witch all her story: how the cyclone had brought her to the Land of Oz, how she had found her companions, and of the wonderful adventures they had met with. "My greatest wish now," she added, "is to get back to Kansas, for Aunt Em will surely think something dreadful has happened to me, and that will make her put on mourning; and unless the crops are better this year than they were last, I am sure Uncle Henry cannot afford it." Glinda leaned forward and kissed the sweet, upturned face of the loving little girl. "Bless your dear heart," she said, "I am sure I can tell you of a way to get back to Kansas." Then she added, "But, if I do, you must give me the Golden Cap." "Willingly!" exclaimed Dorothy; "indeed, it is of no use to me now, and when you have it you can command the Winged Monkeys three times." "And I think I shall need their service just those three times," answered Glinda, smiling. Dorothy then gave her the Golden Cap, and the Witch said to the Scarecrow, "What will you do when Dorothy has left us?" "I will return to the Emerald City," he replied, "for Oz has made me its ruler and the people like me. The only thing that worries me is how to cross the hill of the Hammer-Heads." "By means of the Golden Cap I shall command the Winged Monkeys to carry you to the gates of the Emerald City," said Glinda, "for it would be a shame to deprive the people of so wonderful a ruler." "Am I really wonderful?" asked the Scarecrow. "You are unusual," replied Glinda. Turning to the Tin Woodman, she asked, "What will become of you when Dorothy leaves this country?" He leaned on his axe and thought a moment. Then he said, "The Winkies were very kind to me, and wanted me to rule over them after the Wicked Witch died. I am fond of the Winkies, and if I could get back again to the Country of the West, I should like nothing better than to rule over them forever." "My second command to the Winged Monkeys," said Glinda "will be that they carry you safely to the land of the Winkies. Your brain may not be so large to look at as those of the Scarecrow, but you are really brighter than he is—when you are well polished—and I am sure you will rule the Winkies wisely and well." Then the Witch looked at the big, shaggy Lion and asked, "When Dorothy has returned to her own home, what will become of you?" "Over the hill of the Hammer-Heads," he answered, "lies a grand old forest, and all the beasts that live there have made me their King. If I could only get back to this forest, I would pass my life very happily there." "My third command to the Winged Monkeys," said Glinda, "shall be to carry you to your forest. Then, having used up the powers of the Golden Cap, I shall give it to the King of the Monkeys, that he and his band may thereafter be free for evermore." The Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman and the Lion now thanked the Good Witch earnestly for her kindness; and Dorothy exclaimed: "You are certainly as good as you are beautiful! But you have not yet told me how to get back to Kansas." "Your Silver Shoes will carry you over the desert," replied Glinda. "If you had known their power you could have gone back to your Aunt Em the very first day you came to this country." "But then I should not have had my wonderful brains!" cried the Scarecrow. "I might have passed my whole life in the farmer's cornfield." "And I should not have had my lovely heart," said the Tin Woodman. "I might have stood and rusted in the forest till the end of the world." "And I should have lived a coward forever," declared the Lion, "and no beast in all the forest would have had a good word to say to me." "This is all true," said Dorothy, "and I am glad I was of use to these good friends. But now that each of them has had what he most desired, and each is happy in having a kingdom to rule besides, I think I should like to go back to Kansas." "The Silver Shoes," said the Good Witch, "have wonderful powers. And one of the most curious things about them is that they can carry you to any place in the world in three steps, and each step will be made in the wink of an eye. All you have to do is to knock the heels together three times and command the shoes to carry you wherever you wish to go." "If that is so," said the child joyfully, "I will ask them to carry me back to Kansas at once." She threw her arms around the Lion's neck and kissed him, patting his big head tenderly. Then she kissed the Tin Woodman, who was weeping in a way most dangerous to his joints. But she hugged the soft, stuffed body of the Scarecrow in her arms instead of kissing his painted face, and found she was crying herself at this sorrowful parting from her loving comrades. Glinda the Good stepped down from her ruby throne to give the little girl a good-bye kiss, and Dorothy thanked her for all the kindness she had shown to her friends and herself. Dorothy now took Toto up solemnly in her arms, and having said one last good-bye she clapped the heels of her shoes together three times, saying: "Take me home to Aunt Em!" Instantly she was whirling through the air, so swiftly that all she could see or feel was the wind whistling past her ears. The Silver Shoes took but three steps, and then she stopped so suddenly that she rolled over upon the grass several times before she knew where she was. At length, however, she sat up and looked about her. "Good gracious!" she cried. For she was sitting on the broad Kansas prairie, and just before her was the new farmhouse Uncle Henry built after the cyclone had carried away the old one. Uncle Henry was milking the cows in the barnyard, and Toto had jumped out of her arms and was running toward the barn, barking furiously. Dorothy stood up and found she was in her stocking-feet. For the Silver Shoes had fallen off in her flight through the air, and were lost forever in the desert. # Chapter XXIV Home Again Aunt Em had just come out of the house to water the cabbages when she looked up and saw Dorothy running toward her. "My darling child!" she cried, folding the little girl in her arms and covering her face with kisses. "Where in the world did you come from?" "From the Land of Oz," said Dorothy gravely. "And here is Toto, too. And oh, Aunt Em! I'm so glad to be at home again!" THE END
213	--- author: Fergus Hume tags: Detective and mystery stories, Murder, Investigation, Fiction title: 'The Wooden Hand: A Detective Story' summary: ' "The Wooden Hand: A Detective Story" by Fergus Hume is a mystery novel written in the early 20th century. The story centers around Eva Strode, a young woman living in a gloomy cottage known as Misery Castle, as she anticipates the return of her estranged father, Mr. Strode, from Africa. The novel sets the tone for an intriguing exploration of familial tension, love, and the foreboding atmosphere surrounding Eva''s relationship with her father and her budding romance with Allen Hill. At the start of the narrative, the reader is introduced to Eva and her bleak existence with Mrs. Merry, her old nurse, who has a suspicious and pessimistic view of her father''s character. Eva is uncertain about her father''s return after years apart, and her worries are intensified by a horrific dream she has, which suggests her father may come to harm. As the opening unfolds, it becomes clear that the novel will weave between supernatural elements, the dynamics of Eva''s romantic engagement, and the chilling prophecies surrounding her father''s fate. The stage is set for a mystery that will undoubtedly intertwine the dreams with reality, as hints of danger loom. ' word_count: 78588 fiction_type: Novel ... # CHAPTER I: MISERY CASTLE "Ah well, Miss Eva, I "spose your pa'ull come home to spile things as he allays have done. It ain't no wonder, I ses, as you sits moping by the winder, looking double your age, and you only twenty, as has no right to look forty, whatever you may say, though I took my dying alfred-david on its blessed truth." This slightly incoherent and decidedly pessimistic speech was moaned, rather than spoken, by a lean-bodied, hard-faced, staring-eyed woman to a pretty girl, who did not look at the speaker. And small wonder. Mrs. Merry—inappropriate name—was unattractive to the eye. She was angular, grey-skinned, grey-eyed, grey-haired, and had thin, drooping lips almost as grey as the rest of her. In her black stuff gown—she invariably wore the most funereal dresses—with uneasy hands folded under a coarse apron, she stood before Eva Strode, uttering lamentations worthy of Jeremiah at his worst. But such dumpishness was characteristic of the woman. She delighted in looking on the black side of things, and the blacker they were, the more she relished them. Out of wrong-doing, and grief and things awry, she extracted a queer sort of pleasure, and felt never so happy as when the worst came to the worst. It seemed unfit that such a walking pageant of woe should be called Merry. Eva, already depressed by the voice and sentiment of this lamentable dame, continued to look at the gaudy hollyhocks, even while she answered calmly, "I expect my father is the same as he was when he went to South Africa five years ago. I don't hope to find him an angel. I am certain he has not changed." "If you're thinking of black angels," said the lively Merry, "you can have satisfactions from thinking him Beelzebub, for him he are." "Don't call my father names. It does no good, Mrs. Merry." "Beg pardon, miss, but it do relieve the heart and temper. And I will call him a leper, if that's a name, seeing as he'll never change his spots, however persuaded." "What's the time?" Mrs. Merry peered into the dial of a clock on the mantelpiece. "You might call it six, Miss Eva, and a lovely evening it is, though rain may spile it unexpected. Your pa "ull be seated at the table in the next room at eight, let us hope, if nothing do happen to him, and I do pray on my bended knees, Miss Eva, as he won't growl at the meal, his habit allays when your poor dear ma—her ladyship was alive. Ah well," said Mrs. Merry with emphasis, "_she's_ an angel now, and your pa ain't likely to trouble her again." "Why, don't you think my father may come home? I mean, why do you fancy anything may happen to him?" "Oh, I ain't got no cause, but what you might call the uncertainties of this vale of tears, Miss Eva. He have to drive ten mile here from the Westhaven station, and there's tramps about them lonely roads. Coming from South Africa, your pa "ull naturally have diamonds to tempt the poor." "I don't know what he has got," said Eva rather pettishly. "And no one, save you and me, know he is returning from Africa." "No one, Miss Eva?" questioned the woman significantly. Miss Strode coloured. "I told Mr. Hill." "And he told his pa, and his pa, who have a long tongue, told all the village, I don't doubt. If ever there was a man as fiddled away his days in silliness," cried Merry, "it's that pink and white jelly-fish as you call Hills." "Hill," corrected Miss Strode; then added colouring: "His son doesn't take after him." "No," admitted the other grudgingly, "I will say as Mr. Allen is a tight lad. His mother gave him her blood and sense and looks; not that I say he's worthy of you, Miss Eva." "Mrs. Merry," said Eva quietly, "you let your tongue run on too freely about my friends." "Not the father Hills, if I die in saying it. He's no friend of yours, seeing he's your pa's; and as to Mr. Allen, I never had a sweetheart as I called friend, when you could call him something better." Eva took no notice of this speech, but continued, "You are my old nurse, Mrs. Merry, and I allow you to talk openly." "For your good, Miss Eva," put in Merry. "For my good, I know," said the girl; "but you must not run down Allen's father or mine." "As to _his_ father, I say nothing but that he's a drivelling jelly-fish," said Mrs. Merry, who would not be suppressed; "but your own pa I know, worse luck, and I don't think much of him as a man, whatever I say about his being Beelzebub, which he is. Fifty years and more he is, fine-looking at that, though wickedness is in his aching bones. Not that I know of their aching," explained Mrs. Merry, "but if sin would make "em smart, ache they do. You've been happy with me, Miss Eva, dear, in spite of a humble roof and your poor ma's death, four and a half year back. But your pa's come home to make trouble. Satan let loose is what I call him, and if I could stop his coming by twisting his wicked neck, I would." "Mrs. Merry!" Eva rose quickly and flushed. "You forget yourself." "There," said Mrs. Merry, casting up her eyes; "and I fed her with my own milk." Eva, who was tenderly attached to the angular, dismal, chattering woman, could not withstand this remark. "Dear Nanny," she said, comforting the wounded heart, "I know you mean well, but my father _is_ my father after all." "Worse luck, so he is," sobbed Mrs. Merry, feeling for Eva's hand. "I wish to think of him as kindly as I can, and——" "Miracles won't make you do that," interrupted the woman, dropping her apron from her eyes, and glaring. "Miss Eva, I knew your pa when he was a bad boy, both him and me being neighbours, as you might say, though I did live in a cottage and he in a Manor House not two mile from here. He and that jelly-fish of a Hills were always together doing mischief, and setting neighbours by the ears, though I do say as your pa, being masterful, led that jelly-fish away. Then your pa ran away with Lady Jane Delham, your ma, as is dead, and treated her shameful. She come here to me, as an old friend, for friend I was, tho' humble," sobbed Mrs. Merry weeping again, "and you were born. Then your pa takes you away and I never set eyes on you and my lady till five years ago when he brought you here. To settle down and make you happy? No! not he. Away he goes gallivanting to South Africa where the blacks are, leaving a lady born and bred and his daughter just a bud, meaning yourself, to live with a common woman like me!" "I have been very happy, Nanny, and my mother was happy also, when she was alive." "Ah," said Mrs. Merry bitterly, "a queer sort of happiness, to be that way when your husband goes. I've had a trial myself in Merry, who's dead, and gone, I hope, where you'll find your pa will join him. But you'll see, Miss Eva, as your pa will come and stop your marrying Mr. Allen." "I think that's very likely," said Eva sadly. "What," said Mrs. Merry under her breath, and rising, "he's at it already is he? I thought so." "I received a letter from him the other day," explained Eva; "knowing your prejudice against my father, I said nothing." "Me not to be trusted, I "spose, Miss Eva?" was the comment. "Nonsense. I trust you with anything." "And well you may. I fed you with my heart's blood, and foster sister you are to my boy Cain, though, Lord knows, he's as bad as his father was before him—the gipsy whelp that he is. Not on my side, though," cried Mrs. Merry. "I'm true English, and why I ever took up with a Romany rascal like Giles Merry, I don't know. But he's dead, I hope he is, though I never can be sure, me not knowing where's his grave. Come now," Mrs. Merry gave her face a wipe with the apron, "I'm talking of my own troubles, when yours is about. That letter——?" "It is one in answer to mine. I wrote to Cape Town three months ago telling my father that I was engaged to Allen Hill. He wrote the other day—a week ago—from Southampton, saying he would not permit the marriage to take place, and bade me wait till he came home." "Trouble! trouble," said Mrs. Merry, rocking; "I know the man. Ah, my dear, don't talk. I'm thinking for your good." It was hot outside, though the sun was sinking and the cool twilight shadowed the earth. The hollyhocks, red and blue and white and yellow, a blaze of colour, were drooping their heads in the warm air, and the lawn looked brown and burnt for want of rain. Not a breath of wind moved the dusty sycamore trees which divided the cottage from the high-road, and the crimson hue of the setting sun steeped everything in its sinister dye. Perhaps it was this uncanny evening that made Eva Strode view the home-coming of her father with such uneasiness, and the hostility and forebodings of Mrs. Merry did not tend to reassure her. With her hand on that dismal prophetess's shoulder, she stood silently looking out on the panting world bathed in the ruddy light. It was as though she saw the future through a rain of blood. Misery Castle was the name of the cottage, and Mrs. Merry was responsible for the dreary appellation. Her life had been hard and was hard. Her husband had left her, and her son, following in his father's footsteps, was almost constantly absent in London, in more than questionable company. Mrs. Merry therefore called the cottage by as dismal a name as she could think of. Even Eva, who protested against the name, could not get the steadfastly dreary woman to change it. "Misery dwells in it, my dear lamb," said Mrs. Merry, "and Misery it shall be called. Castle it ain't from the building of it, but Castle it is, seeing the lot of sorrow that's in it. Buckingham Palace and the Tower wouldn't hold more, and more there will be, when that man comes home with his wicked sneering face, father though he be to you, my poor young lady." It was a delightful cottage, with whitewashed walls covered with creepers, and a thatched roof, grey with wind and weather and the bleaching of the sun. The rustic porch was brilliant with red roses, and well-kept garden-beds bloomed with rainbow-hued flowers seasonable to the August month. To the right this domain was divided from a wide and gorse-covered common by an ancient wall of mellow-hued brick, useful for the training of peach-trees: to the left a low hedge, with unexpected gaps, ran between the flower-beds and a well-stocked orchard. This last extended some distance, and ended in a sunken fence, almost buried in nettles and rank weeds. Beyond stretched several meadows, in which cows wandered, and further still, appeared fields of wheat, comfortable farm-houses, clumps and lines of trees, until the whole fertile expanse terminated at the foot of low hills, so far away that they looked blue and misty. A smiling corn-land, quite Arcadian in its peace and beauty. Along the front of the cottage and under the dusty sycamore trees ran a high-road which struck straightly across the common, slipped by Misery Castle, and took its way crookedly through Wargrove village, whence it emerged to twist and turn for miles towards the distant hills and still more distant London town. Being the king's highway it was haunted by tramps, by holiday vans filled with joyous folk, and by fashionable motor-cars spinning noisily at illegal speed. But neither motor-cars, nor vans, nor tramps, nor holidaymakers stopped at Wargrove village, unless for a moment or two at the one public-house on thirsty days. These went on ten miles further across the common to Westhaven, a rising watering-place at the Thames mouth. So it will be seen that the publicity of the highway afforded Eva a chance of seeing the world on wheels, and diversified her somewhat dull existence. And it was dull, until a few months ago. Then Allen Hill came home from South America, where he had been looking after mines. The young people met and subsequently fell in love. Three months before the expected arrival of Mr. Strode they became engaged with the consent of Allen's parents but without the knowledge of Eva's father. However, being a dutiful daughter to a man who did not deserve such a blessing, she wrote and explained herself. The reply was the letter, mention of which she had made to Mrs. Merry. And Mrs. Merry prognosticated trouble therefrom. "I know the man—I know the man," moaned Mrs. Merry, rocking herself, "he'll marry you to some one else for his ambitions, drat him." "That he shall never do," flashed out Eva. "You have plenty of spirit, Miss Eva, but he'll wear you out. He wore out Lady Jane, your ma, as is now where he will never go. And was it this that set you moping by the winder, my dear lamb?" Eva returned to her former seat. "Not altogether." She hesitated, and then looked anxiously at her old nurse, who stood with folded arms frowning and rigid. "You believe in dreams, Mrs. Merry?" "As I believe that Merry was a scoundrel, and that my boy will take after him, as he does," said the woman, nodding sadly; "misery ain't surer nor dreams, nor taxes which allays come bringing sorrow and summonses with "em. So you dreamed last night?" "Yes. You know I went to bed early. I fell asleep at eight and woke at nine, trembling." "Ah!" Mrs. Merry drew nearer—"'twas a baddish dream?" "A horrible dream—it was, I think, two dreams." "Tell it to me," said the old woman, her eyes glittering. Eva struck her closed fist on the sill. "No," she cried passionately, "it's impossible to tell it. I wish to forget." "You'll remember it well enough when the truth comes." "Do you think anything will come of it?" "It's as sure as sure," said Mrs. Merry. Eva, less superstitious, laughed uneasily, and tried to turn the subject. "Allen will be at the gate soon," she said. "I'm walking to the common with him for an hour." "Ah well," droned Mrs. Merry, "take your walk, Miss Eva. You won't have another when _he_ comes home." "Nurse!" Eva stamped her foot and frowned. "You make my father out to be a——" "Whatever I make him out to be, I'll never get near what he is," said Mrs. Merry viciously. "I hate him. He ruined my Giles, not as Giles was much to boast of. Still, I could have talked him into being a stay-at-home, if your pa—there—there—let him be, say I. If his cup is full he'll never come home alive." Eva started and grew deathly pale. "My dream—my dream," she said. "Ah yes!" Mrs. Merry advanced and clutched the girl's wrist. "You saw him dead or dying, eh, eh?" "Don't, nurse; you frighten me," said Miss Strode, releasing her wrist; then she thought for a moment. "My dream or dreams," said she after a pause, went something after this fashion. "I thought I was in the Red Deeps——" "Five miles from here," muttered Mrs. Merry, hugging herself. "I know the place—who better? Red clay and a splash of water, however dry." "Ah, you are thinking of the spring!" said Eva starting; "it was there I saw—oh no—no," and she closed her eyes to shut out the sight. "What was it—what was it?" asked Mrs. Merry eagerly; "death?" "He was lying face downward in the moist red clay beside the spring of the Red Deeps!" "Who was lying?" "I don't know. I seemed to see the place and the figure of a man in dark clothes lying face downward, with his hands twisted helplessly in the rank grasses. I heard a laugh too—a cruel laugh, but in my dream I saw no one else. Only the dead man, face downward," and she stared at the carpet as though she saw the gruesome sight again. "How do you know "twas your father's corpse?" croaked the old woman. "I didn't think it was—I didn't tell you it was," panted Eva, flushing and paling with conflicting emotions. "Ah," interpreted Mrs. Merry, "some one he killed, perhaps." "How dare you—how dare——? Nurse," she burst out, "I believe it _was_ my father lying dead there—I saw a white-gloved right hand." "Your pa, sure enough," said the woman grimly. "His wooden hand, eh? I know the hand. He struck me with it once. Struck me," she cried, rising and glaring, "with my own husband standing by. But Giles was never a man. So your pa was dead, wooden hand and all, in the Red Deeps? Did you go there to see, this day?" "No, no," Eva shuddered, "it was only a dream." "Part of one, you said." Miss Strode nodded. "After I saw the body and the white glove on the wooden hand glimmering in the twilight—for twilight it was in my dream—I seemed to sink into darkness, and to be back in my bed—yes, in my bed in the room across the passage." "Ah! you woke then?" said Mrs. Merry, disappointed. "No, I swear I was not awake. I was in my bed asleep, dreaming, for I heard footsteps—many footsteps come to the door—to the front door, then five knocks——" "Five," said the woman, surprised. "Five knocks. One hard and four soft. Then a voice came telling me to take in the body. I woke with a cry, and found it was just after nine o'clock." "Well, well," chuckled the old woman, "if Robert Strode is dead——" "You can't be sure of that," said Eva fiercely, and regretted telling this dismal woman her dream. "You saw the gloved hand—the wooden hand?" "Bah! It is only a dream." "Dreams come true. I've known "em to come true," said Mrs. Merry, rising, "and to-morrow I go to the Red Deeps to see." "But my father comes home to-night." "No," said Mrs. Merry, with the mien of a sibyl, "he'll never come home agin to the house where he broke a woman's heart." And she went out laughing and muttering of the Red Deeps. # CHAPTER II: LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM Eva Strode was an extremely pretty blonde. She had golden-brown hair which glistened in the sunshine, hazel eyes somewhat meditative in expression, and a complexion that Mrs. Merry, in her odd way, compared to mixed roses and milk. Her nose was delicate and straight, her mouth charming and sensitive, and if it drooped a trifle at the corners, she had good cause for so melancholy a twist. Her figure was so graceful that envious women, less favoured by Nature, suggested padding: but these same depreciators could say nothing against her hands and feet, which were exquisitely formed. Usually Eva, cunning enough to know that her beauty needed no adornment, dressed in the very plainest fashions. At the present moment she was arrayed in a pale blue dress of some coarse material, and wore a large straw hat swathed in azure tulle. An effective touch of more pronounced colour appeared in the knot of red ribbon at her throat and the bunch of crimson roses thrust into her waistband. She looked dainty, well-bred, charming, and even the malignant female eye would have found little to blame. But the female eye generally did find fault. Eva was much too pretty a girl to escape remark. This vision of loveliness walked demurely down the garden path to gladden the eyes of a young man lingering at the gate. He, eagerly expecting the descent of Venus, quickly removed his Panama hat, and looked at the goddess with admiring eyes, eloquent of unspoken praise. Eva, feeling, rather than meeting, their fervid gaze, halted within the barrier and blushed as red as the roses in her belt. Then she ventured to look at her lover, and smiled a welcome. Certainly the lover was not unworthy of the lass, so far as looks went. Allen Hill was as dark as Eva was fair. Indeed, he more resembled a Spaniard than an Englishman. His oval face, smooth and clean-shaven save for a small, smartly pointed moustache, was swarthy, his eyes were wonderfully black and large, and his closely clipped hair might be compared to the hue of the raven's wing. His slim figure was clothed in white flannels, so well cut and spotless that they conveyed a suspicion that the young gentleman was something of a dandy. He looked more like a poet than a mining engineer. Yet an engineer he was, and had travelled over the greater part of the world with his eyes open. These looked languid enough as a rule, but they could blaze with a fighting light, as his associates in the lands at the back of Beyond knew. At thirty years of age Allen knew quite as much as was good for him, and knew also how to utilise his knowledge. In many lands he had seen fair women, but none had captured his heart as had this dewy, fragrant English rose. Six months earlier the two had met at a garden party. Allen came and saw, and Eva—as women always do—conquered. The engineer's heart, being tinder, caught fire easily and began to blaze with a fiery flame not to be extinguished by reason. Eva herself, not being tame either, rather liked this Sabine courtship, and did not leave Allen long in doubt as to the way in which she regarded his audacious advances. The result was that in a few months they became engaged, and the flower-time of their love came almost as speedily as did that of Romeo and Juliet. But now, as Eva well knew, the common sense of the world was about to chill their ardour. She had this very evening to inform this eager, whole-hearted lover that her father refused to sanction the engagement. No easy task, seeing she loved the man with her whole heart and soul. "My dear, my love," murmured Allen, as the gate closed behind the girl: and he would have embraced her in the public road, but that she dexterously evaded his widely spread arms. "Not here—not here," she whispered hurriedly, and with a fine colour; "it's too public, you stupid boy." The stupid boy, cheated of his treat, glared up and down the road, "I don't see any one," he grumbled. "Eyes at those windows," said Eva, waving a slim hand towards a row of thatched cottages, "and tongues also." "I am not ashamed of our love. I wish the whole world knew of it." "The whole world probably does," rejoined Miss Strode, a trifle drily; "if any one saw you with those eyes and that look, and—oh, you ridiculous boy!" and she shook her finger at him. "Oh, you coquette. Can't we——" "On the common we can talk, if that is what you mean," said Eva, turning away to trip up the dusty road; "the common," she cried with a backward look which should have drawn the young man after her at a fine pace. But Allen lingered for a moment. Deeply in love as he was, he had his own ideas regarding the management of the fair sex. He knew that when a woman is sure of her swain she is apt to be exacting, so as to check his ardour. On the other hand, if the swain hangs back, the maid comes forward with winsome looks. Hitherto, Allen had been all passion and surrender. Now he thought he would tease Eva a little, by not coming immediately to her beck and call. Therefore, while she skipped ahead—and without looking back, so sure was she that Allen followed—the young man lighted a cigarette, and when the smoke perfumed the air, looked everywhere save in the direction he desired to look. North, south, west looked Allen, but never east, where could be seen the rising sun of his love. But passion proved to be stronger than principle, and finally his eyes fastened on the shadowy figure of Eva pausing on the edge of the common. She was looking back now, and beckoned with persuasive finger. Allen made a step forward to follow the siren, then halted. A strange feeling took possession of him. Allen's mother was Scotch, and having the impressionable Celtic nature, he was quick to feel the influences of that unseen world which lies all round, invisible to dull eyes, and unfelt by material souls. At the moment, in spite of the warmth, he had what the Scotch call a "grue," and shivered where he stood. At his back sank the sun red and angry, peering through lines of black cloud suggestive of prison bars. The scarlet light flooded the landscape in a sinister manner, and dyed the flitting figure of Eva in crimson hues. She looked as though bathed in blood, and—as she was now speeding towards the trysting place—as though she fled from justice. Also, she ran from the red west into the gloom of the east, already shadowy with the coming night. Was there no parable in this? considered Allen, and shivered again. "Indigestion," thought Allen, striving to throw off that weird feeling and trying to explain it in the most commonplace way. But he knew well that he had never in his life suffered from indigestion, and that the feeling—which had now passed away—was a hint of coming evil. "To me, I hope," murmured the young man, stepping out briskly, "not to Eva, poor darling." When he joined the girl, he was quite his old fervid self, and felt his premonitions pass away in the charm of the hour. Even the sunset was less scarlet and more of a rosy tint like his new thoughts. He threw himself at the feet of his beloved, cast away his cigarette, and took her hand within his. For the moment Dan Cupid was king. But was he? Eva did not appear to think so. She allowed her hand to remain in Allen's warm grip, but he felt no responsive pressure. The two were seated on a rustic bench within a circle of flowering gorse. The sward was green and smooth, worthy of the dancing feet of Titania's elves, and perhaps it might have been one of their ballrooms the lovers had invaded. In that case it would certainly prove unhappy ground to them. The fairies do not like mortals, however loving, who intrude on their privacy. The elves, however, not yet awakened by the moon, made no sign, and in that still place no sound could be heard. Overhead was the flushed sky, underfoot the emerald sward, and there were the lovers supplied with an admirable stage on which to play their parts. Allen was willing enough, and looked up adoringly into the face of his Juliet. But Eva's gaze was fixed on the orange-hued blossom of the gorse with a far-away look. And when she spoke, it certainly was not of love. "Allen," she said, in a calm, level voice, "we have known each other for nearly a year." "Call it a century," said Allen, kissing her hand. "I love you and you love me. Why talk of time? Love like ours lives in eternity." "Hum," said Eva, although the ejaculation was not a pretty one, the question is, "Will it live at all?" "Eva!" He raised himself on his elbow and stared; but the girl continued to speak without looking at him. "Do you know my history, Allen?" she asked; then without waiting for his reply, went on in a passionless way: "My father is the last Strode of Wargrove. The manor house of our race is only a few miles away, and there the Strodes lived for centuries. My grandfather, however, was an extravagant man, and lost all the money. When my father returned from Oxford to take up his position in the world, he found that his father was dead and that the estate would have to be sold to pay the debts. In that way, Allen, the manor passed from our family." "I have heard something of this, Eva," said the perplexed young man; "but why waste time in telling me of it now?" "You will find the time will not be wasted," rejoined Eva, glancing down with something like pity; "let me go on. My father, brought up in a luxurious way, took what money there was left and went to seek work in London. He speculated, and knowing nothing about speculation he lost everything. Then your father, who was his friend at school and college, lent him some thousands, and my father, to better his position, married Lady Jane Delham, daughter of the Earl of Ipsen. I understand that the money which she brought with her, was lost also—in speculation." "But why did your father speculate so much?" asked Allen. "His one desire was to buy back the manor," said Eva. "He has much pride of race, and wants to end his days under the roof where he was born. But let me go on once more. The money was lost, and Lord Ipsen died. His title went to a distant cousin, who did not like my mother, consequently there was no chance of my father getting more money in that quarter. I was born under Mrs. Merry's roof; but till the age of seven I lived with my mother in a small Hampstead cottage. My father went on speculating. Sometimes he made money, at other times he lost it; but always, he followed the will-o'-the-wisp of fortune, hoping to get back his old home. He then went to South America, and took my mother with him. I was placed at school, and until I was fifteen I never saw my parents." "Poor Eva, how lonely you must have been!" "I _was_ lonely, and yet—having seen so little of my parents I don't know that I missed them so very much. My father stopped in Peru till I was fifteen, and my mother with him. He came back poor, but with sufficient money to speculate again. He therefore placed my mother and me in Misery Castle." "Ridiculous name," muttered Allen uneasily. "A very appropriate name," said Eva with some bitterness, seeing how unhappy Mrs. Merry is. "She had a bad husband and has a bad son. My mother was also unhappy. Meeting her again after all those years, I did my best to comfort her. But her heart was broken." "Your father?" asked Allen in a low voice. "Who else?" replied Eva, flushing, and the water came to her eyes. "Oh! Allen, I do not wish to speak ill, or to think ill, of my father; but—no," she broke off, suppressing herself. "I cannot speak from what I have seen, and I judge no one, let alone my father, on what I have heard. Mrs. Merry thinks badly of my father, and my poor mother—ah! my poor mother! she said as little as she could. But her heart was broken, Allen; she died of a broken heart and a crushed spirit. I lost her five months after my father went to seek his fortune in South Africa, and since then I have lived alone with Mrs. Merry." "Poor Eva!" said Hill tenderly, and repossessed himself of the hand which she had withdrawn. "But Mrs. Merry is good to you?" "Very—very good," said Miss Strode with emphasis. "She was my nurse and foster-mother, Allen. When I was born my father came here for a time before taking the Hampstead cottage. Well, Allen, that is my history. My father all these five years has paid Mrs. Merry for my board and lodging, and has sent home pocket-money for me. But all that time he has never written me a tender. letter." "Not even when his wife died?" "No. He wrote a few words of sympathy, but not those which a father should have written to a motherless girl. From what I know of him, and from what Mrs. Merry says, he is a hard, cold, self-concentrated man. I dread his coming more than I can tell you, Allen." "If he ever does come," said the young man softly. Eva started and looked down. "What do you mean by that?" she asked anxiously. Allen met her gaze frankly and laughed. "Oh, you need not disturb yourself, my dear," he said with a shrug, "only you know my father and yours were always chums. Why, I don't know, as my father is certainly not the kind of man to suit such a one as you describe Mr. Strode to be. But they were chums at school and college, and my father knows a lot about yours. When I mentioned that your father was expected to-night, my father—it was at breakfast—said that Mr. Strode might not arrive after all. I did not ask him what he meant." "Could Mr. Hill have heard from my father?" "I can't say, and even if he did, I don't know why my father should suggest that Mr. Strode would not come home. But, Eva, you are pale." "I feel pale," she said in a low voice. "Allen, sit beside me. I want to talk seriously—to tell you a dream." The young man, nothing loath, promptly seated himself by her side and slipped a strong, tender arm round her slender waist. Eva's heart beat stronger when she found herself in such an assured haven. It seemed as though Allen, noble and firm and loving, would be able to shelter her from the coming storm. "And the storm will come," she said aloud. "What is that?" asked Hill, not catching her meaning. "It is my dream," she answered; and then, with her head on his shoulder, she told about her vision of the night. Allen was inclined to make light of it. "You superstitious little darling," he said fondly, "the dream is easily accounted for. You were thinking of your father, and, being anxious about his arrival, dreamed what you did." Eva released herself, rather offended. "I was thinking of my father, I admit," she said, "but I was not at all anxious. My father has been all over the world, and in wild parts, so he can look after himself very well. Besides, I never thought of the Red Deeps. And remember, Allen, I saw the right hand, gloved." "That would seem to intimate that the dead man you saw in your dream was Mr. Strode," said Allen, kissing her; "but it's all nonsense, Eva." "You don't think anything will happen?" she demanded, anxious to be reassured after Mrs. Merry's gloomy talk. "No, I don't. I have known of lots of dreams quite vivid which never came true. I'm not a scientific chap," added Allen, laughing, "or I would be able to prove that this dream is only a reflex of your waking thoughts. Mr. Strode will arrive all right." "And then we must part," sighed Eva. This time it was Hill who started, and his face flushed. "I don't quite understand." "You will soon. I told you the history of my life, Allen, so that I might lead up to this. I wrote to my father at Cape Town, telling him I loved you, and that Mr. Hill was pleased we should be engaged." "My father was delighted," put in Allen quickly. "So I said. My father never replied to my letter save in sending a cablegram stating he was coming home in the _Dunoon Castle_. When he was at Southampton, he wrote, saying I was not to think of marrying you, and that he would tell me of his plans for my future when he returned to Wargrove. He decided to remain for a week in London, and yesterday he wired that he was coming home to-night. So you see, Allen," Eva rested her head on her lover's shoulder, "he will part us." "No!" cried Hill, rising and looking very tall and strong and determined, "he will never do that. What reason——" "My father is a man who will refuse to give his reason." "Not to me," rejoined the other hotly. "Mr. Strode will not dare to dismiss me in so easy and off-hand a fashion. I love you, Eva, and I marry you, whatever your father may say. Unless," he caught her hands as she rose, and stared deep into her eyes, "unless you leave me." "No! no! I never will do that, Allen. Come what may, I'll be true." Then followed an interlude of kisses, and afterwards the two, hand in hand, walked across the common on their way to Misery Castle. It was not seven o'clock, but the twilight was growing darker. "Do you know what your father's plans are?" asked Allen, as they stepped out on to the deserted and dusty road. "No. I know nothing save what I tell you. And my dream——" "Dearest, put the dream out of your head. If it is any comfort to you, I'll go to the Red Deeps to-night. Do you think I'll find a dead body there?" he asked, laughing. "Not if you go before nine o'clock. The dream was at nine last night." "But your father will be home at eight, Eva?" "I hope so," she murmured. "You are so foolishly superstitious," said Allen, pressing her arm which was within his own; "you dear little goose, don't you see that if your father comes to Misery Castle at eight, he can't possibly be lying dead in the Red Deeps at nine. When did you last hear from him, Eva?" "Yesterday morning. He wired that he would be down at eight this evening." "Well then, he was alive then, and is stopping in town on business as you said. He will come to Westhaven by the train arriving at six-thirty and will drive over." "The road passes the Red Deeps," insisted Eva. "How obstinate you are, Eva," said Allen, contracting his forehead; "I tell you what I'll do to set your mind at rest; you know he is alive now?" "Yes, I suppose so. I got that wire yesterday morning." "Well then, I'll set off to the Red Deeps at once, and will get there just at eight. I may meet Mr. Strode coming along in the fly, and if so I'll follow it back to Misery Castle, so as to see him safely home. If I don't, I'll go to the Red Deeps, and if any attack is made on him, I'll be there to give him a hand." "Thank you, Allen. I should be more at ease if you did that." "Then it shall be done," said Allen, kissing her, "but I feel that I am encouraging you in superstitious fancies." "My dream was so vivid." "Pooh. Indigestion." "Then Mr. Hill hinted that my father might not return." "Well then, I'll ask him what he meant, and explain when we meet again." "If we ever do meet," sighed Eva, stopping at the gate. "You will be true to me, Eva?" "Always—always—always. There—there," she kissed him under the friendly shelter of the sycamore and ran indoors. Allen turned on his heel in high spirits, and set out for the Red Deeps. At first he laughed at Eva's dream and Eva's superstition. But as he walked on in the gathering darkness, he felt as though the future also was growing more gloomy. He recalled his own feelings of the girl's dress dappled with blood, and of her flying form. Again he felt the "grue," and cursed himself for an old woman. "I'll find nothing—nothing," he said, trying to laugh. But the shadow of the dream, which was also the shadow of the future, fell upon him darker than ever. # CHAPTER III: THE NE'ER-DO-WEEL Anxious to make the best impression on her father, Eva Strode ran up to her room to put on an evening gown. Mr. Strode supplied her liberally with money, for whatever his faults may have been, he certainly was not mean; therefore she possessed a fairly extensive wardrobe. She did not see Mrs. Merry on entering the cottage, as that good lady was occupied in looking after the dinner in the little back-kitchen. The table was laid, however, and after making herself smart, Eva descended to add a few finishing touches in the shape of flowers. Cheered by the view Allen took of her dream, and still more by the fact that he had gone to the Red Deeps, Eva arranged many roses, red and white, in a great silver bowl which had belonged to her mother. As a matter of fact, Eva had been born in Misery Castle, and being sickly as a baby, had been christened hurriedly in the cottage out of the bowl, an heirloom of the Delham family. Mrs. Merry had taken possession of it, knowing, that if Lady Jane took it away, her husband would speedily turn it into money. Therefore, Mrs. Merry being a faithful guardian, the bowl was still in the cottage, and on this night Eva used it as a centrepiece to the prettily decorated table. And it did look pretty. The cloth was whiter than snow, the silver sparkled and the crystal glittered, while the roses blooming in the massive bowl added a touch of needed colour. There were evidences of Eva's taste in the small dining-room. Mrs. Merry had furnished it, certainly, but Eva had spent much of her pocket-money in decorating the room. Everything was charming and dainty and intensely feminine. Any one could see at a glance that it was a true woman's room. And Eva in her black gauze dress, bare-necked and bare-armed, flitted gracefully about the tiny apartment. Her last act was to light the red-shaded lamp which hung low over the table. The window she left open and the blind up, as the night was hot, and the breeze which cooled the room made the place more bearable. "It's quite pretty," said Eva, standing back against the door to get the effect of the glittering table and the red light and the flowers. "If father is dissatisfied he must be hard to please," she sighed, "and from what Nanny says, I fear he is. A quarter to eight, he'll be here soon. I'd better see when the dinner will be ready." But before doing so, she went to the front door and listened for the sound of wheels. She certainly heard them, but the vehicle was driving towards, and not from, the common. Apparently Mr. Strode was not yet at hand, so she went to the kitchen. To her surprise she heard voices. One was that of Mrs. Merry, querulous as usual, and the other a rich, soft, melodious voice which Eva knew only too well. It was that of her foster-brother Cain. This name was another of Mrs. Merry's eccentricities. Her husband, showing the brute within him a year after marriage, had disillusioned his poor wife very speedily. He was drunk when the boy was born, and still drunk when the boy was christened; Mrs. Merry therefore insisted that the boy would probably take after his father, and requested that the name of Cain should be given to him. The curate objected, but Mrs. Merry being firm and the curate weak, the boy was actually called after Adam's eldest son. Had the rector been at home such a scandal—as he regarded it—would not have occurred, but Mr. Quain was absent on a holiday, and returned to find an addition to his flock in the baby person of Cain Merry. The lad grew up handsome enough, but sufficiently wild and wicked to justify his mother's choice of a name. Yet he had his good moments, and might have improved had not his mother nagged him into wrong-doing. "Well, Cain," said Eva, entering the kitchen, "so you're back?" "Like a bad penny," cried Mrs. Merry, viciously stabbing some potatoes with a fork; "six months he's been away, and——" "And I'd remained longer if I'd thought of getting this welcome, mother," growled Cain sulkily. "But I might have known." He was a remarkably handsome lad of eighteen, almost as dark as Allen Hill. As Mr. Merry had gipsy blood in his veins, it was probable that Cain inherited the nature and looks of some splendid Romany ancestor. With his smooth dark skin, under which the rich red blood mantled, his eyes large and black as night, and clearly-cut features, Cain looked as handsome as a picture. Not even the rough dress he wore, which was that of a labourer, could disguise his fine figure and youthful grace. He looked like a young panther, sleek, beautiful, and dangerous. Cap on head, he leaned against the jamb of the outer door—his mother would not allow him to come further—and seemed a young Apollo, so slim and graceful did he appear. But Mrs. Merry, gesticulating with the fork, had no eye for his good looks. He reminded her too much of the absent Merry, who was just such a splendid outlaw, when he won her to a bitterly regretted marriage. Cain, meeting with so unpleasant a reception, was sulky and inclined to be defiant, until Eva entered. Then he removed his cap, and became wonderfully meek. He was fond of his foster-sister, who could do much with him. "When did you come back, Cain?" she asked. "Ten minutes ago, and mother's been ragging me ever since," he replied; "flesh and blood can't stand it, Miss Eva, I'll go." "No you won't," struck in Mrs. Merry, "you'll stop and give the mother who bore you—worse luck—the pleasure of your company." Cain grinned in a sleepy manner. "Not much pleasure for me." "Nor for me, you great hulking creature," said Mrs. Merry, threatening him with a fork. "I thought you'd grow up to be a comfort to me, but look at you——" "If you thought I'd be a comfort, why did you call me Cain, mother?" "Because I knew what you'd turn out," contradicted Mrs. Merry, "just like your father, oh, dear me, just like him. Have you seen anything of your father, Cain?" "No," said Cain stolidly, "and I don't want to." "That's right, deny the author of your being. Your father, who was always a bad one, left me fifteen years ago, just after you were born. The cottage was not then my own, or he'd never have left me. But there, thank heaven," cried Mrs. Merry, throwing up her eyes to the smoky ceiling, "father didn't die and leave me well off, till Giles went! Since that I've heard nothing of him. He was reported dead——" "You said you heard nothing of him, mother," put in Cain, smiling. "Don't show your teeth in that way at your mother," snapped Mrs. Merry, "what I say, I say, and no mistake. Your father was reported dead, and as he's left me for seven years and more, I could marry again, if I were such a fool. But I haven't, hoping you'd be a comfort to the mother who brought you into the world. But you were always a bad boy, Cain. You played truant from school, you ran away to become a navvy at thirteen, and again and again you came back in rags." "I'm not in rags now," said Cain, restive under this tongue. "Then you must have stolen the clothes," retorted his mother; "I'll be bound you didn't come by them honestly: not as they're much." While this pleasant conversation was going on Eva stood mute. She knew of old how impossible it was to stop Mrs. Merry's tongue, and thought it best to let her talk herself out. But the last speech made Cain laugh, and he was cool enough to wink at Eva. She knew Cain so intimately, and really liked him so much in spite of his wickedness, that she did not take offence, but strove to turn from him the wrathful speech of his mother. "I am sure Cain has turned over a new leaf," she said, smiling. "He's turned over volumes of "em," groaned Mrs. Merry, dashing down a pot on the range, "but each page is worst nor the last. Oh, I know what I'm saying," she went on triumphantly. "I was a farmer's daughter and had three years' schooling, not to speak of having mixed with the aristocracy in the person of your dear ma, Miss Eva, and your own blessed self as is always a lady. But Cain—oh, look at him." "He looks very well," said Eva, "and he looks hungry. Don't you think you might give him a meal, Mrs. Merry?" "Kill the fatted calf, as you might say," suggested Cain impudently. "Calf!" screeched Mrs. Merry, "you're one yourself, Cain, to talk like that with Miss Eva present. Ain't you got no respect?" "Miss Eva knows I mean no harm," said the goaded Cain. "Of course you don't," said Miss Strode; "come, Mrs. Merry, the boy's home for good now." "For bad, you mean." "I'm not home at all," said Cain unexpectedly. "I'm working at Westhaven, but I came over just to see my mother. If she don't want me I can go back to those who do," and he turned to go. "No. Stop," cried Mrs. Merry, whose bark was worse than her bite. "I shan't let a growing lad like you tramp back all them ten miles with a starving inside. Wait till I get this dinner off my mind, and the pair of us will sit down like Christians to eat it." Eva stared and laughed. "You forget nurse: this dinner is for my father. He should be here in a few minutes." Mrs. Merry turned grey. "I ain't forgot your dream, my dear. He'll never eat it for want of breath, nor you for sorrow. Now, Cain——" Miss Strode, who had a temper of her own, stamped a pretty slippered foot imperiously. "Hold your tongue, Mrs. Merry," she cried, the colour rising in her cheeks, "my father will arrive." The old woman glanced at the American clock which stood on the mantelpiece. The small hand pointed to eight. "He ain't come yet." "Cain," said Eva, turning, still flushed, to the lad, "you came along the Westhaven road?" Cain nodded. "Twenty minutes ago, Miss Eva," said he. "Did you see my father? No, you don't remember my father. Did you see a fly coming along?" "No. But then I didn't come along the road all the time. I took a short cut across country, Miss Eva. I'll just have a meal with mother, and then go back to my business." "And what is your business, I'd like to know?" questioned Mrs. Merry sharply; "a fine business it must be to take you from your mother." "I'm in a circus." "What, riding on horses in tights!" cried Mrs. Merry aghast. "No such luck. I'm only a groom. I got the billet when I was in London, and glad enough I was, seeing how hard up I've been. It's Stag's Circus and a good show. I hope you'll come over to Shanton to-morrow, Miss Eva; there's a performance at night, and you'll see some riding. Ah, Miss Lorry can ride a bit!" "Miss who?" asked Eva, who, with the kitchen door open, was straining her ears to hear if Mr. Strode was coming. "Some low female, I'll be bound," snorted Mrs. Merry. "I've seen "em dancing in pink stockings and raddling their brazen cheeks with paint. She's no better than she ought to be, not she, say what you like." Cain grew angry. "You're quite wrong, mother," said he. "Miss Lorry is very much respected. She rides her own horse, White Robin, and has appeared before crowned heads. She's billed as the Queen of the Arena, and is a thing of beauty." "Ha!" said Mrs. Merry sharply, "and you love her. Ho! You that told me you loved that freckle-faced, snub-nosed Jane Wasp, the daughter o' that upsetting Wasp policeman, with his duty-chatter, and——" "I don't love any one," said Cain, putting on his cap; "and if you talk like that I'll go." "To marry a circus rider. Never enter my doors again if you do. I've got this cottage and fifty pounds a year, inherited from my father, to leave, remember." "Dear nurse," said Eva soothingly, "Cain has no idea of marrying." "Miss Lorry wouldn't have me if I had," said Cain sadly, though his black eyes flashed fire; "why, Lord Saltars is after her." "What!" shrieked Mrs. Merry, turning sharply. "Miss Eva's cousin?" Cain looked astonished. "Is he your cousin?" he asked. "Yes, Cain—a distant cousin. He is the eldest son of Lord Ipsen. My mother was the daughter of the last Earl. Is he in Westhaven?" "Yes, miss. He follows the circus everywhere, for love of her." "We don't want to hear about those things," said Mrs. Merry sharply; "leave your Lorries and rubbish alone, and go and wash in my room. I'll get the dinner ready soon, and then we can sit down for a chat." "Another bullying," grumbled Cain, throwing down his cap and preparing to take a seat. But he never did. At that moment there came a long shrill whistle with several modulations like a bird's note. Cain started, and cocked his handsome head on one side. The whistle was repeated, upon which, without a word either to his mother or Miss Strode, he dashed out of the kitchen. "There," said Mrs. Merry, waving the fork, "to treat his own lawful mother in that way—to say nothing of you, Miss Eva." "He'll come back soon," replied Eva. "Oh, he will, if there's money and food about. But he'll get neither, after behaving in that way. That my son should belong to a circus! Ah, I always said Cain was born for the gallows, like his father." "But you don't know if his father——" "I know what I know," replied Mrs. Merry with dignity, "which is to say, nothing. But Giles is what Giles was, and has everything likely to bring him to a rope's end. I'll be the wife of one hanged man," added the old woman with relish, "and the mother of another. Then my cup of misery will be full enough. But, bless me, Miss Eva, don't stay here, getting that pretty dress all greasy. Go and wait for your pa in the doring-room, and I'll bring in the dinner as soon as I hear him swearing—for swear he will, if he arrive." "Of course he'll arrive," said Eva impatiently, looking at the clock, which now indicated five minutes past eight; "he's a little late." Mrs. Merry shook her head. "He'll not come. He's in the Red Deeps, lying face downward in the mud." Eva grew angry at this persistent pessimism, but nothing she could say or do, was able to change Mrs. Merry's opinion. Finding that more talk with the prophetess only made her angry, Eva returned to the front of the house, and, sitting in the drawing-room, took up the last fashionable novel which she had borrowed. But not all the talent of the author was able to enchain her attention. She kept thinking of her father and of the Red Deeps, and kept also looking at the clock. It was drawing to nine when she went again to the front door, subsequently to the gate. There was no sign of Cain coming back. He had appeared like a ghost and had vanished as one. Why the whistle should have made him turn pale and take so abrupt a departure, Eva was not able to say. Moreover, the non-arrival of her father fully occupied her attention. She could not believe that her dream, vivid as it had been, would prove true and set down her nervous fears, which were now beginning to get the upper hand, to Mrs. Merry's chatter. That old woman appeared at her elbow while she leaned over the gate, looking down the road. "He ain't come," croaked Mrs. Merry. "Bless you, deary, of course he ain't. I know where he is, and you saw him in your dream." "Nonsense," said Eva, and ran out on to the road. A few people were passing—mostly villagers, but Eva was well known and no one was surprised at seeing her hatless. Even if any one had expressed surprise, she was too anxious to trouble much about public opinion. "Aaron," she asked an old man who came trudging down from the common, "did you see my father coming along in a fly?" "Why, miss," said Aaron scratching his shock head, "it's a matter of five year since I saw your father, and I don't rightly know as I'd tell him. But I ain't seen nothing but carts this evening, ay, and you might say bicycles." "No fly?" "Not one, miss. Good-evening. I dare say your father will walk, miss, by reason of the hot evening." This suggestion was the very reverse of what Mr. Strode would do, he being a gentleman mindful of his own comfort. However, after the rustic had departed, Eva ran up as far as the common. There was no sign of any vehicle, so she returned to the cottage. Mrs. Merry met her at the door. "The dinner spiling," said Mrs. Merry crossly; "do come and eat some, Miss Eva, and I'll keep the dishes hot." "No, I'll wait till my father comes. Is Cain back?" "Not a sign of him. But, lor bless you, deary, I never expected it, not me. He's gone to his circuses; to think that a son of mine——" But the girl was in no humour to hear the lamentations of Mrs. Merry over the decay of her family, and returned to the drawing-room. There she sat down again and began to read—or try to. Mrs. Merry came in at half-past nine, and brought a cup of tea, with a slice of toast. Eva drank the tea, but declined the toast, and the old woman retired angrily, to remove the spoilt dinner. Then Eva played a game of patience, and at ten threw down the cards in despair. The non-arrival of her father, coupled with her dream, made her restless and uneasy. "I wish Allen would return," she said aloud. But Allen never appeared, although by now he had ample time to reach the Red Deeps and to return therefrom. It was in Eva's mind to go to Mr. Hill's house, which was at the further end of Wargrove village, but a mindful thought of Mr. Hill's jokes, which were usually irritating, made her hesitate. She therefore went back to the kitchen, and spoke to Mrs. Merry, who was crooning over the fire. "What are you doing?" she asked snappishly, for her nerves, poor girl, were worn thin by this time. "I'm waiting for the body," said Mrs. Merry grimly. Eva bit her lip to keep down her anger, and returned to the drawing-room, where she wandered hopelessly up and down. While straining her ears she heard footsteps and ran to the door. It proved to be a telegraph boy, dusty and breathless. Eva snatched the wire from him, although she was surprised at its late arrival. As she opened the envelope, the boy explained needlessly— "It come at four," he said, "and I forgot to bring it, so the Head sent me on all these ten mile, miss, at this hour by way of punishment. And I ain't had no supper," added the injured youth. But Eva did not heed him. She was reading the wire, which said that Mr. Strode had postponed his departure from town till the morrow, and would then be down by mid-day. "There's no reply," said Eva curtly, and went to the kitchen for the fifth time that evening. The messenger boy grumbled at not getting a shilling for his trouble, quite forgetting that the late arrival of the wire was due to his own carelessness. He banged the front gate angrily, and shortly rode off on his red-painted bicycle. "My father's coming to-morrow," said Eva, showing the telegram. Mrs. Merry read it, and gave back the pink paper. "Let them believe it as does believe," said she, "but he'll not come." "But the wire is signed by himself, you stupid woman," said Eva. "Well and good," said Mrs. Merry, "but dreams are dreams, whatever you may say, deary. Your pa was coming before and put it off; now he put it off again, and——" "Then you believe he sent the wire. There, there, I know you will contradict me," said Miss Strode crossly, "I'm going to bed." "You'll be woke up soon," cried Mrs. Merry after her; "them knocks——" Eva heard no more. She went to her room, and, wearied out by waiting and anxiety, retired speedily to bed. Mrs. Merry remained seated before the kitchen fire, and even when twelve struck she did not move. The striking of the clock woke Eva. She sat up half asleep, but was speedily wide awake. She heard footsteps, and listened breathlessly. A sharp knock came to the front door. Then four soft knocks. With a cry she sprang from her bed, and ran to the door. Mrs. Merry met her, and kept her back. "They've brought him home, miss," she said; "the dream's come true." # CHAPTER IV: MYSTERY Mr. Hill's house at the far end of the village was an eccentric building. Originally it had been a labourer's cottage, and stood by itself, a stone-throw away from the crooked highway which bisected Wargrove. On arriving in the neighbourhood some twenty-five years before, Mr. Hill had bought the cottage and five acres of land around. These he enclosed with a high wall of red brick, and then set to work to turn the cottage into a mansion. As he was his own architect, the result was a strange mingling of styles. The original cottage remained much as it was, with a thatched roof and whitewashed walls. But to the left, rose a round tower built quite in the mediæval style, to the right stretched a two-story mansion with oriel windows, a terrace and Tudor battlements. At the back of this, the building suddenly changed to a bungalow with a tropical verandah, and the round tower stood at the end of a range of buildings built in the Roman fashion with sham marble pillars, and mosaic encrusted walls. Within, the house was equally eccentric. There was a Spanish patio, turned, for the sake of the climate, into a winter garden and roofed with glass. The dining-room was Jacobean, the drawing-room was furnished in the Louis Quatorze style, Mr. Hill's library was quite an old English room with casements and a low roof. There were many bedrooms built in the severe graceful Greek fashion, a large marble swimming-bath after the ancient Roman type, and Mr. Hill possessed a Japanese room, all bamboo furniture and quaintly pictured walls, for his more frivolous moods. Finally there was the music-room with a great organ, and this room was made in the similitude of a church. On these freaks and fancies Mr. Hill spent a good deal of money, and the result was an _olla-podrida_ of buildings, jumbled together without rhyme or reason. Such a mansion—if it could be called so—might exist in a nightmare, but only Mr. Hill could have translated it into fact. Within and without, the place was an example of many moods. It illustrated perfectly the mind of its architect and owner. Allen's father was a small, delicate, dainty little man with a large head and a large voice, which boomed like a gong when he was angry. The man's head was clever and he had a fine forehead, but there was a streak of madness in him, which led him to indulge himself in whatever mood came uppermost. He did not exercise the least self-control, and expected all around him to give way to his whims, which were many and not always agreeable. Some one called Mr. Hill a brownie, and he was not unlike the pictures of that queer race of elves. His body was shapely enough, but as his legs were thin and slightly twisted, these, with his large head, gave him a strange appearance. His face was clean-shaven, pink and white, with no wrinkles. He had a beautifully formed mouth and a set of splendid teeth. His fair hair, slightly—very slightly—streaked with grey, he wore long, and had a trick of passing his hand through it when he thought he had said anything clever. His hands were delicate—real artistic hands—but his feet were large and ill-formed. He strove always to hide these by wearing wide trousers. Both in winter and summer he wore a brown velvet coat and white serge trousers, no waistcoat, and a frilled shirt with a waistband of some gaudy Eastern stuff sparkling with gold thread and rainbow hues. When he went out, he wore a straw hat with a gigantic brim, and as he was considerably under the ordinary height, he looked strange in this headgear. But however queer his garb may have been in the daytime, at night Mr. Hill was always accurately attired in evening dress of the latest cut, and appeared a quiet, if somewhat odd, English gentleman. This strange creature lived on his emotions. One day he would be all gaiety and mirth; the next morning would see him silent and sad. At times he played the organ, the piano, the violin; again he would take to painting; then he would write poems, and anon his mood would change to a religious one. Not that he was truly religious. He was a Theosophist, a Spiritualist, sometimes a Roman Catholic, and at times a follower of Calvin. Lately he fancied that he would like to be a Buddhist. His library, a large one, was composed of various books bought in different moods, which illustrated—like his house—the queer jumbled mind of the man. Yet with all his eccentricity Mr. Hill was far from being mad. He was clever at a bargain, and took good care of the wealth, which he had inherited from his father, who had been a stockbroker. At times Mr. Hill could talk cleverly and in a businesslike way; at others, he was all fantasy and vague dreams. Altogether an irritating creature. People said they wondered how Mrs. Hill could put up with such a changeling in the house. Mrs. Hill put up with it—though the general public did not know this—simply for the sake of Allen, whom she adored. It was strange that Allen, tall, stalwart, practical, and quiet, with a steadfast mind and an open nature, should be the son of the freakish creature he called father. But the young man was in every way his mother's son. Mrs. Hill was tall, lean, and quiet in manner. Like Mrs. Merry, she usually wore black, and she moved silently about the house, never speaking, unless she was spoken too. Originally she had been a bright girl, but marriage with the brownie had sobered her. Several times during her early married life she was on the point of leaving Hill, thinking she had married a madman, but when Allen was born, Mrs. Hill resolved to endure her lot for the sake of the boy. Hill had the money, and would not allow the control of it to pass out of his hands. Mrs. Hill had come to him a pauper, the daughter of an aristocratic scamp who had gambled away a fortune. Therefore, so that Allen might inherit his father's wealth, which was considerable, the poor woman bore with her strange husband. Not that Hill was unkind. He was simply selfish, emotional, exacting, and irritating. Mrs. Hill never interfered with his whims, knowing from experience that interference would be useless. She was a cypher in the house, and left everything to her husband. Hill looked after the servants, arranged the meals, ordered the routine, and danced through life like an industrious butterfly. As to Allen, he had speedily found that such a life was unbearable, and for the most part remained away. He had early gone to a public school, and had left it for college; then he had studied in London to be an engineer and took the first opportunity to procure work beyond the seas. He wrote constantly to his mother, but hardly ever corresponded with his father. When he came to England he stopped at "The Arabian Nights"—so the jumbled house was oddly named by its odd owner—but always, he had gone away in a month. On this occasion the meeting with Eva kept him in Wargrove, and he wished to be sure of her father's consent to the match before he went back to South America. Meantime his partner carried on the business in Cuzco. Mr. Hill was not ill pleased that Allen should stop, as he was really fond of his son in his own elfish way. Also he approved of the engagement to Eva, for whose beauty he had a great admiration. On the morning after Mr. Strode's expected arrival, the three people who dwelt in "The Arabian Nights' were seated in the Jacobean dining-room. Mr. Hill, in his invariable brown velvet coat with a rose in his buttonhole and a shining morning face, was devouring _pâté-de-foie-gras_ sandwiches, and drinking claret. At times he took a regular English egg-and-bacon coffee and marmalade breakfast, but he varied his meals as much as he did his amusements. One morning, bread and milk; the next he would imitate Daniel and his friends to the extent of living on pulse and water; then a Continental roll and coffee would appeal to him; and finally, as on the present occasion, he would eat viands more suited to a luncheon than to a breakfast. However, on this especial morning he announced that he was in a musical mood, and intended to compose during the day. "Therefore," said Mr. Hill, sipping his claret and trifling with his sandwiches, "the stomach must not be laden with food. This," he touched the sandwiches, "is nourishment to sustain life, during the struggle with melody, and the wine is of a delicate thin nature which maketh the heart glad without leading to the vice of intoxication. Burgundy, I grant you, is too heavy. Champagne might do much to raise the airy fancy, but I believe in claret, which makes blood; and the brain during the agonies of composition needs a placid flow of blood." Mrs. Hill smiled wearily at this speech and went on eating. She and Allen were engaged in disposing of a regular English meal, but neither seemed to enjoy the food. Mrs. Hill, silent and unemotional, ate like one who needs food to live, and not as though she cared for the victuals. Allen looked pale and haggard. His face was white, and there were dark circles under his eyes as though he had not slept. "Late hours," said his father, staring at him shrewdly; "did I not hear you come in at two o'clock, Allen?" "Yes, sir;" Allen always addressed his parent in this stiff fashion. "I was unavoidably late." Mrs. Hill cast an anxious look at his face, and her husband finished his claret before making any reply. Then he spoke, folding up his napkin as he did so. "When I gave you a latchkey," said Mr. Hill in his deep, rich voice, "I did not expect it to be used after midnight. Even the gayest of young men should be in bed before that unholy hour." "I wasn't very gay," said Allen listlessly; "the fact is, father, I sprained my ankle last night four miles away." "In what direction." "The Westhaven direction. I was going to the Red Deeps, and while going I twisted my ankle. I lay on the moor—I was half way across when I fell—for a long time waiting for help. As none came, I managed to crawl home, and so reached here at two. I came on all fours." "Humph," said Hill, "it's lucky Wasp didn't see you. With his ideas of duty he would have run you in for being drunk." "I think I could have convinced Wasp to the contrary," said Allen drily; "my mother bathed my ankle, and it is easier this morning." "But you should not have come down to breakfast," said Mrs. Hill. "It would have put my father out, had I not come, mother." "Quite so," said Mr. Hill; "I am glad to hear that you try to behave as a son. Besides, self-denial makes a man," added Mr. Hill, who never denied himself anything. "Strange, Allen, I did not notice that you limped—and I am an observant man." "I was seated here before you came down," his son reminded him. "True," said Mr. Hill, rising; "it is one of my late mornings. I was dreaming of an opera. I intend, Allen, to compose an opera. Saccharissa," thus he addressed Mrs. Hill, who was called plain Sarah, "do you hear? I intend to immortalise myself." "I hear," said Saccharissa, quite unmoved. She had heard before, of these schemes to immortalise Mr. Hill. "I shall call my opera "Gwendoline,"" said Mr. Hill, passing his hand through his hair; "it will be a Welsh opera. I don't think any one has ever composed a Welsh opera, Allen." "I can't call one to mind, sir," said Allen, his eyes on his plate. "The opening chorus," began Mr. Hill, full of his theme, "will be——" "One moment, sir," interrupted Allen, who was not in the mood for this trifling, "I want to ask you a question." "No! no! no! You will disturb the current of my thoughts. Would you have the world lose a masterpiece, Allen?" "It is a very simple question, sir. Will you see Mr. Strode to-day?" Hill, who was looking out of the window and humming a theme for his opening chorus, turned sharply. "Certainly not. I am occupied." "Mr. Strode is your oldest and best friend," urged Allen. "He has proved that by taking money from me," said Hill, with a deep laugh. "Why should I see him?" "I want you to put in a good word for me and Eva. Of course," Allen raised his eyes abruptly and looked directly at his father, "you expected to see him this morning?" "No, I didn't," snapped the composer. "Strode and I were friends at school and college, certainly, but we met rarely in after life. The last time I saw him was when he brought his wife down here." "Poor Lady Jane," sighed Mrs. Hill, who was seated with folded hands. "You may well say that, Saccharissa. She was wedded to a clown——" "I thought Mr. Strode was a clever and cultured man," said Allen drily. "He should have been," said Mr. Hill, waving his hand and then sticking it into the breast of his shirt. "I did my best to form him. But flowers will not grow in clay, and Strode was made of stodgy clay. A poor creature, and very quarrelsome." "That doesn't sound like stodgy clay, sir." "He varied, Allen, he varied. At times the immortal fire he buried in his unfruitful soil would leap out at my behest; but for the most part Strode was an uncultured yokel. The lambent flame of my fancy, my ethereal fancy, played on the mass harmlessly, or with small result. I could not submit to be bound even by friendship to such a clod, so I got rid of Strode. And how did I do it? I lent him two thousand pounds, and not being able to repay it, shame kept him away. Cheap at the price—cheap at the price. Allen, how does this theme strike you for an opening chorus of Druids—modern Druids, of course? The scene is at Anglesea——" "Wait, father. You hinted the other morning that Mr. Strode would never come back to Wargrove." "Did I?" said Mr. Hill in an airy manner; "I forget." "What grounds had you to say that?" "Grounds—oh, my dear Allen, are you so commonplace as to demand grounds. I forget my train of thought just then—the fancy has vanished: but I am sure that my grounds were such as you would not understand. Why do you ask?" "I may as well be frank," began Allen, when his father stopped him. "No. It is so obvious to be frank. And to-day I am in an enigmatic mood—music is an enigma, and therefore I wish to be mysterious." "I may as well be frank," repeated Allen doggedly, and doggedness was the only way to meet such a trifler as Mr. Hill. "I saw Eva last night, and she related a dream she had." "Ah!" Mr. Hill spun round vivaciously—"now you talk sense. I love the psychic. A dream! Can Eva dream?—such a matter-of-fact girl." "Indeed she's no such thing, sir," said the indignant lover. "Pardon me. You are not a reader of character as I am. Eva Strode at present possesses youth, to cover a commonplace soul. When she gets old and the soul works through the mask of the face, she will be a common-looking woman like your mother." "Oh!" said Allen, at this double insult. But Mrs. Hill laid her hand on his arm, and the touch quietened him. It was useless to be angry with so irresponsible a creature as Mr. Hill. "I must tell you the dream," said Allen with an effort, "and then you can judge if Eva is what you say." "I wait for the dream," replied Mr. Hill, waving his arm airily; "but it will not alter my opinion. She is commonplace, that is why I agreed to your engagement. You are commonplace also—you take after your mother." Mrs. Hill rose quite undisturbed. "I had better go," she said. "By all means, Saccharissa," said Hill graciously; "to-day in my music mood I am a butterfly. You disturb me. Life with me must be sunshine this day, but you are a creature of gloom." "Wait a moment, mother," said Allen, catching Mrs. Hill's hand as she moved quietly to the door, "I want you to hear Eva's dream." "Which certainly will not be worth listening to," said the butterfly. Allen passed over this fresh piece of insolence, although he secretly wondered how his mother took such talk calmly. He recounted the dream in detail. "So I went to the Red Deeps at Eva's request," he finished, "to see if her dream was true. I never thought it would be, of course; but I went to pacify her. But when I left the road to take a short cut to the Red Deeps, about four miles from Wargrove, I twisted my ankle, as I said, and after waiting, crawled home, to arrive here at two o'clock." "Why do you tell me this dream—which is interesting, I admit?" asked Mr. Hill irritably, and with a rather dark face. "Because you said that Mr. Strode would never come home. Eva's dream hinted at the same thing. Why did you——?" "Oh, that's it, is it?" said Mr. Hill, sitting down with a smile. "I will endeavour to recall my mood when I spoke." He thought for a few minutes, then touched his forehead. "The mood taps here," said he playfully. "Allen, my son, you don't know Strode; I do. A truculent ruffian, determined to have money at any cost." "I always heard he was a polished gentleman," objected Allen. "Oh, quite so. The public school life and university polish gave him manners for society: I don't deny that. But when you scratched the skin, the swashbuckler broke out. Do you know how he came to lose his right hand, Allen? No. I could tell you that, but the story is too long, and my brain is not in its literary vein this day. If I could sing it, I would, but the theme is prosaic. Well, to come to the point, Allen, Strode, though a gentleman, is a swashbuckler. Out in Africa he has been trying to make money, and has done so at the cost of making enemies." "Who told you so?" "Let me see—oh, his lawyer, who is also mine. In fact, I introduced him to Mask, my solicitor. I went up a few months ago to see Mask about some business, and asked after Strode; for though the man is a baron of the middle ages and a ruffian, still he is my friend. Mask told me that Strode was making money and enemies at the same time. When you informed me, Allen, that Strode was coming home in the _Dunoon Castle_, and that he had arrived at Southampton, I thought some of his enemies might have followed him, and might have him arrested for swindling. In that case, he certainly would not arrive." "But how do you know that Mr. Strode would swindle?" "Because he was a man with no moral principles," retorted Mr. Hill; "your mother here will tell you the same." "I did not like Mr. Strode," said Mrs. Hill calmly; "he was not what I call a good man. Eva takes after Lady Jane, who was always a delightful friend to me. I was glad to hear you were engaged to the dear girl, Allen," she added, and patted his hand. "It is strange that your observation and Eva's dream should agree." "Pardon me," said Mr. Hill, rising briskly, "they do not agree. I suggested just now that Strode might be followed by his Cape Town enemies and arrested for swindling. Eva dreamed that he was dead." "Then you don't agree with her dream?" asked Allen, puzzled. "Interesting, I admit; but—oh no"—Hill shrugged his shoulders—"Strode can look after himself. Whosoever is killed, he will be safe enough. I never knew a man possessed of such infernal ingenuity. Well, are you satisfied? If not, ask me more, and I'll explain what I can. Ah, by the way, there's Wasp coming up the garden." Hill threw open the window and hailed the policeman. "I asked Wasp to come and see me, Allen, whenever he had an interesting case to report. I intend to write a volume on the physiology of the criminal classes. Probably Wasp, wishing to earn an honest penny, has come to tell me of some paltry crime not worth expending five shillings on—that's his price. Ah, Wasp, what is it?" The policeman, a stout little man, saluted. "Death, sir." "How interesting," said Mr. Hill, rubbing his hands; "this is indeed news worth five shillings. Death?" "Murder." Allen rose and looked wide-eyed at the policeman. "Mr. Strode?" "Yes, sir. Mr. Strode. Murdered—found dead at the Red Deeps." "Face downward in the mud?" whispered Allen. "Oh, the dream—the dream!" and he sank back in his chair quite overwhelmed. "You seem to know all about it, Mr. Allen," said Wasp, with sudden suspicion. # CHAPTER V: A STRANGE LOSS Wasp was a bulky little man with a great opinion of his own importance. In early years he had been in the army, and there, had imbibed stern ideas of duty. Shortly after joining the police force he was sent to Wargrove, and, with an underling, looked after the village and the surrounding district. Married while young, he now possessed a family of ten, who dwelt with Mrs. Wasp in a spick-and-span house on the verge of the common. Everything about Wasp's house was spotless. The little policeman had drilled his wife so thoroughly, that she performed her duties in quite a military way, and thought Wasp the greatest of men mentally, whatever he may have been physically. The ten children were also drilled to perfection, and life in the small house was conducted on garrison lines. The family woke early to the sound of the bugle, and retired to bed when "Lights out' was sounded. It was quite a model household, especially as on Sunday, Wasp, a fervid churchman, walked at the head of his olive-branches with Mrs. Wasp to St. Peter's church. The pay was not very large, but Wasp managed to make money in many ways. Lately he had been earning stray crowns from Mr. Hill by detailing any case which he thought likely to interest his patron. Hitherto these had been concerned with thieving and drunkenness and poaching—things which Mr. Hill did not care about. But on this occasion Wasp came to "The Arabian Nights' swelling with importance, knowing that he had a most exciting story to tell. He was therefore not at all pleased when Allen, so to speak, took the words out of his official mouth. His red face grew redder than ever, and he drew up his stiff little figure to its full height, which was not much. "You seem to know all about it, Mr. Allen," said Wasp tartly. "It is certainly strange that Miss Strode should dream as she did," said Hill, who had turned a trifle pale; "what do you think, Saccharissa?" Mrs. Hill quoted from her husband's favourite poet: "'There are more things in heaven and earth——"" "That's poetry, we want sense," said Hill interrupting testily; "my music mood has been banished by this news. I now feel that I am equal to being a Vidocq. Allen, henceforth I am a detective until the murderer of my friend Strode is in the dock. Where is the criminal," added Hill, turning to the policeman, "that I may see him?" "No one knows who did it, sir," said Wasp, eyeing Allen suspiciously. "What are the circumstances?" "Mr. Allen, your son here, seems to know all about them," said Wasp stiffly. Allen, who was resting his head on the white cloth of the table, looked up slowly. His face seemed old and worn, and the dark circles under his eyes were more marked than ever. "Didn't Miss Strode tell you her dream, Wasp?" he asked. The policeman snorted. "I've got too much to do in connection with this case to think of them rubbishy things, sir," said he; "Mrs. Merry did say something, now you mention it. But how's a man woke up to dooty at one in the morning to listen to dreams." "Were you woke at one o'clock, Wasp?" asked Mr. Hill, settling himself luxuriously; "tell me the details, and then I will go with you to see Miss Strode and the remains of one, whom I always regarded as a friend, whatever his shortcomings might have been. Allen, I suppose you will remain within and nurse your foot." "No," said Allen rising painfully. "I must see Eva." "Have you hurt your foot, sir?" asked Wasp, who was paying particular attention to Allen. "Yes; I sprained it last night," said Allen shortly. "Where, may I ask, sir?" "On Chilvers Common." "Ho!" Wasp stroked a ferocious moustache he wore for the sake of impressing evil-doers; "that's near the Red Deeps?" "About a mile from the Red Deeps, I believe," said Allen, trying to ease the pain of his foot by resting it. "And what were you doing there, may I ask, sir?" This time it was not Allen who replied, but his mother. The large, lean woman suddenly flushed and her stolid face became alive with anger. She turned on the little man—well named Wasp from his meddlesome disposition and desire to sting when he could—and seemed like a tigress protecting her cub. "Why do you ask?" she demanded; "do you hint that my son has anything to do with this matter?" "No, I don't, ma'am," replied Wasp stolidly, "but Mr. Allen talked of the corp being found face downward in the mud. We did find it so—leastways them as found the dead, saw it that way. How did Mr. All——" "The dream, my good Wasp," interposed Hill airily. "Miss Strode dreamed a dream two nights ago, and thought she saw her father dead in the Red Deeps, face downward. She also heard a laugh—but that's a detail. My son told us of the dream before you came. It is strange it should be verified so soon and so truly. I begin to think that Miss Strode has imagination after all. Without imagination," added the little man impressively, "no one can dream. I speak on the authority of Coleridge, a poet," he smiled pityingly on the three—"of whom you probably know nothing." "Poets ain't in the case," said Wasp, "and touching Mr. Allen——" The young engineer stood up for himself. "My story is short," he said, "and you may not believe it, Wasp." "Why shouldn't I?" demanded the policeman very suspiciously. Allen shrugged his shoulders. "You have not imagination enough," he answered, copying his father; "it seems to me that you believe I am concerned in this matter." "There ain't no need to incriminate yourself, sir." "Spare me the warning. I am not going to do so. If you want to know the truth it is this: Miss Strode dreamed the other night that her father was lying dead in the Red Deeps. After vainly endeavouring to laugh her out of the belief that the dream was true, I went last night to the Red Deeps to convince her that all was well. I struck across the moor from the high-road, and catching my foot in some bramble bushes I twisted my ankle. I could not move, and my ankle grew very painful. For hours I waited, on the chance that some one might come past, but Chilvers Common being lonely, as you know, I could not get help. Therefore, shortly before midnight—though I can hardly tell the exact time, my watch having been stopped when I fell—I managed to crawl home. I arrived about two o'clock, and my mother was waiting up for me. She bathed my ankle and I went to bed." "It couldn't have been very bad, sir, if you're down now," said Wasp bluntly, and only half satisfied with Allen's explanation. "I forced myself to come down, as my father does not like any one to be absent from meals," was the reply. "Right, Mr. Wasp—right," said Hill briskly, "you need not go on suspecting my son. He has nothing to do with this matter, the more so as he is engaged to Miss Strode." "And I certainly should end all my chances of marrying Miss Strode by killing her father," said Allen sharply; "I think you take too much upon yourself, Wasp." The policeman excused himself on the plea of zeal, but saw that he had gone too far, and offered an apology. "But it was your knowing the position of the body that made me doubtful," he said. "That is the dream," said Mrs. Hill quietly; "but you can now tell us all that has taken place." Hill looked astonished at his wife and a trifle annoyed. She was not usually given to putting herself forward—as he called it—but waited to take her tune from him. He would have interposed and asked the question himself, so as to recover the lead in his own house, but that Wasp, anxious to atone for his late error, replied at once, and addressed himself exclusively to Mrs. Hill. "Well, ma'am, it's this way," he said, drawing himself up stiffly and saluting apologetically. "I was wakened about one o'clock by a message that I was wanted at Misery Castle,—a queer name as you know, ma'am——" "We all know about Mrs. Merry and her eccentricities," said Mrs. Hill, who, having an eccentric person in the house, was lenient towards the failings of others; "go on." "Well, ma'am, Jackson, who is under me, was at the other end of the village before midnight, but coming past Misery Castle on his rounds he saw Mrs. Merry waiting at the gate. She said that Mr. Strode had been brought home dead by three men—labourers. They, under the direction of Miss Eva, took the body in and laid it on a bed. Then Miss Eva sent them away with money. That was just about twelve o'clock. The men should have come to report to me, or have seen Jackson, but they went back to their own homes beyond the common, Westhaven way. I'm going to ask them what they mean by doing that and not reporting to the police," said Wasp sourly. "Well then, ma'am, Jackson saw the body and reported to me at one in the morning. I put on my uniform and went to Misery Castle. I examined the remains and called up Jackson. We made a report of the condition of the body, and sent it by messenger to Westhaven. The inspector came this morning and is now at Misery Castle. Being allowed to go away for a spell, having been on duty all night over the body, I came here to tell Mr. Hill, knowing he'd like to hear of the murder." "I'm glad you came," said Hill, rubbing his hands, "a fine murder; though," his face fell, "I had rather it had been any one but my old friend. I suppose you don't know how he came by his death?" "He was shot, sir." "Shot?" echoed Allen, looking up, "and by whom?" "I can't say, nor can any one, Mr. Allen. From what Mrs. Merry says, and she asked questions of those who brought the body home, the corp was found lying face downward in the mud near the Red Deeps spring. Why he should have gone there—the dead man, I mean, sir—I can't say. I hear he was coming from London, and no doubt he'd drive in a fly to Wargrove. But we'll have to make inquiries at the office of the railway station, and get to facts. Some one must hang for it." "Don't, Wasp; you're making my mother ill," said Allen quickly. And indeed Mrs. Hill looked very white. But she rallied herself and smiled quietly in her old manner. "I knew Mr. Strode," she said, "and I feel his sad end keenly, especially as he has left a daughter behind him. Poor Eva," she added, turning to Allen, "she is now an orphan." "All the more reason that I should make her my wife and cherish her," said Allen quickly. "I'll go to the cottage," he looked at his father; "may I take the pony chaise?—my foot——" "I was thinking of going myself," said Hill hesitating, "but as you are engaged to the girl, it is right you should go. I'll drive you." Allen looked dubious. Mr. Hill thought he could drive in the same way that he fancied he could do all things: but he was not a good whip, and Allen did not want another accident to happen. However, he resolved to risk the journey, and, thanking his father, went out of the room. While the chaise was getting ready, Allen, looking out of the window, saw his father leave the grounds in the company of Wasp. Apparently both were going to Misery Castle. He turned to his mother who was in the room. "What about my father driving?" he asked. "I see he has left the house." "Probably he has forgotten," said Mrs. Hill soothingly; "you know how forgetful and whimsical he is." "Do I not?" said Allen with a sigh, "and don't you?" he added, smiling at the dark face of his mother. "Well, I can drive myself. Will you come also, mother, and comfort Eva?" "Not just now. I think that is your task. She is fond of me, but at present you can do her more good. And I think, Allen," said Mrs. Hill, "that you might bring her back. It is terrible that a young girl should be left alone in that small cottage with so dismal a woman as Mrs. Merry. Bring her back." "But my father?" "I'll make it right with him," said Mrs. Hill determinedly. Allen looked at her anxiously. His mother had a firm, dark face, with quiet eyes steady and unwavering in their gaze. It had often struck him as wonderful, how so strong a woman—apparently—should allow his shallow father to rule the house. On several occasions, as he knew, Mrs. Hill had asserted herself firmly, and then Hill, after much outward anger, had given way. There was a mystery about this, and on any other occasion Allen would have asked his mother why she held so subordinate a position, when, evidently, she had all the strength of mind to rule the house and her husband and the whole neighbourhood if necessary. But at present he was too much taken up with the strange fulfilment of Eva's dream, and with the thought of her sorrow, to trouble about so petty a thing. He therefore remained silent and only spoke when the chaise came to the door in charge of a smart groom. "I'll tell you everything when I return," he said, and hastily kissing his mother he moved slowly out of the room. Mrs. Hill stood smiling and nodding at the window as he drove away, and then returned to her needlework. She was always at needlework, and usually wrought incessantly, like a modern Penelope, without displaying any emotion. But to-day, as she worked in the solitude of her own room, her tears fell occasionally. Yet, as she did not like Strode, the tears could not have been for his untimely death. A strange, firm, self-reliant woman was Mrs. Hill; and although she took no active part in the management of the house, the servants secretly looked on her as the real ruler. Mr. Hill, in spite of his bluster, they regarded as merely the figurehead. On the way to Misery Castle, Allen chatted with Jacobs, a smart-looking lad, who had been transformed from a yokel into a groom by Mr. Hill. Jacobs had heard very little of the affair, but admitted that he knew the crime had been committed. "My brother was one of them as brought the corp home, sir," he said, nodding. "Why did your brother and the others not report to Wasp?" Jacobs grinned. "Mr. Wasp have himself to thank for that, sir," said he, "they were all frightened as he'd say they did it, and don't intend to come forward unless they have to." "All zeal on Mr. Wasp's part, Jacobs," said Allen, smiling faintly, "I can quite understand the hesitation, however. How did your brother find the body?" "Well, sir," Jacobs scratched his head, "him and Arnold and Wake was coming across Chilvers Common last night after they'd been to see the circus at Westhaven, and they got a thirst on them. There being no beer handy they went to the spring at the Red Deeps to get water. There they found Mr. Strode's body lying in the mud. His face was down and his hands were stretched. They first saw the corpse by the white glove, sir, on the right hand." "The wooden hand," said Allen absently. "What, sir? Is it a wooden hand?" asked Jacobs eagerly. "Yes. Didn't you know?—no——" Allen checked himself, "of course you wouldn't know. You can't remember Mr. Strode when he was here last." "It's not that, sir," began Jacobs thoughtfully, "but here we are at the gate. I'll tell you another time, Mr. Allen." "Tell me what?" asked Allen, as he alighted painfully. "No matter, sir. It ain't much," replied the lad, and gathering up the reins he jumped into the trap. "When will I come back?" "In an hour, and then you can tell me whatever it is." "Nothing—nothing," said the groom, and drove off, looking thoughtful. It seemed to Allen that the lad had something to say to him relating to the wooden hand, but, thinking he would learn about the matter during the homeward drive, he dismissed the affair from his mind and walked up the path. He found the front door closed, and knocked in vain. Finding that no one came, he strolled round to the back, and discovered Mrs. Merry talking to a ragged, shock-headed, one-eyed boy of about thirteen. "Just you say that again," Mrs. Merry was remarking to this urchin. The boy spoke in a shrill voice and with a cockney accent. "Cain sez to me, as he'll come over and see you to-morrer!" "And who are you to come like this?" asked Mrs. Merry. "I'm Butsey, and now you've as you've heard twice what Cain hes t'saiy, you can swear, without me waiting," and after this insult the urchin bolted without waiting for the box on the ear, with which Mrs. Merry was prepared to favour him. Allen, quick in his judgments, saw that this was a true specimen of a London gamin, and wondered how such a brat had drifted to Wargrove. As a rule the London guttersnipe sticks to town as religiously as does the London sparrow. "If I had a child like that," gasped Mrs. Merry as the boy darted round the corner of the cottage, "I'd put him in a corner and keep him on bread and water till the sin was drove out of him. Ah, Mr. Allen, that's you. I'm glad you've come to the house of mourning, and well may I call this place Misery Castle, containing a corp as it do. But I said the dream would come true, and true it came. Five knocks at the door, and the corp with three men bearing it. Your pa's inside, looking at the body, and Miss Eva weeping in the doring-room." Allen brushed past the garrulous woman, but halted on the doorstep, to ask why she had not come to the front door. Mrs. Merry was ready at once with her explanation. "That door don't open till the corp go out," she said, wiping her hands on her apron. "Oh, I know as you may call it superstition whatever you may say, Mr. Allen, but when a corp enter at one door nothing should come between its entering and its going out. If anything do, that thing goes with the corp to the grave," said Mrs. Merry impressively; "police and doctor and your pa and all, I haven't let in by the front, lest any one of them should die. Not as I'd mind that Wasp man going to his long home, drat him with his nasty ways, frightening Miss Eva." Waiting to hear no more, Hill went through the kitchen and entered the tiny drawing-room. The blinds were down and on the sofa he saw Eva seated, dressed in black. She sprang to her feet when she saw him. "Oh, Allen, I am so glad you have come. Your father said you could not, because of your foot." "I sprained it, Eva, last night when——" "Yes. Your father told me all. I wondered why you did not come back, Allen, to relieve my anxiety. Of course you did not go to the Red Deeps?" "No," said Allen sitting down, her hand within his own, "I never got so far, dearest. So your dream came true?" "Yes. Truer than you think—truer than you can imagine," said Eva in a tone of awe. "Oh, Allen, I never believed in such things; but that such a strange experience should come to me,"—she covered her face and wept, shaken to the core of her soul; Allen soothed her gently, and she laid her head on his breast, glad to have such kind arms around her. "Yes, my father is dead," she went on, "and do you know, Allen, wicked girl that I am, I do not feel so filled with sorrow as I ought to be? In fact"—she hesitated, then burst out, "Allen, I _am_ wicked, but I feel relieved——" "Relieved, Eva?" "Yes! had my father come home alive everything would have gone wrong. You and I would have been parted, and—and—oh, I can't say what would have happened. Yet he is my father after all, though he treated my mother so badly, and I knew so little about him. I wish—oh, I wish that I could feel sorry, but I don't—I don't." "Hush, hush! dearest," said Allen softly, "you knew little of your father, and it's natural under the circumstances you should not feel the loss very keenly. He was almost a stranger to you, and——" While Allen was thus consoling her, the door opened abruptly and Hill entered rather excited. "Eva," he said quickly, "you never told me that your father's wooden hand had been removed." "It has not been," said Eva; "it was on when we laid out his body." "It's gone now, then," said Hill quietly, and looking very pale; "gone." # CHAPTER VI: THE WARNING On hearing this announcement of the loss, Eva rose and went to the chamber of death. There, under a sheet, lay the body of her father looking far more calm in death, than he had ever looked in life. But the sheet was disarranged on the right side, and lifting this slightly, she saw that what Mr. Hill said was true. The wooden hand had been removed, and now there remained but the stump of the arm. A glance round the room showed her that the window was open, but she remembered opening it herself. The blind was down, but some one might have entered and thieved from the dead. It was an odd loss, and Eva could not think why it should have taken place. When she returned to the tiny drawing-room, Allen and his father were in deep conversation. They looked up when the girl entered. "It is quite true," said Eva, sitting down; "the hand is gone." "Who can have stolen it?" demanded Allen, wrinkling his brow. "And why should it be stolen?" asked Hill pointedly. Eva pressed her hands to her aching head. "I don't know," she said wearily. "When Mrs. Merry and I laid out the body at dawn this morning the hand was certainly there, for I noted the white glove all discoloured with the mud of the Red Deeps. We pulled down the blind and opened the window. Some one may have entered." "But why should some one steal?" said Hill uneasily; "you say the hand was there at dawn?" "Yes." Eva rose and rang the bell. "We can ask Mrs. Merry." The old woman speedily entered, and expressed astonishment at the queer loss. "The hand was there at nine," she said positively. "I went to see if everything was well, and lifted the sheet. Ah, dear me, Mr. Strode, as was, put a new white glove on that wooden hand every morning, so that it might look nice and clean. Whatever would he have said, to see the glove all red with clay? I intended," added Mrs. Merry, "to have put on a new glove, and I sent Cain to buy it." "What?" asked Eva, looking up, "is Cain back?" "Yes, deary. He came early, as the circus is passing through this place on to the next town, Shanton. Cain thought he'd pick up the caravans on the road, so came to say good-bye." Eva remembered Cain's odd behaviour, and wondered if he had anything to do with the theft. But the idea was ridiculous. The lad was bad enough, but he certainly would not rob the dead. Moreover—on the face of it—there was no reason he should steal so useless an object as a wooden hand. What with the excitement of the death, and the fulfilment of the dream, not to mention that she felt a natural grief for the death of her father, the poor girl was quite worn out. Mr. Hill saw this, and after questioning Mrs. Merry as to the theft of the glove, he went away. "I shall see Wasp about this," he said, pausing at the door, "there must be some meaning in the theft. Meanwhile I'll examine the flower-bed outside the window." Mrs. Merry went with him, but neither could see any sign of foot-marks on the soft mould. The thief—if indeed a thief had entered the house, had jumped the flower-bed, and no marks were discoverable on the hard gravel of the path. "There's that boy," said Mrs. Merry. "What boy?" asked Hill, starting. "A little rascal, as calls himself Butsey," said the old woman, folding her hands as usual under her apron. "London street brat I take him to be. He came to say Cain would be here to-morrow." "But Cain is here to-day," said Mr. Hill perplexed. "That's what makes me think Butsey might have stolen the wooden hand," argued Mrs. Merry. "Why should he come here else? I didn't tell him, as Cain had already arrived, me being one as knows how to hold my tongue whatever you may say, Mr. Hills"—so Mrs. Merry named her companion. "I would have asked questions, but the boy skipped. I wonder why he stole it?" "You have no proof that he stole it at all," said Hill smartly; "but I'll tell Wasp what you say. When does the inquest take place?" "To-morrow, as you might say," snapped Mrs. Merry crossly; "and don't bring that worriting Wasp round here, Mr. Hills. Wasp he is by name and Wasp by nature with his questions. If ever you——" But Mr. Hill was beyond hearing by this time. He always avoided a chat with Mrs. Merry, as the shrillness of her voice—so he explained—annoyed him. The old woman stared after his retreating figure and she shook her head. "You're a bad one," she soliloquised; "him as is dead was bad too. A pair of ye—ah—but if there's trouble coming, as trouble will come, do what you may—Miss Eva shan't suffer while I can stop any worriting." Meanwhile Eva and Allen were talking seriously. "My dream was fulfilled in the strangest way, Allen," the girl said. "I dreamed, as I told you, the night before last at nine o'clock——" "Well?" questioned the young man seeing she hesitated. Eva looked round fearfully. "The doctor says, that, judging by the condition of the body, my father must have been shot at that hour." "Last night you mean," said Allen hesitatingly. "No. This is Friday. He was shot on Wednesday at nine, and the body must have lain all those long hours at the Red Deeps. Of course," added Eva quickly, "no one goes to the Red Deeps. It was the merest chance that those labourers went last night and found the body. So you see, Allen, my father must have been killed at the very time I dreamed of his death." "It is strange," said young Hill, much perturbed. "I wonder who can have killed him?" Eva shook her head. "I cannot say, nor can any one. The inspector from Westhaven has been here this morning making inquiries, but, of course, I can tell him nothing—except about the telegram." "What telegram?" "Didn't I mention it to you?" said the girl, raising her eyes which were fixed on the ground disconsolately; "no—of course I didn't. It came after you left me—at nine o'clock—no it was at half-past nine. The wire was from my father, saying he would be down the next day. It had arrived at Westhaven at four, and should have been delivered earlier but for the forgetfulness of the messenger." "But, Eva, if the wire came from your father yesterday, he could not have been shot on Wednesday night." "No, I can't understand it. I told Inspector Garrit about the wire, and he took it away with him. He will say all that he learns about the matter at the inquest to-morrow. And now my father's wooden hand has been stolen—it is strange." "Very strange," assented Allen musingly. He was thinking of what his father had said about Mr. Strode's probable enemies. "Eva, do you know if your father brought any jewels from Africa—diamonds, I mean?" "I can't say. No diamonds were found on his body. In fact his purse was filled with money and his jewellery had not been taken." "Then robbery could not have been the motive for the crime." "No, Allen, the body was not robbed." She rose and paced the room. "I can't understand my dream. I wonder if, when I slept, my soul went to the Red Deeps and saw the crime committed." "You did not see the crime committed?" "No; I saw the body, however, lying in the position in which it was afterwards found by Jacobs and the others. And then the laugh—that cruel laugh as though the assassin was gloating over his cruel work—the man who murdered my father was laughing in my dream." "How can you tell it was a man?" "The laugh sounded like that of a man." "In your dream? I don't think a jury will take that evidence." Eva stopped before the young man and looked at him determinedly. "I don't see why that part of my dream should not come true, if the other has already been proved true. It's all of a piece." To this remark young Hill had no answer ready. Certainly the dream had come true in one part, so why not in another? But he was too anxious about Eva's future to continue the discussion. "What about you, darling?" he asked. "I don't know," she replied, and sat down beside him again. "I can think of nothing until the inquest has taken place. When I learn who has killed my father, I shall be more at ease." "That is only right and natural; but——" "Don't mistake me, Allen," she interrupted vehemently. "I saw so little of my father, and, through my mother, knew so much bad about him, that I don't mourn his death as a daughter ought to. But I feel that I have a duty to perform. I must learn who killed him, and have that person sent to the scaffold." Allen coloured and looked down. "We can talk about that when we have further facts before us. Inspector Garrit, you say, is making inquiries?" "Yes; I have given him the telegram, and also the address of my father's lawyer, which I found in a letter in his pocket." "Mr. Mask?" "Yes; Sebastian Mask—do you know him?" "I know of him. He is my father's lawyer also, and so became Mr. Strode's man of business. Yes, it is just as well Garrit should see him. When your father arrived in London he probably went to see Mask, to talk over business. We might learn something in that quarter." "Learn what?" asked Eva bluntly. Allen did not answer at once. "Eva," he said after a pause, "do you remember I told you that my father said Mr. Strode might not arrive. Well, I asked him why he said so, and he declared that from what he knew of your father, Mr. Strode was a man likely to have many enemies. It struck me that this crime may be the work of one of these enemies. Now Mask, knowing all your father's business, may also know about those who wished him ill." "It may be so," said Eva reflectively; "my father," from what Mrs. Merry says, "was a most quarrelsome man, and would stop at nothing to make money. He doubtless made enemies in Africa as your father suggests, but why should an enemy follow him to England to kill him? It would have been easier to shoot him in Africa." Allen shrugged his shoulders. "It's all theory on our parts," he said. "We don't know yet if Mr. Strode had any virulent enemies, so we cannot say if he was shot out of malice." "As the contents of his pockets were not touched, Allen, it looks as though malice might have led to the crime." "True enough." Allen rose wearily to go, and Eva saw that he limped. "Oh," she cried with true womanly feeling, springing forward to help him, "I forgot about your sprain; is it very painful?" "Oh no, not at all," said Allen, wincing; "help me to the door, Eva, and I'll get into the chaise. It must be here by this time. We must go round by the back." In spite of her sorrow, Eva smiled. "Yes, Mrs. Merry won't allow the front door to be opened until my father's corpse passes through. I never thought she was so superstitious." "The realisation of your dream is enough to make us all superstitious," said Allen as they passed through the kitchen. "Oh, by the way, Eva, my mother wants to know if you will stop with her till the funeral is over?" "No, Allen, thanking your mother all the same. My place is here. Mrs. Palmer asked me also." Mrs. Palmer was a gay, bright young widow who lived at the other end of the village, and whom Mrs. Merry detested, for some unknown reason. The sound of the name brought her into the conversation, as she was just outside, when the couple arrived at the kitchen door. "Mrs. Palmer indeed," cried Mrs. Merry, wiping her red eyes; "the idea of her asking Miss Eva to stop with her. Why, her father was a chemist, and her late husband made his money out of milk and eggs!" "She is very kind to ask me, Nanny, all the same." "She's no lady," said Mrs. Merry, pursing up her lips, "and ain't the kind for you to mix with, Miss Eva." "My mother wishes Miss Strode to come to us," said Allen. "Well, sir," said the old nurse, "I don't say as what it wouldn't be good for my dear young lady: that is," added Mrs. Merry with emphasis, "if she keeps with your ma." "My father won't trouble her if that's what you mean," said the young man drily, for Mrs. Merry made no secret of her dislike for Mr. Hill. "People have their likings and no likings," said the old dame, "but if your ma will take Miss Eva till we bury him," she jerked her head in the direction of the death chamber, "it would be happier for her than sticking in the house along with her pa and me. If Cain was stopping I'd say different, but he's going after his circus, and two women and a corpse as ain't lived well, isn't lively, whatever you may say, Mr. Allen." "I intend to stop here," said Eva sharply, "so there's no need for you to say anything more, Nanny. Ah, here's Cain. Help Mr. Hill, Cain." The dark-eyed youth doffed his cap and came forward with alacrity to aid Allen. "Jacobs is at the gate with the pony, miss," he said, "but I hope our horses won't run over him." "What do you mean?" asked Allen, limping round the corner. "The circus is coming, on its way to Shanton. I told Mr. Stag—he owns it, Miss Eva—that murder had been committed, so the circus band won't play when the horses pass." "Oh," said Eva stopping short, for already she saw a crowd of people on the road. "I'd better remain within." "Yes, do, Eva," said Allen. "Cain will help me to the chaise. I'll come and see you again; and Eva," he detained her, "ask Inspector Garrit to see me. I want to know what can be done towards discovering the truth." While Allen whispered thus, a procession of golden cars and cream-coloured horses was passing down the road amongst a sparse gathering of village folk. These had come to look at the house in which the body of the murdered man lay, although they knew Misery Castle as well as they knew their own noses. But the cottage had acquired a new and terrible significance in their eyes. Now another sensation was provided in the passing of Stag's Circus on its way to Shanton fifteen miles further on. What between the tragedy and the circus the villagers quite lost their heads. At present, however, they looked at the cages of animals, at the band in a high red chariot, and at many performers prancing on trained steeds. With the music of the band it would have been even more exciting, but Stag, with extraordinary good taste, forbore to play martial melodies while passing through the village. Cain had not told him about the cottage, so the equestrians were unaware that Misery Castle contained the remains of the man whose death had caused such excitement in Westhaven. Just as Eva turned to go in, and thus avoid the gaze of the curious, she heard a deep voice—a contralto voice—calling for Cain. On turning her head, she saw a handsome dark woman mounted on a fine white horse. "It's Miss Lorry," said Cain, leaving Allen's arm and running to the gate, with his face shining. The young man, still weak in his ankle, lurched, so sudden had been Cain's departure, and Eva, with a cry of anger, ran forward to stop him from falling. "Cain, how could you!" cried Eva; "hold up, Allen." "Go back and help the gentleman," said the dark woman, fixing her bold eyes on the girl's white face with a look of pity. "Miss Strode!" Eva turned indignantly—for Cain by this time was helping Allen, and she was returning to the house—to see why the woman dare address her. Miss Lorry was reining in her rearing, prancing horse, and showing off her fine figure and splendid equestrian management. She was dressed plainly in a dark blue riding-habit, and wore a tall silk hat. With these, and white collar and cuffs and neat gloves, she looked very well turned out. By this time the procession had passed on towards the village, and the people, drawn by the superior attraction of the circus, streamed after it. Only a few hung about, and directed curious eyes towards the cottage and towards Eva, who paused near the fence in response to Miss Lorry's cry. Allen, who was now in the chaise, and had gathered up the reins, also waited to hear what this audacious woman had to say to Eva. "Come here, please," said Miss Lorry, with a fine high colour in her cheeks. "I'm not going to bite you. You are Miss Strode, aren't you?—else that lad," she pointed to Cain, "must have lied. He said you lived in his mother's cottage and——" "I am Miss Strode," said Eva sharply. "What is it? I don't know you." Miss Lorry laughed in an artificial manner. "Few people can say that," she said; "Bell Lorry is known everywhere as the Queen of the Arena. No, Miss Strode, you don't know me; but I know you and of you. Your cousin Lord Saltars——" "Oh!" cried Eva, turning red, and walked up towards the house. "Come back," cried Miss Lorry, "I want to whisper—it's about the death," she added in a lower tone. But Eva was out of hearing, and round the corner walking very fast, with her haughty head in the air. Miss Lorry, who had not a good temper, ground her fine white teeth. "I've a good mind to hold my tongue," she said. "What is it about the murder?" asked Allen quickly; "I am engaged to marry Miss Strode." "Oh, are you? Then tell her to be careful of the wooden hand!" # CHAPTER VII: THE INQUEST There was great excitement when the inquest was held on the remains of Mr. Strode. Although he belonged to the old family of the neighbourhood, and should have lived in the manor as the lord of the village, he had been absent from Wargrove for so long, that few people were well acquainted with him. Some ancient villagers remembered him as a gay, sky-larking young man, when with Mr. Hill the two had played pranks during vacation. Then came the death of the old squire and the sale of the manor by his son. At times Strode had come to Wargrove with his wife, and at Misery Castle Eva had been born. But he usually stopped only a short time, as the slow life of the country wearied his restless spirit. But always, when he came to his old haunts, he went to look at the home of his race. Every one knew that it was his desire to be Strode of Wargrove again, in fact as well as in name. Many people remembered him when he came to Wargrove for the last time, to place his wife and daughter under the roof of Mrs. Merry. Strode had always been stiff and cold in manner, but, being of the old stock, this behaviour was esteemed right, as no lord of the soil should be too familiar, the wiseacres thought. "A proud, haughty gentleman," said some, "but then he's a right to be proud. Ain't the Strodes been here since the Conquest? "Tis a wonder he took up with that Mr. Hill, whose father was but a stockbroker." So it will be guessed that Strode's return to his native place to meet with a violent death at unknown hands, created much excitement. The jury surveyed the body in Misery Castle, and then went to the one inn of the village to hear the evidence. A few people were in the coffee-room where the proceedings took place, but Inspector Garrit gave orders that the crowd should be kept out. The street therefore was filled with people talking of Strode and of his terrible end. One old man, who had seen eighty summers, gave it as his opinion, that it was no wonder Mr. Strode had died so. "And what do you mean by that?" asked Wasp, who, full of importance, was making things unpleasant with over-zeal. The ancient pulled his cap to the majesty of the law. "Whoy," said he, chewing a straw, "Muster Robert—by which I means Muster Strode—was a powerful angery gent surely. He gied I a clip on th' "ead when I was old enough to be his father, though to be sure "twas in his colleging days. Ah, I mind them two well!" "What two?" asked Wasp, on the alert to pick up evidence. "Muster Strode as was, an' Muster Hill as is. They be very hoity-toity in them days, not as "twasn't right fur Muster Robert, he being lard an' master of the village. But Muster Hill"—the ancient spat out the straw to show his contempt—"Lard, he be nothin'!" "He's very rich, Granfer." "What's money to blood? Muster Strode shouldn't ha' taken him up, and given he upsettin' notions. He an' Giles Merry, as run away from his wife, and Muster Strode, ah—them did make things lively-like." "I don't see what this has to do with the death," said Wasp snappishly. "Never you mind," said Granfer, valiant through over-much beer. "I knows what I knows. Muster Robert—"twas a word an' a blow with him, and when he clips me on the "ead, I ses, "Sir, "tis a red end as you'll come to," and my words have come true. He've bin shot." "And who shot him?" asked the blacksmith. "One of "em as he clipped on the "ead same as he did me," said Granfer. Wasp dismissed this piece of gossip with contempt, and entered the coffee-room to watch proceedings. The little policeman was very anxious to bring the murderer to justice, in the hopes that he would be rewarded for his zeal by a post at Westhaven. Hitherto he had found nothing likely to lead to any discovery, and Inspector Garrit had not been communicative. So, standing stiffly at the lower end of the room, Wasp listened with all his red ears to the evidence, to see what he could gain therefrom likely to set him on the track. A chance like this was not to be wasted, and Wasp's family was very large, with individual appetites to correspond. Eva was present, with Allen on one side of her, and Mrs. Palmer on the other. Behind sat Mrs. Merry, sniffing because Mrs. Palmer was offering Eva her smelling-bottle. The widow was blonde and lively, well dressed, and of a most cheerful disposition. Her father certainly had been a chemist, but he had left her money. Her husband undoubtedly had been an egg and butter merchant, but he also had left her well off. Mrs. Palmer had been born and brought up in Shanton, and her late husband's shop had been in Westhaven. Therefore she lived at neither place now that she was free and rich, but fixed her abode at Wargrove, midway between the two towns. She went out a good deal, and spent her money freely. But she never could get amongst the county families as was her ambition. Perhaps her liking for Eva Strode was connected with the fact that the girl was of aristocratic birth. With the Lord of the Manor—as he should have been—for a father, and an Earl's daughter for a mother, Eva was as well-born as any one in the county. But apart from her birth, Mrs. Palmer kindly and genial, really liked the girl for her own sake. And Eva also was fond of the merry, pretty widow, although Mrs. Merry quite disapproved of the friendship. Inspector Garrit was present, and beside him sat a lean, yellow-faced man, who looked like a lawyer and was one. He had presented himself at the cottage that very morning as Mr. Mask, the solicitor of the deceased, and had been brought down by Garrit to give evidence as to the movements of Mr. Strode in town, since his arrival from Africa. Eva had asked him about her future, but he declined to say anything until the verdict of the jury was given. When this matter was settled, and when Strode was laid in the family vault beside his neglected wife, Mask said that he would call at Misery Castle and explain. The case was opened by Garrit, who detailed the facts and what evidence he had gathered to support them. "The deceased gentleman," said Garrit, who was stout and short of breath, "came to Southampton from South Africa at the beginning of August, a little over a week ago. He had been in South Africa for five years. After stopping two days at Southampton at the Ship Inn, the deceased had come to London and had taken up his quarters in the Guelph Hotel, Jermyn Street. He went to the theatres, paid visits to his tailors for a new outfit, and called also on his lawyer, Mr. Mask, who would give evidence. On Wednesday last, the deceased wired from London that he would be down at eight o'clock on Thursday evening. The wire was sent to Miss Strode, and was taken from the hotel by the porter who sent it, from the St. James's telegraph office." "Why are you so precise about this telegram?" asked the coroner. "I shall explain later, sir," panted Garrit, wiping his face, for it was hot in the coffee room. "Well then, gentlemen of the jury, the deceased changed his mind, as I learned from inquiries at the hotel. He came down on Wednesday evening instead of Thursday, and arrived at the Westhaven station at six-thirty." "That was the train he intended to come by on Thursday?" asked a juryman. "Certainly. He changed the day but not the train." "Didn't he send another wire to Miss Strode notifying his change of plan?" "No. He sent no wire saying he would be down on Wednesday. Perhaps he desired to give Miss Strode a pleasant surprise. At all events, Miss Strode did not expect him till Thursday night at eight. She will give evidence to that effect. Well, gentlemen of the jury, the deceased arrived at Westhaven by the six-thirty train on Wednesday, consequent on his change of plan. He left the greater part of his luggage at the Guelph Hotel, and came only with a small bag, from which it would seem that he intended to stop only for the night. As the bag was easily carried, Mr. Strode decided to walk over——" "But if he arrived by the six-thirty he would not get to the cottage at eight," said a juryman. "No. I can't say why he walked—it's ten miles. A quick walker could do the distance in two hours, but Mr. Strode not being so young as he was, was not a quick walker. At all events, he walked. A porter who offered to take his bag, and was snubbed, was the last person who saw him." "Didn't any one see him on the road to Wargrove?" "I can't say. As yet I have found no one who saw him. Besides, Mr. Strode did not keep to the road all the time. He walked along it for some distance and then struck across Chilvers Common, to go to the Red Deeps. Whether he intended to go there," added the Inspector, wiping his face again, "I can't say. But he was found there dead on Thursday night by three men, Arnold, Jacobs, and Wake. These found a card in the pocket giving the name of the deceased, and one of them, Jacobs, then recognised the body as that of Mr. Strode whom he had seen five years previous. The men took the body to the cottage and then went home." "Why didn't they inform the police?" asked the coroner. Garrit stole a glance at Wasp and suppressed a smile. "They will tell you that themselves, sir," he said; "however, Mrs. Merry found the policeman Jackson on his rounds, late at night, and he went to tell Mr. Wasp, a most zealous officer. I came over next morning. The doctor had examined the body, and will now give his evidence." After this witness retired, Dr. Grace appeared, and deposed that he had been called in to examine the body of the deceased. The unfortunate gentleman had been shot through the heart, and must have been killed instantaneously. There was also a flesh wound on the upper part of the right arm; here the doctor produced a bullet: "This I extracted from the body, gentlemen, but the other bullet cannot be found. It must have merely ripped the flesh of the arm, and then have buried itself in the trees." "This bullet caused the death?" asked the coroner. "Certainly. It passed through the heart. I expect the assassin fired twice, and missing his victim at the first shot fired again with a surer aim. From the nature of the wound in the arm, gentlemen," added Grace, "I am inclined to think that the deceased had his back to the assassin. The first bullet—the lost one, mind—skimmed along the flesh of the arm. The pain would make the deceased turn sharply to face the assassin, whereupon the second shot was fired and passed through the heart. I think, from the condition of the body, that the murder was committed at nine o'clock on Wednesday night. Mr. Strode may have gone to the Red Deeps to meet the assassin and thus have——" "This isn't evidence," interrupted the coroner abruptly; "you can sit down, Dr. Grace." This the doctor did, rather annoyed, for he was fond of hearing himself chatter. The three labourers, Arnold, Wake, and Jacobs, followed, and stated that they went to the Red Deeps to get a drink from the spring. It was about half-past ten when they found the body. It was lying near the spring, face downwards. They took it up and from a card learned it was that of Mr. Strode. Then they took it to the cottage and went home. "Why didn't you inform the police?" a juryman asked Jacobs. The big man scratched his head and looked sheepish. "Well, you see, sir, policeman Wasp's a sharp one, he is, and like as not he'd have thought we'd killed the gent. We all three thought as we'd wait till we could see some other gentleman like yourself." There was a smile at this, and Wasp grew redder than he was. "A trifle too much zeal on the part of policeman Wasp," said the coroner drily, "but you should have given notice. You carried the body home between you, I suppose?" "Yes. There was Arnold, myself, and Wake—then there was the boy," added the witness with hesitation. "Boy?" questioned the coroner sharply, "what boy?" Jacobs scratched his head again. "I dunno, sir. A boy joined us on the edge of the common near Wargrove, and, boy-like, when he saw we'd a corpse he follered. When we dropped the body at the door of Misery Castle"—the name of Mrs. Merry's abode provoked a smile—"the boy said as he'd knock. He knocked five times." "Why five times?" questioned a juryman, while Eva started. "I can't say, sir. But knock five times he did, and then ran away." "What kind of a boy was he?" "Just an ordinary boy, sir," grunted the witness, save that he seemed sharp. "He'd a white face and a lot of red hair——" "Lor!" cried Mrs. Merry, interrupting the proceedings, "it's Butsey." "Do you know the boy?" asked the coroner. "Come and give your evidence, Mrs. Merry." The old woman, much excited, kissed the book. "Know the boy?" she said in her doleful voice. "Lord bless you, Mr. Shakerley, that being your name, sir, I don't know the boy from a partridge. But on Friday morning he came to me, and told me as Cain—my boy, gentlemen, and a wicked boy at that—would come and see me Saturday. As Cain was in the house, gentlemen, leastways as I'd sent him for a glove for the wooden hand of the corp, the boy—Butsey, he said his name was—told a lie, which don't astonish me, seeing what boys are. I think he was a London boy, being sharp and ragged. But he just told the lie, and before I could clout his head for falsehoods, he skipped away." "Have you seen him since?" "No, I ain't," said Mrs. Merry, "and when I do I'll clout him, I will." "Does your son know him?" "That he don't. For I asked Cain why he told the boy to speak such a falsehood seeing there was no need. But Cain said he'd told no one to say as he was coming, and that he intended to see me Friday and not Saturday, as that lying boy spoke." Here Inspector Garrit rose, and begged that Miss Strode might be called, as she could tell something, bearing on the boy. Eva looked somewhat astonished, as she had not seen Butsey. However, she was sworn and duly gave her evidence. "My father came home from South Africa over a week ago in the _Dunoon Castle_. He wrote to me from Southampton saying he would be down. He then went to London and stopped there a week. He did not write from London, but sent two telegrams." "Two telegrams," said the coroner. "One on Wednesday——" "Yes," said the witness, "and one on Thursday night." "But that's impossible. He was dead then, according to the medical evidence." "That's what I cannot understand," said Eva, glancing at the Inspector. "I expected him on Thursday night at eight and had dinner ready for him. After waiting till after nine I was about to go to bed when a telegraph messenger arrived. He gave me the wire and said it arrived at four, and should have been sent then. It was from my father, saying he had postponed his departure till the next day, Friday. I thought it was all right and went to bed. About twelve I was awakened by the five knocks of my dream——" "What do you mean by your dream, Miss Strode?" Eva related her dream, which caused much excitement. "And the five knocks came. Four soft and one hard," she went on. "I sprang out of bed, and ran into the passage. Mrs. Merry met me with the news that my father had been brought home dead. Then I attended to the body, while Mrs. Merry told Jackson, who went to see Mr. Wasp." "What did you do with the wire?" asked the coroner, looking perplexed at this strange contradictory evidence, as he well might. "I gave it to Inspector Garrit." "Here it is," said the inspector producing it; "when I was in town, I went to the office whence this had been sent. It was the St. James's Street office where the other wire had been sent from. I learnt from a smart operator that the telegram had been brought in by a ragged, red-haired boy——" "Butsey," cried Mrs. Merry, folding her shawl tightly round her lean form. "Yes," said Garrit, nodding, "apparently it is the same boy who joined the three men when they carried the body home, and knocked five times." "And the same boy as told me a lie about Cain," cried Mrs. Merry; "what do you make of it all, gentlemen?" Mrs. Merry was rebuked, but the jury and coroner looked puzzled. They could make nothing of it. Inquiry showed that Butsey had vanished from the neighbourhood. Wasp deposed to having seen the lad. "Ragged and white-faced and red-haired he was," said Wasp, "with a wicked eye——" "Wicked eyes," corrected the coroner. "Eye," snapped Wasp respectfully, "he'd only one eye, but "twas bright and wicked enough to be two. I asked him—on the Westhaven road—what he was doing there, as we didn't like vagrants. He said he'd come from London to Westhaven with a Sunday school treat. I gave him a talking to, and he ran away in the direction of Westhaven. Oh, sir," added Wasp, obviously annoyed, "if I'd only known about the knocking, and the lying to Mrs. Merry, and the telegram, I'd have taken him in charge." "Well, you couldn't help it, knowing no reason why the lad should be detained," said the coroner; "but search for him, Wasp." "At Westhaven? I will, sir. And I'll see about the Sunday school too. He'd be known to the teachers." Mrs. Merry snorted. "That's another lie. I don't believe the brat has anything to do with Sunday schools, begging your pardon, Mr. Shakerley. He's a liar, and I don't believe his name's Butsey at all." "Well, well," said the coroner impatiently, "let us get on with the inquest. What further evidence have you, inspector?" "I have to speak," said Mr. Mask rising and looking more yellow and prim than ever as he took the oath. "I am Mr. Strode's legal adviser. He came to see me two or three times while he was in town. He stated that he was going down to Wargrove." "On what day did he say?" "On no particular day. He said he would be going down some time, but he was in no hurry." "Didn't he tell you he was going down on Thursday?" "No. He never named the day." "Had he any idea of meeting with a violent death?" "If he had, he certainly would not have come," said Mask grimly; "my late client had a very good idea of looking after his own skin. But he certainly hinted that he was in danger." "Explain yourself." "He said that if he couldn't come himself to see me again he would send his wooden hand." The coroner looked puzzled. "What do you mean?" "Mr. Strode," said Mask primly, "talked to me about some money he wished to place in my keeping. I was to give it back to him personally, or when he sent the wooden hand. I understood from what he hinted that there was a chance he might get into trouble. But he explained nothing. He always spoke little and to the point." "And have you got this money?" "No. Mr. Strode didn't leave it with me." "Then why did he remark about his wooden hand?" "I expect he intended to leave the money with me when he returned from Wargrove. So it would seem that he did not expect anything to happen to him on his visit to his native place. If he had expected a tragedy, he would have left the money; and the wooden hand would have been the token for me to give it." "To whom, sir?" "To the person who brought the wooden hand." "And has it been brought?" "No. But I understand from Inspector Garrit that the hand has been stolen." "Dear me—dear me." Mr. Shakerley rubbed his bald head irritably. "This case is most perplexing. Who stole the hand?" Mr. Hill came forward at this point and related how he had gone into the death chamber to find the hand gone. Eva detailed how she had seen the hand still attached to the arm at dawn, and Mrs. Merry deposed that she saw the hand with the body at nine o'clock. These witnesses were exhaustively examined, but nothing further could be learned. Mr. Strode had been shot through the heart, and the wooden hand had been stolen. But who had shot him, or who had stolen the hand, could not be discovered. The coroner did his best to bring out further evidence: but neither Wasp nor Garrit could supply any more witnesses. The further the case was gone into, the more mysterious did it seem. The money of the deceased was untouched, so robbery could not have been the motive for the commission of the crime. Finally, after a vain endeavour to penetrate the mystery, the jury brought in a verdict of "Wilful murder against some person or persons unknown." # CHAPTER VIII: A NEW LIFE Nothing new was discovered after the inquest, although all inquiries were made. Butsey had vanished. He was traced to Westhaven after his interview with Wasp, and from that place had taken the train to London. But after landing at Liverpool Street Station, he disappeared into the world of humanity, and not even the efforts of the London police could bring him to light. No weapon had been found near the Red Deeps spring, nor could any foot-marks be discerned likely to lead to a detection of the assassin. Mr. Strode had been shot by some unknown person, and it seemed as though the affair would have to be relegated to the list of mysterious crimes. Perhaps the absence of a reward had something to do with the inactivity displayed by Garrit and Wasp. But how could a reward be offered when Eva had no money? After the funeral, and when the dead man had been bestowed in the Strode vault under St. Peter's Church, the lawyer called to see the girl. He told her coldly, and without displaying any sympathy, that her father had left no money in his hands, and that he could do nothing for her. Eva, having been brought up in idleness, was alarmed at the prospect before her. She did not know what to do. "I must earn my bread in some way," she said to Mrs. Merry a week later, when consulting about ways and means. "I can't be a burden on you, Nanny." "Deary," said the old woman, taking the girl's hand within her withered claws, "you ain't no burden, whatever you may say. You stay along with your old nurse, who loves you, an' who has fifty pound a year, to say nothing of the castle and the land." "But, Nanny, I can't stay on here for ever." "And you won't, with that beauty," said Mrs. Merry sturdily, "bless you, deary, Mr. Allen will marry you straight off if you'll only say the word; I saw him in the village this very day, his foot being nearly well. To be sure he was with his jelly-fish of a pa; but I took it kind of him that he stopped and spoke to me. He wants to marry you out of hand, Miss Eva." "I know," said the girl flushing; "I never doubted Allen's love. He has asked me several times since the funeral to become his wife. But my poor father——" "Poor father!" echoed Mrs. Merry in tones of contempt; "well, as he was your pa after all, there ain't nothing to be said, whatever you may think, Miss Eva. But he was a bad lot." "Mrs. Merry, he's dead," said Eva rebukingly. The old woman rubbed her hands and tucked them under her apron. "I know that," said she with bright eyes, "and put "longside that suffering saint your dear ma: but their souls won't be together whatever you may say, deary. Well, I'll say no more. Bad he was, and a bad end he come to. I don't weep for him," added Mrs. Merry viciously; "no more nor I'd weep for Giles if he was laid out, and a nasty corp he'd make." Eva shuddered. "Don't speak like that." "Well then, deary, I won't, me not being wishful to make your young blood run cold. But as to what you'll do, I'll just tell you what I've thought of, lying awake. There's the empty room across the passage waiting for a lodger; then the cow's milk can be sold, and there's garden stuff by the bushel for sale. I might let out the meadow as a grazing ground, too," said Mrs. Merry, rubbing her nose thoughtfully, "but that the cow's as greedy a cow as I ever set eyes on, an' I've had to do with "em all my born days, Miss Eva. All this, rent free, my dear, and fifty pounds in cash. You'll be as happy as a queen living here, singing like a bee. And then when the year's mourning is over—not as he deserves it—you'll marry Mr. Allen and all will be gay." "Dear Nanny," said the girl, throwing her arms round the old woman's neck, "how good you are. But, indeed I can't." "Then you must marry Mr. Allen straight away." "I can't do that either. I must earn my bread." "What," screeched Mrs. Merry, "and you a born lady! Never; that saint would turn in her grave—and I wonder she don't, seeing she's laid "longside him as tortured her when alive. There's your titles, of course, Lord Ipsen and his son." "I wouldn't take a penny from them," said Eva colouring. "They never took any notice of me when my father was alive, and——" "He didn't get on well with "em," cried Mrs. Merry; "and who did he get on with, I ask you, deary? There's Lady Ipsen—she would have made much of you, but for him." "I don't like Lady Ipsen, Nanny. She called here, if you remember, when my mother was alive. I'm not going to be patronised by her." "Ah, Miss Eva," said the old dame admiringly, "it's a fine, bright, hardy spirit of your own as you've got. Lady Ipsen is as old as I am, and makes herself up young with paint and them things. But she has a heart. When she learned of your poverty——" Eva sprang to her feet. "No! no! no!" she cried vehemently, "never mention her to me again. I would not go to my mother's family for bread if I was starving. What I eat, I'll earn." "Tell Mr. Allen so," said Mrs. Merry, peering out of the window; "here he comes. His foot "ull get worse, if he walk so fast," she added, with her usual pessimism. Allen did not wait to enter in by the door, but paused at the open window before which Eva was standing. He looked ill and white and worried, but his foot was better, though even now, he had to use a stick, and walked slowly. "You should not have come out to-day," said Eva, shaking her finger at him. "As Mrs. Mountain would not go to Mr. Mahomet," said Allen, trying to smile, "Mr. Mahomet had to come to Mrs. Mountain. Wait till I come in, Eva," and he disappeared. The girl busied herself in arranging an arm-chair with cushions, and made her lover sit down when he was in the room. "There! you're more comfortable." She sat down beside him. "I'll get you a cup of tea." "Don't bother," murmured Allen, closing his eyes. "It's no bother. In any case tea will have to be brought in. Mrs. Palmer is coming to see me soon. She wants to talk to me." "What about?" "I can't say; but she asked me particularly to be at home to-day. We can have our talk first, though. Do smoke, Allen." "No. I don't feel inclined to smoke." "Will you have some fruit?" "No, thank you," he said, so listlessly that Eva looked at him in alarm. She noted how thin his face was, and how he had lost his colour. "You do look ill, Allen." He smiled faintly. "The foot has pulled me down." "Are you sure it's only the foot?" she inquired, puzzled. "What else should it be?" asked Allen quietly; "you see I'm so used to being in the open air, that a few days within doors, soon takes my colour away. But my foot is nearly well. I'll soon be myself again. But, Eva," he took her hand, "do you know why I come." "Yes," she said looking away, "to ask me again to be your wife." "You have guessed it the first time," replied Allen, trying to be jocular; "this is the third time of asking. Come, Eva," he added coaxingly, "have you considered what I said?" "You want me to marry you at once," she murmured. "Next week, if possible. Then I can take you with me to South America, and we can start a new life, far away from these old vexations. Come, Eva. Near the mine, where I and Parkins are working, there's a sleepy old Spanish town where I can buy the most delightful house. The climate is glorious, and we would be so happy. You'll soon pick up the language." "But why do you want me to leave England, Allen?" Hill turned away his head as he answered. "I haven't enough money to keep you here in a proper position," he said quietly. "My father allows me nothing, and will allow me nothing. I have to earn my own bread, Eva, and to do so, have to live for the time being in South America. I used to think it exile, but with you by my side, dearest, it will be paradise. I want to marry you: my mother is eager to welcome you as her daughter, and——" "And your father," said Eva, seeing he halted. Allen made a gesture of indifference. "My father doesn't care one way or the other, darling. You should know my father by this time. He is wrapped up in himself. Egotism is a disease with him." Eva twisted her hands together and frowned. "Allen, I really can't marry you," she said decisively; "think how my father was murdered!" "What has that to do with it?" demanded Allen almost fiercely. "Dear, how you frighten me. There's no need to scowl in that way. You have a temper, Allen, I can see." "It shall never be shown to you," he said fondly. "Come, Eva." But she still shook her head. "Allen, I had small cause to love my father, as you know. Still, he has been foully murdered: I have made up my mind to find out who killed him before I marry." Allen rose in spite of his weak ankle and flung away her hand. "Oh, Eva," he said roughly, "is that all you care for me? My happiness is to be settled in this vague way——" "Vague way——?" "Certainly!" cried Hill excitedly; "you may never learn who killed your father. There's not a scrap of evidence to show who shot him." "I may find Butsey," said Eva, looking obstinate. "You'll never find him; and even if you do, how do we know that he can tell?" "I am certain that he can tell much," said Miss Strode determinedly. "Think, Allen. He sent the telegram probably by order of my father's enemy. He came suddenly on those men at midnight when they were carrying the body. What was a child like that doing out so late, if he wasn't put up to mischief by some other person? And he knocked as happened in my dream, remember," she said, sinking her voice; "and then he came here with a lying message on the very day my father's wooden hand was stolen." "Do you think he stole it?" "Yes, I do; though why he should behave so I can't say. But I am quite sure that Butsey is acting on behalf of some other person—probably the man who killed my father." Allen shrugged his shoulders frowningly. "Perhaps Butsey killed Mr. Strode himself," he said; "he has all the precocity of a criminal." "We might even learn that," replied Eva, annoyed by Allen's tone; "but I am quite bent on searching for this boy and of learning who killed my father and why he was killed." "How will you set about it?" asked Allen sullenly. "I don't know. I have no money and no influence, and I am only a girl. But I'll learn the truth somehow." Hill walked up and down the little room with a slight limp, though his foot was much better and gave him no pain. He was annoyed that Eva should be so bent on avenging the murder of her father, for he quite agreed with Mrs. Merry that the man was not worth it. But he knew that Eva had a mulish vein in her nature, and from the look on her face and from the hard tones of her voice, he was sure she would not be easily turned from her design. For a few minutes he thought in silence, Eva watching him intently. Then he turned suddenly: "Eva, my dear," he said, holding out his hands, "since you are so bent upon learning the truth leave it in my hands. I'll be better able to see about the matter than you. And if I find out who killed your father——" "I'll marry you at once!" she cried, and threw herself into his arms. "I hope so," said Allen in a choked voice. "I'll do my best, Eva; no man can do more. But if I fail, you must marry me. Here, I'll make a bargain with you. If I can't find the assassin within a year, will you give over this idea and become my wife?" "Yes," said Eva frankly; "but I am certain that the man will be found through that boy Butsey." "He has to be found first," said Allen with a sigh, "and that is no easy task. Well, Eva, I'll settle my affairs and start on this search." "Your affairs!" said Eva in a tone of surprise. "Ah," said the young man smiling, "you have seen me idle for so long that you think I have nothing to do. But I have to get back soon to Bolivia. My friend Parkins and I are working an old silver mine for a Spanish Don. But we discovered another and richer mine shown to me by an Indian. I believe it was worked hundreds of years ago by the Inca kings. Parkins and I can buy it, but we have not the money. I came home to see if my father would help me. But I might have spared myself the trouble: he refused at once. Since then I have been trying all these months to find a capitalist, but as yet I have not been successful. But I'll get him soon, and then Parkins and I will buy the mine, and make our fortunes. I wish you'd give up this wild goose chase after your father's murderer, and let us go to Bolivia." "No," said Eva, "I must learn the truth. I would never be happy if I died without knowing who killed my father, and why he was killed." "Well, then, I'll do my best. I have written to Parkins asking him to give me another six months to find a capitalist, and I shall have to take rooms in London. While there I'll look at the same time for Butsey, and perhaps may learn the truth. But if I don't——" "I'll marry you, if you don't find the assassin in a year," said Eva embracing him. "Ah, Allen, don't look so angry. I don't want you to search all your life: but one year—twelve months——" "Then it's a bargain," said Allen kissing her: "and, by the way, I shall have the assistance of Parkins's brother." "Who is he?" asked Eva; "I don't want every one to——" "Oh, that's all right. Parkins tells me his brother is shrewd and clever. I may as well have his assistance. Besides, I got a letter from Horace Parkins—that's the brother, for my man is called Mark—and he is in town now. He has just come from South Africa, so he may know of your father's doings there." "Oh," Eva looked excited, "and he may be able to say who killed him!" Allen shrugged his shoulders. "I don't say that. Your father may have had enemies in England as well as in Africa. But we'll see. I have never met Horace Parkins, but if he's as good a fellow as his brother Mark, my chum and partner, he'll do all he can to help me." "I am sure you will succeed, Allen," cried Eva joyfully; "look how things are fitting in. Mr. Parkins, coming from Africa, is just the person to know about my father." Young Hill said nothing. He fancied that Horace Parkins might know more about Mr. Strode than Eva would like to hear, for if the man was so great a scamp in England, he certainly would not settle down to a respectable life in the wilds. However he said nothing on this point, but merely reiterated his promise to find out who murdered Robert Strode, and then drew Eva down beside him. "What about yourself?" he asked anxiously. "I don't know. Mrs. Merry wants me to stop here." "I should think that is the best thing to do." "But I can't," replied Eva, shaking her head; "Mrs. Merry is poor. I can't live on her." "I admire your spirit, Eva, but I don't think Mrs. Merry would think you were doing her anything but honour." "All the more reason I should not take advantage of her kindness." Allen laughed. "You argue well," he said indulgently. "But see here, dearest. My mother is fond of you, and knows your position. She wants you to come to her." "Oh, Allen, if she were alone I would love to. I am very devoted to your mother. But your father——" "He won't mind." "But I do," said Eva, her colour rising. "I don't like to say so to you, Allen, but I must." "Say what?" "That I don't like your father very much." "That means you don't like him at all," said the son coolly. "Dear me, Eva, what unpleasant parents you and I have. Your father and mine—neither very popular. But you won't come?" "I can't, Allen." "You know my father is your dead father's dearest friend." "All the same I can't come." "What will you do, then?" asked Allen vexed. "Go out as a governess." "No; you must not do that. Why not——" Before Allen could propose anything the door opened and Mrs. Merry, with a sour face, ushered in Mrs. Palmer. The widow looked prettier and brighter than ever, though rather commonplace. With a disdainful sniff Mrs. Merry banged the door. "Eva, dear," said Mrs. Palmer. "Mr. Hill, how are you? I've come on business." "Business?" said Eva surprised. "Yes. Pardon my being so abrupt, but if I don't ask you now I'll lose courage. I want you to come and be my companion." # CHAPTER IX: THE MYSTERIOUS PARCEL So here was a way opened by Providence in an unexpected direction. Mrs. Palmer, with a high colour and rather a nervous look, stood waiting for Eva's reply. The girl looked at her lover, but Allen, very wisely, said nothing. He thought that this was a matter which Eva should settle for herself. But he was secretly amused at the abrupt way in which the little widow had spoken. It seemed as though she was asking a favour instead of conferring one. Miss Strode was the first of the three to recover, and then she did not reply immediately. She first wanted to know why Mrs. Palmer had made so generous an offer. "Do sit down," she said, pushing forward a chair, "and then we can talk the matter over. I need not tell you that I am very thankful for your kind offer." "Oh, my dear;" Mrs. Palmer sank into the chair and fanned herself with a lace handkerchief, "if you accept it, it is I who shall be thankful. I do hate living by myself, and I've never been able to find a companion I liked. But you, dear Eva, have always been a pet of mine. I have known you for four years, and I always did think you the very dearest of girls. If you will only come we shall be so happy." "But what makes you think that I want to be any one's companion?" Mrs. Palmer coloured and laughed nervously. She was very pretty, but with her pink and white complexion and flaxen hair and pale blue eyes she looked like a wax doll. Any one could see at a glance that she was perfectly honest. So shallow a nature was incapable of plotting, or of acting in a double fashion. Yet Eva wondered all the same that the widow should have made her so abrupt a proposal. So far as she knew, no one was aware that she was in want of money, and it seemed strange if providential that Mrs. Palmer should come in the very nick of time to help her in this way. "Well, my dear," she said at length and looking at her primrose-hued gloves, "it was Lord Saltars who led me to make the offer." "My cousin." Eva frowned and Allen looked up. "Do you know him?" "Oh yes. Didn't I mention that I did?" "No. I was not aware that you had ever met." "We did in town about a year ago. I met him only once when I was at Mr. Mask's to dinner. Since then I have not seen him until the other day, and perhaps that was why I said nothing. I remember you told me he was your cousin, Eva, but I quite forgot to say that I knew him." "Do you know Mr. Mask?" asked Hill. "Of course I do. You know I quarrelled with my old lawyer about the money left by Palmer. He was most disagreeable, so I resolved to change for a nicer man. I spoke to your father about it, and he kindly gave me the address of his own lawyer. I went up and settled things most satisfactorily. Of course Mr. Mask is a fearful old mummy," prattled on Mrs. Palmer in her airy fashion, "but he is agreeable over legal matters, and understands business. Palmer's affairs were rather complicated, you know, so I placed them all in Mr. Mask's hands. He has been my lawyer ever since, and I have every reason to be pleased." "And you met my cousin there?" said Eva doubtfully. "Lord Saltars? Yes. I was dining with Mr. Mask and his wife in their Bloomsbury Square house, a doleful old place. Lord Saltars came in to see Mr. Mask on business after dinner, so Mr. Mask asked him in to drink coffee. I was there, and so we met." "Did he mention my name?" asked Miss Strode stiffly. "Oh dear, no. He was unaware that I lived in the same village as you did. We talked about general things. But he mentioned it to me the other night at the circus, when I went to see the performance at Shanton." "Did you go there?" "Yes, my dear, I did," said Mrs. Palmer laughing. "I'm sure this place is dull enough. Any amusement pleases me. I didn't know at the time that your father was dead, Eva, or I should not have gone—not that I knew Mr. Strode, but still, you are my friend, and I should have come to comfort you. But you know I'm at the other end of the village, and the news had not time to get to me before I started for Shanton to luncheon with some friends. I remained with them for the night, and we went to the circus. Lord Saltars sat next to me, and we remembered that we had met before. In the course of conversation I mentioned that I lived at Wargrove, and he asked if I knew you. I said that I did." "How did Lord Saltars know of the murder?" asked Allen hastily. "I believe he learned it from one of the performers called Miss——" "Miss Lorry," said Eva colouring—"I remember. Cain told her, and she had the audacity to speak to me." Allen said nothing, remembering the message Miss Lorry had delivered relative to the wooden hand. He had not spoken of it to Eva hitherto, and thought wisely that this was not the time to reveal his knowledge. He preferred to listen to Mrs. Palmer, who as yet had not shown how she came to know that Eva needed the offer of a situation. "So Miss Lorry spoke to you?" said Mrs. Palmer with great curiosity; "such a bold woman, though handsome enough. Lord Saltars seems to think a lot of her. Indeed I heard a rumour that he was about to marry her. My friends told me. But people will gossip," added Mrs. Palmer apologetically. "Lord Saltars and his doings do not interest me," said Eva coldly. "We have only met once, and I don't like him. He is too fast for me. I could never enjoy the company of a man like that. I think as he was related by marriage to my father, he might have called to see me about the matter, and offered his assistance." "We can do without that," cried Allen quickly. "Lord Saltars doesn't know that we can," replied Eva sharply; "however, I understand how you met him, Mrs. Palmer, and how he came to know about the murder through Miss Lorry, who heard of it from Cain. But what has all this to do with your asking me to be your companion?" Mrs. Palmer coloured again and seemed embarrassed. "My dear," she said seriously, "I shall have to tell you about Mr. Mask first, that you may know all. After the inquest he called to see me——" "But he came here," put in Eva. "Quite so, and told you that your father had left no money." "How do you know that?" "Mr. Mask told me," said the widow simply, and laid her hand on Eva's hand; "don't be angry, my dear. Mr. Mask came to me and told me you were poor. He asked me if I would help you in what way I could, as he said he knew I was rich and kind hearted. I am the first, but I really don't know if I'm the last." "I think you are," said Miss Strode softly. "I never gave Mr. Mask leave to talk of my business, and I don't know why he should have done so, as he did not seem to care what became of me." "Oh, but I think he intended to help you if he could, and came to tell me of your dilemma for that purpose, Eva." "Apparently he wished to play the part of a good Samaritan at your expense, Mrs. Palmer," said Eva drily; "however, I understand how you came to know that I needed assistance, but Lord Saltars——" "Ah!" cried the widow vivaciously, "that is what puzzles me. Lord Saltars seems to think you are rich." "Rich?" echoed Allen, while Eva also looked surprised. "Yes. He said you would no doubt inherit your father's money. I answered—pardon me, Eva—that Mr. Strode was not rich, for I heard so in another quarter." Eva looked at Allen, and Allen at Eva. Both guessed that the quarter indicated was Mr. Hill, who had a long tongue and small discretion. Mrs. Palmer, however, never noticed the exchange of glances, and prattled on. "Lord Saltars insisted that your father had brought home a fortune from Africa." "How did he know that?" asked Allen quickly. "I don't know, he didn't say. I of course began to believe him, for when I hinted doubts, Lord Saltars said that if I offered to help you, I would learn that you were poor. I really thought you were rich, Eva, till Mr. Mask came to me, or I should have come before to make you this offer. But Mr. Mask undeceived me. I told him what Lord Saltars had said, but Mr. Mask replied that his lordship was quite wrong—that Mr. Strode had left no money, and that you would not be able to live. I therefore came to ask you to be my companion at the salary of one hundred a year. I don't know how I dare offer it, my dear," said the good-hearted widow; "and if I hadn't spoken just when I came in, I should not have had the courage. But now I have made the offer, what do you say?" "I think it is very good and kind of you—" "And bold. Yes, I can see it in your eyes—very speaking eyes they are—that you think I am bold in meddling with your private affairs. But if you really think so, please forgive me and I'll go away. You may be sure I'll hold my tongue about the matter. If every one thinks you are rich—as they do—it is not for me to contradict them." Eva laughed rather sadly. "I really don't know why people think I am rich," she said in a low voice; "my father has always been poor through speculation. What his money affairs were when he came home I don't know. He said nothing to me, and no papers were found at the hotel or in his pockets, likely to throw light on them. He never told Mr. Mask he was rich——" "I thought at the inquest Mr. Mask said something about money being left in his charge, Eva?" said Allen. Miss Strode nodded. "My father mentioned that later he might give Mr. Mask some money to hold for him, and that he would come again himself to get it. If not, he would send his wooden hand as a sign that the money should be handed over to any one who brought it." "Humph," said Allen pulling his moustache, "it seems to me that the hand has been stolen for that purpose." "If so, it will be taken to Mr. Mask, and then we will learn who stole it. But of course Mr. Mask will not be able to give any money, as my father—so he said—never left any with him." "This is all most interesting and mysterious," said Mrs. Palmer. "Oh dear me, I wonder who killed your poor father? Don't look anxious, Eva; what you and Mr. Hill say, will never be repeated by me. All I come for is to make this offer, and if you think me rude or interfering I can only apologise and withdraw." Eva caught the widow by the hand. "I think you are very kind," she said cordially, "and I thankfully accept your offer." "Oh, you dear girl!" and Mrs. Palmer embraced her. "Have you quite decided to do that, Eva?" asked Allen. "Quite," she answered firmly. "Mrs. Palmer likes me——" "I quite adore you, Eva, dear!" cried the widow. "And I am fond of her." "I know you are, dear, though you never would call me Constance." "Later I may call you Constance," said Eva, smiling at the simple way in which Mrs. Palmer talked. "So you may look upon it as settled. I shall come to be your companion whenever you like." "Come at once, dear." "No, I must wait here a few days to reconcile my old nurse to my departure." "Mrs. Merry? Oh, Eva, I am afraid she will hate me for this. She doesn't like me as it is. I don't know why," added Mrs. Palmer dolefully; "I am always polite to the lower orders." "Mrs. Merry is an odd woman," said Eva rising, "but her heart is in the right place." "Odd people's hearts always are," said the widow. "Wait here and talk to Allen," said Eva going to the door. "I'll see about tea." But the fact is Eva wanted to talk to Mrs. Merry, anxious to get over a disagreeable interview, as she knew there would be strenuous opposition. To her surprise, however, Mrs. Merry was in favour of the scheme, and announced her decision when Eva came to the kitchen. "Don't tell me about it, Miss Eva," she said, "for I had my ear to the keyhole all the time." "Oh, Nanny!" "And why do you say that?" asked the old woman bristling; "if I ain't got the right to look after you who has? I never cared for that Mrs. Palmer, as is common of commonest, so I listened to hear what she'd come about." "Then you know all. What do you say?" "Go, of course." "But, Nanny, I thought——" "I know you did, deary," said Mrs. Merry penitently. "I'm always calling folk names by reason of my having bin put on in life. And Mrs. Palmer is common—there's no denying—her father being a chemist and her late husband eggs and butter. But she's got a kind heart, though I don't see what right that Mask thing had to talk to her of your being poor when I've got this roof and fifty pound. Nasty creature, he wouldn't help you. But Mrs. Palmer is kind, Miss Eva, so I say, take what she offers. You'll be near me, and perhaps you'll be able to teach her manners, though you'll never make a silk purse out of a swine's ear." Eva was surprised by this surrender, and moreover saw that Mrs. Merry's eyes were red. In her hands she held a letter, and Eva remembered that the post had called an hour before. "Have you had bad news, Nanny?" she asked anxiously. "I got a letter from Giles," said Mrs. Merry dully; "he writes from Whitechapel, saying he's down on his luck and may come home. That's why I want you to go to Mrs. Palmer, deary. I can't keep you here with a nasty, swearing jail-bird in the house. Oh dear me," cried Mrs. Merry, bursting into tears, "and I thought Giles was dead, whatever you may say, drat him!" "But, Nanny, you needn't have him in the house if he treats you badly. This place is your own." "I must have him," said the old woman helplessly, "else he'll break the winders and disgrace me before every one. You don't know what an awful man he is when roused. He'd murder me if I crossed him. But to think he should turn up after all these years, when I thought him as dead and buried and being punished for his wickedness." "Nanny," said Eva kissing the poor wrinkled face, "I'll speak to you later about this. Meanwhile I'll tell Mrs. Palmer that I accept her offer." "Yes do, deary. It goes to my heart for you to leave. But "tis better so, and you'll have your pride satisfied. And it will be Christian work," added Mrs. Merry, "to dress that widder properly. Rainbows ain't in it, with the colours she puts on." Eva could not help smiling at this view of the matter, and withdrew to excuse herself offering tea to Mrs. Palmer. Nanny was not in a state to make tea, and Eva wished to return and learn more, also to comfort her. She therefore again told Mrs. Palmer that she accepted the offer and would come to her next week. Then taking leave of Allen, Eva went back to the kitchen. Mrs. Palmer and her companion walked down the road. "I hope you think I've acted rightly, Mr. Hill," said the widow. "I think you are most kind," said Allen, "and I hope you will make Eva happy." "I'll do my best. She shall be a sister to me. But I think," said Mrs. Palmer archly, "that some one else may make her happier." "That is not to be my fate at present," said Allen a little sadly. "Good-bye, Mrs. Palmer. I'll come and see you and Eva before I go to town." "You'll always be welcome, Mr. Hill, and I can play the part of gooseberry." So they parted laughing. Allen, thinking of this turn in Eva's affairs which had given her a home and a kind woman to look after her, walked towards the common to get a breath of fresh air before returning to "The Arabian Nights." Also he wished to think over his plans regarding meeting Horace Parkins and searching for Butsey, on whom seemed to hang the whole matter of the discovery of Strode's assassin. At the end of the road the young man was stopped by a tall, fresh-coloured girl neatly dressed, who dropped a curtsey. "Well, Jane, and how are you?" asked Allen kindly, recognising the girl as Wasp's eldest daughter. "I'm quite well, and, please, I was to give you this," said Jane. Allen took a brown paper parcel and looked at it with surprise. It was directed to "Lawrence Hill." "My father," said Allen. "Why don't you take it to the house?" "I saw you coming, sir, and I thought I'd give it to you. I've just walked from Westhaven, and father will be expecting me home. I won't have time to take the parcel to "The Arabian Nights."" "Where did this come from?" asked Allen, tucking the parcel under his arm. "I got it from Cain, sir, at Colchester." "Have you been there?" asked Hill, noting the girl's blush. He knew that Cain and Jane Wasp admired one another, though the policeman was not at all in favour of Cain, whom he regarded, and with some right to do so, as a vagabond. "Yes, sir. Mother sent me over with a message to a friend of hers. I walked to Westhaven and took the train to Colchester. Stag's Circus is there, and I met Cain. He brought that parcel and asked me to take it to Mr. Hill." "But why should Cain send parcels to my father?" asked Allen. "I don't know, sir. But I must get home, or father will be angry." When the girl marched off—which she did in a military way suggestive of her father's training—Allen proceeded homeward. The parcel was very light and he could not conjecture what was inside it. He noted that the address had been written by some one to whom writing was a pain, for the caligraphy sprawled and wavered lamentably. Cain had been to a board school and could write very well, so apparently it was not his writing. Allen wondered who could be corresponding with his father, but as the matter was really none of his business, he took the parcel home. At the gate of "The Arabian Nights" he met his father. Mr. Hill was as gay and as airy as ever, and wore his usual brown velvet coat and white trousers. Also he had on the large straw hat, and a rose bloomed in his buttonhole. He saluted his son in an off-hand manner. "I've been walking, Allen," he said lightly, "to get inspiration for a poem on the fall of Jerusalem." "I think some Italian poet has written on that subject, sir." "But not as it should be written, Allen. However, I can't waste time now in enlightening your ignorance. What have you here?" "A parcel for you," and Allen gave it. "For me, really." Mr. Hill was like a child with a new toy, and sat down on the grass by the gate to open it. The removal of the brown paper revealed a cardboard box. Hill lifted the lid, and there were two dry sticks tied in the form of a cross with a piece of grass. But Allen looked at this only for a moment. His father had turned white, and after a moment quietly fainted away. The young man looked down with a haggard face. "Am I right after all?" he asked himself. # CHAPTER X: MRS. HILL EXPLAINS An hour later Allen was conversing with his mother. Mr. Hill, carried into the house by Allen, had been revived; but he steadfastly refused to speak as to the cause of his fainting; and put it down to the heat of the weather and to his having taken too long a walk. These excuses were so feeble that the son could not help his lip curling at their manifest untruth. Hill saw this and told Allen he would lie down for an hour or so. "When I rise I may tell you something," he said feebly. "I think we may as well understand one another," said Allen coldly. "Bring in here those things which came in the parcel," said Hill. "Only one thing came," replied his son—"a rough cross——" "Yes—yes—I know. Bring it in—paper and box and all. Where did you get it?" Allen explained how Jane Wasp received it from Cain at Colchester, and Mr. Hill listened attentively. "I understand now," he said at length. "Put the things in my study. I'll see you later—say in two hours." The young man, wondering what it all meant, departed and left his father to take—on the face of it—a much needed sleep. He went outside and picked up the cross, the box, and the paper, which still remained on the grassy bank near the gate. These he brought into the study, and examined them. But nothing was revealed to his intelligence. The box was an ordinary cardboard one; he did not recognise the ill-formed writing, and the cross was simply two sticks tied together by a wisp of dry grass. Why the contents of the box should have terrified his father Allen could not say. And that the sight of the symbol did terrify him, he was well assured, since Mr. Hill was not a man given to fainting. The box came from some one who knew Mr. Hill well, as the name Lawrence was on it, and this was his father's second name rarely used. Mr. Hill usually called himself Harold, and suppressed the Lawrence. But Allen had seen the middle name inscribed in an old book, which had been given by Strode to Hill in their college days. This coincidence made Allen wonder if the sending of the cross and the use of the rarely used name had anything to do with the murder. While he thus thought, with his face growing darker and darker, the door opened and Mrs. Hill entered. She had been working in her own room, and knew nothing of the affair. But some instinct made her aware that Allen was in the house, and she never failed to be with him when he was at home. Indeed, she was hardly able to bear him out of her sight, and seized every opportunity to be in his presence. With this love it was strange that Mrs. Hill should be content that Allen should remain in South America for so long, and pay only flying visits to the paternal roof. "You are back, Allen," she said softly, and came forward to lay her hand on his wrinkled forehead. "My dear boy, why that frown? Has Eva been unkind?" "Oh no," said Allen, taking his mother's hand and kissing it, "she will not marry me yet." "Foolish girl. What does she intend to do—stop with Mrs. Merry, I suppose, which is a dull life for her? Far better if she came to me, even if she will not marry you at once." "She has accepted the position of companion to Mrs. Palmer." "Indeed," said Mrs. Hill, looking surprised; "I should have thought her pride would have prevented her placing herself under an obligation." Allen shrugged his shoulders. "There is no obligation," he said; "Eva is to be paid a salary. Besides, she likes Mrs. Palmer, and so do I." "She is not a lady," said Mrs. Hill, pursing up her lips. "Nevertheless she has a kind heart, and will make Eva very happy. I think, mother, it is the best that can be done. Eva doesn't want to come here, and she will not marry me until the murderer of her father is discovered." "Why won't she come to me?" asked Mrs. Hill sharply. Allen looked down. "She doesn't like my father," he said. "Very rude of her to tell you that. But I know my poor Harold is not popular." "He is whimsical," said Allen, "and, somehow, Eva can't get on with him. She was not rude, mother, but simply stated a fact. She likes my father well enough to meet him occasionally, but she would not care to live with him. And if it comes to that," added Allen frowning, "no more should I. He is too eccentric for me, mother, and I should think for you, mother." "I am fond of your father in my own way," said Mrs. Hill, looking down and speaking in a low voice, as though she made an effort to confess as much. "But does Eva expect to find out who murdered Mr. Strode?" "Yes. She refuses to marry me until the assassin is found and punished. As she was bent on searching for the man herself, I offered to search for her." Mrs. Hill frowned. "Why did you do that?" she asked sharply; "Strode is nothing to you, and you have to return to America. Far better find that capitalist you want, than waste your time in avenging the death of that man." "You don't seem to like Mr. Strode, mother." "I hate him," said the woman harshly and clenching her fist: "I have cause to hate him." "Had my father cause also?" asked Allen pointedly. She looked away. "I don't know," she answered gloomily. "Strode and your father were very intimate all their lives, till both married. Then we saw very little of him. He was not a good man—Strode, I mean, Allen. If my word has any weight with you, stop this search." The young man rose and began to pace the library. "Mother, I must take up the search," he said in an agitated voice, "for my father's sake. No one but myself must search for the assassin." "What do you mean by that?" questioned Mrs. Hill, sitting very upright and frowning darker than ever. Allen replied by asking a question. "Who knows that my father is called Lawrence, mother?" Mrs. Hill uttered an ejaculation of surprise and grew pale. "Who told you he was called so?" "I found the name in an old book of Cowper's poems given by Mr. Strode to my father in their college days. It was presented to Harold Lawrence Hill." "I remember the book," said Mrs. Hill, recovering her composure. "But what is odd about your father having two names? He certainly has dropped the Lawrence and calls himself simply, Harold Hill—but that is for the sake of convenience. Only those who knew him in his young days would know the name of Lawrence." "Ah!" said Allen, thoughtfully turning over the brown paper, "then this was sent by some one who knew him in his young days." Mrs. Hill looked at the brown paper covering, at the box, and at the roughly-formed cross. "What are these?" she asked carelessly. "That is what I should like to know," said her son; "at least I should like to know why the sight of this cross made my father faint." Mrs. Hill gasped, and laid her hand on her heart as though she felt a sudden pain. "Did he faint?" she asked—"did Lawrence faint?" The young man noticed the slip. Usually his mother called his father Mr. Hill or Harold, but never till this moment had he heard her call him Lawrence. Apparently the memory of old events was working in her breast. But she seemed genuinely perplexed as to the reason of Hill's behaviour at the sight of the cross. "Where did he faint?" "Outside the gate," said Allen quickly, and explained how he had received the parcel from Jane Wasp, and the circumstance of its delivery, ending with the query: "Why did he faint?" "I can't say," said Mrs. Hill, pushing back the cross and box pettishly; "there is no reason so far as I know. We'll ask your father when he awakens." "He said he would explain," said Allen sadly; "and between you and me, mother, we must have an explanation." "Your father won't like the use of the word "must," Allen." "I can't help that," said the young man doggedly, and went to the door of the library. He opened it, looked out, and then closed it again. His mother saw all this with surprise, and was still more surprised when Allen spoke again. "Do you know, mother, why I say I must undertake this investigation?" "No," said Mrs. Hill calmly; "I don't know." "It is because I wish to save my father's good name." "Is it in danger?" asked the woman, turning pale again. "It might be—if any one knew he met Mr. Strode at the Red Deeps on the night of the murder." Mrs. Hill leaped to her feet and clutched her son's arm. "Allen," she gasped, and the ashen colour of her face alarmed him, "how dare you say that—it is not possible—it cannot—cannot—" "It is possible," said Allen firmly. "Sit down, mother, and let me explain. I held my tongue as long as I could, but now my father and I must have an explanation. The fact of his fainting at the sight of this cross makes me suspicious, and the fact that Eva wants to investigate the case makes me afraid of what may come out." "Has the cross anything to do with the affair?" "Heaven, whose symbol it is, only knows," said the young man gloomily. Mother, "I am moving in the darkness, and I dread to come into the light. If I undertake this search I may be able to save my father." "From what—from—from——" Allen nodded and sank his voice. "It may even come to that. Listen, mother, I'll tell you what I know. On that night I went to the Red Deeps to prove the falsity of Eva's dream, I found it only too true." "But you never got to the Red Deeps," said Mrs. Hill, looking steadily into her son's face, "you sprained your ankle." "So I did, but that was _after_ I knew the truth." "What truth?" "That Eva's dream was true; that her father was lying dead by the spring of the Red Deeps." Mrs. Hill looked still more searchingly at him. "You saw that?" "I did—in the twilight. I reached there before it grew very dark. I found the body, and, as in Eva's dream, I recognised it by the gloved right hand——" "The wooden hand," moaned Mrs. Hill, rocking herself. "Oh, heavens!" "Yes! The whiteness of the glove caught my eyes. From what Eva had told me, I had no need to guess who was the dead man. The wooden hand explained all. The corpse was that of Strode, shot through the heart." "But there was a slight flesh wound on the arm, remember," said Mrs. Hill. "I know, but I did not notice that at the time," said Allen quickly. "At first, mother, I intended to give the alarm, and I was hurrying back to Wargrove to tell Wasp and Jackson, when I caught sight of a revolver lying in the mud. I took it up—there was a name on the silver plate on the butt. It was——" Allen sank his voice still lower. "It was my own name." "The revolver was yours?" "Yes. I brought it with me from South America, and kept it in my portmanteau, since a weapon is not needed in England. But one day I took it out to shoot some birds and left it in this library. I never thought about it again, or I should have put it away. The next sight I got of it was in the Red Deeps, and I thought——" "That your father took it to shoot Strode!" burst out Mrs. Hill. "You can't be certain of that—you can't be certain. No, no, Lawrence!" again she used the unaccustomed name. "Lawrence would never commit a murder—so good—so kind—no, no." Allen looked surprised. He never expected his mother to stand up for his father in this way. Hill, so far as the son had seen, was not kind to any one, and he certainly was not good. Why Mrs. Hill, who seemed to have no particular affection for him, should defend him in this way puzzled the young man. She saw the effect her speech had produced and beckoned Allen to sit down. "You must know all," she said—"you must know how I came to marry your father; and then you will know why I speak as I do, Allen." She laid a trembling hand on his shoulder. "You never thought I was fond of your father?" Allen looked embarrassed. "Well, no, mother. I thought you tolerated him. You have strength to rule the house and the whole county if you chose to exert it, but you let my father indulge in his whims and fancies, and allow him to speak to you, as he certainly should not do. Oftentimes I have been inclined to interfere when hearing how disrespectfully he speaks, but you have always either touched me, or have given me a look." "I would let no one lay a finger on your father, Allen, no one—let alone his son. I don't love your father, I never did, but"—she drew herself up—"I respect him." The young man looked aghast. "I don't see how any one can respect him," he said. "Heaven only knows I should like to be proud of my father, but with his eccentricities——" "They cover a good heart." "Well, mother, you know best," said Allen soothingly. He did not think his father possessed a good heart by any manner of means. The young fellow was affectionate, but he was also keen sighted, and Mr. Hill had never commanded his respect in any way. "I _do_ know best," said Mrs. Hill in a strong tone, and looked quite commanding. "Allen, are you aware why I am so fond of Eva?" "Because she is the most charming girl in the world," said the lover fondly. "Who could help being fond of Eva?" "Women are not usually fond of one another to that extent," said Mrs. Hill drily; "and a mother does not always love the girl who is likely to take her son away. No, Allen, I don't love Eva so much for her own sake as because she is the daughter of Robert Strode." "I thought you disliked him—you said he was not a good man." "Neither he was, Allen. He was the worst of men—but I loved him all the same. I should have married him, but for a trouble that came. I have never told any one what I am about to tell you, but you must know. I don't believe your father killed Strode, and you must do your best to keep him out of the investigation. With your father's sensitive nature he would go mad if he were accused of such a crime." "But my revolver being found in——" "That can be explained," said Mrs. Hill imperiously. "I shall ask Harold"—she went back to the old name being calmer. "I shall ask him myself to explain. He is innocent. He is whimsical and strange, but he would not kill a fly. He is too good-hearted." Allen wondered more and more that his mother should be so blind. "I am waiting to hear," he said resignedly. "You will not repeat what I say to Eva?" "To no one, mother. Great heavens, do you think I would?" "If you took after your father, poor, babbling soul, you would." "Ah," Allen kissed her hand, "but I am your own son, and know how to hold my tongue. Come, mother, tell me all." "Then don't interrupt till I end; then you can make your comments, Allen." She settled herself and began to speak slowly. "Both my parents died when I was a young girl, and like Eva Strode I was left without a penny. I was taken into the house of Lord Ipsen as a nursery governess——" "What! Eva's mother——" "I did not teach her, as she was my own age, but I taught her younger brother, who afterwards died. You promised not to interrupt, Allen. Well, I was comparatively happy there, but Lady Ipsen did not like me. We got on badly. There was a large house-party at the family seat in Buckinghamshire, and I was there with my charge. Amongst the guests were Mr. Strode and your father. They were both in love with Lady Jane Delham." "What! my father also? I never knew——" "You never shall know if you interrupt," said his mother imperiously; "wait and listen. I loved Mr. Strode, but as he was favoured by Lady Jane I saw there was no chance for me. Your father then had not come in for his money, and his father, ambitious and rich, was anxious that he should make an aristocratic match. That was why he asked Lady Jane to be his wife. She refused, as she loved Robert Strode. I felt very miserable, Allen, and as your father was miserable also, he used to console me. He was much appreciated for his talents in the house, and as he was a great friend of Mr. Strode's his lack of birth was overlooked. Not that I think Lord Ipsen would have allowed him to marry Lady Jane. But he never guessed that Harold lifted his eyes so high. Well, things were in this position when the necklace was lost—yes, the necklace belonging to Lady Ipsen, a family heirloom valued at ten thousand pounds. It was taken out of the safe." Mrs. Hill dropped her eyes and added in a low voice, "I was accused." Allen could hardly believe his ears, and rose, filled with indignation: "Do you mean to say that any one dared to accuse you?" "Lady Ipsen did. She never liked me, and made the accusation. She declared that she left the key of the safe in the school-room. As I was very poor, she insisted that I had taken it. As it happened I did go to London shortly after the robbery and before it was found out. Lady Ispen said that I went to pawn the necklace. I could not prove my innocence, but the Earl interfered and stood by me. He insisted that the charge was ridiculous, and made the detectives which Lady Ipsen had called in, drop the investigation. I was considered innocent by all save Lady Ipsen. The necklace was never found, and has not been to this day. I was discharged with hardly a penny in my pocket and certainly with no friend. In spite of people saying I was innocent I could not get another situation. I should have starved, Allen, and was starving in London when your father came like an angel of light and—married me." "Married you? Did he love you?" "No, he loved Lady Jane, but she married Mr. Strode. But your father was so angered at what he considered an unjust charge being made against me, that he risked his father's wrath and made me his wife." "It was noble of him," said Allen, "but——" "It was the act of a saint!" cried Mrs. Hill, rising. "His father cut him off with a shilling for what he did. I was penniless, deserted, alone. I would have died but for Lawrence. He came—I did not love him, nor he me, but I respect him for having saved a broken-hearted woman from a doom worse than death. Allen, Allen, can I ever repay your father for his noble act? Can you wonder that I tolerate his whims—that I let him do what he likes? He saved me—he surrendered all for me." "He did act well," admitted Allen, puzzled to think that his whimsical, frivolous father should act so nobly, "but you made him happy, mother. There is something to be said on your side." "Nothing! nothing!" cried Mrs. Hill with the martyr instinct of a noble woman; "he gave up all for me. His father relented after a time, and he inherited a fortune, but for a year we almost starved together. He married me when I was under a cloud. I can never repay him; never, never, I tell you, Allen," she said, facing him with clenched fists, "if I thought that he committed this crime, I would take the blame on myself rather than let him suffer. He saved me. Shall I not save him?" "Was the person who stole the necklace ever discovered, mother?" "No, the necklace vanished and has never been found to this day. I met Lady Jane Strode when she came here. She did not believe me to be guilty, and we were good friends. So you see, Allen, it is small wonder that I let your father do what he likes. Why should I cross the desires of a man who behaved so nobly? Sometimes I do interfere, as you know, for at times Harold needs guidance—but only rarely." "Well, mother, I understand now, and can say nothing. But as to how the revolver came to the Red Deeps——" "Your father shall explain," said Mrs. Hill, moving to the door; "come with me." The two went to the room at the back of the house where Hill had lain down. It was one of the Greek apartments where the little man sometimes took his siesta. But the graceful couch upon which Allen had left him lying an hour previous was empty, and the window was open on to the Roman colonnade. There was no sign of Mr. Hill. "He must have gone into the garden," said the wife, and stepped out. But there was no sign of him there. The gardener was working in the distance, and Mrs. Hill asked him where his master was. "Gone to London, ma'am," was the unexpected answer; "Jacobs drove him to the Westhaven Station." Allen and his mother looked at one another with dread in their eyes. This sudden departure was ominous in the extreme. # CHAPTER XI: ALLEN AS A DETECTIVE Mr. Hill left no message behind him with the groom. Jacobs returned and said that his master had gone to London; he did not state when he would return. Allen and his mother were much perplexed by this disappearance. It looked very much like a flight from justice, but Mrs. Hill could not be persuaded to think ill of the man to whom she owed so much. Like many women she took too humble an attitude on account of the obligation she had incurred. Yet Mrs. Hill was not humble by nature. "What will you do now, Allen?" she asked the next morning. "I intend to learn why Cain sent that parcel to my father. If he can explain I may find out why my father is afraid." "I don't think he is afraid," insisted Mrs. Hill, much troubled. "It looks very like it," commented her son; "however, you had better tell the servants that father has gone to London on business. I expect he will come back. He can't stop away indefinitely." "Of course he'll come back and explain everything. Allen, your father is whimsical—I always admitted that, but he has a heart of gold. All that is strange in his conduct he will explain on his return." "Even why he took my revolver to the Red Deeps?" said Allen grimly. "Whatever he took it for, it was for no ill purpose," said Mrs. Hill. "Perhaps he made an appointment to see Strode there. If so I don't wonder, he went armed, for Strode was quite the kind of man who would murder him." "In that case Mr. Strode has fallen into his own trap. However, I'll see what I can do." "Be careful, Allen. Your father's good name must not suffer." "That is why I am undertaking the investigation," replied the young man, rising. "Well, mother, I am going to see Mrs. Merry and ask where Cain is to be found. The circus may have left Colchester." "You might take the brown paper that was round the box," suggested Mrs. Hill. "Mrs. Merry may be able to say if the address is in her son's writing." "I don't think it is—the hand is a most illiterate one. Cain knows how to write better. I have seen his letters to Eva." "What!" cried Mrs. Hill, scandalised, "does she let a lad in that position write to her?" "Cain is Eva's foster-brother, mother," said Allen drily, "and she is the only one who can manage him." "He's a bad lot like his father was before him," muttered Mrs. Hill, and then went to explain to the servants that Mr. Hill would be absent for a few days. Allen walked to Misery Castle, and arrived there just before mid-day. For some time he had been strolling on the common wondering how to conduct his campaign. He was new to the detective business and did not very well know how to proceed. At first he had been inclined to seek professional assistance; but on second thoughts he decided to take no one into his confidence for the present. He dreaded what he might learn concerning his father's connection with the crime, as he by no means shared his mother's good opinion of Mr. Hill. Allen and his father had never got on well together, as their natures were diametrically opposed to each other. Allen had the steady good sense of his mother, while the father was airy and light and exasperatingly frivolous. Had not Mrs. Hill thought herself bound, out of gratitude, to live with the man who had done so much for her, and because of her son Allen, she certainly would not have put up with such a trying husband for so many years. Allen was always impatient of his father's ways; and absence only confirmed him in the view he took of his evergreen sire. He could scarcely believe that the man was his father, and always felt relieved when out of his presence. However, he determined to do his best to get to the bottom of the matter. He could not believe that Mr. Hill had fired the fatal shot, but fancied the little man had some knowledge of who had done so. And whether he was an accessory before or after the fact was equally unpleasant. On arriving at Mrs. Merry's abode he was greeted by that good lady with the news that Eva had gone to spend the day with Mrs. Palmer. "To get used to her, as you might say," said Mrs. Merry. "Oh, Mr. Allen, dear," she spoke with the tears streaming down her withered face, "oh, whatever shall I do without my deary?" "You'll see her often," said Allen soothingly. "It won't be the same," moaned Mrs. Merry. "It's like marrying a daughter, not that I've got one, thank heaven—it's never the same." "Well—well—don't cry, there's a good soul. I have come to see you about Cain." Mrs. Merry gave a screech. "He's in gaol! I see it in your eyes! Oh, well I knew he'd get there!" "He hasn't got there yet," said the young man impatiently; "come into the drawing-room. I can explain." "Is it murder or poaching or burglary?" asked Mrs. Merry, still bent on believing Cain was in trouble, "or horse-stealing, seeing he's in a circus?" "It's none of the three," said Allen, sitting down and taking the brown paper wrapping out of his pocket. "Jane Wasp saw him in Colchester, and he's quite well." "And what's she been calling on my son there, I'd like to know?" asked Mrs. Merry, bridling. "He shan't marry her, though he says he loves her, which I don't believe. To be united with that meddlesome Wasp policeman. No, Mr. Allen, never, whatever you may say." "You can settle that yourself. All I wish to know is this," he spread out the paper. "Do you know whose writing this is?" Mrs. Merry, rather surprised, bent over the paper, and began to spell out the address with one finger. "Lawrence Hill," she said, "ah, they used to call your father that in the old days. I never hear him called so now." "Never mind. What of the writing?" Mrs. Merry looked at it at a distance, held it close to her nose, and then tilted it sideways. All the time her face grew paler and paler. Then she took an envelope out of her pocket and glanced from the brown paper to the address. Suddenly she gave a cry, and threw her apron over her head. "Oh, Giles—Giles—whatever have you bin up to!" "What do you mean?" asked Allen, feeling inclined to shake her. "It's Giles's writing," sobbed Mrs. Merry, still invisible; "whatever you may say, it's his own writing, he never having been to school and writing pothooks and hangers awful." She tore the apron from her face and pointed, "Look at this Lawrence, and at this, my name on the envelope. He wrote, saying he's coming here to worry me, and I expect he's sent to your pa saying the same. They was thick in the old days, the wicked old days," said Mrs. Merry with emphasis, "I mean your pa and him as is dead and my brute of a Giles." "So Giles Merry wrote this?" said Allen thoughtfully, looking at the brown paper writing. "I wonder if the cross is a sign between my father and him, which has called my father to London?" "Have you seen Giles, sir?" asked Mrs. Merry dolefully, "if so, tell him I'll bolt and bar the house and have a gun ready. I won't be struck and bullied and badgered out of my own home." "I haven't seen your husband," explained Allen, rising, "this parcel was sent to my father by your son through Jane Wasp." Mrs. Merry gave another cry. "He's got hold of Cain—oh, and Cain said he hadn't set eyes on him. He's ruined!" Mrs. Merry flopped into a chair. "My son's ruined—oh, and he was my pride! But that wicked father of his would make Heaven the other place, he would." "I suppose Cain must have got the parcel from his father?" said Allen. "He must have. It's in Giles's writing. What was in the parcel, sir?" "A cross made of two sticks tied with a piece of grass. Do you know what that means?" "No, I don't, but if it comes from Giles Merry, it means some wicked thing, you may be sure, Mr. Allen, whatever you may say." "Well, my father was much upset when he got this parcel and he has gone to London." "To see Giles?" asked Mrs. Merry. "I don't know. The parcel came from Colchester." "Then Giles is there, and with my poor boy," cried Mrs. Merry, trembling. "Oh, when will my cup of misery be full? I always expected this." "Don't be foolish, Mrs. Merry. If your husband comes you can show him the door." "He'd show me his boot," retorted Mrs. Merry. "I've a good mind to sell up, and clear out. If "twasn't for Miss Eva, I would. And there, I've had to part from her on account of Giles. If he came and made the house, what he do make it, which is the pit of Tophet, a nice thing it would be for Miss Eva." "I'll break his head if he worries Eva," said Allen grimly; "I've dealt before with that sort of ruffian. But I want you to tell me where Cain is to be heard of. I expect the circus has left Colchester by this time." "Cain never writes to me, he being a bad boy," wailed Mrs. Merry, "an' now as his father's got hold of him he'll be worse nor ever. But you can see in the papers where the playactors go, sir." "To be sure," said Allen, "how stupid I am. Well, good-day, Mrs. Merry, and don't tell Miss Eva anything of this." "Not if I was tortured into slices," said Mrs. Merry, walking to the door with Allen, "ah, it's a queer world. I hope I'll go to my long home soon, sir, and then I'll be where Merry will never come. You may be sure they won't let him in." This view of the case appeared to afford Mrs. Merry much satisfaction, and she chuckled as Allen walked away. He went along the road wondering at the situation. His father was not a good husband to his mother—at least Allen did not think so. Giles was a brute to his wife, and the late Mr. Strode from all accounts had been a neglectful spouse. "And they were all three boon companions," said Allen to himself; "I wonder what I'll find out about the three? Perhaps Giles has a hand in the death of Strode. At all events the death has been caused by some trouble of the past. God forgive me for doubting my father, but I dread to think of what I may learn if I go on with the case. But for my mother's sake I _must_ go on." Allen now directed his steps to Wasp's abode, as he knew at this hour the little policeman would be at home. It struck Allen that it would be just as well to see the bullet which had pierced the heart of Mr. Strode. If it was one from his own revolver—and Allen knew the shape of its bullets well—there would be no doubt as to his father's guilt. But Allen fancied, that from the feeble nature of the wound on the arm, it was just the kind of shaky aim which would be taken by a timid man like his father. Perhaps (this was Allen's theory) the three companions of old met at the Red Deeps—Mr. Strode, Giles, and his father. Mr. Hill, in a fit of rage, might have fired the shot which ripped the arm, but Giles must have been the one who shot Strode through the heart. Of course Allen had no grounds to think in this way, and it all depended on the sight of the bullet in the possession of Wasp as to the truth of the theory. Allen intended to get Wasp out of the room on some pretext and then fit the bullet into his weapon. He had it in his pocket for the purpose. This was the only way in which he could think of solving the question as to his father's guilt or innocence. Wasp was at home partaking of a substantial dinner. Some of the children sat round, and Mrs. Wasp, a grenadier of a woman, was at the head of the table. But three children sat out with weekly journals on their laps, and paper and pencil in hand. They all three looked worried. After greeting Allen, Wasp explained. "There's a prize for guessing the names of European capitals," he said; "it's given in the _Weekly Star_, and I've set them to work to win the prize. They're working at it now, and don't get food till each gets at least two capitals. They must earn money somehow, sir." "And they've been all the morning without getting one, sir," said Mrs. Wasp plaintively. Apparently her heart yearned over her three children, who looked very hungry. "Don't you think they might eat now in honour of the gentleman's visit?" "Silence," cried Wasp, "sit down. No talking in the ranks. Wellington, Kitchener, and Boadicea"—these were the names of the unhappy children—"must do their duty. Named after generals, sir," added Wasp with pride. "Was Boadicea a general?" asked Allen, sorry for the unfortunate trio, who were very eagerly searching for the capitals in a school atlas. "A very good one for a woman, sir, as I'm informed by Marlborough, my eldest, sir, as is at a board school. Boadicea, if you don't know the capital of Bulgaria you get no dinner." Boadicea whimpered, and Allen went over to the three, his kind heart aching for their hungry looks. "Sofia is the capital. Put it down." "Right, sir," said Wasp in a military fashion, "put down Sofia." "What capital are you trying to find, Wellington?" asked Allen. "Spain, sir, and Kitchener is looking for Victoria." "The Australian country, sir, not Her late Majesty," said Wasp smartly. "Madrid is the capital of Spain, and Melbourne that of Victoria." The children put these down hastily and simply leaped for the table. "Silence," cried the policeman, horrified at this hurry; "say grace." The three stood up and recited grace like a drill sergeant shouting the standing orders for the day. Shortly, their jaws were at work. Wasp surveyed the family grimly, saw they were orderly, and then turned to his visitor. "Now, Mr. Allen, sir, I am at your disposal. Come into the parlour." He led the way with a military step, and chuckles broke out amongst the family relieved of his presence. When in the small room and the door closed, Allen came artfully to the subject of his call. It would not do to let Wasp suspect his errand. Certainly the policeman had overcome his suspicion that Allen was concerned in the matter, but a pointed request for the bullet might reawaken them. Wasp was one of those hasty people who jump to conclusions, unsupported by facts. "Wasp," said Allen, sitting down under a portrait of Lord Roberts, "Miss Strode and myself are engaged, as you know." "Yes, sir." Wasp standing stiffly saluted. "I give you joy." "Thank you. We have been talking over the death of her father, and she is anxious to learn who killed him." "Natural enough," said the policeman, scratching his chin, "but it is not easy to do that, especially"—Wasp looked sly—"as there is no reward." "Miss Strode is not in a position to offer a reward," replied Allen, "so, for her sake, I am undertaking the search. I may want your assistance, Wasp, and I am prepared to pay you for the same. I am not rich, but if ten pounds would be of any use——" "If you'd a family of ten, sir, you'd know as it would," said Wasp, looking gratified. "I'm not a haggler, Mr. Allen, but with bread so dear, and my children being large eaters, I'm willing to give you information for twenty pounds." "I can't afford that," said Allen decidedly. "I can tell you something about Butsey," said Wasp eagerly. "Ten pounds will pay you for your trouble," replied Allen, "and remember, Wasp, if you don't accept the offer and find the culprit on your own, there will be no money coming from the Government." "There will be promotion, though, Mr. Allen," said Wasp, drawing himself up, "and that means a larger salary. Let us say fifteen." "Very good, though you drive a hard bargain. When the murderer is laid by the heels I'll pay you fifteen pounds. No, Wasp," he added, seeing what the policeman was about to say, "I can't give you anything on account. Well, is it a bargain?" "It must be, as you won't do otherwise," said Wasp ruefully. "What do you want to know?" "Tell me about this boy." "Butsey?" Wasp produced a large note-book. "I went to Westhaven to see if there was truth in that Sunday school business he told me about when I met him. Mr. Allen, there's no Sunday school; but there was a treat arranged for children from London." "Something of the Fresh Air Fund business?" "That's it, sir. This was a private business, from some folk as do kindnesses in Whitechapel. A lot of children came down on Wednesday——" Allen interrupted. "That was the day Mr. Strode came down?" "Yes, sir, and on that night he was shot at the Red Deeps. Well, sir, Butsey must have been with the ragged children as he looks like that style of urchin. But I can't be sure of this. The children slept at Westhaven and went back on Thursday night." "And Butsey saw Mrs. Merry in the morning of Thursday?" "He did, sir, and me later. Butsey I fancy didn't go back till Saturday. But I can't be sure of this." "You don't seem to be sure of anything," said Allen tartly. "Well, I can't say your information is worth much, Wasp." "Hold on, sir. I've got the address of the folk in Whitechapel who brought the children down. If you look them up, they may know something of Butsey." "True enough. Give me the address." Wasp consented, and wrote it out in a stiff military hand, while Allen went on artfully, "Was any weapon found at the Red Deeps?" "No, sir," said Wasp, handing his visitor the address of the Whitechapel Mission, which Allen put in his pocket-book. "I wish the revolver had been found, then we'd see if the bullet fitted." "Only one bullet was found." "Only one, sir. Dr. Grace got it out of the body. It is the bullet which caused the death, and I got Inspector Garrit to leave it with me. Perhaps you'd like to see it, sir?" "Oh, don't trouble," said Allen carelessly. "I can't say anything about it, Wasp." "Being a gentleman as has travelled you might know something, Mr. Allen," said Wasp, and went to a large tin box, which was inscribed with his name and the number of his former regiment, in white letters. From this he took out a packet, and opening it, extracted a small twist of paper. Then he placed the bullet in Allen's hand. "I should think it came from a Derringer," said Wasp. Allen's heart leaped, for his revolver was not a Derringer. He turned the bullet in his hand carelessly. "It might," he said with a shrug. "Pity the other bullet wasn't found." "The one as ripped the arm, sir? It's buried in some tree trunk, I guess, Mr. Allen. But it would be the same size as this. Both were fired from the same barrel. First shot missed, but the second did the business. Hold on, sir, I've got a drawing of the Red Deeps, and I'll show you where we found the corpse," and Wasp left the room. Allen waited till the door was closed, then hastily took the revolver from his breast-pocket. He tried the bullet, but it proved to be much too large for the revolving barrel, and could not have been fired therefrom. "Thank heaven," said Allen, with a sigh of relief, "my father is innocent." # CHAPTER XII: LORD SALTARS Mrs. Palmer dwelt in a large and imposing house, some little distance from the village, and standing back a considerable way from the Shanton Road. It had a park of fifteen acres filled with trees, smooth lawns, a straight avenue, imposing iron gates, and a lodge, so that it was quite an impressive mansion. The building itself was square, of two stories, painted white, and had many windows with green shutters. It somewhat resembled an Italian villa, and needed sunshine to bring out its good points; but in wet weather it looked miserable and dreary. It was elevated on a kind of mound, and a stone terrace ran round the front and the side. At the back were large gardens and ranges of hot-houses. Everything was kept as neat as a new pin, for Mrs. Palmer had many servants. Being rich, she could afford to indulge her fancies, and made full use of her money. "La, dear," said Mrs. Palmer, when Eva was settled with her as companion, "what's the use of five thousand a year if you don't make yourself comfortable? I was brought up in a shabby way, as poor dead pa was a small—very small—chemist at Shanton. Palmer had his shop in Westhaven and was also in a grubbing way of business till people took to coming to Westhaven. Then property rose in value, and Palmer made money. He used to call on pa and commiserate with him about the dull trade in Shanton, where people were never sick. He advised him to move to Westhaven, but pa, losing heart after the death of ma, would not budge. Then Palmer proposed to me, and though I was in love with Jimmy Eccles at the Bank, I thought I'd marry money. Oh, dear me," sighed Mrs. Palmer looking very pretty and placid, "so here I am a widow." "A happy widow," said Eva, smiling. "I don't deny that, dear. Though, to be sure, the death of poor pa, and of Palmer, were blows. I was fond of both. Jimmy Eccles wanted to marry me when Palmer went, but I sent him off with a flea in his ears. It was only my money he wanted. Now he's married a freckled-faced girl, whose pa is a draper." "I suppose you will marry again, Mrs. Palmer?" "I suppose I will, when I get the man to suit. But I do wish, Eva dear, you would call me Constance. I'm sure you might, after being three days in the house. Call me Constance, and I'll tell you something which will please you." "What is it, Constance?" "There's a dear. I shan't tell you yet—it's a surprise, and perhaps you may be angry with me. But some one is coming to dinner." "Allen?" asked Eva, her face lighting up. "No! He's in town. At least you told me so." Eva nodded. "Yes; he went up to town last week, after seeing Wasp." "About that horrid murder?" "Certainly. Allen is trying to learn who killed my father." "It's very good of him," said the widow, fanning herself vigorously, "and I'm sure I hope he'll find out. The man who shot Mr. Strode should be hanged, or we won't sleep in our beds safe. Why, Eva, you have no idea how I tremble here at nights. This is a lonely house, and these holiday trippers might bring down burglars amongst them." "I don't think you need fear, Constance. There have been no burglars down here. Besides, you have a footman, and a coachman, and a gardener. With three men you are quite safe." "I'm sure I hope so, dear. But one never knows. When do you expect Mr. Hill back?" "In a few days. I don't know what he's doing. He refuses to tell me anything until he finds some definite clue. But I have his address, and can write to him when I want to." "His father is in town also—so Mrs. Hill told me." "Yes, Mr. Hill went up before Allen. I believe he has gone to some sale to buy ancient musical instruments." "Dear me," said Mrs. Palmer, "what rubbish that man does spend his money on. What's the use of buying instruments you can't play on? I dare say he'll try to, though, for Mr. Hill is the queerest man I ever set eyes on." "He _is_ strange," said Eva gravely. She did not wish to tell Mrs. Palmer that she disliked the little man, for after all he was Allen's father, and there was no need to say anything. "But Mr. Hill is very clever." "So they say. But he worries me. He's always got some new idea in his head. I think he changes a thousand times a day. Mrs. Merry doesn't like him, but then she likes no one, not even me." "Poor nurse," said Eva sadly, "she has had an unhappy life." "I don't think you have had a bright one, dear; but you shall have, if I can make it so. Are you sure you have everything you want?" "Everything," said Eva affectionately; "you are more than kind, Mrs.——" "_Constance!_" cried the pretty widow in a high key. "Constance, of course. But tell me your surprise." Mrs. Palmer began to fidget. "I don't know if you will be pleased, after all, Eva. But if you don't like to meet him say you have a headache, and I'll entertain him myself." "Who is it?" asked Eva, surprised at this speech. "Lord Saltars," said Mrs. Palmer in a very small voice, and not daring to look at her companion. Miss Strode did not reply at once. She was ill-pleased that the man should come to the house, because she did not wish to meet him. Her mother's family had done nothing for her, and even when she lost her father, Saltars, although in the neighbourhood, had not been kind enough to call. Eva met him once, and, as she had told Mrs. Palmer, did not like his free and easy manner. However, it was not her place to object to Saltars coming. This was not her house, and she was merely a paid companion. This being the case, she overcame her momentary resentment and resolved to make the best of the position. She did this the more especially as she knew that Mrs. Palmer had only been actuated in inviting Saltars by her worship of rank. "I shall be quite pleased to meet my cousin," said Eva. "I hope you are not annoyed, Eva." "I am not exactly pleased, but this is your house, and——" "Oh, please—please don't speak like that," cried the widow, "you make me feel so cheap. And the fact is—I may as well confess it—Lord Saltars, knowing you were with me, for I told my Shanton friends and they told him, asked if I would invite him to dinner." "To meet me, I suppose?" "I fancy so. But why don't you like him, Eva He's a very nice man." "Not the kind of man I care about," replied Eva, rising; "however, Mrs. Palmer, I'll meet him. It's time to dress now." She glanced at the clock. "At what time does he arrive?" "At seven. He's at Shanton." "Ah! Is the circus there again?" "Yes. It is paying a return visit. But I know you're angry with me, dear—you call me Mrs. Palmer." "Very well, then, Constance," said Eva, and kissing the pouting widow she escaped to her own room. Mrs. Palmer was kind and generous, and made her position more pleasant than she expected. But Mrs. Palmer was also foolish in many ways, particularly in her worship of rank. Because Lord Saltars had a title she was willing to overlook his deficiencies, though he was neither intellectual nor amusing. Eva really liked Mrs. Palmer and felt indebted to her, but she wished the widow's good taste had led her to refuse Saltars permission to call. But there—as Mrs. Merry would say—Mrs. Palmer not being a gentlewoman had no inherent good taste. But for her kind heart she would have been intolerable. However, Eva hoped to improve her into something better, by gentle means, though Constance with her loud tastes and patent tuft-hunting was a difficult subject. As she was in mourning for her father, Eva dressed in the same black gauze gown in which she had hoped to welcome him, but without any touch of colour on this occasion. As she went down the stairs, she hoped that Mrs. Palmer would be in the room to welcome her noble visitor, so as to save the embarrassment of a _tête-à-tête_. But Mrs. Palmer was one of those women who never know the value of time, and when Eva entered the drawing-room she found herself greeted by a short, square-built jovial-looking man of forty. Saltars was perfectly dressed and looked a gentleman, but his small grey eyes, his red, clean-shaven face and remarkably closely clipped hair did not, on the whole, make up a good-looking man. As soon as he saw Eva, he strolled forward calmly and eyed her critically. "How are you, Miss Strode?—or shall I say Cousin Eva?" "I think Miss Strode is sufficient," said Eva, seating herself. "I am sorry Mrs. Palmer is not down yet." "By Jove, I'm not," said Saltars, taking possession of a near chair. "I want to have a talk with you." "This is hardly the hour or the place." "Come now, Miss Strode—if you will insist on being so stiff—you needn't be too hard on a chap. I know I should have called, and I quite intended to do so, but I had reasons——" "I don't ask for your reasons, Lord Saltars." The man clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "We don't seem to get on," he said at length, "yet I wish to be friendly. See here, I want my mother to call and see you." "If Lady Ipsen calls, I shall be pleased." "In a society way, but you won't be heart-pleased." "No," said Eva, very decidedly; "how can you expect me to? Your family has not treated me or my dead father well." "Your father——" Saltars clicked again and seemed on the point of saying something uncomplimentary of the dead; but a gleam in his companion's eye made him change his mind. "I know you've been a bit neglected, and I'm very sorry it should be so," said he bluntly. "I assure you that it was always my wish you should be invited to stop with us in Buckinghamshire. And my father was in favour of it too." "But Lady Ipsen wasn't," said Eva coolly; "don't trouble to apologise, Lord Saltars, I should not have gone in any case." "No, by Jove, I can see that. You're as proud as a peacock—just like the portrait of Lady Barbara Delham who lived in Queen Anne's reign. And she was a Tartar." Eva began to smile. Saltars was amusing. She saw that he was simply a thoughtless man, who lived for himself alone. He apparently wished to be friendly, so as Eva had no real grudge against him, she unbent. "I don't think we need quarrel," she said. "No, by Jove. But I shan't. Any quarrelling that is to be done must be on your side. There's enough in our family as it is. You should hear how my mother and the dowager Lady Ipsen fight: but then the dowager is a dreadful old cat," he finished candidly. "I have never seen her." "You wouldn't forget her if you did. She's beaked like a parrot, and talks like one. She and I don't hit it off. She's one of what they call the old school, whatever that means, and she thinks I'm a low person—like a groom. What do you think?" Lord Saltars was not unlike a groom in some ways, but his good nature and candour amused Eva. "I am not a person to judge," she said, smiling. "By Jove, you might have been, though," said he, fixing his small grey eyes on her; "supposing you became Lady Saltars?" "There's not the slightest chance of that," said Eva coldly. "There isn't now: but there might have been. And after all, why not now, if things are what your father said they were?" Miss Strode drew herself up. She thought he was going too far. "I really don't know what you mean. I am engaged to be married." "I know; to a fellow called Hill. Your father told me." "Lord Saltars, did you meet my father after he came home?" "Of course I did. He called to see me when he came to London, and corresponded with me long before that. I say, do you remember when I came to see you at Wargrove?" "Yes. We did not get on well together." "By Jove, no more we did! That was a pity, because I came to see what kind of a wife you'd make." "You're very kind," said Eva indignantly, "but I'm not on the market to be examined like a horse." "Haw—haw," laughed the other, slapping his knee, "that's the kind of thing the dowager would say. Don't get waxy, Eva—Miss Strode then, though I wish you'd call me Herbert and I'd call you Eva." "I shall call you Lord Saltars." "Saltars without the confounded lord," urged the man pertinaciously. "No; go on. What were you saying? Yes, that you came to see what sort of a wife I'd make. Who told you to?" "Your father." "I don't believe it." "It's true, though. Your father wanted you to marry me. He kept writing to me from South Africa to keep me up to the scratch, and said he was gathering a fortune for us both. When he came home he called on me and told me you had some folly in your head about this chap Hill, and——" Eva rose indignantly, "Lord Saltars," she said calmly and distinctly, "I don't allow any one to talk to me in this way. My engagement to Mr. Allen Hill is not a folly. And I don't see why my father should have talked to you about it." "Because he wanted me to marry you," said Saltars, rising and following her to the fireplace. Eva placed one slippered foot on the fender, and an elbow on the mantelpiece. She looked angry, but extremely pretty and well-bred. Saltars adopted the same attitude opposite her and looked more like a groom than ever. But the expression of his face was so good-natured that Eva could not feel as angry as she ought to have done. "I should never have married you," she said, her colour deepening. "I understand that you have other views." Saltars grew red in his turn. "It's that boy Cain's been talking," he said; "I'll break his head." "That is for you and Cain to decide," said Miss Strode indifferently, "but you can quite understand why I don't discuss these things." Saltars kicked the fender sulkily. "I wish you would be more friendly, Eva," he said. "I need a friend, and so, by Jove, do you." "How can I befriend you?" "Well, I'm in love with Miss Lorry, and there will be a shine if I marry her. She's perfectly straight and——" "I don't want to hear about her," said Eva angrily, "and if you were a gentlemen you wouldn't talk to me of that sort of person." "She's a perfectly decent sort," said Saltars, angry in his turn, "I intend to make her my wife." "That has nothing to do with me. And I wish you'd drop this conversation, Lord Saltars. It doesn't interest me. I am quite willing to be friends. Your manner is absurd, but you mean well. Come," and she held out her hand. Saltars took it with a long breath. "Just like the dowager," said he, "just as nippy. I'd like to see you have a turn up with old Lady Ipsen." "Well, then," said Eva, "now we are friends and you promise not to talk nonsense to me, tell me what you mean by my father making a fortune for me." "For both of us, by Jove," said his lordship; "you were to be Lady Saltars, and then we were to have forty thousand pounds." "But my father didn't leave me a penny," said Eva. "That's what I wish to see you about," said Saltars earnestly. "I heard from Mrs. Palmer's friends that you were without money, and were her companion, so I wrote asking to come to-night. I want to be your friend and help you. You ought to have forty thousand pounds." "How do you know that?" "Because I saw your father twice before he was killed: within the last six weeks. He told me that he had brought home forty thousand pounds. Twice he told me that; but he did not say how it was invested. I expect his lawyer, Mask, can tell you. He's my lawyer too." "Mr. Mask told me that I inherited no money." "Yet your father saw him," said the perplexed Saltars. "I know he did; but he said nothing about forty thousand pounds. I know that he told Mr. Mask he would place some money in his keeping, without mentioning the amount, but he never did so." "Didn't you find the money in his portmanteau or box, or——?" "We found nothing; nor did we find any papers mentioning that such a sum of money was in existence." "Then he must have been robbed of it, when dead." Eva shook her head. "Nothing was taken out of his pockets. His money, his jewellery, his watch—nothing was taken." "Queer," said Saltars. "Did you find in his pockets a large blue pocket-book with his crest on it, stamped in gold?" "No. When did you see that?" "When he was talking to me. I was hard up. I don't mind saying," said Saltars frankly, "that I'm always hard up. As your father looked upon me as his intended son-in-law, he gave me a pony, and took the notes out of the blue pocket-book. He carried his money there." "He would scarcely carry forty thousand pounds there." "No; but he might have carried a letter of credit for that amount. Or at least he would have some memorandum of such a large sum. If any notes were stolen with the pocket-book, you can trace those by the numbers when the murderer presents them, and then the beast will be caught. But the forty thousand——" "Stop—stop," said Eva, my head is in a whirl. "Are you sure?" "Perfectly; I was to marry you, and then we were to get the money. And I may tell you that your father said, more would come to us when he died. Depend upon it, Eva, the murder was committed for the sake of that money." "I wonder if my father meant diamonds?" said Eva. Saltars started. "By Jove, I shouldn't wonder," he said eagerly, "he would bring diamonds from South Africa as the easiest way to carry such a large sum. Perhaps he had the diamonds in his pocket and they were stolen." "I must tell Allen this." "Who is Allen?—oh, young Hill! Don't deny it. I can see it in your face, it's the lucky man. And by Jove he is. I don't see why I should surrender you. Your father wished us to marry——" "You go too fast, Lord Saltars. Remember Miss Lorry." Saltars would have said something more but that the door opened and Mrs. Palmer, fastening her glove, sailed in. "Not a word of the diamonds to any one," said Eva hurriedly. "Not a word," said Saltars in a low voice, then raised it gaily—"How are you, Mrs. Palmer? My cousin and I have been talking"—he looked at Eva inquiringly, his invention failing him—"About—about——" "Chinese metaphysics," said the feminine intellect. # CHAPTER XIII: THE OTHER WOMAN Lord Saltars spent a very enjoyable evening in the company of two pretty women. Eva had no chance of further conversation, as Mrs. Palmer made the most of her noble guest. She sang to him, she chattered to him, she did all that a lively woman could do to amuse him. In fact, it seemed to Eva as though the widow was trying to fascinate his lordship. Saltars, no fool, saw this also. "But it won't do," chuckled the guest, as he drove back to Shanton in a smart dog-cart. "She's a pretty, saucy little woman that widow, and has money, too, though not enough for me to marry her on. Then Eva's worth a dozen of her, for looks and breeding. But then she's got no money, and I can't afford to marry poverty. Of course that forty thousand pounds might turn up, but on the other hand it might not. Finally, there's Bell Lorry! Ugh!" his lordship shivered. "I'm not so gone on her as I was; yet there's something infernally taking about Bell. She's a fine woman—with a temper. But she's got no money, and no birth, and precious little character, I should say. I'm not going to marry her, though she thinks so. But it will be the deuce's own job to get rid of her." Saltars argued this way until he arrived at Shanton. Then he delivered the reins to his groom at the door of the Queen's Hotel, where he was stopping, and rang the bell. It was after twelve o'clock, and a fine starry night. But the chill in the air made Saltars pull up the collar of his overcoat and grumble. He was anxious for his bed and a glass of steaming grog. He got the last, but he was prevented from getting to the first by reason of a visitor. On ascending to his sitting-room he was met by a sleepy waiter. "Your lordship," said this individual, "there's a lady waiting to see your lordship in your lordship's room." "What, at this hour! It's not respectable." "So the landlady told her, your lordship, but she said that she would do what she liked, and threatened to make a scene. Mrs. Cowper then thought it would be best to let her stay. She's waiting upstairs—the lady, I mean, your lordship—and is in a fine rage." "It sounds like Bell," thought Saltars, and dismissed the old waiter, who went back to tell the night-porter he was going to bed. But the night-porter persuaded him to remain up for a time. "There's going to be a row with that wench," said the night-porter; "she's a circus-rider—Miss Lorry by name, and has a temper of her own. I think she'll give it to his lordship hot. I wonder Mrs. Cowper don't object to such goings on." So the two men, waiter and night-porter, remained below while Saltars, fully aware from the description that his visitor was Miss Lorry, entered the room prepared for a storm. The lady was seated in a chair near the table, and was drinking champagne which she had ordered at his expense. She was a fine-looking woman of mature age, and was expensively dressed in blue silk. Her arms and neck were bare, and she wore many jewels. As she was of the Junoesque order of woman, she looked remarkably well. Her cheeks were flushed, but whether from the champagne or from rage it was impossible to say. Probably a mixture of both gave her the high colour she wore, when she looked up to see Saltars enter. In spite of this description and of the lateness of the hour, and of the lady's loud manner, it must not be thought that Miss Lorry was anything but a thoroughly decent woman—if somewhat of a Bohemian. She was known as an accomplished rider throughout the length and breadth of the three kingdoms, and no one had a word to say against her character. She was certainly fond of wine, but kept her liking for that within due bounds, as a rule. She was also kind-hearted, charitable, and generous. Many a man and woman connected with the circus, and with the sawdust profession as a whole, had cause to remember Miss Lorry's kind heart. Bohemian as she was, the woman was really good and true and had many noble instincts. Saltars might have done worse than marry her, in spite of her birth, and profession, and years—for she certainly was older than he was. But Saltars, with his shallow instincts, looked on the outward beauty of Bell Lorry somewhat coarsened by age and her hard life. He had not the penetration to see the real, true, kindly, noble soul she possessed. And then it must be confessed that Miss Lorry masked her many good qualities by indulging on the least provocation in royal rages. When blind with passion, she was capable of anything. "Oh," said she, tossing her head, "so you're back!" "Just so," replied Saltars, taking off his overcoat and tossing it on to the sofa. "I didn't expect to find you here—it's after twelve—really you should not, you know, for your own sake. People will talk, and the landlady here is no angel." Miss Lorry snapped her fingers and drank some wine. "That for the landlady," she said coolly, "so long as my conscience is clear, I'm not afraid of what people say. And I couldn't go to bed without seeing you. The circus leaves for Chelmsford to-morrow." "But you needn't go with it," said Saltars, lighting a cigarette. "I daresay we can have a talk to-morrow before you go?" "We must have a talk to-night and an understanding too," snapped the woman, her eyes blazing. "Look here, Lord Saltars, what do you mean by going after that girl?" "What girl?" asked his lordship, taking a seat. "You know well enough. You've been over to Wargrove to dine with that Mrs. Palmer, and Miss Strode is with her as a companion." "You seem to know all about it, Bell." "Don't call me Bell. I've never given you permission to call me by my christian name. I always call you Lord Saltars and not Herbert. You can't say a word against me." "I don't want to, but——" "I shan't listen to your remarks," said Miss Lorry in a rage; "you think because I'm a circus-rider that I've got no pride and no decency. But I'd have your lordship know that I'm a respectable woman, and there's no mud can be thrown at me. You asked me to marry you, and I said I would. Is that so?" "Yes, but——" "Hold your tongue. If that is so, what right have you to go after that girl? She's a nice girl and a decent girl, and a lady, which I am not. All the same, you shan't spoil her life." Saltars raised his eyebrows. "I have no intention of spoiling her life. She's my cousin, if you remember——" "Oh, I know. But you're just the sort of man to make love to her, and break her heart. And as you're engaged to marry me, I shan't have it. So you look out, Mr. Herbert Delham, or Lord Saltars, or whatever you call yourself." "I wouldn't get in a rage over nothing, if I were you," said Saltars coolly, "and I shouldn't drink more of that wine either. It only excites you. Try this," he tossed her a cigarette, "it may calm your nerves." "My nerves are my own to do what I like with. And if you had my nerves you might talk. It isn't a nervous woman who can ride and control a savage stallion like White Robin." "That horse will kill you some day," said Saltars; "he's got the temper of a fiend." "So have I when roused, so don't you make me angry." "You're not very good-tempered now. Try the cigarette." "I'll smoke if you hand me one properly and light it for me. I do not take things thrown to me as if I were a dog." Lord Saltars rose and produced another cigarette—the one he threw was lying on the table. He offered this to Miss Lorry with a bow, and then gravely lighted a match. In another minute the smoke was curling from her full lips, and she calmed down. Saltars returned to his seat and lighted a new roll of tobacco with the stump of his old cigarette. "How did you know I went to Shanton to-night?" "Cain told me. Yes, and he told me about Miss Strode being Mrs. Palmer's companion. He went to-day to see his mother, with whom Miss Strode lived. She—the mother, I mean—knew that you were going to Mrs. Palmer's to-night, as Mrs. Palmer told her." "I wonder Mrs. Palmer took the trouble," said Saltars coolly. "My movements seem to interest her, and this Mrs. Merry and Cain. I'll break that young man's head if he spies on me." "You'll have to reckon with Signor Antonio if you do, and, as he's the Strong Man of our show, you'll get the worst of it." "Great strength doesn't usually mean science. And I think I can put up my flippers with any man." "You're a brute," said Miss Lorry, with an admiring glance at Saltars' sullen strength, which was what attracted her; "no one would take you to be a nobleman." "As to Signor Antonio," went on Saltars, taking no notice of the compliment, "he's not an Italian in spite of his dark looks and broken English. He's a half-bred gipsy mumper, and a blackguard at that. You seem to know him pretty well, Miss Lorry. I can't say I admire your choice of acquaintances." "I know you," she retorted, "so you're the last person to talk. As to Antonio, he's been with the show for years, and I'm always friendly with fellow artistes. He's a brute, as you are: but he daren't show his teeth to me." "He shows them to Cain often enough." "He's fond of the boy all the same, and he's the——" here Miss Lorry checked herself; "well it doesn't matter. I didn't come here to talk about Antonio. It's getting late, and I want to go to my room. I'm lodging in the next house." "You should have left a message asking me to call." "I dare say, and you'd have come, wouldn't you?" "But here at this hour your reputation——" "Leave my reputation alone," cried Miss Lorry in a rage, "it's better than yours. I'd like to see any one say a word again me. I'd have the law of him or her—if you're thinking of that white-faced cat the landlady. But see here, about Miss Strode——" "Don't say anything about Miss Strode. I called, as her cousin. There's no chance of my marrying her." "Mr. Strode said otherwise." "You didn't know Strode," said Saltars, starting and looking puzzled. "Oh, didn't I though?" jeered Miss Lorry; "well, I just did. Six years ago I knew him. He came to the circus, behind the scenes, I mean, to see Signor Antonio. He spotted Antonio performing in the ring and recognised an old friend. So he called after the performance and was introduced to me. I knew him again when he came to the circus when we were near London. He came to see you then." "I know he did. Strode called at my digs and found from my man that I'd gone to the circus. As he wished to see me before he went to Wargrove, he followed me to the show. But I didn't know you spoke to him, or even knew him." "He came to see me on his own," said Miss Lorry, frowning, "when you were talking to Stag. We had a conversation, and he said you were going to marry Miss Strode——" "Well, I wasn't engaged to you then." "You're not engaged now unless I choose to," said the woman coolly, "but you were making love to me, and I told Mr. Strode that I had a claim on you. He lost his temper and said you had promised to marry his daughter." "If I had, I would hardly have proposed to you," said Saltars diplomatically. "Oh, I don't know. You do exactly what suits you. And if Mr. Strode had lived he might have induced you to throw me over and marry Miss Strode. But he's dead, whosoever killed him, poor man, and you're engaged to me. Do you intend to marry me or not?" "Well I want to, but there's no money." "How do you know there's no money? I've got my savings. Yes, you may look; but I'm no spendthrift. I have enough invested to bring me in five hundred a year, and many a year I've worked to get the money together. We can live on that and with what your father will allow you." "My father won't allow me a penny if I marry you." Miss Lorry rose calmly. "Very good. If you're going to take that line, let us part. I shan't see you again after to-night." But Saltars was not going to let her go so easily. He really loved this woman, while his liking for Eva was only a passing fancy begotten of her dead father's schemes. Often, when away from Miss Lorry did he curse himself for a fool, and decide to break his chains, but when in her presence the magnetism of the woman asserted itself. Her bold, free, fiery spirit appealed to Saltars greatly: also she was a splendid horsewoman and could talk wisely about the stables. Saltars loved horses more than anything in life save this woman, and her conversation was always within his comprehension. Moreover, during all the time of their courting she had never allowed him to even kiss her, always asserting that she was a respectable woman. Consequently as the fruit was dangling just out of Saltars' reach and only to be obtained by marriage, he was the more anxious to pluck it. Finally, Bell was really a magnificent-looking woman in a bold way, and this also appealed to the susceptible nature of Saltars. "Don't go, Bell," he said, catching her dress as she moved to the door. Whereat she turned on him. "Leave me alone, Lord Saltars, and call me Miss Lorry. I won't have you take liberties. Either you love me and will marry me openly in a decent church, or we part. I'm not going to have mud thrown on my good name for you or any one." "You know that I love you——" "I know nothing of the sort. If you did, you'd not go after your cousin; not that I've a word to say against her, though she did treat me like dirt when we spoke at Wargrove." "I only went to see my cousin about the money left by her father." Miss Lorry turned and leaned against the wall near the door. "There was no money left," she said sharply. "Mrs. Merry told Cain, and he told me. The poor girl has to go out as a companion." "I know. But there is money. Strode told me that he would give her and me forty thousand pounds if we married." "Very well, then," said Miss Lorry, her eyes flashing; "why don't you go and marry her? I won't stop you." "Because, in the first place, I love you; in the second, she has not got the money and don't know where it is; and in the third, she is engaged to a fellow called Hill." "Allen Hill?" said Miss Lorry; "yes, I remember him. He told me he was engaged when we spoke at the gate of the cottage. A nice young fellow and quite the man. I love a man," said Miss Lorry admiringly, "and that chap has a man's eye in his head, I can tell you." "What about me?" "Oh, you're a man right enough, or I shouldn't have taken up with you. But I say, if Miss Strode's engaged to Hill why doesn't she marry him now that the father's dead and there's no obstacle?" "I don't know why the marriage doesn't take place," said Saltars pondering, "but I think it is because there's no money." "There's the forty thousand pounds." "That can't be found, and there's no memorandum amongst the papers of Strode likely to say where it is. I expect he brought the money home from Africa in the form of diamonds, and hid them somewhere." Miss Lorry changed colour. "Oh," she said thoughtfully, and then went on rapidly, "If this forty thousand pounds comes to Miss Strode, I suppose she'd marry Hill." "Rather. She seems very fond of him." "He's worth being fond of! he's a man I tell you, Saltars. Humph! I wonder if the money can be found?" "There doesn't seem to be much chance." "Do you think the money is locked up in diamonds?" "It might be. As no money was found, Strode might have brought home his fortune in that form." "I read the papers about the inquest," said Miss Lorry, staring at the ground; "what about that lawyer?" "Mask? Oh, he knows nothing. He said so at the inquest." "I wonder if the wooden hand has anything to do with the matter?" "Well," said Saltars, rising and yawning, "it was certainly stolen, so it would seem it had a value. Of course if the hand was sent to Mask it was to be a sign that he had to give up any money he might have. It might have been stolen for that purpose." "Yes, and the man might have been murdered to obtain possession of it." "I don't think so. If Strode had been murdered on that account, the hand would have been stolen when the body was lying in the Red Deeps." "It was stolen when it lay in the cottage," said Miss Lorry, "I remember. And Mask said that he had no money of Strode's, so there's not much use of the hand being sent to him. It's all very queer." "Do you intend to try and unravel the mystery of the death?" "Why not? I'd like that girl married to Hill and out of my way. I don't intend to let her marry you. So good-night," and Miss Lorry marched off without a word more. # CHAPTER XIV: SIGNOR ANTONIO Cain Merry was a particular pet of Miss Lorry's, and the lad felt grateful to her for the attention. He admired her exceedingly, and at one time had fancied himself in love with her. But Miss Lorry, experienced in admirers, laughed at him the moment she descried the early symptoms, and told him she was old enough to be his mother. It was creditable to Cain that he took the hint thus given, and devoted himself to Jane Wasp, with whom he had been in love ever since they attended the same board school. And after his passing fancy for Miss Lorry, the lad's love for the policeman's daughter became even more marked, much to the joy of Jane, who adored the dark-eyed scamp, and lost no opportunity of meeting him. But Cain was such a Bohemian, that this was no easy matter. Owing to the nagging of his mother, he stayed away from Misery Castle as much as he could, and got jobs in the surrounding country and in London. Also there was some influence at work on Cain's character, which Jane could not understand: something that made him moody and inclined him to despair. In her simple way Jane tried to learn what it was, that she might comfort him, but Cain always baffled her. On the morning after Miss Lorry's interview with Saltars, the lad was more dismal than usual, and was rather listless in his work. As the circus was packing up to move on to Chelmsford, there was little time to be lost, and Cain came in for many a hard word. At length the manager became exasperated at his indolence, and sent him off with a message to Miss Lorry, who had rooms near the Queen's Hotel. Nothing loath to be relieved from moving heavy beams, and taking down the large tent, Cain set off in better spirits. On passing through the market place about ten o'clock he saw Jane, perched on a light market cart, and ran towards her with a bright face. The girl received him with a joyful cry, and explained that she had been looking for him for the past hour. "Mrs. Whiffles drove me over," she explained, getting down to speak more freely; "she keeps the Wargrove inn, you know——" "Of course I know," said Cain quickly; "I'm Wargrove as well as you, Jane. But how did your father let you go. I thought he was keeping you in, to help your mother." "Ah, he does that," said Jane with a sigh; "father's a hard one, Cain, and hates you like poison. You see he's all for the law, and you——" "And I'm a vagabond, as my mother says. Well, Jane, don't you fret, I'm getting a higher law than that your father serves. I'll tell you about it some day. How did you come over?" "I told you. I came with Mrs. Whiffles. Mother wanted some things here, and as Mrs. Whiffles was going, she thought I might come too. I shan't tell father anything, nor will mother. He's out till two, and we must be back before then. But mother wouldn't have let me come had she known the circus was here, Cain. She says I'm not to think of you at all. I'm to go out to service." "We may marry before you do that," said Cain quickly; "how did you know the circus was here?" "Mr. Hill's groom Jacobs told me." "Oh!" Cain frowned. "You're too thick with that Harry Jacobs." "I've known him all my life, Cain." "So have I, and I don't like him. He thinks he's every one, because he wears a smart livery. I wear just as smart a one in the circus." "Yes, but the circus ain't decent, Cain. I could never marry you if you kept on there. I couldn't go about as you do, and if you're to be my husband I'd like to be near you." "You shall be near me, and we'll marry to take service in something better than a circus," said Cain, his face lighting up. "What's that?" Cain drew near and was about to speak, when his ear was suddenly seized by a large dark man, who frowned. "Why aren't you seeing Miss Lorry, you young scamp?" said the stranger. "I've got to do your business. Mr. Stag asked you particularly to give that note. Hand it over." "I'll take it now," said Cain, getting free; "leave my ear alone." "You give the note to me, Cain. Who is this?" and he looked at Jane. "She's a friend of mine from Wargrove," said Cain sulkily; "get back into the cart, Jane." "From Wargrove?" said the dark man with a queer smile; "and her name?" "I'm Jane Wasp, sir," said the girl, looking into the man's somewhat brutal face. The man laughed. "Policeman Wasp's daughter, as I'm a sinner. How's your fool of a father? Catching every one he shouldn't catch, I suppose? He was always too clever." Cain interposed. "Leave her alone fa——, I mean Signor Antonio," he said, "she's going home." Signor Antonio turned on him with a snarl. "Hold your tongue, you whelp," he said, "I'll talk to whom I like and as long as I like. I want to know what Policeman Wasp's doing now?" "He's looking after the murderer of Mr. Strode," said Jane politely. The man started and laughed. "I hope he'll catch him: but it's a business rather beyond his powers, I fancy. Stop, you're the girl who delivered the package to Mr. Hill." "To young Mr. Hill," said Jane, climbing into Mrs. Whiffles cart, "not to the father." Signor Antonio turned on the boy with a frown. "I told you it was to be given to Mr. Hill himself." "Well, he got it right enough," said Cain impatiently. "I gave it to Jane at Colchester, and she took it to Mr. Allen, who gave it to his father." "And what happened?" "I don't know," said Jane. "I didn't see Mr. Hill get it." "You fool," cried Antonio turning on Cain with another snarl. "I wanted the girl to report how Hill looked when he opened the package, and now——" "Jane's got nothing to do with this business," said Cain resolutely, "and I won't have her mixed up in your affairs." "Do you know who I am?" demanded the man, black with anger. "Yes," replied the boy with a queer look; "you're Signor Antonio." Jane thought she would interfere as there seemed to be a chance of a quarrel. "Mr. Hill went to London after he got the parcel." "On the same day?" asked the man eagerly. "Yes, sir. Jacobs, who drives him, told me he went within two hours after he opened the parcel. He's gone up to attend a sale——" "Oh," sneered Signor Antonio, "so he's gone to attend a sale? Very good, that's all right. The parcel was a notice about a sale——" "Of musical instruments, I know, sir. Jacobs told me." "You speak too much to Jacobs," cried Cain; "remember you're engaged to marry me, Jane." "Stuff and nonsense," said Signor Antonio, who in spite of his Italian name and looks did not speak his own language; "you'll not marry the girl." "But I shall," said Cain, setting his teeth; "mind your own business." "This _is_ my business, you brat——" "Jane," said Cain pointing to the hotel, "yonder is Mrs. Whiffles waving to you. Drive over. I'll send you my address, and you can write to me. Good-bye, dear." He would have climbed on the cart and kissed her, but that the so-called Italian drew him back. Jane, rather started and puzzled by the dominion this stranger seemed to exercise over Cain, drove hastily away to the curb where fat Mrs. Whiffles stood waving her fat arms. She looked back to see Cain and Antonio in fierce conversation, and dreaded a quarrel. And indeed there would have been a quarrel but for the boy's self-possession. Cain appeared to have far more command of his temper than the older man, and spoke quietly enough. "See here," he said, "I won't have you interfering with my affairs." "Do you know who I am?" demanded Antonio again. "You asked me that before and in public," said Cain, "and I told you, you were Signor Antonio. But you know well enough what you are and so do I." "And what am I?" jeered Antonio. "You're the man that deserted his wife and child, and your name is Giles Merry." "Yes, it is, and don't you talk of deserting, you brat. I'm your father, so you look out. I'll thrash you." "Oh no, you won't," said Cain boldly, "I'm quite equal to standing up to you, father. Leave my business alone, I've put up with you ever since we met a year ago, and I did what you wanted because you promised me not to go near my mother. I learn that you have written that you intend to call on her." "What if I do? She's my wife as you're my son. She's got a house over her head, and money, and I've got a right to share both." "No, you haven't," said Cain sharply, "you're no father of mine, as you deserted me and mother when we were poor. Now that we've got money, you'd come and make mother miserable. I kept my part of the bargain, so you keep to yours. If you write mother again or go near her, I'll make things hot." Antonio made a dash at the boy—they were now in a quiet side street—and gasped with rage. "You unnatural young cuckoo——" "Leave me alone, father, or I'll sing out for the police." "What!" Antonio, finding force would not do, began to whine, "you'd run in your poor old father?" "I don't want to," said Cain, "but if you force me to, I must. All I ask is for you to keep away from mother, and leave me alone. If you don't, I'll tell Wasp something he may like to hear." The older man turned pale through his swarthy skin. "What will you tell him?" he asked in a thick voice. "Never you mind. But I know you saw Mr. Strode when he came to the circus that night after Lord Saltars. Then there's Butsey——" "What about Butsey?" asked the father uneasily, and glaring. "Nothing. Only he's a bad lot. I'm no great shakes myself," admitted Cain sadly, "but I'm beginning to see how wicked I am. If I was as bad as Butsey, father, I'd not treat you like this. You sent Butsey with a lying message to mother——" "I wanted to know how she looked." "No, you didn't. I believe you sent Butsey to steal that wooden hand." "It's a lie. I don't know who took it." "I believe Butsey did, though why you wanted it I don't know. And what is there between you and Mr. Hill, father, seeing you sent him that cross?" "That's my business," growled Antonio, finding his son knew too much for him; "you hold your tongue." "I will, as long as you keep away from my mother." "Lord, I'll keep away," said Antonio good-humouredly. "I don't want to live with her nagging and whimpering. You're her son, sure enough—a young prig going against your lawful father." "Only for my mother's sake. And you want me to do wrong. I'm seeing light, father, and I'm changing." "What do you mean by seeing light? You're always saying that." "I've been to the Salvation Army meetings," said Cain solemnly, "and I see what a sinner I am." "Oh, you're going to turn parson, are you? Well, you can do what you like, but hold your tongue about my business." "I'll do so. But tell me, father?" Cain looked anxiously into the brutal face, "had you anything to do with that murder?" Antonio glared and looked like a devil. He made another dash at the boy, but at that moment three or four men came round the corner, and amongst them a policeman. At once Antonio burst out into a loud laugh and took to his broken English. "Ver' goot, my leetle boy, gif me the letter. I go to Mees Lorry. Ah, Dio!" Cain saw that he would not receive a reply to his terrible question just then, so, glad to get away on the chance of having another talk with Jane, he escaped. Hardly had he turned the corner when his father was after him, and a deep voice breathed in his ear: "I had nothing to do with that," said Antonio anxiously; "I'm bad, but not so bad as that. I don't know who killed the man. Go"—a push sent the boy reeling—"and hold your tongue. I'll keep my part of the bargain and leave your mother alone. Keep yours," and before Cain could recover his breath Antonio was ringing the bell of Miss Lorry's lodgings. That lady was just up and at breakfast. Antonio was shown into her sitting-room, and found her drinking coffee. She saluted him with a smile. "Well, Giles, what's brought you here at this hour?" "This letter from Stag," said Antonio, giving the note he had received from Cain; "and don't call me Giles, Bell." "You seem very much afraid of people knowing you," she jeered, opening the envelope, and running her eyes over the letter. "Stag wants me to make another contract for the North." She threw down the note. "Well then, I won't." "What are you going to do, then?" "Go to London and marry Lord Saltars." "He means business, then?" Miss Lorry rose, and looked as though she would slap Antonio's face. "You hound," she hissed, "do you think I'd let any man play fast and loose with me. Not a word," she added, seeing a grim smile on the strong man's face. "I know what you would say. Leave the past alone, or it will be the worse for you. And see here, what's become of that boy Butsey?" "He's in London at Father Don's." "Poor little wretch. Being made into a devil such as you are. Then, you send for him to come to Chelmsford. I want him to deliver a letter, and the sooner it's delivered the better." "Can't I deliver it?" "No, you can't. I can trust Butsey. I can't trust you." "Who is the letter to?" "That's my business," flashed out Miss Lorry, returning to her interrupted breakfast; "tell Stag I'll see him about the note at my own time." "But, Bell, if you leave the show, how will you live?" "I've got money saved. You need not ask how much," she added, seeing the cupidity flash into the man's eyes, "for I am not going to tell you. I leave the show at the end of October, and then I remain in town till I become Lady Saltars." "A nice bargain he'll get with you," growled Antonio. "I know you." "As we've been together in the circus for years, you ought to——" "I wasn't thinking of the circus, but of——" "Hold your tongue," she cried, rising again, "mind your own business." "You don't make it worth my while. Suppose I spoil your game with Lord Saltars?" Miss Lorry's face became hard and her eyes glittered. "You dare to interfere, and I'll send to that policeman at Wargrove to tell him I saw you at Westhaven speaking to a pair of the biggest blackguards in London." "And what will that do? I've got a right to speak to whom I choose." "You can for all I care," said Miss Lorry, sitting down once more, "your business has nothing to do with me so long as you leave me alone. Why don't you go home to your poor wife?" "My poor wife don't want me. And I wouldn't live with her for gold untold, seeing how she nags and moans. My wife?" sneered the man with an ugly look; "you're a nice one to talk of her." "I tell you what, Giles Merry," said Miss Lorry, with great deliberation, "you'd better keep a civil tongue, or you'll have a bad time. I'll horsewhip you before the company, strong man as you are." Antonio scowled. "You wouldn't dare." "Wouldn't I? You talk like that and you'll see. You always were a brute and you always will be. I only hope," added Miss Lorry, suddenly looking into his eyes, "that you aren't something worse." Antonio met the look with great composure. "Meaning a murderer?" he said. "Cain asked me if I did kill Strode." "And how do I know you didn't?" "Because I did not," cried the man, rising and looking fierce. "Well," said Miss Lorry, after a pause, "I daresay you didn't. But you know who did." She looked at him searchingly. "I swear by all that's holy, I don't!" Miss Lorry laughed disagreeably. "Fancy Giles Merry talking of holy things. Cain's worth a dozen of you." "The young fool! He's going to join the Salvationists!" "And a good job too," cried Miss Lorry, with a pleased look, "he may convert you." "Let him try," said the affectionate father, "and I'll smash him." "Perhaps you'd rather Cain joined Father Don, and Red Jerry and Foxy. Oh, I saw you talking to Jerry and Foxy at Westhaven. It's my belief," added Miss Lorry, crushing her egg-shell, "that those two have something to do with Strode's end." "Why don't you tell the police so?" "Because I've got my own fish to fry," retorted Miss Lorry, rising and wiping her mouth; "but the presence of London thieves at Westhaven when a gentleman was murdered and robbed, looks queer. If the police knew they'd collar Jerry and Foxy and Father Don too. I fancy you would be brought into the matter." "Look here," cried Antonio with an oath, "do you charge me, or any of those three with murder?" "No, I don't. I only know that you were Strode's pal in the old days, and that you did a lot of dirty work for him. You're in with a bad lot, Giles, and will come to a bad end. I only wish I could rescue that poor little brat of a Butsey from you, but the boy's past reforming. I know nothing of him, save that he has an admiration for me, and ran my errands, so that is why I want him to deliver this letter. You'll try and learn who the letter is written to, Giles: but you won't. I can trust Butsey. But why don't you turn honest, man, and make money?" "How can I? Honest men don't make money. And I gain my living honestly enough as a strong man with Stag." "Ah, that's a blind to cloak your real character. You're in with Father Don's gang. Why not split on them?" Miss Lorry leaned forward and spoke softly. "For instance, why not call on Mr. Strode's lawyer and tell him Red Jerry came home from Africa about the same time that Strode did?" "What good would that do?" "I can't say. Mask knows something, and I want that something told, so that Miss Strode may marry Allen Hill, and be put out of my way, for me to marry Saltars. He admires her, and I want her safely married, beyond his reach. If you told about Red Jerry, Mask might be able to get back Miss Strode's fortune." "What!"—Giles pricked up his ears—"Fortune?" "Forty thousand pounds, Giles, in diamonds, I fancy." Antonio sat down. "I never knew Strode was so rich," he said. "Why, the liar told me at Brentwood that he'd made no money." "I don't wonder at that," said Miss Lorry; "he knew you'd blackmail him if he confessed to having money." "I knew enough to make things hot for him," said Giles, biting his large, square fingers, "but I never knew he was rich. Lord, forty thousand pounds! If I'd known that——" "You'd have killed him to get it." "I don't say that," growled Giles, putting on his hat, "and as I didn't kill him, there's no more to be said. Where's the money now?" Miss Lorry looked curiously at him. "You should know!" "What the blazes do you mean?" "Oh, if you don't know there's no more to be said. As Strode is dead, you can't get the money now. Your blackmailing is of no value. Miss Strode will get the diamonds and marry Mr. Allen Hill." "Hill?" said Giles thoughtfully; "does he take after that fool of a father of his?" "No; he's a man and not a whimpering ass like Lawrence Hill." Giles stood musing at the door. "So Miss Strode will get the diamonds?" he said; "blest if I don't see her, and——" Miss Lorry whirled round. "You leave her alone or I'll make things unpleasant for you. The poor girl has sorrow enough, and she's a good girl." "Keep your hair on, I'll do nothing—at present," added Antonio significantly: and with an ironical bow he departed. Miss Lorry clutched her breast with a frown. "I'll write that letter and send it by Butsey," she said determinedly. # CHAPTER XV: AN UNEXPECTED MEETING Mr. Mask had a dark little office in the city down a long narrow lane which led from Cheapside. In the building he inhabited were many offices, mostly those of the legal profession, and Mr. Mask's rooms were on the ground floor. He had only two. In the outer one a clerk almost as old as Mr. Mask himself scribbled away in a slow manner, and showed in clients to the inner room. This was a gloomy little dungeon with one barred window looking out on to a blank wall, damp and green with slime. Light was thrown into the room through this window by means of a silvered glass, so the actual illumination of the apartment was very small indeed, even in summer. In winter the gas glared and flared all the day. Here Mr. Mask sat like a spider in his den, and the place was so full of cobwebs that it really suggested spiders in plenty. There was a rusty grate in which a fire was never lighted, an old mahogany bookcase filled with uninviting-looking volumes, and a tin wash-stand which was hidden behind a screen of shabby Indian workmanship. The walls were piled to the dingy ceiling with black japanned deed-boxes, with the names of various clients inscribed on them in white letters. Before the window—and dirty enough the glass of that was—stood a large mahogany table covered untidily with papers, deeds, briefs, memoranda, and such-like legal documents. A small clearing in front was occupied by red blotting paper, and a large lead ink bottle with a tray of pens. There was one chair for Mr. Mask and one for a client. Finally, as there was no carpet on the floor it may be guessed that the office was not an inviting-looking sanctum. Into this hole—as it might fitly be termed—Allen was shown one morning. He had not called immediately on Mr. Mask when he came to town, as he had been searching for his father for the last five days. But all inquiries proved futile. Allen went to the hotel at which Mr. Hill usually stayed, but could not find him there. He had not been stopping in the place for months. Allen sought the aid of the police, but they could not find Mr. Hill. Finally he put an advertisement in the paper, which remained unanswered. Also Allen had called on Mr. Hill's bankers, but found that he had not been near the place. It was so strange that Allen was beginning to feel afraid. The message conveyed in the symbol sent through Cain must be a very serious one, to make his father cut himself off from those who knew him, in this way. As a last resource, Allen came to see Mr. Mask, feeling he should have done this before. Mask had a large business, but on the face of it appeared to do very little in the dingy office. But he was a man who could be trusted with a secret, and many people who knew this intrusted him with affairs they wished kept quiet. Consequently Mask's business was sometimes rather shady, but he made a great deal of money by it, and that was all he cared about. A silent, cold man was Mask, and even in his own home at Bloomsbury he was secretive. Still the man had his good points, and had an undercurrent of good nature of which he was somewhat ashamed, heaven only knows why. If he had been as hard as he looked, he certainly would not have asked Mrs. Palmer to give poor Eva a home. "Well, Mr. Allen," said Mask, who called him thus to distinguish him from his father, whom he had known many years, "so you have come at last?" Allen, who was placing his hat on the floor, as there was no table to put it on, started and stared. "Did you expect me?" "Long ago," said Mask, putting his fingers together and leaning back with crossed legs; "in fact, you should have come to me five days ago. There was no necessity for you to consult the police as to your father's whereabouts, or to call at his bank and hotel, or to put that very injudicious advertisement into the paper." "You seem to know all about my doings?" "Quite so. I know a great many things. To be frank, Mr. Allen, I have had you watched by a private detective, ever since you came to town." Allen rose in a towering rage. "How dare you do that, Mr. Mask?" "I did so at your father's request," said the lawyer, on whom the young man's rage produced not the least effect. "You have seen him?" "I have. He came to me when he arrived." "Do you know where he is?" "I do—but I am not at liberty to tell you." "Do you know why he is acting in this way?" Mr. Mask's calm face suddenly wrinkled. "No," he said, looking perplexed, "frankly, Mr. Allen, I don't, and I am glad you have called. I wish to talk the matter over with you." "Why didn't you send for me, then?" "Because it is never my wish to take the initiative. People come to me. I don't go to them. I get a lot of business by waiting, Mr. Allen. People are only too glad to find a man who can keep a secret; I have made a fine business out of nothing, simply by holding my tongue." "And do you intend to do so in this instance?" Mask shrugged his spare shoulders. "That depends. Johnstone!" He raised his voice rather, and the door opened to admit a small clerk with a large red beard and a bald head, and a face lined with wrinkles. What his age was no one could tell, and he said as little as he could, being as secretive as his master. Without a word he stood at the door, seen dimly in the half light of the office, for the day was dark. "Johnstone," said Mr. Mask. "I'll be engaged with this gentleman for some time. Let no one in, till I call again." Johnstone bowed and departed without a word, while Mr. Mask went on in a smooth tone, "I sit in this office from ten in the morning till six at night. Johnstone comes at nine and leaves at four." "Why before you?" asked Allen, wondering why this information was supplied. "Because I like the office to myself to see nervous clients. The lawyers in the other offices of the building do not stay late, and frequently I am perfectly alone with clients who wish their business kept so secret that they don't want even to be seen entering this place." "Are you not afraid?" Mr. Mask shrugged his shoulders again. "No. Why should I be?" "Some rough client might do you some harm." "Oh, I don't think so. Any one who comes here finds it to his interest to conciliate me, not to threaten. But I confess that I was rather startled the other night." "What do you mean?" "I'll come to the story in time. Because I intend to tell it, I drew your attention to my hours. Well, Mr. Allen," Mask leaned back again, "and what can I do for you?" "Tell me where my father is." "I can't do that. I have not your father's permission to do so." "How long will he be away?" "Until I can induce him to return," said Mask blandly. Allen leaned forward, and looked the lawyer in the eyes. "Is my father afraid of being arrested?" Mask started. "No. Why do you say that?" "Because—but before I tell you, may I ask his reason for staying away?" Mask looked perplexed again. "I can't exactly tell you," he said. "I may as well be frank, Mr. Allen, as I don't like the situation. Your father, whom I have known all his life, came to me over a week ago in great agitation. He said that he was in danger, but what the danger was, he refused to confess. I insisted on an explanation, and he promised to tell me some day. Meantime he wanted to be hidden away for the time being. I arranged that for him." "I don't think that was wise of you, Mr. Mask." "My good Allen—I can call you so as I've known you since you were a lad—there is no reason why I should not help your father. He may have done something against the law, for all I know, but as he is my client, it is my duty to help him. He is a good client to me, and I am not such a fool as to lose him. It is my business to keep secrets, and here is one I have not found out. But I don't intend to let your father go away till I _do_ find out," said Mask grimly. "On that condition I helped him. And after all," added the lawyer, "your father is quite in his sane senses, and I have no right to dictate to him, even when he acts in so eccentric a manner." "He is always eccentric," said the son wearily; "but this behaviour is beyond a joke. How is my mother to live?" "I can't send her money. Your father will see to that." "But why am I shut out from my father's confidence?" "I can't say. Remember," said Mask in a slightly irritable tone, "I am shut out also." Allen, much perplexed over the situation which was sufficiently annoying and mysterious, thought for a moment. "Did my father tell you of the cardboard box he received?" "He did not. He said nothing, save that he wished to hide for a time, and would reveal his reason later." "Then I must tell you everything I know," said Allen in desperation. "If my father won't trust you, I must. My mother is in a great state of alarm, and for her sake I must get him to come back." Mr. Mask looked doubtful. "I don't know whether he'll hear reason," he said, after a pause. "However, what you tell me will go no further." "Well then, Mr. Mask, I know why my father is afraid." "It's more than I do. Why is he afraid?" "Because he thinks he may be arrested for the murder of Strode." Mask pushed back his chair and rose quickly. It was not an easy matter to astonish a man, who, in that very room, had heard tales worthy of the _Arabian Nights_, but Allen had certainly managed to do so. "Do you mean to say he killed Strode?" he asked. "No. But he thinks he did." "How can that be?" Allen related the episode of the pistol, and how he found that the bullet which killed Strode would not fit the barrel. "So you see my father thought he had killed him, and when this cross was sent——" "What cross?" asked Mask, looking up quickly. "I forgot. I thought you knew." And Allen related everything in detail. Mask heard the story with his chin on his hand, and in silence. Even when in full possession of the facts he did not speak. Allen grew impatient. "What do you think?" Mask moved a few papers hither and thither, but did not look straight at his visitor. "It's a mystery," he said. "I know not what to say. But I am perfectly sure of one thing," he added with emphasis, "that your father never shot Strode——" "I said so. The bullet that went through the heart did not fit the barrel of my revolver." "You misunderstand me. I don't even believe that your father fired the shot which ripped the flesh of the arm. Why, Strode was his best friend and he was devoted to him." "My father to Strode, or Strode to my father?" "Both ways you can take it. Why, it was Strode brought about the marriage between your parents." "My mother told me how the marriage came about," said Allen quickly, "but I understood that my father acted from a chivalrous motive." Mask's lip curled. "I fear not," he said, "there were circumstances connected with your mother——" Allen shifted himself uneasily and grew red. "I know—I know," he said sharply, "my mother told me about the necklace. Surely you did not believe her guilty, Mr. Mask?" "No," said the lawyer emphatically, "I certainly did not. I can't say who stole the necklace, but it was lost and the thief has never been found. As to the marriage"—he waved his hand—"Strode brought it about—at least he told me so. How he managed I can't say, unless it was that he used his influence over your father." "My mother believes——" "I know. All the more credit to her. But we can discuss this on some more fitting occasion. Meantime we must talk of your father. I don't see why you shouldn't see him," said Mask musingly. "Give me his address." "Humph," said the lawyer, smiling slightly. "I'll see. But about this murder? Your father did not kill the man." "No," said Allen sharply, "I swear he did not." "Quite so. Well, who did, and what was the motive?" "Robbery was the motive," said Allen, taking a letter out of his pocket. "Read this, I received it from Miss Strode." Mask took the letter, but did not read it immediately. "I don't believe the motive was robbery," he declared deliberately; "Strode had little money. He certainly brought a hundred or so from Africa and I cashed his letters of credit." "Did you give him the money in notes?" "Yes; and what is more I have the numbers of the notes. I see what you mean: you fancy the notes were stolen and that the criminal can thus be traced." "Read the letter," said Allen impatiently. The lawyer did so, and thus became possessed of a faithful report of Saltars' communications to Eva which she had detailed for Allen's benefit. On ending he placed the letter on the table. "A blue pocket-book," said Mask musingly. "Yes, he had such a one. I remember he placed the notes in it. I wonder I didn't ask about that at the inquest. It's stolen. Humph! Looks like a commonplace robbery after all. Allen," he raised his eyes, "I gave Strode two hundred in ten pound Bank of England notes. As I have the numbers, I may be able to trace how much of this sum has been spent by inquiring at the Bank. The numbers that are missing will be those that Strode had in the blue pocket-book when he went on that fatal journey to Westhaven. If the murderer stole the book and has cashed the notes he may be traced by the numbers." "I agree. But what about the forty thousand pounds?" Mask shook his head. "I can't say. Strode certainly never mentioned to me that he had such a sum." "Did he say he had diamonds?" "No. Perhaps, as Miss Strode suggests, the forty thousand pounds may have been locked up in diamonds as a portable way to carry such a sum. But we found no diamonds amongst his effects, so it is probable he carried them on his person." "And was murdered for the sake of them?" "Perhaps. It was strange, though, that Strode should have spoken to me about his wooden hand. He promised that he would return from Wargrove to place a large sum of money in my hands—probably the forty thousand pounds, though he did not mention the amount." "I dare say he intended to turn the diamonds into money and then give it to you." "Perhaps," said Mask carelessly, "but we are not yet sure if the money was in diamonds. However, Strode said, that when he wanted the promised money, he would get it from me personally, and, if he did not apply in person, he would send the wooden hand. As he certainly would not have let the hand be taken from him while alive, it was a very safe token to send." Allen looked down. "It seems as though he was afraid of being killed," he said musingly; "and he was killed, and the wooden hand was stolen." "Not only that," said Mask, "but it was brought to me." "What!" Allen started to his feet, "here! Why didn't you have the man who brought it arrested?" "Because I could not," said Mask drily; "this is why I told you of my habits. It was after four when Johnstone and every one in the place was away. In fact, it was nearly six, and when I was getting ready to go, that this man came." "What kind of a man was he?" "A venerable old man, who looked like the Wandering Jew, with a long white beard, and a benevolent face. He asked if he could speak to me, and we talked. I must remind you that every one in this building is away at the hour of six." "I understand. But what was the old man's name?" "He gave none. He simply asked if I had a sum of money in my possession belonging to Mr. Strode. I said I had not; so he asked if Mr. Strode had left a packet of diamonds with me." "Then there _are_ diamonds!" cried Allen; "and you knew?" "Now you mention it, I did know," said Mask coolly; "all in good time, Allen. I wished to learn how much you knew before I spoke out. I am a man who keeps secrets, mind you, and I don't say more than is needful. Well, this old man, when I said that I had no diamonds, told me in so many words that I was a liar, and insisted that I should give them up. To test him, I jokingly asked him if he had the wooden hand, which was to be the token to deliver the money or diamonds. He then produced the article." "Why didn't you arrest him?" "Let me remind you that I was alone with the Wandering Jew, and that he brought two men of whom I caught a glimpse. They remained in the outer room during our conversation. I asked the old man how he became possessed of the wooden hand. He refused to tell me, but insisted that I should hand over the diamonds. I protested that I had none, and told him what I tell you, as to what Strode said about giving me money later." "What did the old man say then?" "He began to believe me, and muttered something about the diamonds being in Strode's possession. Then he sang out, "No go, Jerry," to a red-headed ruffian outside. After that, he left." "You should have followed, Mr. Mask, and have had him arrested." "I could scarcely do that," said the lawyer drily, "the old gentleman was too clever. He went with one man, and left the red-headed Jerry to keep watch. I had to remain in this room till seven, or else Jerry threatened to shoot me." "He would never have dared." "Oh yes, he would, and in this lonely building no one could have stopped him. Well I agreed, and remained in here doing some work. At seven I opened the outer door. Jerry had decamped, but where he and his friends went I can't say?" "Have you told the police?" "No. I think it is wiser to remain quiet. These men will try again to get the money through the wooden hand; but they must first learn who killed Strode, and stole the diamonds—for I now agree with you, Allen, that the forty thousand pounds are locked up in diamonds. But now we have talked on this point and it seems clear, let us talk on another in the presence of a third person." "Who?" asked Allen anxiously. "Your father," said Mask. "Johnstone!" The red-bearded clerk entered, and when within, removed a false beard and a wig. "Father," cried Allen, rising. It was indeed Mr. Hill, pale and trembling. # CHAPTER XVI: MR. HILL'S STORY Allen was so thunderstruck at the sight of his father, who had so unexpectedly appeared, that he could only stand silently staring. Mr. Hill gave a nervous titter, and tried to appear at his ease. But the sight of his pale face and trembling limbs shewed that the man was possessed by terror. Also he locked the door while Allen gaped. It was Mask who spoke first. "You are surprised to find your father as my clerk," he said smoothly to Allen; "but when he came to me asking to be concealed, I arranged that Johnstone should take a much-needed holiday at the sea-side. I believe he is at Brighton," said Mr. Mask deliberately. "In the meantime, your father, by means of a clever disguise, adopted Johnstone's name, and personality, and looks. In the dim light of the office every one thinks he is Johnstone, and to tell you the truth," said Mr. Mask, smiling, "my clients are so possessed by their own fears, that they take very little notice of my clerk." Allen scarcely listened to the half of this explanation. "Father," he cried, "whatever is the meaning of all this?" Hill tittered again, and looked about for a seat as his limbs would hardly support him. As Mr. Mask had one chair, and Allen the other, it looked as though Hill would have to sink on the floor. But Allen pushed forward his own chair and made his father sit down. Then, so white was the man, that he produced his flask, and gave him a nip of brandy. "I never travel without this," said Allen, alluding to the flask. "It comes in handy at times," and he spoke this irrelevantly so as to put Hill at his ease. The little man, under the grotesque mask of Johnstone, grew braver after the brandy, with Dutch courage. "You did not expect to find me here, Allen?" he said, with his nervous titter. "I certainly did not," said his son bitterly; "and I don't know why you need disguise yourself in this way. I know you did not murder Strode." "But I intended to," cried Hill, suddenly snarling, and showing his teeth, "the black-hearted villain." "I thought Strode was your friend, father?" "He was my enemy—he was my evil genius—he was a tyrant who tried to crush all the spirit out of me. Oh," Hill beat his fist on the table in impotent rage, "I'm glad he's dead. But I wish he'd died by torture—I wish he'd been burnt—sliced to atoms. I wish——" "Stop," said Mask, seeing Allen turn white and faint, at the sight of this degrading spectacle, "there's no need to speak like this, Lawrence. Tell us how you came to be at the Red Deeps." "How do you know I was at the Red Deeps?" asked Hill, shivering, and with the sudden rage dying out of him. "Well, you took your son's revolver, and——" "You said you didn't believe I fired the shot, Mask," cried the miserable creature. "I heard you say so, I had my ear to the keyhole all the time—— "Father—father," said Allen, sick with disgust at the sight of his parent behaving in this way. "And why not?" cried Hill, turning fiercely on him. "I am in danger. Haven't I the right to take all measures I can for my own safety? I _did_ listen, I tell you, and I overheard all. Had you not proved to Mask here, that the bullet which caused the death could not have been fired out of your revolver, I'd not have come in. I should have run away. But you know I am innocent——" "Quite so," said Mask, looking searchingly at the speaker, "therefore the reason for your disguise is at an end." Hill passed his tongue over his dry lips and crouched again. "No, it isn't," he said faintly, "there's something else." "In heaven's name, what is it?" asked Allen. "Leave me alone," snarled his father, shrinking back in his chair and looking apprehensively at his tall, white-faced son, "it's got nothing to do with you." "It has everything to do with me," said his son with calm firmness, "for my mother's sake I intend to have an explanation." "If my wife were here she would never let you treat me in this way, Allen," whimpered the miserable father. "Sarah"—he did not call his wife Saccharissa now, the situation being too serious—"Sarah is always kind to me." Allen with folded arms leaned against the bookcase and looked at his father with deep pity in his eyes. Hill was alternately whimpering and threatening: at one moment he would show a sort of despairing courage, and the next would wince like a child fearful of a blow. The young man never loved his father, who, taken up with himself and his whims, had done nothing to make the boy love him. He had never respected the man, and only out of regard for his mother had he refrained from taking strong measures to curb the pronounced eccentricities of Hill. But the man, miserable coward as he seemed, was still his father, and it behoved him to deal with him as gently as possible. In his own mind, Allen decided that his father's troubles—whatever they were—had driven him insane. But the sight of that cringing, crawling figure begot a mixture of pity and loathing—loathing that a human creature should fall so low, and pity that his own father should suddenly become a "thing' instead of a man. "I want to be kind to you, father," he said after a pause; "who will you trust if not your own son?" "You were never a son to me," muttered Hill. "Was that my fault?" asked Allen strongly. "I would have been a son to you, if you had let me. But you know, father, how you kept me at arm's length—you know how you ruled the house according to your whims and fancies, and scorned both my mother and myself. Often you have spoken to her in such a manner that it was only the knowledge that you are my father which made me refrain from interfering. My mother says she owes much to you——" "So she does—so she does." "Then why take advantage of her gratitude? She gives everything to you, father, and you treat her in a way—faugh," Allen swept the air with his arm, as though to banish the subject. "Let us say no more on that point. But I have come up here to get to the bottom of this affair, father, and I don't leave this place till I know all." Hill tried to straighten himself. "You forget I am your father," he said, with an attempt at dignity. "No; I do not forget. Because you are my father I wish to help you out of this trouble, whatever it is. I can save you from being accused of Strode's murder, but the other thing——" "I never said there was anything else," said Hill quickly. "Yes, you did, Lawrence," said Mask. "I have taken a note of it." "Oh," whimpered Hill, "if you turn against me too—-" "Neither one of us intend to turn against you," said Allen in deep disgust, for the man was more like a jelly-fish than ever, and constantly evaded all attempts to bring him to the point. "For heaven's sake, father, summon up your manhood and let us know the worst!" "I won't be spoken to in this way," stuttered Hill, growing red. Allen made one stride forward, and looked down from his tall height at the crouching figure in the chair—the figure in its shameful disguise, with the white face and wild eyes. "You shall be spoken to in a perfectly quiet way," he said calmly, although inwardly agitated, "but you shall do what you are told. I have put up with this state of things long enough. In future, my mother shall govern the house, and you shall come back to it to indulge in whatever whims you like within reason. But master you shall not be." "Who will prevent me?" said Hill, trying to bluster. "I shall," said Allen decisively; "you are not fit to manage your own affairs or to rule a house. If you come back—as you shall—my mother, who loves you, will do all she can to make you happy. I also, as your son, will give you all respect due to a father." "You're doing so now, I think," sneered Hill, very white. "God help me, what else can I do?" cried Allen, restraining himself by a violent effort; "if you could see yourself you would know what it costs me to speak to you like this. But, for your own sake, for my mother's sake, for my own, I must take the upper hand." Hill leaped panting from his seat. "You dare!——" "Sit down," said his son imperiously, and pushed him back in his chair; "yes, I dare, father. As you are not responsible, I shall deal with you as I think is for your good. I know how to deal with men," said Allen, looking very tall and very strong, "and so I shall deal with you." "You forget," panted Hill, with dry lips, "I have the money." "I forget nothing. I shall have a commission of lunacy taken out against you and the money matters shall be arranged——" "Oh," Hill burst into tears, and turned to the quiet, observant Mask, "can you sit and hear all this?" "I think your son is right, Lawrence." "I shall go to law," cried Hill fiercely. "Can a man in hiding go to law?" hinted Mask significantly. The miserable man sank back in his seat and wept. Sick at heart, Allen looked at the old lawyer. "You are my father's friend, sir," he said gently, "try and bring him to reason. As for me, I must walk for a time in the outer room to recover myself. I can't bear the sight of those tears. My father—oh, God help me, my father!" and Allen, unlocking the door, walked into the outer room sick at heart. He was not a man given to melodrama, but the sight of his wretched father made him sick and faint. He sat down in the clerk's chair to recover himself, and leaned his aching head on his hand. What passed between Mask and Hill he never knew, but after half an hour the old lawyer called Allen in. Hill had dried his tears, and was still sitting hunched up in the chair. But he was calmer, and took the words which Mask would have spoken out of the lawyer's mouth. "I am much worried, Allen," said he softly, "so you must excuse my being somewhat unstrung. If you think it wise, I'll go back." "So far as I know, I do think it wise." "Let us hear the story first," said Mask. "What story?" asked Allen sharply. "My miserable story," said Hill; "I'll tell it all. You may be able to help me. And I need help," he ended piteously. "You shall have all help, father. Tell me why you went to the Red Deeps and took my revolver." Hill did not answer at once. His eyelids drooped, and he looked cunningly and doubtfully at his son. Apparently he did not trust him altogether, and was thinking as to what he would say, and what leave unsaid. The two men did not speak, and after a pause, Hill, now more composed, began to speak slowly: "I have known Strode all my life, and he always treated me badly. As a boy I lived near his father's place at Wargrove, and my father liked me to associate with him, as he was of better birth than I. We studied at the same school and the same college, and, when we went into the world, Strode's influence introduced me into aristocratic circles. But my own talents aided me also," said Hill, with open vanity, "I can do everything and amuse any one. When I stopped at Lord Ipsen's——" "My mother told me of that," said Allen with a gesture of repugnance, "and I don't want to hear the story again." "I'm not going to tell it," retorted his father tartly, "my idea was to explain a popularity you will never attain to, Allen. However, I'll pass that over. I married your mother, and Strode married Lady Jane Delham, with whom I also was in love—and I would have made her a much better husband than Strode," said the little man plaintively. "Go on, please," said Mask, glancing at his watch. "There isn't much time. I have to go out to luncheon." "Always thinking of yourself, Mask," sneered Hill, "you always did, you know. Well, I saw little of Strode for some time. Then I lent him money and saw less of him than ever. Then he——" "You told me all this before," interposed Allen, who began to think his father was merely playing with him. "I'll come to the point presently," said Hill with great dignity; "let me say, Allen, that although I hated Strode, and had good cause too—yes, very good cause—I liked Eva. When you wished to marry her, I was pleased. She wrote to her father about the marriage. He sent her a cablegram saying he was coming home——" "And when he did arrive at Southampton he told her she was not to think of the marriage." "He told me also," said Hill, "and long before. He wrote from the Cape telling me he would not allow you to marry Eva." "Allow me!" said Allen indignantly. "Yes, and told me I was to stop the marriage. I wrote, and urged the advisability of the match. When Strode reached Southampton, he wrote again saying he intended Eva to marry Lord Saltars—-" "Did he make any mention of money?" "No. He simply said that if I did not stop the marriage he would disgrace me," here Hill changed colour, and looked furtively at both his listeners. "How disgrace you?" asked Mask sharply. "I shan't tell you that," was the dogged reply, "all you need know is, that Strode could disgrace me. I—I—made a mistake when I was a young man," said Hill, casting down his eyes, so as not to meet the honest gaze of his son, "and Strode took advantage of it. He made me sign a document confessing what I had done——" "And what in heaven's name had you done?" questioned Allen, much troubled. "That's my business. I shan't say—it has nothing to do with you," said Hill hurriedly, "but Strode had the document and always carried it about with him. I wanted to get it and destroy it, so I asked him when he came to Wargrove to meet me at the Red Deeps, and then I would tell him how the marriage with you could be prevented. I also said that I knew something about Lord Saltars——" "What is that?" "Nothing," said Hill, this time frankly. "I really knew nothing, but I wanted Strode to come to the Red Deeps. He made an appointment to meet me there on Wednesday at nine." "In that case, why did he wire to Eva he would be down on Thursday?" "Because he wanted to come down quietly to see me. And," added Hill hesitating, "he had to see some one else. I don't know who, but he hinted that he had to see some one." "When you spoke to him at the Red Deeps?" "Yes. I went there on Wednesday and he was waiting. It was getting dark, but we saw plainly enough. I urged him to give up the document. He refused, and told me that he required more money. I grew angry and left him." "Alive?" "Yes. But I had your revolver with me, Allen. I took it with the idea of shooting Strode, if he didn't give up the document——" "Oh," cried Allen, shrinking back. It seemed horrible to hear his father talk like this. "But you didn't——" "No. I got behind a bush and fired. My shot touched his arm, for he clapped his hand to the wound. Then he turned with a volley of abuse to run after me. At that moment there came another shot from a clump of trees near me, and Strode fell face downward. I was so afraid at the idea of any one having been near me, and of having overheard our conversation——" "And of seeing your attempt at murder," interpolated Mask. "Yes—yes—that I dropped Allen's revolver and ran away." "I found the revolver and took it home," said Allen; "so the way you acted the next morning when Wasp came was——" "It was the morning after that," said his father drily, "on Friday, and Strode was shot on Wednesday. I never went near the Red Deeps again. I didn't know if Strode was dead, but I knew that he had been shot. I steeled myself to bear the worst, but did not make any inquiries out of policy. When Wasp came that morning at breakfast, I knew what he had to say. Strode was dead. I dreaded lest Wasp should say that the revolver had been found, in which case you might have got into trouble, Allen: but I was thankful nothing was said of it." The young man was astounded at this cool speech: but he passed it over, as it was useless to be angry with such a man. "I picked up the revolver as I said," he replied; "but about the document?" "I hadn't time to get it. The shot frightened me." "Did you see who fired the shot?" "No. I was too afraid. I simply ran away and never looked back." At this point Mask held up his hand. "I hear some one in the outer office," he said, and rose to open the door. Hill slipped behind the table quivering with fear. However, Mask returned to his seat. "I am wrong," he said, "there's no one there. Go on." "What else do you want to know?" questioned Hill irritably. "Why you fainted and left the house, when you got that cross from Giles Merry?" Hill stared. "You knew it was Giles?" he stammered; "what do you know of Giles?" "Nothing. But Mrs. Merry recognised the direction on the brown paper as being in her husband's writing. Why did you faint?" Hill looked down and then looked up defiantly. He was still standing behind the desk. "I stole the wooden hand!" "What!" cried Mask and Allen, both rising. "Yes. I had my reasons for doing so. I took it from the body, when I was in the death-chamber. I had it in my pocket when I saw you and Eva, and said it was stolen. And then," went on Mr. Hill very fast, so that Allen should not give expression to the horror which was on his face, "I took it home. But I feared lest my wife should find it and then I would get into trouble. Sarah was always looking into my private affairs," he whined, "so to stop that, I went and buried the hand on the common. Some one must have watched me, for I put that cross to mark the spot. When I opened the parcel and saw the cross I knew some one must have dug up the wooden hand and that my secret——" "What has the wooden hand to do with your secret?" Hill shuffled, but did not reply to the question. "It was Giles's writing. I knew he'd got the wooden hand, and my secret—Hark!" There was certainly the sound of retreating footsteps in the other room. Allen flung open the door, while his father cowered behind the desk. The outer door was closing. Allen leaped for it: but the person had turned the key in the lock. They heard a laugh, and then retreating footsteps. Mask, who had followed Allen, saw something white on the floor. He picked it up. It was a letter addressed to Sebastian Mask. Opening this he returned to the inner office. "Let us look at this first," said Mask, and recalled Allen: then he read what was in the envelope. It consisted of one line. "Open the wooden hand," said the mysterious epistle. "No," shrieked Hill, dropping on his knees; "my secret will be found out!" # CHAPTER XVII: A FRIEND IN NEED Allen was stopping in quiet rooms near Woburn Square, which was cheaper than boarding at a hotel. He was none too well off, as his father allowed him nothing. Still, Allen had made sufficient money to live fairly comfortable, and had not spent much, since his arrival in England, owing to his residence at "The Arabian Nights." It had been Allen's intention to escort his father back to Wargrove, whither Hill consented to go. But, on explaining to Mask his desire to trace out Butsey by using the address of the Fresh Air People in Whitechapel, Mask had agreed to take the old man home himself. He thought that it was just as well Allen should find the boy, who might know much. "He didn't steal the wooden hand," said Mask, when he parted from Allen, "but he is evidently in with the gang." "What gang, Mr. Mask?" "That headed by the old gentleman who called on me. Jerry is one of the gang, and this boy Butsey another. He sent that telegram, remember. If you can find the lad you may learn much, and perhaps may get back the hand." "But what good will that do?" asked Allen, puzzled; "from what my father said when you read the anonymous letter, he evidently knew that the hand can be opened. If, as he says, it contains his secret, he must have opened it himself when he took it home, and before he buried it." Mask wrinkled his brows and shook his head. "I confess that I cannot understand," he remarked hopelessly, "nor will I, until your father is more frank with me. This is one reason why I am taking him myself to Wargrove. When I get him there I may induce him to tell me his secret." "It must be a very serious secret to make him behave as he does." Mask sighed. "I repeat that I can't understand. I have known your father all his life. We were boys together, and I also knew Strode. But although your father was always foolish, I can't think that he would do anything likely to bring him within reach of the law." "He stole the wooden hand, at all events," said Allen grimly. "Out of sheer terror, I believe, and that makes me think that his secret, for the preservation of which he robbed the dead, is more serious than we think. However I'll see what I can learn, and failing your father, I shall ask Giles Merry." "Do you think he knows?" "I fancy so. The parcel with the cross was addressed in his writing, so it is he who has the hand. He must have given it to the old scoundrel who called on me, so I think, Mr. Allen, we are justified in adding Merry to the gang." "But the hand must have been empty when my father buried it on the common, so how could Giles know his secret?" "I can only say that I don't understand," said Mask with a gesture of hopelessness; "wait till I get your father to speak out. Then we may learn the truth." "I dread to hear it," said the son gloomily. "Well," replied Mask in a comforting tone, "at all events we know it has nothing to do with this murder. It is your task to learn who committed that, and you may do so through Butsey." After this conversation Mr. Mask took Hill back to Wargrove, whither the old man went willingly enough. He seemed to think himself absolutely safe, when in the company of his legal adviser and old friend. Allen returned to his rooms, and sent a message to Mr. Horace Parkins that he would see him that afternoon. It was necessary that he should keep faith with his friend Mark Parkins in South America, and find a capitalist; and Allen thought that Horace, whom Mark reported shrewd, might know of some South African millionaire likely to float the mine in Bolivia. As to the search after Butsey, Allen had not quite made up his mind. He could learn of Butsey's whereabouts certainly, but if it was some low den where the lad lived, he did not want to go alone, and thought it might be necessary to enlist the service of a detective. For his father's sake, Allen did not wish to do so. But he must have some one to go with him into the depths of London slums, that was certain. Allen knew the life of the Naked Lands, and there could more than hold his own, but he was ignorant of the more terrible life of the submerged tenth's dens. It was at three o'clock that Allen appointed the meeting with Parkins, and at that hour precisely a cab drove up. In a few minutes Parkins was shown in by the landlady, and proved to be a giant of over six feet, lean, bright-eyed, and speaking with a decided American accent. He was smartly dressed in a Bond Street kit, but looked rather out of place in a frock-coat and silk hat and patent leather boots. "Well, I'm glad to see you," said the giant, shaking hands with a grip which made Allen wince—and he was no weakling. "Mark's been firing in letters about what a good sort you are, and I was just crazy to meet you. It isn't easy finding a pal in this rotten planet of ours, Mr. Hill, but I guess from what Mark says, you fill the bill, so far as he's concerned, and I hope you'll cotton on to me, for I'm dog-sick with loneliness in this old city." Allen laughed at this long speech and placed a chair for his visitor. "You'd like a drink, I know," he said, ringing the bell. "Milk only," said Parkins, hitching up the knees of his trousers, and casting his mighty bulk into the deep chair; "I don't hold with wine, or whisky, or tea, or coffee, or anything of that sort. My nerves are my own, I guess, and all I've got to hang on to, for the making of bargains. I'm not going to play Sally-in-our-Alley with them. No, sir, I guess not. Give me the cow's brew." So a glass of milk was brought, and Mr. Parkins was made happy. "I suppose you don't smoke, then?" said Allen, amused. "You bet—a pipe." He produced a short clay and filled it. "I'm of the opinion of that old chap in _Westward Ho_, if you know the book?" "I haven't read it for years." "Y'ought to. I read it every year, same as I do my Bible. Had I my way, sir," he emphasised with his pipe, "I'd give every English boy a copy of that glorious book to show him what a man should be." "You're English, I believe, Mr. Parkins?" "Born, but not bred so. Fact is, my mother and father didn't go well in double harness, so mother stopped at home with Mark, and I lighted out Westward-ho with father. You'd never take me for Mark's brother?" "I should think not. You're a big man and he's small: you talk with a Yankee accent, and he speaks pure English. He's——" "Different to me in every way. That's a fact. I'm a naturalised citizen of the U.S.A. and Mark's a Britisher. We've met only once, twice, and again, Mr. Hill, but get on very well. There's only two of us alive of the Parkins gang, so I guess we'd best be friendly, till we marry and rear the next generation. I'm going to hitch up with an English girl, and Mark—if I can persuade him—will marry an American dollar heiress. Yes, sir, we'll square accounts with the motherland that way." All the time Parkins talked, he pulled at his pipe, and enveloped himself in a cloud of smoke. But his keen blue eyes were constantly on Allen's face, and finally he stretched out a huge hand. "I guess I've taken to you, some," said he, "catch on, and we'll be friends." "Oh," said Allen, grasping the hand, "I'm sure we shall. I like Mark." "Well then, just you like the American side of him, which is Horace Parkins. I guess we'll drop the misters and get to business, Hill." "I'm ready. What do you want to see me about?" "Well, Mark wrote to me as you'd got a mine of sorts, and wanted a capitalist. I'm not a millionaire, but I can shell out a few dollars, if y'think you can get the property cheap." "Oh, I think so. The Spaniard that owns it wants money and isn't very sure of its value." "Tell me about that right along." Whereupon Hill detailed the story of the Indian and how the mine had been worked by the Inca kings. He described the locality and the chances of getting the silver to the coast: also spoke of the labour required and the number of shares he and Mark intended to divide the mine into. Horace listened, nodding gravely. "I see you've figured it out all right, Hill," said Parkins, "and I guess I'll take a hand in the game. Give me a share and I'll engineer the buying." "Good," said Allan, delighted, "we'll divide the mine into three equal shares. You buy it, and Mark and I will work it." "Good enough. We won't want any one else to chip in. It's a deal." They shook hands on this, and then had a long talk about the West Indies, which Horace, who had never been there, knew chiefly through the glowing pages of _Westward Ho_. "Though I guess the place has changed since then," said he, "but the gold and silver's there right enough, and maybe, if we looked long enough, we'd chance on that golden Manoa Kingsley talks about." The talk drifted into more immediate topics, and Allen, much amused at his gigantic companion's naïve ways of looking at things, asked him about his life. Thereupon Horace launched out into a wild tale of doings in Africa. He had been all through the war and had fought therein. He had been up the Shire River, and all over the lion country. He made money and lost it, so he said, and finally managed to find a fortune. It was five o'clock before he ended, and later he made a remark which made Allen jump: "So I just thought when I got Mark's letter telling me you were in the old country and about the mine, that I'd come home and see what kind of man you were. I'm satisfied—oh yes, you bet. I'll trust you to the death, for I size up folk uncommon quick, and you?" "I'll trust you also," said Allen, looking at the man's clear eyes and responding to his true-hearted grip, "and in fact I need a friend now, Mr. Parkins." "Call me Parkins, plain, without the Mister. Well, here I am, ready to be your pal, while Mark's over the herring-pond. What's up? Do you want me to cut a throat? Just say the word, and I'll do it. Anything for a change, for I'm dead sick of this place ever since I left the _Dunoon Castle_." It was this speech which made Allen jump. "What, did you come home in the _Dunoon Castle?_" "You bet I did, and a fine passage we had." "Did you know a passenger called Strode?" Parkins raised his immense bulk slightly, and looked sharply at the questioner. "Do you mean the man who was murdered?" "Yes. I suppose you read about the crime in the papers?" "That's so. Yes, I knew him very well. Better than any one on board, I guess. We got along finely. Not a man I trusted," added Parkins musingly, "but a clever sort of chap. Well?" "Did he ever tell you of his daughter?" "No. He never spoke of his private relations." "Well, he has a daughter, Miss Eva Strode. You must have read her name in the papers when the case was reported." "I did," said Parkins after a pause; "yes?" "I'm engaged to her." Parkins rose and looked astonished. "That's a queer start." "You'll hear of something queerer if you will answer my questions." "What sort of questions?" Allen debated within himself if he should trust Parkins all in all. It seemed a rash thing to do, and yet there was something about the man which showed that he would not break faith. Horace was just the sort of companion Allen needed to search after Butsey in the slums of Whitechapel. It was no good telling him anything, unless all were told, and yet Allen hesitated to bring in the name of his father. Finally he resolved to say as little as he could about him, and merely detail the broad facts of the murder, and of the theft of the hand, without mentioning names. "Parkins," he said frankly and with a keen look, "can I trust you?" "I guess so," said the big man serenely. "I mean what I say. You can take my word without oaths, I reckon." "Very well, then," said Allen with a sudden impulse to make a clean breast of it; "sit down again and answer a few questions." Horace dropped down heavily and loaded his pipe. While he was lighting up, he listened to Allen's questions. But Allen did not begin before he had explained the purpose of his inquiries. "I am engaged to Miss Strode," said Allen, "but she refuses to marry me until I learn who killed her father." "Very right and just," nodded Parkins. "Well, I'm trying to hunt out the criminal, and I should like you to help me." "I'm with you right along, Hill. Fire away with your questions." Allen began: "Did Mr. Strode ever tell you he had money?" "Yes. He made a lot in South Africa and not in the most respectable way. I don't like talking ill of the dead, and of the father of the girl you're going to make Mrs. Hill, but if I am to be truthful——" "I want you to be, at all costs. The issues are too great for anything false to be spoken." "Well then, I heard a lot about Strode in Africa before we steamed together in the _Dunoon Castle_. He made his money in shady ways." "Humph!" said Allen, "I'm not surprised, from what I've heard." "He was an I. D. B. if you want to get to facts." "What's that?" demanded Allen. "An illicit diamond buyer." "Can you explain?" "I guess so. Strode bought diamonds from any one who had them. If a Kaffir stole a jewel, and many of them do steal, you bet, Strode would buy it from him at a small price. He was on this lay for a long time, but was never caught. And yet I don't know," said Parkins half to himself, "that brute Jerry Train knew something of his doings!" Allen almost leaped from his seat. "Jerry! was he a big red-headed man—a ruffian?" "He was a bad lot all through—a horse-thief and I don't know what else in the way of crime. He made South Africa too hot for him, and came home steerage in the _Dunoon Castle_. I saw him at times, as I knew a heap about him, and he thieved from a pal of mine up Bulawayo way. He seemed to suspect Strode of yanking diamonds out of the country." "Did Strode tell you he possessed diamonds?" "No. He said he'd made money to the extent of forty thousand pounds." "Did he carry the money with him?" Parkins shook his head. "I can't say. I should think he'd have letters of credit. He'd a pocket-book he was always dipping into, and talked of his money a lot." "A blue pocket-book with a crest?" "That's so. Do you know it?" "No. But that pocket-book was stolen from the body. At least it was not found, so it must have been stolen." "Oh, and I guess Strode was murdered for the sake of the pocket-book. But see here," said Horace shrewdly, "I've told you a heap. Now, you cut along and reel out a yarn to me." The other man needed no second invitation. He laid aside his pipe and told the story of the crime, suppressing only the doings of his father. Horace listened and nodded at intervals. "I don't see clear after all," he said when Allen ended, "sure you've told me everything?" The young man looked uneasy. "I've told you what I could." Parkins rose and stretched out his hand. "What you've told me will never be repeated. Good-bye." "What for?" asked Allen, also rising. "Because you won't trust me. I can't straighten out this business, unless you do." "The other thing I might tell isn't my own." "No go. If it concerns the murder it must be told. I don't work half knowledge with any one. You can trust me." Allen hesitated. He wanted to tell all, for he felt sure that Parkins would help him. But then it seemed terrible to reveal his father's shame to a stranger. What was he to do? "See here, I'll tell—you everything, suppressing names." "Won't do," said the inflexible Parkins; "good-bye." "Will you give me a few hours to think over the matter?" "No. If I'm not to be trusted now, I'm not to be trusted at all." The young man bit his fingers. He couldn't let Parkins go, for he knew about Strode and Red Jerry, and might aid the case a lot. It was imperative that the truth should be discovered, else it might be that his father would be put to open shame. Better, Allen thought, to tell Parkins and get his aid, than risk the arrest of his father and see the whole story in the papers. "I'll tell all," he said. "Good man," growled Parkins, his brow clearing. When in possession of all the facts, Parkins thought for a moment and delivered his opinion: "Strode I take it was followed to the Red Deeps by Jerry Train, and Jerry shot him and stole the pocket-book." "But the wooden hand?" "Merry's got it and he's in the gang. Hold on," said Parkins, "I'll not give a straight opinion till I see this boy. We'll go down and hunt him up. He'll give the show away." "But my father?" asked Allen, downcast. "He's a crank. I don't believe he mixed up in the biznai at all." # CHAPTER XVIII: THE FINDING OF BUTSEY It did not take Allen long to learn something about Butsey. An inquiry at the offices of the philanthropic people, who dealt with the transfer of ragged boys to the country for fresh air, brought out the fact that Butsey was a thief, and a sparrow of the gutter, who lived in a certain Whitechapel den—address given—with a set of the greatest ruffians in London. "It was a mere accident the boy came here," said the spectacled gentleman who supplied the information; "we were sending out a number of ragged children to Westhaven for a couple of days, and this boy came and asked if he could go too. At first, we were not inclined to accept him, as we knew nothing about him. But the boy is so clever and amusing, that we consented he should go. He went with the rest to Westhaven, but did not keep with those who looked after the poor creatures. In fact, Mr. Hill," said the gentleman frankly, "Butsey took French leave." "Where did he go?" "I can't tell you. But one of our men caught sight of Father Don, and Red Jerry, at Westhaven—those are the ruffians Butsey lives with. He might have gone with them." "Did you take the children down on a Wednesday?" "Yes. And then they came back, late the next day." Allen reflected that if Butsey sent the wire before four o'clock, he must have gone back to London, and wondered where he got the money for the fare. Then he must have come down again, in order to give the lying message to Mrs. Merry. However, he told the philanthropist nothing of this, but thanked him for his information. "I intend to look this boy up," he said, when taking his leave. "Has he got into trouble?" asked the gentleman anxiously. "Well, not exactly. But I want to learn something from him relative to a matter about which it is not necessary to be too precise. I assure you, sir, Butsey will not come to harm." "He has come to harm enough already, poor lad." I tell you, Mr. Hill, "that I should like to drag that boy out of the gutter, and make him a decent member of society. He is sharp beyond his years, but his talents are utilised in the wrong way——" "By Father Don, Red Jerry, and Co.," said Allen drily; "so I think." "One moment, Mr. Hill; if you go to the Perry Street den, take a plain clothes policeman with you. Father Don is dangerous." "Oh, I'll see to that," said Allen, confident in his own muscles and in those of Parkins. "You couldn't get Butsey to come here?" "I fear not—I sadly fear not, Mr. Hill. The boy has never been near us since he came back with the children from Westhaven." "He did come back with them, then?" "Oh yes," said the philanthropist frankly, by the late train; "but what he did in the meantime, and where he went, I can't say. He refused to give an account of himself." "Shrewd little devil," said Allen; "but I think I know." "I trust it has nothing to do with the police," said the gentleman anxiously; "a detective asked after Butsey. I gave him the address of Father Don in Perry Street, but the lad could not be found. The detective refused to say why the lad was wanted, and I hope he'll not come to harm. If you find him, bring him to me, and I'll see what I can do to save him. It's a terrible thing to think that an immortal soul and a clever lad should remain in the depths." Allen assented politely, promised to do what he could towards bringing about the reformation of Butsey, and went his way. He privately thought that to make Butsey a decent member of society would be next door to impossible, for the lad seemed to be quite a criminal, and education might only make him the more dangerous to the well-being of the community. However he reserved his opinion on this point, and got back to his Woburn rooms to explain to Horace. The big American—for he virtually was a Yankee—nodded gravely. "We'll go down this very night," he said. "I guess we'd best put on old togs, leave our valuables at home, and carry six-shooters." "Do you think that last is necessary?" asked Allen anxiously. "It's just as well to be on the safe side, Hill. If this boy is employed by Father Don and his gang, he won't be let go without a fight. Maybe he knows too much for the safety of the gang." "That's very probable," assented Hill drily; "however, we'll take all precautions, and go to Perry Street." "This is what I call enjoyment," said Horace, stretching his long limbs. "I'm not a quarrelsome man, but, by Gosh, I'm just spoiling for a fight." "I think there's every chance we'll get what you want, Parkins." So the matter was arranged, and after dinner the two men changed into shabby clothes. It was raining heavily, and they put on overcoats, scarves, and wore slouch hats. Both carried revolvers, and thus they felt ready for any emergency. As Allen knew London comparatively well, he took the lead, and conducted Horace to Aldgate Station by the underground railway. Here they picked up a cab and went to Whitechapel. The driver knew Perry Street but refused to go near it, on the plea that it was a dangerous locality. However, he deposited the two near the place, and drove away in the rain, leaving Allen and Horace in a somewhat dark street. A search for a guide produced a ragged boy of the Butsey type, who volunteered to show the way to Father Don's den. "You've got some swag to send up the spout, gents both?" leered the brat, looking up to the big men as they stood under a lamp-post. "Just so," said Horace quickly, thinking this a good excuse; "you engineer us along, sonny, and we'll give you a shilling." "A bob?—that's good enough," said the urchin, and scampered down a back street so quickly that they had some difficulty in keeping up with him. Later on, when they caught him at the end of a _cul-de-sac_, Allen gripped the guide by his wet shoulder. "Do you know a boy called Butsey?" "Oh my eyes and ears, don't I just? Why, he's Father Don's pet. But he's in disgrace now." "Why?" asked Horace coolly. "Father Don sent him down the country, and he didn't turn up at the hour he was told to. He's been whacked and put on bread and water," said the brat, grinning, "worse luck for Father Don. Butsey'll put a knife into him for that." "Good," whispered Allen to the American as they went on in the darkness. "Butsey will have a grudge against Father Don, and will be all the more ready to tell." "Humph! I'm not so sure. There's honour amongst thieves." They had no further time for conversation, for the guide turned down a narrow lane leading off the _cul-de-sac_, and knocked at the door of a ruined house with broken windows. A shrill voice inside asked who was there. "Swell mobsmen with swag for the patrico," said the guide, whistling shrilly. "Show us a light." The door opened, and a small pinched-looking girl appeared with a candle. She examined the two men and then admitted them. When they ventured within, she shut the door, which seemed to be very strong. But Horace noticed a door on the left of the passage leading into an empty room. He knew that one of the broken windows set in the street wall gave light to this room, and resolved to make it a line of retreat should they be too hardly pressed. Meantime the boy and girl led the way along the passage and towards a trap-door. Here, steps leading downward brought them to a large cellar filled with ragged people of both sexes. There was a fire in a large chimney, which seemed to have been constructed to roast an ox, and round this they sat, their damp garments steaming in the heat. A curtain portioned off a corner of the cellar, and when the strangers entered two shrill voices were heard talking together angrily. But the thieves around paid no attention. "Red Jerry," said Horace, touching Allen's arm, and he pointed to a truculent-looking ruffian, almost as big as himself, who was lying on a bed composed of old newspapers and day-bills. He seemed to be drunk, for he breathed heavily and his pipe had fallen from his fevered lips. "Nice man to tackle," muttered Horace. "Come along," said the guide, tugging at Allen's hand. "Father Don's got some one in there, but he'll see you. What's the swag—silver?" "Never you mind," said Horace; "you find Butsey and I'll make it worth your while." "Give us a sov. and I'll do it," said the brat. "I'm Billy, and fly at that." "Good. A sov. you shall have." The boy whistled again and some of the thieves cursed him. He then pushed Horace towards the ragged curtain behind which the shrill voices sounded, and vanished. The two were now fully committed to the adventure. Curiously enough, the ruffians in the cellar did not take much notice of the strangers. Perhaps they were afraid of Father Don, seeing that the two came to dispose of swag, and at all events they apparently thought that Father Don could protect himself. Meanwhile the keen ears of Horace heard a deeper voice, something like a man's, mingling with the shrill ones of the other speakers. Without a moment's hesitation, and anxious to get the business over, the big American dragged aside the curtain and entered. Allen and he found themselves before a narrow door. On entering this, for it was open, they saw an old man with a white beard sitting at a small table with papers before him. Near, was a small sharp-faced man, and at the end of the table sat a woman dressed in black. "It won't do, Father Don," the woman was saying in deep tones; "you told that brat to rob me. Give it up, I tell you." "Give up what?" asked Father Don sharply. "How can I give up anything, when I don't know what it is?" "Butsey knows," said the woman. "Where is he?" "On bread and water in the attic," said the small man with a shrill laugh; "he's having his pride brought down." "You'd better take care of Butsey," said the woman drily, "or he'll sell you." "Let him try," snarled the benevolent-looking old gentleman. "Red Jerry's his father and will break his back." This much the two gentlemen heard, and it was then that the American appeared in the narrow doorway. The woman started and looked at him. He eyed her in turn and saw a fine-looking creature with dark eyes, and of a full voluptuous beauty hardly concealed by the plain dark robes she wore. Allen glanced over Parkins's shoulder and uttered an ejaculation. "Why, Miss Lorry," he said. The woman started and rose quickly, overturning the table. The small lamp on it, fell and went out. There were a few curses from Father Don and a shrill expostulation from the small man. In the hot darkness a dress brushed past the two men who were now in the room, and a strong perfume saluted their nostrils. Horace could have stopped Miss Lorry from going, but he had no reason to do so, and she slipped out while Father Don was groping for the lamp, and the other man struck a match. As the blue flare spurted up, the man saw the two who had entered. "What's this?" he cried with an oath, which it is not necessary to set down; "who are you?" "We've come about business," said Horace; "don't you move till the old man's got the lamp alight, or you'll get hurt." "It's the "tecs," said Father Don savagely. "I guess not. We've come to do business." This remark seemed to stimulate the curiosity of the two men, and they refrained from a shout which would have brought in all the riff-raff without. Allen congratulated himself, that Parkins had roused this curiosity. He had no desire to fight in a dark cellar with his back to the wall against a score of ruffians. In a few minutes the lamp was lighted. "Turn it up, Foxy," said Father Don; "and now, gentlemen," he added politely, "how did you get here?" "A boy called Billy brought us," said Allen stepping forward. "I fear we've frightened the lady away." "Let her go, the jade," said Foxy shrilly; "there would have been a heap of trouble if she'd remained," and he confirmed this speech with several oaths. Father Don did not swear. He spoke in a clear, refined, and educated voice, and apparently was a well-educated man who had fallen into the depths through some rascality. But his face looked most benevolent, and no one would have suspected him of being a ruffian of the worst. He eyed Allen piercingly, and also his companion. "Well, gentlemen," he asked quietly, "and what can I do for you?" Horace sat down heavily and pulled out his pipe. "We may as well talk comfortably," he said. "Sit down, Hill." "Hill?" said Father Don with a start, while Foxy opened his small eyes—"not of Wargrove?" "The same," said Allen quietly. "How do you know me?" "I know a good many things," said Father Don calmly. "Do you know who shot Strode?" Foxy rose as though moved by a spring. "You're on that lay, are you?" said he shrilly; "then you've come to the wrong shop." "Oh, I guess not, said Horace lazily—to the right shop. You see, Mister," he went on to the elder ruffian, "we want that wooden hand." "What wooden hand?" asked Father Don. "If you mean——" "Yes, I do mean that," said Allen quickly; "you brought it to Mr. Mask to get the money." "Did I?" said Father Don coolly and eyeing the young man; "well, maybe I did. But I didn't take it from the dead?" Allen coloured. "Merry took it," he said. "Oh no, he didn't," sneered Foxy. "Merry got it from Butsey, who dug it up after it had been planted by——" "Stop," said Allen, rising. "Father Don," he added, turning to the old man, "you seem to be a gentleman——" "I was once. But what's that got to do with this?" "Stop this man," he pointed to Foxy, "from mentioning names." "I'll stop everything, if you'll tell us where the diamonds are to be found," said Father Don. "I don't know what you mean," said Allen. "Oh yes, you do. You know everything about this case, and you've come here to get the hand. Well then, you won't. Only while I hold that hand can I get the diamonds." "Where will you get them?" "That's what I want you to tell me." "I guess Red Jerry knows," said Horace sharply; "he took the diamonds from the dead body of the man he shot." "Meaning Strode," said Foxy, with a glance at Father Don. "Jerry didn't shoot him," said that venerable fraud. "I surmise he did," said Parkins. "Ask him in." "How do you know about Jerry?" asked Father Don uneasily. "I sailed along o' him, and saved him from being lynched as a horse-thief. If you won't call him in, I'll do so myself." "Hold your tongue," said Father Don, rising and looking very benevolent, "you take too much upon yourself. I'm king here, and if I say the word neither of you will go out alive." "Oh, I guess so," said Horace coolly, "we don't come unprepared," and in a moment he swung out his Derringer. "Sit still, Father Christmas," said Parkins, levelling this, "or you'll get hurt." Seeing Parkins's action, Allen produced his weapon and covered Foxy, so there sat the kings of the castle, within hail of their ruffianly crew, unable to call for assistance. "And now we'll call in Jerry," said Allen coolly. "Sing out, Parkins." But before the big American could raise a shout there was a sudden noise outside. A shrill voice was heard crying that the police were coming, and then ensued a babel. Father Don seized the opportunity when Parkins's eye was wavering to knock the revolver out of his hand. The American thereupon made a clutch at his throat, while Allen tripped Foxy up. A small boy dashed into the room. He was white-faced, stunted, red-haired, and had but one eye. At once he made for Parkins, squealing for the police. When he got a grip of Horace's hand he dropped his voice: "Ketch t'other cove's hand, and mine," said the boy, and then with a dexterous movement overturned the table, whereby the lamp went out again for the second time. Parkins seized the situation at once, and while Father Don, suddenly released, scrambled on the floor, and made use for the first time of bad language, he grabbed Allen's hand and dragged him toward the door. Horace in his turn was being drawn swiftly along by the small boy. The outer cellar was filled with a mass of screaming, squalling, swearing humanity, all on the alert for the advent of the police. The boy drew the two men through the crowd, which did not know whence to expect the danger. Horace hurled his way through the mob by main strength, and Allen followed in his devastating wake. Shortly, they reached the trap-door, and ran along the passage. The boy pulled them into the side-room Horace had noted when he came to the den. "Break the winder," said the boy to Parkins. The American did not need further instructions, and wrapping his coat round his arm he smashed the frail glass. From below came confusedly the noise of the startled thieves. But Horace first, Allen next, and the boy last, dropped on to the pavement. Then another lad appeared, and all four darted up the street. In ten minutes they found themselves blown but safe, in the chief thoroughfare and not far from a policeman, who looked suspiciously at them. "There," said the last-joined boy, "you're saif. Butsey saived y'." "Butsey?" said Allen, looking at the stunted, one-eyed lad. "That's me," said Butsey with a grin; "y'were near being scragged by th' ole man. If y'd called Red Jerry, he'd ha' done fur y'. Miss Lorry told me t'get you out, and I've done it." "But I reckon the old Father Christmas told us you were locked up." "Was," said Butsey laconically; "in th' attic—bread an' water. I ain't goin' to work fur sich a lot any more, so I dropped out of th' winder, and climbed the roof—down the spout. In the street I met Miss Lorry—she told me there was fightin' below, so'—he winked. "Then there was no police?" said Allen, admiring the boy's cleverness. "Not much. But they're allays expecting of th' peelers," said Butsey coolly; "'twasn't difficult to get "em rizzed with fright. But you look here, Misters, you clear out now, or they'll be after you." "You come also, Butsey." "Not me. I'm a-goin' to doss along o' Billy here. I'll come an' see you at Wargrove and bring the wooden hand with me." "What," said Allen, "do you know——?" "I knows a lot, an' I'm going to split," said Butsey. "Give us a bob"; and when Allen tossed him one, he spat on it for luck. "See y' m' own time," said Butsey. "I'm goin' to turn respectable an' split. Th' ole man ain't goin' to shut me up for nix. "Night," and catching his companion's arm, both boys ran off into the darkness. # CHAPTER XIX: MRS. MERRY'S VISITORS The visit to the den was certainly a fiasco. Those who had ventured into those depths, had, on the face of it, gained nothing. What would have happened had not Butsey raised the false alarm it is impossible to say. According to the boy, Jerry would have turned disagreeable, and probably there would have been a free fight. As it was, Allen and Horace came back without having achieved their object. They were as far as ever from the discovery of the truth. "And yet, I don't know," said Allen hopefully, "somehow I feel inclined to trust Butsey. He's got some scheme in his head." "Huh," said Horace heavily, "y' can't trust a boy like that. He's got his monkey up because the old man dropped on him, but like as not, he'll change his tune and go back. Father Don "ull make things square. He can't afford to lose a promising young prig like Butsey." "I believe the boy will come to Wargrove as he said," insisted Allen. "In that case I guess we'd better go down too. Would you mind putting me up for a few days?" "I'll be glad, and I don't think my father will object. It is just as well you should see him." "That's why I want to come down," said Parkins cheerfully; "y'see, Hill, the business has to be worked out somehow. I think your father's got a crazy fit, and there isn't anything he's got to be afraid of. But he's shivering about some one, and who that some one is, we must learn. Better we should sift the matter ourselves than let the police handle it." Allen turned pale. "God forbid," said he; "I want the authorities kept away." So Allen wrote a letter to his father, asking if he could bring down Parkins for a few days. The reply, strange to say, came from Mrs. Hill, and the reading of it afforded Allen some thought. "There is no need to ask your father anything," she wrote, "he has given everything into my hands, even to the money. What the reason is I can't say, as he refuses to speak. He seems very much afraid, and remains in his own rooms—the Japanese apartments. Mr. Mask also refused to speak, saying my husband would tell me himself if he felt inclined, but I can learn nothing. I am glad you are coming back, Allen, as I am seriously anxious. Of course you can bring Mr. Parkins. The house is large and he will not need to go near your father, though, it may be, the sight of a new face would do your father good. At all events come down and let us talk over things." So Allen and Horace went to Westhaven and drove over to Wargrove. On the way Allen stopped the brougham, which was driven by Harry Jacobs, and took Horace to the Red Deeps to see the spot where the murder had been committed. When they got back—as the day was wet—their boots were covered with the red mud of the place. Jacobs saw this, and begged to speak to Allen before he got in. "I say, Mr. Allen," he whispered, so that Parkins, now in the brougham, should not hear, "do you remember when I drove you to Misery Castle I said I'd tell you something?" "Yes. What is it?" "Well, you know I clean the boots, sir? Well, master's boots were covered with that red mud, on the day after——" "I know all about that," interrupted Allen, feeling his blood run cold as he thought what trouble might come through the boy's chatter; "my father explained. You need not mention it." "No, sir," said Jacobs obediently enough. He was devoted to Allen, for a queer reason that Allen had once thrashed him for being impertinent. There was no danger that he would say anything, but on the way to Wargrove the groom wondered if his master had anything to do with the commission of the crime. Only in the direction of the Red Deeps could such mud be found, and Jacobs had no doubt but that Mr. Hill senior had been to the place. When they arrived at "The Arabian Nights" Mr. Hill at first refused to see Allen, but consented to do so later. When the young man entered the Japanese rooms, he was alarmed to see how ill his father looked. The man was wasting to skin and bone, his face was as white as death, and he started nervously at every noise. "You must see Dr. Grace," said Allen. "No," said Hill, "I won't—I shan't—I can't. How can you ask me to see any one when I'm in such danger?" "You're in no danger here," said his son soothingly. "So your mother says, and I can trust her. Let me keep to my own rooms, Allen, and leave me alone." "You don't mind Parkins being in the house?" "Why should I?—the house has nothing to do with me. I have given everything over to your mother's care. Mask has drawn up my will—it is signed and sealed, and he has it. Everything has been left to your mother. I left nothing to you," he added maliciously. "I don't want anything, so long as my mother is safe." "She is safe," said his father gloomily, "but am I? They'll find me out and kill me——" "Who will?" asked Allen sharply. "Don't speak like that—your voice goes through my head. Go away and amuse your friend. Your mother is mistress here—I am nothing, I only want my bite and sup—leave me alone—oh, how weary I am!" So the miserable man maundered on. He had quite lost his affectations and looked worn out. He mostly lay on the sofa all day, and for the rest of the time he paced the room ceaselessly. Seeing him in this state Allen sought his mother. "Something must be done," he said. "What can be done?" said Mrs. Hill, who looked firmer than ever. "He seems to be afraid of something. What it is I don't know—the illness is mental, and you can't minister to a mind diseased. Perhaps you can tell me what this all means, Allen." "I'll tell you what I know," said Allen wearily, for the anxiety was wearing out his nerves, and he thereupon related all that had taken place since he left Wargrove. Mrs. Hill listened in silence. "Of course, unless your father speaks we can do nothing," she said at last; "do you think he is in his right mind, Allen?" "No. He has always been eccentric," said the son, "and now, as he is growing old he is becoming irresponsible. I am glad he has given everything over to you, mother, and has made his will." "Mr. Mask induced him to do that," said Mrs. Hill thankfully; "if he had remained obstinately fixed about the money I don't know what I should have done. But now that everything is in my hands I can manage him better. Let him stay in his rooms and amuse himself, Allen. If it is necessary that he should see the doctor I shall insist on his doing so. But at present I think it is best to leave him alone." "Well, mother, perhaps you are right. And in any case Parkins and I will not trouble him or you much. I'll introduce him to Mrs. Palmer, and she'll take him off our hands." "Of course she will," said Mrs. Hill rather scornfully; "the woman's a born flirt. So you don't know yet who killed Eva's father, Allen?" "No," said he, shaking his head. "I must see Eva and tell her of my bad fortune." No more was said at the time, and life went on fairly well in the house. Under Mrs. Hill's firm sway the management of domestic affairs was much improved, and the servants were satisfied, which they had never been, when Lawrence Hill was sole master. Parkins was much liked by Mrs. Hill, and easily understood that Mr. Hill, being an invalid, could not see him. She put it this way to save her husband's credit. She was always attending to him, and he clung to her like a frightened child to its mother. There was no doubt that the fright over the parcel had weakened a mind never very strong. Allen and Parkins walked, rode, golfed on the Shanton Links, and paid frequent visits to Mrs. Palmer's place. Allen took the American there within a couple of days of his return, and the widow forthwith admired Parkins. "A charming giant," she described him, and Horace reciprocated. "I like her no end," he confided to Allen; "she's a clipper. Just the wife for me." Eva laughed when Allen told her this, and remarked that if things went on as they were doing there was every chance that Mrs. Palmer would lose her heart. "But that's ridiculous, Eva," said Allen, "they have known each other only five days." "Well, we fell in love in five minutes," said Eva, smiling, which provocative remark led to an exchange of kisses. The two were seated in the drawing-room of the villa. They had enjoyed a very good dinner, and had now split into couples. Allen and Eva remained in the drawing-room near the fire, while Parkins and Mrs. Palmer played billiards. It was a chill, raw evening, but the room looked bright and cheerful. The lovers were very happy being together again, and especially at having an hour to themselves. Mrs. Palmer was rather exacting, and rarely let Eva out of her sight. "But she is really kind," said Eva, turning her calm face to Allen; "no one could be kinder." "Except me, I hope," said Allen, crossing the hearth-rug and seating himself by her side. "I want to speak seriously, Eva." "Oh dear," she said in dismay; "is it about our marriage?" "Yes. I have arranged the money business with Horace Parkins, and it is necessary I should go to South America as soon as possible. If I don't, the mine may be sold to some one else." "But can't Mr. Mark Parkins buy it?" "Well, he could, but Horace wants to go out, so as to be on the spot, and I must go with him. It's my one chance of making a fortune, for the mine is sure to turn out a great success. As I want to marry you, Eva, I must make money. There's no chance, so far as I can see, of your getting that forty thousand pounds Lord Saltars spoke of." "Then you really think, Allen, that there is money?" "I am certain of it—in the form of diamonds. But we'll talk of that later. Meantime I want to say that, as you wish it, we'll put off our marriage for a year. You can stay here with Mrs. Palmer, and I'll go next month to South America with Horace Parkins." "But what about my father's death?" "I hope that we'll learn the truth within the next three weeks," said Allen. "Everything turns on this boy Butsey. He knows the truth." "But will he tell it?" "I think he will. The lad is clever but venomous. The way in which he has been treated by his father and Don has made him bitter against them. Also, after the false alarm he gave the other night to get Parkins and me out of the mess, he can't very well go back to that place. The old man would murder him; and I don't fancy the poor little wretch would receive much sympathy from his father." "What do you think of him, Allen?" "My dear, I don't know enough about him to speak freely. From what the philanthropist in Whitechapel says, I think the boy is very clever, and that his talents might be made use of. He is abominably treated by the brutes he lives with—why, his eye was put out by his father. But the boy has turned on the gang. He burnt his boats when he raised that alarm, and I am quite sure in his own time, he will come down here and turn King's evidence." "About what?" "About the murder. The boy knows the truth. It's my opinion that Red Jerry killed your father, Eva." "How do you make that out?" she asked anxiously. "Well, Red Jerry knew of your father in Africa and knew that he was buying diamonds." Allen suppressed the fact of Strode's being an I. D. B. "He followed him home in the _Dunoon Castle_, and then went to tell Foxy and Father Don at Whitechapel. They came down to Westhaven and tracked your father to the Red Deeps, and there shot him. I can't understand why they did not take the wooden hand then, though." "Who did take the hand?" asked Eva. "My father. Yes," said Allen sadly, "you may look astonished and horrified, Eva, but it was my unhappy father. He is not in his right mind, Eva, for that is the only way to account for his strange behaviour;" and then Allen rapidly told Eva details. "Oh," said the girl when he finished, "he must be mad, Allen. I don't see why he should act in that way if he was not. Your father has always been an excitable, eccentric man, and this trouble of my father's death has been too much for him. I quite believe he intended to kill my father, and thank God he did not—that would have parted us for ever. But the excitement has driven your father mad, so he is not so much to blame as you think." "I am glad to hear you say so, darling," said the poor young fellow, "for it's been like a nightmare, to think that my father should behave in such a manner. I dreaded telling you, but I thought it was best to do so." "I am very glad you did," she replied, putting her arms round him; "oh, don't worry, Allen. Leave my father's murder alone. Go out to Bolivia, buy this mine, and when you have made your fortune come back for me. I'll be waiting for you here, faithful and true." "But you want to know who killed Mr. Strode?" "I've changed my mind," she answered quickly, "the affair seems to be so mysterious that I think it will never be solved. Still I fancy you are right: Red Jerry killed my father for the sake of the diamonds." "He did not get them if he did," said Allen, "else he and Father Don would not have gone to see Mask and thus have risked arrest. No, my dear Eva, the whole secret is known to Butsey. He can tell the truth. If he keeps his promise, and comes here we shall know all: if he does not, we'll let the matter alone. I'll go to Bolivia about this business, and return to marry you." "And then we'll bury the bad old past," said Eva, "and begin a new life, darling. But, Allen, do you think Miss Lorry knows anything?" "What, that circus woman? I can't say. It was certainly queer she should have been in that den. What a woman for your cousin to marry." "I don't know if he will marry after all," said Eva. "I believe old Lady Ipsen will stop the marriage." "How do you know?" "Because she wrote to say she was coming to see me. She says she will come unexpectedly, as she has something to tell me." Allen coloured. He hoped to avoid old Lady Ipsen as he did not forget that she had accused his mother of stealing the Delham heirloom. However, he merely nodded and Eva went on: "Of course I am willing to be civil to her and shall see her. But she's a horrid old woman, Allen, and has behaved very badly to me. I am her granddaughter, and she should have looked after me. I won't let her do so now. Well, Allen, that's one piece of news I had to tell you. The next is about Giles Merry." "What about him?" "I received a letter from Shanton written by Miss Lorry. That was when you were away. She sent it over by Butsey." "What! Was that boy here?" "Yes. When you were away. He delivered it at the door and went. I only knew it was Butsey from the description, and by that time the boy was gone. Had I seen him I should have asked Wasp to keep him here, till you came back." "I understand," said Allen thoughtfully. "Miss Lorry sent for Butsey. He was told to return to Perry Street, Whitechapel, within a certain time and did not. For that, Father Don shut him up in the attic and fed him on bread and water. The treatment made Butsey rebellious. But what had Miss Lorry to say?" "She wrote that if Giles Merry worried me I was to let her know and she'd stop him doing so." Allen looked astonished. "Why should Giles worry you?" he asked indignantly. "I can't say. He hasn't come to see me yet, and if he does, of course I would rather you dealt with him than Miss Lorry. I want to have nothing to do with her." "Still, she's not a bad sort," said Allen after a pause, "she saved our lives on that night by sending Butsey to get us out of the den. Humph! If she met Butsey on that night I wonder if she asked him to return what he'd stolen?" "What was that?" asked Eva. "I don't know. Horace Parkins and I overheard her complaining, that Butsey, when down seeing her, had stolen something. She refused to say what it was and then bolted when she saw me. But what has Giles Merry to do with her?" "Cain told me that Giles was the "strong man' of Stag's Circus." "Oh, and Miss Lorry knows him as a fellow artiste. Humph! I daresay she is aware of something queer about him. From the sending of that parcel, I believe Giles is mixed up with Father Don's lot, and by Jove, Eva, I think Miss Lorry must have something to do with them also! We've got to do with a nice lot, I must say. And they're all after the diamonds. I shouldn't wonder if Butsey had them, after all. He's just the kind of young scamp who would get the better of the elder ruffians. Perhaps he has the diamonds safely hidden, and is leaving the gang, so as to turn respectable. He said he wanted to cut his old life. Yes"—Allen slapped his knee—"Eva, I believe Butsey has the diamonds. For all I know he may have shot your father." "Oh, Allen," said Eva, turning pale, "that lad." "A boy can kill with a pistol as surely as if he were a man, and Butsey has no moral scruples. However, we'll wait till he comes and then learn what we can. Once I get hold of him he shan't get away until I know everything. As to Merry, if he comes, you let me know and I'll break his confounded neck." "I believe Nanny would thank you if you did," said Eva; the poor woman is in a terrible fright. "He wrote saying he was coming to see her." "She needn't have anything to do with him." "I told her so. But she looks on the man as her husband, bad as he is, and has old-fashioned notions about obeying him. If he wasn't her husband she wouldn't mind, but as it is——" Eva shrugged her shoulders. They heard the sound of footsteps approaching the door. Shortly the footman entered. "There's a woman to see you, miss," he said to Eva, holding the door open. "Mrs. Merry, miss." "What!" cried Eva; "show her in." "She won't come, miss. She's in the hall." "Come, Allen," said the girl, and they went out into the hall, where Mrs. Merry with a scared face was sitting. She rose and came forward in tears, and with sopping clothes, owing to her walk through the heavy rain. "I ran all the way", Miss Eva. "I'm in such sorrow. Giles has come." "What, your husband?" said Allen. "Yes, and worse. I found this on the doorstep." She drew from under her shawl the wooden hand! # CHAPTER XX: AN AMAZING CONFESSION Mr. and Mrs. Merry were seated the next day in the kitchen having a long chat. It was not a pleasant one, for Mrs. Merry was weeping as usual, and reproaching her husband. Giles had been out to see his old cronies in the village, and consequently had imbibed sufficient liquor to make him quarrelsome. The first thing he did, when he flung himself into a chair, was to grumble at the kitchen. "Why should we sit here, Selina?" he asked; "it's a blamed dull hole, and I'm accustomed to drawing-rooms." "You can't go into the drawing-room," said Mrs. Merry, rocking and dabbing her red eyes with the corner of her apron. "Miss Eva is in there with a lady. They don't want to be disturbed." "Who is the lady?" demanded Signor Antonio, alias Mr. Merry. "Lady Ipsen. She's Miss Eva's grandmother and have called to see her. What about, I'm sure I don't know, unless it's to marry her to Lord Saltars, not that I think much of him." "Lady Ipsen—old Lady Ipsen?" said Giles slowly, and his eyes brightened; "she's an old devil. I knew her in the days when I and Hill and Strode enjoyed ourselves." "And bad old days they were," moaned Mrs. Merry; "you'd have been a better man, Giles, if it hadn't been for that Strode. As for the jelly-fish, he was just a shade weaker than you. Both of you were under the thumb of Strode, wicked man that he was, and so cruel to his wife, just as you are, Giles, though you mayn't think so. But if I die——" "You will, if you go on like this," said Merry, producing his pipe; "this is a nice welcome. Old Lady Ipsen," he went on, and laughed in so unpleasant a manner, that his wife looked up apprehensively. "What wickedness are you plotting now?" she asked timidly. "Never you mind. The marriage of Lord Saltars," he went on with a chuckle. "Ho! he's going to marry Miss Lorry." "So they say. But I believe Lady Ipsen wants to stop that marriage, and small blame to her, seeing what a man he——" "Hold your jaw, Selina. I can't hear you talking all day. You get me riz and you'll have bad time, old girl. So go on rocking and crying and hold that red rag of yours. D'ye hear?" "Yes, Giles—but Lord Saltars——" "He's going to marry Miss Lorry, if I let him." Mrs. Merry allowed the apron to fall from her eyes in sheer amazement. "If you let him?" she repeated; "lor', Giles, you can't stop his lordship from——" "I can stop _her_," said Merry, who seemed determined never to let his wife finish a sentence; "and I've a mind to, seeing how nasty she's trying to make herself." He rose. "I'll see Miss Eva and make trouble." "If you do, Mr. Allen will interfere," said Mrs. Merry vigorously. "I knew you'd make trouble. It's in your nature. But Miss Lorry wrote to Miss Eva and said she'd interfere if you meddled with what ain't your business." Giles shook off the hand his wife had laid on his arm, and dropped into a chair. He seemed dumfoundered by the information. "She'll interfere, will she?" said he, snarling, and with glittering eyes. "Like her impudence. She can't hurt me in any way——" "She may say you killed Strode," said Mrs. Merry. Giles raised a mighty fist with so evil a face, that the woman cowered in her chair. Giles smiled grimly and dropped his arm. "You said before, as I'd killed Strode. Well then, I didn't." "How do I know that?" cried his wife spiritedly; "you can strike me, but speak the truth I will. Bad as you are, I don't want to see you hanged, and hanged you will be, whatever you may say. I heard from Cain that you talked to Strode on the Wednesday night he was killed. You met him at the station, when he arrived by the six-thirty, and——" "What's that got to do with the murder?" snapped Giles savagely. "I talked to him only as a pal." "Your wicked London friends were there too," said Mrs. Merry; "oh, Cain told me of the lot you're in with; Father Don, Foxy, and Red Jerry—they were all down at Westhaven, and that boy Butsey too, as lied to me. You sent him here to lie. Cain said so." "I'll break Cain's head if he chatters. What if my pals were at Westhaven? what if I did speak to Strode——?" "You was arranging to have him shot," said Mrs. Merry, "and shot him yourself for all I know." Signor Antonio leaped, and taking his wife by the shoulders, shook her till her head waggled. "There," he said, while she gasped, "you say much more and I'll knock you on the head with a poker, you poll-parrot. I was doing my turn at the circus at the time Strode was shot, if he was shot at nine on Wednesday as the doctor said. I saw the evidence in the paper. You can't put the crime on me." "Then your pals did it." "No, they didn't. They wanted the diamonds, it's true——" "They struck him down and robbed him." "You said they shot him just now," sneered Giles with an evil face, "don't know your own silly mind, it seems. Gar'n, you fool, there was nothing on him to rob. If my pals had shot him, they'd have collared the wooden hand. That was the token to get the diamonds, as Red Jerry said. But Mask hasn't got them, and though Father Don did open the hand he found nothing." "Open the hand?" questioned Mrs. Merry curiously. "Yes. We found out—I found out, and in a way which ain't got nothing to do with you, that the hand could be opened. It was quite empty. Then Father Don put it aside, and that brat Butsey prigged it. Much good may it do him." "The wooden hand was put on the doorstep last night," said Mrs. Merry, "and I gave it to Miss Eva." The man's face grew black. "Oh, you did, did you," he said, "instead of giving it to your own lawful husband? I've a mind to smash you," he raised his fist again, and his poor wife winced; then he changed his mind and dropped it. "But you ain't worth a blow, you white-faced screeching cat. I'll see Miss Eva and make her give up the hand myself. See if I don't." "Mr. Allen will interfere." "Let him," snarled Merry; "I know something as will settle him. I want that hand, and I'm going to have it. Get those diamonds I will, wherever they are. I believe Butsey's got "em. He's just the sort of little devil as would have opened that hand, and found the paper inside, telling where the diamonds were." "But did he have the hand?" "Yes, he did. He dug up the hand—never mind where—and brought it to me. It was empty then. Yes, I believe Butsey has the diamonds, so the hand will be no go. Miss Eva can keep it if she likes, or bury it along with that infernal Strode, who was a mean cuss to round on his pals the way he did." "Ah! he was a bad man," sighed Mrs. Merry; "and did he——?" "Shut up and mind your own business," said Giles in surly tones. He thought he had said too much. "It's that Butsey I must look for. He stole the hand from Father Don and left it on your doorstep, for Miss Eva, I suppose. He must be in the place, so I'll look for him. I know the brat's playing us false, but his father's got a rod in pickle for him, and——" "Oh, Giles, Giles, you'll get into trouble again. That Wasp——" "I'll screw his neck if he meddles with me," said the strong man savagely; "see here, Selina, I'm not going to miss a chance of making a fortune. Those diamonds are worth forty thousand pounds, and Butsey's got them. I want money to hunt him down and to do—other things," said Giles, hesitating, "have you got five hundred?" "No," said Mrs. Merry with spirit, "and you shouldn't have it if I had. You're my husband, Giles, worse luck, and so long as you behave yourself, I'll give you roof and board, though you are not a nice man to have about the house, but money you shan't have. I'll see Mr. Mask first. He's looking after my property, and if you——" "I'll do what I like," said Giles, wincing at the name of Mask; "if I wasn't your husband, you'd chuck me, I "spose." "I would," said Mrs. Merry, setting her mouth, "but you're married to me, worse luck. I can't get rid of you. See here, Giles, you go away and leave me and Cain alone, and I'll give you five pounds." "I want five hundred," said Giles, "I'll stop here as long as I like. I'm quite able to save myself from being accused of Strode's murder. As to Cain," Giles chuckled, "he's taken up with a business you won't like, Selina?" "What is it?—oh, what is it?" gasped Mrs. Merry, clasping her hands. "The Salvation Army." "What! Has he joined the Salvation Army?" "Yes," sneered the father; "he chucked the circus at Chelmsford, and said it was a booth of Satan. Now he's howling about the street in a red jersey, and talking pious." Mrs. Merry raised her thin hands to heaven. "I thank God he has found the light," she said solemnly, "I'm Methodist myself, but I hear the Army does much good. If the Army saves Cain's immortal soul," said the woman, weeping fast, "I'll bless its work on my bended knees. I believe Cain will be a comfort to me after all. Where are you going, Giles—not to the drawing-room?" "As far as the door to listen," growled Merry. "I'm sick of hearing you talk pious. I'll come and stop here, and twist Cain's neck if he prays at me." "Trouble—trouble," wailed Mrs. Merry, wringing her hands, "I wish you'd go. Cain and me would be happier without you, whatever you may say, Giles, or Signor Antonio, or whatever wickedness you call yourself. Oh, I was a fool to marry you!" Giles looked at her queerly. "Give me five hundred pounds, and I won't trouble you again," he said, "meanwhile"—he moved towards the door. Mrs. Merry made a bound like a panther and caught him. "No," she said, "you shan't listen." Giles swept her aside like a fly, and she fell on the floor. Then with a contemptuous snort he left the kitchen and went into the passage which led to the front. On the right of this was the door of the drawing-room, and as both walls and door were thin, Mr. Merry had no difficulty in overhearing what was going on within. Could his eyes have seen through a deal board, he would have beheld an old lady seated in the best arm-chair, supporting herself on an ebony crutch. She wore a rich black silk, and had white hair, a fresh complexion, a nose like the beak of a parrot, and a firm mouth. The expression of the face was querulous and ill-tempered, and she was trying to bring Eva round to her views on the subject of Saltars' marriage. The girl sat opposite her, very pale, but with quite as determined an expression as her visitor. "You're a fool," said Lady Ipsen, striking her crutch angrily on the ground. "I am your grandmother, and speak for your good." "It is rather late to come and speak for my good, now," said Eva with great spirit; "you have neglected me for a long time." "I had my reasons," said the other sharply. "Jane, your mother, married Strode against my will. He was of good birth, certainly, but he had no money, and besides was a bad man." "There is no need to speak evil of the dead." "The man's being dead doesn't make him a saint, Eva. But I'll say no more about him, if you'll only listen to reason." "I have listened, and you have my answer," said Eva quietly; "I am engaged to Allen Hill, and Allen Hill I intend to marry." "Never, while I have a breath of life," said the old woman angrily. "Do you think I am going to let Saltars marry this circus woman? No! I'll have him put in gaol first. He shall not disgrace the family in this way. Our sons take wives from theatres and music-halls," said Lady Ipsen grimly, "but the sawdust is lower than either. I shan't allow the future head of the house to disgrace himself." "All this has nothing to do with me," said Eva. "It has everything to do with you," said Lady Ipsen quickly; "don't I tell you that Saltars, since he saw you at that Mrs. Palmer's, has taken a fancy to you? It would take very little for you to detach him from this wretched Miss Lorry." "I don't want to, Lady Ipsen!" "Call me grandmother." "No. You have never been a grandmother to me. I will be now," Lady Ipsen tried to soften her grim face; "I wish I'd seen you before," she added, "you're a true Delham, with very little of that bad Strode blood in you, unless in the obstinacy you display. I'll take you away from this Mrs. Palmer, Eva——" "I have no wish to leave Mrs. Palmer." "You must. I won't have a granddaughter of mine remain in a situation with a common woman." "Leave Mrs. Palmer alone, Lady Ipsen. She is a good woman, and when my relatives forsook me she took me up. If you had ever loved me, or desired to behave as you should have done, you would have come to help me when my father was murdered. And now," cried Eva, rising with flashing eyes, "you come when I am settled, to get me to help you with your schemes. I decline." The old woman, very white and with glittering eyes, rose. "You intend then to marry Allen Hill?" "Yes, I do." "Well then, you can't," snapped the old woman; "his mother isn't respectable." "How dare you say that?" demanded Eva angrily. "Because I'm accustomed to speak my mind," snapped Lady Ipsen, glaring; "it is not a chit like you will make me hold my peace. Mrs. Hill was in our family as a governess before your father married my daughter Jane." "What of that?" "Simply this: a valuable diamond necklace was lost—an heirloom. I believe Mrs. Hill stole it." Eva laughed. "I don't believe that for one moment," she said scornfully. "Mrs. Hill is a good, kind, sweet lady." "Lady she is, as she comes of good stock. Sweet I never thought her, and kind she may be to you, seeing she is trying to trap you into marrying her miserable son——" "Don't you call Allen miserable," said Eva, annoyed; "he is the best man in the world, and worth a dozen of Lord Saltars." "That would not be difficult," said Lady Ipsen, sneering; "Saltars is a fool and a profligate." "And you expect me to marry him?" "To save him from disgracing the family." "The Delham family is nothing to me," said Eva proudly; "look after the honour of the family yourself, Lady Ipsen. As to this talk about Mrs. Hill, I don't believe it." "Ask her yourself, then." "I shall do so, and even, if what you say is true, which I don't believe, I shall still marry Allen." "Eva," the old lady dropped into her seat, "don't be hard on me. I am old. I wish you well. It is true what I say about Mrs. Hill. You can't marry her son." "But I can, and I intend to." "Oh, this marriage—this disgraceful marriage!" cried the old woman in despair, "how can I manage to stop it. This Miss Lorry will be married to Saltars soon, if I can't put an end to his infatuation." Eva shrugged her shoulders. "I can give you no help." "You might plead with Saltars." "No. I can't do that. It is his business, not mine. Why don't you offer Miss Lorry a sum of money to decline the match?" "Because she's bent upon being Lady Saltars, and will stop at nothing to achieve her end. I would give five hundred—a thousand pounds to stop the marriage. But Miss Lorry can't be bribed." It was at this point that Giles opened the door softly and looked in. "Make it fifteen hundred, your ladyship, and I'll stop the marriage," he said impudently. "Giles," cried Eva, rising indignantly, "how dare you——?" "Because I've been listening, and heard a chance of making money." Mrs. Merry burst in at her husband's heels. "And I couldn't stop him from listening, Miss Eva," she said, weeping; "he's a brute. Don't give him the money, your ladyship; he's a liar." "I'm not," said Giles coolly, "for fifteen hundred pounds I can stop this marriage. I have every reason to hate Miss Lorry. She's been playing low down on me, in writing to you, Miss Strode, and it's time she learned I won't be put on. Well, your ladyship?" The old woman, who had kept her imperious black eyes fixed on Giles, nodded. "Can you really stop the marriage?" "Yes I can, and pretty sharp too." "Then do so and you'll have the fifteen hundred pounds." "Will you give me some writing to that effect?" "Yes," said Lady Ipsen, becoming at once a business woman; "get me some ink and paper, Eva." "Stop," said Giles politely—so very politely that his poor wife stared. "I don't doubt your ladyship's word. Promise me to send to this address," he handed a bill containing the next place where Stag's Circus would perform, "one thousand five hundred in notes, and I'll settle the matter." "I'll bring the money myself," said Lady Ipsen, putting away the bill; "you don't get the money till I know the truth. How can you stop the marriage? Tell me now." "Oh, I don't mind that," said Giles, shrugging. "I'm sure you won't break your word, and even if you were inclined to you can't, if you want to stop the marriage. You can't do without me." "Speak out, man," said Lady Ipsen sharply. "Well then——" began Giles and then hesitated, as he looked at poor faded Mrs. Merry in her black stuff dress. "Selina, you give me fifteen hundred pounds and I'll not speak." "What have I got to do with it?" asked his wife, staring. "It will be worth your while to pay me," said Merry threateningly. "I can't and I won't, whatever you may say. Tell Lady Ipsen what you like. Your wickedness hasn't anything to do with me." "You'll see," he retorted, turning to the old lady. "I've given you the chance. Lady Ipsen, I accept your offer. Lord Saltars can't marry Miss Lorry, because that lady——" "Well, man—well." "That lady," said Giles, "is married already." "Who to?" asked Eva, while Lady Ipsen's eyes flashed. "To me," said Merry; "I married her years ago, before I met Selina." "Then I am free—free," cried Eva's nurse; "oh, thank heaven!" and she fell down on the floor in a faint, for the first and last time in her life. # CHAPTER XXI: THE DIAMONDS At seven o'clock that same evening Allen and his American friend were walking to Mrs. Palmer's to dine. As yet, Allen knew nothing of what had transpired at Misery Castle, for Eva was keeping the story till they met. But as the two men passed the little inn they saw Giles Merry descend from a holiday-making _char-à-banc_. Two or three men had just passed into the inn, no doubt to seek liquid refreshment. Allen knew Merry's face, as Mrs. Merry had shown him a photograph of Signor Antonio in stage dress, which she had obtained from Cain. The man was a handsome and noticeable blackguard, and moreover his good looks were reproduced in Cain. Therefore young Hill knew him at once, and stepped forward. "Good evening, Mr. Merry," he said; "I have long wished to meet you." Giles looked surly. "My name is Signor Antonio, monsieur," he said. "Oh," mocked Allen, "and being Italian you speak English and French badly?" "What do you want?" demanded Giles savagely, and becoming the English gipsy at once. "I've no time to waste?" "Why did you send that cross to Mr. Hill?" Giles grinned. "Just to give him a fright," he said. "I knew he was a milk-and-water fool, as I saw a lot of him in the old days, when I did Strode's dirty work." "You dug up the wooden hand?" "No, I didn't. Butsey, who was on the watch, saw Hill plant it, and dug it up. He brought it to me, and I gave it to Father Don. Then Butsey stole it back, and passed it along to that young woman you're going to marry." "I guess," said Horace at this point, "you'd best speak civil of Miss Strode. I'm not taking any insolence this day." Allen nodded approval, and Giles cast a look over the big limbs of the American. Apparently, strong man as he was, he thought it would be best not to try conclusions with such a giant. "I wish I'd met you in Father Don's den," he said. "I'd have smashed that handsome face of yours." "Two can play at that game," said Allen quietly; "and now, Mr. Merry, or Signor Antonio, or whatever you choose to call yourself, why shouldn't I hand you over to Wasp?" "You can't bring any charge against me." "Oh, can't I? You know something about this murder——" "I was playing my turn at the circus in Westhaven when the shot was fired," said Giles coolly. "I didn't say you shot the man yourself; but you know who did." "No, I don't," said Merry, his face growing dark; "if I did know the man, I'd make him a present. I'd like to have killed Strode myself. He played me many a dirty trick, and I said I'd be even with him. But some one else got in before me. As to arrest," he went on sneeringly, "don't you think I'd be such a fool as to come down here, unless I was sure of my ground. Arrest me indeed!" "I can on suspicion. You're in with the Perry Street gang." Giles cast a look towards the inn and laughed. "Well, you've got to prove that I and the rest have done wrong, before you can run us all in." "The wooden hand——" "Oh, we know all about that, and who stole it," said Giles meaningly. Allen started. He saw well enough that he could not bring Giles to book without mentioning the name of his father. Therefore he changed his mind about calling on Wasp to interfere, and contented himself with a warning. "You'd best clear out of this by to-morrow," said he angrily. "I shan't have you, troubling your wife." "My wife! Ha—ha!" Merry seemed to find much enjoyment in the remark. "Or Miss Strode either." "Oh," sneered the man insolently, "you'd best see Miss Strode. She may have something interesting to tell you. But I can't stay talking here for ever. I'm going back to Shanton to-night. Come round at eleven," he said to the driver of the _char-à-banc_. "We'll drive back in the moonlight." "I think you'd better," said Allen grimly; "you stop here to-morrow, and whatever you may know about a person, whose name need not be mentioned, I'll have you run in." "Oh, I'll be gone by to-morrow," sneered Merry again, and took his cap off with such insolence that Horace longed to kick him, "don't you fret yourself. I'm a gentleman of property now, and intend to cut the sawdust and go to South Africa—where the diamonds come from," he added with an insolent laugh, and then swung into the inn, leaving Allen fuming with anger. But there was no use in making a disturbance, as the man could make things unpleasant for Mr. Hill, so Allen walked away with Horace to Mrs. Palmer's. It would have been wiser had he entered the inn, for in the coffee-room were three men, whom he might have liked to meet. These were Father Don smartly dressed as a clergyman, Red Jerry as a sailor, and Foxy in a neat suit of what are known as hand-me-downs. The trio looked most respectable, and if Jerry's face was somewhat villainous, and Foxy's somewhat sly, the benevolent looks of Father Don were above suspicion. Giles sat down beside these at a small table, and partook of the drinks which had been ordered. The landlord was under the impression that the three men were over on a jaunt from Shanton, and intended to return in the moonlight. Merry had met them at the door, and now came in to tell them his plans. "I've arranged matters," he said in a low voice to Father Don, "the groom Jacobs is courting some young woman he's keeping company with, and the women servants have gone to a penny reading the vicar is giving." "What of young Hill and his friend?" "They are dining with Mrs. Palmer. The house is quite empty, and contains only Mr. and Mrs. Hill. I have been in the house before, and know every inch of it. I'll tell you how to get in." "You'll come also?" said Foxy suspiciously. "No," replied Giles. "I'll stop here. I've done enough for the money. If you're fools enough to be caught, I shan't be mixed up in the matter." "We won't be caught," said Father Don with a low laugh; "Jerry will keep guard at the window, and Foxy and I will enter." "How?" asked the sharp-faced man. "By the window," said Giles. "I explained to Father Don here, in London. Hill has taken up his quarters in a Japanese room on the west side of the house, just over the wall. There are French windows opening on to the lawn. You can steal up and the grass will deaden the sound of footsteps. It goes right up to the window. That may be open. If not, Jerry can burst it, and then you and Don can enter." "But if Hill isn't alone?" "Well then, act as you think best. Mrs. Hill's twice the man her husband is. She might give the alarm. But there's no one in the house, and she'll have to sing out pretty loudly before the alarm can be given to the village." "There won't be any alarm," said Father Don calmly. "I intend to make use of that paper I got from you. Where did you get it, Merry?" "From Butsey. I found him with Strode's blue pocket-book, and made a grab at it. I saw notes. But Butsey caught those and bolted. I got the book and some papers. The one I gave you, Don, will make Hill give up the diamonds, if he has them." "He must have them," said Don decidedly, "we know from the letter sent to Mask, and which was left at his office by Butsey, that the hand could be opened. I did open it and found nothing. I believe that Strode stored the diamonds therein. If Hill stole the hand, and took it home, he must have found the diamonds, and they are now in his possession. I expect he looked for them." "No," said Merry grimly, "he was looking for that paper you intend to show him. He'll give up the diamonds smart enough, when he sees that. Then you can make for Westhaven——" "What of the charry-bang?" asked Jerry in heavy tones. "That's a blind. It will come round at eleven, but by that time we will all be on our way to Westhaven. If there is pursuit, Wasp and his friend will follow in the wrong direction. Then Father Don can make for Antwerp, and later we can sell the diamonds. But no larks," said Merry, showing his teeth, "or there will be trouble." "Suppose young Hill and his friend tell the police?" "Oh," said Giles, grinning, "they will do so at the risk of the contents of that paper being made public. Don't be a fool, Don, you've got the whole business in your own hands. I don't want a row, as I have to meet a lady in a few days," Giles grinned again, when he thought of Lady Ipsen, "and we have to do business." So the plan was arranged, and after another drink Father Don and stroll in the village to "see the venerable church in the moonlight," as the pseudo clergyman told the landlord. But when out of sight, the trio changed the direction of their walk, and made for "The Arabian Nights" at the end of the village. Departing from the high-road they stole across a large meadow, and, in a dark corner, climbed the wall. Father Don was as active as any of them, in spite of his age. When the three rascals were over the wall and standing on a smoothly-shaven lawn, they saw the range of the Roman pillars, but no light in the windows. "It's on the west side," said Don in a whisper; "come along, pals." The three crept round the black bulk of the house and across the drive. All was silent and peaceful within the boundary of the wall. The moonlight silvered the lawns and flower-beds and made beautiful the grotesque architecture of the house. A few steps taken in a cat-like fashion brought the thieves to the west side. They here saw a light glimmering through three French windows which opened on to a narrow stone terrace. From this, the lawn rolled smoothly to the flower-beds, under the encircling red brick wall. Father Don pointed to the three windows. "The middle one," he said quietly; "see if it's open, Foxy. If not, we'll have to make a certain noise. And look inside if you can." Foxy stole across the lawn and terrace and peered in. After a time, he delicately tried the window and shook his head. He then stole back to report, "Hill is lying on the sofa," he said, "and his wife is seated beside him. He's crying about something." "We'll give him something to cry about soon," said Father Don, feeling for the paper which he had received from Giles. "Smash the middle window in, Jerry." Without the least concealment the huge man rushed up the slope and hurled his bulk against the window. The frail glass gave way and he fairly fell into the centre of the room. With a shrill cry of terror, Hill sprang from the sofa, convulsively clutching the hand of his wife, while Mrs. Hill, after the first shock of alarm, faced the intruders boldly. By this time Father Don with Foxy behind him was bowing to the disturbed couple. Jerry took himself out of the room, and guarded the broken window. "Who are you? what do you want?" demanded Mrs. Hill. "If you don't go I'll ring for the servants." "I am afraid you will give yourself unnecessary trouble," said Don suavely. "We know the servants are out." "What do you want?" "We'll come to that presently. Our business has to do with your husband, Mr. Hill"—Father Don looked at the shivering wretch. "I never harmed you—I don't know you," mumbled Hill. "Go away—leave me alone—what do you want?" "We'll never get on in this way.—No, you don't," added Don, as Mrs. Hill tried to steal to the door, "Go and sit down by your good husband," and he enforced this request by pointing a revolver. "I am not to be frightened by melodrama," said Mrs. Hill scornfully. "Sit down, Sarah—sit down," said Hill, his teeth chattering. The woman could not help casting a contemptuous look on the coward, even though she fancied, she owed so much to him. But, as she was a most sensible woman, she saw that it would be as well to obey. "I am ready to hear," she said, sitting by Hill, and putting her strong arm round the shivering, miserable creature. "I'll come to the point at once," said Don, speaking to Hill, "as we have not much time to lose. Mr. Hill, you have forty thousand pounds' worth of diamonds here. Give them up!" Hill turned even paler than he was. "How do you know that?" he asked. "It can't be true," put in Mrs. Hill spiritedly. "If you are talking of Mr. Strode's diamonds, my husband hasn't got them." "Your husband stole the wooden hand from the dead," said Foxy, with his usual snarl. "He took it home and opened it." "I did not know it contained the diamonds," babbled Hill. "No. You thought it contained a certain document," said Don, and produced a paper from his pocket, "a blue paper document, not very large—of such a size as might go into a wooden hand, provided the hand was hollow as it was. Is this it?" Hill gave a scream and springing up bounded forward. "Give it to me—give it!" he cried. "For the diamonds," said Father Don, putting the paper behind him. "You shall have them. I hid them in this room—I don't want them, but that paper—it is mine." "I know that—signed with your name, isn't it? Well, bring out the diamonds, and, when you hand them over——" "You'll give me the paper?" Foxy shook his head as Father Don looked inquiringly at him. "No, we must keep that paper, so as to get away—otherwise you'll be setting the police on our track." "I swear I won't—I swear——" Hill dropped on his knees, "I swear——" His wife pulled him to his feet. "Try and be a man, Lawrence," she said. "What is this document?" "Nothing—nothing—but I must have it," cried Hill jerking himself away. He ran across the room, and fumbled at the lock of a cabinet. "See—see—I have the diamonds! I found them in the hand—I put them into a canvas bag—here—here—" his fingers shook so that he could hardly open the drawer. Foxy came forward and kindly helped him. Between the two, the drawer was opened. Hill flung out a mass of papers, which strewed the floor. Then from beneath these, he hauled a small canvas bag tied at the mouth and sealed. "All the diamonds are here," he said, bringing this to Don and trying to open it. "Forty thousand pounds—forty—for God's sake—" he broke off hysterically—"the paper, the paper I signed!" Don took possession of the bag and was about to hand over the document, when Foxy snatched it. "We'll send this from the Continent," he said, "while we have this, you won't be able to set the peelers on us." Hill began to cry and again fell on his knees, but Father Don took no notice of him. He emptied the contents of the bag on the table and there the jewels flashed in the lamp-light, a small pile of very fine stones. While he gloated over them, Mrs. Hill laid her hand on Foxy's arm: "What is in that paper?" she asked sternly. "Don't tell her—don't tell her!" cried Hill. "Lawrence!" But he put his hands to his ears and still cried and grovelled. "I shall go mad if you tell her! I shall—ah—oh—ugh—!" he suddenly clutched at his throat and reeled to the sofa. Mrs. Hill took little notice of him. "Read me the document," she said. "I can almost repeat it from memory," said Foxy, putting the paper into his pocket; "it's simply a confession by your husband that he stole a certain necklace belonging to——" "The Delham heirloom!" cried Mrs. Hill, turning grey, and recoiling. "Yes, and also a promise to withdraw from seeking to marry Lady Jane Delham, and to marry you." "Oh!" Mrs. Hill turned such a withering look on her miserable husband, that he shrank back and covered his eyes. "So this is the real reason of your chivalry?" "Yes," said Father Don, who had placed the diamonds again in his bag, and stood up, "I heard some of the story from Giles Merry, and read the rest in the signed document. It was Hill who stole the necklace. He took the key from the school-room, where it had been left by Lady Ipsen. He opened the safe, and collared the necklace. Near the door, he left a handkerchief of yours, Mrs. Hill, so that, if there was danger, you might be accused. Strode found the handkerchief, and knowing Hill had possessed it, made him confess. Then he made Hill sign the confession that he had stolen the necklace, and also made him promise to marry you." Mrs. Hill sank down with a stern, shamed look, "So this was your chivalry," she said, looking again at her husband, "you stole the necklace—you let me bear the shame—you tried to incriminate me—you pretended to wed me to save me from starvation, and—oh, you—you shameless-creature!" she leaped, and made as though she would have struck Hill; the man cowered with a cry of alarm like a trapped rabbit. "What became of the necklace?" she asked Don sharply. "Strode made Hill sell it, and they divided the profits." "Eva's father also," moaned Mrs. Hill, covering her face, "oh, shame—shame—shall I ever be able to look on this man's face again!" Hill attempted to excuse himself, "I didn't get much money," he wailed. "I let Strode take the lot. He carried the confession in his wooden hand—that's why I took it. I stole the hand and opened it—but the confession wasn't in it—I found the diamonds, and I have given them to you—let me have the paper!" he bounded to his feet, and snatching a dagger from a trophy of arms on the wall made for Foxy, "I'll kill you if you don't give it to me!" Father Don dodged behind a chair, while Foxy, who was right in the centre of the room, ran for the window, and, bursting past Jerry, raced down the lawn with Hill after him, the dagger upraised. Round and round they went, while Mrs. Hill stood on the terrace, looking on with a deadly smile. Had Hill been struck down, she would have rejoiced. Don twitched the arm of Jerry. "Let's cut," he said; "I've got the swag, Foxy can look after himself," and these two gentlemen left the house hurriedly. Mrs. Hill saw them disappear without anxiety. The blow she had received seemed to have benumbed her faculties. To think that she had been so deceived and tricked. With a stony face she watched Foxy flying round the lawn, with the insane man—for Hill appeared to be mad—after him. Foxy, in deadly terror of his life, seeing his pals disappear, tore the document from his pocket, threw it down, and ran panting towards the wall. While he scaled it, Hill picked up the paper and tore it, with teeth and hands, into a thousand shreds. The three scoundrels had disappeared, and Mrs. Hill looked down coldly on her frantic husband. Hill danced up to the terrace, and held out his hands. "Happiness—happiness, I am safe." "Coward," she said in a terrible voice. Her husband looked at her, and then began to laugh weirdly. Then with a cry, he dropped. "I hope he is dead," said Mrs. Hill, looking down on him with scorn. # CHAPTER XXII: BUTSEY'S STORY There was no excitement in Wargrove next day over the burglars who had entered "The Arabian Nights," for the simple reason that the village knew nothing about the matter. But a rumour was current, that Mr. Hill had gone out of his mind. No one was astonished, as he had always been regarded as queer. Now, it appeared, he was stark, staring mad, and no longer the harmless eccentric the village had known for so long. And the rumour was true. "It is terrible to think of the punishment which has befallen him, Allen," said Mrs. Hill the next morning; "but can we call it undeserved?" "I suppose not," answered her son gloomily. "I wish I had remained at home last night, mother." "Things would have been worse, had you remained. There would have been a fight." "I would have saved Eva's diamonds, at all events." "Let the diamonds go, Hill," chimed in Parkins, who formed a third in the conversation, "they were come by dishonestly, and would have brought no luck. You come out to Bolivia, and fix up the mine. Then you can make your own coin, and marry Miss Strode." "But you forget, Mr. Parkins," said Mrs. Hill, "I am now rich, and Allen need not go to America." "No, mother," said Allen hastily, "I'll go. You will do much more good with my father's money than I can. Besides——" he hesitated, and looked at Horace. The American interpreted the look. "Guess you want a little private conversation," he said; "well I'll light out and have a smoke. You can call me when you want me again," and Mr. Parkins, producing his pipe, left the room. "My poor mother," said Allen, embracing her, "don't look so sad. It is very terrible and—— "You can't console me, Allen," said the poor woman bitterly, "so do not try to. To think that I should have believed in that man all these years. He was a thief—doubly a thief; he not only robbed the Delhams of the necklace, but robbed the dead, and me of my good name." "I almost think the dead deserved to be robbed," said Allen; "I begin to believe, mother, that Strode was my father's evil genius as he said he was. Why should my father steal this necklace, when he had plenty of money?" "He had not at the time. I think his father kept him short. He took the necklace, I expect, under the strong temptation of finding the key in the school-room." "I believe Strode urged him to steal it," said Allen, "and at all events Strode was not above profiting by the theft. And it was Strode who brought about the marriage——" "By threats," said Mrs. Hill grimly, "I expect, Strode swore he would reveal the truth, unless Lawrence married me. And I thought Lawrence acted so, out of chivalry." "But if Strode had revealed the truth he would have incriminated himself." "Ah, but, as I learn, he waited till after I was married before he disposed of the necklace. Then he sold it through Father Don, who was his associate in villainy. However, Strode is dead and your father is mad. I wonder what fate will befall Merry and those wretches he associates with?" "Oh, their sins will come home to them, never fear," said Allen, in a prophetic vein. "I suppose it is best to let the matter rest." "Certainly. Father Don and his two associates have got away. What about Merry?" "He went almost at once to Shanton, and did not pay for the _char-à-banc_. The owner is in a fine rage and drove back to Shanton at midnight, vowing to summons Merry, who was responsible for its ordering." "Well, they are out of our life at last," said his mother, "we now know the secret which caused your unhappy father to try and murder Strode, and did make him steal the hand. The confession has been destroyed, so no one can say anything. Merry will not speak——" "No; that's all right. Merry is going to receive money from old Lady Ipsen, for stopping the marriage of Saltars with Miss Lorry. I expect he will go to Africa as he says. He'll hold his tongue and so will the others. But they have the diamonds, and poor Eva receives nothing." "I agree with Mr. Parkins," said Mrs. Hill quickly, "the jewels were come by dishonestly, and would have brought no good fortune. Will you tell Eva anything, Allen?" "No. I'll tell her as little as possible. No one, but you, I, and Parkins, know of the events of last night. My poor father has been reported ill for some time and has always been so eccentric, so it will surprise no one to hear he has gone mad. We will place him in some private asylum, and——" "No, Allen," said Mrs. Hill firmly, "the poor soul is harmless. After all, wickedly as he has acted, he has been severely punished, and is my husband. I'll keep him here and look after him till the end comes—and that won't be long," sighed Mrs. Hill. "Very good, mother, you shall act as you think fit. But we know the truth now." "Yes, save who murdered Mr. Strode." "I believe Jerry did, or Giles." "They both deny doing so." "Of course," said Allen contemptuously, "to save their own skins. I shall go up to London, mother, and tell Mr. Mask what has taken place." But there was no need for Allen to go to town. That afternoon the lawyer arrived and with him a small boy with one eye. The lad was neatly dressed, he had his hair cut, and his face washed. In spite of his one eye and white cheeks he looked a very smart youngster, and grinned in a friendly manner at Allen and Horace. "This," said Mr. Mask, leading the lad into the room, where the young men were smoking after luncheon, "is Master Train——" "Butsey?" said Allen. "Oh no," replied Mask gravely, "he is a gentleman of property now and is living on his money. You mustn't call him by so low a name as Butsey." The boy grinned and shrugged his shoulders. "I saiy, how long's this a-goin' on?" he inquired; "you've been shying fun at me all day." "We won't shy fun any more," said Mr. Mask in his melancholy voice. "I have brought you here to make a clean breast of it." "About the diamonds?" "We know about the diamonds," said Horace. "I guess Father Don's got them." "Saikes! hes he?" said Butsey regretfully; "that comes of me tellin' about the letter I guv to you"—this was to Mask—"if he hadn't opened the hand, he wouldn't have got "em." "You are quite wrong, Butsey," said Allen, rising. "Horace, I'll leave the boy in your keeping. Mr. Mask, will you come with me into the next room?" Rather surprised, Mask did so, and was speedily put in possession of the terrible story. He quite agreed that the matter should be kept quiet. "Though I hope it won't be necessary to rake it up when Butsey is tried for murder." "What! did that boy shoot Mr. Strode?" "I think so," said the lawyer, looking puzzled; "but to tell you the truth I'm not sure. I can't get the boy to speak freely. He said he would do so, only in the presence of you and Parkins. That is why I brought him down." "How did you get hold of him?" "Through one of the stolen notes. Butsey presented himself at the bank and cashed ten pounds. He was arrested and brought to me. I gave bail for him, and brought him to explain." "Where did he get the notes?" "Out of the blue pocket-book, he says—in which case he must have committed the murder. Not for his own sake," added Mask quickly. "I fear the poor little wretch has been made a cat's-paw by the others." "Well," said Allen, drawing a long breath of astonishment, "wonders will never cease. I never thought Butsey was guilty." "I can't be sure yet if he is. But, at all events, he certainly knows who is the culprit, and, to save his own neck, he will confess." "But would the law hang a boy like that even if guilty?" "I don't think Butsey will give the law the chance of trying the experiment. He's a clever little reptile. But we had better return and examine him. Your mother——?" "She is with my poor father." "Is that quite safe?" asked Mask anxiously. "Perfectly. He is harmless." Mask looked sympathetic, although he privately thought that madness was the best thing which could have befallen Mr. Hill, seeing he had twice brought himself within the clutches of the law. At least there was now no danger of his being punished for theft or attempted murder, whatever might be said by those who had escaped with the diamonds; and certainly Mrs. Hill would be relieved of a very troublesome partner. Had Hill remained sane, she would not have lived with him after discovering how he had tricked her into marriage, and had traded on her deep gratitude all these years. Now, by tending him in his hopeless state, she was heaping coals of fire on his head, and proving herself to be, what Mask always knew she truly was, a good woman. So, in Allen's company, he returned to the room where Parkins was keeping watch over Master Train, and found that brilliant young gentleman smoking a cigarette. "Produced it from a silver case too," said the amused American. "This is a mighty smart boy. I guess you got rid of a lot of that money, bub?" "I cashed two notes," said Butsey coolly, "but the third trapped me. But I don't care. I've had a good time!" "And I expect you'll pass the rest of your life in gaol." "What's that?" said Butsey, not turning a hair; "in gaol?—not me. I've been in quod once and didn't like it. I ain't a-goin' again. No, sir, you give me some cash, Mr. Hill, and I'll go to the States." "They'll lynch you there, as sure as a gun," said Horace, grinning. Allen was quite taken aback by the coolness of the prisoner, for a prisoner Butsey virtually was. Mask leaned back nursing his foot, and did not take much part in the conversation. He listened to Allen examining the culprit, and only put a word in now and then. "You don't seem to realise your position," said Hill sharply. "Oh yuss, I does," said Butsey, calmly blowing a cloud of smoke, "you wants to get the truth out of me. Well, I'll tell it, if you'll let me go. I dessay our friend here"—he nodded to Mask—"can arrange with the peelers about that note." "It's probable I can," said Mask, tickled at the impudence of the boy; "but wouldn't you rather suffer for stealing, than for murder?" The boy jumped up and became earnest at once. "See here," he said, wetting his finger, "that's wet," and then he wiped it on his jacket, "that's dry, cut my throat if I tell a lie. I didn't shoot the old bloke. S'elp me, I didn't!" "Who did, then? Do you know?" "I might know; but you've got to make it worth my while to split." Allen took the boy by the collar and shook him. "You young imp," he said, "you'll tell everything you know, or pass some time in gaol." "Make me tell, then," said Butsey, and put out his tongue. "Suppose I hand you over to Father Don and your own parent?" "Can't, sir. Th' gang's broke up. They'll go abroad with them diamonds, and start in some other country. "Sides, I ain't going in for that business again. I'm going to be respectable, I am. And I did git you out of the den, sir," said Butsey more earnestly. Allen dropped his hand from the boy's collar. "You certainly did that—at the request of Miss Lorry. What of her?" "Nothing but good," said Butsey, flushing; "she's the best and kindest laidy in the world. I ain't a-goin' to saiy anything of her." "I don't want you to talk of people who have nothing to do with the matter in hand," said Hill; "but you must tell us about the murder. If you don't——" "What am I a-goin' to get fur splitting?" asked Butsey in a businesslike way. "I'll arrange that you won't go to gaol. You must remember, Master Train," said Mask with deliberation, "that you are in a dangerous position. The note you cashed was taken from a pocket-book which the murdered man had on his person, when he was shot. How did you get it, eh? The presumption is that you shot him." Butsey whistled between his teeth. "You can't frighten me," said he, his one eye twinkling savagely; "but I'll tell you everything, "cept who shot the bloke." "Huh," said Horace. "I guess we can ravel out that, when we know what you have to say. But you speak straight, young man, or I'll hide you proper." "Lor," said Butsey coolly, "I've bin hided by father and old Don much wuss than you can hammer. But I'll tell—jest you three keep your ears open. Where "ull I begin?" "From the beginning," said Allen; "how did the gang come to know that Strode had the diamonds?" "It wos father told "em," said Butsey candidly. "Father's Red Jerry, an' a onener at that—my eye! He got into trouble here, and cuts to furrein parts some years ago. In Africay he saw the dead bloke." "Strode?" "Well, ain't I a-saiyin' of him?" snapped Butsey; "yuss—Strode. Father comes "ome in the saime ship es Strode and knows all about "im having prigged diamonds in Africay." "What do you mean by prigged?" "Wot I saiy, in course. Strode got them diamonds wrong——" "I. D. B.," said Parkins. "I told you so, Hill." "Well then," went on Butsey, looking mystified at the mention of the letters, "father didn't see why he shouldn't git the diamonds, so he follered the dead bloke to this here country and come to tell old Father Don in the Perry Street ken. Father Don and Foxy both went in with father——" "To murder Strode?" said Allen. "Not much. They wanted to rob him, but didn't want to dance on nothink. Father Don's a fly one. I was told about the job, an' sent to watch the dead bloke. I watched him in London, and he wos never out of my sight. He wos coming down to this here plaice on Thursdaiy—-" "How do you know that?" asked Mask. "Cause I knows the "all porter at the Guelph Hotel, an' he tells me," said Butsey calmly. "I cuts an' tells Father Don, and him and father an' Foxy all come to Westhaven on Wednesday to see him as is called Merry." "He's another of the gang?" "Rather. He's bin in with us fur years, he hes. And he wos doin' the strong man at Stag's circus at Westhaven. Father Don, he come down, knowing Merry "ated Strode, to try and get him to do the robbin'." "Did Merry agree?" "In course he did, only too glad to get a shot at Strode——" "Do you mean to say Merry shot him?" "Naow," said Butsey, making a gesture of irritation, "let a cove talk. I'll tell you if he shot him, if you'll let me. I saiy we wos all down to fix things on Wednesdaiy, and I come along with a blessed ragged kids' fresh air fund, so as to maike m'self saife, if the police took a hand. I didn't want to be mixed with no gang, having my good name to think of." Horace grinned and rubbed his hands, but Allen frowned. "Go on," he said sharply, "and don't play the fool." "Oh, I'm a-goin' on," was the unruffled reply, "and I don't plaiy th' fool without cause, d'ye see. Well, I wos at the station at Westhaven, an' I sees Strode come. I went off to tell Merry, and he comes to the station and talks to Strode." "That was on Wednesday?" "Yuss. Strode sold "us and come down, though we didn't "ope to "ave the pleasure of his company till Thursday. Well, I tried to "ear what Giles wos a-saiying, but he guves me a clip on the ear and sends me spinnin', so I couldn't "ear. I goes to complain to Father Don, an' when I gits back, Strode's away and Merry too. He'd started walkin' to Wargrove, a porter tole me. I wos about to foller, when Merry, he comes up and tells me, he'll go himself." "That's a lie," said Allen; "Merry was doing the strong man that night in the circus." "No, he wasn't," grinned the boy. "I went to the circus, havin' nothin' to do, and I saw the strong man. It wos Cain Merry, his son, he's like his father, and could do the fakements. No one knew but the circus coves." "Then Merry——?" "He went after Strode. I told Father Don an' Foxy, an' they swore awful. They couldn't start after him, as they didn't know what "ud happen, and Merry's an awful one when put out, so they waited along o' me, d'ye see? Next daiy Merry come back, but said he'd left Strode a-goin' to the Red Deeps." "What did Father Don do?" "He went to the Red Deeps an' found the dead bloke. Then he come back and saw Merry. What he said to "im I don't know: but Father Don sent me with a telegram to send from the St. James's Street orfice, saiying that Strode wouldn't be down till Friday. I think Father Don did that, to give toime to Merry to get awaiy." "That was the telegram received by Miss Strode after nine on Thursday, I think?" said Mask. "Yuss," said Butsey. "I sent it early an' the kid es took it to Wargrove forgot it till laite. I comes down again from town, gits back with the fresh air kids, saime night, to sell the peelers, an' nex' mornin' I comes down agin to tell Mrs. Merry es Cain would be over th' nex' daiy." "Why did you do that? Cain was in the house." "I knowed he wos. But Merry sent me to see if Miss Eva hed heard o' the death. Then I cuts——" "One moment," said Allen, "if Father Don saw the man dead, why didn't he take the wooden hand?" "Cause he didn't know it wos worth anythin' till Mr. Masks here spoke at the inquest." "About its being delivered to get the diamonds?" said Mask; "quite so. And you saw Mr. Hill bury it?" "Yuss. I wos told to watch him, es Merry said he knew a lot about Strode, and if the wust come he might be accused——" "A clever plot. Well?" "I follered him and saw him bury something. I digs it up and takes the cross es he put over it to mark it. Then I gives the "and to Father Don an' the cross to Merry. He sends it to Hill to frighten him, and sends it through Cain. Then Father Don sees Mr. Mask, and you knows the rest." "Not all, I guess," said Horace, stretching a long arm and shaking the boy, "say straight, you—you imp. Did Merry shoot?" "Of course he did," replied Butsey cheerfully, "he hated Strode, an' wanted to git them diamonds. Merry hed the blue pocket-book, fur when I come down to see Miss Lorry at Shanton, I took the book from Merry's box which wos in his room. He found me with it and took it back, hammerin' me fur stealin'. But I got the notes," added Butsey with satisfaction, "and I spent three." "Merry seems to be guilty," said Mr. Mask; "he was absent from the circus on that night and let his son—who resembles, him closely—take his place. He had the pocket-book and——" "Got the diamonds? No, he didn't," said Butsey briskly, "he didn't know es the hand would open. I found that out from a letter I guv you, Mr. Mask, and tole ole Father Don. He opened the hand—that wos arter he saw you, Mr. Mask—but he foun' nothin'. Then he guessed es Hill—your father, Mr. Allen—had got the diamonds, seein' he had the han', while looking fur some paiper. An' Merry got the paiper out of the pocket-book," said Butsey, "an' showed it to Don. Wot Don did with it I dunno." "He got the diamonds with it," said Allen grimly, "and has escaped. But I don't think Merry will. He's at Shanton now, as the circus is again there by particular request of the townsfolk. We'll go over to-night, Parkins, and see him perform: then we'll catch him and make him confess." "Will you have him arrested?" asked Horace coolly. "We'll see when the time comes," said Allen shortly. "Mask——?" "I'll remain here and look after this boy, Master Train." Butsey made a grimace, but so the matter was arranged. # CHAPTER XXIII: MISS LORRY'S LAST APPEARANCE There was no doubt that Stag's Circus was a great success at Shanton. Within a comparatively short period it had played three engagements in the little town, two performances each time, and on every occasion the tent was full. Now it was the very last night, as Stag announced; the circus would next turn its attention towards amusing the North. Consequently the tent was crammed to its utmost capacity, and Stag, loafing about in a fur coat, with a gigantic cigar, was in a very good humour. Not so Miss Lorry. That lady was already dressed in riding-habit and tall hat to show off the paces of her celebrated stallion White Robin, and she sat in her caravan dressing-room fuming with anger. Miss Lorry always insisted on having a dressing-room to herself, although the accommodation in that way was small. But she had such a temper and was such an attraction that the great Stag consented she should be humoured in this way. She had a bottle of champagne beside her and was taking more than was good for her, considering she was about to perform with a horse noted for its bad temper. In her hand Miss Lorry held an open letter which was the cause of her wrath. It was from Saltars, written in a schoolboy hand, and announced that he could never marry her, as he was now aware, through the dowager Lady Ipsen, that she, Miss Lorry, was a married woman. "I have been with the dowager to the church in London," said the letter, "so I know there's no mistake. I think you've treated me very badly. I loved you and would have made you my wife. Now everything is off, and I'll go back and marry my cousin Eva Strode." There were a few more reproaches to the effect that the lady had broken the writer's heart, and although these were badly expressed and badly written, yet the accent of truth rang true. Miss Lorry knew well that Saltars had really loved her, and would not have given her up unless the result had been brought about by the machinations of the dowager. She ground her teeth and crushed up the letter in her hand. "I'm done for," she said furiously. "I'd have given anything to have been Lady Saltars, and I could have turned that fool round my finger. I've risked a lot to get the position, and here I'm sold by that brute I married when I was a silly girl! I could kill him—kill him," she muttered; "and as it is, I've a good mind to thrash him," and so saying she grasped a riding-whip firmly. It was used to bring White Robin to subjection, but Miss Lorry was quite bold enough to try its effect on the human brute. Shortly she sent a message for Signor Antonio, and in a few minutes Giles presented himself with a grin. He was ready to go on for his performance, and the fleshings showed off his magnificent figure to advantage. He looked remarkably handsome, as he faced the furious woman coolly, and remarkably happy when he thought of a certain parcel of notes he had that afternoon placed in the safe keeping of the Shanton Bank. "Well, Bell," said he coolly, "so you know the worst, do you? You wouldn't look in such a rage if you didn't." Miss Lorry raised her whip and brought it smartly across the eyes of Signor Antonio. "You hound!" she said, in a concentrated voice of hate, "I should like to kill you." Merry snatched at the whip, and, twisting it from her grip, threw it on the floor of the caravan. "That's enough," he said in a quietly dangerous voice. "You've struck me once. Don't do it again or I twist your neck." "Oh no, you won't," said Miss Lorry, showing her fine white teeth; "what do you mean by splitting?" "I was paid to do so," said Merry coolly; "so, now you know the worst, don't keep me chattering here all night. I "ave to go on soon." "I have my turn first," said Miss Lorry, glancing at a printed bill pinned against the wall of the van. "I must speak out, or burst," she put her hand to her throat as though she were choking. "You beast," she cried furiously, "have I not suffered enough at your hands already?" "You were always a tigress," growled Merry, shrinking back before her fury; "I married you when you was a slip of a girl——" "And a fool—a fool!" cried the woman, beating her breast; "oh, what a fool I was! You know my father was a riding-master, and——" "And how you rode to show off to the pupils?" said Merry with a coarse laugh. "I just do. It was the riding took me." "You came as a groom," panted Miss Lorry, fixing him with a steelly glare, "and I was idiot enough to admire your good looks. I ran away with you, and we were married——" "I did the straight thing," said Giles, "you can't deny that." "I wish I had died, rather than marry you," she said savagely. "I found myself bound to a brute. You struck me—you ill-treated me within a year of our marriage." Merry lifted a lock of his black hair and showed a scar. "You did that," he said; "you flew at me with a knife." "I wish I'd killed you," muttered Miss Lorry. "And then you left me. I found out afterwards you had married that farmer's daughter in Wargrove because you got a little money with her. Then you left her also, you brute, and with a baby. Thank God, I never bore you any children! Ah, and you were in with that bad lot of Hill, and Strode, and Father Don, who was kicked out of the army for cheating at cards. You fell lower and lower, and when you found I was making money in the circus you would have forced me to live with you again, but that I learned of your Wargrove marriage. It was only my threat of bigamy that kept you away." "You intended to commit bigamy too, with Lord Saltars," said Merry sullenly, "and I was willing enough to let you. But you wrote to Miss Strode saying you'd stop me going to Wargrove——" "So I could by threatening to prosecute you for bigamy." Merry shrugged his shoulders. "Well, what good would that do?" he asked brutally. "I have confessed myself, and now you can do what you like. Old Lady Ipsen paid me fifteen hundred pounds for stopping your marriage with Saltars, and now it's off. I'm going to South Africa," finished the man. "I'll prosecute you," panted his wife. "No, you won't," he turned and looked at her sharply, "I know a little about you, my lady——" Before he could finish his sentence, the name of Miss Lorry was called for her turn. She picked up the riding-whip and gave Giles another slash across the eyes, then with a taunting laugh she bounded out of the van. Giles, left alone, set his teeth and swore. He was about to leave the caravan, intending to see Miss Lorry no more, and deciding to go away from Shanton next day with his money, for London _en route_ to South Africa, when up the steps came Allen. Behind him was a veiled lady. "What are you doing here?" demanded Merry, starting back; "get away. This place is for the performers." "And for murderers also," said Allen, blocking the way resolutely, in spite of the splendid specimen of physical strength he saw before him. "I know you, Mr. Giles Merry?" "What do you know?" asked Merry, turning pale. "I know that you shot Strode——" "It's a lie," said Merry fiercely. "I was at the circus——" "Cain was at the circus. He performed in your stead on that night at Westhaven. You followed Strode to the Red Deeps where he met my unhappy father, and you shot him. The boy Butsey has confessed how he found the blue pocket-book, taken from Strode's body, in your box. You took it back: but the boy retained the notes and was traced thereby. Butsey is in custody, and you also will be arrested." Merry gasped and sat down heavily. "It's a lie. I saw Butsey with the pocket-book, and took it from him. It was in the book I found the paper which Don showed to your father; I never knew there was any notes. I don't know where Butsey stole the book." "He took it from you." "It's a lie, I tell you," cried Merry frantically, and seeing his danger. "I was never near the Red Deeps. Ask Cain, and he'll tell you, I and not he performed. He perform my tricks!" said Merry with a sneer; "why he couldn't do them—he hasn't the strength. I swear, Mr. Hill, by all that's holy I was not at the Red Deeps." "You were," said the woman behind Allen, and Eva Strode pushed past her lover. "Allen and I came to this circus to see Cain and get him to speak about his appearing for you at Westhaven. We came round to the back, by permission of Mr. Stag. When we were passing here, I heard you laugh. It was the laugh I heard in my dream—a low, taunting laugh——" "The dream?" said Merry aghast; "I remember reading what you said at the inquest, Miss Strode, and then my silly wife—the first wife," said Merry, correcting himself, "talked of it. But dreams are all nonsense." "My dream was not, Giles. The body was brought home, and the five knocks were given——" "By Butsey?" said Merry contemptuously; "bless you, Miss Eva, the boy was hidden on the verge of the common when you and Mr. Allen were walking on the night your father's body was brought home. You told Mr. Allen your dream." "Yes, Eva, so you did," said Allen. "Well then, Butsey heard you, and being a little beast as he always is, when he met those three men with the body he came too, and knocked five times as you described to Mr. Allen. That for dreams," said Merry, snapping his fingers. Eva was slightly disconcerted. "That is explained away," she said, "but the laugh I heard in my dream, and heard just now in this caravan, isn't. It was you who laughed, Giles, and you who shot my father." Merry started, and a red spot appeared on his cheek. "I wonder if Bell did kill him after all?" he murmured to himself; "she's got a vile temper, and perhaps——" Allen was about to interrupt him, when there came a cry of dismay from the circus tent, and then a shrill, terrible scream. "There's an accident!" cried Merry, bounding past Eva and Allen, "White Robin's done it at last," and he disappeared. The screams continued, and the noise in the tent. Suddenly there was the sound of two shots, and then a roar from the audience. A crowd of frightened women and children came pouring out. From the back came Stag and Merry and Horace and others carrying the mangled body of Miss Lorry. She was insensible and her face was covered with blood. The tears were streaming down Stag's face. "I knew that brute would kill her some day," he said. "I always warned her—oh, poor Bell! Take her into the van, gentlemen. She'll have the finest funeral;—send for a doctor, can't you!" Eva shrank back in horror at the sight of that marred face. The woman opened her eyes, and they rested on the girl. A flash of interest came into them and then she fell back unconscious. Stag and Merry carried her into the van, but Horace, surrendering his place to another bearer, joined Allen and Miss Strode. "It was terrible," he said, wiping his face, which was pale and grave, "after you left me to see Cain, Miss Lorry entered on her white stallion. She was not very steady in the saddle—drink, I fancy. Still she put the horse through some of his tricks all right. But he seemed to be out of temper, and reared. She began to strike him furiously with her whip, and quite lost her self-control. He grew more savage and dashed her against the pole of the tent. How it happened I can't say, but in a moment she was off and on the ground, with the horse savaging her. Oh, the screams," said Horace, biting his lips, "poor woman! I had my Derringer in my pocket and almost without thinking I leaped into the ring and ran up to put a couple of bullets through the brute's head. White Robin is dead, and poor Miss Lorry soon will be," and he wiped his face again. Allen and Eva heard this recital horror-struck, and then a medical man pushed past them. He was followed by a handsome boy in a red jersey. "Cain—Cain," cried Eva, but he merely turned for a moment and then disappeared into the van. Merry came out almost immediately, still in his stage dress and looking ashy white. "She's done for," he whispered to Allen, "she can't live another hour," the doctor says. "I'll change, and come back. Miss Eva," he added, turning to the horror-struck girl, "you want to know who laughed in the van? It was Miss Lorry." "Your wife?" said Eva, with pale lips; "then she——" "If you believe in that dream of yours, she did," said Merry, and moved away before Allen could stop him. Cain appeared at the top of the van steps. "Miss Eva?" he said, "she saw you, and she wants you." "No, no!" said Allen, holding the girl back. "I must," said Eva, breaking away; "you come too, Allen. I must learn the truth. If Miss Lorry laughed"—she paused and looked round, "oh, my dream—my dream!" she said, and ran up the steps. Miss Lorry was lying on the floor, with her head supported by a cushion. Her face was pale and streaked with blood, but her eyes were calm, and filled with recognition of Eva. The doctor, kneeling beside the dying woman, was giving her some brandy, and Cain, in his red jersey, with a small Bible in his hand, waited near the door. Allen and Horace, with their hats off, stood behind him. "I'm—glad," said Miss Lorry, gasping; "I want to speak. Don't you let—Saltars—marry you," she brought out the words with great force, and her head fell back. "You mustn't talk," said the doctor faintly. "Am I dying?" she asked, opening her splendid eyes. The doctor nodded, and Cain came forward with the tears streaming down his face, "Oh, let me speak, dear Miss Lorry," he said, "let me pray——" "No," said the woman faintly, "I must talk to Miss Eva. I have much to say. Come and kneel down beside me, dear." Eva did so, and took Miss Lorry's hand. The dying woman smiled. "I'm glad to have you by me, when I pass," she said; "Mr. Hill, White Robin—he didn't mean to. I was not well—I should not have struck him." "He's dead," said the deep voice of the American; "I shot him." "Shot him!" said Miss Lorry, suddenly raising herself; "shot who?—not Strode. It was I—it was I who——" "Miss Lorry—let me pray," cried Cain vehemently; "make your peace with our dear, forgiving Master." "You're a good boy, Cain. You should have been my son. But I must confess my sins before I ask forgiveness. Mr. Hill, have you paper and a pencil?—ah, give me some brandy——" While the doctor did so, Horace produced a stylographic pen, and a sheet of paper torn from his pocket-book. He passed these to Allen, who also came and knelt by Miss Lorry. He quite understood that the miserable creature was about to confess her crime. Stag appeared at the door, but did not venture further. Cain saw him, and pushed him back, "Let her die in peace," he said, and took Stag away. "Do you want us to remain?" said the doctor gently. "Yes. I want to tell every one what I did. Mr. Hill, write it down. I hope to live to sign it." "I am ready," said Allen, placing the paper, and poising the pen. Miss Lorry had some more brandy. A light came into her eyes, and her voice also became stronger. "Hold my hand," she said to Eva. "If you keep holding it, I'll know you forgive me. I—I shot your father." "You—but why?" asked Eva, aghast. "Don't take away your hand—don't. Forgive me. I was mad. I knew your father many years ago. He was cruel to me. Giles would have been a better husband but for your father. When Strode—I can call him Strode, can't I?—when he came back from South Africa, he came to the circus, when we were near London. He found out my address from Giles, with whom he had much to do, and not always doing the best things either. Strode said he wanted to marry you to Saltars, and he heard that Saltars wanted to marry me. He told me that he would stop the marriage, by revealing that I was Giles's wife—ah!——" Another sup of brandy gave her strength to go on, and Allen set down all she said.—"I was furious. I wanted to be Lady Saltars: besides, I loved him. I always loved him. I had such a cruel life with Giles—I was so weary of riding—I thought I might die poor. I have saved money—but not so much as I said. I told Saltars I had five hundred a year: but I have only two hundred pounds altogether. When that was gone, I thought I might starve. If my beauty went—if I met with an accident—no, I could not face poverty. Besides, I loved Saltars, I really loved him. I implored your father to hold his tongue. Giles could say nothing, as I could stop him by threatening to prosecute him for bigamy. Only your father knew——" Again she had to gasp for breath, and then went on rapidly as though she feared she would not last till she had told all. "Your father behaved like a brute. I hated him. When he came that night to Westhaven, I heard from Butsey of his arrival, and that he had gone to the Red Deeps. How Butsey knew, I can't say. But I was not on in the bills till very late—at the very end of the programme—I had a good, quick horse, and saddled it myself—I took a pistol—I intended to shoot your father, and close his mouth for ever. It was his own fault—how could I lose Saltars, and face poverty and—disgrace?" There was another pause while Allen's pen set down what she said, and then with an effort she continued: "I went to the Red Deeps and waited behind some trees. It was close on nine. I saw your father waiting by the spring. It was a kind of twilight, and, hidden by the bushes, I was really quite near to him. He was waiting for some one. At first I thought I would speak to him again, and implore his pity; but I knew he would do nothing—I knew also he was going to Wargrove, and would tell Mrs. Merry that I was her husband's wife. I waited my chance to fire. I had tethered the horse some distance away. As I looked there came a shot which evidently hit Strode on the arm, for he put his hand up and wheeled round. I never stopped to think that some one was trying to kill him also, or I should have let the work be done by that person." "Did you know who the person was?" "No, I did not see," said Miss Lorry faintly; "I had no eyes save for Strode. Oh, how I hated him!" a gleam of anger passed over her white face. "When he wheeled to face the other person who shot, I saw that his breast was turned fairly towards me. I shot him through the heart. I was a good shot," added Miss Lorry proudly, "for I earned my living in the circus at one time by shooting as the female cowboy"—the incongruity of the phrase did not seem to strike her as grotesque. "I heard some one running away, but I did not mind. I sprang out of the bush and searched his pockets. I thought he might have set down something about my marriage in his papers. I took the blue pocket-book and then rode back quickly to Westhaven, where I arrived in time for my turn. That's all. Let me sign it." She did so painfully, and then Allen and Horace appended their names as witnesses. "How came the pocket-book into Merry's possession?" It was Allen who asked, and Miss Lorry replied drowsily— "Butsey stole the pocket-book from my rooms. He saw the notes which I left in it, and when I was out he found where I kept it. I believe Merry took it from him, and then—oh, how weary I am!——" The doctor made a sign, and Allen, putting the confession into his pocket, moved away with Horace. Eva bent down and kissed the dying woman. "I forgive you," she said, "indeed I forgive you. You acted under a sudden impulse and——" "Thank God you forgive me," said Miss Lorry. Eva would have spoken but that Cain drew her back. "Ask our Lord and Master to forgive you," he said in piercing tones. "Oh, pray, Miss Lorry—pray for forgiveness!" "I have been too great a sinner." "The greatest sinner may return; only ask Him to forgive!" Eva could bear the sight no longer; she walked quickly out of the tent and almost fainted in Allen's arms as she came down the steps. And within they heard the dying woman falteringly repeating the Lord's prayer as Cain spoke it: "For-give us our tres-passes as we forgive those who——" Then the weaker voice died away, and only the clear tones of the lad could be heard finishing the sublime petition. # CHAPTER XXIV: THE WINDING OF THE SKEIN A year after the death of Miss Lorry, two ladies sat in Mrs. Palmer's drawing-room. One was the widow herself, looking as pretty and as common as ever, although she now dressed in more subdued tints, thanks to her companion's frequent admonitions. Eva was near her, with a bright and expectant look on her face, as though she anticipated the arrival of some one. It was many months since Allen had gone out to Bolivia, and this day he was expected back with Mr. Horace Parkins. Before he departed again for South America, a ceremony would take place to convert Eva Strode into Mrs. Hill. "I'm sure I don't know what I shall do without you, Eva dear," said the widow for the tenth time that day. "Oh, you'll have Mr. Parkins to console you, Constance." "Mr. Parkins, indeed?" said Mrs. Palmer tossing her head.—She and Eva were both in evening-dress, and were waiting for the guests. Allen was coming, also his mother and Mr. Parkins.—"I don't know why you should say that, dear." Eva laughed. "I have seen a number of letters with the Bolivian stamp on them, Constance——" "Addressed to you. I should think so. But something better than letters is coming this evening, Eva." "Don't try to get out of the position," said Miss Strode, slipping her arm round the waist of the widow; "you created it yourself. Besides, Allen told me in his letter that Mr. Parkins talked of no one and nothing but you. And think, dear, you won't have to alter your initials, Constance Parkins sounds just as well as Constance Palmer." "Better, I think. I don't deny that I like Mr. Parkins." "Call him Horace——" "He hasn't given me the right. You forget I saw him only for a month or so, when he was home last." "You saw him long enough to fall in love with him." "I don't deny that—to you; but if he dares to ask me to be his wife, I'll tell him what I think." "Quite so, and then we can be married on the same day;—I to Allen, and you to Horace Parkins. Remember Horace is rich now—the mine has turned out splendidly." "I'm rich enough without that," said Mrs. Palmer with a fine colour; "if I marry, it will be to please myself. I have had quite enough of marrying for money, and much good it's done me." "You have done every one good," said Eva, kissing her; "think how kind you were to me, throughout that terrible time, when——" "Hark!" said Mrs. Palmer, raising a jewelled finger; "at last!" Shortly the door opened and Mrs. Hill entered, followed by Allen and Horace and by Mr. Mask. Eva had already seen Allen, and Mrs. Palmer had asked him and Horace to dinner, but both ladies were astonished when they saw the lawyer. "Well, this is a surprise," said the widow, giving her hand. "I thought I would come, as this is Allen's welcome home," said Mr. Mask; "you don't mind?" "I am delighted." "And you, Miss Strode?" "I am pleased too. I look on you as one of my best friends," said Eva, who did not forget that she owed Mrs. Palmer's protection to the lawyer's kindness. "Mrs. Hill, how are you?" "I think you can call me mother now," said the old lady as she greeted her son's promised wife with a kiss. "Oh!" said Allen, who looked bronzed and very fit, "I think, mother, you are usurping my privilege." "Why should it be a privilege?" said Horace, casting looks at the widow; "why not make it a universal custom?" "In that case I should——" began Mrs. Palmer. "No, you shouldn't," said Horace, "the world wouldn't let you." "Let me what? You don't know what I was about to say." Horace would have responded, but the gong thundered. "You were about to say that you hoped we were hungry," said Mask slyly; "that is what a hostess usually says." "That," said Mrs. Palmer in her turn, "is a hint. Mr. Hill, will you take in Eva?—Mr. Mask——" "I offer my arm to Mrs. Hill," said the old lawyer. "In that case," said the widow, smiling, and with a look at the big American, "I must content myself with you." Horace said something which made her smile and blush, and then they all went into a dainty meal, which every one enjoyed. After the terrible experiences of a year ago, each person seemed bent upon enjoyment, and the meal was a very bright one. When it was ended, the gentlemen did not sit over their wine, but joined the ladies almost immediately. Mrs. Palmer and Mrs. Hill were in the drawing-room talking in low tones, but Eva was nowhere to be seen. Allen looked around, and Mrs. Palmer laughed at the sight of his anxious face. "You'll find her in the garden," she said; "it's quite a perfect night of the Indian summer, therefore——" Allen did not wait for further information. He departed at once and by the quickest way, directly through the French window, which happened to be open. A few steps along the terrace, under a full moon, showed him Eva walking on the lawn. At once he sprang down the steps. "Don't walk on the grass, you foolish child," he said, taking her arm, "you'll get your feet damp." "It's too delicious a night for that," said Eva, lifting her lovely face to the silver moon; "but we can sit in the arbour——" "Don't you think Parkins will want that? He's bound to come out with Mrs. Palmer, and then——" "Does he really mean to propose?" "He's been talking of nothing else for the last few months, and has come home for that precise purpose. But for that, he would have remained with Mark at the mine. Poor Mark has all the work, and we have all the fun. But I was determined to come to you and make sure that you hadn't married Saltars after all." "Poor Saltars," said Eva, smiling, "he did come and ask me; but his heart was not in the proposal. That terrible grandmother of mine urged him to the breach. He seemed quite glad when I declined." "What bad taste," said Allen laughing. "I think he really loved that poor woman who died," said Eva in low tones, "and she certainly loved him, when she committed so daring a crime for his sake." "It might have been ambition as well as love, Eva, and it certainly was a fear of starvation in her old age. Miss Lorry wanted to make herself safe for a happy time, and so when she found your father was likely to rob her of an expected heaven, she shot him." "I wish the truth had not been made public, though," said Eva. "My dear, it was necessary, so as to remove all blame from any one who may have been suspected. Poor Stag, however, was not able to give Miss Lorry the splendid funeral he wished to give, out of respect. As you know, she was buried very quietly. Only Horace and I and Saltars followed her to her grave." "Didn't her husband?" "Giles Merry? No: he never came back, even to see her die. The man was a brute always. He went off to Africa, I believe, with the money he borrowed—that's a polite way of putting it—from old Lady Ipsen. I suppose Mrs. Merry was glad when she heard he was out of the country?" Eva nodded. "And yet I think if he had come back, she would have faced him. Ever since she knew he was not her husband, she seemed to lose her fear of him. She still calls herself Mrs. Merry for Cain's sake. No one knows the truth, save you and I and Lady Ipsen." "Well it's best to let things remain as they are. I trust Mrs. Merry is more cheerful?" "Oh yes; the fact is, Cain has converted her." "Oh, has Cain taken up his residence in Misery Castle?" Eva laughed. "It is called the House Beautiful now," she said; "Cain got the name out of the _Pilgrim's Progress_, and he lives there with his mother and his wife." "What, did he marry Jane Wasp after all?" "He did, some months after you left. Wasp was very much against the match, as he called Cain a vagabond." "Well he was, you know." "He is not now. After he joined the Salvation Army he changed completely and is quite a different person. But even then, Wasp would not have allowed the match to take place, but that Cain inherited two hundred pounds from Miss Lorry." "Ah, poor soul," said Allen sympathetically, "she talked of that sum when she was dying. Why did she leave it to Cain?" "She always liked Cain, and I think she was sorry for the slur on his birth cast by his father. But she left him the money, and then Wasp found out that Cain was a most desirable son-in-law." "Does he still belong to the Army?" "No. Wasp insisted he should leave. So Cain lives at the House Beautiful and preaches throughout the country. I believe he is to become a Methodist minister shortly. At all events, Allen, he is making his poor mother happy, after all the misery she has had." "And how do Mrs. Merry and Wasp get along?" "Oh, they rarely see one another, which is just as well. Wasp has been moved to Westhaven at a higher salary, and is getting along capitally." "I suppose he drills his household as much as ever," laughed Allen; "let us walk, Eva. We can sit on the terrace." Eva pinched Allen's arm, and he looked, to see Horace sauntering down the path with Mrs. Palmer. They were making for the arbour. The other lovers therefore sat on the terrace, so as to afford Horace plenty of time to propose. And now, Allen, said Eva, I must ask you a few questions. "What of Father Don and his gang?" "No one knows. I heard that Red Jerry had been caught by the Continental police for some robbery. But Foxy and Father Don have vanished into space with their loot. I regret those diamonds." "I don't," said Eva proudly; "I would much rather live as your wife on your money, Allen." "On my own earnings, you mean?" "Yes, though you will be very rich when your mother dies." "I hope that won't be for a long time," said Allen gravely; "poor mother, she had a sad life with my father." "Why did he go mad so suddenly, Allen?" "The shock of those diamonds being carried off, I suppose, Eva. But he was mad when he stole that wooden hand. Where is it?" "Buried in the vault. We put it there," said Eva, shuddering; "I never wish to see it again. Look at the misery it caused. But why did your father steal it?" "Never mind. He was mad, and that's the best that can be said. It was just as well he died while I was away. He would only have lingered on, an imbecile. I wish my mother would give up the house and come out with us to Bolivia, Eva." "We might be able to persuade her. But there's one question I want to ask: What's become of Butsey? I haven't heard of him, since he left Mr. Mask." Allen laughed. "Yes; he gave Mask the slip very smartly," he said, "a dangerously clever lad is Butsey. I heard he was in America. A fine field for his talents he'll find there." "Why did he tell lies about Giles Merry?" "Because he hated Merry, and wanted to save Miss Lorry. He knew all the time that Miss Lorry was guilty, but would have hanged Giles to save her. Had she not confessed, Giles, with that brat lying in the witness-box, would have been in a strange plight." "Would they have tried Butsey, had he not got away?" "I can't say. Perhaps they would. I am not a good lawyer. You had better ask Mask. However, the boy's gone, and I dare say he'll some day be lynched in the States. People like him always come to a bad end, Eva. Well, any more questions?" "I can't think of any. Why do you ask?" Allen took her hands, and looked into her eyes. "Because I want to put the old bad past out of our minds. I want you to ask what you wish to ask, and I'll answer. Then we'll drop the subject for ever." "There's nothing more I want to know," said Eva after a pause; "tell me about our house, Allen." He kissed her, and then told of the quaint Spanish house in the sleepy old Spanish town, and told also of the increasing wealth of the silver mine. "We'll all be millionaires in a few years, Eva, and then we can return to Europe and take a house in London." "Certainly not in Wargrove," said Eva, shivering. "I want to forget this place with all its horrors. My dream——" "Don't talk of it, Eva. We'll be married next week, and then life will be all joy for us both. Ah, here is Mrs. Palmer!——" "Mrs. Parkins that is to be," said the male figure by the widow's side; "we're going to travel together." "I am so glad, Constance," said Eva, kissing her. "What about me, Miss Strode?" asked the envious American. "I'll salute you by proxy in this way," said Eva, and kissed Allen. "Oh, Horace!" sighed Mrs. Palmer, and sank into her lover's arms. So all four were happy, and the troubles of the past gave place to the joys of the present. The evil augury of Eva's dream was fulfilled—the dark night was past, and joy was coming in the morning. So after all, good had come out of evil. THE END
214	--- author: H. Rider (Henry Rider) Haggard, Andrew Lang tags: Fantasy fiction, Adventure stories, Greece, Fiction, Odysseus, King of Ithaca (Mythological character), Helen, of Troy, Queen of Sparta title: The World's Desire summary: ' "The World''s Desire" by H. Rider Haggard and Andrew Lang is a historical novel likely written in the late 19th century. The narrative evokes the rich tapestry of Greco-Egyptian mythology, following the famed hero Odysseus, also known as Ulysses, as he embarks on an extraordinary quest for the elusive ideal of beauty, represented by Helen of Troy. As Odysseus returns home after his epic travels, he discovers his homeland shrouded in desolation, spurring his journey towards a new adventure that holds both romantic and perilous connotations. At the start of the novel, the tone is somber as Odysseus approaches Ithaca, only to find it eerily silent and abandoned, stripped of life and warmth. The narrative captures his profound sense of loss as he reflects on the decline of his kingdom and the absence of his loved ones. In his exploration of the desolate landscape, he uncovers shocking remnants of death, leading him to mourn the demise of his past life. Furthermore, the narrative introduces themes of desire and the supernatural as he encounters a mystical vision of Helen, igniting his quest driven by longing. This opening establishes an atmosphere rife with emotional complexity and foreshadows the intertwining of fate and divine influence as Odysseus pursues "The World''s Desire." ' word_count: 84642 fiction_type: Novel ... THE WORLD'S DESIRE Come with us, ye whose hearts are set On this, the Present to forget; Come read the things whereof ye know _They were not, and could not be so!_ The murmur of the fallen creeds, Like winds among wind-shaken reeds Along the banks of holy Nile, Shall echo in your ears the while; The fables of the North and South Shall mingle in a modern mouth; The fancies of the West and East Shall flock and flit about the feast Like doves that cooled, with waving wing, The banquets of the Cyprian king. Old shapes of song that do not die Shall haunt the halls of memory, And though the Bow shall prelude clear Shrill as the song of Gunnar's spear, There answer sobs from lute and lyre That murmured of The World's Desire. There lives no man but he hath seen The World's Desire, the fairy queen. None but hath seen her to his cost, Not one but loves what he has lost. None is there but hath heard her sing Divinely through his wandering; Not one but he has followed far The portent of the Bleeding Star; Not one but he hath chanced to wake, Dreamed of the Star and found the Snake. Yet, through his dreams, a wandering fire, Still, still she flits, THE WORLD'S DESIRE! BOOK I # CHAPTER I. THE SILENT ISLE Across the wide backs of the waves, beneath the mountains, and between the islands, a ship came stealing from the dark into the dusk, and from the dusk into the dawn. The ship had but one mast, one broad brown sail with a star embroidered on it in gold; her stem and stern were built high, and curved like a bird's beak; her prow was painted scarlet, and she was driven by oars as well as by the western wind. A man stood alone on the half-deck at the bows, a man who looked always forward, through the night, and the twilight, and the clear morning. He was of no great stature, but broad-breasted and very wide-shouldered, with many signs of strength. He had blue eyes, and dark curled locks falling beneath a red cap such as sailors wear, and over a purple cloak, fastened with a brooch of gold. There were threads of silver in his curls, and his beard was flecked with white. His whole heart was following his eyes, watching first for the blaze of the island beacons out of the darkness, and, later, for the smoke rising from the far-off hills. But he watched in vain; there was neither light nor smoke on the grey peak that lay clear against a field of yellow sky. There was no smoke, no fire, no sound of voices, nor cry of birds. The isle was deadly still. As they neared the coast, and neither heard nor saw a sign of life, the man's face fell. The gladness went out of his eyes, his features grew older with anxiety and doubt, and with longing for tidings of his home. No man ever loved his home more than he, for this was Odysseus, the son of Laertes—whom some call Ulysses—returned from his unsung second wandering. The whole world has heard the tale of his first voyage, how he was tossed for ten years on the sea after the taking of Troy, how he reached home at last, alone and disguised as a beggar; how he found violence in his house, how he slew his foes in his own hall, and won his wife again. But even in his own country he was not permitted to rest, for there was a curse upon him and a labour to be accomplished. He must wander again till he reached the land of men who had never tasted salt, nor ever heard of the salt sea. There he must sacrifice to the Sea-God, and then, at last, set his face homewards. Now he had endured that curse, he had fulfilled the prophecy, he had angered, by misadventure, the Goddess who was his friend, and after adventures that have never yet been told, he had arrived within a bowshot of Ithaca. He came from strange countries, from the Gates of the Sun and from White Rock, from the Passing Place of Souls and the people of Dreams. But he found his own isle more still and strange by far. The realm of Dreams was not so dumb, the Gates of the Sun were not so still, as the shores of the familiar island beneath the rising dawn. This story, whereof the substance was set out long ago by Rei, the instructed Egyptian priest, tells what he found there, and the tale of the last adventures of Odysseus, Laertes' son. The ship ran on and won the well-known haven, sheltered from wind by two headlands of sheer cliff. There she sailed straight in, till the leaves of the broad olive tree at the head of the inlet were tangled in her cordage. Then the Wanderer, without once looking back, or saying one word of farewell to his crew, caught a bough of the olive tree with his hand, and swung himself ashore. Here he kneeled, and kissed the earth, and, covering his head within his cloak, he prayed that he might find his house at peace, his wife dear and true, and his son worthy of him. But not one word of his prayer was to be granted. The Gods give and take, but on the earth the Gods cannot restore. When he rose from his knees he glanced back across the waters, but there was now no ship in the haven, nor any sign of a sail upon the seas. And still the land was silent; not even the wild birds cried a welcome. The sun was hardly up, men were scarce awake, the Wanderer said to himself; and he set a stout heart to the steep path leading up the hill, over the wolds, and across the ridge of rock that divides the two masses of the island. Up he climbed, purposing, as of old, to seek the house of his faithful servant, the swineherd, and learn from him the tidings of his home. On the brow of a hill he stopped to rest, and looked down on the house of the servant. But the strong oak palisade was broken, no smoke came from the hole in the thatched roof, and, as he approached, the dogs did not run barking, as sheep-dogs do, at the stranger. The very path to the house was overgrown, and dumb with grass; even a dog's keen ears could scarcely have heard a footstep. The door of the swineherd's hut was open, but all was dark within. The spiders had woven a glittering web across the empty blackness, a sign that for many days no man had entered. Then the Wanderer shouted twice, and thrice, but the only answer was an echo from the hill. He went in, hoping to find food, or perhaps a spark of fire sheltered under the dry leaves. But all was vacant and cold as death. The Wanderer came forth into the warm sunlight, set his face to the hill again, and went on his way to the city of Ithaca. He saw the sea from the hill-top glittering as of yore, but there were no brown sails of fisher-boats on the sea. All the land that should now have waved with the white corn was green with tangled weeds. Half-way down the rugged path was a grove of alders, and the basin into which water flowed from the old fountain of the Nymphs. But no maidens were there with their pitchers; the basin was broken, and green with mould; the water slipped through the crevices and hurried to the sea. There were no offerings of wayfarers, rags and pebbles, by the well; and on the altar of the Nymphs the flame had long been cold. The very ashes were covered with grass, and a branch of ivy had hidden the stone of sacrifice. On the Wanderer pressed with a heavy heart; now the high roof of his own hall and the wide fenced courts were within his sight, and he hurried forward to know the worst. Too soon he saw that the roofs were smokeless, and all the court was deep in weeds. Where the altar of Zeus had stood in the midst of the court there was now no altar, but a great, grey mound, not of earth, but of white dust mixed with black. Over this mound the coarse grass pricked up scantily, like thin hair on a leprosy. Then the Wanderer shuddered, for out of the grey mound peeped the charred black bones of the dead. He drew near, and, lo! the whole heap was of nothing else than the ashes of men and women. Death had been busy here: here many people had perished of a pestilence. They had all been consumed on one funeral fire, while they who laid them there must have fled, for there was no sign of living man. The doors gaped open, and none entered, and none came forth. The house was dead, like the people who had dwelt in it. Then the Wanderer paused where once the old hound Argos had welcomed him and had died in that welcome. There, unwelcomed, he stood, leaning on his staff. Then a sudden ray of the sun fell on something that glittered in the heap, and he touched it with the end of the staff that he had in his hand. It slid jingling from the heap; it was the bone of a forearm, and that which glittered on it was a half-molten ring of gold. On the gold lambda these characters were engraved: ΙΚΜΑΛΟΣ ΜΕΠΟΙΣΕΝ. (Icmalios made me.) At the sight of the armlet the Wanderer fell on the earth, grovelling among the ashes of the pyre, for he knew the gold ring which he had brought from Ephyre long ago, for a gift to his wife Penelope. This was the bracelet of the bride of his youth, and here, a mockery and a terror, were those kind arms in which he had lain. Then his strength was shaken with sobbing, and his hands clutched blindly before him, and he gathered dust and cast it upon his head till the dark locks were defiled with the ashes of his dearest, and he longed to die. There he lay, biting his hands for sorrow, and for wrath against God and Fate. There he lay while the sun in the heavens smote him, and he knew it not; while the wind of the sunset stirred in his hair, and he stirred not. He could not even shed one tear, for this was the sorest of all the sorrows that he had known on the waves of the sea, or on land among the wars of men. The sun fell and the ways were darkened. Slowly the eastern sky grew silver with the moon. A night-fowl's voice was heard from afar, it drew nearer; then through the shadow of the pyre the black wings fluttered into the light, and the carrion bird fixed its talons and its beak on the Wanderer's neck. Then he moved at length, tossed up an arm, and caught the bird of darkness by the neck, and broke it, and dashed it on the ground. His sick heart was mad with the little sudden pain, and he clutched for the knife in his girdle that he might slay himself, but he was unarmed. At last he rose, muttering, and stood in the moonlight, like a lion in some ruinous palace of forgotten kings. He was faint with hunger and weak with long lamenting, as he stepped within his own doors. There he paused on that high threshold of stone where once he had sat in the disguise of a beggar, that very threshold whence, on another day, he had shot the shafts of doom among the wooers of his wife and the wasters of his home. But now his wife was dead: all his voyaging was ended here, and all his wars were vain. In the white light the house of his kingship was no more than the ghost of a home, dreadful, unfamiliar, empty of warmth and love and light. The tables were fallen here and there throughout the long hall; mouldering bones, from the funeral feast, and shattered cups and dishes lay in one confusion; the ivory chairs were broken, and on the walls the moonbeams glistened now and again from points of steel and blades of bronze, though many swords were dark with rust. But there, in its gleaming case, lay one thing friendly and familiar. There lay the Bow of Eurytus, the bow for which great Heracles had slain his own host in his halls; the dreadful bow that no mortal man but the Wanderer could bend. He was never used to carry this precious bow with him on shipboard, when he went to the wars, but treasured it at home, the memorial of a dear friend foully slain. So now, when the voices of dog, and slave, and child, and wife were mute, there yet came out of the stillness a word of welcome to the Wanderer. For this bow, which had thrilled in the grip of a god, and had scattered the shafts of the vengeance of Heracles, was wondrously made and magical. A spirit dwelt within it which knew of things to come, which boded the battle from afar, and therefore always before the slaying of men the bow sang strangely through the night. The voice of it was thin and shrill, a ringing and a singing of the string and of the bow. While the Wanderer stood and looked on his weapon, hark! the bow began to thrill! The sound was faint at first, a thin note, but as he listened the voice of it in that silence grew clear, strong, angry and triumphant. In his ears and to his heart it seemed that the wordless chant rang thus: Keen and low Doth the arrow sing The Song of the Bow, The sound of the string. The shafts cry shrill: Let us forth again, Let us feed our fill On the flesh of men. Greedy and fleet Do we fly from far, Like the birds that meet For the feast of war, Till the air of fight With our wings be stirred, As it whirrs from the flight Of the ravening bird. Like the flakes that drift On the snow-wind's breath, Many and swift, And winged for death— Greedy and fleet, Do we speed from far, Like the birds that meet On the bridge of war. Fleet as ghosts that wail, When the dart strikes true, Do the swift shafts hail, Till they drink warm dew. Keen and low Do the grey shafts sing The Song of the Bow, The sound of the string. This was the message of Death, and this was the first sound that had broken the stillness of his home. At the welcome of this music which spoke to his heart—this music he had heard so many a time—the Wanderer knew that there was war at hand. He knew that the wings of his arrows should be swift to fly, and their beaks of bronze were whetted to drink the blood of men. He put out his hand and took the bow, and tried the string, and it answered shrill as the song of the swallow. Then at length, when he heard the bowstring twang to his touch, the fountains of his sorrow were unsealed; tears came like soft rains on a frozen land, and the Wanderer wept. When he had his fill of weeping, he rose, for hunger drove him—hunger that is of all things the most shameless, being stronger far than sorrow, or love, or any other desire. The Wanderer found his way through the narrow door behind the dais, and stumbling now and again over fallen fragments of the home which he himself had built, he went to the inner, secret storehouse. Even _he_ could scarcely find the door, for saplings of trees had grown up about it; yet he found it at last. Within the holy well the water was yet babbling and shining in the moonlight over the silver sands; and here, too, there was store of mouldering grain, for the house had been abundantly rich when the great plague fell upon the people while he was far away. So he found food to satisfy his hunger, after a sort, and next he gathered together out of his treasure-chest the beautiful golden armour of unhappy Paris, son of Priam, the false love of fair Helen. These arms had been taken at the sack of Troy, and had lain long in the treasury of Menelaus in Sparta; but on a day he had given them to Odysseus, the dearest of all his guests. The Wanderer clad himself in this golden gear, and took the sword called "Euryalus's Gift," a bronze blade with a silver hilt, and a sheath of ivory, which a stranger had given him in a far-off land. Already the love of life had come back to him, now that he had eaten and drunk, and had heard the Song of the Bow, the Slayer of Men. He lived yet, and hope lived in him though his house was desolate, and his wedded wife was dead, and there was none to give him tidings of his one child, Telemachus. Even so life beat strong in his heart, and his hands would keep his head if any sea-robbers had come to the city of Ithaca and made their home there, like hawks in the forsaken nest of an eagle of the sea. So he clad himself in his armour, and chose out two spears from a stand of lances, and cleaned them, and girt about his shoulders a quiver full of shafts, and took in hand his great bow, the Bow of Eurytus, which no other man could bend. Then he went forth from the ruined house into the moonlight, went forth for the last time; for never again did the high roof echo to the footstep of its lord. Long has the grass grown over it, and the sea-wind wailed! # CHAPTER II. THE VISION OF THE WORLD'S DESIRE The fragrant night was clear and still, the silence scarce broken by the lapping of the waves, as the Wanderer went down from his fallen home to the city on the sea, walking warily, and watching for any light from the houses of the people. But they were all as dark as his own, many of them roofless and ruined, for, after the plague, an earthquake had smitten the city. There were gaping chasms in the road, here and there, and through rifts in the walls of the houses the moon shone strangely, making ragged shadows. At last the Wanderer reached the Temple of Athene, the Goddess of War; but the roof had fallen in, the pillars were overset, and the scent of wild thyme growing in the broken pavement rose where he walked. Yet, as he stood by the door of the fane, where he had burned so many a sacrifice, at length he spied a light blazing from the windows of a great chapel by the sea. It was the Temple of Aphrodite, the Queen of Love, and from the open door a sweet savour of incense and a golden blaze rushed forth till they were lost in the silver of the moonshine and in the salt smell of the sea. Thither the Wanderer went slowly, for his limbs were swaying with weariness, and he was half in a dream. Yet he hid himself cunningly in the shadow of a long avenue of myrtles, for he guessed that sea-robbers were keeping revel in the forsaken shrine. But he heard no sound of singing and no tread of dancing feet within the fane of the Goddess of Love; the sacred plot of the goddess and her chapels were silent. He hearkened awhile, and watched, till at last he took courage, drew near the doors, and entered the holy place. But in the tall, bronze braziers there were no faggots burning, nor were there torches lighted in the hands of the golden men and maids, the images that stand within the fane of Aphrodite. Yet, if he did not dream, nor take moonlight for fire, the temple was bathed in showers of gold by a splendour of flame. None might see its centre nor its fountain; it sprang neither from the altar nor the statue of the goddess, but was everywhere imminent, a glory not of this world, a fire untended and unlit. And the painted walls with the stories of the loves of men and gods, and the carven pillars and the beams, and the roof of green, were bright with flaming fire! At this the Wanderer was afraid, knowing that an immortal was at hand; for the comings and goings of the gods were attended, as he had seen, by this wonderful light of unearthly fire. So he bowed his head, and hid his face as he sat by the altar in the holiest of the holy shrine, and with his right hand he grasped the horns of the altar. As he sat there, perchance he woke, and perchance he slept. However it was, it seemed to him that soon there came a murmuring and a whispering of the myrtle leaves and laurels, and a sound in the tops of the pines, and then his face was fanned by a breath more cold than the wind that wakes the dawn. At the touch of this breath the Wanderer shuddered, and the hair on his flesh stood up, so cold was the strange wind. There was silence; and he heard a voice, and he knew that it was the voice of no mortal, but of a goddess. For the speech of goddesses was not strange in his ears; he knew the clarion cry of Athene, the Queen of Wisdom and of War; and the winning words of Circe, the Daughter of the Sun, and the sweet song of Calypso's voice as she wove with her golden shuttle at the loom. But now the words came sweeter than the moaning of doves, more soft than sleep. So came the golden voice, whether he woke or whether he dreamed. "Odysseus, thou knowest me not, nor am I thy lady, nor hast thou ever been my servant! Where is she, the Queen of the Air, Athene, and why comest _thou_ here as a suppliant at the knees of the daughter of Dione?" He answered nothing, but he bowed his head in deeper sorrow. The voice spake again: "Behold, thy house is desolate; thy hearth is cold. The wild hare breeds on thy hearthstone, and the night-bird roosts beneath thy roof-tree. Thou hast neither child nor wife nor native land, and _she_ hath forsaken thee—thy Lady Athene. Many a time didst thou sacrifice to her the thighs of kine and sheep, but didst thou ever give so much as a pair of dove to _me_? Hath she left thee, as the Dawn forsook Tithonus, because there are now threads of silver in the darkness of thy hair? Is the wise goddess fickle as a nymph of the woodland or the wells? Doth she love a man only for the bloom of his youth? Nay, I know not; but this I know, that on thee, Odysseus, old age will soon be hastening—old age that is pitiless, and ruinous, and weary, and weak—age that cometh on all men, and that is hateful to the Gods. Therefore, Odysseus, ere yet it be too late, I would bow even thee to my will, and hold thee for my thrall. For I am she who conquers all things living: Gods and beasts and men. And hast thou thought that thou only shalt escape Aphrodite? Thou that hast never loved as I would have men love; thou that hast never obeyed me for an hour, nor ever known the joy and the sorrow that are mine to give? For thou didst but endure the caresses of Circe, the Daughter of the Sun, and thou wert aweary in the arms of Calypso, and the Sea King's daughter came never to her longing. As for her who is dead, thy dear wife Penelope, thou didst love her with a loyal heart, but never with a heart of fire. Nay, she was but thy companion, thy housewife, and the mother of thy child. She was mingled with all the memories of the land thou lovest, and so thou gavest her a little love. But she is dead; and thy child too is no more; and thy very country is as the ashes of a forsaken hearth where once was a camp of men. What have all thy wars and wanderings won for thee, all thy labours, and all the adventures thou hast achieved? For what didst thou seek among the living and the dead? Thou soughtest that which all men seek—thou soughtest _The World's Desire_. They find it not, nor hast thou found it, Odysseus; and thy friends are dead; thy land is dead; nothing lives but Hope. But the life that lies before thee is new, without a remnant of the old days, except for the bitterness of longing and remembrance. Out of this new life, and the unborn hours, wilt thou not give, what never before thou gavest, one hour to me, to be my servant?" The voice, as it seemed, grew softer and came nearer, till the Wanderer heard it whisper in his very ear, and with the voice came a divine fragrance. The breath of her who spoke seemed to touch his neck; the immortal tresses of the Goddess were mingled with the dark curls of his hair. The voice spake again: "Nay, Odysseus, didst thou not once give me one little hour? Fear not, for thou shalt not see me at this time, but lift thy head and look on The World's Desire!" Then the Wanderer lifted his head, and he saw, as it were in a picture or in a mirror of bronze, the vision of a girl. She was more than mortal tall, and though still in the first flower of youth, and almost a child in years, she seemed fair as a goddess, and so beautiful that Aphrodite herself may perchance have envied this loveliness. She was slim and gracious as a young shoot of a palm tree, and her eyes were fearless and innocent as a child's. On her head she bore a shining urn of bronze, as if she were bringing water from the wells, and behind her was the foliage of a plane tree. Then the Wanderer knew her, and saw her once again as he had seen her, when in his boyhood he had journeyed to the Court of her father, King Tyndareus. For, as he entered Sparta, and came down the hill Taygetus, and as his chariot wheels flashed through the ford of Eurotas, he had met her there on her way from the river. There, in his youth, his eyes had gazed on the loveliness of Helen, and his heart had been filled with the desire of the fairest of women, and like all the princes of Achaia he had sought her hand in marriage. But Helen was given to another man, to Menelaus, Atreus's son, of an evil house, that the knees of many might be loosened in death, and that there might be a song in the ears of men in after time. As he beheld the vision of young Helen, the Wanderer too grew young again. But as he gazed with the eyes and loved with the first love of a boy, she melted like a mist, and out of the mist came another vision. He saw himself, disguised as a beggar, beaten and bruised, yet seated in a long hall bright with gold, while a woman bathed his feet, and anointed his head with oil. And the face of the woman was the face of the maiden, and even more beautiful, but sad with grief and with an ancient shame. Then he remembered how once he had stolen into Troy town from the camp of the Achæans, and how he had crept in a beggar's rags within the house of Priam to spy upon the Trojans, and how Helen, the fairest of women, had bathed him, and anointed him with oil, and suffered him to go in peace, all for the memory of the love that was between them of old. As he gazed, that picture faded and melted in the mist, and again he bowed his head, and kneeled by the golden altar of the Goddess, crying: "Where beneath the sunlight dwells the golden Helen?" For now he had only one desire: to look on Helen again before he died. Then the voice of the Goddess seemed to whisper in his ear: "Did I not say truth, Odysseus? Wast not thou my servant for one hour, and did not Love save thee in the city of the Trojans on that night when even Wisdom was of no avail?" He answered: "Yea, O Queen!" "Behold then," said the voice, "I would again have mercy and be kind to thee, for if I aid thee not thou hast no more life left among men. Home, and kindred, and native land thou hast none; and, but for me, thou must devour thine own heart and be lonely till thou diest. Therefore I breathe into thy heart a sweet forgetfulness of every sorrow, and I breathe love into thee for her who was thy first love in the beginning of thy days. "For Helen is living yet upon the earth. And I will send thee on the quest of Helen, and thou shalt again take joy in war and wandering. Thou shalt find her in a strange land, among a strange people, in a strife of gods and men; and the wisest and bravest of man shall sleep at last in the arms of the fairest of women. But learn this, Odysseus; thou must set thy heart on no other woman, but only on Helen. "And I give thee a sign to know her by in a land of magic, and among women that deal in sorceries. "_On the breast of Helen a jewel shines, a great star-stone, the gift I gave her on her wedding-night when she was bride to Menelaus. From that stone fall red drops like blood, and they drip on her vestment, and there vanish, and do not stain it._ "By the Star of Love shalt thou know her; by the star shalt thou swear to her; and if thou knowest not the portent of the Bleeding Star, or if thou breakest that oath, never in this life, Odysseus, shalt thou win the golden Helen! And thine own death shall come from the water—the swiftest death—that the saying of the dead prophet may be fulfilled. Yet first shalt thou lie in the arms of the golden Helen." The Wanderer answered: "Queen, how may this be, for I am alone on a seagirt isle, and I have no ship and no companions to speed me over the great gulf of the sea?" Then the voice answered: "Fear not! the gods can bring to pass even greater things than these. Go from my house, and lie down to sleep in my holy ground, within the noise of the wash of the waves. There sleep, and take thy rest! Thy strength shall come back to thee, and before the setting of the new sun thou shalt be sailing on the path to The World's Desire. But first drink from the chalice on my altar. Fare thee well!" The voice died into silence, like the dying of music. The Wanderer awoke and lifted his head, but the light had faded, and the temple was grey in the first waking of the dawn. Yet there, on the altar where no cup had been, stood a deep chalice of gold, full of red wine to the brim. This the Wanderer lifted and drained—a draught of Nepenthe, the magic cup that puts trouble out of mind. As he drank, a wave of sweet hope went over his heart, and buried far below it the sorrow of remembrance, and the trouble of the past, and the longing desire for loves that were no more. With a light step he went forth like a younger man, taking the two spears in his hand, and the bow upon his back, and he lay down beneath a great rock that looked toward the deep, and there he slept. # CHAPTER III. THE SLAYING OF THE SIDONIANS Morning broke in the East. A new day dawned upon the silent sea, and on the world of light and sound. The sunrise topped the hill at last, and fell upon the golden raiment of the Wanderer where he slept, making it blaze like living fire. As the sun touched him, the prow of a black ship stole swiftly round the headland, for the oarsmen drove her well with the oars. Any man who saw her would have known her to be a vessel of the merchants of Sidon—the most cunning people and the greediest of gain—for on her prow were two big-headed shapes of dwarfs, with gaping mouths and knotted limbs. Such gods as those were worshipped by the Sidonians. She was now returning from Albion, an isle beyond the pillars of Heracles and the gates of the great sea, where much store of tin is found; and she had rich merchandise on board. On the half-deck beside the steersman was the captain, a thin, keen-eyed sailor, who looked shoreward and saw the sun blaze on the golden armour of the Wanderer. They were so far off that he could not see clearly what it was that glittered yellow, but all that glittered yellow was a lure for him, and gold drew him on as iron draws the hands of heroes. So he bade the helmsman steer straight in, for the sea was deep below the rock, and there they all saw a man lying asleep in golden armour. They whispered together, laughing silently, and then sprang ashore, taking with them a rope of twisted ox-hide, a hawser of the ship, and a strong cable of byblus, the papyrus plant. On these ropes they cast a loop and a running knot, a lasso for throwing, so that they might capture the man in safety from a distance. With these in their hands they crept up the cliff, for their purpose was to noose the man in golden armour, and drag him on board their vessel, and carry him to the mouth of the river of Egypt, and there sell him for a slave to the King. For the Sidonians, who were greedy of everything, loved nothing better than to catch free men and women, who might be purchased, by mere force or guile, and then be sold again for gold and silver and cattle. Many kings' sons had thus been captured by them, and had seen the day of slavery in Babylon, or Tyre, or Egyptian Thebes, and had died sadly, far from the Argive land. So the Sidonians went round warily, and, creeping in silence over the short grass and thyme towards the Wanderer, were soon as near to him as a child could throw a stone. Like shepherds who seek to net a sleeping lion, they came cunningly; yet not so cunningly but that the Wanderer heard them through his dreams, and turned and sat up, looking around him half awake. But as he woke the noose fell about his neck and over his arms and they drew it hard, and threw him on his back. Before they could touch him he was on his feet again, crying his war-cry terribly, the cry that shook the towers of Ilium, and he rushed upon them, clutching at his sword hilt. The men who were nearest him and had hold of the rope let it fall from their hands and fled, but the others swung behind him, and dragged with all their force. If his arms had been free so that he might draw his sword, it would have gone ill with them, many as they were, for the Sidonians have no stomach for sword blades; but his arms were held in the noose. Yet they did not easily master him; but, as those who had fled came back, and they all laid hands on the rope together, they overpowered him by main force at last, and hauled him, step by step, till he stumbled on a rock and fell. Then they rushed at him, and threw themselves all upon his body, and bound him with ropes in cunning sailor knots. But the booty was dearly won, and they did not all return alive; for he crushed one man with his knees till the breath left him, and the thigh of another he broke with a blow of his foot. But at last his strength was spent, and they had him like a bird in a snare; so, by might and main, they bore him to their ship, and threw him down on the fore-deck of the vessel. There they mocked him, though they were half afraid; for even now he was terrible. Then they hauled up the sail again and sat down to the oars. The wind blew fair for the mouth of the Nile and the slave-market of Egypt. The wind was fair, and their hearts were light, for they had been among the first of their people to deal with the wild tribes of the island Albion, and had bought tin and gold for African sea shells and rude glass beads from Egypt. And now, near the very end of their adventure, they had caught a man whose armour and whose body were worth a king's ransom. It was a lucky voyage, they said, and the wind was fair! The rest of the journey was long, but in well-known waters. They passed by Cephalonia and the rock of Ægilips, and wooded Zacynthus, and Samê, and of all those isles he was the lord, whom they were now selling into captivity. But he lay still, breathing heavily, and he stirred but once—that was when they neared Zacynthus. Then he strained his head round with a mighty strain, and he saw the sun go down upon the heights of rocky Ithaca, for that last time of all. So the swift ship ran along the coast, slipping by forgotten towns. Past the Echinean isles, and the Elian shore, and pleasant Eirene they sped, and it was dusk ere they reached Dorion. Deep night had fallen when they ran by Pylos; and the light of the fires in the hall of Pisistratus, the son of Nestor the Old, shone out across the sandy sea-coast and the sea. But when they were come near Malea, the southernmost point of land, where two seas meet, there the storm snatched them, and drove them ever southwards, beyond Crete, towards the mouth of the Nile. They scudded long before the storm-wind, losing their reckoning, and rushing by island temples that showed like ghosts through the mist, and past havens which they could not win. On they fled, and the men would gladly have lightened the ship by casting the cargo overboard; but the captain watched the hatches with a sword and two bronze-tipped spears in his hand. He would sink or swim with the ship; he would go down with his treasure, or reach Sidon, the City of Flowers, and build a white house among the palms by the waters of Bostren, and never try the sea again. So he swore; and he would not let them cast the Wanderer overboard, as they desired, because he had brought bad luck. "He shall bring a good price in Tanis," cried the captain. And at last the storm abated, and the Sidonians took heart, and were glad like men escaped from death; so they sacrificed and poured forth wine before the dwarf-gods on the prow of their vessel, and burned incense on their little altar. In their mirth, and to mock the Wanderer, they hung his sword and his shield against the mast, and his quiver and his bow they arrayed in the fashion of a trophy; and they mocked him, believing that he knew no word of their speech. But he knew it well, as he knew the speech of the people of Egypt; for he had seen the cities of many men, and had spoken with captains and mercenaries from many a land in the great wars. The Sidonians, however, jibed and spoke freely before him, saying how they were bound for the rich city of Tanis, on the banks of the River of Egypt, and how the captain was minded to pay his toll to Pharaoh with the body and the armour of the Wanderer. That he might seem the comelier, and a gift more fit for a king, the sailors slackened his bonds a little, and brought him dried meat and wine, and he ate till his strength returned to him. Then he entreated them by signs to loosen the cord that bound his legs; for indeed his limbs were dead through the strength of the bonds, and his armour was eating into his flesh. At his prayer they took some pity of him and loosened his bonds again, and he lay upon his back, moving his legs to and fro till his strength came back. So they sailed southward ever, through smooth waters and past the islands that lie like water-lilies in the midland sea. Many a strange sight they saw: vessels bearing slaves, whose sighing might be heard above the sighing of wind and water—young men and maidens of Ionia and Achaia, stolen by slave-traders into bondage; now they would touch at the white havens of a peaceful city; and again they would watch a smoke on the sea-line all day, rising black into the heavens; but by nightfall the smoke would change to a great roaring fire from the beacons of a beleaguered island town; the fire would blaze on the masts of the ships of the besiegers, and show blood-red on their sails, and glitter on the gilded shields that lined the bulwarks of their ships. But the Sidonians sped on till, one night, they anchored off a little isle that lies over against the mouth of the Nile. Beneath this isle they moored the ship, and slept, most of them, ashore. Then the Wanderer began to plot a way to escape, though the enterprise seemed desperate enough. He was lying in the darkness of the hold, sleepless and sore with his bonds, while his guard watched under an awning in the moonlight on the deck. They dreamed so little of his escaping that they visited him only by watches, now and again; and, as it chanced, the man whose turn it was to see that all was well fell asleep. Many a thought went through the prisoner's mind, and now it seemed to him that the vision of the Goddess was only a vision of sleep, which came, as they said, through the false Gates of Ivory, and not through the Gates of Horn. So he was to live in slavery after all, a king no longer, but a captive, toiling in the Egyptian mines of Sinai, or a soldier at a palace gate, till he died. Thus he brooded, till out of the stillness came a thin, faint, thrilling sound from the bow that hung against the mast over his head, the bow that he never thought to string again. There was a noise of a singing of the bow and of the string, and the wordless song shaped itself thus in the heart of the Wanderer: Lo! the hour is nigh And the time to smite, When the foe shall fly From the arrow's flight! Let the bronze bite deep! Let the war-birds fly Upon them that sleep And are ripe to die! Shrill and low Do the grey shafts sing The Song of the Bow, The sound of the string! Then the low music died into the silence, and the Wanderer knew that the next sun would not set on the day of slavery, and that his revenge was near. His bonds would be no barrier to his vengeance; they would break like burnt tow, he knew, in the fire of his anger. Long since, in his old days of wandering, Calypso, his love, had taught him in the summer leisure of her sea-girt isle how to tie the knots that no man could untie, and to undo all the knots that men can bind. He remembered this lesson in the night when the bow sang of war. So he thought no more of sleeping, but cunningly and swiftly unknotted all the cords and the bonds which bound him to a bar of iron in the hold. He might have escaped now, perhaps, if he had stolen on deck without waking the guards, dived thence and swam under water towards the island, where he might have hidden himself in the bush. But he desired revenge no less than freedom, and had set his heart on coming in a ship of his own, and with all the great treasure of the Sidonians, before the Egyptian King. With this in his mind, he did not throw off the cords, but let them lie on his arms and legs and about his body, as if they were still tied fast. But he fought against sleep, lest in moving when he woke he might reveal the trick, and be bound again. So he lay and waited, and in the morning the sailors came on board, and mocked at him again. In his mirth one of the men took a dish of meat and of lentils, and set it a little out of the Wanderer's reach as he lay bound, and said in the Phoenician tongue: "Mighty lord, art thou some god of Javan" (for so the Sidonians called the Achæans), "and wilt thou deign to taste our sacrifice? Is not the savour sweet in the nostrils of my lord? Why will he not put forth his hand to touch our offering?" Then the heart of Odysseus muttered sullenly within him, in wrath at the insolence of the man. But he constrained himself and smiled, and said: "Wilt thou not bring the mess a very little nearer, my friend, that I may smell the sweet incense of the sacrifice?" They were amazed when they heard him speak in their own tongue; but he who held the dish brought it nearer, like a man that angers a dog, now offering the meat, and now taking it away. So soon as the man was within reach, the Wanderer sprang out, the loosened bonds falling at his feet, and smote the sailor beneath the ear with his clenched fist. The blow was so fierce, for all his anger went into it, that it crushed the bone, and drove the man against the mast of the ship so that the strong mast shook. Where he fell, there he lay, his feet kicking the floor of the hold in his death-pain. Then the Wanderer snatched from the mast his bow and his short sword, slung the quiver about his shoulders, and ran on to the raised decking of the prow. The bulwarks of the deck were high, and the vessel was narrow, and before the sailors could stir for amazement the Wanderer had taken his stand behind the little altar and the dwarf-gods. Here he stood with an arrow on the string, and the bow drawn to his ear, looking about him terribly. Now panic and dread came on the Sidonians when they saw him standing thus, and one of the sailors cried: "Alas! what god have we taken and bound? Our ship may not contain him. Surely he is Resef Mikal, the God of the Bow, whom they of Javan call Apollo. Nay, let us land him on the isle and come not to blows with him, but entreat his mercy, lest he rouse the waves and the winds against us." But the captain of the ship of the Sidonians cried: "Not so, ye knaves! Have at him, for he is no god, but a mortal man; and his armour is worth many a yoke of oxen!" Then he bade some of them climb the decking at the further end of the ship, and throw spears at him thence; and he called others to bring up one of the long spears and charge him with that. Now these were huge pikes, that were wielded by five or six men at once, and no armour could withstand them; they were used in the fights to drive back boarders, and to ward off attacks on ships which were beached on shore in the sieges of towns. The men whom the captain appointed little liked the task, for the long spears were laid on tressels along the bulwarks, and to reach them and unship them it was needful to come within range of the bow. But the sailors on the further deck threw all their spears at once, while five men leaped on the deck where the Wanderer stood. He loosed the bowstring and the shaft sped on its way; again he drew and loosed, and now two of them had fallen beneath his arrows, and one was struck by a chance blow from a spear thrown from the further deck, and the other two leaped back into the hold. Then the Wanderer shouted from the high decking of the prow in the speech of the Sidonians: "Ye dogs, ye have sailed on your latest seafaring, and never again shall ye bring the hour of slavery on any man." So he cried, and the sailors gathered together in the hold, and took counsel how they should deal with him. But meanwhile the bow was silent, and of those on the hinder deck who were casting spears, one dropped and the others quickly fled to their fellows below, for on the deck they had no cover. The sun was now well risen, and shone on the Wanderer's golden mail, as he stood alone on the decking, with his bow drawn. The sun shone, there was silence, the ship swung to her anchor; and still he waited, looking down, his arrow pointing at the level of the deck to shoot at the first head which rose above the planking. Suddenly there was a rush of men on to the further decking, and certain of them tore the shields that lined the bulwarks from their pins, and threw them down to those who were below, while others cast a shower of spears at the Wanderer. Some of the spears he avoided; others leaped back from his mail; others stood fast in the altar and in the bodies of the dwarf-gods; while he answered with an arrow that did not miss its aim. But his eyes were always watching most keenly the hatches nearest him, whence a gangway ran down to the lower part of the ship, where the oarsmen sat; for only thence could they make a rush on him. As he watched and drew an arrow from the quiver on his shoulder, he felt, as it were, a shadow between him and the deck. He glanced up quickly, and there, on the yard above his head, a man, who had climbed the mast from behind, was creeping down to drop on him from above. Then the Wanderer snatched a short spear and cast it at the man. The spear sped quicker than a thought, and pinned his two hands to the yard so that he hung there helpless, shrieking to his friends. But the arrows of the Wanderer kept raining on the men who stood on the further deck, and presently some of them, too, leaped down in terror, crying that he was a god and not a man, while others threw themselves into the sea, and swam for the island. Then the Wanderer himself waited no longer, seeing them all amazed, but he drew his sword and leaped down among them with a cry like a sea-eagle swooping on seamews in the crevice of a rock. To right and left he smote with the short sword, making a havoc and sparing none, for the sword ravened in his hand. And some fell over the benches and oars, but such of the sailors as could flee rushed up the gangway into the further deck, and thence sprang overboard, while those who had not the luck to flee fell where they stood, and scarcely struck a blow. Only the captain of the ship, knowing that all was lost, turned and threw a spear in the Wanderer's face. But he watched the flash of the bronze and stooped his head, so that the spear struck only the golden helm and pierced it through, but scarcely grazed his head. Now the Wanderer sprang on the Sidonian captain, and smote him with the flat of his sword so that he fell senseless on the deck, and then he bound him hand and foot with cords as he himself had been bound, and made him fast to the iron bar in the hold. Next he gathered up the dead in his mighty arms, and set them against the bulwarks of the fore-deck—harvesting the fruits of War. Above the deck the man who had crept along the yard was hanging by his two hands which the spear had pinned together to the yard. "Art thou there, friend?" cried the Wanderer, mocking him. "Hast thou chosen to stay with me rather than go with thy friends, or seek new service? Nay, then, as thou art so staunch, abide there and keep a good look-out for the river mouth and the market where thou shalt sell me for a great price." So he spoke, but the man was already dead of pain and fear. Then the Wanderer unbuckled his golden armour, which clanged upon the deck, and drew fresh water from the hold to cleanse himself, for he was stained like a lion that has devoured an ox. Next, with a golden comb he combed his long dark curls, and he gathered his arrows out of the bodies of the dead, and out of the thwarts and the sides of the ship, cleansed them, and laid them back in the quiver. When all this was ended he put on his armour again; but strong as he was, he could not tear the spear from the helm without breaking the gold; so he snapped the shaft and put on the helmet with the point of the javelin still fixed firm in the crest, as Fate would have it so, and this was the beginning of his sorrows. Next he ate meat and bread, and drank wine, and poured forth some of the wine before his gods. Lastly he dragged up the heavy stone with which the ship was moored, a stone heavier far, they say, than two other men could lift. He took the tiller in his hand; the steady north wind, the Etesian wind, kept blowing in the sails, and he steered straight southward for the mouths of the Nile. # CHAPTER IV. THE BLOOD-RED SEA A hard fight it had been and a long, and the Wanderer was weary. He took the tiller of the ship in his hand, and steered for the South and for the noonday sun, which was now at his highest in the heavens. But suddenly the bright light of the sky was darkened and the air was filled with the rush, and the murmur, and the winnowing of innumerable wings. It was as if all the birds that have their homes and seek their food in the great salt marsh of Cayster had risen from the South and had flown over sea in one hour, for the heaven was darkened with their flight, and loud with the call of cranes and the whistling cry of the wild ducks. So dark was the thick mass of flying fowl, that a flight of swans shone snowy against the black cloud of their wings. At the view of them the Wanderer caught his bow eagerly into his hand and set an arrow on the string, and, taking a careful aim at the white wedge of birds, he shot a wild swan through the breast as it swept high over the mast. Then, with all the speed of its rush, the wild white swan flashed down like lightning into the sea behind the ship. The Wanderer watched its fall, when, lo! the water where the dead swan fell splashed up as red as blood and all afoam! The long silver wings and snowy plumage floated on the surface flecked with blood-red stains, and the Wanderer marvelled as he bent over the bulwarks and gazed steadily upon the sea. Then he saw that the wide sea round the ship was covered, as far as the eye could reach, as it were with a blood-red scum. Hither and thither the red stain was tossed like foam, yet beneath, where the deep wave divided, the Wanderer saw that the streams of the sea were grey and green below the crimson dye. As he watched he saw, too, that the red froth was drifted always onward from the South and from the mouth of the River of Egypt, for behind the wake of the ship it was most red of all, though he had not marked it when the battle raged. But in front the colour grew thin, as if the stain that the river washed down was all but spent. In his heart the Wanderer thought, as any man must have deemed, that on the banks of the River of Egypt there had been some battle of great nations, and that the War God had raged furiously, wherefore the holy river as it ran forth stained all the sacred sea. Where war was, there was his home, no other home had he now, and all the more eagerly he steered right on to see what the Gods would send him. The flight of birds was over and past; it was two hours after noon, the light was high in the heaven, when, as he gazed, another shadow fell on him, for the sun in mid-heaven grew small, and red as blood. Slowly a mist rose up over it from the South, a mist that was thin but as black as night. Beyond, to the southward, there was a bank of cloud like a mountain wall, steep, and polished, and black, tipped along the ragged crest with fire, and opening ever and again with flashes of intolerable splendour, while the bases were scrawled over with lightning like a written scroll. Never had the Wanderer in all his voyaging on the sea and on the great River Oceanus that girdles the earth, and severs the dead from the living men—never had he beheld such a darkness. Presently he came as it were within the jaws of it, dark as a wolf's mouth, so dark that he might not see the corpses on the deck, nor the mast, nor the dead man swinging from the yard, nor the captain of the Phoenicians who groaned aloud below, praying to his gods. But in the wake of the ship there was one break of clear blue sky on the horizon, in which the little isle where he had slain the Sidonians might be discerned far off, as bright and white as ivory. Now, though he knew it not, the gates of his own world were closing behind the Wanderer for ever. To the North, whence he came, lay the clear sky, and the sunny capes and isles, and the airy mountains of the Argive lands, white with the temples of familiar Gods. But in face of him, to the South, whither he went, was a cloud of darkness and a land of darkness itself. There were things to befall more marvellous than are told in any tale; there was to be a war of the peoples, and of the Gods, the True Gods and the False, and there he should find the last embraces of Love, the False Love and the True. Foreboding somewhat of the perils that lay in front, the Wanderer was tempted to shift his course and sail back to the sunlight. But he was one that had never turned his hand from the plough, nor his foot from the path, and he thought that now his path was fore-ordained. So he lashed the tiller with a rope, and groped his way with his hands along the deck till he reached the altar of the dwarf-gods, where the embers of the sacrifice still were glowing faintly. Then with his sword he cut some spear-shafts and broken arrows into white chips, and with them he filled a little brazier, and taking the seed of fire from the altar set light to it from beneath. Presently the wood blazed up through the noonday night, and the fire flickered and flared on the faces of the dead men that lay about the deck, rolling to larboard and to starboard, as the vessel lurched, and the flame shone red on the golden armour of the Wanderer. Of all his voyages this was the strangest seafaring, he cruising alone, with a company of the dead, deep into a darkness without measure or bound, to a land that might not be descried. Strange gusts of sudden wind blew him hither and thither. The breeze would rise in a moment from any quarter, and die as suddenly as it rose, and another wind would chase it over the chopping seas. He knew not if he sailed South or North, he knew not how time passed, for there was no sight of the sun. It was night without a dawn. Yet his heart was glad, as if he had been a boy again, for the old sorrows were forgotten, so potent was the draught of the chalice of the Goddess, and so keen was the delight of battle. "Endure, my heart," he cried, as often he had cried before, "a worse thing than this thou hast endured," and he caught up a lyre of the dead Sidonians, and sang:— Though the light of the sun be hidden, Though his race be run, Though we sail in a sea forbidden To the golden sun: Though we wander alone, unknowing,— Oh, heart of mine,— The path of the strange sea-going, Of the blood-red brine; Yet endure! We shall not be shaken By things worse than these; We have ‘scaped, when our friends were taken, On the unsailed seas; Worse deaths have we faced and fled from, In the Cyclops' den, When the floor of his cave ran red from The blood of men; Worse griefs have we known undaunted, Worse fates have fled; When the Isle that our long love haunted Lay waste and dead! So he was chanting when he descried, faint and far off, a red glow cast up along the darkness like sunset on the sky of the Under-world. For this light he steered, and soon he saw two tall pillars of flame blazing beside each other, with a narrow space of night between them. He helmed the ship towards these, and when he came near them they were like two mighty mountains of wood burning far into heaven, and each was lofty as the pyre that blazes over men slain in some red war, and each pile roared and flared above a steep crag of smooth black basalt, and between the burning mounds of fire lay the flame-flecked water of a haven. The ship neared the haven and the Wanderer saw, moving like fireflies through the night, the lanterns in the prows of boats, and from one of the boats a sailor hailed him in the speech of the people of Egypt, asking him if he desired a pilot. "Yea," he shouted. The boat drew near, and the pilot came aboard, a torch in his hand; but when his eyes fell on the dead men in the ship, and the horror hanging from the yard, and the captain bound to the iron bar, and above all, on the golden armour of the hero, and on the spear-point fast in his helm, and on his terrible face, he shrank back in dread, as if the God Osiris himself, in the Ship of Death, had reached the harbour. But the Wanderer bade him have no fear, telling him that he came with much wealth and with a great gift for the Pharaoh. The pilot, therefore, plucked up heart, and took the helm, and between the two great hills of blazing fire the vessel glided into the smooth waters of the River of Egypt, the flames glittering on the Wanderer's mail as he stood by the mast and chanted the Song of the Bow. Then, by the counsel of the pilot, the vessel was steered up the river towards the Temple of Heracles in Tanis, where there is a sanctuary for strangers, and where no man may harm them. But first, the dead Sidonians were cast overboard into the great river, for the dead bodies of men are an abomination to the Egyptians. And as each body struck the water the Wanderer saw a hateful sight, for the face of the river was lashed into foam by the sudden leaping and rushing of huge four-footed fish, or so the Wanderer deemed them. The sound of the heavy plunging of the great water-beasts, as they darted forth on the prey, smiting at each other with their tails, and the gnashing of their jaws when they bit too eagerly, and only harmed the air, and the leap of a greedy sharp snout from the waves, even before the dead man cast from the ship had quite touched the water—these things were horrible to see and hear through the blackness and by the firelight. A River of Death it seemed, haunted by the horrors that are said to prey upon the souls and bodies of the Dead. For the first time the heart of the Wanderer died within him, at the horror of the darkness and of this dread river and of the water-beasts that dwelt within it. Then he remembered how the birds had fled in terror from this place, and he bethought him of the blood-red sea. When the dead men were all cast overboard and the river was once more still, the Wanderer spoke, sick at heart, and inquired of the pilot why the sea had run so red, and whether war was in the land, and why there was night over all that country. The fellow answered that there was no war, but peace, yet the land was strangely plagued with frogs and locusts and lice in all their coasts, the sacred river Sihor running red for three whole days, and now, at last, for this the third day, darkness over all the world. But as to the cause of these curses the pilot knew nothing, being a plain man. Only the story went among the people that the Gods were angry with Khem (as they call Egypt), which indeed was easy to see, for those things could come only from the Gods. But why they were angered the pilot knew not, still it was commonly thought that the Divine Hathor, the Goddess of Love, was wroth because of the worship given in Tanis to one they called THE STRANGE HATHOR, a goddess or a woman of wonderful beauty, whose Temple was in Tanis. Concerning her the pilot said that many years ago, some thirty years, she had first appeared in the country, coming none knew whence, and had been worshipped in Tanis, and had again departed as mysteriously as she came. But now she had once more chosen to appear visible to men, strangely, and to dwell in her temple; and the men who beheld her could do nothing but worship her for her beauty. Whether she was a mortal woman or a goddess the pilot did not know, only he thought that she who dwells in Atarhechis, Hathor of Khem, the Queen of Love, was angry with the strange Hathor, and had sent the darkness and the plagues to punish them who worshipped her. The people of the seaboard also murmured that it would be well to pray the Strange Hathor to depart out of their coasts, if she were a goddess; and if she were a woman to stone her with stones. But the people of Tanis vowed that they would rather die, one and all, than do aught but adore the incomparable beauty of their strange Goddess. Others again, held that two wizards, leaders of certain slaves of a strange race, wanderers from the desert, settled in Tanis, whom they called the Apura, caused all these sorrows by art-magic. As if, forsooth, said the pilot, those barbarian slaves were more powerful than all the priests of Egypt. But for his part, the pilot knew nothing, only that if the Divine Hathor were angry with the people of Tanis it was hard that she must plague all the land of Khem. So the pilot murmured, and his tale was none of the shortest; but even as he spoke the darkness grew less dark and the cloud lifted a little so that the shores of the river might be seen in a green light like the light of Hades, and presently the night was rolled up like a veil, and it was living noonday in the land of Khem. Then all the noise of life broke forth in one moment, the kine lowing, the wind swaying the feathery palms, the fish splashing in the stream, men crying to each other from the river banks, and the voice of multitudes of people in every red temple praising Ra, their great God, whose dwelling is the Sun. The Wanderer, too, praised his own Gods, and gave thanks to Apollo, and to Helios Hyperion, and to Aphrodite. And in the end the pilot brought the ship to the quay of a great city, and there a crew of oarsmen was hired, and they sped rejoicing in the sunlight, through a canal dug by the hands of men, to Tanis and the Sanctuary of Heracles, the Safety of Strangers. There the ship was moored, there the Wanderer rested, having a good welcome from the shaven priests of the temple. # CHAPTER V. MERIAMUN THE QUEEN Strange news flies fast. It was not long before the Pharaoh, who then was with his Court in Tanis, the newly rebuilded city, heard how there had come to Khem a man like a god, wearing golden armour, and cruising alone in a ship of the dead. In these years the white barbarians of the sea and of the isles were wont to land in Egypt, to ravage the fields, carry women captive, and fly again in their ships. But not one of them had dared to sail in the armour of the Aquaiusha, as the Egyptians named the Achæans, right up the river to the city of Pharaoh. The King, therefore, was amazed at the story, and when he heard that the stranger had taken sanctuary in the Temple of Heracles, he sent instantly for his chief counsellor. This was his Master Builder, who bore a high title in the land, an ancient priest named Rei. He had served through the long reign of the King's father, the divine Rameses the Second, and he was beloved both of Meneptah and of Meriamun his Queen. Him the King charged to visit the Sanctuary and bring the stranger before him. So Rei called for his mule, and rode down to the Temple of Heracles beyond the walls. When Rei came thither, a priest went before him and led him to the chamber where the warrior chanced to be eating the lily bread of the land, and drinking the wine of the Delta. He rose as Rei entered, and he was still clad in his golden armour, for as yet he had not any change of raiment. Beside him, on a bronze tripod, lay his helmet, the Achæan helmet, with its two horns and with the bronze spear-point still fast in the gold. The eyes of Rei the Priest fell on the helmet, and he gazed so strangely at it that he scarcely heard the Wanderer's salutation. At length he answered, courteously, but always his eyes wandered back to the broken spear-point. "Is this thine, my son?" he asked, taking it in his hand, while his voice trembled. "It is my own," said the Wanderer, "though the spear-point in it was lent me of late, in return for arrows not a few and certain sword-strokes," and he smiled. The ancient priest bade the Temple servants retire, and as they went they heard him murmuring a prayer. "The Dead spoke truth," he muttered, still gazing from the helmet in his hand to the Wanderer; "ay, the Dead speak seldom, but they never lie." "My son, thou hast eaten and drunk," then said Rei the Priest and Master Builder, "and may an old man ask whence thou camest, where is thy native city, and who are thy parents?" "I come from Alybas," answered the Wanderer, for his own name was too widely known, and he loved an artful tale. "I come from Alybas; I am the son of Apheidas, son of Polypemon, and my own name is Eperitus." "And wherefore comest thou here alone in a ship of dead men, and with more treasure than a king's ransom?" "It was men of Sidon who laboured and died for all that cargo," said the Wanderer; "they voyaged far for it, and toiled hard, but they lost it in an hour. For they were not content with what they had, but made me a prisoner as I lay asleep on the coast of Crete. But the Gods gave me the upper hand of them, and I bring their captain, and much white metal and many swords and cups and beautiful woven stuffs, as a gift to your King. And for thy courtesy, come with me, and choose a gift for thyself." Then he led the old man to the treasure-chambers of the Temple, which was rich in the offerings of many travellers, gold and turquoise and frankincense from Sinai and Punt, great horns of carved ivory from the unknown East and South; bowls and baths of silver from the Khita, who were the allies of Egypt. But amidst all the wealth, the stranger's cargo made a goodly show, and the old priest's eyes glittered as he looked at it. "Take thy choice, I pray thee," said the Wanderer, "the spoils of foemen are the share of friends." The priest would have refused, but the Wanderer saw that he looked ever at a bowl of transparent amber, from the far-off Northern seas, that was embossed with curious figures of men and gods, and huge fishes, such as are unknown in the Midland waters. The Wanderer put it into the hands of Rei. "Thou shalt keep this," he said, "and pledge me in wine from it when I am gone, in memory of a friend and a guest." Rei took the bowl, and thanked him, holding it up to the light to admire the golden colour. "We are always children," he said, smiling gravely. "See an old child whom thou hast made happy with a toy. But we are men too soon again; the King bids thee come with me before him. And, my son, if thou wouldst please me more than by any gift, I pray thee pluck that spear-head from thy helmet before thou comest into the presence of the Queen." "Pardon me," said the Wanderer. "I would not harm my helmet by tearing it roughly out, and I have no smith's tools here. The spear-point, my father, is a witness to the truth of my tale, and for one day more, or two, I must wear it." Rei sighed, bowed his head, folded his hands, and prayed to his God Amen, saying: "O Amen, in whose hand is the end of a matter, lighten the burden of these sorrows, and let the vision be easy of accomplishment, and I pray thee, O Amen, let thy hand be light on thy daughter Meriamun, the Lady of Khem." Then the old man led the Wanderer out, and bade the priests make ready a chariot for him; and so they went through Tanis to the Court of Meneptah. Behind them followed the priests, carrying gifts that the Wanderer had chosen from the treasures of the Sidonians, and the miserable captain of the Sidonians was dragged along after them, bound to the hinder part of a chariot. Through the gazing crowd they all passed on to the Hall of Audience, where, between the great pillars, sat Pharaoh on his golden throne. Beside him, at his right hand, was Meriamun, the beautiful Queen, who looked at the priests with weary eyes, as if at a matter in which she had no concern. They came in and beat the earth with their brows before the King. First came the officers, leading the captain of the Sidonians for a gift to Pharaoh, and the King smiled graciously and accepted the slave. Then came others, bearing the cups of gold fashioned like the heads of lions and rams, and the swords with pictures of wars and huntings echoed on their blades in many-coloured gold, and the necklets of amber from the North, which the Wanderer had chosen as gifts for Pharaoh's Queen and Pharaoh. He had silks, too, embroidered in gold, and needlework of Sidonian women, and all these the Queen Meriamun touched to show her acceptance of them, and smiled graciously and wearily. But the covetous Sidonian groaned, when he saw his wealth departing from him, the gains for which he had hazarded his life in unsailed seas. Lastly, Pharaoh bade them lead the Wanderer in before his presence, and he came unhelmeted, in all his splendour, the goodliest man that had ever been seen in Khem. He was of no great height, but very great of girth, and of strength unmatched, and with the face of one who had seen what few have seen and lived. The beauty of youth was gone from him, but his face had the comeliness of a warrior tried on sea and land; the eyes were of a valour invincible, and no woman could see him but she longed to be his love. As he entered murmurs of amazement passed over all the company, and all eyes were fixed on him, save only the weary and wandering eyes of the listless Meriamun. But when she chanced to lift her face, and gaze on him, they who watch the looks of kings and queens saw her turn grey as the dead, and clutch with her hand at her side. Pharaoh himself saw this though he was not quick to mark what passed, and he asked her if anything ailed her, but she answered:— "Nay, only methinks the air is sick with heat and perfume. Greet thou this stranger." But beneath her robe her fingers were fretting all the while at the golden fringes of her throne. "Welcome, thou Wanderer," cried Pharaoh, in a deep and heavy voice, "welcome! By what name art thou named, and where dwell thy people, and what is thy native land?" Bowing low before Pharaoh, the Wanderer answered, with a feigned tale, that his name was Eperitus of Alybas, the son of Apheidas. The rest of the story, and how he had been taken by the Sidonians, and how he had smitten them on the seas, he told as he had told it to Rei. And he displayed his helmet with the spear-point fast in it. But when she saw this Meriamun rose to her feet as if she would be gone, and then fell back into her seat even paler than before. "The Queen, help the Queen, she faints," cried Rei the Priest, whose eyes had never left her face. One of her ladies, a beautiful woman, ran to her, knelt before her, and chafed her hands, till she came to herself, and sat up with angry eyes. "Let be!" she said, "and let the slave who tends the incense be beaten on the feet. Nay, I will remain here, I will not to my chamber. Let be!" and her lady drew back afraid. Then Pharaoh bade men lead the Sidonian out, and slay him in the market-place for his treachery; but the man, whose name was Kurri, threw himself at the feet of the Wanderer, praying for his life. The Wanderer was merciful, when the rage of battle was over, and his blood was cool. "A boon, O Pharaoh Meneptah," he cried. "Spare me this man! He saved my own life when the crew would have cast me overboard. Let me pay my debt." "Let him be spared, as thou wilt have it so," spoke Pharaoh, "but revenge dogs the feet of foolish mercy, and many debts are paid ere all is done." Thus it chanced that Kurri was given to Meriamun to be her jeweller and to work for her in gold and silver. To the Wanderer was allotted a chamber in the Royal Palace, for the Pharaoh trusted that he would be a leader of his Guard, and took great pleasure in his beauty and his strength. As he left the Hall of Audience with Rei, the Queen Meriamun lifted her eyes again, and looked on him long, and her ivory face flushed rosy, like the ivory that the Sidonians dye red for the trappings of the horses of kings. But the Wanderer marked both the sudden fear and the blush of Meriamun, and, beautiful as she was, he liked it ill, and his heart foreboded evil. When he was alone with Rei, therefore, he spoke to him of this, and prayed the old man to tell him if he could guess at all the meaning of the Queen. "For to me," he said, "it was as if the Lady knew my face, and even as if she feared it; but I never saw her like in all my wanderings. Beautiful she is, and yet—but it is ill speaking in their own land of kings and queens!" At first, when the Wanderer spoke thus, Rei put it by, smiling. But the Wanderer, seeing that he was troubled, and remembering how he had prayed him to pluck the spear-point from his helmet, pressed him hard with questions. Thus, partly out of weariness, and partly for love of him, and also because a secret had long been burning in his heart, the old man took the Wanderer into his own room in the Palace, and there he told him all the story of Meriamun the Queen. # CHAPTER VI. THE STORY OF MERIAMUN Rei, the Priest of Amen, the Master Builder, began his story unwillingly enough, and slowly, but soon he took pleasure in telling it as old men do, and in sharing the burden of a secret. "The Queen is fair," he said; "thou hast seen no fairer in all thy voyagings?" "She is fair indeed," answered the Wanderer. "I pray that she be well-mated and happy on her throne?" "That is what I will tell thee of, though my life may be the price of the tale," said Rei. "But a lighter heart is well worth an old man's cheap risk, and thou may'st help me and her, when thou knowest all. Pharaoh Meneptah, her lord, the King, is the son of the divine Rameses, the ever-living Pharaoh, child of the Sun, who dwelleth in Osiris." "Thou meanest that he is dead?" asked the Wanderer. "He dwelleth with Osiris," said the Priest, "and the Queen Meriamun was his daughter by another bed." "A brother wed a sister!" exclaimed the Wanderer. "It is the custom of our Royal House, from the days of the Timeless Kings, the children of Horus. An old custom." "The ways of his hosts are good in the eyes of a stranger," said the Wanderer, courteously. "It is an old custom, and a sacred," said Rei, "but women, the custom-makers, are often custom-breakers. And of all women, Meriamun least loves to be obedient, even to the dead. And yet she has obeyed, and it came about thus. Her brother Meneptah—who now is Pharaoh—the Prince of Kush while her divine father lived, had many half-sisters, but Meriamun was the fairest of them all. She is beautiful, a Moon-child the common people called her, and wise, and she does not know the face of fear. And thus it chanced that she learned, what even our Royal women rarely learn, all the ancient secret wisdom of this ancient land. Except Queen Taia of old, no woman has known what Meriamun knows, what I have taught her—I and another counsellor." He paused here, and his mind seemed to turn on unhappy things. "I have taught her from childhood," he went on—"would that I had been her only familiar—and, after her divine father and mother, she loved me more than any, for she loved few. But of all whom she did not love she loved her Royal brother least. He is slow of speech, and she is quick. She is fearless and he has no heart for war. From her childhood she scorned him, mocked him, and mastered him with her tongue. She even learned to excel him in the chariot races—therefore it was that the King his father made him but a General of the Foot Soldiers—and in guessing riddles, which our people love, she delighted to conquer him. The victory was easy enough, for the divine Prince is heavy-witted; but Meriamun was never tired of girding at him. Plainly, even as a little child she grudged that he should come to wield the scourge of power, and wear the double crown, while she should live in idleness, and hunger for command." "It is strange, then, that of all his sisters, if one must be Queen, he should have chosen her," said the Wanderer. "Strange, and it happened strangely. The Prince's father, the divine Rameses, had willed the marriage. The Prince hated it no less than Meriamun, but the will of a father is the will of the Gods. In one sport the divine Prince excelled, in the Game of Pieces, an old game in Khem. It is no pastime for women, but even at this Meriamun was determined to master her brother. She bade me carve her a new set of the pieces fashioned with the heads of cats, and shaped from the hard wood of Azebi. I carved them with my own hands, and night by night she played with me, who have some name for skill at the sport. "One sunset it chanced that her brother came in from hunting the lion in the Libyan hills. He was in an evil humour, for he had found no lions, and he caused the huntsmen to be stretched out, and beaten with rods. Then he called for wine, and drank deep at the Palace gate, and the deeper he drank the darker grew his humour. "He was going to his own Court in the Palace, striking with a whip at his hounds, when he chanced to turn and see Meriamun. She was sitting where those three great palm-trees are, and was playing at pieces with me in the cool of the day. There she sat in the shadow, clad in white and purple, and with the red gold of the snake of royalty in the blackness of her hair. There she sat as beautiful as the Hathor, the Queen of Love; or as the Lady Isis when she played at pieces in Amenti with the ancient King. Nay, an old man may say it, there never was but one woman more fair than Meriamun, if a woman she be, she whom our people call the _Strange Hathor_." Now the Wanderer bethought him of the tale of the pilot, but he said nothing, and Rei went on. "The Prince saw her, and his anger sought for something new to break itself on. Up he came, and I rose before him, and bowed myself. But Meriamun fell indolently back in her chair of ivory, and with a sweep of her slim hand she disordered the pieces, and bade her waiting woman, the lady Hataska, gather up the board, and carry all away. But Hataska's eyes were secretly watching the Prince. "‘Greeting, Princess, our Royal sister,' said Meneptah. ‘What art thou doing with these?' and he pointed with his chariot whip at the cat-headed pieces. ‘This is no woman's game, these pieces are not soft hearts of men to be moved on the board by love. This game needs wit! Get thee to thy broidery, for there thou may'st excel.' "‘Greeting, Prince, our Royal brother,' said Meriamun. ‘I laugh to hear thee speak of a game that needs wit. Thy hunting has not prospered, so get thee to the banquet board, for there, I hear, the Gods have granted thee to excel.' "‘It is little to say,' answered the Prince, throwing himself into a chair whence I had risen, ‘it is little to say, but at the game of pieces I have enough wit to give thee a temple, a priest and five bowmen, and yet win,'—for these, O Wanderer, are the names of some of the pieces. "‘I take the challenge,' cried Meriamun, for now she had brought him where she wanted; ‘but I will take no odds. Here is my wager. I will play thee three games, and stake the sacred circlet upon my brow, against the Royal uraeus on thine, and the winner shall wear both.' "‘Nay, nay, Lady,' I was bold to say, ‘this were too high a stake.' "‘High or low, I accept the wager,' answered the Prince. ‘This sister of mine has mocked me too long. She shall find that her woman's wit cannot match me at my own game, and that my father's son, the Royal Prince of Kush and the Pharaoh who shall be, is more than the equal of a girl. I hold thy wage, Meriamun!' "‘Go then, Prince,' she cried, ‘and after sunset meet me in my antechamber. Bring a scribe to score the games; Rei shall be the judge, and hold the stakes. But beware of the golden Cup of Pasht! Drain it not to-night, lest I win a love-game, though we do not play for love!' "The Prince went scowling away, and Meriamun laughed, but I foresaw mischief. The stakes were too high, the match was too strange, but Meriamun would not listen to me, for she was very wilful. "The sun fell, and two hours after the Royal Prince of Kush came with his scribe, and found Meriamun with the board of squares before her, in her antechamber. "He sat down without a word, then he asked, who should first take the field. "‘Wait,' she said, ‘first let us set the stakes,' and lifting from her brow the golden snake of royalty, she shook her soft hair loose, and gave the coronet to me. ‘If I lose,' she said, ‘never may I wear the uraeus crown.' "‘That shalt thou never while I draw breath,' answered the Prince, as he too lifted the symbol of his royalty from his head and gave it to me. There was a difference between the circlets, the coronet of Meriamun was crowned with one crested snake, that of the divine Prince was crowned with twain. "‘Ay, Meneptah,' she said, ‘but perchance Osiris, God of the Dead, waits thee, for surely he loves those too great and good for earth. Take thou the field and to the play.' At her words of evil omen, he frowned. But he took the field and readily, for he knew the game well. "She moved in answer heedlessly enough, and afterwards she played at random and carelessly, pushing the pieces about with little skill. And so he won this first game quickly, and crying, ‘_Pharaoh is dead_,' swept the pieces from the board. ‘See how I better thee,' he went on in mockery. ‘Thine is a woman's game; all attack and no defence.' "‘Boast not yet, Meneptah,' she said. ‘There are still two sets to play. See, the board is set and I take the field.' "This time the game went differently, for the Prince could scarce make a prisoner of a single piece save of one temple and two bowmen only, and presently it was the turn of Meriamun to cry ‘_Pharaoh is dead_,' and to sweep the pieces from the board. This time Meneptah did not boast but scowled, while I set the board and the scribe wrote down the game upon his tablets. Now it was the Prince's turn to take the field. "‘In the name of holy Thoth,' he cried, ‘to whom I vow great gifts of victory.' "‘In the name of holy Pasht,' she made answer, ‘to whom I make daily prayer.' For, being a maid, she swore by the Goddess of Chastity, and being Meriamun, by the Goddess of Vengeance. "‘'Tis fitting thou should'st vow by her of the Cat's Head,' he said, sneering. "‘Yes; very fitting,' she answered, ‘for perchance she'll lend me her claws. Play thou, Prince Meneptah.' "And he played, and so well that for a while the game went against her. But at length, when they had struggled long, and Meriamun had lost the most of her pieces, a light came into her face as though she had found what she sought. And while the Prince called for wine and drank, she lay back in her chair and looked upon the board. Then she moved so shrewdly and upon so deep a plan that he fell into the trap that she had laid for him, and could never escape. In vain he vowed gifts to the holy Thoth, and promised such a temple as there was none in Khem. "‘Thoth hears thee not; he is the God of lettered men,' said Meriamun, mocking him. Then he cursed and drank more wine. "‘Fools seek wit in wine, but only wise men find it,' quoth she again. ‘Behold, Royal brother, _Pharaoh is dead_, and I have won the match, and beaten thee at thine own game. Rei, my servant, give me that circlet; nay, not my own, the double one, which the divine Prince wagered. So set it on my brow, for it is mine, Meneptah. In this, as in all things else, I have conquered thee.' "And she rose, and standing full in the light of the lamps, the Royal uraeus on her brow, she mocked him, bidding him come do homage to her who had won his crown, and stretching forth her small hand for him to kiss it. And so wondrous was her beauty that the divine Prince of Kush ceased to call upon the evil Gods because of his ill fortune, and stood gazing on her. "‘By Ptah, but thou art fair,' he cried, ‘and I pardon my father at last for willing thee to be my Queen!' "‘But I will never pardon him,' said Meriamun. "Now the Prince had drunk much wine. "‘Thou shalt be my Queen,' he said, ‘and for earnest I will kiss thee. This, at the least, being the strongest, I can do.' And ere she could escape him, he passed his arm about her and seized her by the girdle, and kissed her on the lips and let her go. "Meriamun grew white as the dead. By her side there hung a dagger. Swiftly she drew it, and swiftly struck at his heart, so that had he not shrunk from the steel surely he had been slain; and she cried as she struck, ‘Thus, Prince, I pay thy kisses back.' "But as it chanced, she only pierced his arm, and before she could strike again I had seized her by the hand. "‘Thou serpent,' said the Prince, pale with rage and fear. ‘I tell thee I will kiss thee yet, whether thou wilt or not, and thou shalt pay for this.' "But she laughed softly now that her anger was spent, and I led him forth to seek a physician, who should bind up his wound. And when he was gone, I returned, and spoke to her, wringing my hands. "‘Oh, Royal Lady, what hast thou done? Thou knowest well that thy divine father destines thee to wed the Prince of Kush whom but now thou didst smite so fiercely.' "‘Nay, Rei, I will none of him—the dull clod, who is called the son of Pharaoh. Moreover, he is my half-brother, and it is not meet that I should wed my brother. For nature cries aloud against the custom of the land.' "‘Nevertheless, Lady, it _is_ the custom of thy Royal house, and thy father's will. Thus the Gods, thine ancestors, were wed; Isis to Osiris. Thus great Thothmes and Amenemhat did and decreed, and all their forefathers and all their seed. Oh, bethink thee—I speak it for thine ear, for I love thee as mine own daughter—bethink thee, for thou canst not escape, that Pharaoh's bed is the step to Pharaoh's throne. Thou lovest power; here is the gate of power, and mayhap upon a time the master of the gate shall be gone and thou shalt sit in the gate alone.' "‘Ah, Rei, now thou speakest like the counsellor of those who would be kings. Oh, did I not hate him with this hatred! And yet can I rule him. Why, 'twas no chance game that we played this night: the future lay upon the board. See, his diadem is upon my brow! At first he won, for I chose that he should win. Well, so mayhap it shall be; mayhap I shall give myself to him—hating him the while. And then the next game; that shall be for life and love and all things dear, and I shall win it, and mine shall be the uraeus crest, and mine shall be the double crown of ancient Khem, and I shall rule like Hatshepu, the great Queen of old, for I am strong, and to the strong is victory.' "‘Yes,' I made answer, ‘but, Lady, see thou that the Gods turn not thy strength to weakness; thou art too passionate to be all strength, and in a woman's heart passion is the door by which King Folly enters. To-day thou hatest, beware, lest to-morrow thou should'st love.' "‘Love,' she said, gazing scornfully; ‘Meriamun loves not till she find a man worthy of her love.' "‘Ay, and then——?' "‘And then she loves to all destruction, and woe to them who cross her path. Rei, farewell.' "Then suddenly she spoke to me in another tongue, that few know save her and me, and that none can read save her and me, a dead tongue of a dead people, the people of that ancient City of the Rock, whence all our fathers came. "‘I go,' she said, and I trembled as she spoke, for no man speaks in this language when he has any good thought in his heart. ‘I go to seek the counsel of That thou knowest,' and she touched the golden snake which she had won. "Then I threw myself on the earth at her feet, and clasped her knees, crying, ‘My daughter, my daughter, sin not this great sin. Nay, for all the kingdom of the world, wake not That which sleepeth, nor warm again into life That which is a-cold.' "But she only nodded, and put me from her,"—and the old man's face grew pale as he spoke. "What meant she?" said the Wanderer. "Nay, wake not _thou_ That which sleepeth, Wanderer," he said, at length. "My tongue is sealed. I tell thee more than I would tell another. Do not ask,—but hark! They come again! Now may Ra and Pasht and Amen curse them; may the red swine's mouth of Set gnaw upon them in Amenti; may the Fish of Sebek flesh his teeth of stone in them for ever, and feed and feed again!" "Why dost thou curse thus, Rei, and who are they that go by?" said the Wanderer. "I hear their tramping and their song." Indeed there came a light noise of many shuffling feet, pattering outside the Palace wall, and the words of a song rang out triumphantly: The Lord our God He doth sign and wonder, Tokens He shows in the land of Khem, He hath shattered the pride of the Kings asunder And casteth His shoe o'er the Gods of them! He hath brought forth frogs in their holy places, He hath sprinkled the dust upon crown and hem, He hath hated their kings and hath darkened their faces; Wonders He works in the land of Khem. "These are the accursed blaspheming conjurors and slaves, the Apura," said Rei, as the music and the tramping died away. "Their magic is greater than the lore even of us who are instructed, for their leader was one of ourselves, a shaven priest, and knows our wisdom. Never do they march and sing thus but evil comes of it. Ere day dawn we shall have news of them. May the Gods destroy them, they are gone for the hour. It were well if Meriamun the Queen would let them go for ever, as they desire, to their death in the desert, but she hardens the King's heart." # CHAPTER VII. THE QUEEN'S VISION There was silence without at last; the clamour and the tread of the Apura were hushed in the distance, dying far away, and Rei grew calm, when he heard no longer the wild song, and the clashing of the timbrels. "I must tell thee, Eperitus," he said, "how the matter ended between the divine Prince and Meriamun. She bowed her pride before her father and her brother: her father's will was hers; she seemed to let her secret sleep, and she set her own price on her hand. In everything she must be the equal of Pharaoh—that was her price; and in all the temples and all the cities she was to be solemnly proclaimed joint heir with him of the Upper and Lower Land. The bargain was struck and the price was paid. After that night over the game of pieces Meriamun was changed. Thenceforth she did not mock at the Prince, she made herself gentle and submissive to his will. "So the time drew on till at length in the beginning of the rising of the waters came the day of her bridal. With a mighty pomp was Pharaoh's daughter wedded to Pharaoh's son. But her hand was cold as she stood at the altar, cold as the hand of one who sleeps in Osiris. Proudly and coldly she sat in the golden chariot passing in and out the great gates of Tanis. Only when she listened and heard the acclaiming thousands cry _Meriamun_ so loudly that the cry of _Meneptah_ was lost in the echoes of her name—then only did she smile. "Cold, too, she sat in her white robes at the feast that Pharaoh made, and she never looked at the husband by her side, though he looked kindly on her. "The feast was long, but it ended at last, and then came the music and the singers, but Meriamun, making excuse, rose and went out, attended by her ladies. And I also, weary and sad at heart, passed thence to my own chamber and busied myself with the instruments of my art, for, stranger, I build the houses of gods and kings. "Presently, as I sat, there came a knocking at the door, and a woman entered wrapped in a heavy cloak. She put aside the cloak, and before me was Meriamun in all her bridal robes. "‘Heed me not, Rei,' she said, ‘I am yet free for an hour; and I would watch thee at thy labour. Nay, it is my humour; gainsay me not, for I love well to look on that wrinkled face of thine, scored by the cunning chisel of thy knowledge and thy years. So from a child have I watched thee tracing the shapes of mighty temples that shall endure when ourselves, and perchance the very Gods we worship, have long since ceased to be. Ah, Rei, thou wise man, thine is the better part, for thou buildest in cold enduring stone and attirest thy walls as thy fancy bids thee. But I—I build in the dust of human hearts, and my will is written in their dust. When I am dead, raise me a tomb more beautiful than ever has been known, and write upon the portal, _Here, in the last temple of her pride, dwells that tired builder, Meriamun, the Queen_.' "Thus she talked wildly in words with little reason. "‘Nay, speak not so,' I said, ‘for is it not thy bridal night? What dost thou here at such a time?' "‘What do I here? Surely I come to be a child again! See, Rei, in all wide Khem there is no woman so shamed, so lost, so utterly undone as is to-night the Royal Meriamun, whom thou lovest. I am lower than she who plies the street for bread, for the loftier the spirit the greater is the fall. I am sold into shame, and power is my price. Oh, cursed be the fate of woman who only by her beauty can be great. Oh, cursed be that ancient Counsellor thou wottest of, and cursed be I who wakened That which slept, and warmed That which was a-cold in my breath and in my breast! And cursed be this sin to which he led me! Spurn me, Rei; strike me on the cheek, spit upon me, on Meriamun, the Royal harlot who sells herself to win a crown. Oh, I hate him, hate him, and I will pay him in shame for shame—him, the clown in king's attire. See here,'—and from her robe she drew a white flower that was known to her and me—‘twice to-day have I been minded with this deadly blossom to make an end of me, and of all my shame, and all my empty greed of glory. But this thought has held my hand: I, Meriamun, will live to look across his grave and break his images, and beat out the writings of his name from every temple wall in Khem, as they beat out the hated name of Hatshepu. I——' and suddenly she burst into a rain of tears; she who was not wont to weep. "‘Nay, touch me not,' she said. ‘They were but tears of anger. Meriamun is mistress of her Fate, not Fate of Meriamun. And now, my lord awaits me, and I must be gone. Kiss me on the brow, old friend, whilst yet I am the Meriamun thou knewest, and then kiss me no more for ever. At the least this is well for thee, for when Meriamun is Queen of Khem thou shalt be first in all the land, and stand on the footsteps of my throne. Farewell.' And she gathered up her raiment and cast her white flower of death in the flame of the brazier, and was gone, leaving me yet sadder at heart. For now I knew that she was not as other women are, but greater for good or evil. "On the morrow night I sat again at my task, and again there came a knocking at the door, and again a woman entered and threw aside her wrappings. It was Meriamun. She was pale and stern, and as I rose she waved me back. "‘Has, then, the Prince—thy husband——' I stammered. "‘Speak not to me of the Prince, Rei, my servant,' she made answer. ‘Yesterday I spoke to thee wildly, my mind was overwrought; let it be forgotten—a wife am I, a happy wife'; and she smiled so strangely that I shrunk back from her. "‘Now to my errand. I have dreamed a dream, a troublous dream, and thou art wise and instructed, therefore I pray thee interpret my vision. I slept and dreamed of a man, and in my dream I loved him more than I can tell. For my heart beat to his heart, and in the light of him I lived, and all my soul was his, and I knew that I loved him for ever. And Pharaoh was my husband; but, in my dream, I loved him not. Now there came a woman rising out of the sea, more beautiful than I, with a beauty fairer and more changeful than the dawn upon the mountains; and she, too, loved this godlike man, and he loved her. Then we strove together for his love, matching beauty against beauty, and wit against wit, and magic against magic. Now one conquered, and now the other; but in the end the victory was mine, and I went arrayed as for a marriage-bed—and I clasped a corpse. "‘I woke, and again I slept, and saw myself wearing another garb, and speaking another tongue. Before me was the man I loved, and there, too, was the woman, wrapped about with beauty, and I was changed, and yet I was the very Meriamun thou seest. And once more we struggled for the mastery and for this man's love, and in that day she conquered me. "‘I slept, and again I woke, and in another land than Khem—a strange land, and yet methought I knew it from long ago. There I dwelt among the graves, and dark faces were about me, and I wore That thou knowest for a girdle. And the tombs of the rock wherein we dwelt were scored with the writings of a dead tongue—the tongue of that land whence our fathers came. We were all changed, yet the same, and once more the woman and I struggled for the mastery, and though I seemed to conquer, yet a sea of fire came over me, and I woke and I slept again. "‘Then confusion was piled upon confusion, nor can my memory hold all that came to pass. For this game played itself afresh in lands, and lives, and tongues without number. Only the last bout and the winner were not revealed to me. "‘And in my dream I cried aloud to the protecting Gods to escape out of the dream, and I sought for light that I might see whence these things were. Then, as in a vision, the Past opened up its gates. It seemed that upon a time, thousand, thousand ages agone, I and this man of my dream had arisen from nothingness and looked in each other's eyes, and loved with a love unspeakable, and vowed a vow that shall endure from time to time and world to world. For we were not mortal then, but partook of the nature of the Gods, being more fair and great than any of human kind, and our happiness was the happiness of Heaven. But in our great joy we hearkened to the Voice of That thou knowest, of that Thing, Rei, with which, against thy counsel, I have but lately dealt. The kiss of our love awakened That which slept, the fire of our love warmed That which was a-cold! We defied the holy Gods, worshipping them not, but rather each the other, for we knew that as the Gods we were eternal. And the Gods were angered against us and drew us up into their presence. And while we trembled they spake as with a voice: "‘"Ye twain who are one life, each completing each, because with your kisses ye have wakened That which slept, and with the fire of your love have warmed That which was a-cold: because ye have forgotten them that gave you life and love and joy: hearken to your Doom! "‘"From Two be ye made _Three_, and through all Time strive ye to be Twain again. Pass from this Holy Place down to the Hell of Earth, and though ye be immortal put on the garments of mortality. Pass on from Life to Life, live and love and hate and seem to die: have acquaintance with every lot, and in your blind forgetfulness, being one and being equal, work each other's woe according to the law of Earth, and for your love's sake sin and be shamed, perish and re-arise, appear to conquer and be conquered, pursuing your threefold destiny, and, at the word of Fate, the unaltering circle meets, and the veil of blindness falls from your eyes, and, as a scroll, your folly is unrolled, and the hid purpose of your sorrow is accomplished and once more ye are Twain and One." "‘Then, as we trembled, clinging each to each, again the great Voice spoke: "‘"Ye twain who are One—let That to which ye have hearkened divide you and enfold you! Be ye Three!" "‘And as the Voice spoke I was torn with agony, and strength went out of me, and there, by him I loved, stood the woman of my dream crowned with every glory and adorned with the Star. And we were three. And between him and me, yet enfolding him and me, writhed that Thing thou wottest of. And he whom I loved turned to look upon the fair woman, wondering, and she smiled and stretched out her arm towards him as one who would take that which is her own, and Rei, in that hour, though it was but in a dream, I knew the mortal pain of jealousy, and awoke trembling. And now read thou this vision, Rei, thou who art learned in the interpretation of dreams and in the ways of sleep.' "‘Oh, Lady,' I made answer, ‘this thing is too high for me, I cannot interpret it; but where thou art, there may I be to help thee.' "‘I know thy love,' she said, ‘but in thy words is little light. So—so—let it pass! It was but a dream, and if indeed it came from the Under World, why, it was from no helpful God, but rather from Set, the Tormentor; or from Pasht, the Terrible, who throws the creeping shadow of her doom upon the mirror of my sleep. For that which is decreed will surely come to pass! I am blown like the dust by the breath of Fate; now to rest upon the Temple's loftiest tops, now to be trodden underfoot of slaves, and now to be swallowed by the bitter deep, and in season thence rolled forth again. I love not this lord of mine, who shall be Pharaoh, and never may _he_ come whom I shall love. 'Tis well that I love him not, for to love is to be a slave. When the heart is cold then the hand is strong, and I am fain to be the Queen leading Pharaoh by the beard, the first of all the ancient land of Khem; for I was not born to serve. Nay, while I may, I rule, awaiting the end of rule. Look forth, Rei, and see how the rays from Mother Isis' throne flood all the courts and all the city's streets and break in light upon the water's breast. So shall the Moon-child's flame flood all this land of Khem. What matters it, if ere the morn Isis must pass to her dominion of the Dead, and the voice of Meriamun be hushed within a sepulchre?' "So she spoke and went thence, and on her face was no bride's smile, but rather such a gaze as that with which the great sphinx, Horemku, looks out across the desert sands." "A strange Queen, Rei," said the Wanderer, as he paused, "but what have I to make in this tale of a bride and her mad dreams?" "More than thou shalt desire," said Rei; "but let us come to the end, and thou shalt hear thy part in the Fate." # CHAPTER VIII. THE KA, THE BAI, AND THE KHOU "The Divine Pharaoh Rameses died and was gathered to Osiris. With these hands I closed his coffin and set him in his splendid tomb, where he shall rest unharmed for ever till the day of the awakening. And Meriamun and Meneptah reigned in Khem. But to Pharaoh she was very cold, though he did her will in everything, and they had but one child, so that in a while he wearied of her loveliness. "But hers was the master-mind, and she ruled Pharaoh as she ruled all else. "For me, my lot was bettered; she talked much with me, and advanced me to great dignity, so that I was the first Master Builder in Khem, and Commander of the legion of Amen. "Now it chanced that Meriamun made a feast, where she entertained Pharaoh and Hataska sat beside him. She was the first lady about the Queen's person, a beautiful but insolent woman, who had gained Pharaoh's favour for the hour. Now wine worked so with the King that he toyed openly with the lady Hataska's hand, but Meriamun the Queen took no note, though Hataska, who had also drunk of the warm wine of the Lower Land, grew insolent, as was her wont. She quaffed deep from her cup of gold, and bade a slave bear it to the Queen, crying, ‘Pledge me, my sister.' "The meaning of her message was plain to all who heard; this waiting lady openly declared herself wife to Pharaoh and an equal of the Queen. Now Meriamun cared nothing for Pharaoh's love, but for power she did care, and she frowned, while a light shone in her dark eyes; yet she took the cup and touched it with her lips. "Presently she lifted her own cup in turn and toyed with it, then made pretence to drink, and said softly to the King's paramour, who had pledged her: "‘Pledge me in answer, Hataska, my servant, for soon, methinks, thou shalt be greater than the Queen.' "Now this foolish woman read her saying wrong, and took the golden cup from the eunuch who bore it. "With a little nod to the Queen, and a wave of her slim hand, Hataska drank, and instantly, with a great cry, she fell dead across the board. Then, while all the company sat in terror, neither daring to be silent nor to speak, and while Meriamun smiled scornfully on the dark head lying low among the roses on the board, Pharaoh leaped up, mad with wrath, and called to the guards to seize the Queen. But she waved them back, and, speaking in a slow, cold voice, she said: "‘Dare not to touch Khem's anointed Queen lest your fate be as _her_ fate. For thee, Meneptah, forget not thy marriage oath. What, am I Queen, and shall thy wantons throw their insolence in my teeth and name me their sister? Not so, for if my eyes be blind yet my ears are open. Peace, she is rightly served—choose thou a lowlier mistress!' "And Pharaoh made no answer, for he feared her with an ever-growing fear. But she, sinking back in her seat of state, played with the gold kepher on her breast, and watched them bear the body forth to the House of Osiris. One by one all the company made obeisance and passed thence, glad to be gone, till at the last there were left only Pharaoh and Meriamun the Queen, and myself—Rei the Priest—for all were much afraid. Then Pharaoh spoke, looking neither at her nor at me, and half in fear, half in anger. "‘Thou hateful woman, accursed be the day when first I looked upon thy beauty. Thou hast conquered me, but beware, for I am still Pharaoh and thy Lord. Cross my purpose once again, and, by Him who sleeps at Philæ, I will discrown thee and give thy body to the tormentors, and set thy soul loose to follow her whom thou hast slain.' "Then Meriamun answered proudly: "‘Pharaoh, be warned: lift but one finger against my majesty and thou art doomed. Thou canst not slay me, but I can over-match thee, and I swear by the same oath! By Him who sleeps at Philæ, lift a hand against me, ay, harbour one thought of treachery, and thou diest. Not lightly can I be deceived, for I have messengers that thou canst not hear. Something, Royal Meneptah, do I know of the magic of that Queen Taia who was before me. Now listen—do this one thing and all shall be well. Go on thy path and leave me to follow mine. Queen I am, Queen I will remain, and in all matters of the State mine must be an equal voice though it is thine that speaks. And, for the rest, we are apart henceforth, for thou fearest me, and Meneptah, I love not thee, nor any man.' "‘As thou hast spoken, so be it,' quoth Pharaoh, for his heart sank, and his fear came back upon him. ‘Evil was the day when first we met, and this is the price of my desire. Henceforth we are apart in bed and board, but in the council we are still one, for our ends are one. I know thy power, Meriamun, thou gifted of the evil Gods; thou needest not fear that I shall seek to slay thee, for a spear cast against the heavens returns on him who threw it. Rei, my servant, thou art witness to our oaths; hear now their undoing. Meriamun, the Queen of ancient Khem, thou art no more wife of mine. Farewell.' "And he went heavily and stricken with fear. "‘Nay,' she said, gazing after him, ‘no more am I Meneptah's wife, but still am I Khem's dreaded Queen. Oh, thou old priest, I am aweary. See what a lot is mine, who have all things but love, and yet am sick of all! I longed for power, and power is mine, and what is power? It is a rod wherewith we beat the air that straightway closes on the stroke. Yes, I tire of my loveless days and of this dull round of common things. Oh, for one hour of love and in that hour to die! Oh that the future would lift its veil and disclose the face of time to be! Say, Rei! Wilt thou be bold and dare a deed?' And she clasped me by the sleeve and whispered in my ear, in the dead tongue known to her and me—‘Her I slew—thou sawest——' "‘Ay, Queen, I saw—what of her? 'Twas ill done.' "‘Nay, 'twas rightly done and well done. But thou knowest she is not yet cold, nor for a while will be, and I have the art to drag her spirit back ere she be cold, from where she is, and to force knowledge from her lips—for being an Osiris all the future is open to her in this hour.' "‘Nay, nay,' I cried. ‘It is unholy—not lightly may we disturb the dead, lest the Guardian Gods be moved to anger.' "‘Yet will I do it, Rei. If thou dost fear, come not. But I go. I am fain for knowledge, and thus only may I win it. If I die in the dread endeavour, write this of Meriamun the Queen: That in seeking the to-be—she found it!' "‘Nay, Royal Lady,' I answered, ‘thou shalt not go alone. I too have some skill in magic, and perchance can ward evil from thee. So, if indeed thou wilt dare this dreadful thing, behold now, as ever, I am thy servant.' "‘It is well. See, now, the body will this night be laid in the sanctuary of the Temple of Osiris that is near the great gates, as is the custom, to await the coming of the embalmers. Come ere she be colder than my heart, come with me, Rei, to the house of the Lord of the Dead!' "She passed to her chamber, wrapped herself about in a dark robe, and hurried with me to the Temple doors, where we were challenged by the guards. "‘Who passes? In the name of the Holy Osiris speak.' "‘Rei, the Master Builder and the anointed Priest, and with him another,' I made answer. ‘Open.' "‘Nay, I open not. There is one within who may not be wakened.' "‘Who, then, is within?' "‘She whom the Queen slew.' "‘The Queen sends one who would look on her she slew.' "Then the priest gazed on the hooded form beside me and started back, crying, ‘A token, noble Rei.' "I held up the Royal signet, and, bowing, he opened. Being come within the Temple I lit the tapers that had been prepared. Then by their feeble light we passed through the outer hall till we came to the curtains that veil the sanctuary of the Holy Place, and here I quenched the tapers; for no fire must enter there, save that which burns upon the altar of the dead. But through the curtains came rays of light. "‘Open!' said Meriamun, and I opened, and hand in hand we passed in. On the altar that is in the place the flame burnt brightly. The chamber is not wide and great, for this is the smallest of the temples of Tanis, but yet so large that the light could not reach its walls nor pierce the overhanging gloom, and by much gazing scarcely could we discover the outline of the graven shapes of the Holy Gods that are upon the walls. But the light fell clear upon the great statue of the Osiris that was seated behind the altar fashioned in the black stone of Syene, wound about with the corpse-cloths, wearing on his head the crown of the Upper Land, and holding in his hands the crook of divinity and the awful scourge of punishment. The light shone all about the white and dreadful shape that was placed upon his holy knees, the naked shape of lost Hataska who this night had died at the hand of Meriamun. There she bowed her head against the sacred breast, her long hair streaming down on either side, her arms tied across her heart, and her eyes, whence the hues of life had scarcely faded, widely staring at the darkness of the shrine. For at Tanis to this day it is the custom for a night to place those of high birth or office who die suddenly upon the knees of the statue of Osiris. "‘See,' I said to the Queen, speaking low, for the weight of the haunted place sank into my heart, ‘see how she who scarce an hour ago was but a lovely wanton hath by thine act been clad in majesty greater than all the glory of the earth. Bethink thee, wilt thou dare indeed to summon back the spirit to the body whence thou hast set it free? Not easily, O Queen, may it be done for all thy magic, and if perchance she answereth thee, it may well be that the terror of her words shall utterly o'erwhelm us.' "‘Nay,' she made answer, ‘I am instructed. I fear not. I know by what name to call the Khou that hovers on the threshold of the Double Hall of Truth, and how to send it back to its own place. I fear not, but if perchance thou fearest, Rei, depart hence and leave me to the task alone.' "‘Nay,' I said. ‘I also am instructed, and I go not. But I say to thee that this is unholy.' "Then Meriamun spoke no more—but lifting up her hands she held them heavenwards, and so for a while she stood, her face fixed, as was the face of dead Hataska. Then, as must be done, I drew the circle round us and round the altar and the statue of Osiris, and that which sat upon his knee. With my staff I drew it, and standing therein I said the holy words which should ward away the evil things that come near in such an hour. "Now Meriamun threw a certain powder into the flame upon the altar. Thrice she threw the powder, and as she threw it a ball of flame rose from the altar and floated away, each time that she threw did the ball of fire rise; and this it was needful to do, for by fire only may the dead be manifest, and therefore was a globe of fire given to each of the three shapes that together make the threefold spirit of the dead. And when the three globes of fire had melted into air, passing over the head of the statue of Osiris, thrice did Meriamun cry aloud: "‘_Hataska! Hataska! Hataska!_ "‘By the dreadful Name I summon thee. "‘I summon thee from the threshold of the Double Hall. "‘I summon thee from the Gates of Judgment. "‘I summon thee from the door of Doom. "‘By the link of life and death that is between thee and me, I bid thee come from where thou art and make answer to that which I shall ask of thee.' "She ceased, but no answer came. Still the cold Osiris smiled, and still the body on his knee sat with open eyes gazing into nothingness. "‘Not thus easily,' I whispered, ‘may this dreadful thing be done. Thou art instructed in the Word of Fear. If thou darest, let it pass thy lips, or let us be gone.' "‘Nay, it shall be spoken,' she said—and thus she wrought. Passing to the statue she hid her head within her cloak and with both hands grasped the feet of the slain Hataska. "Seeing this I also crouched upon the floor and hid my face, for it is death to hear that Word with an uncovered face. "Then in so soft a whisper that scarce had its breath stirred a feather on her lips, Meriamun spoke the Word of Fear which may not be written, whose sound has power to pass all space and open the ears of the dead who dwell in Amenti. Softly she said it, for in a shout of thunder it was caught up and echoed from her lips, and down the eternal halls it seemed to rush on the feet of storm and the wings of wind, so that the roof rocked and the deep foundations of the Temple quivered like a wind-stirred tree. "‘Unveil, ye mortals!' cried a dreadful voice, ‘and look upon the sight of fear that ye have dared to summon.' "And I rose and cast my cloak from about my face and gazed, then sank down in terror. For round about the circle that I had drawn pressed all the multitude of the dead; countless as the desert sands they pressed, gazing with awful eyes upon us twain. And the fire that was on the altar died away, but yet was there light, for it shone from those dead eyes, and in the eyes of lost Hataska there was light. "And ever the faces changed, never for one beat of time did they cease to change. For as we gazed upon a face it would melt, even to the eyes, and round these same eyes again would gather but no more the same. And like the sloping sides of pyramids were the faces set about us from the ground to the Temple roof—and on us were fixed their glowing eyes. "And I, Rei, being instructed, knew that to suffer myself to be overcome with terror was death, as it was death to pass without the circle. So in my heart I called upon Osiris, Lord of the Dead, to protect us, and even as I named the ineffable name, lo! all the thousand thousand faces bent themselves in adoration and then, turning, looked each upon the other even as though each spake to each, and changed, and swiftly changed. "‘Meriamun,' I said, gathering up my strength, ‘fear not, but beware!' "‘Nay, wherefore should I fear,' she answered, ‘because the veil of sense is torn, and for an hour we see those who are ever about our path and whose eyes watch our most secret thought continually? I fear not.' And she stepped boldly, even to the edge of the circle, and cried: "‘All hail, ye Sahus, spirits of the awful dead, among whom I also shall be numbered.' "And as she came the changing faces shrunk away, leaving a space before her. And in the space there grew two arms, mighty and black, that stretched themselves towards her, until there was not the length of three grains of wheat betwixt the clutching fingers and her breast. "But Meriamun only laughed and drew back a space. "‘Not so, thou Enemy,' she said, ‘this circle thou may'st not break; it is too strong for thee. But to the work. Hataska, once again by the link of life and death I summon thee—and this time thou must come, thou who wast a wanton and now art "greater than the Queen."' "And as she spoke, from the dead form of the woman on Osiris' knee there issued forth another form and stood before us, as a snake issues from its slough. And as was the dead Hataska so was this form, feature for feature, look for look, and limb for limb. But still the corpse rested upon Osiris' knee, for this was but the _Ka_ that stood before us. "And thus spoke the voice of Hataska in the lips of the Ka: "‘What wouldest thou with me who am no more of thy company, O thou by whose hand my body did perish? Why troublest thou me?' "And Meriamun made answer: ‘I would this of thee, that thou shouldest declare unto me the future, even in the presence of this great company. Speak, I command thee.' "And the Ka said: ‘Nay, Meriamun, that I cannot do, for I am but the Ka—the Dweller in the Tomb, the guardian of what was Hataska whom thou didst slay, whom I must watch through all the days of death till resurrection is. Of the future I know naught; seek thou that which knows.' "‘Stand thou on one side,' quoth the Queen, and the Dweller in the Tomb obeyed. "Then once more she called upon Hataska and there came a sound of rushing wings. And behold, on the head of the statue of Osiris sat a great bird, feathered as it were with gold. But the bird had the head of a woman, and the face was fashioned as the face of Hataska. And thus it spoke, that was the _Bai_: "‘What wouldest thou with me, Meriamun, who am no more of thy company? Why dost thou draw me from the Under World, thou by whose hand my body did perish?' "And Meriamun said: ‘This I would of thee, that thou shouldest declare unto me the future. Speak, I command thee.' "And the Bai said: ‘Nay, Meriamun, that I cannot do. I am but the Bai of her who was Hataska, and I fly from Death to Life and Life to Death, till the hour of awakening is. Of the future I know naught; seek thou that which knows.' "‘Rest thou where thou art,' quoth the Queen, and there it rested, awful to see. "Then once more Meriamun called upon Hataska, bidding her hear the summons where she was. "And behold the eyes of the Dead One that was upon the knee of Osiris glowed, and glowed the eyes of the Dweller in the Tomb, and of the winged Messenger who sat above. And then there was a sound as the sound of wind, and from above, cleaving the darkness, descended a Tongue of Flame and rested on the brow of the dead Hataska. And the eyes of all the thousand thousand spirits turned and gazed upon the Tongue of Flame. And then dead Hataska spoke—though her lips moved not, yet she spoke. And this she said: "‘What wouldest thou with me, Meriamun, who am no more of thy company? Why dost thou dare to trouble me, thou by whose hand my body did perish, drawing me from the threshold of the Double Hall of Truth, back to the Over World?' "And Meriamun the Queen said, ‘Oh, thou _Khou_, for this purpose have I called thee. I am aweary of my days and I fain would learn the future. The future fain would I learn, but the forked tongue of That which sleeps tells me no word, and the lips of That which is a-cold are dumb! Tell me, then, thou, I charge thee by the word that has power to open the lips of the dead, thou who in all things art instructed, what shall be the burden of my days?' "And the dread Khou made answer: ‘Love shall be the burden of thy days, and Death shall be the burden of thy love. Behold one draws near from out the North whom thou hast loved, whom thou shalt love from life to life, till all things are accomplished. Bethink thee of a dream that thou dreamedst as thou didst lie on Pharaoh's bed, and read its riddle. Meriamun, thou art great and thy name is known upon the earth, and in Amenti is thy name known. High is thy fate, and through blood and sorrow shalt thou find it. I have spoken, let me hence.' "‘It is well,' the Queen made answer: ‘But not yet mayest thou go hence. First I command thee, by the word of dread and by the link of life and death, declare unto me if here upon the earth and in this life I shall possess him whom I shall love?' "‘In sin and craft and sorrow, Meriamun, thou shalt possess him; in shame and jealous agony he shall be taken from thee by one who is stronger than thou, though thou art strong; by one more beautiful than thou, though thou art beautiful; and ruin thou shalt give him for his guerdon, and ruin of the heart shalt thou harvest for thy portion. But for this time she shall escape thee, whose footsteps march with thine, and with his who shall be thine and hers. Nevertheless, in a day to come thou shalt pay her back measure for measure, and evil for evil. I have spoken. Let me hence.' "‘Not yet, O Khou—not yet. I have still to learn. Show me the face of her who is mine enemy, and the face of him who is my love.' "‘Thrice mayest thou speak to me, O thou greatly daring,' answered the dread Khou, ‘and thrice I may make reply, and then farewell till I meet thee on the threshold of the hall whence thou hast drawn me. Look now on the face of that Hataska whom thou slewest.' "And we looked, and behold the face of dead Hataska changed, and changed the face of the Double, the _Ka_ that stood on one side, and the face of the great bird, the _Bai_, that spread his wings about the head of Osiris. And they grew beautiful, yes, most exceeding beautiful so that it cannot be told, and the beauty was that of a woman asleep. Then lo, there hung above Hataska, as it were, the shadow of one who was watching her sleeping. And his face we saw not, O thou Wanderer, it was hidden by the visor of a golden two-horned helm, and in that helm stood fast _the bronze point of a broken spear_! But he was clad in the armour of the people of the Northern Sea, the Aquaiusha, and his hair fell dark about his shoulders like the petals of the hyacinth flower. "‘Behold thine enemy and behold thy love! Farewell,' said the dread Khou, speaking through dead Hataska's lips, and as the words died the beauty faded and the Tongue of Flame shot upwards and was lost, and once more the eyes of the thousand thousand dead turned and looked upon each other, even as though their lips whispered each to each. "But for a while Meriamun stood silent, as one amazed. Then, awaking, she waved her hand and cried, ‘Begone, thou _Bai_! Begone, thou _Ka_!' "And the great bird whereof the face was as the face of Hataska spread his golden wings and passed away to his own place, and the Ka that was in the semblance of Hataska drew near to the dead one's knees, and passed back into her from whom she came. And all the thousand thousand faces melted though the fiery eyes still gazed upon us. "Then Meriamun covered her head and once more spoke the awful Word, and I also covered up my head. But, as must be done, this second time she called the Word aloud, and yet though she called it loud, it came but as a tiny whisper from her lips. Nevertheless, at the sound of it, once more was the Temple shaken as by a storm. "Then Meriamun unveiled, and behold, again the fire burned upon the altar, and on the knees of the Osiris sat Hataska, cold and still in death, and round them was emptiness and silence. "‘Now that all is done, I greatly fear for that which has been, and that which shall be. Lead me hence, O Rei, son of Pames, for I can no more.' "And so with a heavy heart I led her forth, who of all sorceresses is the very greatest. Behold, thou Wanderer, wherefore the Queen was troubled at the coming of the man in the armour of the North, in whose two-horned golden helm stands fast the point of a broken spear." BOOK II # CHAPTER I. THE PROPHETS OF THE APURA "These things are not without the Gods," said the Wanderer, who was called Eperitus, when he had heard all the tale of Rei the Priest, son of Pames, the Head Architect, the Commander of the Legion of Amen. Then he sat silent for a while, and at last raised his eyes and looked upon the old man. "Thou hast told a strange tale, Rei. Over many a sea have I wandered, and in many a land I have sojourned. I have seen the ways of many peoples, and have heard the voices of the immortal Gods. Dreams have come to me and marvels have compassed me about. It has been laid upon me to go down into Hades, that land which thou namest Amenti, and to look on the tribes of the Dead; but never till now have I known so strange a thing. For mark thou, when first I beheld this fair Queen of thine I thought she looked upon me strangely, as one who knew my face. And now, Rei, if thou speakest truth, _she_ deems that she has met me in the ways of night and magic. Say, then, who was the man of the vision of the Queen, the man with dark and curling locks, clad in golden armour after the fashion of the Achæans whom ye name the Aquaiusha, wearing on his head a golden helm, wherein was fixed a broken spear?" "Before me sits such a man," said Rei, "or perchance it is a God that my eyes behold." "No God am I," quoth the Wanderer, smiling, "though the Sidonians deemed me nothing less when the black bow twanged and the swift shafts flew. Read me the riddle, thou that art instructed." Now the aged Priest looked upon the ground, then turned his eyes upward, and with muttering lips prayed to Thoth, the God of Wisdom. And when he had made an end of prayer he spoke. "_Thou_ art the man," he said. "Out of the sea thou hast come to bring the doom of love on the Lady Meriamun and on thyself the doom of death. This I knew, but of the rest I know nothing. Now, I pray thee, oh thou who comest in the armour of the North, thou whose face is clothed in beauty, and who art of all men the mightiest and hast of all men the sweetest and most guileful tongue, go back, go back into the sea whence thou camest, and the lands whence thou hast wandered." "Not thus easily may men escape their doom," quoth the Wanderer. "My death may come, as come it must; but know this, Rei, I do not seek the love of Meriamun." "Then it well may chance that thou shalt find it, for ever those who seek love lose, and those who seek not find." "I am come to seek another love," said the Wanderer, "and I seek her till I die." "Then I pray the Gods that thou mayest find her, and that Khem may thus be saved from sorrow. But here in Egypt there is no woman so fair as Meriamun, and thou must seek farther as quickly as may be. And now, Eperitus, behold I must away to do service in the Temple of the Holy Amen, for I am his High Priest. But I am commanded by Pharaoh first to bring thee to the feast at the Palace." Then he led the Wanderer from his chamber and brought him by a side entrance to the great Palace of the Pharaoh at Tanis, near the Temple of Ptah. And first he took him to a chamber that had been made ready for him in the Palace, a beautiful chamber, richly painted with beast-headed Gods and furnished with ivory chairs, and couches of ebony and silver, and with a gilded bed. Then the Wanderer went into the shining baths, and dark-eyed girls bathed him and anointed him with fragrant oil, and crowned him with lotus flowers. When they had bathed him they bade him lay aside his golden armour and his bow and the quiver full of arrows, but this the Wanderer would not do, for as he laid the black bow down it thrilled with a thin sound of war. So Rei led him, armed as he was, to a certain antechamber, and there he left him, saying that he would return again when the feast was done. Trumpets blared as the Wanderer waited, drums rolled, and through the wide thrown curtains swept the lovely Meriamun and the divine Pharaoh Meneptah, with many lords and ladies of the Court, all crowned with roses and with lotus blooms. The Queen was decked in Royal attire, her shining limbs were veiled in broidered silk; about her shoulders was a purple robe, and round her neck and arms were rings of well-wrought gold. She was stately and splendid to see, with pale brows and beautiful disdainful eyes where dreams seemed to sleep beneath the shadow of her eyelashes. On she swept in all her state and pride of beauty, and behind her came the Pharaoh. He was a tall man, but ill-made and heavy-browed, and to the Wanderer it seemed that he was heavy-hearted too, and that care and terror of evil to come were always in his mind. Meriamun looked up swiftly. "Greeting, Stranger," she said. "Thou comest in warlike guise to grace our feast." "Methought, Royal Lady," he made answer, "that anon when I would have laid it by, this bow of mine sang to me of present war. Therefore I am come armed—even to thy feast." "Has thy bow such foresight, Eperitus?" said the Queen. "I have heard but once of such a weapon, and that in a minstrel's tale. He came to our Court with his lyre from the Northern Sea, and he sang of the Bow of Odysseus." "Minstrel or not, thou does well to come armed, Wanderer," said the Pharaoh; "for if thy bow sings, my own heart mutters much to me of war to be." "Follow me, Wanderer, however it fall out," said the Queen. So he followed her and the Pharaoh till they came to a splendid hall, carven round with images of fighting and feasting. Here, on the painted walls, Rameses Miamun drove the thousands of the Khita before his single valour; here men hunted wild-fowl through the marshes with a great cat for their hound. Never had the Wanderer beheld such a hall since he supped with the Sea King of the fairy isle. On the daïs, raised above the rest, sat the Pharaoh, and by him sat Meriamun the Queen, and by the Queen sat the Wanderer in the golden armour of Paris, and he leaned the black bow against his ivory chair. Now the feast went on and men ate and drank. The Queen spoke little, but she watched the Wanderer beneath the lids of her deep-fringed eyes. Suddenly, as they feasted and grew merry, the doors at the end of the chamber were thrown wide, the Guards fell back in fear, and behold, at the end of the hall, stood two men. Their faces were tawny, dry, wasted with desert wandering; their noses were hooked like eagles' beaks, and their eyes were yellow as the eyes of lions. They were clad in rough skins of beasts, girdled about their waists with leathern thongs, and fiercely they lifted their naked arms, and waved their wands of cedar. Both men were old, one was white-bearded, the other was shaven smooth like the priests of Egypt. As they lifted the rods on high the Guards shrank like beaten hounds, and all the guests hid their faces, save Meriamun and the Wanderer alone. Even Pharaoh dared not look on them, but he murmured angrily in his beard: "By the name of Osiris," he said, "here be those Soothsayers of the Apura once again. Now Death waits on those who let them pass the doors." Then one of the two men, he who was shaven like a priest, cried with a great voice: "_Pharaoh! Pharaoh! Pharaoh!_ Hearken to the word of Jahveh. Wilt thou let the people go?" "I will not let them go," he answered. "_Pharaoh! Pharaoh! Pharaoh!_ Hearken to the word of Jahveh. If thou wilt not let the people go, then shall all the firstborn of Khem, of the Prince and the slave, of the ox and the ass, be smitten of Jahveh. Wilt thou let the people go?" Now Pharaoh hearkened, and those who were at the feast rose and cried with a loud voice: "O Pharaoh, let the people go! Great woes are fallen upon Khem because of the Apura. O Pharaoh, let the people go!" Now Pharaoh's heart was softened and he was minded to let them go, but Meriamun turned to him and said: "Thou shalt not let the people go. It is not these slaves, nor the God of these slaves, who bring the plagues on Khem, but it is that strange Goddess, the False Hathor, who dwells here in the city of Tanis. Be not so fearful—ever hadst thou a coward heart. Drive the False Hathor thence if thou wilt, but hold these slaves to their bondage. I still have cities that must be built, and yon slaves shall build them." Then the Pharaoh cried: "Hence! I bid you. Hence, and to-morrow shall your people be laden with a double burden and their backs shall be red with stripes. I will not let the people go!" Then the two men cried aloud, and pointing upward with their staffs they vanished from the hall, and none dared to lay hands on them, but those who sat at the feast murmured much. Now the Wanderer marvelled why Pharaoh did not command the Guards to cut down these unbidden guests, who spoiled his festival. The Queen Meriamun saw the wonder in his eyes and turned to him. "Know thou, Eperitus," she said, "that great plagues have come of late on this land of ours—plagues of lice and frogs and flies and darkness, and the changing of pure waters to blood. And these things our Lord the Pharaoh deems have been brought upon us by the curse of yonder magicians, conjurers and priests among certain slaves who work in the land at the building of our cities. But I know well that the curses come on us from Hathor, the Lady of Love, because of that woman who hath set herself up here in Tanis, and is worshipped as the Hathor." "Why then, O Queen," said the Wanderer, "is this false Goddess suffered to abide in your fair city? for, as I know well, the immortal Gods are ever angered with those who turn from their worship to bow before strange altars." "Why is she suffered? Nay, ask of Pharaoh my Lord. Methinks it is because her beauty is more than the beauty of women, so the men say who have looked on it, but I have not seen it, for only those men see it who go to worship at her shrine, and then from afar. It is not meet that the Queen of all the Lands should worship at the shrine of a strange woman, come—like thyself, Eperitus—from none knows where: if indeed she be a woman and not a fiend from the Under World. But if thou wouldest learn more, ask my Lord the Pharaoh, for he knows the Shrine of the False Hathor, and he knows who guard it, and what is it that bars the way." Now the Wanderer turned to Pharaoh saying: "O Pharaoh, may I know the truth of this mystery?" Then Meneptah looked up, and there was doubt and trouble on his heavy face. "I will tell thee readily, thou Wanderer, for perchance such a man as thou, who hast travelled in many lands and seen the faces of many Gods, may understand the tale, and may help me. In the days of my father, the holy Rameses Miamun, the keepers of the Temple of the Divine Hathor awoke, and lo! in the Sanctuary of the temple was a woman in the garb of the Aquaiusha, who was Beauty's self. But when they looked upon her, none could tell the semblance of her beauty, for to one she seemed dark and to the other fair, and to each man of them she showed a diverse loveliness. She smiled upon them, and sang most sweetly, and love entered their hearts, so that it seemed to each man that she only was his Heart's Desire. But when any man would have come nearer and embraced her, there was that about her which drove him back, and if he strove again, behold, he fell down dead. So at last they subdued their hearts, and desired her no more, but worshipped her as the Hathor come to earth, and made offerings of food and drink to her, and prayers. So three years passed, and at the end of the third year the keepers of the temple looked and the Hathor was gone. Nothing remained of her but a memory. Yet there were some who said that this memory was dearer than all else that the world has to give. "Twenty more seasons went by, and I sat upon the throne of my father, and was Lord of the Double Crown. And, on a day, a messenger came running and cried: "‘Now is Hathor come back to Khem, now is Hathor come back to Khem, and, as of old, none may draw near her beauty!' Then I went to see, and lo! before the Temple of Hathor a great multitude was gathered, and there on the pylon brow stood the Hathor's self shining with changeful beauty like the Dawn. And as of old she sang sweet songs, and, to each man who heard, her voice was the voice of his own beloved, living and lost to him, or dead and lost. Now every man has such a grave in his heart as that whence Hathor seems to rise in changeful beauty. Month by month she sings thus, one day in every month, and many a man has sought to win her and her favour, but in the doorways are they who meet him and press him back; and if he still struggles on, there comes a clang of swords and he falls dead, but no wound is found on him. And, Wanderer, this is truth, for I myself have striven and have been pressed back by that which guards her. But I alone of men who have looked on her and heard her, strove not a second time, and so saved myself alive." "Thou alone of men lovest life more than the World's Desire!" said the Queen. "Thou hast ever sickened for the love of this strange Witch, but thy life thou lovest even better than her beauty, and thou dost not dare attempt again the adventure of her embrace. Know, Eperitus, that this sorrow is come upon the land, that all men love yonder witch and rave of her, and to each she wears a different face and sings in another voice. When she stands upon the pylon tower, then thou wilt see the madness with which she has smitten them. For they will weep and pray and tear their hair. Then they will rush through the temple courts and up to the temple doors, and be thrust back again by that which guards her. But some will yet strive madly on, and thou wilt hear the clash of arms and they will fall dead before thee. Accursed is the land, I tell thee, Wanderer; because of that Phantom it is accursed. For it is she who brings these woes on Khem; from her, not from our slaves and their mad conjurers, come plagues, I say, and all evil things. And till a man be found who may pass her guard, and come face to face with the witch and slay her, plagues and woes and evil things shall be the daily bread of Khem. Perchance, Wanderer, thou art such a man," and she looked on him strangely. "Yet if so, this is my counsel, that thou go not up against her, lest thou also be bewitched, and a great man be lost to us." Now the Wanderer turned the matter over in his heart and made answer: "Perchance, Lady, my strength and the favour of the Gods might serve me in such a quest. But methinks that this woman is meeter for words of love and the kisses of men than to be slain with the sharp sword, if, indeed, she be not of the number of the immortals." Now Meriamun flushed and frowned. "It is not fitting so to talk before me," she said. "Of this be sure, that if the Witch may be come at, she shall be slain and given to Osiris for a bride." Now the Wanderer saw that the Lady Meriamun was jealous of the beauty and renown and love of her who dwelt in the temple, and was called the Strange Hathor, and he held his peace, for he knew when to be silent. # CHAPTER II. THE NIGHT OF DREAD The feast dragged slowly on, for Fear was of the company. The men and women were silent, and when they drank, it was as if one had poured a little oil on a dying fire. Life flamed up in them for a moment, their laughter came like the crackling of thorns, and then they were silent again. Meanwhile the Wanderer drank little, waiting to see what should come. But the Queen was watching him whom already her heart desired, and she only of all the company had pleasure in this banquet. Suddenly a side-door opened behind the daïs, there was a stir in the hall, each guest turning his head fearfully, for all expected some evil tidings. But it was only the entrance of those who bear about in the feasts of Egypt an effigy of the Dead, the likeness of a mummy carved in wood, and who cry: "Drink, O King, and be glad, thou shalt soon be even as he! Drink, and be glad." The stiff, swathed figure, with its folded hands and gilded face, was brought before the Pharaoh, and Meneptah, who had sat long in sullen brooding silence, started when he looked on it. Then he broke into an angry laugh. "We have little need of thee to-night," he cried, as he saluted the symbol of Osiris. "Death is near enough, we want not thy silent preaching. Death, Death is near!" He fell back in his gilded chair, and let the cup drop from his hand, gnawing at his beard. "Art thou a man?" spoke Meriamun, in a low clear voice; "are you men, and yet afraid of what comes to all? Is it only to-night that we first hear the name of Death? Remember the great Men-kau-ra, remember the old Pharaoh who built the Pyramid of Hir. He was just and kind, and he feared the Gods, and for his reward they showed him Death, coming on him in six short years. Did he scowl and tremble, like all of you to-night, who are scared by the threats of slaves? Nay, he outwitted the Gods, he made night into day, he lived out twice his years, with revel and love and wine in the lamp-lit groves of persea trees. Come, my guests, let us be merry, if it be but for an hour. Drink, and be brave!" "For once thou speakest well," said the King. "Drink and forget; the Gods who give Death give wine," and his angry eyes ranged through the hall, to seek some occasion of mirth and scorn. "Thou Wanderer!" he said, suddenly. "Thou drinkest not: I have watched thee as the cups go round; what, man, thou comest from the North, the sun of thy pale land has not heat enough to foster the vine. Thou seemest cold, and a drinker of water; why wilt thou be cold before thine hour? Come, pledge me in the red wine of Khem. Bring forth the cup of Pasht!" he cried to them who waited, "bring forth the cup of Pasht, the King drinks!" Then the chief butler of Pharaoh went to the treasure-house, and came again, bearing a huge golden cup, fashioned in the form of a lion's head, and holding twelve measures of wine. It was an ancient cup, sacred to Pasht, and a gift of the Rutennu to Thothmes, the greatest of that name. "Fill it full of unmixed wine!" cried the King. "Dost thou grow pale at the sight of the cup, thou Wanderer from the North? I pledge thee, pledge thou me!" "Nay, King," said the Wanderer, "I have tasted wine of Ismarus before to-day, and I have drunk with a wild host, the one-eyed Man Eater!" For his heart was angered by the King, and he forgot his wisdom, but the Queen marked the saying. "Then pledge me in the cup of Pasht!" quoth the King. "I pray thee, pardon me," said the Wanderer, "for wine makes wise men foolish and strong men weak, and to-night methinks we shall need our wits and our strength." "Craven!" cried the King, "give me the bowl. I drink to thy better courage, Wanderer," and lifting the great golden cup, he stood up and drank it, and then dropped staggering into his chair, his head fallen on his breast. "I may not refuse a King's challenge, though it is ill to contend with our hosts," said the Wanderer, turning somewhat pale, for he was in anger. "Give me the bowl!" He took the cup, and held it high; then pouring a little forth to his Gods, he said, in a clear voice, for he was stirred to anger beyond his wont: "_I drink to the Strange Hathor!_" He spoke, and drained the mighty cup, and set it down on the board, and even as he laid down the cup, and as the Queen looked at him with eyes of wrath, there came from the bow beside his seat a faint shrill sound, a ringing and a singing of the bow, a noise of running strings and a sound as of rushing arrows. The warrior heard it, and his eyes burned with the light of battle, for he knew well that the swift shafts should soon fly to the hearts of the doomed. Pharaoh awoke and heard it, and heard it the Lady Meriamun the Queen, and she looked on the Wanderer astonished, and looked on the bow that sang. "The minstrel's tale was true! This is none other but the Bow of Odysseus, the sacker of cities," said Meriamun. "Hearken thou, Eperitus, thy great bow sings aloud. How comes it that thy bow sings?" "For this cause, Queen," said the Wanderer; "because birds gather on the Bridge of War. Soon shall shafts be flying and ghosts go down to doom. Summon thy Guards, I bid thee, for foes are near." Terror conquered the drunkenness of Pharaoh; he bade the Guards who stood behind his chair summon all their company. They went forth, and a great hush fell again upon the Hall of Banquets and upon those who sat at meat therein. The silence grew deadly still, like air before the thunder, and men's hearts sank within them, and turned to water in their breasts. Only Odysseus wondered and thought on the battle to be, though whence the foe might come he knew not, and Meriamun sat erect in her ivory chair and looked down the glorious hall. Deeper grew the silence and deeper yet, and more and more the cloud of fear gathered in the hearts of men. Then suddenly through all the hall there was a rush like the rush of mighty wings. The deep foundations of the Palace rocked, and to the sight of men the roof above seemed to burst asunder, and lo! above them, against the distance of the sky, there swept a shape of Fear, and the stars shone through its raiment. Then the roof closed in again, and for a moment's space once more there was silence, whilst men looked with white faces, each on each, and even the stout heart of the Wanderer stood still. Then suddenly all down the hall, from this place and from that, men rose up and with one great cry fell down dead, this one across the board, and that one across the floor. The Wanderer grasped his bow and counted. From among those who sat at meat twenty and one had fallen dead. Yet those who lived sat gazing emptily, for so stricken with fear were they that scarce did each one know if it was he himself who lay dead or his brother who had sat by his side. But Meriamun looked down the hall with cold eyes, for she feared neither Death nor Life, nor God nor man. And while she looked and while the Wanderer counted, there rose a faint murmuring sound from the city without, a sound that grew and grew, the thunder of myriad feet that run before the death of kings. Then the doors burst asunder and a woman sped through them in her night robes, and in her arms she bore the naked body of a boy. "Pharaoh!" she cried, "Pharaoh, and thou, O Queen, look upon thy son—thy firstborn son—dead is thy son, O Pharaoh! Dead is thy son, O Queen! In my arms he died suddenly as I lulled him to his rest," and she laid the body of the child down on the board among the vessels of gold, among the garlands of lotus flowers and the beakers of rose-red wine. Then Pharaoh rose and rent his purple robes and wept aloud. Meriamun rose too, and lifting the body of her son clasped it to her breast, and her eyes were terrible with wrath and grief, but she wept not. "See now the curse that this evil woman, this False Hathor, hath brought upon us," she said. But the very guests sprang up crying, "It is not the Hathor whom we worship, it is not the Holy Hathor, it is the Gods of those dark Apura whom thou, O Queen, wilt not let go. On thy head and the head of Pharaoh be it," and even as they cried the murmur without grew to a shriek of woe, a shriek so wild and terrible that the Palace walls rang. Again that shriek rose, and yet a third time, never was such a cry heard in Egypt. And now for the first time in all his days the face of the Wanderer grew white with fear, and in fear of heart he prayed for succour to his Goddess—to Aphrodite, the daughter of Dione. Again the doors behind them burst open and the Guards flocked in—mighty men of many foreign lands; but now their faces were wan, their eyes stared wide, and their jaws hung down. But at the sound of the clanging of their harness the strength of the Wanderer came back to him again, for the Gods and their vengeance he feared, but not the sword of man. And now once more the bow sang aloud. He grasped it, he bent it with his mighty knee, and strung it, crying: "Awake, Pharaoh, awake! Foes draw on. Say, be these all the men?" Then the Captain answered, "These be all of the Guard who are left living in the Palace. The rest are stark, smitten by the angry Gods." Now as the Captain spake, one came running up the hall, heeding neither the dead nor the living. It was the old priest Rei, the Commander of the Legion of Amen, who had been the Wanderer's guide, and his looks were wild with fear. "Hearken, Pharaoh!" he cried, "thy people lie dead by thousands in the streets—the houses are full of dead. In the Temples of Ptah and Amen many of the priests have fallen dead also." "Hast thou more to tell, old man?" cried the Queen. "The tale has not all been told, O Queen. The soldiers are mad with fear and with the sight of death, and slay their captains; barely have I escaped from those in my command of the Legion of Amen. For they swear that this death has been brought upon the land because the Pharaoh will not let the Apura go. Hither, then, they come to slay the Pharaoh, and thee also, O Queen, and with them come many thousands of people, catching up such arms as lie to their hands." Now Pharaoh sank down groaning, but the Queen spake to the Wanderer: "Anon thy weapon sang of war, Eperitus; now war is at the gates." "Little I fear the rush of battle and the blows men deal in anger, Lady," he made answer, "though a man may fear the Gods without shame. Ho, Guards! close up, close up round me! Look not so pale-faced now death from the Gods is done with, and we have but to fear the sword of men." So great was his mien and so glorious his face as he cried thus, and one by one drew his long arrows forth and laid them on the board, that the trembling Guards took heart, and to the number of fifty and one ranged themselves on the edge of the daïs in a double line. Then they also made ready their bows and loosened the arrows in their quivers. Now from without there came a roar of men, and anon, while those of the house of Pharaoh, and of the guests and nobles, who sat at the feast and yet lived, fled behind the soldiers, the brazen doors were burst in with mighty blows, and through them a great armed multitude surged along the hall. There came soldiers broken from their ranks. There came the embalmers of the Dead; their hands were overfull of work to-night, but they left their work undone; Death had smitten some even of these, and their fellows did not shrink back from them now. There came the smith, black from the forge, and the scribe bowed with endless writing; and the dyer with his purple hands, and the fisher from the stream; and the stunted weaver from the loom, and the leper from the Temple gates. They were mad with lust of life, a starveling life that the King had taxed, when he let not the Apura go. They were mad with fear of death; their women followed them with dead children in their arms. They smote down the golden furnishings, they tore the silken hangings, they cast the empty cups of the feast at the faces of trembling ladies, and cried aloud for the blood of the King. "Where is Pharaoh?" they yelled, "show us Pharaoh and the Queen Meriamun, that we may slay them. Dead are our first born, they lie in heaps as the fish lay when Sihor ran red with blood. Dead are they because of the curse that has been brought upon us by the prophets of the Apura, whom Pharaoh, and Pharaoh's Queen, yet hold in Khem." Now as they cried they saw Pharaoh Meneptah cowering behind the double line of Guards, and they saw the Queen Meriamun who cowered not, but stood silent above the din. Then she thrust her way through the Guards, and yet holding the body of the child to her breast, she stood before them with eyes that flashed more brightly than the uraeus crown upon her brow. "Back!" she cried, "back! It is not Pharaoh, it is not I, who have brought this death upon you. For we too have death here!" and she held up the body of her dead son. "It is that False Hathor whom ye worship, that Witch of many a voice and many a face who turns your hearts faint with love. For her sake ye endure these woes, on her head is all this death. Go, tear her temple stone from stone, and rend her beauty limb from limb and be avenged and free the land from curses." A moment the people stood and hearkened, muttering as stands the lion that is about to spring, while those who pressed without cried: "Forward! Forward! Slay them! Slay them!" Then as with one voice they screamed: "The Hathor we love, but you we hate, for ye have brought these woes upon us, and ye shall die." They cried, they brawled, they cast footstools and stones at the Guards, and then a certain tall man among them drew a bow. Straight at the Queen's fair breast he aimed his arrow, and swift and true it sped towards her. She saw the light gleam upon its shining barb, and then she did what no woman but Meriamun would have done, no, not to save herself from death—she held out the naked body of her son as a warrior holds a shield. The arrow struck through and through it, piercing the tender flesh, aye, and pricked her breast beyond, so that she let the dead boy fall. The Wanderer saw it and wondered at the horror of the deed, for he had seen no such deed in all his days. Then shouting aloud the terrible war-cry of the Achæans he leapt upon the board before him, and as he leapt his golden armour clanged. Glancing around, he fixed an arrow to the string and drew to his ear that great bow which none but he might so much as bend. Then as he loosed, the string sang like a swallow, and the shaft screamed through the air. Down the glorious hall it sped, and full on the breast of him who had lifted bow against the Queen the bitter arrow struck, nor might his harness avail to stay it. Through the body of him it passed and with blood-red feathers flew on, and smote another who stood behind him so that his knees also were loosened, and together they fell dead upon the floor. Now while the people stared and wondered, again the bowstring sang like a swallow, again the arrow screamed in its flight, and he who stood before it got his death, for the shield he bore was pinned to his breast. Then wonder turned to rage; the multitude rolled forward, and from either side the air grew dark with arrows. For the Guards at the sight of the shooting of the Wanderer found heart and fought well and manfully. Boldly also the slayers came on, and behind them pressed many a hundred men. The Wanderer's golden helm flashed steadily, a beacon in the storm. Black smoke burst out in the hall, the hangings flamed and tossed in a wind from the open door. The lights were struck from the hands of the golden images, arrows stood thick in the tables and the rafters, a spear pierced through the golden cup of Pasht. But out of the darkness and smoke and dust, and the cry of battle, and through the rushing of the rain of spears, sang the swallow string of the black bow of Eurytus, and the long shafts shrieked as they sped on them who were ripe to die. In vain did the arrows of the slayers smite upon that golden harness. They were but as hail upon the temple roofs, but as driving snow upon the wild stag's horns. They struck, they rattled, and down they dropped like snow, or bounded back and lay upon the board. The swallow string sang, the black bow twanged, and the bitter arrows shrieked as they flew. Now the Wanderer's shafts were spent, and he judged that their case was desperate. For out of the doors of the hall that were behind them, and from the chambers of the women, armed men burst in also, taking them on the flank and rear. But the Wanderer was old in war, and without a match in all its ways. The Captain of the Guard was slain with a spear stroke, and the Wanderer took his place, calling to the men, such of them as were left alive, to form a circle on the daïs, and within the circle he set those of the house of Pharaoh and the women who were at the feast. And to Pharaoh he cast a slain man's sword, bidding him strike for life and throne if he never struck before; but the heart was out of Pharaoh because of the death of his son, and the wine about his wits, and the terrors he had seen. Then Meriamun the Queen snatched the sword from his trembling hand and stood holding it to guard her life. For she disdained to crouch upon the ground as did the other women, but stood upright behind the Wanderer, and heeded not the spears and arrows that dealt death on every hand. But Pharaoh stood, his face buried in his hands. Now the slayers came on, shouting and clambering upon the daïs. Then the Wanderer rushed on them with sword drawn, and shield on high, and so swift he smote that men might not guard, for they saw, as it were, three blades aloft at once, and the silver-hafted sword bit deep, the gift of Phæacian Euryalus long ago. The Guards also smote and thrust; it was for their lives they fought, and back rolled the tide of foes, leaving a swathe of dead. So a second time they came on, and a second time were rolled back. Now of the defenders few were left unhurt, and their strength was well-nigh spent. But the Wanderer cheered them with great words, though his heart grew fearful for the end; and Meriamun the Queen also bade them to be of good courage, and if need were, to die like men. Then once again the wave of War rolled in upon them, and the strife grew fierce and desperate. The iron hedge of spears was well-nigh broken, and now the Wanderer, doing such deeds as had not been known in Khem, stood alone between Meriamun the Queen and the swords that thirsted for her life and the life of Pharaoh. Then of a sudden, from far down the great hall of banquets, there came a loud cry that shrilled above the clash of swords, the groans of men, and all the din of battle. "_Pharaoh! Pharaoh! Pharaoh!_" rose a voice. "Now wilt thou let the people go?" Then he who smote stayed his hand and he who guarded dropped his shield. The battle ceased and all turned to look. There at the end of the hall, among the dead and dying, there stood the two ancient men of the Apura, and in their hands were cedar rods. "It is the Wizards—the Wizards of the Apura," men cried, and shrunk this way and that, thinking no more on war. The ancient men drew nigh. They took no heed of the dying or the dead: on they walked, through blood and wine and fallen tables and scattered arms, till they stood before the Pharaoh. "_Pharaoh! Pharaoh! Pharaoh!_" they cried again. "Dead are the first-born of Khem at the hand of Jahveh. Wilt thou let the people go?" Then Pharaoh lifted his face and cried: "Get you gone—you and all that is yours. Get you gone swiftly, and let Khem see your face no more." The people heard, and the living left the hall, and silence fell on the city, and on the dead who died of the sword, and the dead who died of the pestilence. Silence fell, and sleep, and the Gods' best gift—forgetfulness. # CHAPTER III. THE BATHS OF BRONZE Even out of this night of dread the morning rose, and with it came Rei, bearing a message from the King. But he did not find the Wanderer in his chamber. The Palace eunuchs said that he had risen and had asked for Kurri, the Captain of the Sidonians, who was now the Queen's Jeweller. Thither Rei went, for Kurri was lodged with the servants in a court of the Royal House, and as the old man came he heard the sound of hammers beating on metal. There, in the shadow which the Palace wall cast into a little court, there was the Wanderer; no longer in his golden mail, but with bare arms, and dressed in such a light smock as the workmen of Khem were wont to wear. The Wanderer was bending over a small brazier, whence a flame and a light blue smoke arose and melted into the morning light. In his hand he held a small hammer, and he had a little anvil by him, on which lay one of the golden shoulder-plates of his armour. The other pieces were heaped beside the brazier. Kurri, the Sidonian, stood beside him, with graving tools in his hands. "Hail to thee, Eperitus," cried Rei, calling him by the name he had chosen to give himself. "What makest thou here with fire and anvil?" "I am but furbishing up my armour," said the Wanderer, smiling. "It has more than one dint from the fight in the hall;" and he pointed to his shield, which was deeply scarred across the blazon of the White Bull, the cognizance of dead Paris, Priam's son. "Sidonian, blow up the fire." Kurri crouched on his hams and blew the blaze to a white heat with a pair of leathern bellows, while the Wanderer fitted the plates and hammered at them on the anvil, making the jointures smooth and strong, talking meanwhile with Rei. "Strange work for a prince, as thou must be in Alybas, whence thou comest," quoth Rei, leaning on his long rod of cedar, headed with an apple of bluestone. "In our country chiefs do not labour with their hands." "Different lands, different ways," answered Eperitus. "In my country men wed not their sisters as your kings do, though, indeed, it comes into my mind that once I met such brides in my wanderings in the isle of the King of the Winds." For the thought of the Æolian isle, where King Æolus gave him all the winds in a bag, came into his memory. "My hands can serve me in every need," he went on. "Mowing the deep green grass in spring, or driving oxen, or cutting a clean furrow with the plough in heavy soil, or building houses and ships, or doing smith's work with gold and bronze and grey iron—they are all one to me." "Or the work of war," said Rei. "For there I have seen thee labour. Now, listen, thou Wanderer, the King Meneptah and the Queen Meriamun send me to thee with this scroll of their will," and he drew forth a roll of papyrus, bound with golden threads, and held it on his forehead, bowing, as if he prayed. "What is that roll of thine?" said the Wanderer, who was hammering at the bronze spear-point, that stood fast in his helm. Rei undid the golden threads and opened the scroll, which he gave into the Wanderer's hand. "Gods! What have we here?" said the Wanderer. "Here are pictures, tiny and cunningly drawn, serpents in red, and little figures of men sitting or standing, axes and snakes and birds and beetles! My father, what tokens are these?" and he gave the scroll back to Rei. "The King has made his Chief Scribe write to thee, naming thee Captain of the Legion of Pasht, the Guard of the Royal House, for last night the Captain was slain. He gives thee a high title, and he promises thee houses, lands, and a city of the South to furnish thee with wine, and a city of the North to furnish thee with corn, if thou wilt be his servant." "Never have I served any man," said the Wanderer, flushing red, "though I went near to being sold and to knowing the day of slavery. The King does me too much honour." "Thou wouldest fain begone from Khem?" asked the old man, eagerly. "I would fain find her I came to seek, wherever she may be," said the Wanderer. "Here or otherwhere." "Then, what answer shall I carry to the King?" "Time brings thought," said the Wanderer; "I would see the city if thou wilt guide me. Many cities have I seen, but none so great as this. As we walk I will consider my answer to your King." He had been working at his helm as he spoke, for the rest of his armour was now mended. He had drawn out the sharp spear-head of bronze, and was balancing it in his hand and trying its edge. "A good blade," he said; "better was never hammered. It went near to doing its work, Sidonian," and he turned to Kurri as he spoke. "Two things of thine I had: thy life and thy spear-point. Thy life I gave thee, thy spear-point thou didst lend me. Here, take it again," and he tossed the spear-head to the Queen's Jeweller. "I thank thee, lord," answered the Sidonian, thrusting it in his girdle; but he muttered between his teeth, "The gifts of enemies are gifts of evil." The Wanderer did on his mail, set the helmet on his head, and spoke to Rei. "Come forth, friend, and show me thy city." But Rei was watching the smile on the face of the Sidonian, and he deemed it cruel and crafty and warlike, like the laugh of the Sardana of the sea. He said nought, but called a guard of soldiers, and with the Wanderer he passed the Palace gates and went out into the city. The sight was strange, and it was not thus that the old man, who loved his land, would have had the Wanderer see it. From all the wealthy houses, and from many of the poorer sort, rang the wail of the women mourners as they sang their dirges for the dead. But in the meaner quarters many a hovel was marked with three smears of blood, dashed on each pillar of the door and on the lintel; and the sound that came from these dwellings was the cry of mirth and festival. There were two peoples; one laughed, one lamented. And in and out of the houses marked with the splashes of blood women were ever going with empty hands, or coming with hands full of jewels, of gold, of silver rings, of cups, and purple stuffs. Empty they went out, laden they came in, dark men and women with keen black eyes and the features of birds of prey. They went, they came, they clamoured with delight among the mourning of the men and women of Khem, and none laid a hand on them, none refused them. One tall fellow snatched at the staff of Rei. "Lend me thy staff, old man," he said, sneering; "lend me thy jewelled staff for my journey. I do but borrow it; when Yakûb comes from the desert thou shalt have it again." But the Wanderer turned on the fellow with such a glance that he fell back. "I have seen _thee_ before," he said, and he laughed over his shoulder as he went; "I saw thee last night at the feast, and heard thy great bow sing. Thou art not of the folk of Khem. They are a gentle folk, and Yakûb wins favour in their sight." "What passes now in this haunted land of thine, old man?" said the Wanderer, "for of all the sights that I have seen, this is the strangest. None lifts a hand to save his goods from the thief." Rei the Priest groaned aloud. "Evil days have come upon Khem," he said. "The Apura spoil the people of Khem ere they fly into the Wilderness." Even as he spoke there came a great lady weeping, for her husband was dead, and her son and her brother, all were gone in the breath of the pestilence. She was of the Royal House, and richly decked with gold and jewels, and the slaves who fanned her, as she went to the Temple of Ptah to worship, wore gold chains upon their necks. Two women of the Apura saw her and ran to her, crying: "Lend to us those golden ornaments thou wearest." Then, without a word, she took her gold bracelets and chains and rings, and let them all fall in a heap at her feet. The women of the Apura took them all and mocked her, crying: "Where now is thy husband and thy son and thy brother, thou who art of Pharaoh's house? Now thou payest us for the labour of our hands and for the bricks that we made without straw, gathering leaves and rushes in the sun. Now thou payest for the stick in the hand of the overseers. Where now is thy husband and thy son and thy brother?" and they went still mocking, and left the lady weeping. But of all sights the Wanderer held this strangest, and many such there were to see. At first he would have taken back the spoil and given it to those who wore it, but Rei the Priest prayed him to forbear, lest the curse should strike them also. So they pressed on through the tumult, ever seeing new sights of greed and death and sorrow. Here a mother wept over her babe, here a bride over her husband—that night the groom of her and of death. Here the fierce-faced Apura, clamouring like gulls, tore the silver trinkets from the children of those of the baser sort, or the sacred amulets from the mummies of those who were laid out for burial, and here a water-carrier wailed over the carcass of the ass that won him his livelihood. At length, passing through the crowd, they came to a temple that stood near to the Temple of the God Ptah. The pylons of this temple faced towards the houses of the city, but the inner courts were built against the walls of Tanis and looked out across the face of the water. Though not one of the largest temples, it was very strong and beautiful in its shape. It was built of the black stone of Syene, and all the polished face of the stone was graven with images of the Holy Hathor. Here she wore a cow's head, and here the face of a woman, but she always bore in her hands the lotus-headed staff and the holy token of life, and her neck was encircled with the collar of the gods. "Here dwells that Strange Hathor to whom thou didst drink last night, Eperitus," said Rei the Priest. "It was a wild pledge to drink before the Queen, who swears that she brings these woes on Khem. Though, indeed, she is guiltless of this, with all the blood on her beautiful head. The Apura and their apostate sorcerer, whom we ourselves instructed, bring the plagues on us." "Does the Hathor manifest herself this day?" asked the Wanderer. "That we will ask of the priests, Eperitus. Follow thou me." Now they passed down the avenue of sphinxes within the wall of brick, into the garden plot of the Goddess, and so on through the gates of the outer tower. A priest who watched there threw them wide at the sign that was given of Rei, the Master-Builder, the beloved of Pharaoh, and they came to the outer court. Before the second tower they halted, and Rei showed to the Wanderer that place upon the pylon roof where the Hathor was wont to stand and sing till the hearers' hearts were melted like wax. Here they knocked once more, and were admitted to the Hall of Assembly where the priests were gathered, throwing dust upon their heads and mourning those among them who had died with the Firstborn. When they saw Rei, the instructed, the Prophet of Amen, and the Wanderer clad in golden armour who was with him, they ceased from their mourning, and an ancient priest of their number came forward, and, greeting Rei, asked him of his errand. Then Rei took the Wanderer by the hand and made him known to the priest, and told him of those deeds that he had done, and how he had saved the life of Pharaoh and of those of the Royal House who sat at the feast with Pharaoh. "But when will the Lady Hathor sing upon her tower top?" said Rei, "for the Stranger desires to see her and hear her." The temple priest bowed before the Wanderer, and answered gravely: "On the third morn from now the Holy Hathor shows herself upon the temple's top," he said; "but thou, mighty lord, who art risen from the sea, hearken to my warning, and if, indeed, thou art no god, dare not to look upon her beauty. If thou dost look, then thy fate shall be as the fate of those who have looked before, and have loved and have died for the sake of the Hathor." "No god am I," said the Wanderer, laughing, "yet, perchance, I shall dare to look, and dare to face whatever it be that guards her, if my heart bids me see her nearer." "Then there shall be an end of thee and thy wanderings," said the priest. "Now follow me, and I will show thee those men who last sought to win the Hathor." He took him by the hand and led him through passages hewn in the walls till they came to a deep and gloomy cell, where the golden armour of the Wanderer shone like a lamp at eve. The cell was built against the city wall, and scarcely a thread of light came into the chink between roof and wall. All about the chamber were baths fashioned of bronze, and in the baths lay dusky shapes of dark-skinned men of Egypt. There they lay, and in the faint light their limbs were being anointed by some sad-faced attendants, as folk were anointed by merry girls in the shining baths of the Wanderer's home. When Rei and Eperitus came near, the sad-faced bath-men shrank away in shame, as dogs shrink from their evil meat at night when a traveller goes past. Marvelling at the strange sight, the bathers and the bathed, the Wanderer looked more closely, and his stout heart sank within him. For all these were dead who lay in the baths of bronze, and it was not water that flowed about their limbs, but evil-smelling natron. "Here lie those," said the priest, "who last strove to come near the Holy Hathor, and to pass into the shrine of the temple where night and day she sits and sings and weaves with her golden shuttle. Here they lie, the half of a score. One by one they rushed to embrace her, and one by one they were smitten down. Here they are being attired for the tomb, for we give them all rich burial." "Truly," quoth the Wanderer, "I left the world of Light behind me when I looked on the blood-red sea and sailed into the black gloom off Pharos. More evil sights have I seen in this haunted land than in all the cities where I have wandered, and on all the seas that I have sailed." "Then be warned," said the priest, "for if thou dost follow where they went, and desire what they desired, thou too shalt lie in yonder bath, and be washed of yonder waters. For whatever be false, this is true, that he who seeks love ofttimes finds doom. But here he finds it most speedily." The Wanderer looked again at the dead and at their ministers, and he shuddered till his harness rattled. He feared not the face of Death in war, or on the sea, but this was a new thing. Little he loved the sight of the brazen baths and those who lay there. The light of the sun and the breath of air seemed good to him, and he stepped quickly from the chamber, while the priest smiled to himself. But when he reached the outer air, his heart came back to him, and he began to ask again about the Hathor—where she dwelt, and what it was that slew her lovers. "I will show thee," answered the priest, and brought him through the Hall of Assembly to a certain narrow way that led to a court. In the centre of the court stood the holy shrine of the Hathor. It was a great chamber, built of alabaster, lighted from the roof alone, and shut in with brazen doors, before which hung curtains of Tyrian web. From the roof of the shrine a stairway ran overhead to the roof of the temple and so to the inner pylon tower. "Yonder, Stranger, the holy Goddess dwells within the Alabaster Shrine," said the priest. "By that stair she passes to the temple roof, and thence to the pylon top. There by the curtains, once in every day, we place food, and it is drawn into the sanctuary, how we know not, for none of us have set foot there, nor seen the Hathor face to face. Now, when the Goddess has stood upon the pylon and sung to the multitude below, she passes back to the shrine. Then the brazen outer doors of the temple court are thrown wide and the doomed rush on madly, one by one, towards the drawn curtains. But before they pass the curtains they are thrust back, yet they strive to pass. Then we hear a sound of the clashing of weapons and the men fall dead without a word, while the song of the Hathor swells from within." "And who are her swordsmen?" said the Wanderer. "That we know not, Stranger; no man has lived to tell. Come, draw near to the door of the shrine and hearken, maybe thou wilt hear the Hathor singing. Have no fear; thou needst not approach the guarded space." Then the Wanderer drew near with a doubting heart, but Rei the Priest stood afar off, though the temple priests came close enough. At the curtains they stopped and listened. Then from within the shrine there came a sound of singing wild and sweet and shrill, and the voice of it stirred the Wanderer strangely, bringing to his mind memories of that Ithaca of which he was Lord and which he should see no more; of the happy days of youth, and of the God-built walls of windy Ilios. But he could not have told why he thought on these things, nor why his heart was thus strangely stirred within him. "Hearken! the Hathor sings as she weaves the doom of men," said the priest, and as he spoke the singing ended. Then the Wanderer took counsel with himself whether he should then and there burst the doors and take his fortune, or whether he should forbear for that while. But in the end he determined to forbear and see with his own eyes what befell those who strove to win the way. So he drew back, wondering much; and, bidding farewell to the aged priest, he went with Rei, the Master Builder, through the town of Tanis, where the Apura were still spoiling the people of Khem, and he came to the Palace where he was lodged. Here he turned over in his mind how he might see the strange woman of the temple, and yet escape the baths of bronze. There he sat and thought till at length the night drew on, and one came to summon him to sup with Pharaoh in the Hall. Then he rose up and went, and meeting Pharaoh and Meriamun the Queen in the outer chamber, passed in after them to the Hall, and on to the daïs which he had held against the rabble, for the place was clear of dead, and, save for certain stains upon the marble floor that might not be washed away, and for some few arrows that yet were fixed high up in the walls or in the lofty roof, there was nothing to tell of the great fray that had been fought but one day gone. Heavy was the face of Pharaoh, and the few who sat with him were sad enough because of the death of so many whom they loved, and the shame and sorrow that had fallen upon Khem. But there were no tears for her one child in the eyes of Meriamun the Queen. Anger, not grief, tore her heart because Pharaoh had let the Apura go. For ever as they sat at the sad feast there came a sound of the tramping feet of armies, and of lowing cattle, and songs of triumph, sung by ten thousand voices, and thus they sang the song of the Apura:— A lamp for our feet the Lord hath litten, Signs hath He shown in the Land of Khem. The Kings of the Nations our Lord hath smitten, His shoe hath He cast o'er the Gods of them. He hath made Him a mock of the heifer of Isis, He hath broken the chariot reins of Ra, On Yakûb He cries, and His folk arises, And the knees of the Nation are loosed in awe. He gives us their goods for a spoil to gather, Jewels of silver, and vessels of gold; For Yahveh of old is our Friend and Father, And cherisheth Yakûb He chose of old. The Gods of the Peoples our Lord hath chidden, Their courts hath He filled with His creeping things; The light of the face of the Sun he hath hidden, And broken the scourge in the hands of kings. He hath chastened His people with stripes and scourges, Our backs hath He burdened with grievous weights, But His children shall rise as a sea that surges, And flood the fields of the men He hates. The Kings of the Nations our Lord hath smitten, His shoe hath He cast o'er the Gods of them, But a lamp for our feet the Lord hath litten, Wonders hath he wrought in the Land of Khem. Thus they sang, and the singing was so wild that the Wanderer craved leave to go and stand at the Palace gate, lest the Apura should rush in and spoil the treasure-chamber. The King nodded, but Meriamun rose, and went with the Wanderer as he took his bow and passed to the great gates. There they stood in the shadow of the gates, and this is what they beheld. A great light of many torches was flaring along the roadway in front. Then came a body of men, rudely armed with pikes, and the torchlight shone on the glitter of bronze and on the gold helms of which they had spoiled the soldiers of Khem. Next came a troop of wild women, dancing, and beating timbrels, and singing the triumphant hymn of scorn. Next, with a space between, tramped eight strong black-bearded men, bearing on their shoulders a great gilded coffin, covered with carven and painted signs. "It is the body of their Prophet, who brought them hither out of their land of hunger," whispered Meriamun. "Slaves, ye shall hunger yet in the wilderness, and clamour for the flesh-pots of Khem!" Then she cried in a loud voice, for her passion overcame her, and she prophesied to those who bare the coffin, "Not one soul of you that lives shall see the land where your conjurer is leading you! Ye shall thirst, ye shall hunger, ye shall call on the Gods of Khem, and they shall not hear you; ye shall die, and your bones shall whiten the wilderness. Farewell! Set go with you. Farewell!" So she cried and pointed down the way, and so fierce was her gaze, and so awful were her words, that the people of the Apura trembled and the women ceased to sing. The Wanderer watched the Queen and marvelled. "Never had woman such a hardy heart," he mused; "and it were ill to cross her in love or war!" "They will sing no more at my gates," murmured Meriamun, with a smile. "Come, Wanderer; they await us," and she gave him her hand that he might lead her. So they went back to the banquet hall. They hearkened as they sat till far in the night, and still the Apura passed, countless as the sands of the sea. At length all were gone, and the sound of their feet died away in the distance. Then Meriamun the Queen turned to Pharaoh and spake bitterly: "Thou art a coward, Meneptah, ay, a coward and a slave at heart. In thy fear of the curse that the False Hathor hath laid on us, she whom thou dost worship, to thy shame, thou hast let these slaves go. Otherwise had our father dealt with them, great Rameses Miamun, the hammer of the Khita. Now they are gone hissing curses on the land that bare them, and robbing those who nursed them up while they were yet a little people, as a mother nurses her child." "What then might I do?" said Pharaoh. "There is nought to do: all is done," answered Meriamun. "What is thy counsel, Wanderer?" "It is ill for a stranger to offer counsel," said the Wanderer. "Nay, speak," cried the Queen. "I know not the Gods of this land," he answered. "If these people be favoured of the Gods, I say sit still. But if not," then said the Wanderer, wise in war, "let Pharaoh gather his host, follow after the people, take them unawares, and smite them utterly. It is no hard task, they are so mixed a multitude and cumbered with much baggage!" This was to speak as the Queen loved to hear. Now she clapped her hands and cried: "Listen, listen to good counsel, Pharaoh." And now that the Apura were gone, his fear of them went also, and as he drank wine Pharaoh grew bold, till at last he sprang to his feet and swore by Amen, by Osiris, by Ptah, and by his father—great Rameses—that he would follow after the Apura and smite them. And instantly he sent forth messengers to summon the captains of his host in the Hall of Assembly. Thither the captains came, and their plans were made and messengers hurried forth to the governors of other great cities, bidding them send troops to join the host of Pharaoh on its march. Now Pharaoh turned to the Wanderer and said: "Thou hast not yet answered my message that Rei carried to thee this morning. Wilt thou take service with me and be a captain in this war?" The Wanderer little liked the name of service, but his warlike heart was stirred within him, for he loved the delight of battle. But before he could answer yea or nay, Meriamun the Queen, who was not minded that he should leave her, spoke hastily: "This is my counsel, Meneptah, that the Lord Eperitus should abide here in Tanis and be the Captain of my Guard while thou art gone to smite the Apura. For I may not be here unguarded in these troublous times, and if I know he watches over me, he who is so mighty a man, then I shall walk safely and sleep in peace." Now the Wanderer bethought him of his desire to look upon the Hathor, for to see new things and try new adventures was always his delight. So he answered that if it were pleasing to Pharaoh and the Queen he would willingly stay and command the Guard. And Pharaoh said that it should be so. # CHAPTER IV. THE QUEEN'S CHAMBER At midday on the morrow Pharaoh and the host of Pharaoh marched in pomp from Tanis, taking the road that runs across the desert country towards the Red Sea of Weeds, the way that the Apura had gone. The Wanderer went with the army for an hour's journey and more, in a chariot driven by Rei the Priest, for Rei did not march with the host. The number of the soldiers of Pharaoh amazed the Achæan, accustomed to the levies of barren isles and scattered tribes. But he said nothing of his wonder to Rei or any man, lest it should be thought that he came from among a little people. He even made as if he held the army lightly, and asked the priest if this was all the strength of Pharaoh! Then Rei told him that it was but a fourth part, for none of the mercenaries and none of the soldiers from the Upper Land marched with the King in pursuit of the Apura. Then the Wanderer knew that he was come among a greater people than he had ever encountered yet, on land or sea. So he went with them till the roads divided, and there he drove his chariot to the chariot of Pharaoh and bade him farewell. Pharaoh called to him to mount his own chariot, and spake thus to him: "Swear to me, thou Wanderer, who namest thyself Eperitus, though of what country thou art and what was thy father's house none know, swear to me that thou wilt guard Meriamun the Queen faithfully, and wilt work no woe upon me nor open my house while I am afar. Great thou art and beautiful to look on, ay, and strong enough beyond the strength of men, yet my heart misdoubts me of thee. For methinks thou art a crafty man, and that evil will come upon me through thee." "If this be thy mind, Pharaoh," said the Wanderer, "leave me not in guard of the Queen. And yet methinks I did not befriend thee so ill two nights gone, when the rabble would have put thee and all thy house to the sword because of the death of the firstborn." Now Pharaoh looked on him long and doubtfully, then stretched out his hand. The Wanderer took it, and swore by his own Gods, by Zeus, by Aphrodite, and Athene, and Apollo, that he would be true to the trust. "I believe thee, Wanderer," said Pharaoh. "Know this, if thou keepest thine oath thou shalt have great rewards, and thou shalt be second to none in the land of Khem, but if thou failest, then thou shalt die miserably." "I ask no fee," answered the Wanderer, "and I fear no death, for in one way only shall I die, and that is known to me. Yet I will keep my oath." And he bowed before Pharaoh, and leaping from his chariot entered again into the chariot of Rei. Now, as he drove back through the host the soldiers called to him, saying: "Leave us not, Wanderer." For he looked so glorious in his golden armour that it seemed to them as though a god departed from their ranks. His heart was with them, for he loved war, and he did not love the Apura. But he drove on, as so it must be, and came to the Palace at sundown. That night he sat at the feast by the side of Meriamun the Queen. And when the feast was done she bade him follow her into her chamber where she sat when she would be alone. It was a fragrant chamber, dimly lighted with sweet-scented lamps, furnished with couches of ivory and gold, while all the walls told painted stories of strange gods and kings, and of their loves and wars. The Queen sank back upon the embroidered cushions of a couch and bade the wise Odysseus to sit guard over against her, so near that her robes swept his golden greaves. This he did somewhat against his will, though he was no hater of fair women. But his heart misdoubted the dark-eyed Queen, and he looked upon her guardedly, for she was strangely fair to see, the fairest of all mortal women whom he had known, save the Golden Helen. "Wanderer, we owe thee great thanks, and I would gladly know to whom we are in debt for the prices of our lives," she said. "Tell me of thy birth, of thy father's house, and of the lands that thou hast seen and the wars wherein thou hast fought. Tell me also of the sack of Ilios, and how thou camest by thy golden mail. The unhappy Paris wore such arms as these, if the minstrel of the North sang truth." Now, the Wanderer would gladly have cursed this minstrel of the North and his songs. "Minstrels will be lying, Lady," he said, "and they gather old tales wherever they go. Paris may have worn my arms, or another man. I bought them from a chapman in Crete, and asked nothing of their first master. As for Ilios, I fought there in my youth, and served the Cretan Idomeneus, but I got little booty. To the King the wealth and women, to us the sword-strokes. Such is the appearance of war." Meriamun listened to his tale, which he set forth roughly, as if he were some blunt, grumbling swordsman, and darkly she looked on him while she hearkened, and darkly she smiled as she looked. "A strange story, Eperitus, a strange story truly. Now tell me thus. How camest thou by yonder great bow, the bow of the swallow string? If my minstrel spoke truly, it was once the Bow of Eurytus of OEchalia." Now the Wanderer glanced round him like a man taken in ambush, who sees on every hand the sword of foes shine up into the sunlight. "The bow, Lady?" he answered readily enough. "I got it strangely. I was cruising with a cargo of iron on the western coast and landed on an isle, methinks the pilot called it Ithaca. There we found nothing but death; a pestilence had been in the land, but in a ruined hall this bow was lying, and I made prize of it. A good bow!" "A strange story, truly—a very strange story," quoth Meriamun the Queen. "By chance thou didst buy the armour of Paris, by chance thou didst find the bow of Eurytus, that bow, methinks, with which the god-like Odysseus slew the wooers in his halls. Knowest thou, Eperitus, that when thou stoodest yonder on the board in the Place of Banquets, when the great bow twanged and the long shafts hailed down on the hall and loosened the knees of many, not a little was I put in mind of the song of the slaying of the wooers at the hands of Odysseus. The fame of Odysseus has wandered far—ay, even to Khem." And she looked straight at him. The Wanderer darkened his face and put the matter by. He had heard something of that tale, he said, but deemed it a minstrel's feigning. One man could not fight a hundred, as the story went. The Queen half rose from the couch where she lay curled up like a glittering snake. Like a snake she rose and watched him with her melancholy eyes. "Strange, indeed—most strange that Odysseus, Laertes' son, Odysseus of Ithaca, should not know the tale of the slaying of the wooers by Odysseus' self. Strange, indeed, thou Eperitus, who art Odysseus." Now the neck of the Wanderer was in the noose, and well he knew it: yet he kept his counsel, and looked upon her vacantly. "Men say that this Odysseus wandered years ago into the North, and that this time he will not come again. I saw him in the wars, and he was a taller man than I," said the Wanderer. "I have always heard," said the Queen, "that Odysseus was double-tongued and crafty as a fox. Look me in the eyes, thou Wanderer, look me in the eyes, and I will show thee whether or not thou art Odysseus," and she leaned forward so that her hair well-nigh swept his brow, and gazed deep into his eyes. Now the Wanderer was ashamed to drop his eyes before a woman's, and he could not rise and go; so he must needs gaze, and as he gazed his head grew strangely light and the blood quivered in his veins, and then seemed to stop. "Now turn, thou Wanderer," said the voice of the Queen, and to him it sounded far away, as if there was a wall between them, "and tell me what thou seest." So he turned and looked towards the dark end of the chamber. But presently through the darkness stole a faint light, like the first grey light of the dawn, and now he saw a shape, like the shape of a great horse of wood, and behind the horse were black square towers of huge stones, and gates, and walls, and houses. Now he saw a door open in the side of the horse, and the helmeted head of a man look out wearily. As he looked a great white star slid down the sky so that the light of it rested on the face of the man, and that face was his own! Then he remembered how he had looked forth from the belly of the wooden horse as it stood within the walls of Ilios, and thus the star had seemed to fall upon the doomed city, an omen of the end of Troy. "Look again," said the voice of Meriamun from far away. So once more he looked into the darkness, and there he saw the mouth of a cave, and beneath two palms in front of it sat a man and a woman. The yellow moon rose and its light fell upon a sleeping sea, upon tall trees, upon the cave, and the two who sat there. The woman was lovely, with braided hair, and clad in a shining robe, and her eyes were dim with tears that she might never shed: for she was a Goddess, Calypso, the daughter of Atlas. Then in the vision the man looked up, and his face was weary, and worn and sick for home, but it was his own face. Then he remembered how he had sat thus at the side of Calypso of the braided tresses, on that last night of all his nights in her wave-girt isle, the centre of the seas. "Look once more," said the voice of Meriamun the Queen. Again he looked into the darkness. There before him grew the ruins of his own hall in Ithaca, and in the courtyard before the hall was a heap of ashes, and the charred bones of men. Before the heap lay the figure of one lost in sorrow, for his limbs writhed upon the ground. Anon the man lifted his face, and behold! the Wanderer knew that it was his own face. Then of a sudden the gloom passed away from the chamber, and once more his blood surged through his veins, and there before him sat Meriamun the Queen, smiling darkly. "Strange sights hast thou seen, is it not so, Wanderer?" she said. "Yea, Queen, the most strange of sights. Tell me of thy courtesy how thou didst conjure them before my eyes." "By the magic that I have, Eperitus, I above all wizards who dwell in Khem, the magic whereby I can read all the past of those—I love," and again she looked upon him; "ay, and call it forth from the storehouse of dead time and make it live again. Say, whose face was it that thou didst look upon—was it not the face of Odysseus of Ithaca, Laertes' son, and was not that face thine?" Now the Wanderer saw that there was no escape. Therefore he spoke the truth, not because he loved it, but because he must. "The face of Odysseus of Ithaca it was that I saw before me, Lady, and that face is mine. I avow myself to be Odysseus, Laertes' son, and no other man." The Queen laughed aloud. "Great must be my strength of magic," she said, "for it can strip the guile from the subtlest of men. Henceforth, Odysseus, thou wilt know that the eyes of Meriamun the Queen see far. Now tell me truly: what camest thou hither to seek?" The Wanderer took swift counsel with himself. Remembering that dream of Meriamun of which Rei the Priest had told him, and which she knew not that he had learned, the dream that showed her the vision of one whom she must love, and remembering the word of the dead Hataska, he grew afraid. For he saw well by the token of the spear point that he was the man of her dream, and that she knew it. But he could not accept her love, both because of his oath to Pharaoh and because of her whom Aphrodite had shown to him in Ithaca, her whom alone he must seek, the Heart's Desire, the Golden Helen. The strait was desperate, between a broken oath and a woman scorned. But he feared his oath, and the anger of Zeus, the God of hosts and guests. So he sought safety beneath the wings of truth. "Lady," he said, "I will tell thee all! I came to Ithaca from the white north, where a curse had driven me; I came and found my halls desolate, and my people dead, and the very ashes of my wife. But in a dream of the night I saw the Goddess whom I have worshipped little, Aphrodite of Idalia, whom in this land ye name Hathor, and she bade me go forth and do her will. And for reward she promised me that I should find one who waited me to be my deathless love." Meriamun heard him so far, but no further, for of this she made sure, that _she_ was the woman whom Aphrodite had promised to the Wanderer. Ere he might speak another word she glided to him like a snake, and like a snake curled herself about him. Then she spoke so low that he rather knew her thought than heard her words: "Was it indeed so, Odysseus? Did the Goddess indeed send thee to seek me out? Know, then, that not to thee alone did she speak. I also looked for thee. I also waited the coming of one whom I should love. Oh, heavy have been the days, and empty was my heart, and sorely through the years have I longed for him who should be brought to me. And now at length it is done, now at length I see him whom in my dream I saw," and she lifted her lips to the lips of the Wanderer, and her heart, and her eyes, and her lips said "Love." But it was not for nothing that he bore a stout and patient heart, and a brain unclouded by danger or by love. He had never been in a strait like this; caught with bonds that no sword could cut, and in toils that no skill could undo. On one side were love and pleasure—on the other a broken oath, and the loss for ever of the Heart's Desire. For to love another woman, as he had been warned, was to lose Helen. But again, if he scorned the Queen—nay, for all his hardihood he dared not tell her that she was not the woman of his vision, the woman he came to seek. Yet even now his cold courage and his cunning did not fail him. "Lady," he said, "we both have dreamed. But if thou didst dream thou wert my love, thou didst wake to find thyself the wife of Pharaoh. And Pharaoh is my host and hath my oath." "I woke to find myself the wife of Pharaoh," she echoed, wearily, and her arms uncurled from his neck and she sank back on the couch. "I am Pharaoh's wife in word, but not in deed. Pharaoh is nothing to me, thou Wanderer—nought save a name." "Yet is my oath much to me, Queen Meriamun—my oath and the hospitable hearth," the Wanderer made answer. "I swore to Meneptah to hold thee from all ill, and there's an end." "And if Pharaoh comes back no more, what then Odysseus?" "Then will we talk again. And now, Lady, thy safety calls me to visit thy Guard." And without more words he rose and went. The Queen looked after him. "A strange man," she said in her heart, "who builds a barrier with his oath betwixt himself and her he loves and has wandered so far to win! Yet methinks I honour him the more. Pharaoh Meneptah, my husband, eat, drink, and be merry, for this I promise thee—short shall be thy days." # CHAPTER V. THE CHAPEL PERILOUS "Swift as a bird or a thought," says the old harper of the Northern Sea. The Wanderer's thoughts in the morning were swift as night birds, flying back and brooding over the things he had seen and the words he had heard in the Queen's chamber. Again he stood between this woman and the oath which, of all oaths, was the worst to break. And, indeed, he was little tempted to break it, for though Meriamun was beautiful and wise, he feared her love and he feared her magic art no less than he feared her vengeance if she were scorned. Delay seemed the only course. Let him wait till the King returned, and it would go hard but he found some cause for leaving the city of Tanis, and seeking through new adventures the World's Desire. The mysterious river lay yonder. He would ascend the river of which so many tales were told. It flowed from the land of the blameless _Æthiopians_, the most just of men, at whose tables the very Gods sat as guests. There, perchance, far up the sacred stream, in a land where no wrong ever came, there, if the Fates permitted, he might find the Golden Helen. If the Fates permitted: but all the adventure was of the Fates, who had shown him to Meriamun in a dream. He turned it long in his mind and found little light. It seemed that as he had drifted through darkness across a blood-red sea to the shores of Khem, so he should wade through blood to that shore of Fate which the Gods appointed. Yet after a while he shook sorrow from him, arose, bathed, anointed himself, combed his dark locks, and girded on his golden armour. For now he remembered that this was the day when the Strange Hathor should stand upon the pylon of the temple and call the people to her, and he was minded to look upon her, and if need be to do battle with that which guarded her. So he prayed to Aphrodite that she would help him, and he poured out wine to her and waited; he waited, but no answer came to his prayer. Yet as he turned away it chanced that he saw his countenance in the wide golden cup whence he had poured, and it seemed to him that it had grown more fair and lost the stamp of years, and that his face was smooth and young as the face of that Odysseus who, many years ago, had sailed in the black ships and looked back on the smoking ruins of windy Troy. In this he saw the hand of the Goddess, and knew that if she might not be manifest in this land of strange Gods, yet she was with him. And, knowing this, his heart grew light as the heart of a boy from whom sorrow is yet a long way off, and who has not dreamed of death. Then he ate and drank, and when he had put from him the desire of food he arose and girded on the sword, Euryalus's gift, but the black bow he left in its case. Now he was ready and about to set forth when Rei the Priest entered the chamber. "Whither goest thou, Eperitus?" asked Rei, the instructed Priest. "And what is it that has made thy face so fair, as though many years had been lifted from thy back?" "'Tis but sweet sleep, Rei," said the Wanderer. "Deeply I slept last night, and the weariness of my wanderings fell from me, and now I am as I was before I sailed across the blood-red sea into the night." "Sell thou the secret of this sleep to the ladies of Khem," answered the aged priest, smiling, "and little shalt thou lack of wealth for all thy days." Thus he spake as though he believed the Wanderer, but in his heart he knew that the thing was of the Gods. The Wanderer answered: "I go up to the Temple of the Hathor, for thou dost remember it is to-day that she stands upon the pylon brow and calls the people to her. Comest thou also, Rei?" "Nay, nay, I come not, Eperitus. I am old indeed, but yet the blood creeps through these withered veins, and, perchance, if I came and looked, the madness would seize me also, and I too should rush to my slaying. There is a way in which a man may listen to the voice of the Hathor, and that is to have his eyes blindfolded, as many do. But even then he will tear the bandage from his eyes, and look, and die with the others. Oh, go not up, Eperitus—I pray thee go not up. I love thee—I know not why—and am little minded to see thee dead. Though, perchance," he added, as though to himself, "it would be well for those I serve if thou wert dead, thou Wanderer, with the eyes of Fate." "Have no fear, Rei," said the Wanderer, "as it is doomed so shall I die and not otherwise. Never shall it be told," he murmured in his heart, "that he who stood in arms against Scylla, the Horror of the Rock, turned back from any form of fear or from any shape of Love." Then Rei wrung his hands and went nigh to weeping, for to him it seemed a pitiful thing that so goodly a man and so great a hero should thus be done to death. But the Wanderer passed out through the city, and Rei went with him for a certain distance. At length they came to the road set on either side with sphinxes, that leads from the outer wall of brick to the garden of the Temple of Hathor, and down this road hurried a multitude of men of all races and of every age. Here the prince was borne along in his litter; here the young noble travelled in his chariot. Here came the slave bespattered with the mud of the fields; here the cripple limped upon his crutches; and here was the blind man led by a hound. And with each man came women: the wife of the man, or his mother, or his sisters, or she to whom he was vowed in marriage. Weeping they came, and with soft words and clinging arms they strove to hold back him whom they loved. "Oh, my son! my son!" cried a woman, "hearken to thy mother's voice. Go not up to look upon the Goddess, for if thou dost look then shalt thou die, and thou alone art left alive to me. Two brothers of thine I bore, and behold, both are dead; and wilt thou die also, and leave me, who am old, alone and desolate? Be not mad, my son, thou art the dearest of all; ever have I loved thee and tended thee. Come back, I pray—come back." But her son heard not and heeded not, pressing on toward the Gates of the Heart's Desire. "Oh, my husband, my husband!" cried another, young, of gentle birth, and fair, who bare a babe on her left arm and with the right clutched her lord's broidered robe. "Oh, my husband, have I not loved thee and been kind to thee, and wilt thou still go up to look upon the deadly glory of the Hathor? They say she wears the beauty of the Dead. Lovest thou me not better than her who died five years agone, Merisa the daughter of Rois, though thou didst love her first? See, here is thy babe, thy babe, but one week born. Even from my bed of pain have I risen and followed after thee down these weary roads, and I am like to lose my life for it. Here is thy babe, let it plead with thee. Let me die if so it must be, but go not thou up to thy death. It is no Goddess whom thou wilt see, but an evil spirit loosed from the under-world, and that shall be thy doom. Oh, if I please thee not, take thou another wife and I will make her welcome, only go not up to thy death!" But the man fixed his eyes upon the pylon tops, heeding her not, and at length she sank upon the road, and there with the babe would have been crushed by the chariots, had not the Wanderer borne her to one side of the way. Now, of all sights this was the most dreadful, for on every side rose the prayers and lamentations of women, and still the multitude of men pressed on unheeding. "Now thou seest the power of Love, and how if a woman be but beautiful enough she may drag all men to ruin," said Rei the Priest. "Yes," said the Wanderer; "a strange sight, truly. Much blood hath this Hathor of thine upon her hands." "And yet thou wilt give her thine, Wanderer." "That I am not minded to do," he answered; "yet I will look upon her face, so speak no more of it." Now they were come to the space before the bronze gates of the pylon of the outer court, and there the multitude gathered to the number of many hundreds. Presently, as they watched, a priest came to the gates, that same priest who had shown the Wanderer the bodies in the baths of bronze. He looked through the bars and cried aloud: "Whoso would enter into the court and look upon the Holy Hathor let him draw nigh. Know ye this, all men, the Hathor is to him who can win her. But if he pass not, then shall he die and be buried within the temple, nor shall he ever look upon the sun again. Of this ye are warned. Since the Hathor came again to Khem, of men seven hundred and three have gone to win her, and of bodies seven hundred and two lie within the vaults, for of all these men Pharaoh Meneptah alone hath gone back living. Yet there is place for more! Enter, ye who would look upon the Hathor!" Now there arose a mighty wailing from the women. They clung madly about the necks of those who were dear to them, and some clung not in vain. For the hearts of many failed them at the last, and they shrank from entering in. But a few of those who had already looked upon the Hathor from afar, perchance a score in all, struck the women from them and rushed up to the gates. "Surely thou wilt not enter in?" quoth Rei, clinging to the arm of the Wanderer. "Oh, turn thy back on death and come back with me. I pray thee turn." "Nay," said the Wanderer, "I will go in." Then Rei the Priest threw dust upon his head, wept aloud, and turned and fled, never stopping till he came to the Palace, where sat Meriamun the Queen. Now the priest unbarred a wicket in the gates of bronze, and one by one those who were stricken of the madness entered in. For all of these had seen the Hathor many times from afar without the wall, and now they could no more withstand their longing. And as they entered two other priests took them by the hand and bound their eyes with cloths, so that unless they willed it they might not see the glory of the Hathor, but only hear the sweetness of her voice. But two there were who would not be blindfolded, and of these one was that man whose wife had fainted by the way, and the other was a man sightless from his youth. For although he might not see the beauty of the Goddess, this man was made mad by the sweetness of her voice. Now, when all had entered in, save the Wanderer, there was a stir in the crowd, and a man rushed up. He was travel-stained, he had a black beard, black eyes, and a nose hooked like a vulture's beak. "Hold!" he cried. "Hold! Shut not the gates! Night and day have I journeyed from the host of the Apura who fly into the wilderness. Night and day have I journeyed, leaving wife and flocks and children and the Promise of the Land, that I may once more look upon the beauty of the Hathor. Shut not the gates!" "Pass in," said the priest, "pass in, so shall we be rid of one of those whom Khem nurtured up to rob her." He entered; then, as the priest was about to bar the wicket, the Wanderer strode forward, and his golden armour clashed beneath the portal. "Wouldst thou indeed enter to thy doom, thou mighty lord?" asked the priest, for he knew him well again. "Ay, I enter; but perchance not to my doom," answered the Wanderer. Then he passed in and the brazen gate was shut behind him. Now the two priests came forward to bind his eyes, but this he would not endure. "Not so," he said; "I am come here to see what may be seen." "Go to, thou madman, go to! and die the death," they answered, and led all the men to the centre of the courtyard whence they might see the pylon top. Then the priests also covered up their eyes and cast themselves at length upon the ground; so for a while they lay, and all was silence within and without the court, for they waited the coming of the Hathor. The Wanderer glanced through the bars of bronze at the multitude gathered there. Silent they stood with upturned eyes, even the women had ceased from weeping and stood in silence. He looked at those beside him. Their bandaged faces were lifted and they stared towards the pylon top as though their vision pierced the cloths. The blind man, too, stared upward, and his pale lips moved, but no sound came from them. Now at the foot of the pylon lay a little rim of shadow. Thinner and thinner it grew as the moments crept on towards the perfect noon. Now there was but a line, and now the line was gone, for the sun's red disc burned high in the blue heaven straight above the pylon brow. Then suddenly and from afar there came a faint sweet sound of singing, and at the first note of the sound a great sigh went up through the quiet air, from all the multitude without. Those who were near the Wanderer sighed also, and their lips and fingers twitched, and he himself sighed, though he knew not why. Nearer came the sweet sound of singing, and stronger it swelled, till presently those without the temple gate who were on higher ground caught sight of her who sang. Then a hoarse roar went up from every throat, and madness took them. On they rushed, dashing themselves against the gates of bronze and the steep walls on either side, and beat upon them madly with their fists and brows, and climbed on each other's shoulders, gnawing at the bars with their teeth, crying to be let in. But the women threw their arms about them and screamed curses on her whose beauty brought all men to madness. So it went for a while, till presently the Wanderer looked up, and lo! upon the pylon's brow stood the woman's self, and at her coming all were once more silent. She was tall and straight, clad in clinging white, but on her breast there glowed a blood-red ruby stone, fashioned like a star, and from it fell red drops that stained for one moment the whiteness of her robes, and then the robe was white again. Her golden hair was tossed this way and that, and shone in the sunlight, her arms and neck were bare, and she held one hand before her eyes as though to hide the brightness of her beauty. For, indeed, she could not be called beautiful but Beauty itself. And they who had not loved saw in her that first love whom no man has ever won, and they who had loved saw that first love whom every man has lost. And all about her rolled a glory—like the glory of the dying day. Sweetly she sang a song of promise, and her voice was the voice of each man's desire, and the heart of the Wanderer thrilled in answer to it as thrills a harp smitten by a cunning hand; and thus she sang: Whom hast thou longed for most, True love of mine? Whom hast thou loved and lost? Lo, she is thine! She that another wed Breaks from her vow; She that hath long been dead Wakes for thee now. Dreams haunt the hapless bed, Ghosts haunt the night, Life crowns her living head, Love and Delight. Nay, not a dream nor ghost, Nay, but Divine, She that was loved and lost Waits to be thine! She ceased, and a moan of desire went up from all who heard. Then the Wanderer saw that those beside him tore at the bandages about their brows and rent them loose. Only the priests who lay upon the ground stirred not, though they also moaned. And now again she sang, still holding her hand before her face: Ye that seek me, ye that sue me, Ye that flock beneath my tower, Ye would win me, would undo me, I must perish in an hour, Dead before the Love that slew me, clasped the Bride and crushed the flower. Hear the word and mark the warning, Beauty lives but in your sight, Beauty fades from all men's scorning In the watches of the night, Beauty wanes before the morning, and Love dies in his delight. She ceased, and once more there was silence. Then suddenly she bent forward across the pylon brow so far that it seemed that she must fall, and stretching out her arms as though to clasp those beneath, showed all the glory of her loveliness. The Wanderer looked, then dropped his eyes as one who has seen the brightness of the noonday sun. In the darkness of his mind the world was lost, and he could think of naught save the clamour of the people, which fretted his ears. They were all crying, and none were listening. "See! see!" shouted one. "Look at her hair; it is dark as the raven's wing, and her eyes—they are dark as night. Oh, my love! my love!" "See! see!" cried another, "were ever skies so blue as those eyes of hers, was ever foam so white as those white arms?" "Even so she looked whom once I wed many summers gone," murmured a third, "even so when first I drew her veil. Hers was that gentle smile breaking like ripples on the water, hers that curling hair, hers that child-like grace." "Was ever woman so queenly made?" said a fourth. "Look now on the brow of pride, look on the deep, dark eyes of storm, the arched lips, and the imperial air. Ah, here indeed is a Goddess meet for worship." "Not so I see her," cried a fifth, that man who had come from the host of the Apura. "Pale she is and fair, tall indeed, but delicately shaped, brown is her hair, and brown are her great eyes like the eyes of a stag, and ah, sadly she looks upon me, looking for my love." "My eyes are opened," screamed the blind man at the Wanderer's side. "My eyes are opened, and I see the pylon tower and the splendid sun. Love hath touched me on the eyes and they are opened. But lo! not one shape hath she but many shapes. Oh, she is Beauty's self, and no tongue may tell her glory. Let me die! let me die, for my eyes are opened. I have looked on Beauty's self! I know what all the world journeys on to seek, and why we die and what we go to find in death." # CHAPTER VI. THE WARDENS OF THE GATE The clamour swelled or sank, and the men called or cried the names of many women, some dead, some lost. Others were mute, silent in the presence of the World's Desire, silent as when we see lost faces in a dream. The Wanderer had looked once and then cast down his eyes and stood with his face hidden in his hands. He alone waited and strove to think; the rest were abandoned to the bewilderment of their passions and their amaze. What was it that he had seen? That which he had sought his whole life long; sought by sea and land, not knowing what he sought. For this he had wandered with a hungry heart, and now was the hunger of his heart to be appeased? Between him and her was the unknown barrier and the invisible Death. Was he to pass the unmarked boundary, to force those guarded gates and achieve where all had failed? Had a magic deceived his eyes? Did he look but on a picture and a vision that some art could call again from the haunted place of Memory? He sighed and looked again. Lo! in his charmed sight a fair girl seemed to stand upon the pylon brow, and on her head she bore a shining urn of bronze. He knew her now. He had seen her thus at the court of King Tyndareus as he drove in his chariot through the ford of Eurotas; thus he had seen her also in the dream on the Silent Isle. Again he sighed and again he looked. Now in his charmed sight a woman sat, whose face was the face of the girl, grown more lovely far, but sad with grief and touched with shame. He saw her and he knew her. So he had seen her in Troy towers when he stole thither in a beggar's guise from the camp of the Achæans. So he had seen her when she saved his life in Ilios. Again he sighed and again he looked, and now he saw the Golden Helen. She stood upon the pylon's brow. She stood with arms outstretched, with eyes upturned, and on her shining face there was a smile like the infinite smile of the dawn. Oh, now indeed he knew the shape that was Beauty's self—the innocent Spirit of Love sent on earth by the undying Gods to be the doom and the delight of men; to draw them through the ways of strife to the unknown end. Awhile the Golden Helen stood thus looking up and out to the worlds beyond; to the peace beyond the strife, to the goal beyond the grave. Thus she stood while men scarce dared to breathe, summoning all to come and take that which upon the earth is guarded so invincibly. Then once more she sang, and as she sang, slowly drew herself away, till at length nothing was left of the vision of her save the sweetness of her dying song. Who wins his Love shall lose her, Who loses her shall gain, For still the spirit woos her, A soul without a stain; And Memory still pursues her With longings not in vain! He loses her who gains her, Who watches day by day The dust of time that stains her, The griefs that leave her grey, The flesh that yet enchains her Whose grace hath passed away! Oh, happier he who gains not The Love some seem to gain: The joy that custom stains not Shall still with him remain, The loveliness that wanes not, The love that ne'er can wane. In dreams she grows not older The lands of Dream among, Though all the world wax colder, Though all the songs be sung, In dreams doth he behold her Still fair and kind and young. Now the silence died away, and again madness came upon those who had listened and looked. The men without the wall once more hurled themselves against the gates, while the women clung to them, shrieking curses on the beauty of the Hathor, for the song meant nothing to these women, and their arms were about those whom they loved and who won them their bread. But most of the men who were in the outer court rushed up to the inner gates within which stood the alabaster shrine of the Hathor. Some flung themselves upon the ground and clutched at it, as in dreams men fling themselves down to be saved from falling into a pit that has no bottom. Yet as in such an evil slumber the dreamer is drawn inch by inch to the mouth of the pit by an unseen hand, so these wretched men were dragged along the ground by the might of their own desire. In vain they set their feet against the stones to hold themselves from going, for they thrust forward yet more fiercely with their hands, and thus little by little drew near the inner gates writhing forwards yet moving backwards like a wounded snake dragged along by a rope. For of those who thus entered the outer court and looked upon the Hathor, few might go back alive. Now the priests drew the cloths from their eyes, and rising, flung wide the second gates, and there, but a little way off, the veil of the shrine wavered as if in a wind. For now the doors beyond the veil were thrown open, as might be seen when the wind swayed its Tyrian web, and through the curtain came the sound of the same sweet singing. "Draw near! Draw near!" cried the ancient priest. "Let him who would win the Hathor draw near!" Now at first the Wanderer was minded to rush on. But his desire had not wholly overcome him, nor had his wisdom left him. He took counsel with his heart and waited to let the others go, and to see how it fared with them. The worshippers were now hurrying back and now darting onwards, as fear and longing seized them, till the man who was blind drew near, led by the hand of a priest, for his hound might not enter the second court of the temple. "Do ye fear?" he cried. "Cowards, I fear not. It is better to look upon the glory of the Hathor and die than to live and never see her more. Set my face straight, ye priests, set my face straight, at the worst I can but die." So they led him as near the curtains as they dared to go and set his face straight. Then with a great cry he rushed on. But he was caught and whirled about like a leaf in a wind, so that he fell. He rose and again rushed on, again to be whirled back. A third time he rose and rushed on, smiting with his blind man's staff. The blow fell, and stayed in mid-air, and there came a hollow sound as of a smitten shield, and the staff that dealt the blow was shattered. Then there was a noise like the noise of clashing swords, and the man instantly sank down dead, though the Wanderer could see no wound upon him. "Draw near! Draw near!" cried the priest again. "This one is fallen. Let him who would win the Hathor draw near!" Then the man who had fled from the host of the Apura rushed forward, crying on the Lion of his tribe. Back he was hurled, and back again, but at the third time once more there came the sound of clashing swords, and he too fell dead. "Draw near! Draw near!" cried the priest. "Another has fallen! Let him who would win the Hathor draw near!" And now man after man rushed on, to be first hurled back and then slain of the clashing swords. And at length all were slain save the Wanderer alone. Then the priest spake: "Wilt thou indeed rush on to doom, thou glorious man? Thou hast seen the fate of many. Be warned and turn away." "Never did I turn from man or ghost," said the Wanderer, and drawing his short sword he came near, warily covering his head with his broad shield, while the priests stood back to see him die. Now, the Wanderer had marked that none were touched till they stood at the very threshold of the doorway. Therefore he uttered a prayer to Aphrodite and came on slowly till his feet were within a bow's length of the threshold, and there he stood and listened. Now he could hear the very words of the song that the Hathor sang as she wove at her loom. So dread and sweet it was that for a while he thought no more on the Guardians of the Gate, nor of how he might win the way, nor of aught save the song. For she was singing shrill and clear in his own dear tongue, the tongue of the Achæans: Paint with threads of gold and scarlet, paint the battles fought for me, All the wars for Argive Helen; storm and sack by land or sea; All the tale of loves and sorrows that have been and are to be. Paint her lips that like a cup have pledged the lips of heroes all, Paint her golden hair unwhitened while the many winters fall, Paint the beauty that is mistress of the wide world and its thrall! Paint the storms of ships and chariots, rain of arrows flying far, Paint the waves of Warfare leaping up at Beauty like a star, Like a star that pale and trembling hangs above the waves of War. Paint the ancient Ilios fallen; paint the flames that scaled the sky, When the foe was in the fortress, when the trumpet and the cry Rang of men in their last onset, men whose hour had dawned to die. Woe for me once loved of all men, me that never yet have known How to love the hearts that loved me. Woe for woe, who hear the moan Of my lovers' ghosts that perished in their cities overthrown. Is there not, of Gods or mortals, oh, ye Gods, is there not one— One whose heart shall mate with my heart, one to love ere all be done, All the tales of wars that shall be for my love beneath the sun? Now the song died away, and the Wanderer once more bethought him of the Wardens of the Gate and of the battle which he must fight. But as he braced himself to rush on against the unseen foe the music of the singing swelled forth again, and whether he willed it or willed it not, so sweet was its magic that there he must wait till the song was done. And now stronger and more gladly rang the sweet shrill voice, like the voice of one who has made moan through the livelong winter night, and now sees the chariot of the dawn climbing the eastern sky. And thus the Hathor sang: Ah, within my heart a hunger for the love unfelt, unknown, Stirs at length, and wakes and murmurs as a child that wakes to moan, Left to sleep within some silent house of strangers and alone. So my heart awakes, and waking, moans with hunger and with cold, Cries in pain of dim remembrance for the joy that was of old; For the love that was, that shall be, half forgot and half foretold. Have I dreamed it or remembered? In another world was I, Lived and loved in alien seasons, moved beneath a golden sky, In a golden clime where never came the strife of men that die. But the Gods themselves were jealous, for our bliss was over great, And they brought on us division, and the horror of their Hate, And they set the Snake between us, and the twining coils of Fate. And they said, "Go forth and seek each other's face, and only find Shadows of that face ye long for, dreams of days left far behind, Love the shadows and be loved with loves that waver as the wind." Once more the sweet singing died away, but as the Wanderer grasped his sword and fixed the broad shield upon his arm he remembered the dream of Meriamun the Queen, which had been told him by Rei the Priest. For in that dream twain who had sinned were made three, and through many deaths and lives must seek each other's face. And now it seemed that the burden of the song was the burden of the dream. Then he thought no more on dreams, or songs, or omens, but only on the deadly foe that stood before him wrapped in darkness, and on Helen, in whose arms he yet should lie, for so the Goddess had sworn to him in sea-girt Ithaca. He spoke no word, he named no God, but sprang forward as a lion springs from his bed of reeds; and, lo! his buckler clashed against shields that barred the way, and invisible arms seized him to hurl him back. But no weakling was the Wanderer, thus to be pushed aside by magic, but the stoutest man left alive in the whole world now that Aias, Telamon's son, was dead. The priests wondered as they saw how he gave back never a step, for all the might of the Wardens of the Gate, but lifted his short sword and hewed down so terribly that fire leapt from the air where the short sword fell, the good short sword of Euryalus the Phæacian. Then came the clashing of the swords, and from all the golden armour that once the god-like Paris wore, ay, from buckler, helm, and greaves, and breastplate the sparks streamed up as they stream from the anvil of the smith when he smites great blows on swords made white with fire. Swift as hail fell the blows of the unseen blades upon the golden armour, but he who wore it took no harm, nor was it so much as marked with the dint of the swords. So while the priests wondered at this miracle the viewless Wardens of the Gate smote at the Wanderer, and the Wanderer smote at them again. Then of a sudden he knew this, that they who barred the path were gone, for no more blows fell, and his sword only cut the air. Then he rushed on and passed behind the veil and stood within the shrine. But as the curtains swung behind him the singing rose again upon the air, and he might not move, but stood fixed with his eyes gazing where, far up, a loom was set within the shrine. For the sound of the singing came from behind the great web gleaming in the loom, the sound of the song of Helen as she heard the swords clash and the ringing of the harness of those whose knees were loosened in death. It was thus she sang: Clamour of iron on iron, and shrieking of steel upon steel, Hark how they echo again! Life with the dead is at war, and the mortals are shaken and reel, The living are slain by the slain! Clamour of iron on iron; like music that chimes with a song, So with my life doth it chime, And my footsteps must fall in the dance of Erinnys, a revel of wrong, Till the day of the passing of Time! Ghosts of the dead that have loved me, your love has been vanquished of death, But unvanquished of death is your hate; Say, is there none that may woo me and win me of all that draw breath, Not one but is envied of Fate? Now the song died, and the Wanderer looked up, and before him stood three shadows of mighty men clad in armour. He gazed upon them, and he knew the blazons painted on their shields; he knew them for heroes long dead—Pirithous, Theseus, and Aias. They looked upon him, and then cried with one voice: "Hail to thee, Odysseus of Ithaca, son of Laertes!" "Hail to thee," cried the Wanderer, "Theseus, Ægeus' son! Once before didst thou go down into the House of Hades, and alive thou camest forth again. Hast thou crossed yet again the stream of Ocean, and dost thou live in the sunlight? For of old I sought thee and found thee not in the House of Hades?" The semblance of Theseus answered: "In the House of Hades I abide this day, and in the fields of asphodel. But that thou seest is a shadow, sent forth by Queen Persephone, to be the guard of the beauty of Helen." "Hail to thee, Pirithous, Ixion's son," cried the Wanderer again. "Hast thou yet won the dread Persephone to be thy love? And why doth Hades give his rival holiday to wander in the sunlight, for of old I sought thee, and found thee not in the House of Hades." Then the semblance of Pirithous answered: "In the House of Hades I dwell this day, and that thou seest is but a shadow which goes with the shadow of the hero Theseus. For where he is am I, and where he goes I go, and our very shadows are not sundered; but we guard the beauty of Helen." "Hail to thee, Aias, Telamon's son," cried the Wanderer. "Hast thou not forgotten thy wrath against me, for the sake of those accursed arms that I won from thee, the arms of Achilles, son of Peleus? For of old in the House of Hades I spoke to thee, but thou wouldst not answer one word, so heavy was thine anger." Then the semblance of Aias made answer: "With iron upon iron, and the stroke of bronze on bronze, would I answer thee, if I were yet a living man and looked upon the sunlight. But I smite with a shadowy spear and slay none but men foredoomed, and I am the shade of Aias who dwells in Hades. Yet the Queen Persephone sent me forth to be the guard of the beauty of Helen." Then the Wanderer spake. "Tell me, ye shadows of the sons of heroes, is the way closed, and do the Gods forbid it, or may I that am yet a living man pass forward and gaze on that ye guard, on the beauty of Helen?" Then each of the three nodded with his head, and smote once upon his shield, saying: "Pass by, but look not back upon us, till thou hast seen thy desire." Then the Wanderer went by, into the innermost chamber of the alabaster shrine. Now when the shadows had spoken thus, they grew dim and vanished, and the Wanderer, as they had commanded, drew slowly up on the alabaster shrine, till at length he stood on the hither side of the web upon the loom. It was a great web, wide and high, and hid all the innermost recesses of the shrine. Here he waited, not knowing how he should break in upon the Hathor. As he stood wondering thus his buckler slipped from his loosened hand and clashed upon the marble floor, and as it clashed the voice of the Hathor took up the broken song; and thus she sang ever more sweetly:— Ghosts of the dead that have loved me, your love has been vanquished by Death, But unvanquished by Death is your Hate; Say, is there none that may woo me and win me of all that draw breath, Not one but is envied of Fate? None that may pass you unwounded, unscathed of invisible spears— By the splendour of Zeus there is one, And he comes, and my spirit is touched as Demeter is touched by the tears Of the Spring and the kiss of the sun. For he comes, and my heart that was chill as a lake in the season of snow, Is molten, and glows as with fire. And the Love that I knew not is born and he laughs in my heart, and I know The name and the flame of Desire. As a flame I am kindled, a flame that is blown by a wind from the North, By a wind that is deadly with cold, And the hope that awoke in me faints, for the Love that is born shall go forth To my Love, and shall die as of old! Now the song sobbed itself away, but the heart of the Wanderer echoed to its sweetness as a lyre moans and thrills when the hand of the striker is lifted from the strings. For a while he stood thus, hidden by the web upon the loom, while his limbs shook like the leaves of the tall poplar, and his face turned white as turn the poplar leaves. Then desire overcame him, and a longing he could not master, to look upon the face of her who sang, and he seized the web upon the loom, and rent it with a great rending noise, so that it fell down on either side of him, and the gold coils rippled at his feet. # CHAPTER VII. THE SHADOW IN THE SUNLIGHT The torn web fell—the last veil of the Strange Hathor. It fell, and all its unravelled threads of glittering gold and scarlet rippled and coiled about the Wanderer's feet, and about the pillars of the loom. The web was torn, the veil was rent, the labour was lost, the pictured story of loves and wars was all undone. But there, white in the silvery dusk of the alabaster shrine, there was the visible Helen, the bride and the daughter of Mystery, the World's Desire! There shone that fabled loveliness of which no story was too strange, of which all miracles seemed true. There, her hands folded on her lap, her head bowed—there sat she whose voice was the echo of all sweet voices, she whose shape was the mirror of all fair forms, she whose changeful beauty, so they said, was the child of the changeful moon. Helen sat in a chair of ivory, gleaming even through the sunshine of her outspread hair. She was clothed in soft folds of white; on her breast gleamed the Starstone, the red stone of the sea-deeps that melts in the sunshine, but that melted not on the breast of Helen. Moment by moment the red drops from the ruby heart of the star fell on her snowy raiment, fell and vanished,—fell and vanished,—and left no stain. The Wanderer looked on her face, but the beauty and the terror of it, as she raised it, were more than he could bear, and he stood like those who saw the terror and the beauty of that face which changes men to stone. For the lovely eyes of Helen stared wide, her lips, yet quivering with the last notes of song, were wide open in fear. She seemed like one who walks alone, and suddenly, in the noonday light, meets the hated dead; encountering the ghost of an enemy come back to earth with the instant summons of doom. For a moment the sight of her terror made even the Wanderer afraid. What was the horror she beheld in this haunted shrine, where was none save themselves alone? What was with them in the shrine? Then he saw that her eyes were fixed on his golden armour which Paris once had worn, on the golden shield with the blazon of the White Bull, on the golden helm, whose visor was down so that it quite hid his eyes and his face—and then at last her voice broke from her: "_Paris! Paris! Paris!_ Has Death lost hold of thee? Hast thou come to drag me back to thee and to shame? Paris, dead Paris! Who gave thee courage to pass the shadows of men whom on earth thou hadst not dared to face in war?" Then she wrung her hands, and laughed aloud with the empty laugh of fear. A thought came into that crafty mind of the Wanderer's, and he answered her, not in his own voice, but in the smooth, soft, mocking voice of the traitor, Paris, whom he had heard forswear himself in the oath before Ilios. "So, lady, thou hast not yet forgiven Paris? Thou weavest the ancient web, thou singest the ancient songs—art thou still unkind as of old?" "Why art thou come back to taunt me?" she said, and now she spoke as if an old familiar fear and horror were laying hold of her and mastering her again, after long freedom. "Was it not enough to betray me in the semblance of my wedded lord? Why dost thou mock?" "In love all arts are fair," he answered in the voice of Paris. "Many have loved thee, Lady, and they are all dead for thy sake, and no love but mine has been more strong than death. There is none to blame us now, and none to hinder. Troy is down, the heroes are white dust; only Love lives yet. Wilt thou not learn, Lady, how a shadow can love?" She had listened with her head bowed, but now she leaped up with blazing eyes and face of fire. "Begone!" she said, "the heroes are dead for my sake, and to my shame, but the shame is living yet. Begone! Never in life or death shall my lips touch the false lips that lied away my honour, and the false face that wore the favour of my lord's." For it was by shape-shifting and magic art, as poets tell, that Paris first beguiled Fair Helen. Then the Wanderer spoke again with the sweet, smooth voice of Paris, son of Priam. "As I passed up the shrine where thy glory dwells, Helen, I heard thee sing. And thou didst sing of the waking of thy heart, of the arising of Love within thy soul, and of the coming of one for whom thou dost wait, whom thou didst love long since and shalt love for ever more. And as thou sangest, I came, I Paris, who was thy love, and who am thy love, and who alone of ghosts and men shall be thy love again. Wilt thou still bid me go?" "I sang," she answered, "yes, as the Gods put it in my heart so I sang—for indeed it seemed to me that one came who was my love of old, and whom alone I must love, alone for ever. But thou wast not in my heart, thou false Paris! Nay, I will tell thee, and with the name will scare thee back to Hell. He was in my heart whom once as a maid I saw driving in his chariot through the ford of Eurotas while I bore water from the well. He was in my heart whom once I saw in Troy, when he crept thither clad in beggar's guise. Ay, Paris, I will name him by his name, for though he is long dead, yet him alone methinks I loved from the very first, and him alone I shall love till my deathlessness is done—Odysseus, son of Laertes, Odysseus of Ithaca, he was named among men, and Odysseus was in my heart as I sang and in my heart he shall ever be, though the Gods in their wrath have given me to others, to my shame, and against my will." Now when the Wanderer heard her speak, and heard his own name upon her lips, and knew that the Golden Helen loved him alone, it seemed to him as though his heart would burst his harness. No word could he find in his heart to speak, but he raised the visor of his helm. She looked—she saw and knew him for Odysseus—even Odysseus of Ithaca. Then in turn she hid her eyes with her hands, and speaking through them said: "Oh, Paris! ever wast thou false, but, ghost or man, of all thy shames this is the shamefullest. Thou hast taken the likeness of a hero dead, and thou hast heard me speak such words of him as Helen never spoke before. Fie on thee, Paris! fie on thee! who wouldest trick me into shame as once before thou didst trick me in the shape of Menelaus, who was my lord. Now I will call on Zeus to blast thee with his bolts. Nay, not on Zeus will I call, but on Odysseus' self. _Odysseus! Odysseus!_ Come thou from the shades and smite this Paris, this trickster, who even in death finds ways to mock thee." She ceased, and with eyes upturned and arms outstretched murmured, "Odysseus! Odysseus! Come." Slowly the Wanderer drew near to the glory of the Golden Helen—slowly, slowly he came, till his dark eyes looked into her eyes of blue. Then at last he found his voice and spake. "Helen! Argive Helen!" he said, "I am no shadow come up from Hell to torment thee, and of Trojan Paris I know nothing. For I am Odysseus, Odysseus of Ithaca, a living man beneath the sunlight. Hither am I come to see thee, hither I am come to win thee to my heart. For yonder in Ithaca Aphrodite visited me in a dream, and bade me wander out upon the seas till at length I found thee, Helen, and saw the Red Star blaze upon thy breast. And I have wandered, and I have dared, and I have heard thy song, and rent the web of Fate, and I have seen the Star, and lo! at last, at last! I find thee. Well I saw thou knewest the arms of Paris, who was thy husband, and to try thee I spoke with the voice of Paris, as of old thou didst feign the voices of our wives when we lay in the wooden horse within the walls of Troy. Thus I drew the sweetness of thy love from thy secret breast, as the sun draws out the sweetness of the flowers. But now I declare myself to be Odysseus, clad in the mail of Paris—Odysseus come on this last journey to be thy love and lord." And he ceased. She trembled and looked at him doubtfully, but at last she spoke: "Well do I remember," she said, "that when I washed the limbs of Odysseus, in the halls of Ilios, I marked a great white scar beneath his knee. If indeed thou art Odysseus, and not a phantom from the Gods, show me that great scar." Then the Wanderer smiled, and, resting his buckler against the pillar of the loom, drew off his golden greave, and there was the scar that the boar dealt with his tusk on the Parnassian hill when Odysseus was a boy. "Look, Lady," he said; "is this the scar that once thine eyes looked on in the halls of Troy?" "Yea," she said, "it is the very scar, and now I know that thou art no ghost and no lying shape, but Odysseus' self, come to be my love and lord," and she looked most sweetly in his eyes. Now the Wanderer wavered no more, but put out his arms to gather her to his heart. Now the Red Star was hidden on his breast, now the red drops dripped from the Star upon his mail, and the face of her who is the World's Desire grew soft in the shadow of his helm, while her eyes were melted to tears beneath his kiss. The Gods send all lovers like joy! Softly she sighed, softly drew back from his arms, and her lips were opened to speak when a change came over her face. The kind eyes were full of fear again, as she gazed where, through the window of the shrine of alabaster, the sunlight flickered in gold upon the chapel floor. What was that which flickered in the sunlight? or was it only the dance of the motes in the beam? There was no shadow cast in the sunshine; why did she gaze as if she saw another watching this meeting of their loves? However it chanced, she mastered her fear; there was even a smile on her lips and mirth in her eyes as she turned and spoke again. "Odysseus, thou art indeed the cunningest of men. Thou hast stolen my secret by thy craft; who save thee would dream of craft in such an hour? For when I thought thee Paris, and thy face was hidden by thy helm, I called on Odysseus in my terror, as a child cries to a mother. Methinks I have ever held him dear; always I have found him ready at need, though the Gods have willed that till this hour my love might not be known, nay, not to my own heart; so I called on Odysseus, and those words were wrung from me to scare false Paris back to his own place. But the words that should have driven Paris down to Hell drew Odysseus to my breast. And now it is done, and I will not go back upon my words, for we have kissed our kiss of troth, before the immortal Gods have we kissed, and those ghosts who guard the way to Helen, and whom thou alone couldst pass, as it was fated, are witnesses to our oath. And now the ghosts depart, for no more need they guard the beauty of Helen. It is given to thee to have and keep, and now is Helen once more a very woman, for at thy kiss the curse was broken. Ah, friend! since my lord died in pleasant Lacedæmon, what things have I seen and suffered by the Gods' decree! But two things I will tell thee, Odysseus, and thou shalt read them as thou mayest. Though never before in thy life-days did thy lips touch mine, yet I know that not now for the first time we kiss. And this I know also, for the Gods have set it in my heart, that though our love shall be short, and little joy shall we have one of another, yet death shall not end it. For, Odysseus, I am a daughter of the Gods, and though I sleep and forget that which has been in my sleep, and though my shape change as but now it seemed to change in the eyes of those ripe to die, yet I die not. And for thee, though thou art mortal, death shall be but as the short summer nights that mark off day from day. For thou shalt live again, Odysseus, as thou hast lived before, and life by life we shall meet and love till the end is come." As the Wanderer listened he thought once more of that dream of Meriamun the Queen, which the priest Rei had told him. But he said nothing of it to Helen; for about the Queen and her words to him it seemed wisest not to speak. "It will be well to live, Lady, if life by life I find thee for a love." "Life by life thou shalt find me, Odysseus, in this shape or in that shalt thou find me—for beauty has many forms, and love has many names—but thou shalt ever find me but to lose me again. I tell thee that as but now thou wonnest thy way through the ranks of those who watch me, the cloud lifted from my mind, and I remembered, and I foresaw, and I knew why I, the loved of many, might never love in turn. I knew then, Odysseus, that I am but the instrument of the Gods, who use me for their ends. And I knew that I loved thee, and thee only, but with a love that began before the birth-bed, and shall not be consumed by the funeral flame." "So be it, Lady," said the Wanderer, "for this I know, that never have I loved woman or Goddess as I love thee, who art henceforth as the heart in my breast, that without which I may not live." "Now speak on," she said, "for such words as these are like music in my ears." "Ay, I will speak on. Short shall be our love, thou sayest, Lady, and my own heart tells me that it is born to be brief of days. I know that now I go on my last voyaging, and that death comes upon me from the water, the swiftest death that may be. This then I would dare to ask: When shall we twain be one? For if the hours of life be short, let us love while we may." Now Helen's golden hair fell before her eyes like the bride's veil, and she was silent for a time. Then she spoke: "Not now, and not while I dwell in this holy place may we be wed, Odysseus, for so should we call down upon us the hate of Gods and men. Tell me, then, where thou dwellest in the city, and I will come to thee. Nay, it is not meet. Hearken, Odysseus. To-morrow, one hour before the midnight, see that thou dost stand without the pylon gates of this my temple; then I will pass out to thee as well I may, and thou shalt know me by the jewel, the Star-stone on my breast that shines through the darkness, and by that alone, and lead me whither thou wilt. For then thou shalt be my lord, and I will be thy wife. And thereafter, as the Gods show us, so will we go. For know, it is in my mind to fly this land of Khem, where month by month the Gods have made the people die for me. So till then, farewell, Odysseus, my love, found after many days." "It is well, Lady," answered the Wanderer. "To-morrow night I meet thee without the pylon gates. I also am minded to fly this land of witchcraft and of horror, but I may scarce depart till Pharaoh return again. For he has gone down to battle and left me to guard his palace." "Of that we will talk hereafter. Go now! Go swiftly, for here we may not talk more of earthly love," said the Golden Helen. Then he took her hand and kissed it and passed from before her glory as a man amazed. But in his foolish wisdom he spoke no word to her of Meriamun the Queen. # CHAPTER VIII. THE LOOSING OF THE SPIRIT OF REI Rei the Priest had fled with what speed he might from the Gates of Death, those gates that guarded the loveliness of Helen and opened only upon men doomed to die. The old man was heavy at heart, for he loved the Wanderer. Among the dark children of Khem he had seen none like this Achæan, none so goodly, so strong, and so well versed in all arts of war. He remembered how this man had saved the life of her he loved above all women—of Meriamun, the moon-child, the fairest queen who had sat upon the throne of Egypt, the fairest and the most learned, save Taia only. He bethought him of the Wanderer's beauty as he stood upon the board while the long shafts hailed down the hall. Then he recalled the vision of Meriamun, which she had told him long years ago, and the shadow in a golden helm which watched the changed Hataska. The more he thought, the more he was perplexed and lost in wonder. What did the Gods intend? Of one thing he was sure: the leaders of the host of dreams had mocked Meriamun. The man of her vision would never be her love: he had gone to meet his doom at the door of the Chapel Perilous. So Rei hasted on, stumbling in his speed, till he came to the Palace and passed through its halls towards his chamber. At the entrance of her own place he met Meriamun the Queen. There she stood in the doorway like a picture in its sculptured frame, nor could any sight be more beautiful than she was, clad in her Royal robes, and crowned with the golden snakes. Her black hair lay soft and deep on her, and her eyes looked strangely forth from beneath the ivory of her brow. He bowed low before her and would have passed on, but she stayed him. "Whither goest thou, Rei?" she asked, "and why is thy face so sad?" "I go about my business, Queen," he answered, "and I am sad because no tidings come of Pharaoh, nor of how it has fared with him and the host of the Apura." "Perchance thou speakest truth, and yet not all the truth," she answered. "Enter, I would have speech with thee." So he entered, and at her command seated himself before her in the very seat where the Wanderer had sat. Now, as he sat thus, of a sudden Meriamun the Queen slid to her knees before him, and tears were in her eyes and her breast was shaken with sobs. And while he wondered, thinking that she wept at last for her son who was dead among the firstborn, she hid her face in her hands upon his knees, and trembled. "What ails thee, Queen, my fosterling?" he said. But she only took his hand, and laid her own in it, and the old priest's eyes were dim with tears. So she sat for awhile, and then she looked up, but still she did not find words. And he caressed the beautiful Imperial head, that no man had seen bowed before. "What is it, my daughter?" he said, and she answered at last: "Hear me, old friend, who art my only friend—for if I speak not my heart will surely burst; or if it break not, my brain will burn and I shall be no more a Queen but a living darkness, where vapours creep, and wandering lights shine faintly on the ruin of my mind. Mindest thou that hour—it was the night after the hateful night that saw me Pharaoh's wife—when I crept to thee and told thee the vision that had come upon my soul, had come to mock me even at Pharaoh's side?" "I mind it well," said Rei; "it was a strange vision, nor might my wisdom interpret it." "And mindest thou what I told thee of the man of my vision—the glorious man whom I must love, he who was clad in golden armour and wore a golden helm wherein a spear-point of bronze stood fast?" "Yes, I mind it," said Rei. "And how is that man named?" she asked, whispering and staring on him with wide eyes. "Is he not named Eperitus, the Wanderer? And hath he not come hither, the spear-point in his helm? And is not the hand of Fate upon me, Meriamun? Hearken, Rei, hearken! I love him as it was fated I should love. When first I looked on him as he came up the Hall of Audience in his glory, I knew him. I knew him for that man who shares the curse laid aforetime on him, and on the woman, and on me, when, in an unknown place, twain became three and were doomed to strive from life to life and work each other's woe upon the earth. I knew him, Rei, though he knew me not, and I say that my soul shook at the echo of his step, and my heart blossomed as the black earth blossoms when after flood Sihor seeks his banks again. A glory came upon me, Rei, and I looked back through all the mists of time and knew him for my love, and I looked forward into the depths of time to be and knew him for my love. Then I looked on the present hour, and naught could I see but darkness, and naught could I hear but the groans of dying men, and a shrill sound as of a woman singing." "An ill tale, Queen," said Rei. "Ay, an ill tale, Rei, but half untold. Hearken again, I will tell thee all. Madness hath entered into me from the Hathor of Atarhechis, the Queen of Desire. I am mad with love, even I who never loved. Oh, Rei! Rei! I would win this man. Nay, look not so sternly on me, it is Fate that drives me on. Last night I spoke to him and discovered to him the name he hides from us, his own name, Odysseus, Laertes' son, Odysseus of Ithaca. Ay, thou startest, but so it is. I learned it by my magic, and wrung the truth even from the guile of the most crafty of men. But it seemed to me that he turned from me, though this much I won from him, that he had journeyed from far to seek me, the Bride that the Gods have promised him." The priest leaped up from his seat. "Lady!" he cried, "Lady! whom I serve and whom I have loved from a child, thy brain is sick, and not thy heart. Thou canst not love him. Dost thou not remember that thou art Queen of Khem and Pharaoh's wife? Wilt thou throw thy honour in the mire to be trampled by a wandering stranger?" "Ay," she answered, "I am Queen of Khem and Pharaoh's wife, but never Pharaoh's love. Honour! Why dost thou prate to me of honour? Like Nile in flood, my love hath burst the bulwark of my honour, and I mark not where custom set it. For all around the waters seethe and foam, and on them, like a broken lily, floats the wreck of my lost honour. Talk not to me of honour, Rei, teach me rather how I may win my hero to my arms." "Thou art mad indeed," he groaned; "nevertheless—I had forgotten—this must needs end in words and tears. Meriamun, I bring thee tidings. He whom thou desireth is lost to thee for ever—to thee and all the world." She heard, then sprang from the couch and stood over him like a lioness over a smitten stag, her fierce and lovely face alive with rage and fear. "Is he dead?" she hissed in his ear. "Dead! and I knew it not? Then thou hast murdered him, and thus I avenge his murder." With the word she snatched a dagger from her girdle—that same dagger with which she had once struck at Meneptah her brother, when he would have kissed her—and high it flashed above Rei the Priest. "Nay," she went on, letting the knife fall; "after another fashion shalt thou die—more slowly, Rei, yes, more slowly. Thou knowest the torment of the palm-tree? By that thou shalt die!" She paused, and stood above him with quivering limbs, and breast that heaved, and eyes that flashed like stars. "Stay! stay!" he cried. "It is not I who have slain this Wanderer, if he indeed is dead, but his own folly. For he is gone up to look upon the Strange Hathor, and those who look upon the Hathor do battle with the Unseen Swords, and those who do battle with the Unseen Swords must lie in the baths of bronze and seek the Under World." The face of Meriamun grew white at this word, as the alabaster of the walls, and she cried aloud with a great cry. Then she sank upon the couch, pressing her hand to her brow and moaning: "How may I save him? How may I save him from that accursed witch? Alas! It is too late—but at least I will know his end, ay, and hear of the beauty of her who slays him. Rei," she whispered, not in the speech of Khem, but in the dead tongue of a dead people, "be not wrath with me. Oh, have pity on my weakness. Thou knowest of the Putting-forth of the Spirit—is it not so?" "I am instructed," he answered, in the same speech; "'twas I who taught thee this art, I, and that Ancient Evil which is thine." "True—it was thou, Rei. Thou hast ever loved me, so thou swearest, and many a deed of dread have we dared together. Lend me thy Spirit, Rei, that I may send it forth to the Temple of the False Hathor, and learn what passes in the temple, and of the death of him—whom I must love." "An ill deed, Meriamun, and a fearful," he answered, "for there shall my Spirit meet them who watch the gates, and who knows what may chance when the bodiless one that yet hath earthly life meets the bodiless ones who live no more on earth?" "Yet wilt thou dare it, Rei, for love of me, as being instructed thou alone canst do," she pleaded. "Never have I refused thee aught, Meriamun, nor will I say thee nay. This only I ask of thee—that if my Spirit comes back no more, thou wilt bury me in that tomb which I have made ready by Thebes, and if it may be, by thy strength of magic wring me from the power of the strange Wardens. I am prepared—thou knowest the spell—say it." He sank back in the carven couch, and looked upwards. Then Meriamun drew near to him, gazed into his eyes and whispered in his ear in that dead tongue she knew. And as she whispered the face of Rei grew like the face of one dead. She drew back and spoke aloud: "Art thou loosed, Spirit of Rei?" Then the lips of Rei answered her, saying: "I am loosed, Meriamun. Whither shall I go?" "To the court of the Temple of Hathor, that is before the shrine." "It is done, Meriamun." "What seest thou?" "I see a man clad in golden armour. He stands with buckler raised before the doorway of the shrine, and before him are the ghosts of heroes dead, though he may not see them with the eyes of the flesh. From within the shrine there comes a sound of singing, and he listens to the singing." "What does he hear?" Then the loosed Spirit of Rei the Priest told Meriamun the Queen all the words of the song that Helen sang. And when she heard and knew that it was Argive Helen who sat in the halls of Hathor, the heart of the Queen grew faint within her, and her knees trembled. Yet more did she tremble when she learned those words that rang like the words she herself had heard in her vision long ago—telling of bliss that had been, of the hate of the Gods, and of the unending Quest. Now the song ended, and the Wanderer went up against the ghosts, and the Spirit of Rei, speaking with the lips of Rei, told all that befell, while Meriamun hearkened with open ears—ay, and cried aloud with joy when the Wanderer forced his path through the invisible swords. Then once more the sweet voice rang and the loosed Spirit of Rei told the words she sang, and to Meriamun they seemed fateful. Then he told her all the talk that passed between the Wanderer and the ghosts. Now the ghosts being gone she bade the Spirit of Rei follow the Wanderer up the sanctuary, and from the loosed Spirit she heard how he rent the web, and of all the words of Helen and of the craft of him who feigned to be Paris. Then the web was torn and the eyes of the Spirit of Rei looked on the beauty of her who was behind it. "Tell me of the face of the False Hathor?" said the Queen. And the Spirit of Rei answered: "Her face is that beauty which gathered like a mask upon the face of dead Hataska, and upon the face of the Bai, and the face of the Ka, when thou spakest with the spirit of her thou hadst slain." Now Meriamun groaned aloud, for she knew that doom was on her. Last of all, she heard the telling of the loves of Odysseus and of Helen, her undying foe, of their kiss, of their betrothal, and of that marriage which should be on the morrow night. Meriamun the Queen said never a word, but when all was done and the Wanderer had left the shrine again, she whispered in the ear of Rei the Priest, and drew back his Spirit to him so that he awoke as a man awakes from sleep. He awoke and saw the Queen sitting over against him with a face white as the face of the dead, and about her deep eyes were lines of black. "Hast thou heard, Meriamun?" he asked. "I have heard," she answered. "What dreadful thing hast thou heard?" he asked again, for he knew naught of that which his Spirit had seen. "I have heard things that may not be told," she said, "but this I will tell thee. He of whom we spoke hath passed the ghosts, he hath met with the False Hathor—that accursed woman—and he returns here all unharmed. Now go, Rei!" # CHAPTER IX. THE WAKING OF THE SLEEPER Rei departed, wondering and heavy at heart, and Meriamun the Queen passed into her bed-chamber, and there she bade the eunuchs suffer none to enter, made fast the doors, and threw herself down upon the bed, hiding her face in its woven cushions. Thus she lay for many hours as one dead—till the darkness of the evening gathered in the chamber. But though she moved not, yet in her heart there burned a fire, now white with heat as the breath of her passion fanned it, and now waning black and dull as the tears fell from her eyes. For now she knew all—that the long foreboding, sometimes dreaded, sometimes desired, and again, like a dream, half forgotten, was indeed being fulfilled. She knew of the devouring love that must eat her life away, knew that even in the grave she should find no rest. And her foe was no longer a face beheld in a vision, but a living woman, the fairest and most favoured, Helen of Troy, Argive Helen, the False Hathor, the torch that fired great cities, the centre of all desire, whose life was the daily doom of men. Meriamun was beautiful, but her beauty paled before the face of Helen, as a fire is slain by the sun. Magic she had also, more than any who were on the earth; but what would her spells avail against the magic of those changing eyes? And it was Helen whom the Wanderer came to seek, for _her_ he had travelled the wide lands and sailed the seas. But when he told her of one whom he desired, one whom he sought, she had deemed that she herself was that one, ay, and had told him all. At that thought she laughed out, in the madness of her anger and her shame. And he had smiled and spoken of Pharaoh her lord—and the while he spoke he had thought not on her but of the Golden Helen. Now this at least she swore, that if he might not be hers, never should he be Helen's. She would see him dead ere that hour, ay, and herself, and if it might be, Helen would she see dead also. To what counsel should she turn? On the morrow night these two meet; on the morrow night they would fly together. Then on the morrow must the Wanderer be slain. How should he be slain and leave no tale of murder? By poison he might die, and Kurri the Sidonian should be charged to give the cup. And then she would slay Kurri, saying that he had poisoned the Wanderer because of his hate and the loss of his goods and freedom; and yet how could she slay her love? If once she slew him then she, too, must die and seek her joy in the kingdom that Osiris rules, and there she might find little gladness. What, then, should she do? No answer came into her heart. There was one that must answer in her soul. Now she rose from the bed and stood for awhile staring into the dark. Then she groped her way to a place where there was a carven chest of olive-wood and ivory, and drawing a key from her girdle she opened the chest. Within were jewels, mirrors, and unguents in jars of alabaster—ay, and poisons of deadly bane; but she touched none of these. Thrusting her hand deep into the chest, she drew forth a casket of dark metal that the people deemed unholy, a casket made of "Typhon's Bone," for so they call grey iron. She pressed a secret spring. It opened, and feeling within she found a smaller casket. Lifting it to her lips she whispered over it words of no living speech, and in the heavy and scented dark a low flame flickered and trembled on her lips, as she murmured in the tongue of a dead people. Then slowly the lid opened of itself, like a living mouth that opens, and as it opened, a gleam of light stole up from the box into the dusk of the chamber. Now Meriamun looked, and shuddered as she looked. Yet she put her hand into the box, and muttering "Come forth—come forth, thou Ancient Evil," drew somewhat to her and held it out from her on the palm of her hand. Behold, it glowed in the dusk of the chamber as a live ember glows among the ashes of the hearth. Red it glowed and green, and white, and livid blue, and its shape, as it lay upon her hand, was the shape of a coiling snake, cut, as it were, in opal and in emerald. For awhile she gazed upon it, shuddering, as one in doubt. "Minded I am to let thee sleep, thou Horror," she murmured. "Twice have I looked on thee, and I would look no more. Nay, I will dare it, thou gift of the old wisdom, thou frozen fire, thou sleeping Sin, thou living Death of the ancient city, for thou alone hast wisdom." Thereon she unclasped the bosom of her robe and laid the gleaming toy, that seemed a snake of stone, upon her ivory breast, though she trembled at its icy touch, for it was more cold than death. With both her hands she clasped a pillar of the chamber, and so stood, and she was shaken with throes like the pangs of childbirth. Thus she endured awhile till that which was a-cold grew warm, watching its brightness that shone through her silken dress as the flame of a lamp shines through an alabaster vase. So she stood for an hour, then swiftly put off all her robes and ornaments of gold, and loosing the dark masses of her hair let it fall round her like a veil. Now she bent her head down to her breast, and breathed on that which lay upon her breast, for the Ancient Evil can live only in the breath of human kind. Thrice she breathed upon it, thrice she whispered, "_Awake! Awake! Awake!_" And the first time that she breathed the Thing stirred and sparkled. The second time that she breathed it undid its shining folds and reared its head to hers. The third time that she breathed it slid from her bosom to the floor, then coiled itself about her feet and slowly grew as grows the magician's magic tree. Greater it grew and greater yet, and as it grew it shone like a torch in a tomb, and wound itself about the body of Meriamun, wrapping her in its fiery folds till it reached her middle. Then it reared its head on high, and from its eyes there flowed a light like the light of a flame, and lo! its face was the face of a fair woman—it was the face of Meriamun! Now face looked on face, and eyes glared into eyes. Still as a white statue of the Gods stood Meriamun the Queen, and all about her form and in and out of her dark hair twined the flaming snake. At length the Evil spoke—spoke with a human voice, with the voice of Meriamun, but in the dead speech of a dead people: "Tell me my name," it said. "_Sin_ is thy name," answered Meriamun the Queen. "Tell me whence I come," it said again. "From the evil that is in me," answered Meriamun. "Tell me whither I go." "Where I go there thou goest, for I have warmed thee in my breast and thou art twined about my heart." Then the Snake lifted up its human head and laughed horribly. "Well art thou instructed," it said. "So I love thee as thou lovest me," and it bent itself and kissed her on the lips. "I am that Ancient Evil, that Life which endures out of the first death; I am that Death which abides in the living life. I am that which brought on thee the woe that is in division from the Heart's Desire, and the name thereof is _Hell_. From Life to Life thou hast found me at thy hand, now in this shape, now in that. I taught thee the magic which thou knowest; I showed thee how to win the Throne! Now, what wilt thou of me, Meriamun, my Mother, my Sister, and my Child? From Life to Life I have been with thee: ever thou mightest have put me from thee, ever thou fliest to the wisdom which I have, and ever from thee I draw my strength, for though without me thou mightest live, without thee I must die. Say now, what is it?—tell me, and I will name my price. No more will I ask than must be, for—ah!—I am glad to wake and live again; glad to grip thy soul within these shining folds, to be fair with thy beauty!—to be foul with thy sin!" "Lay thy lips against my ear and thine ear against my lips," said Meriamun the Queen, "and I will say what it is that I will of thee, thou Ancient Evil." So the human-headed Evil laid its ear against the lips of Meriamun, and Meriamun laid her lips against its ear, and they whispered each to each. There in the darkness they whispered, while the witch-light glittered down the grey snake's shining folds, beamed in its eyes, and shone through the Queen's dark hair and on her snowy breast. At length the tale was told, and the Snake lifted its woman's head high in the air and again it laughed. "He seeks the Good," it said, "and he shall find the Ill! He looks for Light, and in Darkness shall he wander! To Love he turns, in Lust he shall be lost! He would win the Golden Helen, whom he has sought through many a way, whom he has followed o'er many a sea, but first shall he find thee, Meriamun, and through thee Death! For he shall swear by the Snake who should have sworn by the Star. Far hath he wandered—further shall he wander yet, for thy sin shall be his sin! Darkness shall wear the face of Light—Evil shall shine like Good. I will give him to thee, Meriamun, but, hearken to my price. No more must I be laid cold in the gloom while thou walkest in the sunshine—nay, I must be twined about thy body. Fear not, fear not, I shall seem but a jewel in the eyes of men, a girdle fashioned cunningly for the body of a queen. But with thee henceforth I must ever go—and when thou diest, with thee must I die, and with thee pass where thou dost pass—with thee to sleep, with thee to awake again—and so, on and on, till in the end I win or thou winnest, or she wins who is our foe!" "I give thee thy price," said Meriamun the Queen. "So once before thou didst give it," answered the Evil; "ay, far, far away, beneath a golden sky and in another clime. Happy wast thou then with him thou dost desire, but I twined myself about thy heart and of twain came three and all the sorrow that has been. So woman thou hast worked, so woman it is ordained. For thou art she in whom all woes are gathered, in whom all love is fulfilled. And I have dragged thy glory down, woman, and I have loosed thee from thy gentleness, and set it free upon the earth, and Beauty is she named. By beauty doth _she_ work who is the Golden Helen, and for her beauty's sake, that all men strive to win, are wars and woes, are hopes and prayers, and longings without end. But by Evil dost _thou_ work who art divorced from Innocence, and evil shalt thou ever bring on him whom thou desireth. A riddle! A riddle! Read it who may—read it if thou canst, thou who art named Meriamun the Queen, but who art less than Queen and more. Who art thou? Who is she they named the Helen? Who is that Wanderer who seeks her from afar, and who, who am _I_? A riddle! a riddle! that thou mayst not read. Yet is the answer written on earth and sky and sea, and in the hearts of men. "Now hearken! To-morrow night thou shalt take me and twine me about thy body, doing as I bid thee, and behold! for a while thy shape shall wear the shape of the Golden Helen, and thy face shall be as her face, and thine eyes as her eyes, and thy voice as her voice. Then I leave the rest to thee, for as Helen's self thou shalt beguile the Wanderer, and once, if once only, be a wife to him whom thou desireth. Naught can I tell thee of the future, I who am but a counsellor, but hereafter it may be that woes will come, woes and wars and death. But what matter these when thou hast had thy desire, when he hath sinned, and hath sworn by the Snake who should have sworn by the Star, and when he is bound to thee by ties that may not be loosed? Choose, Meriamun, choose! Put my counsel from thee and to-morrow this man thou lovest shall be lost to thee, lost in the arms of Helen; and alone for many years shalt thou bear the burden of thy lonely love. Take it, and he shall at least be thine, let come what may come. Think on it and choose!" Thus spake the Ancient Evil, tempting her who was named Meriamun, while she hearkened to the tempting. "I have chosen," she said; "I will wear the shape of Helen, and be a wife to him I love, and then let ruin fall. Sleep, thou Ancient Evil. Sleep, for no more may I endure thy face of fear that is my face, nor the light of those flaming eyes that are my eyes made mad." Again the Thing reared its human head and laughed out in triumph. Then slowly it unloosed its gleaming coils: slowly it slid to the earth and shrank and withered like a flaming scroll, till at length it seemed once more but a shining jewel of opal and of amethyst. The Wanderer, when he left the inner secret shrine, saw no more the guardian of the gates, nor heard the clash of the swords unseen, for the Gods had given the beauty of Helen to Odysseus of Ithaca, as it was foretold. Without the curtains the priests of the temple were gathered wondering—little could they understand how it came to pass that the hero who was called Eperitus had vanished through the curtains and had not been smitten down by the unseen swords. And when they saw him come forth glorious and unharmed they cried aloud with fear. But he laughed and said, "Fear not. Victory is to him whom the Gods appoint. I have done battle with the wardens of the shrine, and passed them, and methinks that they are gone. I have looked upon the Hathor also, and more than that seek ye not to know. Now give me food, for I am weary." So they bowed before him, and leading him thence to their chamber of banquets gave him of their best, and watched him while he ate and drank and put from him the desire of food. Then he rose and went from the temple, and again the priests bowed before him. Moreover, they gave him freedom of the temple, and keys whereby all the doors might be opened, though little, as they thought, had he any need of keys. Now the Wanderer, walking gladly and light of heart, came to his own lodging in the courts of the Palace. At the door of the lodging stood Rei the Priest, who, when he saw him, ran to him and embraced him, so glad was he that the Wanderer had escaped alive. "Little did I think to look upon thee again, Eperitus," he said. "Had it not been for that which the Queen——" and he bethought himself and stayed his speech. "Nevertheless, here I am unhurt, of ghost or men," the Wanderer answered, laughing, as he passed into the lodging. "But what of the Queen?" "Naught, Eperitus, naught, save that she was grieved when she learned that thou hadst gone up to the Temple of the Hathor, there, as she thought, to perish. Hearken, thou Eperitus, I know not if thou art God or man, but oaths are binding both on men and Gods, and thou didst swear an oath to Pharaoh—is it not so?" "Ay, Rei. I swore an oath that I would guard the Queen well till Pharaoh came again." "Art thou minded to keep that oath, Eperitus?" asked Rei, looking on him strangely. "Art thou minded to guard the fair fame of Pharaoh's Queen, that is more precious than her life? Methinks thou dost understand my meaning, Eperitus?" "Perchance I understand," answered the Wanderer. "Know, Rei, that I am so minded." Then Rei spake again, darkly. "Methinks some sickness hath smitten Meriamun the Queen, and she craves thee for her physician. Now things come about as they were foreshown in the portent of that vision whereof I spoke to thee. But if thou dost break thy oath to him whose salt thou eatest, then, Eperitus, God or man, thou art a dastard." "Have I not said that I have no mind so to break mine oath?" he answered, then sank his head upon his breast and communed with his crafty heart while Rei watched him. Presently he lifted up his head and spoke: "Rei," he said, "I am minded to tell thee a strange story and a true, for this I see, that our will runs one way, and thou canst help me, and, in helping me, thyself and Pharaoh to whom I swore an oath, and her whose honour thou holdest dear. But this I warn thee, Rei, that if thou dost betray me, not thine age, not thy office, nor the friendship thou hast shown me, shall save thee." "Speak on, Odysseus, Laertes' son, Odysseus of Ithaca," said Rei; "may my life be forfeit if I betray thy counsel, if it harm not those I serve." Now the Wanderer started to his feet, crying: "How knowest thou that name?" "I know it," said Rei, "and I tell thee that I know it, thou most crafty of men, to show this, that with me thy guile will not avail thee." For he would not tell him that he had it from the lips of the Queen. "Thou hast heard a name that has been in the mouths of many," said the Wanderer; "perchance it is mine, perchance it is the name of another. It matters not. Now know this: I fear this Queen of thine. Hither I came to seek a woman, but the Queen I came not to seek. Yet I have not come in vain, for yonder, Rei, yonder, in the Temple of the Hathor, I found her on whose quest I came, and who awaited me there well guarded till I should come to take her. On the morrow night I go forth to the temple, and there, by the gates of the temple, I shall find her whom all men desire, but who loves me alone among men, for so it has been fated of the Gods. Thence I bring her hither that here we may be wed. Now this is my mind: if thou wilt aid me with a ship and men, that at the first light of dawn we should flee this land of thine, and that thou shouldest keep my going secret for awhile till I have gained the sea. True it is that I swore to guard the Queen till Pharaoh come again; but as thou knowest, things are so that I can best guard her by my flight, and if Pharaoh thinks ill of me—so it must be. Moreover I ask thee to meet me by the pylon of the Temple of Hathor to-morrow at one hour before midnight. There will we talk with her who is called the Hathor, and prepare our flight, and thence thou shalt go to that ship which thou hast made ready." Now Rei thought for awhile and answered: "Somewhat I fear to look upon this Goddess, yet I will dare it. Tell me, then, how shall I know her at the temple's gate?" "Thou shalt know her, Rei, by the red star which burns upon her breast. But fear not, for I will be there. Say, wilt thou make the ship ready?" "The ship shall be ready, Eperitus, and though I love thee well, I say this, that I would it rode the waves which roll around the shores of Khem and thou wert with it, and with thee she who is called the Hathor, that Goddess whom thou desirest." # CHAPTER X. THE OATH OF THE WANDERER That night the Wanderer saw not Meriamun, but on the morrow she sent a messenger to him, bidding him to her feast that night. He had little heart to go, but a Queen's courtesy is a command, and he went at sundown. Rei also went to the feast, and as he went, meeting the Wanderer in the ante-chamber, he whispered to him that all things were made ready, that a good ship waited him in the harbour, the very ship that he had captured from the Sidonians, and that he, Rei, would be with him by the pylon gate of the temple one hour before midnight. Presently, as he whispered, the doors were flung wide and Meriamun the Queen passed in, followed by eunuchs and waiting-women. She was royally arrayed, her face was pale and cold, but her great eyes glowed in it. Low the Wanderer bowed before her. She bent her head in answer, then gave him her hand, and he led her to the feast. They sat there side by side, but the Queen spoke little, and that little of Pharaoh and the host of the Apura, from whom no tidings came. When at length the feast was done, Meriamun bade the Wanderer to her private chamber, and thither he went for awhile, though sorely against his will. But Rei came not in with them, and thus he was left alone with the Queen, for she dismissed the waiting ladies. When they had gone there was silence for a space, but ever the Wanderer felt the eyes of Meriamun watching him as though they would read his heart. "I am weary," she said, at length. "Tell me of the wanderings, Odysseus of Ithaca—nay, tell me of the siege of Ilios and of the sinful Helen, who brought all these woes about. Ay, and tell me how thou didst creep from the leaguer of the Achæans, and, wrapped in a beggar's weeds, seek speech of this evil Helen, now justly slain of the angry Gods." "Justly slain is she indeed," answered the crafty Wanderer. "An ill thing is it, truly, that the lives of so many heroes should be lost because of the beauty of a faithless woman. I had it in my own heart to slay her when I spoke with her in Troy town, but the Gods held my hand." "Was it so, indeed?" said the Queen, smiling darkly. "Doubtless if she yet lived, and thou sawest her, thou wouldst slay her. Is it not so, Odysseus?" "She lives no more, O Queen!" he answered. "Nay, she lives no more, Odysseus. Now tell me; yesterday thou wentest up to the Temple of the Hathor; tell me what thou didst see in the temple." "I saw a fair woman, or, perchance, an immortal Goddess, stand upon the pylon brow, and as she stood and sang those who looked were bereft of reason. And thereafter some tried to pass the ghosts who guarded the woman, and were slain of invisible swords. It was a strange sight to see." "A strange sight, surely. But thou didst not lose thy craft, Odysseus, nor try to break through the ghosts?" "Nay, Meriamun. In my youth I looked upon the beauty of Argive Helen, who was fairer than she who stood upon the pylon tower. None who have looked upon the Helen would seek to win the Hathor." "But, perchance, those who have looked upon the Hathor may seek to win the Helen," she answered slowly, and he knew not what to say, for he felt the power of her magic on him. So for awhile they spoke, and Meriamun, knowing all, wondered much at the guile of the Wanderer, but she showed no wonder in her face. At length he rose and, bowing before her, said that he must visit the guard that watched the Palace gates. She looked upon him strangely and bade him go. Then he went, and right glad he was thus to be free of her. But when the curtains had swung behind him, Meriamun the Queen sprang to her feet, and a dreadful light of daring burned in her eyes. She clapped her hands, and bade those who came to her seek their rest, as she would also, for she was weary and needed none to wait upon her. So the women went, leaving her alone, and she passed into her sleeping chamber. "Now must the bride deck herself for the bridal," she said, and straightway, pausing not, drew forth the Ancient Evil from its hiding-place and warmed it on her breast, breathing the breath of life into its nostrils. Now, as before, it grew and wound itself about her, and whispered in her ear, bidding her clothe herself in bridal white and clasp the Evil around her; then think upon the beauty she had seen gather on the face of dead Hataska in the Temple of Osiris, and on the face of the Bai, and the face of the Ka. She did its command, fearing nothing, for her heart was alight with love, and torn with jealous hate, and little did she reck of the sorrows which her sin should bring forth. So she bathed herself in perfumes, shook out her shining hair, and clad herself in white attire. Then she looked upon her beauty in the mirror of silver, and cried in the bitterness of her heart to the Evil that lay beside her like a snake asleep. "Ah, am I not fair enow to win him whom I love? Say, thou Evil, must I indeed steal the beauty of another to win him whom I love?" "This must thou do," said the Evil, "or lose him in Helen's arms. For though thou art fair, yet is she Beauty's self, and her gentleness he loves, and not thy pride. Choose, choose swiftly for presently the Wanderer goes forth to win the Golden Helen." Then she doubted no more, but lifting the shining Evil, held it to her. With a dreadful laugh it twined itself about her, and lo! it shrank to the shape of a girdling, double-headed snake of gold, with eyes of ruby flame. And as it shrank Meriamun the Queen thought on the beauty she had seen upon the face of the dead Hataska, on the face of the Bai, and the face of the Ka, and all the while she watched her beauty in the mirror. And as she watched, behold, her face grew as the face of death, ashen and hollow, then slowly burned into life again—but all her loveliness was changed. Changed were her dark locks to locks of gold, changed were her deep eyes to eyes of blue, changed was the glory of her pride to the sweetness of the Helen's smile. Fairest among women had been her form, now it was fairer yet, and now—now she was Beauty's self, and like to swoon at the dream of her own loveliness. "So, ah, so must the Hathor seem," she said, and lo! her voice rang strangely in her ears. For the voice, too, was changed, it was more soft than the whispering of wind-stirred reeds; it was more sweet than the murmuring of bees at noon. Now she must go forth, and fearful at her own loveliness and heavy with her sin, yet glad with a strange joy, she passes from her chamber and glides like a starbeam through the still halls of her Palace. The white light of the moon creeps into them and falls upon the faces of the dreadful Gods, on the awful smile of sphinxes, and the pictures of her forefathers, kings and queens who long were dead. And as she goes she seems to hear them whisper each to each of the dreadful sin that she has sinned, and of the sorrow that shall be. But she does not heed, and never stays her foot. For her heart is alight as with a flame, and she will win the Wanderer to her arms—the Wanderer sought through many lives, found after many deaths. Now the Wanderer is in his chamber, waiting for the hour to set forth to find the Golden Helen. His heart is alight, and strange dreams of the past go before his eyes, and strange visions of long love to be. His heart burns like a lamp in the blackness, and by that light he sees all the days of his life that have been, and all the wars that he has won, and all the seas that he has sailed. And now he knows that these things are dreams indeed, illusions of the sense, for there is but one thing true in the life of men, and that is Love; there is but one thing perfect, the beauty which is Love's robe; there is but one thing which all men seek and are born to find at last, the heart of the Golden Helen, the World's Desire, that is peace and joy and rest. He binds his armour on him, for foes may lurk in darkness, and takes the Bow of Eurytus, and the grey bolts of death; for perchance the fight is not yet done, he must cleave his way to joy. Then he combs his locks and sets the golden helm upon them, and, praying to the Gods who hear not, he passes from his chamber. Now the chamber opened into a great hall of pillars. As was his custom when he went alone by night, the Wanderer glanced warily down the dusky hall, but he might see little because of the shadows. Nevertheless, the moonlight poured into the centre of the hall from the clerestories in the roof, and lay there shining white as water beneath black banks of reeds. Again the Wanderer glanced with keen, quick eyes, for there was a sense in his heart that he was no more alone in the hall, though whether it were man or ghost, or, perchance, one of the immortal Gods who looked on him, he might not tell. Now it seemed to him that he saw a shape of white moving far away in the shadow. Then he grasped the black bow and laid hand upon his quiver so that the shafts rattled. Now it would seem that the shape in the shadow heard the rattling of the shafts, or perchance saw the moonlight gleam upon the Wanderer's golden harness—at the least, it drew near till it came to the edge of the pool of light. There it paused as a bather pauses ere she steps into the fountain. The Wanderer paused also, wondering what the shape might be. Half was he minded to try it with an arrow from the bow, but he held his hand and watched. And as he watched, the white shape glided into the space of moonlight, and he saw that it was the form of a woman draped in white, and that about her shone a gleaming girdle, and in the girdle gems which sparkled like the eyes of a snake. Tall was the shape and lovely as a statue of Aphrodite; but who or what it was he might not tell, for the head was bent and the face hidden. Awhile the shape stood thus, and as it stood, the Wanderer passed towards it, marvelling much, till he also stood in the pool of moonlight that shimmered on his golden mail. Then suddenly the shape lifted its face so that the light fell full on it, and stretched out its arms towards him, and lo! the face was the face of the Argive Helen—of her whom he went forth to seek. He looked upon its beauty, he looked upon the eyes of blue, upon the golden hair, upon the shining arms; then slowly, very slowly, and in silence—for he could find no words—the Wanderer drew near. She did not move nor speak. So still she stood that scarce she seemed to breathe. Only the shining eyes of her snake-girdle glittered like living things. Again he stopped fearfully, for he held that this was surely a mocking ghost which stood before him, but still she neither moved nor spoke. Then at length he found his tongue and spoke: "Lady," he whispered, "is it indeed thou, is it Argive Helen whom I look upon, or is it, perchance, a ghost sent by Queen Persephone from the House of Hades to make a mock of me?" Now the voice of Helen answered him in sweet tones and low: "Did I not tell thee, Odysseus of Ithaca, did I not tell thee, yesterday in the halls of Hathor, after thou hadst overcome the ghosts, that to-night we should be wed? Wherefore, then, dost thou deem me of the number of the bodiless?" The Wanderer hearkened. The voice was the voice of Helen, the eyes were the eyes of Helen, and yet his heart feared guile. "So did Argive Helen tell me of a truth, Lady, but this she said, that I should find her by the pylon of the temple, and lead her thence to be my bride. Thither I go but now to seek her. But if thou art Helen, how comest thou to these Palace halls? And where, Lady, is that Red Star which should gleam upon thy breast, that Star which weeps out the blood of men?" "No more doth the red dew fall from the Star that was set upon my breast, Odysseus, for now that thou hast won me men die no more for my beauty's sake. Gone is the Star of War; and see, Wisdom rings me round, the symbol of the Deathless Snake that signifies love eternal. Thou dost ask how I came hither, I, who am immortal and a daughter of the Gods? Seek not to know, Odysseus, for where Fate puts it in my mind to be, there do the Gods bear me. Wouldst thou, then, that I leave thee, Odysseus?" "Last of all things do I desire this," he answered, for now his wisdom went a-wandering; now he forgot the words of Aphrodite, warning him that the Helen might be known by one thing only, the Red Star on her breast, whence falls the blood of men; and he no more doubted but that she was the Golden Helen. Then she who wore the Helen's shape stretched out her arms and smiled so sweetly that the Wanderer knew nothing any more, save that she drew him to her. Slowly she glided before him, ever smiling, and where she went he followed, as men follow beauty in a dream. She led him through halls and corridors, past the sculptured statues of the Gods, past man-headed sphinxes, and pictures of long-dead kings. And as she goes, once more it seems to her that she hears them whisper each to each the horror of her sin and the sorrow that shall be. But naught she heeds who ever leads him on, and naught he hears who ever follows after, till at length, though he knows it not, they stand in the bed-chamber of the Queen, and by Pharaoh's golden bed. Then once more she speaks: "Odysseus of Ithaca, whom I have loved from the beginning, and whom I shall love till all deaths are done, before thee stands that Loveliness which the Gods predestined to thy arms. Now take thou thy Bride; but first lay thy hand upon this golden Snake, that rings me round, the new bridal gift of the Gods, and swear thy marriage oath, which may not be broken. Swear thus, Odysseus: ‘I love thee, Woman or Immortal, and thee alone, and by whatever name thou art called, and in whatever shape thou goest, to thee I will cleave, and to thee alone, till the day of the passing of Time. I will forgive thy sins, I will soothe thy sorrows, I will suffer none to come betwixt thee and me. This I swear to thee, Woman or Immortal, who dost stand before me. I swear it to thee, Woman, for now and for ever, for here and hereafter, in whatever shape thou goest on the earth, by whatever name thou art known among men.' "Swear thou thus, Odysseus of Ithaca, Laertes' son, or leave me and go thy ways!" "Great is the oath," quoth the Wanderer; for though now he feared no guile, yet his crafty heart liked it ill. "Choose, and choose swiftly," she answered. "Swear the oath, or leave me and never see me more!" "Leave thee I will not, and cannot if I would," he said. "Lady, I swear!" And he laid his hand upon the Snake that ringed her round, and swore the dreadful oath. Yea, he forgot the words of the Goddess, and the words of Helen, and he swore by the Snake who should have sworn by the Star. By the immortal Gods he swore it, by the Symbol of the Snake, and by the Beauty of his Bride. And as he swore the eyes of the Serpent sparkled, and the eyes of her who wore the beauty of Helen shone, and faintly the black bow of Eurytus thrilled, forboding Death and War. But little the Wanderer thought on guile or War or Death, for the kiss of her whom he deemed the Golden Helen was on his lips, and he went up into the golden bed of Meriamun. # CHAPTER XI. THE WAKING OF THE WANDERER Now Rei the Priest, as had been appointed, went to the pylon gate of the Temple of Hathor. Awhile he stood looking for the Wanderer, but though the hour had come, the Wanderer came not. Then the Priest went to the pylon and stood in the shadow of the gate. As he stood there a wicket in the gate opened, and there passed out a veiled figure of a woman upon whose breast burned a red jewel that shone in the night like a star. The woman waited awhile, looking down the moonlit road between the black rows of sphinxes, but the road lay white and empty, and she turned and hid herself in the shadow of the pylon, where Rei could see nothing of her except the red star that gleamed upon her breast. Now a great fear came upon the old man, for he knew that he looked upon the strange and deadly Hathor. Perchance he too would perish like the rest who had looked on her to their ruin. He thought of flight, but he did not dare to fly. Then he too stared down the road seeking for the Wanderer, but no shadow crossed the moonlight. Thus things went for awhile, and still the Hathor stood silently in the shadow, and still the blood-red star shone upon her breast. And so it came to pass that the World's Desire must wait at the tryst like some forsaken village maid. While Rei the Priest crouched thus against the pylon wall, praying for the coming of him who came not, suddenly a voice spoke to him in tones sweeter than a lute. "Who art thou that hidest in the shadow?" said the voice. He knew that it was the Hathor who spoke, and so afraid was he that he could not answer. Then the voice spoke again: "Oh, thou most crafty of men, why doth it please thee to come hither to seek me in the guise of an aged priest. Once, Odysseus, I saw thee in beggar's weeds, and knew thee in the midst of thy foes. Shall I not know thee again in peace beneath thy folded garb and thy robes of white?" Rei heard and knew that he could hide himself no longer. Therefore he came forward trembling, and knelt before her, saying: "Oh, mighty Queen, I am not that man whom thou didst name, nor am I hid in any wrappings of disguise. Nay, I do avow myself to be named Rei the Chief Architect of Pharaoh, the Commander of the Legion of Amen, the chief of the Treasury of Amen, and a man of repute in this land of Khem. Now, if indeed thou art the Goddess of this temple, as I judge by that red jewel which burns upon thy breast, I pray thee be merciful to thy servant and smite me not in thy wrath, for not by my own will am I here, but by the command of that hero whom thou hast named, and for whose coming I await. Be merciful therefore, and hold thy hand." "Fear not thou, Rei," said the sweet voice. "Little am I minded to harm thee, or any man, for though many men have gone down the path of darkness because of me, who am a doom to men, not by my will has it been, but by the will of the immortal Gods, who use me to their ends. Rise thou, Rei, and tell me why thou art come hither, and where is he whom I have named?" Then Rei rose, and looking up saw the light of the Helen's eyes shining on him through her veil. But there was no anger in them, they shone mildly as stars in an evening sky, and his heart was comforted. "I know not where the Wanderer is, O thou Immortal," he said. "This I know only, that he bade me meet him here at one hour before midnight, and so I came." "Perchance he too will come anon," said the sweet voice; "but why did he, whom thou namest the Wanderer, bid thee meet him here?" "For this reason, O Hathor. He told me that this night he should be wed to thee, and was minded thereafter to fly from Khem with thee. Therefore he bade me come, who am a friend to him, to talk with thee and him as to how thy flight should go, and yet he comes not." Now as Rei spake, he turned his face upward, and the Golden Helen looked upon it. "Hearken, Rei," she said; "but yesterday, after I had stood upon the pylon tower as the Gods decreed, and sang to those who were ripe to die, I went to my shrine and wove my web while the doomed men fell beneath the swords of them who were set to guard my beauty, but who now are gone. And as I wove, one passed the Ghosts and rent the web and stood before me. It was he whom I await to-night, and after awhile I knew him for Odysseus of Ithaca, Laertes' son. But as I looked on him and spake with him, behold, I saw a spirit watching us, though he might not see it, a spirit whose face I knew not, for no such man have I known in my life days. Know then, Rei, that the face of the spirit was _thy_ face, and its robes _thy_ robes." Then once more Rei trembled in his fear. "Now, Rei, I bid thee tell me, and speak the truth, lest evil come on thee, not at my hands indeed, for I would harm none, but at the hands of those Immortals who are akin to me. What did thy spirit yonder, in my sacred shrine? How didst thou dare to enter and look upon my beauty and hearken to my words?" "Oh, great Queen," said Rei, "I will tell thee the truth, and I pray thee let not the wrath of the Gods fall upon me. Not of my own will did my spirit enter into thy Holy Place, nor do I know aught of what it saw therein, seeing that no memory of it remains in me. Nay, it was sent of her whom I serve, who is the mistress of all magic, and to her it made report, but what it said I know not." "And whom dost thou serve, Rei? And why did she send thy spirit forth to spy on me?" "I serve Meriamun the Queen, and she sent my spirit forth to learn what befell the Wanderer when he went up against the Ghosts." "And yet he said naught to me of this Meriamun. Say, Rei, is she fair?" "Of all women who live upon the earth she is the very fairest." "Of _all_, sayest thou, Rei? Look now, and say if Meriamun, whom thou dost serve, is fairer than Argive Helen, whom thou dost name the Hathor?" and she lifted her veil so that he saw the face that was beneath. Now when he heard that name, and looked upon the glory of her who is Beauty's self, Rei shrank back till he went nigh to falling on the earth. "Nay," he said, covering his eyes with his hand; "nay thou art fairer than she." "Then tell me," she said, letting fall her veil again, "and for thine own sake tell me true, why would Meriamun the Queen, whom thou servest, know the fate of him who came up against the Ghosts?" "Wouldst thou know, Daughter of Amen?" answered Rei; "then I will tell thee, for through thee alone she whom I serve and love can be saved from shame. Meriamun doth also love the man whom thou wouldst wed." Now when the Golden Helen heard these words, she pressed her hand against her bosom. "So I feared," she said, "even so. She loves him, and he comes not. Ah! if it be so! Now, Rei, I am tempted to pay this Queen of thine in her own craft, and send thy spirit forth to spy on her. Nay, that I will not do, for never shall Helen work by shameful guile or magic. Nay—but we will hence, Rei, we will go to the Palace where my rival dwells, there to learn the truth. Fear not, I will bring no ill on thee, nor on her whom thou servest. Lead me to the Palace, Rei. Lead me swiftly." Now the Wanderer slept in the arms of Meriamun, who wore the shape of Argive Helen. His golden harness was piled by the golden bed, and by the bed stood the black bow of Eurytus. The night drew on towards the dawning, when of a sudden the Bow awoke and sang, and thus it sang: "Wake! wake! though the arms of thy Love are about thee, yet dearer by far Than her kiss is the sound of the fight; And more sweet than her voice is the cry of the trumpet, and goodlier far Than her arms is the battle's delight: And what eyes are so bright as the sheen of the bronze when the sword is aloft, What breast is so fair as the shield? Or what garland of roses is dear as the helm, and what sleep is so soft As the sleep of slain men on the field?" Lo! the Snake that was twined about the form of her who wore the shape of Helen heard the magic song. It awoke, it arose. It twisted itself about the body of the Wanderer and the body of her who wore the shape of Helen, knitting them together in the bond of sin. It grew, and lifting its woman's head on high, it sang in answer. And thus it sang of doom: "Sleep! be at rest for an hour; as in death men believe they shall rest, But they wake! And thou too shalt awake! In the dark of the grave do they stir; but about them, on arms and on breast, Are the toils and the coils of the Snake: By the tree where the first lovers lay, did I watch as I watch where he lies, Love laid on the bosom of Lust!" Then the great bow answered the Snake, and it sang: "Of the tree where the first lovers sinned was I shapen; I bid thee arise, Thou Slayer that soon shall be dust." And the Snake sang reply: "Be thou silent, my Daughter of Death, be thou silent nor wake him from sleep, With the song and the sound of thy breath." The Bow heard the song of the Snake. The Death heard the song of the Sin, and again its thin music thrilled upon the air. For thus it sang: "Be thou silent, my Mother of Sin, for this watch it is given me to keep O'er the sleep of the dealer of Death!" Then the Snake sang: "Hush, hush, thou art young, and thou camest to birth when the making was done Of the world: I am older therein!" And the Bow answered: "But without me thy strength were as weakness, the prize of thy strength were unwon. I am _Death_, and thy Daughter, O Sin!" Now the song of the Snake and the song of the Bow sunk through the depths of sleep till they reached the Wanderer's ears. He sighed, he stretched out his mighty arms, he opened his eyes, and lo! they looked upon the eyes that bent above him, eyes of flame that lit the face of a woman—the face of Meriamun that wavered on a serpent's neck and suddenly was gone. He cried aloud with fear, and sprang from the couch. The faint light of the dawning crept through the casements and fell upon the bed. The faint light of the dawning fell upon the golden bed of Pharaoh's Queen, it gleamed upon the golden armour that was piled by the bed, and on the polished surface of the great black bow. It shone upon the face of her who lay in the bed. Then he remembered. Surely he had slept with the Golden Helen, who was his bride, and surely he had dreamed an evil dream, a dream of a snake that wore the face of Pharaoh's Queen. Yea, there lay the Golden Helen, won at last—the Golden Helen now made a wife to him. Now he mocked his own fears, and now he bent to wake her with a kiss. Faintly the new-born light crept and gathered on her face; ah! how beautiful she was in sleep. Nay, what was this? Whose face was this beneath his own? Not so had Helen looked in the shrine of her temple, when he tore the web. Not so had Helen seemed yonder in the pillared hall when she stood in the moonlit space—not so had she seemed when he sware the great oath to love her, and her alone. Whose beauty was it then that now he saw? By the Immortal Gods, it was the beauty of Meriamun; it was the glory of the Pharaoh's Queen! He stared upon her lovely sleeping face, while terror shook his soul. How could this be? What then had he done? Then light broke upon him. He looked around the chamber—there on the walls were the graven images of the Gods of Khem, there above the bed the names of Meneptah and Meriamun were written side by side in the sacred signs of Khem. Not with the Golden Helen had he slept, but with the wife of Pharaoh! To her he had sworn the oath, and she had worn the Helen's shape—and now the spell was broken. He stood amazed, and as he stood, again the great bow thrilled, warning him of Death to come. Then his strength came back to him, and he seized his armour and girt it about him piece by piece till he lifted the golden helm. It slipped from his hand; with a crash it fell upon the marble floor. With a crash it fell, and she who slept in the bed awoke with a cry, and sprang from the bed, her dark hair streaming down, her night-gear held to her by the golden snake with gemmy eyes that she must ever wear. But he caught his sword in his hand, and threw down the ivory sheath. BOOK III # CHAPTER I. THE VENGEANCE OF KURRI The Wanderer and Pharaoh's Queen stood face to face in the twilight of the chamber. They stood in silence, while bitter anger and burning shame poured into his heart and shone from his eyes. But the face of Meriamun was cold as the dead, and on it was a smile such as the carven sphinxes wear. Only her breast heaved tumultuously as though in triumph, and her limbs quivered like a shaken reed. At length she spoke. "Why lookest thou so strangely on me, my Lord and Love; and why hast thou girded thy harness on thy back? Scarcely doth glorious Ra creep from the breast of Nout, and wouldest thou leave thy bridal bed, Odysseus?" Still he spoke no word, but looked on her with burning eyes. Then she stretched out her arms and came towards him lover-like. And now he found his tongue again. "Get thee from me!" he said, in a voice low and terrible to hear; "get thee from me. Dare not to touch me, thou, who art a harlot and a witch, lest I forget my manhood and strike thee dead before me." "That thou canst not do, Odysseus," she answered soft, "for whatever else I be I am thy wife, and thou art bound to me for ever. What was the oath which thou didst swear not five short hours ago?" "I swore an oath indeed, but not to thee, Meriamun. I swore an oath to Argive Helen, whom I love, and I wake to find thee sleeping at my side, thee whom I hate." "Nay," she said, "to me thou didst swear the oath, Odysseus, for thou, of men the most guileful, hast at length been over-mastered in guile. To me, ‘Woman or Immortal,' thou didst swear ‘for now and for ever, for here and hereafter, _in whatever shape thou goest on the earth, by whatever name thou art known among men_.' Oh, be not wroth, my lord, but hearken. What matters the shape in which thou seest me? At the least am I not fair? And what is beauty but a casket that hides the gem within? 'Tis my love which thou hast won, my love that is immortal, and not the flesh that perishes. For I have loved thee, ay, and thou hast loved me from of old and in other lives than this, and I tell thee that we shall love again and yet again when thou art no more Odysseus of Ithaca, and when I am no more Meriamun, a Queen of Khem, but while we walk in other forms upon the world and are named by other names. I am thy doom, thou Wanderer, and wherever thou dost wander through the fields of Life and Death I shall be at thy side. For I am She of whom thou art, and thou art He of whom I am, and though the Gods have severed us, yet must we float together down the river of our lives till we find that sea of which the Spirit knows. Therefore put me not from thee and raise not my wrath against thee, for if I used my magic to bring thee to my arms, yet they are thy home." And once more she came towards him. Now the Wanderer drew an arrow from his quiver, and set the notch against his breast and the keen barb towards the breast of Meriamun. "Draw on," he said. "Thus will I take thee to my arms again. Hearken, Meriamun the witch—Meriamun the harlot: Pharaoh's wife and Queen of Khem. To thee I swore an oath indeed, and perchance because I suffered thy guile to overcome my wisdom, because I swore upon That which circles thee about, and not by the Red Star which gleams upon the Helen's breast, it may be that I shall lose her whom I love. So indeed the Queen of Heaven told me, yonder in sea-girt Ithaca, though to my sorrow I forgot her words. But if I lose her or if I win, know this, that I love her and her only, and I hate thee like the gates of hell. For thou hast tricked me with thy magic, thou hast stolen the shape of Beauty's self and dared to wear it, thou hast drawn a dreadful oath from me, and I have taken thee to wife. And more, thou art the Queen of Khem, thou art Pharaoh's wife, whom I swore to guard; but thou hast brought the last shame upon me, for now I am a man dishonoured, and I have sinned against the hospitable hearth, and the God of guests and hosts. And therefore I will do this. I will call together the guard of which I am chief, and tell them all thy shame, ay, and all my sorrow. I will shout it in the streets, I will publish it from the temple tops, and when Pharaoh comes again I will call it into his ear, till he and all who live in Khem know thee for what thou art, and see thee in thy naked shame." She hearkened, and her face grew terrible to see. A moment she stood as though in thought, one hand pressed to her brow and one upon her breast. Then she spoke. "Is that thy last word, Wanderer?" "It is my last word, Queen," he answered, and turned to go. Then with the hand that rested on her breast she rent her night robes and tore her perfumed hair. Past him she rushed towards the door, and as she ran sent scream on scream echoing up the painted walls. The curtains shook, the doors were burst asunder, and through them poured guards, eunuchs, and waiting-women. "Help," she cried, pointing to the Wanderer. "Help, help! oh, save mine honour from this evil man, this foreign thief whom Pharaoh set to guard me, and who guards me thus. This coward who dares to creep upon me—the Queen of Khem—even as I slept in Pharaoh's bed!" and she cast herself upon the floor and threw her hair about her, and lay there groaning and weeping as though in the last agony of shame. Now when the guards saw how the thing was, a great cry of rage and shame went up from them, and they rushed upon the Wanderer like wolves upon a stag at bay. But he leapt backwards to the side of the bed, and even as he leapt he set the arrow in his hand upon the string of the great black bow. Then he drew it to his ear. The bow-string sang, the arrow rushed forth, and he who stood before it got his death. Again the bow-string sang, again the arrow rushed, and lo! another man was sped. A third time he drew the bow and the soul of a third went down the ways of hell. Now they rolled back from him as the waters roll from a rock, for none dares face the shafts of death. They shot at him with spears and arrows from behind the shelter of the pillars, but none of these might harm him, for some fell from his mail and some he caught upon his buckler. Now among those who had run thither at the sound of the cries of Meriamun was that same Kurri, the miserable captain of the Sidonians, whose life the Wanderer had spared, and whom he had given to the Queen to be her jeweller. And when Kurri saw the Wanderer's plight, he thought in his greedy heart of those treasures that he had lost, and of how he who had been a captain and a rich merchant of Sidon was now nothing but a slave. Then a great desire came upon him to work the Wanderer ill, if so he might. Now all round the edge of the chamber were shadows, for the light was yet faint, and Kurri crept into the shadows, carrying a long spear in his hand, and that spear was hafted into the bronze point which had stood in the Wanderer's helm. Little did the Wanderer glance his way, for he watched the lances and arrows that flew towards him from the portal, so the end of it was that the Sidonian passed round the chamber unseen and climbed into the golden bed of Pharaoh on the further side of the bed. Now the Wanderer stood with his back to the bed and a spear's length from it, and in the silken hangings were fixed spears and arrows. Kurri's first thought was to stab him in the back, but this he did not; first, because he feared lest he should fail to pierce the golden harness and the Wanderer should turn and slay him; and again because he hoped that the Wanderer would be put to death by torment, and he was fain to have a hand in it, for after the fashion of the Sidonians he was skilled in the tormenting of men. Therefore he waited till presently the Wanderer let fall his buckler and drew the bow. But ere the arrow reached his ear Kurri had stretched out his spear from between the hangings and touched the string with the keen bronze, so that it burst asunder and the grey shaft fell upon the marble floor. Then, as the Wanderer cast down the bow and turned with a cry to spring on him who had cut the cord, for his eye had caught the sheen of the outstretched spear, Kurri lifted the covering of the purple web which lay upon the bed and deftly cast it over the hero's head so that he was inmeshed. Thereon the soldiers and the eunuchs took heart, seeing what had been done, and ere ever the Wanderer could clear himself from the covering and draw his sword, they rushed upon him. Cumbered as he was, they might not easily overcome him, but in the end they bore him down and held him fast, so that he could not stir so much as a finger. Then one cried aloud to Meriamun: "The Lion is trapped, O Queen! Say, shall we slay him?" But Meriamun, who had watched the fray through cover of her hands, shuddered and made answer: "Nay, but lock his tongue with a gag, strip his armour from him, and bind him with fetters of bronze, and make him fast to the dungeon walls with great chains of bronze. There shall he bide till Pharaoh come again; for against Pharaoh's honour he hath sinned and shamefully broken that oath he swore to him, and therefore shall Pharaoh make him die in such fashion as seems good to him." Now when Kurri heard these words, and saw the Wanderer's sorry plight, he bent over him and said: "It was I, Kurri the Sidonian, who cut the cord of thy great bow, Eperitus; with the spear-point that thou gavest back to me I cut it, I, whose folk thou didst slay and madest me a slave. And I will crave this boon of Pharaoh, that mine shall be the hand to torment thee night and day till at last thou diest, cursing the day that thou wast born." The Wanderer looked upon him and answered: "There thou liest, thou Sidonian dog, for this is written in thy face, that thou thyself shalt die within an hour and that strangely." Then Kurri shrank back scowling. But no more words might Odysseus speak, for at once they forced his jaws apart and gagged him with a gag of iron; and thereafter, stripping his harness from him, they bound him with fetters as the Queen had commanded. Now while they dealt thus with the Wanderer, Meriamun passed into another chamber and swiftly threw robes upon her to hide her disarray, clasping them round her with the golden girdle which now she must always wear. But her long hair she left unbound, nor did she wash the stain of tears from her face, for she was minded to seem shamed and woe-begone in the eyes of all men till Pharaoh came again. Rei and the Golden Helen passed through the streets of the city till they came to the Palace gates. And here they must wait till the dawn, for Rei, thinking to come thither with the Wanderer, who was Captain of the Guard, had not learned the word of entry. "Easy would it be for me to win my way through those great gates," said the Helen to Rei at her side, "but it is my counsel that we wait awhile. Perchance he whom we seek will come forth." So they entered the porch of the Temple of Osiris that looked towards the gates, and there they waited till the dawn gathered in the eastern sky. The Helen spoke no word, but Rei, watching her, knew that she was troubled at heart, though he might not see her face because of the veil she wore; for from time to time she sighed and the Red Star rose and fell upon her breast. At length the first arrow of the dawn fell upon the temple porch and she spoke. "Now let us enter," she said; "my heart forebodes evil indeed; but much of evil I have known, and where the Gods drive me there I must go." They came to the gates, and the man who watched them opened to the priest Rei and the veiled woman who went with him, though he marvelled at the beauty of the woman's shape. "Where are thy fellow-guards?" Rei asked of the soldier. "I know not," he answered, "but anon a great tumult rose in the Palace, and the Captain of the Gate went thither, leaving me only to guard the gate." "Hast thou seen the Lord Eperitus?" Rei asked again. "Nay, I have not seen him since supper-time last night, nor has he visited the guard as is his wont." Rei passed on wondering, and with him went Helen. As they trod the Palace they saw folk flying towards the hall of banquets that is near the Queen's chambers. Some bore arms in their hands and some bore none, but all fled east towards the hall of banquets, whence came a sound of shouting. Now they drew near the hall, and there at the further end, where the doors are that lead to the Queen's chambers, a great crowd was gathered. "Hide thee, lady—hide thee," said Rei to her who went with him, "for methinks that death is afoot here. See, here hangs a curtain, stand thou behind it while I learn what this tumult means." She stepped behind the curtain that hung between the pillars as Rei bade her, for now Helen's gentle breast was full of fears, and she was as one dazed. Even as she stepped one came flying down the hall who was of the servants of Rei the Priest. "Stay thou," Rei cried to him, "and tell me what happens yonder." "Ill deeds, Lord," said the servant. "Eperitus the Wanderer, whom Pharaoh made Captain of his Guard when he went forth to slay the rebel Apura—Eperitus hath laid hands on the Queen whom he was set to guard. But she fled from him, and her cries awoke the guard, and they fell upon him in Pharaoh's very chamber. Some he slew with shafts from the great black bow, but Kurri the Sidonian cut the string of the bow, and the Wanderer was borne down by many men. Now they have bound him and drag him to the dungeons, there to await judgment from the lips of Pharaoh. See, they bring him. I must begone on my errand to the keeper of the dungeons." The Golden Helen heard the shameful tale, and such sorrow took her that had she been mortal she had surely died. This then was the man whom she had chosen to love, this was he whom last night she should have wed. Once more the Gods had made a mock of her. So had it ever been, so should it ever be. Loveless she had lived all her life days, now she had learned to love once and for ever—and this was the fruit of it! She clasped the curtain lest she should sink to the earth, and hearing a sound looked forth. A multitude of men came down the hall. Before them walked ten soldiers bearing a litter on their shoulders. In the litter lay a man gagged and fettered with fetters of bronze so that he might not stir, and they bore him as men bear a stag from the chase or a wild bull to the sacrifice. It was the Wanderer's self, the Wanderer overcome at last, and he seemed so mighty even in his bonds, and his eyes shone with so fierce a light, that the crowd shrank from him as though in fear. Thus did Helen see her Love and Lord again as they bore him dishonoured to his dungeon cell. She saw, and a moan and a cry burst from her heart. A moan for her own woe and a cry for the shame and faithlessness of him whom she must love. "Oh, how fallen art thou, Odysseus, who wast of men the very first," she cried. He heard it and knew the voice of her who cried, and he gazed around. The great veins swelled upon his neck and forehead, and he struggled so fiercely that he fell from the litter to the ground. But he might not rise because of the fetters, nor speak because of the gag, so they lifted him again and bore him thence. And after him went all the multitude save Rei alone. For Rei was fallen in shame and grief because of the tale that he had heard and of the deed of darkness that the man he loved had done. For not yet did he remember and learn to doubt. So he stood hiding his eyes in his hand, and as he stood Helen came forth and touched him on the shoulder, saying: "Lead me hence, old man. Lead me back to my temple. My Love is lost indeed, but there where I found it I will abide till the Gods make their will clear to me." He bowed, saying no word, and following Helen stepped into the centre of the hall. There he stopped, indeed, for down it came the Queen, her hair streaming, all her robes disordered, and her face stained with tears. She was alone save for Kurri the Sidonian, who followed her, and she walked wildly as one distraught who knows not where she goes nor why. Helen saw her also. "Who is this royal lady that draws near?" she asked of Rei. "It is Meriamun the Queen; she whom the Wanderer hath brought to shame." "Stay then, I would speak with her." "Nay, nay," cried Rei. "She loves thee not, Lady, and will slay thee." "That cannot be," Helen answered. # CHAPTER II. THE COMING OF PHARAOH Presently, as she walked, Meriamun saw Rei the Priest and the veiled woman at his side, and she saw on the woman's breast a red jewel that burnt and glowed like a heart of fire. Then like fire burned the heart of Meriamun, for she knew that this was Argive Helen who stood before her, Helen whose shape she had stolen like a thief and with the mind of a thief. "Say," she cried to Rei, who bowed before her, "say, who is this woman?" Rei looked at the Queen with terrified eyes, and spake in a voice of warning. "This is that Goddess who dwells in the Temple of Hathor," he said. "Let her pass in peace, O Queen." "In peace she shall pass indeed," answered Meriamun. "What saidest thou, old dotard? That Goddess! Nay, no Goddess have we here, but an evil-working witch, who hath brought woes unnumbered upon Khem. Because of her, men die month by month till the vaults of the Temple of Hathor are full of her slain. Because of her it was that curse upon curse fell on the land—the curse of water turned to blood, of hail and of terrible darkness, ay, and the curse of the death of the firstborn among whom my own son died. And thou hast dared, Rei, to bring this witch here to my Palace halls! By Amen if I had not loved thee always thy life should pay the price. And thou," and she stretched her hand towards the Helen, "thou hast dared to come. It is well, no more shalt thou bring evil upon Khem. Hearken, slave," and she turned to Kurri the Sidonian; "draw that knife of thine and plunge it to the hilt in the breast of yonder woman. So shalt thou win freedom and all thy goods shall be given thee again." Then for the first time Helen spake: "I charge thee, Lady," she said in slow soft tones, "bid not thy servant do this deed, for though I have little will to bring evil upon men, yet I may not lightly be affronted." Now Kurri hung back doubtfully fingering his dagger. "Draw, knave, draw!" cried Meriamun, "and do my bidding, or presently thou shalt be slain with this same knife." When the Sidonian heard these words he cried aloud with fear, for he well knew that as the Queen said so it would be done to him. Instantly he drew the great knife and rushed upon the veiled woman. But as he came, Helen lifted her veil so that her eyes fell upon his eyes, and the brightness of their beauty was revealed to him; and when he saw her loveliness he stopped suddenly as one who is transfixed of a spear. Then madness came upon him, and with a cry he lifted the knife, and plunging it, not into her heart, but into his own, fell down dead. This then was the miserable end of Kurri the Sidonian, slain by the sight of the Beauty. "Thou seest, Lady," said Helen, turning from the dead Sidonian, "no man may harm me." For a moment the Queen stood astonished, while Rei the Priest muttered prayers to the protecting Gods. Then she cried: "Begone, thou living curse, begone! Wherefore art thou come here to work more woe in this house of woe and death?" "Fear not," answered the Helen, "presently I will begone and trouble thee no more. Thou askest why I am come hither. I came to see him who was my love, and whom but last night I should have wed, but whom the Gods have brought to shame unspeakable, Odysseus of Ithaca, Odysseus, Laertes' son. For this cause I came, and I have stayed to look upon the face of her whose beauty had power to drive the thought of me from the heart of Odysseus, and bring him, who of all men was the greatest hero and the foremost left alive, to do a dastard deed and make his mighty name a byword and a scorn. Knowest thou, Meriamun, that I find the matter strange, since if all else be false, yet is this true, that among women the fairest are the most strong. Thou art fair indeed, Meriamun, but judge if thou art more fair than Argive Helen," and she drew the veil from her face so that the splendour of her beauty shone out upon the Queen's dark loveliness. Thus for awhile they stood each facing each, and to Rei it seemed as though the spirits of Death and Life looked one on another, as though the darkness and the daylight stood in woman's shape before him. "Thou art fair indeed," said the Queen, "but in this, witch, has thy beauty failed to hold him whom thou wouldst wed from the most shameless sin. Little methinks can that man have loved thee who crept upon me like a thief to snatch my honour from me." Then Helen bethought her of what Rei had said, that Meriamun loved the Wanderer, and she spoke again: "Now it comes into my heart, Egyptian, that true and false are mixed in this tale of thine. Hard it is to believe that Odysseus of Ithaca could work such a coward deed as this, or, unbidden, seek to clasp thee to his heart. Moreover, I read in thine eyes that thou thyself dost love the man whom thou namest dastard. Nay, hold thy peace, look not so wildly on me whom thou canst not harm, but hearken. Whether thy tale be true or false I know not, who use no magic and learn those things only that the Gods reveal to me. But this at the least is true, that Odysseus, whom I should have wed, has looked on thee with eyes of love, even in that hour when I waited to be made his wife. Therefore the love that but two days agone bloomed in my heart, dies and withers; or if it does not, at least I cast it from me and tread its flowers beneath my feet. For this doom the Gods have laid upon me, who am of all women the most hapless, to live beloved but loveless through many years, and at the last to love and be betrayed. And now I go hence back to my temple shrine; but fear not, Meriamun, not for long shall I trouble thee or Khem, and men shall die no more because of my beauty, for I shall presently pass hence whither the Gods appoint; and this I say to thee—deal gently with that man who has betrayed my faith, for whatever he did was done for the love of thee. It is no mean thing to have won the heart of Odysseus of Ithaca out of the hand of Argive Helen. Fare thee well, Meriamun, who wouldst have slain me. May the Gods grant thee better days and more of joy than is given to Helen, who would look upon thy face no more." Thus she spake, and letting her veil fall turned to go. For awhile the Queen stood shamed to silence by these gentle words, that fell like dew upon the fires of her hate. But ere Helen had passed the length of a spear her fury burned up again. What, should she let this strange woman go—this woman who alone of all that breathed was more beautiful than she, by the aid of whose stolen beauty she alone had won her love, and for whose sake she had endured such bitter words of scorn? Nay, while Helen yet lived she could find nor joy nor sleep. But were Helen dead, then perchance all might yet be well, and the Wanderer yet be hers, for when the best is gone men turn them to the better. "Close the gates and bar them," she cried to the men, who now streamed back into the hall; and they ran to do her bidding, so that before Helen reached the Palace doors, they had been shut and the gates of bronze beyond had clashed like the shields of men. Now Helen drew near the doors. "Stay yon witch," cried the Queen to those who guarded them, and in wonder they poised their spears to bar the way to Helen. But she only lifted her veil and looked upon them. Then their arms fell from their hands and they stood amazed at the sight of beauty. "Open, I beseech you," said the Helen gently, and straightway they opened the doors and she passed through, followed by those who guarded them, by the Queen, and by Rei. But one man there was who did not see her beauty, and he strove in vain to hold back the doors and to clasp Helen as she passed. Now she drew near to the gates— "Shoot the witch!" cried Meriamun the Queen; "if she pass the gates, by my royal word I swear that ye shall die every man of you. Shoot her with arrows." Then three men drew their bows mightily. The string of the bow of one burst, and the bow was shattered, and the arrow of the second slipped as he drew it, and passing downwards pierced his foot; and the shaft of the third swerved ere it struck the breast of Helen, and sunk into the heart of that soldier who was next to the Queen, so that he fell down dead. It was the same man who had striven to hold to the doors and clasp the Helen. Then Helen turned and spoke: "Bid not thy guard to shoot again, Meriamun, lest the arrow find _thy_ heart, for, know this, no man may harm me;" and once more she lifted her veil, and speaking to those at the gates said: "Open, I beseech you, and let the Hathor pass." Now their weapons fell from their hands, and they looked upon her beauty, and they too made haste to open the gates. The great gates clanged upon their sockets and rolled back. She passed through them, and all who were there followed after her. But when they looked, lo! she had mingled with the people who went to and fro and was gone. Then Meriamun grew white with rage because Helen whom she hated had escaped her, and turning to those men who had opened the doors and those who had given passage of the gates, who yet stood looking on each other with dazed eyes, she doomed them to die. But Rei, kneeling before her, prayed for their lives: "Ill will come of it, O Queen!" he said, "as ill came to yonder Sidonian and to the soldier at thy feet, for none may work evil on this Goddess, or those who befriended the Goddess. Slay them not, O Queen, lest ill tidings follow on the deed!" Then the Queen turned on him madly: "Hearken thou, Rei!" she said; "speak thus again, and though I have loved thee and thou hast been the chief of the servants of Pharaoh, this I swear, that thou shalt die the first. Already the count is long between thee and me, for it was thou who didst bring yon accursed witch to my Palace. Now thou hast heard, and of this be sure, as I have spoken so I will do. Get thee gone—get thee from my sight, I say, lest I slay thee now. I take back thy honours, I strip thee of thy offices, I gather thy wealth into my treasury. Go forth a beggar, and let me see thy face no more!" Then Rei held his peace and fled, for it were better to stand before a lioness robbed of her whelps than before Meriamun in her rage. Thereon the gates were shut again, and the captain of the gates was dragged before the place where the Queen stood, and asking no mercy and taking little heed, for still his soul was filled with the beauty of Helen as a cup with wine, he suffered death, for his head was straightway smitten from him. Rei, watching from afar, groaned aloud, then turned and left the Palace, but the Queen called to the soldiers to slay on. Even as she called there came a cry of woe without the Palace gates. Men looked each on each. Again the cry rose and a voice without called, "Pharaoh is come again! Pharaoh is come again!" and there rose a sound of knocking at the gates. Now for that while Meriamun thought no more of slaying the men, but bade them open the gates. They opened, and a man entered clad in raiment stained with travel. His eyes were wild, his hair was dishevelled, and scarce could his face be known for the face of Pharaoh Meneptah, it was so marred with grief and fear. Pharaoh looked on the Queen—he looked upon the dead who lay at her feet, then laughed aloud: "What!" he cried, "more dead! Is there then no end to Death and the number of his slain? Nay, here he doth work but feebly. Perchance his arm grows weary. Come, where are _thy_ dead, Queen? Bring forth thy dead!" "What hath chanced, Meneptah, that thou speakest thus madly?" asked the Queen. "She whom they name the Hathor hath passed here, and these, and another who lies yonder, do but mark her path. Speak!" "Ay, I will speak, Queen. I have a merry tale to tell. Thou sayest that the Hathor hath passed here and these mark her footsteps. Well, I can cap thy story. He whom the Apura name Jahveh hath passed yonder by the Sea of Weeds, and there lie many, lie to mark His footsteps." "Thy host! Where is thy host?" cried the Queen. "At the least some are left." "Yes, Queen, _all_ are left—all—all—save myself alone. They drift to and fro in the Sea of Weeds—they lie by tens of thousands on its banks; the gulls tear their eyes, the lion of the desert rends their flesh; they lie unburied, their breath sighs in the sea gales, their blood sinks into the salt sands, and Osiris numbers them in the hosts of hell. Hearken! I came upon the tribes of the Apura by the banks of the Sea of Weeds. I came at eve, but I might not fall upon them because of a veil of darkness that spread between my armies and the hosts of the Apura. All night long through the veil of darkness, and through the shrieking of a great gale, I heard a sound as of the passing of a mighty people—the clangour of their arms, the voices of captains, the stamp of beasts, and the grinding of wheels. The morning came, and lo! before me the waters of the sea were built up as a wall on the right hand and the left, and between the walls of water was dry land, and the Apura passed between the walls. Then I cried to my captains to arise and follow swiftly, and they did my bidding. But the chariot wheels drew heavily in the sand, so that before all my host had entered between the waters, the Apura had passed the sea. Then of a sudden, as last of all I passed down into the path of the ocean bed, the great wind ceased, and as it ceased, lo! the walls of water that were on either side of the sea path fell together with noise like the noise of thunder. I turned my chariot wheels, and fled back, but my soldiers, my chariots, and my horses were swallowed; once more they were seen again on the crest of the black waves like a gleam of light upon a cloud, once a great cry arose to the heaven; then all was done and all was still, and of my hosts I alone was left alive of men." So Pharaoh spoke, and a great groan rose from those who hearkened. Only Meriamun spoke: "So shall things go with us while that False Hathor dwells in Khem." Now as she spoke thus, again there came a sound of knocking at the gates and a cry of "Open—a messenger! a messenger!" "Open!" said Meriamun, "though his tidings be ill, scarce can they match these that have been told." The gates were opened, and one came through them. His eyes stared wide in fear, so dry was his throat with haste and with the sand, that he stood speechless before them all. "Give him wine," cried Meriamun, and wine was brought. Then he drank, and he fell upon his knees before the Queen, for he knew not Pharaoh. "Thy tidings!" she cried. "Be swift with thy tidings." "Let the Queen pardon me," he said. "Let her not be wrath. These are my tidings. A mighty host marches towards the city of On, a host gathered from all lands of the peoples of the North, from the lands of the Tulisha, of the Shakalishu, of the Liku, and of the Shairdana. They march swiftly and raven, they lay the country waste, naught is left behind them save the smoke of burning towns, the flight of vultures, and the corpses of men." "Hast done?" said Meriamun. "Nay, O Queen! A great fleet sails with them up the eastern mouth of Sihor, and in it are twelve thousand chosen warriors of the Aquaiusha, the sons of those men who sacked Troy town." And now a great groan went up to heaven from the lips of those who hearkened. Only Meriamun spoke thus: "And yet the Apura are gone, for whose sake, ye say, came the plagues. They are fled, but the curse remains, and so shall things ever be with us while yon False Hathor dwells in Khem." # CHAPTER III. THE BED OF TORMENT It was nightfall, and Pharaoh sat at meat and Meriamun sat by him. The heart of Pharaoh was very heavy. He thought of that great army which now washed to and fro on the waters of the Sea of Weeds, of whose number he alone had lived to tell the tale. He thought also of the host of the Apura, who made a mock of him in the desert. But most of all he brooded on the tidings that the messenger had brought, tidings of the march of the barbarians and of the fleet of the Aquaiusha that sailed on the eastern stream of Sihor. All that day he had sat in his council chamber, and sent forth messengers east and north and south, bidding them gather the mercenaries from every town and in every city, men to make war against the foe, for here, in his white-walled city of Tanis, there were left but five thousand soldiers. And now, wearied with toil and war, he sat at meat, and as he sat bethought him of the man whom he had left to guard the Queen. "Where, then, is that great Wanderer, he who wore the golden harness?" he asked presently. "I have a tale to tell thee of the man," Meriamun answered slowly, "a tale which I have not told because of all the evil tidings that beat about our ears like sand in a desert wind." "Tell on," said Pharaoh. Then she bent towards him, whispering in his ear. As she whispered, the face of Pharaoh grew black as the night, and ere all the tale was done he sprang to his feet. "By Amen and by Ptah!" he cried, "here at least we have a foe whom we may conquer. Thou and I, Meriamun, my sister and my queen, are set as far each from each as the sky is set from the temple top, and little of love is there between us. Yet I will wipe away this blot upon thy honour, which also is a blot upon my own. Sleepless shall this Wanderer lie to-night, and sorry shall he go to-morrow, but to-morrow night he shall sleep indeed." Thereupon he clapped his hands, summoning the guard, and bade them pass to the dungeon where the Wanderer lay, and lead him thence to the place of punishment. He bade them also call the tormentors to make ready the instruments of their craft, and await him in the place of punishment. Then he sat for awhile, drinking sullenly, till one came to tell him that all was prepared. Then Pharaoh rose. "Comest thou with me?" he asked. "Nay," said Meriamun, "I would not look upon the man again; and this I charge thee. Go not down to him this night. Let him be found upon the bed of torment, and let the tormentors give him food and wine, for so he shall die more hardly. Then let them light the fires at his head and at his feet and leave him till the dawn alone in the place of torment. So he shall die a hundred deaths ere ever his death begins." "As thou wilt," answered Pharaoh. "Mete out thine own punishment. To-morrow when I have slept I will look upon his torment." And he spoke to his servants as she desired. The Wanderer lay on the bed of torment in the place of torment. They had taken the gag from his mouth, and given him food and wine as Pharaoh commanded. He ate and drank and his strength came back to him. Then they made fast his fetters, lit the braziers at his head and foot, and left him with mocking words. He lay upon the bed of stone and groaned in the bitterness of his heart. Here then was the end of his wanderings, and this was the breast of the Golden Helen in whose arms Aphrodite had sworn that he should lie. Oh, that he were free again and stood face to face with his foes, his harness on his back! Nay, it might not be, no mortal strength could burst these fetters, not even the strength of Odysseus, Laertes' son. Where now were those Gods whom he had served? Should he never again hear the clarion cry of Pallas? Why then had he turned him from Pallas and worshipped at the shrine of the false Idalian Queen? Thus it was that she kept her oaths; thus she repaid her votary. So he thought in the bitterness of his heart as he lay with closed eyes upon the bed of torment whence there was no escape, and groaned: "Would, Aphrodite, that I had never served thee, even for one little hour, then had my lot gone otherwise." Now he opened his eyes, and lo! a great glory rolled about the place of torment, and as he wondered at the glory, a voice spoke from its midst—the voice of the Idalian Aphrodite: "Blame me not, Odysseus," said the heavenly voice; "blame me not because thou art come to this pass. Thyself, son of Laertes, art to blame. What did I tell thee? Was it not that thou shouldst know the Golden Helen by the Red Star on her breast, the jewel whence fall the red drops fast, and by the Star alone? And did she not tell thee, also, that thou shouldst know her by the Star? Yet when one came to thee wearing no Star but girdled with a Snake, my words were all forgotten, thy desires led thee whither thou wouldst not go. Thou wast blinded by desire and couldst not discern the False from the True. Beauty has many shapes, now it is that of Helen, now that of Meriamun, each sees it as he desires it. But the Star is yet the Star, and the Snake is yet the Snake, and he who, bewildered of his lusts, swears by the Snake when he should have sworn by the Star, shall have the Snake for guerdon." She ceased, and the Wanderer spoke, groaning bitterly: "I have sinned, O Queen!" he said. "Is there then no forgiveness for my sin?" "Yea, there is forgiveness, Odysseus, but first there is punishment. This is thy fate. Never now, in this space of life, shalt thou be the lord of the Golden Helen. For thou hast sworn by the Snake, and his thou art, nor mayest thou reach the Star. Yet it still shines on. Through the mists of death it shall shine for thee, and when thou wakest again, behold, thine eyes shall see it fitfully. "And now, this for thy comfort. Here thou shalt not die, nor by torment, for thy death shall come to thee from the water as the dead seer foretold, but ere thou diest, once more thou shalt look upon the Golden Helen, and hear her words of love and know her kiss, though thine she shall not be. And learn that a great host marches upon the land of Khem, and with it sails a fleet of thine own people, the Achæans. Go down and meet them and take what comes, where the swords shine that smote Troy. And this fate is laid upon thee, that thou shalt do battle against thy own people, even against the sons of them by whose side thou didst fight beneath the walls of Ilios, and in that battle thou shalt find thy death, and in thy death, thou Wanderer, thou shalt find that which all men seek, the breast of the immortal Helen. For though here on earth she seems to live eternally, it is but the shadow of her beauty that men see—each as he desires it. In the halls of Death she dwells, and in the garden of Queen Persephone, and there she shall be won, for there no more is beauty guarded of Those that stand between men and joy, and there no more shall the Snake seem as the Star, and Sin have power to sever those that are one. Now make thy heart strong, Odysseus, and so do as thy wisdom tells thee. Farewell!" Thus the Goddess spoke from the cloud of glory, and lo! she was gone. But the heart of the Wanderer was filled with joy because he knew that the Helen was not lost to him for ever, and he no more feared the death of shame. Now it was midnight, and Pharaoh slept. But Meriamun the Queen slept not. She rose from her bed, she wrapped herself in a dark cloak that hid her face, and taking a lamp in her hand, glided through the empty halls till she came to a secret stair down which she passed. There was a gate at the foot of the stair, and a guard slept by it. She pushed him with her foot. He awoke and sprang towards her, but she held a signet before his eyes, an old ring of great Queen Taia, whereon a Hathor worshipped the sun. Then he bowed and opened the gate. She swept on through many passages, deep into the bowels of the earth, till she came to the door of a little chamber where a light shone. Men talked in the chamber, and she listened to their talk. They spoke much and laughed gleefully. Then she entered the doorway and looked upon them. They were six in number, evil-eyed men of Ethiopia, and seated in a circle. In the centre of the circle lay the waxen image of a man, and they were cutting it with knives and searing it with needles of iron and pincers made red-hot, and many instruments strange and dreadful to look upon. For these were the tormentors, and they spoke of those pains that to-morrow they should wreak upon the Wanderer, and practised them. But Meriamun, who loved him, shivered as she looked, and muttered thus beneath her breath: "This I promise you, black ministers of death, that in the same fashion ye shall die ere another night be sped." Then she passed into the chamber, holding the signet on high, and the tormentors fell upon their faces before her majesty. She passed between them, and as she went she stamped with her sandalled foot upon the waxen image and brake it. On the further side of the chamber was another passage, and this she followed till she reached a door of stone that stood ajar. Here she paused awhile, for from within the chamber there came a sound of singing, and the voice was the Wanderer's voice, and thus he sang: "Endure, my heart: not long shalt thou endure The shame, the smart; The good and ill are done; the end is sure; Endure, my heart! There stand two vessels by the golden throne Of Zeus on high, From these he scatters mirth and scatters moan, To men that die. And thou of many joys hast had thy share, Thy perfect part; Battle and love, and evil things and fair; Endure, my heart! Fight one last greatest battle under shield, Wage that war well: Then seek thy fellows in the shadowy field Of asphodel, There is the knightly Hector; there the men Who fought for Troy; Shall we not fight our battles o'er again? Were that not joy? Though no sun shines beyond the dusky west, Thy perfect part There shalt thou have of the unbroken rest; Endure, my heart!" Meriamun heard and wondered at this man's hardihood, and the greatness of his heart who could sing thus as he lay upon the bed of torment. Now she pushed the door open silently and passed in. The place where she stood was dreadful. It was shaped as a lofty vault, and all the walls were painted with the torments of those who pass down to Set after living wickedly on earth. In the walls were great rings of bronze, and chains and fetters of bronze, wherein the bones of men yet hung. In the centre of the vault there was a bed of stone on which the Wanderer was fastened with fetters. He was naked, save only for a waistcloth, and at his head and feet burned polished braziers that gave light to the vault, and shone upon the instruments of torment. Beyond the further braziers grinned the gate of Sekhet, that is shaped like a woman, and the chains wherein the victim is set for the last torment by fire, were hanging from the roof. Meriamun passed stealthily behind the head of the Wanderer, who might not see her because of the straitness of his bonds. Yet it seemed to her that he heard somewhat, for he ceased from singing and turned his ear to hearken. She stood awhile in silence looking on him she loved, who of all living men was the goodliest by far. Then at length he spoke craftily: "Who art thou?" he said. "If thou art of the number of the tormentors, begin thy work. I fear thee not, and no groan shall thy worst torture wring from these lips of mine. But I tell thee this, that ere I be three days dead, the Gods shall avenge me terribly, both on thee and those who sent thee. With fire and with sword they shall avenge me, for a great host gathers and draws nigh, a host of many nations gathered out of all lands, ay, and a fleet manned with the sons of my own people, of the Achæans terrible in war. They rush on like ravening wolves, and the land is black before them, but the land shall be stamped red behind their feet. Soon they shall give this city to the flames, the smoke of it shall go up to heaven, and the fires shall be quenched at last in the blood of its children—ay, in thy blood, thou who dost look on me." Hearing these words Meriamun bent forward to look on the face of the speaker and to see what was written there; and as she moved, her cloak slipped apart, showing the Snake's head with the eyes of flame that was set about her as a girdle. Fiercely they gleamed, and the semblance of them was shown faintly on the polished surface of the brazier wherein the fire burned at the Wanderer's feet. He saw it, and now he knew who stood behind him. "Say, Meriamun the Queen—Pharaoh's dishonoured wife," he said, "say, wherefore art thou come to look upon thy work? Nay, stand not behind me, stand where I may see thee. Fear not, I am strongly bound, nor may I lift a hand against thee." Then Meriamun, still speaking no word, but wondering much because he knew her ere his eyes fell upon her, passed round the bed of torment, and throwing down her cloak stood before him in her dark and royal loveliness. He looked upon her beauty, then spoke again: "Say, wherefore art thou come hither, Meriamun? Surely, with my ears I heard thee swear that I had wronged thee. Wouldst thou then look on him who wronged thee, or art thou come, perchance, to watch my torments, while thy slaves tear limb from limb, and quench yon fires with my blood? Oh, thou evil woman, thou hast worked woe on me indeed, and perchance canst work more woe now that I lie helpless here. But this I tell thee, that thy torments shall outnumber mine as the stars outnumber the earth. For here, and hereafter, thou shalt be parched with such a thirst of love as never may be quenched, and in many another land, and in many another time, thou shalt endure thine agony afresh. Again, and yet again, thou shalt clasp and conquer; again, and yet again, thou shalt let slip, and in the moment of triumph lose. By the Snake's head I swore my troth to thee, I, who should have sworn by the Star; and this I tell thee, Meriamun, that as the Star shall shine and be my beacon through the ages, so through the ages shall the Snake encircle thee and be thy doom!" "Hold!" said Meriamun, "pour no more bitter words upon me, who am distraught of love, and was maddened by thy scorn. Wouldst thou know then why I am come hither? For this cause I am come, to save thee from thy doom. Hearken, the time is short. It is true—though how thou knowest it I may not guess—it is true that the barbarians march on Khem, and with them sails a fleet laden with the warriors of thine own people. This also is true, Pharaoh has returned alone: and all his host is swallowed in the Sea of Weeds. And I, foolish that I am, I would save thee, Odysseus, thus: I will put it in the heart of Pharaoh to pardon thy great offence, and send thee forward against the foe; yes, I can do it. But this thou shalt swear to me, to be true to Pharaoh, and smite the barbarian host." "That I will swear," said the Wanderer, "ay, and keep the oath, though it is hard to do battle on my kin. Is that all thy message, Meriamun?" "Not all, Odysseus. One more thing must thou swear, or if thou swearest it not, here thou shalt surely die. Know this, she who in Khem is named the Hathor, but who perchance has other names, hath put thee from her because last night thou wast wed to me." "It may well be so," said the Wanderer. "She hath put thee from her, and thou—thou art bound to me by that which cannot be undone, and by an oath that may not be broken; in whatever shape I walk, or by whatever name I am known among men, still thou art bound to me, as I am bound to thee. This then thou shalt swear, that thou wilt tell naught of last night's tale to Pharaoh." "That I swear," said the Wanderer. "Also that if Pharaoh be gathered to Osiris, and it should chance that she who is named the Hathor pass with him to the Underworld, then that thou, Odysseus, wilt wed me, Meriamun, and be faithful to me for thy life days." Now the crafty Odysseus took counsel with his heart, and bethought him of the words of the Goddess. He saw that it was in the mind of Meriamun to slay Pharaoh and the Helen. But he cared nothing for the fate of Pharaoh, and knew well that Helen might not be harmed, and that though she change eternally, wearing now this shape, and now that, yet she dies only when the race of men is dead—then to be gathered to the number of the Gods. This he knew also, that now he must go forth on his last wandering, for Death should come upon him from the water. Therefore he answered readily: "That oath I swear also, Meriamun, and if I break it may I perish in shame and for ever." Now Meriamun heard, and knelt beside him, looking upon him with eyes of love. "It is well, Odysseus: perchance ere long I shall claim thy oath. Oh, think not so ill of me: if I have sinned, I have sinned from love of thee. Long years ago, Odysseus, thy shadow fell upon my heart and I clasped its emptiness. Now thou art come, and I, who pursued a shadow from sleep to sleep and dream to dream, saw thee a living man, and loved thee to my ruin. Then I tamed my pride and came to win thee to my heart, and the Gods set another shape upon me—so thou sayest—and in that shape, the shape of her thou seekest, thou didst make me wife to thee. Perchance she and I are _one_, Odysseus. At the least, not so readily had _I_ forsaken thee. Oh, when thou didst stand in thy might holding those dogs at bay till the Sidonian knave cut thy bowstring——" "What of him? Tell me, what of Kurri? This would I ask thee, Queen, that he be laid where I lie, and die the death to which I am doomed." "Gladly would I give thee the boon," she answered, "but thou askest too late. The False Hathor looked upon him, and he slew himself. Now I will away—the night wanes and Pharaoh must dream dreams ere dawn. Fare thee well, Odysseus. Thy bed is hard to-night, but soft is the couch of kings that waits thee," and she went forth from him. "Ay, Meriamun," said the Wanderer, looking after her. "Hard is my bed to-night, and soft is the couch of the kings of Men that waits me in the realms of Queen Persephone. But it is not thou who shalt share it. Hard is my bed to-night, harder shall thine be through all the nights of death that are to come when the Erinnyes work their will on folk forsworn." # CHAPTER IV. PHARAOH'S DREAM Pharaoh slept heavily in his place, for he was wearied with grief and toil. But Meriamun passed into the chamber, and standing at the foot of the golden bed, lifted up her hands and by her art called visions down on Pharaoh, false dreams through the Ivory Gate. So Pharaoh dreamed, and thus his vision went:— He dreamed that he slept in his bed, and that the statue of Ptah, the Creator, descended from the pedestal by the temple gate and came to him, towering over him like a giant. Then he dreamed that he awoke, and prostrating himself before the God, asked the meaning of his coming. Thereon the God spoke to him:— "Meneptah, my son, whom I love, hearken unto me. The Nine-bow barbarians overrun the ancient land of Khem; nine nations march up against Khem and lay it waste. Hearken unto me, my son, and I will give thee victory. Awake, awake from sloth, and I will give thee victory. Thou shalt hew down the Nine-bow barbarians as a countryman hews a rotting palm; they shall fall, and thou shalt spoil them. But hearken unto me, my son, thou shalt not thyself go up against them. Low in thy dungeon there lies a mighty chief, skilled in the warfare of the barbarians, a Wanderer who hath wandered far. Thou shalt release him from his bonds and set him over thy armies, and of the sin that he has sinned thou shalt take no heed. Awake, awake, Meneptah; with this bow which I give thee shalt thou smite the Nine-bow barbarians." Then Meriamun laid the bow of the Wanderer, even the black bow of Eurytus, on the bed beside Pharaoh, and passed thence to her own chamber, and the deceitful dream too passed away. Early in the morning, a waiting-woman came to the Queen saying that Pharaoh would speak with her. She went into the ante-chamber and found him there, and in his hand was the black bow of Eurytus. "Dost thou know this weapon?" he asked. "Yea, I know it," she answered; "and thou shouldst know it also, for surely it saved us from the fury of the people on the night of the death of the first-born. It is the bow of the Wanderer, who lies in the place of torment, and waits his doom because of the wrong he would have wrought upon me." "If he hath wronged thee, yet it is he who shall save Khem from the barbarians," said Pharaoh. "Listen now to the dream that I have dreamed," and he told her all the vision. "It is indeed evil that he who would have wrought such wickedness upon me should go forth honoured, the first of the host of Pharaoh," quoth Meriamun. "Yet as the God hath spoken, so let it be. Send now and bid them loose the man from the place of torment, and put his armour on him and bring him before thee." So Pharaoh went out, and the Wanderer was loosed from his bed of stone and clothed again in his golden harness, and came forth glorious to see, and stood before Pharaoh. But no arms were given him. Then Pharaoh told him all his dream, and why he caused him to be released from the grip of the tormentors. The Wanderer hearkened in silence, saying no word. "Now choose, thou Wanderer," said Pharaoh: "choose if thou wilt be borne back to the bed of torment, there to die beneath the hands of the tormentors, or if thou wilt go forth as the captain of my host to do battle with the Nine-bow barbarians who waste the land of Khem. It seems there is little faith in thine oaths, therefore I ask no more oaths from thee. But this I swear, that if thou art false to my trust, I will yet find means to bring thee back to that chamber whence thou wast led but now." Then the Wanderer spoke:— "Of that charge, Pharaoh, which is laid against me I will say nothing, though perchance if I stood upon my trial for the sin that is laid against me, I might find words to say. Thou askest no oath from me, and no oath I swear, yet I tell thee that if thou givest me ten thousand soldiers and a hundred chariots, I will smite these foes of thine so that they shall come no more to Khem, ay, though they be of my own people, yet will I smite them, and if I fail, then may those who go with me slay me and send me down to Hades." Thus he spoke, and as he spoke he searched the hall with his eyes. For he desired to see Rei the Priest, and charge him with a message to Helen. But he sought him in vain, for Rei had fled, and was in hiding from the anger of Meriamun. Then Pharaoh bade his officers take the Wanderer, and set him in a chariot and bear him to the city of On, where Pharaoh's host was gathering. Their charge was to watch him night and day with uplifted swords, and if he so much as turned his face from the foe towards Tanis, then they should slay him. But when the host of Pharaoh marched from On to do battle on the foe, then they should give the Wanderer his own sword and the great black bow, and obey him in everything. But if he turned his back upon the foe, then they should slay him; or if the host of Pharaoh were driven back by the foe, then they should slay him. The Wanderer heard, and smiled as a wolf smiles, but spoke no word. Thereon the great officers of Pharaoh took him and led him forth. They set him in a chariot, and with the chariot went a thousand horsemen; and soon Meriamun, watching from the walls of Tanis, saw the long line of desert dust that marked the passing of the Wanderer from the city which he should see no more. The Wanderer also looked back on Tanis with a heavy heart. There, far away, he could see the shrine of Hathor gleaming like crystal above the tawny flood of waters. And he must go down to death, leaving no word for Her who sat in the shrine and deemed him faithless and forsworn. Evil was the lot that the Gods had laid upon him, and bitter was his guerdon. His thoughts were sad enough while the chariot rolled towards the city of On, where the host of Pharaoh was gathering, and the thunder of the feet of horses echoed in his ears, when, as he pondered, it chanced that he looked up. There, on a knoll of sand before him, a bow-shot from the chariot, stood a camel, and on the camel a man sat as though he waited the coming of the host. Idly the Wanderer wondered who this might be, and, as he wondered, the man urged the camel towards the chariot, and, halting before it cried "Hold!" in a loud voice. "Who art thou?" cried the captain of the chariot, "who darest cry ‘hold' to the host of Pharaoh?" "I am one who have tidings of the barbarians," the man made answer from the camel. The Wanderer looked on him. He was wondrous little, withered and old; moreover, his skin was black as though with the heat of the sun, and his clothing was as a beggar's rags, though the trappings of the camel were of purple leather and bossed with silver. Again the Wanderer looked; he knew him not, and yet there was that in his face which seemed familiar. Now the captain of the chariot bade the driver halt the horses, and cried, "Draw near and tell thy tidings." "To none will I tell my tidings save to him who shall lead the host of Pharaoh. Let him come down from the chariot and speak with me." "That may not be," said the captain, for he was charged that the Wanderer should have speech with none. "As thou wilt," answered the aged man upon the camel; "go then, go to thy doom! thou art not the first who hath turned aside a messenger from the Gods." "I am minded to bid the soldiers shoot thee with arrows," cried the captain in anger. "So shall my wisdom sink in the sand with my blood, and be lost with my breath. Shoot on, thou fool." Now the captain was perplexed, for from the aspect of the man he deemed that he was sent by the Gods. He looked at the Wanderer, who took but little heed, or so it seemed. But in his crafty heart he knew that this was the best way to win speech with the man upon the camel. Then the captain took counsel with the captain of the horsemen, and in the end they said to the Wanderer: "Descend from the chariot, lord, and walk twelve paces forward, and there hold speech with the man. But if thou go one pace further, then we will shoot thee and the man with arrows." And this he cried out also to him who sat upon the camel. Then the man on the camel descended and walked twelve paces forward, and the Wanderer descended also from the chariot and walked twelve paces forward, but as one who heeds little what he does. Now the two stood face to face, but out of earshot of the host, who watched them with arrows set upon the strings. "Greetings, Odysseus of Ithaca, son of Laertes," he said who was clothed in the beggar's weeds. The Wanderer looked upon him hard, and knew him through his disguise. "Greeting, Rei the Priest, Commander of the Legion of Amen, Chief of the Treasury of Amen." "Rei the Priest I am indeed," he answered, "the rest I am no more, for Meriamun the Queen has stripped me of my wealth and offices, because of thee, thou Wanderer, and the Immortal whose love thou hast won, and by whom thou hast dealt so ill. Hearken! I learned by arts known to me of the dream of Pharaoh, and of thy sending forth to do battle with the barbarians. Then I disguised myself as thou seest, and took the swiftest camel in Tanis, and am come hither by another way to meet thee. Now I would ask thee one thing. How came it that thou didst play the Immortal false that night? Knowest thou that she waited for thee there by the pylon gate? Ay, there I found her and led her to the Palace, and for that I am stripped of my rank and goods by Meriamun, and now the Lady of Beauty is returned to her shrine, grieving bitterly for thy faithlessness; though how she passed thither I know not." "Methought I heard her voice as those knaves bore me to my dungeon," said the Wanderer. "And she deemed me faithless! Say, Rei, dost thou know the magic of Meriamun? Dost thou know how she won me to herself in the shape of Argive Helen?" And then, in as few words as might be, he told Rei how he had been led away by the magic of Meriamun, how he who should have sworn by the Star had sworn by the Snake. When Rei heard that the Wanderer had sworn by the Snake, he shuddered. "Now I know all," he said. "Fear not, thou Wanderer, not on thee shall all the evil fall, nor on that Immortal whom thou dost love; the Snake that beguiled thee shall avenge thee also." "Rei," the Wanderer said, "one thing I charge thee. I know that I go down to my death. Therefore I pray thee seek out her whom thou namest the Hathor and tell her all the tale of how I was betrayed. So shall I die happily. Tell her also that I crave her forgiveness and that I love her and her only." "This I will do if I may," Rei answered. "And now the soldiers murmur and I must be gone. Listen, the might of the Nine-bow barbarians rolls up the eastern branch of Sihor. But one day's march from On the mountains run down to the edge of the river, and those mountains are pierced by a rocky pass through which the foe will surely come. Set thou thy ambush there, Wanderer, there at Prosopis—so shalt thou smite them. Farewell. I will seek out the Hathor if in any way I can come at her, and tell her all. But of this I warn thee, the hour is big with Fate, and soon will spawn a monstrous birth. Strange visions of doom and death passed before mine eyes as I slept last night. Farewell!" Then he went back to the camel and climbed it, and passing round the army vanished swiftly in a cloud of dust. The Wanderer also went back to the host, where the captains murmured because of the halt, and mounted his chariot. But he would tell nothing of what the man had said to him, save that he was surely a messenger from the Under-world to instruct him in the waging of the war. Then the chariot and the horsemen passed on again, till they came to the city of On, and found the host of Pharaoh gathering in the great walled space that is before the Temple of Ra. And there they pitched their camp hard by the great obelisks that stand at the inner gate, which Rei the architect fashioned by Thebes, and the divine Rameses Miamun set up to the glory of Ra for ever. # CHAPTER V. THE VOICE OF THE DEAD When Meriamun the Queen had watched the chariot of the Wanderer till it was lost in the dust of the desert, she passed down from the Palace roof to the solitude of her chamber. Here she sat in her chamber till the darkness gathered, as the evil thoughts gathered in her heart, that was rent with love of him whom she had won but to lose. Things had gone ill with her, to little purpose she had sinned after such a fashion as may not be forgiven. Yet there was hope. He had sworn that he would wed her when Pharaoh was dead, and when Argive Helen had followed Pharaoh to the Shades. Should she shrink then from the deed of blood? Nay, from evil to evil she would go. She laid her hand upon the double-headed snake that wound her about, and spake into the gloom: "Osiris waits thee, Meneptah—Osiris waits thee! The Shades of those who have died for thy love, Helen, are gathering at the gates. It shall be done. Pharaoh, thou diest to-night. To-morrow night, thou Goddess Helen, shall all thy tale be told. _Man_ may not harm thee indeed, but shall fire refuse to kiss thy loveliness? Are there no _women's_ hands to light thy funeral pile?" Then she rose, and calling her ladies, was attired in her most splendid robes, and caused the uraeus crown to be set upon her head, the snake circlet of power on her brow, the snake girdle of wisdom at her heart. And now she hid somewhat in her breast, and passed to the ante-chamber, where the Princes gathered for the feast. Pharaoh looked up and saw her loveliness. So glorious she seemed in her royal beauty that his heart forgot its woes, and once again he loved her as he had done in years gone by, when she conquered him at the Game of Pieces, and he had cast his arms about her and she stabbed him. She saw the look of love grow on his heavy face, and all her gathered hate rose in her breast, though she smiled gently with her lips and spake him fair. They sat at the feast and Pharaoh drank. And ever as he drank she smiled upon him with her dark eyes and spake him words of gentlest meaning, till at length there was nothing he desired more than that they should be at one again. Now the feast was done. They sat in the ante-chamber, for all were gone save Meneptah and Meriamun. Then he came to her and took her hand, looking into her eyes, nor did she say him nay. There was a lute lying on a golden table, and there too, as it chanced, was a board for the Game of Pieces, with the dice, and the pieces themselves wrought in gold. Pharaoh took up the gold king from the board and toyed with it in his hand. "Meriamun," he said, "for these five years we have been apart, thou and I. Thy love I have lost, as a game is lost for one false move, or one throw of the dice; and our child is dead and our armies are scattered, and the barbarians come like flies when Sihor stirs within his banks. Love only is left to us, Meriamun." She looked at him not unkindly, as if sorrow and wrong had softened her heart also, but she did not speak. "Can dead Love waken, Meriamun, and can angry Love forgive?" She had lifted the lute and her fingers touched listlessly on the cords. "Nay, I know not," she said; "who knows? How did Pentaur sing of Love's renewal, Pentaur the glorious minstrel of our father, Rameses Miamun?" He laid the gold king on the board, and began listlessly to cast the dice. He threw the "Hathor" as it chanced, the lucky cast, two sixes, and a thought of better fortune came to him. "How did the song run, Meriamun? It is many a year since I heard thee sing." She touched the lute lowly and sweetly, and then she sang. Her thoughts were of the Wanderer, but the King deemed that she thought of himself. O joy of Love's renewing, Could Love be born again; Relenting for thy rueing, And pitying my pain: O joy of Love's awaking, Could Love arise from sleep, Forgiving our forsaking The fields we would not reap! Fleet, fleet we fly, pursuing The Love that fled amain, But will he list our wooing, Or call we but in vain? Ah! vain is all our wooing, And all our prayers are vain, Love listeth not our suing, Love will not wake again. "Will he not waken again?" said Pharaoh. "If two pray together, will Love refuse their prayer?" "It might be so," she said, "if two prayed together; for if they prayed, he would have heard already!" "Meriamun," said the Pharaoh eagerly, for he thought her heart was moved by pity and sorrow, "once thou didst win my crown at the Pieces, wilt thou play me for thy love?" She thought for one moment, and then she said: "Yes, I will play thee, my Lord, but my hand has lost its cunning, and it may well be that Meriamun shall lose again, as she has lost all. Let me set the Pieces, and bring wine for my lord." She set the Pieces, and crossing the room, she lifted a great cup of wine, and put it by Pharaoh's hand. But he was so intent on the game that he did not drink. He took the field, he moved, she replied, and so the game went between them, in the dark fragrant chamber where the lamp burned, and the Queen's eyes shone in the night. This way and that went the game, till she lost, and he swept the board. Then in triumph he drained the poisoned cup of wine, and cried, "Pharaoh is dead!" "Pharaoh is dead!" answered Meriamun, gazing into his eyes. "What is that look in thine eyes, Meriamun, what is that look in thine eyes?" And the King grew pale as the dead, for he had seen that look before—when Meriamun slew Hataska. "Pharaoh is dead!" she shrilled in the tone of women who wail the dirges. "Pharaoh, great Pharaoh is dead! Ere a man may count a hundred thy days are numbered. Strange! but to-morrow, Meneptah, shalt thou sit where Hataska sat, dead on the knees of Death, an Osirian in the lap of the Osiris. Die, Pharaoh, die! But while thy diest, hearken. There is one I love, the Wanderer who leads thy hosts. His love I stole by arts known to me, and because I stole it he would have shamed me, and I accused him falsely in the ears of men. But he comes again, and, so sure as thou shalt sit on the knees of Osiris, so surely shall he sit upon thy throne, Pharaoh. For Pharaoh is dead!" He heard. He gathered his last strength. He rose and staggered towards her, striking at the air. Slowly she drew away, while he followed her, awful to see. At length he stood still, he threw up his hands, and fell dead. Then Meriamun drew near and looked at him strangely. "Behold the end of Pharaoh," she said. "That then was a king, upon whose breath the lives of peoples hung like a poised feather. Well, let him go! Earth can spare him, and Death is but the richer by a weary fool. 'Tis done, and well done! Would that to-morrow's task were also done—and that Helen lay as Pharaoh lies. So—rinse the cup—and now to sleep—if sleep will come. Ah, where hath sleep flown of late? To-morrow they'll find him dead. Well, what of it? So do kings ofttimes die. There, I will be going; never were his eyes so large and so unlovely!" Now the light of morning gathered again on all the temple tops, and men rose from sleep to go about their labours. Meriamun watched it grow as she lay sleepless in her golden bed, waiting for the cry that presently should ring along the Palace walls. Hark! What was that? The sound of swinging doors, the rush of running feet. And now it came—long and shrill it rose. "Pharaoh is dead! Awake! Awake, ye sleepers! Awake! awake! and look upon that which has come about. Pharaoh is dead! Pharaoh is dead!" Then Meriamun arose, and followed by the ladies, rushed from her chamber. "Who dreams so evilly?" she said. "Who dreams and cries aloud in his haunted sleep?" "O Queen, it is no dream," said one. "Pass into the ante-chamber and see. There lies Pharaoh dead, and with no wound upon him to tell the manner of his end." Then Meriamun cried aloud with a great cry, and threw her hair about her face, while tears fell from her dark eyes. She passed into the chamber, and there, fallen on his back and cold, lay Pharaoh in his royal robes. Awhile the Queen looked upon him as one who is dumb with grief. Then she lifted up her voice and cried: "Still is the curse heavy upon Khem and the people of Khem. Pharaoh lies dead; yea, he is dead who has no wound, and this I say, that he is slain of the witchcraft of her whom men name the Hathor. Oh, my Lord, my Lord!" and kneeling, she laid her hand upon his breast; "by this dead heart of thine I swear that I will wreak thy murder on her who wrought it. Lift him up! Lift up this poor clay, that was the first of kings. Clothe him in the robes of death, and set him on the knees of Osiris in the Temple of Osiris. Then go forth through the city and call out this, the Queen's command; call it from street to street. This is the Queen's command, that ‘every woman in Tanis who has lost son, or husband, or brother, or kin or lover, through the witchcraft of the False Hathor, or by the plagues that she hath wrought on Khem, or in the war with the Apura, whom she caused to fly from Khem, do meet me at sundown in the Temple of Osiris before the face of the God and of dead Pharaoh's Majesty.'" So they took Meneptah the Osirian, and wrapping him in the robes of death, bore him to the knees of Osiris, where he should sit a day and a night. And the messengers of Meriamun went forth summoning the women of the city to meet her at sunset in the Temple of Osiris. Moreover, Meriamun sent out slaves by tens and by twenties to the number of two thousand, bidding them gather up all the wood that was in Tanis, and all the oil and the bitumen, and bundles of reeds by hundreds such as are used for the thatching of houses, and lay them in piles and stacks in a certain courtyard near the Temple of Hathor. This they did, and so the day wore on, while the women wailed about the streets because of the death of Pharaoh. Now it chanced that the camel of Rei the Priest fell down from weariness as it journeyed swiftly back to Tanis. But Rei sped forward on foot, and came to the gates of Tanis, sorely wearied, towards the evening of that day. When he heard the wailing of the women, he asked of a passer-by what new evil had fallen upon Khem, and learned the death of Pharaoh. Then Rei knew by whose hand Pharaoh was dead, and grieved at heart, because she whom he had served and loved—Meriamun the moon-child—was a murderess. At first he was minded to go up before the Queen and put her to an open shame, and then take his death at her hands; but when he heard that Meriamun had summoned all the women of Tanis to meet her in the Temple of Osiris, he had another thought. Hurrying to that place where he hid in the city, he ate and drank. Then he put off his beggar's rags, and robed himself afresh, and over all drew the garment of an aged crone, for this was told him, that no man should be suffered to enter the Temple. Now the day was dying, and already the western sky was red, and he hurried forth and mingled with the stream of women who passed towards the Temple gates. "Who then slew Pharaoh?" asked one; "and why does the Queen summon us to meet her?" "Pharaoh is slain by the witchcraft of the False Hathor," answered another; "and the Queen summons us that we may take counsel how to be rid of the Hathor." "Tell not of the accursed Hathor," said a third; "my husband and my brother are dead at her hands, and my son died in the death of the first-born that she called down on Khem. Ah, if I could but see her rent limb from limb I should seek Osiris happily." "Some there be," quoth a fourth, "who say that not the Hathor, but the Gods of those Apura brought the woes on Khem, and some that Pharaoh was slain by the Queen's own hand, because of the love she bears to that great Wanderer who came here a while ago." "Thou fool," answered the first; "how can the Queen love one who would have wrought outrage on her?" "Such things have been," said the fourth woman; "perchance he wrought no outrage, perchance she beguiled him as women may. Yes, yes, such things have been. I am old, and I have seen such things." "Yea, thou art old," said the first. "Thou hast no child, no husband, no father, no lover, and no brother. Thou hast lost none who are dear to thee through the magic of the Hathor. Speak one more such slander on the Queen, and we will fall upon thee and tear thy lying tongue from its roots." "Hush," said the second woman, "here are the Temple gates. By Isis did any ever see such a multitude of women, and never a man to cheer them, a dreary sight, indeed! Come, push on, push on or we shall find no place. Yea, thou soldier—we are women, all women, have no fear. No need to bare our breasts, look at our eyes blind with weeping over the dead. Push on! push on!" So they passed by the guards and into the gates of the Temple, and with them went Rei unheeded. Already it was well-nigh filled with women. Although the sun was not yet dead, torches were set about to lighten the gloom, and by them Rei saw that the curtains before the Shrine were drawn. Presently the Temple was full to overflowing, the doors were shut and barred, and a voice from behind the veil cried: "_Silence!_" Then all the multitude of women were silent, and the light of the torches flared strangely upon their shifting upturned faces, as fires flare over the white sea-foam. Now the curtains of the Shrine of Osiris were drawn aside slowly, and the light that burned upon the altar streamed out between them. It fell upon the foremost ranks of women, it fell upon the polished statue of the Osiris. On the knees of Osiris sat the body of Pharaoh Meneptah, his head resting against the breast of the God. Pharaoh was wrapped about with winding clothes like the marble statue of the God, and in his cold hands were bound the crook, the sceptre, and the scourge, as the crook, the sceptre, and the scourge were placed in the hands of the effigy of the God. As was the statue of the God, so was the body of Pharaoh that sat upon his knees, and cold and awful was the face of Osiris, and cold and awful was the face of Meneptah the Osirian. At the side, and somewhat in front of the statue of the God, a throne was placed of blackest marble, and on the throne sat Meriamun the Queen. She was glorious to look on. She wore the royal robes of Khem, the double-crown of Khem fashioned of gold, and wreathed with the uraeus snakes, was set upon her head; in her hand was the crystal cross of Life, and between her mantle's purple folds gleamed the eyes of her snake girdle. She sat awhile in silence speaking no word, and all the women wondered at her glory and at dead Pharaoh's awfulness. Then at length she spoke, low indeed, but so clearly that every word reached the limits of the Temple hall. "Women of Tanis, hear me, the Queen. Let each search the face of each, and if there be any man among your multitude, let him be dragged forth and torn limb from limb, for in this matter no man may hear our counsels, lest following his madness he betray them." Now every woman looked upon her neighbour, and she who was next to Rei looked hard upon him so that he trembled for his life. But he crouched into the shadow and stared back on her boldly as though he doubted if she were indeed a woman, and said no word. When all had looked, and no man had been found, Meriamun spoke again. "Hearken, women of Tanis, hearken to your sister and your Queen. Woe upon woe is fallen on the head of Khem. Plague upon plague hath smitten the ancient land. Our first-born are dead, our slaves have spoiled us and fled away, our hosts have been swallowed in the Sea of Weeds, and barbarians swarm along our shores like locusts. Is it not so, women of Tanis?" "It is so, O Queen," they answered, as with one voice. "A strange evil hath fallen on the head of Khem. A false Goddess is come to dwell within the land; her sorceries are great in the land. Month by month men go up to look upon her deadly beauty, and month by month they are slain of her sorceries. She takes the husband from his marriage bed; she draws the lover from her who waits to be a bride; the slave flies to her from the household of his lord; the priests flock to her from the altars of the Gods—ay, the very priests of Isis flock forsworn from the altars of Isis. All look upon her witch-beauty, and to each she shows an altered loveliness, and to all she gives one guerdon—Death! Is it not so, women of Tanis?" "Alas! alas! it is so, O Queen," answered the women as with one voice. "Woes are fallen on you and Khem, my sisters, but on me most of all are woes fallen. My people have been slain, my land—the land I love—has been laid waste with plagues; my child, the only one, is dead in the great death; hands have been laid on me, the Queen of Khem. Think on it, ye who are women! My slaves are fled, my armies have been swallowed in the sea; and last, O my sisters, my consort, my beloved lord, mighty Pharaoh, son of great Rameses Miamun, hath been taken from me! Look! look! ye who are wives, look on him who was your King and my most beloved lord. There he sits, and all my tears and all my prayers may not summon one single answering sigh from that stilled heart. The curse hath fallen on him also. He too hath been smitten silently with everlasting silence. Look! look! ye who are wives, and weep with me, ye who are left widowed." Now the women looked, and a great groan went up from all that multitude, while Meriamun hid her face with the hollow of her hand. Then again she spoke. "I have besought the Gods, my sisters; I have dared to call down the majesty of the Gods, who speak through the lips of the dead, and I have learnt whence these woes come. And this I have won by my prayers, that ye who suffer as I suffer shall learn whence they come, not from my mortal lips, indeed, but from the lips of the dead that speak with the voice of the Gods." Then, while the women trembled, she turned to the body of Pharaoh, which was set upon the knees of Osiris, and spoke to it. "Dead Pharaoh! great Osirian, ruling in the Underworld, hearken to me now! Hearken to me now, thou Osiris, Lord of the West, first of the hosts of Death. Hearken to me, Osiris, and be manifest through the lips of him who was great on earth. Speak through his cold lips, speak with mortal accents, that these people may hear and understand. By the spirit that is in me, who am yet a dweller on the earth, I charge thee speak. Who is the source of the woes of Khem? Say, Lord of the dead, who are the living evermore?" Now the flame on the altar died away, and dreadful silence fell upon the Temple, gloom fell upon the Shrine, and through the gloom the golden crown of Meriamun, and the cold statue of the Osiris, and the white face of dead Meneptah gleamed faint and ghost-like. Then suddenly the flame of the altar flared as flares the summer lightning. It flared full on the face of the dead, and lo! the lips of the dead moved, and from them came the sound of mortal speech. They spake in awful accents, and thus they spoke: "_She who was the curse of Achæans, she who was the doom of Ilios; she who sits in the Temple of Hathor, the Fate of man, who may not be harmed of Man, she calls down the wrath of the Gods on Khem. It is spoken!_" The echo of the awful words died away in the silence. Then fear took hold of the multitude of women because of the words of the Dead, and some fell upon their faces, and some covered their eyes with their hands. "Arise, my sisters!" cried the voice of Meriamun. "Ye have heard not from my lips, but from the lips of the dead. Arise, and let us forth to the Temple of the Hathor. Ye have heard who is the fountain of our woes; let us forth and seal it at its source for ever. Of men she may not be harmed who is the fate of men, from men we ask no help, for all men are her slaves, and for her beauty's sake all men forsake us. But we will play the part of men. Our women's milk shall freeze within our breasts, we will dip our tender hands in blood, ay, scourged by a thousand wrongs we will forget our gentleness, and tear this foul fairness from its home. We will burn the Hathor's Shrine with fire, her priests shall perish at the altar, and the beauty of the false Goddess shall melt like wax in the furnace of our hate. Say, will ye follow me, my sisters, and wreak our shames upon the Shameful One, our woes upon the Spring of Woe, our dead upon their murderess?" She ceased, and then from every woman's throat within the great Temple there went up a cry of rage, fierce and shrill. "We will, Meriamun, we will!" they screamed. "To the Hathor! Lead us to the Hathor's Shrine! Bring fire! Bring fire! Lead us to the Hathor's Shrine!" # CHAPTER VI. THE BURNING OF THE SHRINE Rei the Priest saw and heard. Then turning, he stole away through the maddened throng of women and fled with what speed he might from the Temple. His heart was filled with fear and shame, for he knew full well that Pharaoh was dead, not at the hand of Hathor, but at the hand of Meriamun the Queen, whom he had loved. He knew well that dead Meneptah spake not with the voice of the dread Gods, but with the voice of the magic of Meriamun, who, of all women that have been since the days of Taia, was the most skilled in evil magic, the lore of the Snake. He knew also that Meriamun would slay Helen for the same cause wherefore she had slain Pharaoh, that she might win the Wanderer to her arms. While Helen lived he was not to be won away. Now Rei was a righteous man, loving the Gods and good, and hating evil, and his heart burned because of the wickedness of the woman that once he cherished. This he swore that he would do, if time were left to him. He would warn the Helen so that she might fly the fire if so she willed, ay, and would tell her all the wickedness of Meriamun her foe. His old feet stumbled over each other as he fled till he came to the gates of the Temple of the Hathor, and knocked upon the gates. "What wouldst thou, old crone?" asked the priest who sat in the gates. "I would be led to the presence of the Hathor," he answered. "No woman hath passed up to look upon the Hathor," said the priest. "That women do not seek." Then Rei made a secret sign, and wondering greatly that a woman should have the inner wisdom, the priest let him pass. He came to the second gates. "What wouldst thou?" said the priest who sat in the gates. "I would go up into the presence of the Hathor." "No woman hath willed to look upon the Hathor," said the priest. Then again Rei made the secret sign, but still the priest wavered. "Let me pass, thou foolish warden," said Rei. "I am a messenger from the Gods." "If thou art a mortal messenger, woman, thou goest to thy doom," said the priest. "On my head be it," answered Rei, and the priest let him pass wondering. Now he stood before the doors of the Alabaster Shrine that glowed with the light within. Still Rei paused not, only uttering a prayer that he might be saved from the unseen swords; he lifted the latch of bronze, and entered fearfully. But none fell upon him, nor was he smitten of invisible spears. Before him swung the curtains of Tyrian web, but no sound of singing came from behind the curtains. All was silence in the Shrine. He passed between the curtains and looked up the Sanctuary. It was lit with many hanging lamps, and by their light he saw the Goddess Helen, seated between the pillars of her loom. But she wove no more at the loom. The web of fate was rent by the Wanderer's hands, and lay on either side, a shining cloth of gold. The Goddess Helen sat songless in her lonely Shrine, and on her breast gleamed the Red Star of light that wept the blood of men. Her head rested on her hand, and her heavenly eyes of blue gazed emptily down the empty Shrine. Rei drew near trembling, though she seemed to see him not at all, and at last flung himself upon the earth before her. Now at length she saw him, and spoke in her voice of music. "Who art thou that dares to break in upon my sorrow?" she said wonderingly. "Art thou indeed a woman come to look on one who by the will of the Gods is each woman's deadliest foe?" Then Rei raised himself saying: "No woman am I, immortal Lady. I am Rei, that aged priest who met thee two nights gone by the pylon gates, and led thee to the Palace of Pharaoh. And I have dared to seek thy Shrine to tell thee that thou art in danger at the hands of Meriamun the Queen, and also to give thee a certain message with which I am charged by him who is named the Wanderer." Now Helen looked upon him wonderingly and spoke: "Didst thou not but now name me immortal, Rei? How then can I be in danger, who am immortal, and not to be harmed of men? Death hath no part in me. Speak not to me of dangers, who, alas! can never die till everything is done; but tell me of that faithless Wanderer, whom I must love with all the womanhood that shuts my spirit in, and all my spirit that is clothed in womanhood. For, Rei, the Gods, withholding Death, have in wrath cursed me with love to torment my deathlessness. Oh, when I saw him standing where now thou standest, my soul knew its other part, and I learned that the curse I give to others had fallen on myself and him." "Yet was this Wanderer not altogether faithless to thee, Lady," said Rei. "Listen, and I will tell thee all." "Speak on," she said. "Oh, speak, and speak swiftly." Then Rei told Helen all that tale which the Wanderer had charged him to deliver in her ear, and keep no word back. He told her how Meriamun had beguiled Eperitus in her shape; how he had fallen in the snare and sworn by the Snake, he who should have sworn by the Star. He told her how the Wanderer had learned the truth, and learning it, had cursed the witch who wronged him; how he had been overcome by the guards and borne to the bed of torment; how he had been freed by the craft of Meriamun; and how he had gone forth to lead the host of Khem. All this he told her swiftly, hiding naught, while she listened with eager ears. "Truly," she said, when all was told, "truly thou art a happy messenger. Now I forgive him all. Yet has he sworn by the Snake who should have sworn by the Star, and because of his fault never in this space of life shall Helen call him Lord. Yet will we follow him, Rei. Hark! what is that? Again it comes, that long shrill cry as of ghosts broke loose from Hades." "It is the Queen," quoth Rei; "the Queen who with all women of Tanis comes hither to burn thee in thy Shrine. She hath slain Pharaoh, and now she would slay thee also, and so win the Wanderer to her arms. Fly, Lady! Fly!" "Nay, I fly not," said Helen. "Let her come. But do thou, Rei, pass through the Temple gates and mingle with the crowd. There thou shalt await my coming, and when I come, draw near, fearing nothing; and together we will pass down the path of the Wanderer in such fashion as I shall show thee. Go! go swiftly, and bid those who minister to me pass out with thee." Then Rei turned and fled. Without the doors of the Shrine many priests were gathered. "Fly! the women of Tanis are upon you!" he cried. "I charge ye to fly!" "This old crone is mad," quoth one. "We watch the Hathor, and, come all the women of the world, we fly not." "Ye are mad indeed," said Rei, and sped on. He passed the gates, the gates clashed behind him. He won the outer space, and hiding in the shadows of the Temple walls, looked forth. The night was dark, but from every side a thousand lights poured down towards the Shrine. On they came like lanterns on the waters of Sihor at the night of the feast of lanterns. Now he could see their host. It was the host of the women of Tanis, and every woman bore a lighted torch. They came by tens, by hundreds, and by thousands, and before them was Meriamun, seated in a golden chariot, and with them were asses, oxen, and camels, laden with bitumen, wood, and reeds. Now they gained the gates, and now they crashed them in with battering trees of palm. The gates fell, the women poured through them. At their head went Meriamun the Queen. Bidding certain of them stay by her chariot she passed through, and standing at the inner gates called aloud to the priests to throw them wide. "Who art thou who darest come up with fire against the holy Temple of the Hathor?" asked the guardian of the gates. "I am Meriamun, the Queen of Khem," she answered, "come with the women of Tanis to slay the Witch thou guardest. Throw the gates wide, or die with the Witch." "If indeed thou art the Queen," answered the priest, "here there sits a greater Queen than thou. Go back! Go back, Meriamun, who art not afraid to offer violence to the immortal Gods. Go back! lest the curse smite thee." "Draw on! draw on! ye women," cried Meriamun; "draw on, smite down the gates, and tear these wicked ones limb from limb." Then the women screamed aloud and battered on the gates with trees, so that they fell. They fell and the women rushed in madly. They seized the priests of Hathor and tore them limb from limb as dogs tear a wolf. Now the Shrine stood before them. "Touch not the doors," cried Meriamun. "Bring fire and burn the Shrine with her who dwells therein. Touch not the doors, look not in the Witch's face, but burn her where she is with fire." Then the women brought the reeds and the wood, and piled them around the Shrine to twice the height of a man. They brought ladders also, and piled the fuel upon the roof of the Shrine till all was covered. And they poured pitch over the fuel, and then at the word of Meriamun they cast torches on the pitch and drew back screaming. For a moment the torches smouldered, then suddenly on every side great tongues of flame leapt up to heaven. Now the Shrine was wrapped in fire, and yet they cast fuel on it till none might draw near because of the heat. Now it burned as a furnace burns, and now the fire reached the fuel on the roof. It caught, and the Shrine was but a sheet of raging flame that lit the white-walled city, and the broad face of the waters, as the sun lights the lands. The alabaster walls of the Shrine turned whiter yet with heat: they cracked and split till the fabric tottered to its fall. "Now there is surely an end of the Witch," cried Meriamun, and the women screamed an answer to her. But even as they screamed a great tongue of flame shot out through the molten doors, ten fathoms length and more, it shot like a spear of fire. Full in its path stood a group of the burners. It struck them, it licked them up, and lo! they fell in blackened heaps upon the ground. Rei looked down the path of the flame. There, in the doorway whence it had issued, stood the Golden Hathor, wrapped round with fire, and the molten metal of the doors crept about her feet. There she stood in the heart of the fire, but there was no stain of fire on her, nor on her white robes, nor on her streaming hair; and even through the glow of the furnace he saw the light of the Red Star at her breast. The flame licked her form and face, it wrapped itself around her, and curled through the masses of her hair. But still she stood unharmed, while the burners shrank back amazed, all save Meriamun the Queen. And as she stood she sang wild and sweet, and the sound of her singing came through the roar of the flames and reached the ears of the women, who, forgetting their rage, clung to one another in fear. Thus she sang—of that Beauty which men seek in all women, and never find, and of the eternal war for her sake between the women and the men, which is the great war of the world. And thus her song ended: "Will ye bring flame to burn my Shrine Who am myself a flame, Bring death to tame this charm of mine That death can never tame? Will ye bring fire to harm my head Who am myself a fire, Bring vengeance for your Lovers dead Upon the World's Desire? Nay, women while the earth endures, Your loves are not your own. They love you not, these loves of yours, _Helen_ they love alone! My face they seek in every face, Mine eyes in yours they see, They do but kneel to you a space, And rise and follow _me!_" Then, still singing, she stepped forward from the Shrine, and as she went the walls fell in, and the roof crashed down upon the ruin and the flames shot up into the very sky. Helen heeded it not. She looked not back, but out to the gates beyond. She glanced not at the fierce blackened faces of the women, nor on the face of Meriamun, who stood before her, but slowly passed towards the gates. Nor did she go alone, for with her came a canopy of fire, hedging her round with flame that burned from nothing. The women saw the wonder and fell down in their fear, covering their eyes. Meriamun alone fell not, but she too must cover her eyes because of the glory of Helen and the fierceness of the flame that wrapped her round. Now Helen ceased singing, but moved slowly through the courts till she came to the outer gates. Here by the gates was the chariot of Meriamun. Then Helen called aloud, and the Queen, who followed, heard her words: "Rei," she cried, "draw nigh and have no fear. Draw nigh that I may pass with thee down that path the Wanderer treads. Draw nigh, and let us swiftly hence, for the hero's last battle is at hand, and I would greet him ere he die." Rei heard her and drew near trembling, tearing from him the woman's weeds he wore, and showing the priest's garb beneath. And as he came the fire that wrapped her glory round left her, and passed upward like a cloak of flame. She stretched out her hand to him, saying: "Lead me to yonder chariot, Rei, and let us hence." Then he led her to the chariot, while those who stood by fled in fear. She mounted the chariot, and he set himself beside her. Then he grasped the reins and called to the horses, and they bounded forward and were lost in the night. But Meriamun cried in her wrath: "The Witch is gone, gone with my own servant whom she hath led astray. Bring chariots, and let horsemen come with the chariots, for where she passes there I will follow, ay, to the end of the world and the coast of Death." # CHAPTER VII. THE LAST FIGHT OF ODYSSEUS, LAERTES' SON Now the host of Pharaoh marched forth from On, to do battle with the Nine-bow barbarians. And before the host marched, the Captains came to the Wanderer, according to the command of Pharaoh, and placing their hands in his, swore to do his bidding on the march and in the battle. They brought him the great black bow of Eurytus, and his keen sword of bronze, Euryalus' gift, and many a sheaf of arrows, and his heart rejoiced when he saw the goodly weapon. He took the bow and tried it, and as he drew the string, once again and for the last time it sang shrilly of death to be. The Captains heard the Song of the Bow, though what it said the Wanderer knew alone, for to their ears it came but as a faint, keen cry, like the cry of one who drowns in the water far from the kindly earth. But they marvelled much at the wonder, and said one to another that this man was no mortal, but a God come from the Under-world. Then the Wanderer mounted the chariot of bronze that had been made ready for him, and gave the word to march. All night the host marched swiftly, and at day-break they camped beneath the shelter of a long, low hill. But at the sunrise the Wanderer left the host, climbed the hill with certain of the Captains, and looked forth. Before him was a great pass in the mountains, ten furlongs or more in length, and through it ran the road. The sides of the mountain sloped down to the road, and were strewn with rocks split by the sun, polished by the sand, and covered over with bush that grew sparsely, like the hair on the limbs of a man. To the left of the mountains lay the river Sihor, but none might pass between the mountain and the river. The Wanderer descended from the hill, and while the soldiers ate, drove swiftly in his chariot to the further end of the pass and looked forth again. Here the river curved to the left, leaving a wide plain, and on the plain he saw the host of the Nine-bow barbarians, the mightiest host that ever his eyes had looked upon. They were encamped by nations, and of each nation there was twenty thousand men, and beyond the glittering camp of the barbarians he saw the curved ships of the Achæans. They were drawn up on the beach of the great river, as many a year ago he had seen them drawn up on the shore that is by Ilios. He looked upon plain and pass, on mountain and river, and measured the number of the foe. Then his heart was filled with the lust of battle, and his warlike cunning awoke. For of all leaders he was the most skilled in the craft of battle, and he desired that this, his last war, should be the greatest war of all. Turning his horses' heads, he galloped back to the host of Pharaoh and mustered them in battle array. It was but a little number as against the number of the barbarians—twelve thousand spearmen, nine thousand archers, two thousand horsemen, and three hundred chariots. The Wanderer passed up and down their ranks, bidding them be of good courage, for this day they should sweep the barbarians from the land. As he spoke a hawk flew down from the right, and fell on a heron, and slew it in mid-air. The host shouted, for the hawk is the Holy Bird of Ra, and the Wanderer, too, rejoiced in the omen. "Look, men," he cried; "the Bird of Ra has slain the wandering thief from the waters. And so shall ye smite the spoilers from the sea." Then he held counsel with Captains, and certain trusty men were sent out to the camp of the barbarians. And they were charged to give an ill report of the host of Pharaoh, and to say that such of it as remained awaited the barbarian onset behind the shelter of the hill on the further side of the pass. Then the Wanderer summoned the Captains of the archers, and bade them hide all their force among the rocks and thorns on either side of the mountain pass, and there to wait till he drew the hosts of the foe into the pass. And with the archers he sent a part of the spearmen, but the chariots he hid beneath the shelter of the hill on the hither side of the pass. Now, when the ambush was set, and all were gone save the horsemen only, his spies came in and told him that the host of the barbarians marched from their camp, but that the Achæans marched not, but stopped by the river to guard the camp and ships. Then the Wanderer bade the horsemen ride through the pass and stand in the plain beyond, and there await the foe. But when the hosts of the barbarians charged them, they must reel before the charge, and at length fly headlong down the pass as though in fear. And he himself would lead the flight in his chariot, and where he led there they should follow. So the horsemen rode through the pass and formed their squadrons on the plain beyond. Now the foe drew nigh, and a glorious sight it was to see the midday sun sparkling on their countless spears. Of horsemen they had no great number, but there were many chariots and swordsmen, and spearmen, and slingers beyond count. They came on by nations, and in the centre of the host of each nation sat the king of the nation in a glorious chariot, with girls and eunuchs, holding fans to fan him with and awnings of silk to hide him from the sun. Now the Wanderer hung back behind the squadrons of horsemen as though in fear. But presently he sent messengers bidding the Captains of the squadrons to charge the first nation, and fight for a while but feebly, and then when they saw him turn his horses and gallop through the pass, to follow after him as though in doubt, but in such fashion as to draw the foe upon their heels. This the Captains of the mercenaries did. Once they charged and were beaten back, then they charged again, but the men made as though they feared the onset. Now the foe came hard after them, and the Wanderer turned his chariot and fled through the pass, followed slowly by the horsemen. And when the hosts of the barbarians saw them turn, they set up a mighty shout of laughter that rent the skies, and charged after them. But the Wanderer looked back and laughed also. Now he was through the pass followed by the horsemen, and after them swept the hosts of the barbarians, like a river that has burst its banks. Still the Wanderer held his hand till the whole pass was choked with the thousands of the foe, ay, until the half of the first of the nations had passed into the narrow plain that lay between the hill and the mouth of the pass. Then, driving apace up the hill, he stood in his chariot and gave the signal. Lifting his golden shield on high he flashed it thrice, and all the horsemen shouted aloud. At the first flash, behold, from behind every rock and bush of the mountain sides arose the helms of armed men. At the second flash there came a rattling sound of shaken quivers, and at the third flash of the golden shield, the air was darkened with the flight of arrows. As the sea-birds on a lonely isle awake at the cry of the sailor, and wheel by thousands from their lofty cliffs, so at the third flash of the Wanderer's shield the arrows of his hidden host rushed downward on the foe, rattling like hail upon the harness. For awhile they kept their ranks, and pressed on over the bodies of those that fell. But soon the horses in the chariots, maddened with wounds, plunged this way and that, breaking their companies and trampling the soldiers down. Now some strove to fly forward, and some were fain to fly back, and many an empty chariot was dragged this way and that, but ever the pitiless rain of shafts poured down, and men fell by thousands beneath the gale of death. Now the mighty host of the Nine-bows rolled back, thinned and shattered, towards the plain, and now the Wanderer cried the word of onset to the horsemen and to the chariots that drew from behind the shelter of the hill, and following after him they charged down upon those barbarians who had passed the ambush, singing the song of Pentaur as they charged. Among those nigh the mouth of the pass was the king of the nation of the Libu, a great man, black and terrible to see. The Wanderer drew his bow, the arrow rushed forth and pierced the king, and he fell dead in his chariot. Then those of his host who passed the ambush turned to fly, but the chariot of the Wanderer dashed into them, and after the chariot came the horsemen, and after the horsemen the chariots of Pharaoh. Now all who were left of the broken host rolled back, mad with fear, while the spearmen of Pharaoh galled them as hunters gall a flying bull, and the horsemen of Pharaoh trampled them beneath their feet. Red slaughter raged all down the pass, helms, banners, arrow-points shone and fell in the stream of the tide of war, but at length the stony way was clear save for the dead alone. Beyond the pass the plain was black with flying men, and the fragments of the broken nations were mixed together as clay and sand are mixed of the potter. Where now were the hosts of the Nine-bow barbarians? Where now were their glory and their pride? The Wanderer gathered his footmen and his chariots and set them in array again but the horsemen he sent out to smite the flying nations and wait his coming by the camp; for there were mustering those who were left of the nations, perchance twenty thousand men, and before their ships were ranged the dense ranks of the Achæans, shield to shield, every man in his place. The Wanderer led his host slowly across the sandy plain, till at length he halted it two bow-shots from the camp of the barbarians. The camp was shaped like a bow, and the river Sihor formed its string, and round it was a deep ditch and beyond the ditch a wall of clay. Moreover, within the camp and nearer to the shore there was a second ditch and wall, and behind it were the beaks of the ships and the host of Aquaiusha, even of his own dear people the Achæans. There were the old blazons, and the spears that had fought below Troy town. There were the two lions of Mycenæ, the Centaur of the son of Polypaetas, son of Pirithous; there were the Swan of Lacedæmon, and the Bull of the Kings of Crete, the Rose of Rhodes, the Serpent of Athens, and many another knightly bearing of old friends and kindred dear. And now they were the blazons of foemen, and the Wanderer warred for a strange king, and for his own hand, beneath the wings of the Hawk of the Legion of Ra. The Wanderer sent heralds forward, calling to those barbarians who swarmed behind the wall to surrender to the host of Pharaoh, but this, being entrenched by the river Sihor, they would in nowise do. For they were mad because of their slaughtered thousands, and moreover they knew that it is better to die than to live as slaves. This they saw also, that their host was still as strong as the host of Pharaoh, which was without the wall, and weary with the heat and stress of battle and the toil of marching through the desert sands. Now the Captains of the host of Pharaoh came to the Wanderer, praying him that he would do no more battle on that day, because the men were weary, and the horses neighed for food and water. But he answered them: "I swore to Pharaoh that I would utterly smite the people of the Nine-bows and drive them down to death, so that the coasts of Khem may be free of them. Here I may not camp the host, without food or pasture for the horses, and if I go back, the foe will gather heart and come on, and with them the fleet of the Achæans, and no more shall we lure them into ambush, for therein they have learned a lesson. Nay, get you to your companies. I will go up against the camp." Then they bowed and went, for having seen his deeds and his skill and craft in war, they held him the first of Captains, and dared not say him nay. So the Wanderer divided his host into three parts, set it in order of battle, and moved up against the camp. But he himself went with the centre part against the gate of the camp, for here there was an earthen way for chariots, if but the great gates might be passed. And at a word the threefold host rushed on to the charge. But those within the walls shot them with spears and arrows, so that many were slain, and they were rolled back from the wall as a wave is rolled from the cliff. Again the Wanderer bade them charge on the right and left, bearing the dead before them as shields, and hurling corpses into the ditch to fill it. But he himself hung back awhile with the middle army, watching how the battle went, and waiting till the foe at the gate should be drawn away. Now the mercenaries of Pharaoh forced a passage on the right and thither went many of the barbarians who watched the gate, that they might drive them back. Then the Wanderer bade men take out the poles of chariots and follow him and beat down the gates with the poles. This with much toil and loss they did, for the archers poured their arrows on the assailants of the gate. Now at length the gates were down, and the Wanderer rushed through them with his chariot. But even as he passed the mercenaries of Pharaoh were driven out from the camp on the right, and those who led the left attack fled also. The soldiers who should have followed the Wanderer saw and wavered a little moment, and while they wavered the companies of the barbarians poured into the gateway and held it so that none might pass. Now the Wanderer was left alone within the camp, and back he might not go. But fear came not nigh him, nay, the joy of battle filled his mighty heart. He cast his shield upon the brazen floor of the chariot, and cried aloud to the charioteer, as he loosened the long grey shafts in his quiver. "Drive on, thou charioteer! Drive on! The jackals leave the lion in the toils. Drive on! Drive on! and win a glorious death, for thus should Odysseus die." So the charioteer, praying to his Gods, lashed the horses with his scourge, and they sprang forward madly among the foe. And as they rushed, the great bow rang and sang the swallow string—rung the bow and sung the string, and the lean shaft drank the blood of a leader of men. Again the string sang, again the shaft sped forth, and a barbarian king fell from his chariot as a diver plunges into the sea, and his teeth bit the sand. "Dive deep, thou sea-thief!" cried the Wanderer, "thou mayest find treasures there! Drive on, thou charioteer, so should lions die while jackals watch." Now the barbarians looked on the Wanderer and were amazed. For ever his chariot rushed to and fro, across the mustering ground of the camp, and ever his grey shafts carried death before them, and ever the foemen's arrows fell blunted from his golden harness. They looked on him amazed, they cried aloud that this was the God of War come down to do battle for Khem, that it was Sutek the Splendid, that it was Baal in his strength; they fled amain before his glory and his might. For the Wanderer raged among them like great Rameses Miamun among the tribes of the Khita; like Monthu, the Lord of Battles, and lo! they fled before him, their knees gave way, their hearts were turned to water, he drove them as a herdsman drives the yearling calves. But now at length a stone from a sling smote the charioteer who directed the chariot, and sunk in between his eyes, so that he fell down dead from the chariot. Then the reins flew wide, and the horses rushed this way and that, having no master. And now a spear pierced the heart of the horse on the right, so that he fell, and the pole of the chariot snapped in two. Then the barbarians took heart and turned, and some of them set on to seize the body of the charioteer, and spoil his arms. But the Wanderer leaped down and bestrode the corpse with shield up and spear aloft. Now among the press of the barbarians there was a stir, as of one thrusting his way through them to the front. And above the plumes of their helmets and the tossing of their shields the Wanderer saw the golden head, unhelmeted, of a man, taller than the tallest there from the shoulders upwards. Unhelmeted he came and unshielded, with no body armour. His flesh was very fair and white, and on it were figures pricked in blue, figures of men and horses, snakes and sea-beasts. The skin of a white bear was buckled above his shoulder with a golden clasp, fashioned in the semblance of a boar. His eyes were blue, fierce and shining, and in his hand he held for a weapon the trunk of a young pine-tree, in which was hafted a weighty axe-head of rough unpolished stone. "Give way!" he cried. "Give place, ye dusky dwarfs, and let a man see this champion!" So the barbarians made a circle about the Wanderer and the giant, and stood silently to watch a great fight. "Who art thou?" said the mighty man disdainfully, "and whence? Where is thy city, and thy parents who begat thee?" "Now I will avow that men call me Odysseus, Sacker of Cities, Laertes' son, a Prince of the Achæans," said the Wanderer. "And who art thou, I pray thee, and where is thy native place, for city, I wot, thou hast none?" Then the mighty man, swinging his great stone axe in a rhythmic motion, began to chant a rude lay, and this was the manner of the singing— "Laestrygons men And Cimmerians call us Born of the land Of the sunless winter, Born of the land Of the nightless summer: Cityless, we, Beneath dark pine boughs, By the sea abiding Sail o'er the swan's bath. _Wolf_ am I hight, The son of Signy, Son of the were-wolf. Southwards I sailed, Sailed with the amber, Sailed with the foam-wealth. Among strange peoples, Winning me wave-flame, Winning me war-fame, Winning me women. Soon shall I slay thee, Sacker of Cities!" With that, and with a cry, he rushed on the Wanderer, his great axe swung aloft, to fell him at a blow. But while the giant had been singing, the Wanderer had shifted his place a little, so that the red blaze of the setting sun was in his face. And as the mighty man came on, the Wanderer lifted up his golden shield and caught the sunlight on it, and flashed it full in the giant's eyes, so that he was dazzled, and could not see to strike. Then the Wanderer smote at his naked right arm, and struck it on the joint of the elbow; with all his force he smote, and the short sword of Euryalus bit deep, and the arm fell, with the axe in the hand-grip. But so terrible was the stroke that bronze might not abide it, and the blade was shattered from the ivory handle. "Didst thou feel aught, thou Man-eater?" cried Odysseus, jeering, for he knew from the song of the giant that he was face to face with a wanderer from an evil race, that of old had smitten his ships and devoured his men—the Laestrygons of the land of the Midnight Sun, the Man-eaters. But the giant caught up his club of pine-tree in his left hand, the severed right arm still clinging to it. And he gnawed on the handle of the stone axe with his teeth, and bit the very stone, and his lips foamed, for a fury came upon him. Roaring aloud, suddenly he smote at the Wanderer's head, and beat down his shield, and crushed his golden helm so that he fell on one knee, and all was darkness around him. But his hands lit on a great stone, for the place where they fought was the holy place of an ancient temple, old and ruined before King Mena's day. He grasped the stone with both hands; it was the basalt head of a fallen statue of a God or a man, of a king long nameless, or of a forgotten God. With a mighty strain the Wanderer lifted it as he rose, it was a weight of a chariot's burden, and poising it, he hurled it straight at the breast of the Laestrygon, who had drawn back, whirling his axe, before he smote another blow. But ere ever the stroke fell, the huge stone struck him full and broke in his breast bone, and he staggered long, and fell like a tree, and the black blood came up through his bearded lips, and his life left him. Then the multitude of the barbarians that stood gazing at the fray drew yet further back in fear, and the Wanderer laughed like a God at that old score paid, and at the last great stroke of the hands of the City-sacker, Odysseus. # CHAPTER VIII. "TILL ODYSSEUS COMES!" The Wanderer laughed like a God, though he deemed that the end was near, and the foes within the camp and the friends without looked on him and wondered. "Slay him!" cried the foes within, speaking in many tongues. "Slay him!" they cried, and yet they feared the task, but circled round like hounds about a mighty boar at bay. "Spare him!" shouted the host of the Achæans, watching the fray from far, as they stood behind their inner wall, for as yet they had not mingled in the battle but stayed by their ships to guard them. "Rescue!" cried the Captains of Pharaoh without, but none came on to force the way. Then of a sudden, as Fate hung upon the turn, a great cry of fear and wonder rose from the ranks of Pharaoh's host beyond the wall. It swelled and swelled till at length the cry took the sound of a name—the sound of the name of _Hathor_. "The Hathor! the Hathor! See, the Hathor comes!" The Wanderer turned his head and looked swiftly. A golden chariot sped down the slope of sand towards the gate of the camp. The milk-white horses were stained with sweat and splashed with blood. They thundered on towards the gate down the way that was red with blood, as the horses of the dawn rush through the blood-red sky. A little man, withered and old, drove the chariot, leaning forward as he drove, and by his side stood the Golden Helen. The Red Star blazed upon her breast, her hair and filmy robes floated on the wind. She looked up and forth. Now she saw him, Odysseus of Ithaca, her love, alone, beset with foes, and a cry broke from her. She tore away the veil that hid her face, and her beauty flashed out upon the sight of men as the moon flashes from the evening mists. She pointed to the gate, she stretched out her arms towards the host of Pharaoh, bidding them look upon her and follow her. Then a shout went up from the host, and they rushed onwards in the path of the chariot, for where the Helen leads there men must follow through Life to Death, through War to Peace. On the chariot rushed to the camp, and after it the host of Pharaoh followed. The holders of the gate saw the beauty of her who rode in the chariot; they cried aloud in many tongues that the Goddess of Love had come to save the God of War. They fled this way and that, or stood drunken with the sight of beauty, and were dashed down by the horses and crushed of the chariot wheels. Now she had passed the gates, and after her poured the host of Pharaoh. Now Rei reined up the horses by the broken chariot of the Wanderer, and now the Wanderer, with a shout of joy, had sprung into the chariot of Helen. "And art thou come to be with me in my last battle?" he whispered in her ear. "Art thou indeed that Argive Helen whom I love, or am I drunk with the blood of men and blind with the sheen of spears, and is this the vision of a man doomed to die?" "It is no vision, Odysseus, for I am Helen's self," she answered gently. "I have learned all the truth, and knowing thy fault, count it but a little thing. Yet because thou didst forget the words of the immortal Goddess, who, being my foe now and for ever, set this cunning snare for thee, the doom is on thee, that Helen shall not be thine in this space of life. For thou fightest in thy last battle, Odysseus. On! see thy hosts clamour to be led, and there the foe hangs black as storm and shoots out the lightning of his spears. On, Odysseus, on! that the doom may be accomplished, and the word of the Ghost fulfilled!" Then the Wanderer turned and called to the Captains, and the Captains called to the soldiers and set them in array, and following the blood-red Star they rolled down upon the gathered foe as the tide rolls upon the rocks when the breath of the gale is strong; and as the waters leap and gather till the rocks are lost in the surge, so the host of Pharaoh leapt upon the foe and swallowed them up. And ever in the forefront of the war blazed the Red Star on Helen's breast, and ever the sound of her singing pierced the din of death. Now the host of the Nine-bow barbarians was utterly destroyed, and the host of Pharaoh came up against the wall that was set about the camp of the Achæans to guard their ships, and at its head came the golden chariot wherein were the Wanderer and Helen. The Captains of the Achæans looked wondering from their wall, watching the slaughter of their allies. "Now, who is this?" cried a Captain, "who is this clad in golden armour fashioned like our own, who leads the host of Pharaoh to victory?" Then a certain aged leader of men looked forth and answered: "Such armour I have known indeed, and such a man once wore it. The armour is fashioned like the armour of Paris, Priam's son—Paris of Ilios; but Paris hath long been dead." "And who is she," cried the Captain, "she on whose breast a Red Star burns, who rides in the chariot of him with the golden armour, whose shape is the shape of Beauty, and who sings aloud while men go down to death?" Then the aged leader of men looked forth again and answered: "Such a one have I known, indeed; so she was wont to sing, and hers was such a shape of beauty, and such a Star shone ever on her breast. Helen of Ilios—Argive Helen it was who wore it—Helen, because of whose loveliness the world grew dark with death; but long is Helen dead." Now the Wanderer glanced from his chariot and saw the crests of the Achæans and the devices on the shields of men with whose fathers he had fought beneath the walls of Ilios. He saw and his heart was stirred within him, so that he wept there in the chariot. "Alas! for the fate that is on me," he cried, "that I must make my last battle in the service of a stranger against my own people and the children of my own dear friends." "Weep not, Odysseus," said Helen, "for Fate drives thee on—Fate that is cruel and changeless, and heeds not the loves or hates of men. Weep not, Odysseus, but go on up against the Achæans, for from among them thy death comes." So the Wanderer went on, sick at heart, shooting no shafts and striking no blow, and after him came the remnant of the host of Pharaoh. Then he halted the host, and at his bidding Rei drove slowly down the wall seeking a place to storm it, and as he drove they shot at the chariot from the wall with spears and slings and arrows. But not yet was the Wanderer doomed. He took no hurt, nor did any hurt come to Rei nor to the horses that drew the chariot, and as for Helen, the shafts of Death knew her and turned aside. Now while they drove thus Rei told the Wanderer of the death of Pharaoh, of the burning of the Temple of Hathor, and of the flight of Helen. The Wanderer hearkened and said but one thing, for in all this he saw the hand of Fate. "It is time to make an end, Rei, for soon will Meriamun be seeking us, and methinks that I have left a trail that she can follow," and he nodded at the piled-up dead that stretched further than the eye could reach. Now they were come over against that spot in the wall where stood the aged Captain of the Achæans, who had likened the armour of the Wanderer to the armour of Paris, and the beauty of her at his side to the beauty of Argive Helen. The Captain loosed his bow at the chariot, and leaning forward watched the flight of the shaft. It rushed straight at Helen's breast, then of a sudden turned aside, harming her not. And as he marvelled she lifted her face and looked towards him. Then he saw and knew her for that Helen whom he had seen while he served with Cretan Idomeneus in the Argive ships, when the leaguer was done and the smoke went up from burning Ilios. Again he looked, and lo! on the Wanderer's golden shield he saw the White Bull, the device of Paris, son of Priam, as ofttimes he had seen it glitter on the walls of Troy. Then great fear took him, and he lifted up his hands and cried aloud: "Fly, ye Achæans! Fly! Back to your curved ships and away from this accursed land. For yonder in the chariot stands Argive Helen, who is long dead, and with her Paris, son of Priam, come to wreak the woes of Ilios on the sons of those who wasted her. Fly, ere the curse smite you." Then a great cry of fear rose from the host of the Achæans, as company called to company that the ghosts of Paris of Ilios and Argive Helen led the armies of Pharaoh on to victory. A moment they gazed as frightened sheep gaze upon the creeping wolves, then turning from the wall, they rushed headlong to their ships. Behind them came the soldiers of Pharaoh, storming the walls and tearing at their flanks as wolves tear the flying sheep. Then the Achæans turned at bay, and a mighty fray raged round the ships, and the knees of many were loosened. And of the ships, some were burned and some were left upon the bank. But a remnant of them were pushed off into the deep water, and hung there on their oars waiting for the end of the fray. Now the sun was gone down, so that men could scarce see to slay each other. The Wanderer stood his chariot on the bank, watching the battle, for he was weary, and had little mind to swell the slaughter of the people of his own land. Now the last ship was pushed off, and at length the great battle was done. But among those on the ship was a man still young, and the goodliest and mightiest among all the host of the Achæans. By his own strength and valour he had held the Egyptians back while his comrades ran the curved ship down the beach, and the Wanderer, looking on him, deemed him their hardiest warrior and most worthy of the Achæans. He stood upon the poop of the ship, and saw the light from the burning vessels gleam on the Wanderer's golden helm. Then of a sudden he drew a mighty bow and loosed an arrow charged with death. "This gift to the Ghost of Paris from Telegonus, son of Circe and of Odysseus, who was Paris' foe," he cried with a loud voice. And as he cried it, and as the fateful words struck on the ears of Odysseus and the ears of Helen, the shaft, pointed by the Gods, rushed on. It rushed on, it smote the Wanderer with a deadly wound where the golden body-plate of his harness joined the taslets, and pierced him through. Then he knew that his fate was accomplished, and that death came upon him from the water, as the ghost of Tiresias in Hades had foretold. In his pain, for the last time of all, he let fall his shield and the black bow of Eurytus. With one hand he clasped the rail of the chariot and the other he threw about the neck of the Golden Helen, who bent beneath his weight like a lily before the storm. Then he also cried aloud in answer: "Oh, Telegonus, son of Circe, what wickedness hast thou wrought before the awful Gods that this curse should have been laid upon thee to slay him who begat thee? Hearken, thou son of Circe, I am not Paris, I am Odysseus of Ithaca, who begat thee, and thou hast brought my death upon me from the water, as the Ghost foretold." When Telegonus heard these words, and knew that he had slain his father, the famed Odysseus, whom he had sought the whole world through, he would have cast himself into the river, there to drown, but those with him held him by strength, and the stream took the curved ship and floated it away. And thus for the first and last time did the Gods give it to Telegonus to look upon the face and hear the voice of his father, Odysseus. But when the Achæans knew that it was the lost Odysseus who had led the host of Pharaoh against the armies of the Nine Nations, they wondered no more at the skill of the ambush and the greatness of the victory of Pharaoh. Now the chariots of Meriamun were pursuing, and they splashed through the blood of men in the pass, and rolled over the bodies of men in the plain beyond the pass. They came to the camps and found them peopled with dead, and lit with the lamps of the blazing ships of the Aquaiusha. Then Meriamun cried aloud: "Surely Pharaoh grew wise before he died, for there is but one man on the earth who with so small a force could have won so great a fray. He hath saved the crown of Khem, and by Osiris he shall wear it." Now the chariots of Meriamun had passed the camp of the barbarians, and were come to the inner camp of the Achæans, and the soldiers shouted as she came driving furiously. The Wanderer lay dying on the ground, there by the river-bank, and the light of the burning ships flamed on his golden armour, and on the Star at Helen's breast. "Why do the soldiers shout?" he asked, lifting his head from Helen's breast. "They shout because Meriamun the Queen is come," Rei answered. "Let her come," said the Wanderer. Now Meriamun sprang from her chariot and walked, through the soldiers who made way, bowing before her royalty, to where the Wanderer lay, and stood speechless looking on him. But the Wanderer lifting his head spake faintly: "Hail! O Queen!" he said, "I have accomplished the charge that Pharaoh laid upon me. The host of the Nine-bow barbarians is utterly destroyed, the fleet of the Aquaiusha is burned, or fled, the land of Khem is free from foes. Where is Pharaoh, that I may make report to him ere I die?" "Pharaoh is dead, Odysseus," she answered. "Oh, live on! live on! and thyself thou shalt be Pharaoh." "Ay, Meriamun the Queen," answered the Wanderer, "I know all. The Pharaoh is dead! Thou didst slay Pharaoh, thinking thus to win me for thy Lord, me, who am won of Death. Heavily shall the blood of Pharaoh lie upon thee in that land whither I go, Meriamun, and whither thou must follow swiftly. Thou didst slay Pharaoh, and Helen, who through thy guile is lost to me, thou wouldst have slain also, but thou couldst not harm her immortality. And now I die, and this is the end of all these Loves and Wars and Wanderings. My death has come upon me from the water." Meriamun stood speechless, for her heart was torn in two, so that in her grief she forgot even her rage against Helen and Rei the Priest. Then Helen spoke. "Thou diest indeed, Odysseus, yet it is but for a little time, for thou shalt come again and find me waiting." "Ay, Odysseus," said the Queen, "and I also will come again, and thou shalt love me then. Oh, now the future opens, and I know the things that are to be. Beneath the Wings of Truth shall we meet again, Odysseus." "There shall we meet again, Odysseus, and there thou shalt draw the Veil of Truth," said the Helen. "Yea," quoth the dying Wanderer; "there or otherwhere shall we meet again, and there and otherwhere love and hate shall lose and win, and die to arise again. But not yet is the struggle ended that began in other worlds than this, and shall endure till evil is lost in good, and darkness swallowed up in light. Bethink thee, Meriamun, of that vision of thy bridal night, and read its riddle. Lo! I will answer it with my last breath as the Gods have given me wisdom. When we three are once more twain, then shall our sin be purged and peace be won, and the veil be drawn from the face of Truth. Oh, Helen, fare thee well! I have sinned against thee, I have sworn by the Snake who should have sworn by the Star, and therefore I have lost thee." "Thou hast but lost to find again beyond the Gateways of the West," she answered low. Then she bent down, and taking him in her arms, kissed him, whispering in his ear, and the blood of men that fell ever from the Star upon her breast, dropped like dew upon his brow, and vanished as it dropped. And as she whispered of joy to be, and things too holy to be written, the face of the Wanderer grew bright, like the face of a God. Then suddenly his head fell back, and he was dead, dead upon the heart of the World's Desire. For thus was fulfilled the oath of Idalian Aphrodite, and thus at the last did Odysseus lie in the arms of the Golden Helen. Now Meriamun clasped her breast, and her lips turned white with pain. But Helen rose, and standing at the Wanderer's head looked on Meriamun, who stood at his feet. "My sister," said Helen to the Queen; "see now the end of all. He whom we loved is lost to us, and what hast thou gained? Nay, look not so fiercely on me. I may not be harmed of thee, as thou hast seen, and thou mayest not be harmed of me, who would harm none, though ever thou wilt hate me who hate thee not, and till thou learnest to love me, Sin shall be thy portion and Bitterness thy comfort." But Meriamun spoke no word. Then Helen beckoned to Rei and spake to him, and Rei went weeping to do her bidding. Presently he returned again, and with him were soldiers bearing torches. The soldiers lifted up the body of the Wanderer, and bore it to a mighty pyre that was built up of the wealth of the barbarians, of chariots, spears, and the oars of ships, of wondrous fabrics, and costly furniture. And they laid the Wanderer on the pyre, and on his breast they laid the black bow of Eurytus. Then Helen spoke to Rei once more, and Rei took a torch and fired the pyre so that smoke and flame burst from it. And all the while Meriamun stood by as one who dreams. Now the great pyre was a mass of flame, and the golden armour of the Wanderer shone through the flame, and the black bow twisted and crumbled in the heat. Then of a sudden Meriamun gave a great cry, and tearing the snake girdle from her middle hurled it on the flames. "From fire thou camest, thou Ancient Evil," she said in a dead tongue; "to fire get thee back again, false counsellor." But Rei the Priest called aloud in the same tongue: "An ill deed thou hast done, O Queen, for thou hast taken the Snake to thy bosom, and where the Snake passes there thou must follow." Even as he spoke the face of Meriamun grew fixed, and she was drawn slowly towards the fire, as though by invisible hands. Now she stood on its very brink, and now with one loud wail she plunged into it and cast herself at length on the body of the Wanderer. And as she lay there on the body, behold the Snake awoke in the fire. It awoke, it grew, it twined itself about the body of Meriamun and the body of the Wanderer, and lifting its head, it laughed. Then the fire fell in, and the Wanderer and Meriamun the Queen, and the Snake that wrapped them round, vanished in the heart of the flames. For awhile the Golden Helen stood still, looking on the dying fire. Then she let her veil fall, and turning, wandered forth into the desert and the night, singing as she passed. And so she goes, wandering, wandering, till Odysseus comes again. Now this is the tale that I, Rei the Priest, have been bidden to set forth before I lay me down to sleep in my splendid tomb that I have made ready by Thebes. Let every man read it as he will, and every woman as the Gods have given her wit. PALINODE Thou that of old didst blind Stesichorus, If e'er, sweet Helen, such a thing befell, We pray thee of thy grace, be good to us, Though little in our tale accordeth well With that thine ancient minstrel had to tell, Who saw, with sightless eyes grown luminous, These Ilian sorrows, and who heard the swell Of ocean round the world ring thunderous, And thy voice break when knightly Hector fell! And thou who all these many years hast borne To see the great webs of the weaving torn By puny hands of dull, o'er-learned men, Homer, forgive us that thy hero's star Once more above sea waves and waves of war, Must rise, must triumph, and must set again! THE END
215	--- author: Stanley G. (Stanley Grauman) Weinbaum tags: Science fiction, Short stories title: The Worlds of If summary: ' "The Worlds of If" by Stanley G. Weinbaum is a science fiction short story written in the early 20th century. The narrative blends themes of time travel with speculative concepts about alternate realities, focusing on the idea of "what could have been" had different choices been made. Through a unique machine invented by the protagonist''s former professor, the story explores the profound implications of one''s decisions on the fabric of reality. Dixon Wells, the protagonist, grapples with feelings of guilt after missing a flight that ultimately ends in disaster, the sinking of the rocket "Baikal". Through a contraption called the "subjunctivisor," which allows users to view alternate realities based on hypothetical decisions, he seeks to understand what would have happened had he boarded the flight. As he engages with the machine, he rekindles memories of a captivating encounter with Joanna Caldwell, a fellow passenger, but is ultimately devastated to discover she survived the crash yet married the man who saved her. This poignant exploration of missed opportunities and the "worlds of if" ultimately leaves Wells to confront his own fate and the consequences of being perpetually late. ' word_count: 5978 fiction_type: Short Story ... # The Worlds of If I stopped on the way to the Staten Island Airport to call up, and that was a mistake, doubtless, since I had a chance of making it otherwise. But the office was affable. "We'll hold the ship five minutes for you," the clerk said. "That's the best we can do." So I rushed back to my taxi and we spun off to the third level and sped across the Staten bridge like a comet treading a steel rainbow. I had to be in Moscow by evening, by eight o'clock, in fact, for the opening of bids on the Ural Tunnel. The Government required the personal presence of an agent of each bidder, but the firm should have known better than to send me, Dixon Wells, even though the N. J. Wells Corporation is, so to speak, my father. I have a—well, an undeserved reputation for being late to everything; something always comes up to prevent me from getting anywhere on time. It's never my fault; this time it was a chance encounter with my old physics professor, old Haskel van Manderpootz. I couldn't very well just say hello and good-bye to him; I'd been a favorite of his back in the college days of 2014. I missed the airliner, of course. I was still on the Staten Bridge when I heard the roar of the catapult and the Soviet rocket _Baikal_ hummed over us like a tracer bullet with a long tail of flame. We got the contract anyway; the firm wired our man in Beirut and he flew up to Moscow, but it didn't help my reputation. However, I felt a great deal better when I saw the evening papers; the _Baikal_, flying at the north edge of the eastbound lane to avoid a storm, had locked wings with a British fruitship and all but a hundred of her five hundred passengers were lost. I had almost become "the late Mr. Wells" in a grimmer sense. I'd made an engagement for the following week with old van Manderpootz. It seems he'd transferred to N.Y.U. as head of the department of Newer Physics—that is, of Relativity. He deserved it; the old chap was a genius if ever there was one, and even now, eight years out of college, I remember more from his course than from half a dozen calculus, steam and gas, mechanics, and other hazards on the path to an engineer's education. So on Tuesday night I dropped in an hour or so late, to tell the truth, since I'd forgotten about the engagement until mid-evening. He was reading in a room as disorderly as ever. "Humph!" he grunted. "Time changes everything but habit, I see. You were a good student, Dick, but I seem to recall that you always arrived in class toward the middle of the lecture." "I had a course in East Hall just before," I explained. "I couldn't seem to make it in time." "Well, it's time you learned to be on time," he growled. Then his eyes twinkled. "Time!" he ejaculated. "The most fascinating word in the language. Here we've used it five times (there goes the sixth time—and the seventh!) in the first minute of conversation; each of us understands the other, yet science is just beginning to learn its meaning. Science? I mean that _I_ am beginning to learn." I sat down. "You and science are synonymous," I grinned. "Aren't you one of the world's outstanding physicists?" "One of them!" he snorted. "One of them, eh! And who are the others?" "Oh, Corveille and Hastings and Shrimski—" "Bah! Would you mention them in the same breath with the name of van Manderpootz? A pack of jackals, eating the crumbs of ideas that drop from my feast of thoughts! Had you gone back into the last century, now—had you mentioned Einstein and de Sitter—there, perhaps, are names worthy to rank with (or just below) van Manderpootz!" I grinned again in amusement. "Einstein was considered pretty good, wasn't he?" I remarked. "After all, he was the first to tie time and space to the laboratory. Before him they were just philosophical concepts." "He didn't!" rasped the professor. "Perhaps, in a dim, primitive fashion, he showed the way, but I—_I_, van Manderpootz—am the first to seize time, drag it into my laboratory, and perform an experiment on it." "Indeed? And what sort of experiment?" "What experiment, other than simple measurement, is it possible to perform?" he snapped. "Why—I don't know. To travel in it?" "Exactly." "Like these time-machines that are so popular in the current magazines? To go into the future or the past?" "Bah! Many bahs! The future or the past—pfui! It needs no van Manderpootz to see the fallacy in that. Einstein showed us that much." "How? It's conceivable, isn't it?" "Conceivable? And you, Dixon Wells, studied under van Manderpootz!" He grew red with emotion, then grimly calm. "Listen to me. You know how time varies with the speed of a system—Einstein's relativity." "Yes." "Very well. Now suppose then that the great engineer Dixon Wells invents a machine capable of traveling very fast, enormously fast, nine-tenths as fast as light. Do you follow? Good. You then fuel this miracle ship for a little jaunt of a half million miles, which, since mass (and with it inertia) increases according to the Einstein formula with increasing speed, takes all the fuel in the world. But you solve that. You use atomic energy. Then, since at nine-tenths light-speed, your ship weighs about as much as the sun, you disintegrate North America to give you sufficient motive power. You start off at that speed, a hundred and sixty-eight thousand miles per second, and you travel for two hundred and four thousand miles. The acceleration has now crushed you to death, but you have penetrated the future." He paused, grinning sardonically. "Haven't you?" "Yes." "And how far?" I hesitated. "Use your Einstein formula!" he screeched. "How far? I'll tell you. _One second!_" He grinned triumphantly. "That's how possible it is to travel into the future. And as for the past—in the first place, you'd have to exceed light-speed, which immediately entails the use of more than an infinite number of horsepowers. We'll assume that the great engineer Dixon Wells solves that little problem too, even though the energy out-put of the whole universe is not an infinite number of horsepowers. Then he applies this more than infinite power to travel at two hundred and four thousand miles per second for _ten_ seconds. He has then penetrated the past. How far?" Again I hesitated. "I'll tell you. _One second!_" He glared at me. "Now all you have to do is to design such a machine, and then van Manderpootz will admit the possibility of traveling into the future—for a limited number of seconds. As for the past, I have just explained that all the energy in the universe is insufficient for that." "But," I stammered, "you just said that you—" "I did _not_ say anything about traveling into either future or past, which I have just demonstrated to you to be impossible—a practical impossibility in the one case and an absolute one in the other." "Then how _do_ you travel in time?" "Not even van Manderpootz can perform the impossible," said the professor, now faintly jovial. He tapped a thick pad of typewriter paper on the table beside him. "See, Dick, this is the world, the universe." He swept a finger down it. "It is long in time, and"—sweeping his hand across it—"it is broad in space, but"—now jabbing his finger against its center—"it is very thin in the fourth dimension. Van Manderpootz takes always the shortest, the most logical course. I do not travel along time, into past or future. No. Me, I travel across time, sideways!" I gulped. "Sideways into time! What's there?" "What would naturally be there?" he snorted. "Ahead is the future; behind is the past. Those are real, the worlds of past and future. What worlds are neither past nor future, but contemporary and yet—extemporal—existing, as it were, in time parallel to our time?" I shook my head. "Idiot!" he snapped. "The conditional worlds, of course! The worlds of "if." Ahead are the worlds to be; behind are the worlds that were; to either side are the worlds that might have been—the worlds of "if!"" "Eh?" I was puzzled. "Do you mean that you can see what will happen if I do such and such?" "No!" he snorted. "My machine does not reveal the past nor predict the future. It will show, as I told you, the conditional worlds. You might express it, by "if I had done such and such, so and so would have happened." The worlds of the subjunctive mode." "Now how the devil does it do that?" "Simple, for van Manderpootz! I use polarized light, polarized not in the horizontal or vertical planes, but in the direction of the fourth dimension—an easy matter. One uses Iceland spar under colossal pressures, that is all. And since the worlds are very thin in the direction of the fourth dimension, the thickness of a single light wave, though it be but millionths of an inch, is sufficient. A considerable improvement over time-traveling in past or future, with its impossible velocities and ridiculous distances!" "But—are those—worlds of "if'—real?" "Real? What is real? They are real, perhaps, in the sense that two is a real number as opposed to [sq]-2, which is imaginary. They are the worlds that would have been _if_— Do you see?" I nodded. "Dimly. You could see, for instance, what New York would have been like if England had won the Revolution instead of the Colonies." "That's the principle, true enough, but you couldn't see that on the machine. Part of it, you see, is a Horsten psychomat (stolen from one of my ideas, by the way) and you, the user, become part of the device. Your own mind is necessary to furnish the background. For instance, if George Washington could have used the mechanism after the signing of peace, he could have seen what you suggest. We can't. You can't even see what would have happened if I hadn't invented the thing, but _I_ can. Do you understand?" "Of course. You mean the background has to rest in the past experiences of the user." "You're growing brilliant," he scoffed. "Yes. The device will show ten hours of what would have happened _if_—condensed, of course, as in a movie, to half an hour's actual time." "Say, that sounds interesting!" "You'd like to see it? Is there anything you'd like to find out? Any choice you'd alter?" "I'll say—a thousand of "em. I'd like to know what would have happened if I'd sold out my stocks in 2009 instead of "10. I was a millionaire in my own right then, but I was a little—well, a little late in liquidating." "As usual," remarked van Manderpootz. "Let's go over to the laboratory then." The professor's quarters were but a block from the campus. He ushered me into the Physics Building, and thence into his own research laboratory, much like the one I had visited during my courses under him. The device—he called it his "subjunctivisor," since it operated in hypothetical worlds—occupied the entire center table. Most of it was merely a Horsten psychomat, but glittering crystalline and glassy was the prism of Iceland spar, the polarizing agent that was the heart of the instrument. Van Manderpootz pointed to the headpiece. "Put it on," he said, and I sat staring at the screen of the psychomat. I suppose everyone is familiar with the Horsten psychomat; it was as much a fad a few years ago as the ouija board a century back. Yet it isn't just a toy; sometimes, much as the ouija board, it's a real aid to memory. A maze of vague and colored shadows is caused to drift slowly across the screen, and one watches them, meanwhile visualizing whatever scene or circumstances he is trying to remember. He turns a knob that alters the arrangement of lights and shadows, and when, by chance, the design corresponds to his mental picture—presto! There is his scene re-created under his eyes. Of course his own mind adds the details. All the screen actually shows are these tinted blobs of light and shadow, but the thing can be amazingly real. I've seen occasions when I could have sworn the psychomat showed pictures almost as sharp and detailed as reality itself; the illusion is sometimes as startling as that. Van Manderpootz switched on the light, and the play of shadows began. "Now recall the circumstances of, say, a half-year after the market crash. Turn the knob until the picture clears, then stop. At that point I direct the light of the subjunctivisor upon the screen, and you have nothing to do but watch." I did as directed. Momentary pictures formed and vanished. The inchoate sounds of the device hummed like distant voices, but without the added suggestion of the picture, they meant nothing. My own face flashed and dissolved and then, finally, I had it. There was a picture of myself sitting in an ill-defined room; that was all. I released the knob and gestured. A click followed. The light dimmed, then brightened. The picture cleared, and amazingly, another figure emerged, a woman. I recognized her; it was Whimsy White, erstwhile star of television and premiere of the "Vision Varieties of "09." She was changed on that picture, but I recognized her. I'll say I did! I'd been trailing her all through the boom years of "07 to "10, trying to marry her, while old N. J. raved and ranted and threatened to leave everything to the Society for Rehabilitation of the Gobi Desert. I think those threats were what kept her from accepting me, but after I took my own money and ran it up to a couple of million in that crazy market of "08 and "09, she softened. Temporarily, that is. When the crash of the spring of "10 came and bounced me back on my father and into the firm of N. J. Wells, her favor dropped a dozen points to the market's one. In February we were engaged, in April we were hardly speaking. In May they sold me out. I'd been late again. And now, there she was on the psychomat screen, obviously plumping out, and not nearly so pretty as memory had pictured her. She was staring at me with an expression of enmity, and I was glaring back. The buzzes became voices. "You nit-wit!" she snapped. "You can't bury me out here. I want to go back to New York, where there's a little life. I'm bored with you and your golf." "And I'm bored with you and your whole dizzy crowd." "At least they're _alive_. You're a walking corpse. Just because you were lucky enough to gamble yourself into the money, you think you're a tin god." "Well, I _don't_ think _you're_ Cleopatra! Those friends of yours—they trail after you because you give parties and spend money—_my_ money." "Better than spending it to knock a white walnut along a mountainside!" "Indeed? You ought to try it, Marie." (That was her real name.) "It might help your figure—though I doubt if anything could!" She glared in rage and—well, that was a painful half hour. I won't give all the details, but I was glad when the screen dissolved into meaningless colored clouds. "Whew!" I said, staring at Van Manderpootz, who had been reading. "You liked it?" "Liked it! Say, I guess I was lucky to be cleaned out. I won't regret it from now on." "That," said the professor grandly, "is van Manderpootz's great contribution to human happiness. "Of all sad words of tongue or pen, the saddest are these: It might have been!" True no longer, my friend Dick. Van Manderpootz has shown that the proper reading is, "It might have been—worse!"" ~ It was very late when I returned home, and as a result, very late when I rose, and equally late when I got to the office. My father was unnecessarily worked up about it, but he exaggerated when he said I'd never been on time. He forgets the occasions when he's awakened me and dragged me down with him. Nor was it necessary to refer so sarcastically to my missing the _Baikal_; I reminded him of the wrecking of the liner, and he responded very heartlessly that if I'd been aboard, the rocket would have been late, and so would have missed colliding with the British fruitship. It was likewise superfluous for him to mention that when he and I had tried to snatch a few weeks of golfing in the mountains, even the spring had been late. I had nothing to do with that. "Dixon," he concluded, "you have no conception whatever of time. None whatever." The conversation with van Manderpootz recurred to me. I was impelled to ask, "And have you, sir?" "I have," he said grimly. "I most assuredly have. Time," he said oracularly, "is money." You can't argue with a viewpoint like that. But those aspersions of his rankled, especially that about the _Baikal_. Tardy I might be, but it was hardly conceivable that my presence aboard the rocket could have averted the catastrophe. It irritated me; in a way, it made me responsible for the deaths of those unrescued hundreds among the passengers and crew, and I didn't like the thought. Of course, if they'd waited an extra five minutes for me, or if I'd been on time and they'd left on schedule instead of five minutes late, or if—_if_! If! The word called up van Manderpootz and his subjunctivisor—the worlds of "if," the weird, unreal worlds that existed beside reality, neither past nor future, but contemporary, yet extemporal. Somewhere among their ghostly infinities existed one that represented the world that would have been had I made the liner. I had only to call up Haskel van Manderpootz, make an appointment, and then—find out. Yet it wasn't an easy decision. Suppose—just suppose that I found myself responsible—not legally responsible, certainly; there'd be no question of criminal negligence, or anything of that sort—not even morally responsible, because I couldn't possibly have anticipated that my presence or absence could weigh so heavily in the scales of life and death, nor could I have known in which direction the scales would tip. Just—responsible; that was all. Yet I hated to find out. I hated equally not finding out. Uncertainty has its pangs too, quite as painful as those of remorse. It might be less nerve-racking to know myself responsible than to wonder, to waste thoughts in vain doubts and futile reproaches. So I seized the visiphone, dialed the number of the University, and at length gazed on the broad, humorous, intelligent features of van Manderpootz, dragged from a morning lecture by my call. ~ I was all but prompt for the appointment the following evening, and might actually have been on time but for an unreasonable traffic officer who insisted on booking me for speeding. At any rate, van Manderpootz was impressed. "Well!" he rumbled. "I almost missed you, Dixon. I was just going over to the club, since I didn't expect you for an hour. You're only ten minutes late." I ignored this. "Professor, I want to use your—uh—your subjunctivisor." "Eh? Oh, yes. You're lucky, then. I was just about to dismantle it." "Dismantle it! Why?" "It has served its purpose. It has given birth to an idea far more important than itself. I shall need the space it occupies." "But what _is_ the idea, if it's not too presumptuous of me to ask?" "It is not too presumptuous. You and the world which awaits it so eagerly may both know, but you hear it from the lips of the author. It is nothing less than the autobiography of van Manderpootz!" He paused impressively. I gaped. "Your autobiography?" "Yes. The world, though perhaps unaware, is crying for it. I shall detail my life, my work. I shall reveal myself as the man responsible for the three years' duration of the Pacific War of 2004." "You?" "None other. Had I not been a loyal Netherlands subject at that time, and therefore neutral, the forces of Asia would have been crushed in three months instead of three years. The subjunctivisor tells me so; I would have invented a calculator to forecast the chances of every engagement; van Manderpootz would have removed the hit or miss element in the conduct of war." He frowned solemnly. "There is my idea. The autobiography of van Manderpootz. What do you think of it?" I recovered my thoughts. "It's—uh—it's colossal!" I said vehemently. "I'll buy a copy myself. Several copies. I'll send "em to my friends." "I," said van Manderpootz expansively, "shall autograph your copy for you. It will be priceless. I shall write in some fitting phrase, perhaps something like _Magnificus sed non superbus_. "Great but not proud!" That well described van Manderpootz, who despite his greatness is simple, modest, and unassuming. Don't you agree?" "Perfectly! A very apt description of you. But—couldn't I see your subjunctivisor before it's dismantled to make way for the greater work?" "Ah! You wish to find out something?" "Yes, professor. Do you remember the _Baikal_ disaster of a week or two ago? I was to have taken that liner to Moscow. I just missed it." I related the circumstances. "Humph!" he grunted. "You wish to discover what would have happened had you caught it, eh? Well, I see several possibilities. Among the world of "if' is the one that would have been real if you had been on time, the one that depended on the vessel waiting for your actual arrival, and the one that hung on your arriving within the five minutes they actually waited. In which are you interested?" "Oh—the last one." That seemed the likeliest. After all, it was too much to expect that Dixon Wells could ever be on time, and as to the second possibility—well, they _hadn't_ waited for me, and that in a way removed the weight of responsibility. "Come on," rumbled van Manderpootz. I followed him across to the Physics Building and into his littered laboratory. The device still stood on the table and I took my place before it, staring at the screen of the Horsten psychomat. The clouds wavered and shifted as I sought to impress my memories on their suggestive shapes, to read into them some picture of that vanished morning. Then I had it. I made out the vista from the Staten Bridge, and was speeding across the giant span toward the airport. I waved a signal to van Manderpootz, the thing clicked, and the subjunctivisor was on. The grassless clay of the field appeared. It is a curious thing about the psychomat that you see only through the eyes of your image on the screen. It lends a strange reality to the working of the toy; I suppose a sort of self-hypnosis is partly responsible. I was rushing over the ground toward the glittering, silver-winged projectile that was the _Baikal_. A glowering officer waved me on, and I dashed up the slant of the gangplank and into the ship; the port dropped and I heard a long "Whew!" of relief. "Sit down!" barked the officer, gesturing toward an unoccupied seat. I fell into it; the ship quivered under the thrust of the catapult, grated harshly into motion, and then was flung bodily into the air. The blasts roared instantly, then settled to a more muffled throbbing, and I watched Staten Island drop down and slide back beneath me. The giant rocket was under way. "Whew!" I breathed again. "Made it!" I caught an amused glance from my right. I was in an aisle seat; there was no one to my left, so I turned to the eyes that had flashed, glanced, and froze staring. It was a girl. Perhaps she wasn't actually as lovely as she looked to me; after all, I was seeing her through the half-visionary screen of a psychomat. I've told myself since that she _couldn't_ have been as pretty as she seemed, that it was due to my own imagination filling in the details. I don't know; I remember only that I stared at curiously lovely silver-blue eyes and velvety brown hair, and a small amused mouth, and an impudent nose. I kept staring until she flushed. "I'm sorry," I said quickly. "I—was startled." There's a friendly atmosphere aboard a trans-oceanic rocket. The passengers are forced into a crowded intimacy for anywhere from seven to twelve hours, and there isn't much room for moving about. Generally, one strikes up an acquaintance with his neighbors; introductions aren't at all necessary, and the custom is simply to speak to anybody you choose—something like an all-day trip on the railroad trains of the last century, I suppose. You make friends for the duration of the journey, and then, nine times out of ten, you never hear of your traveling companions again. The girl smiled. "Are you the individual responsible for the delay in starting?" I admitted it. "I seem to be chronically late. Even watches lose time as soon as I wear them." She laughed. "Your responsibilities can't be very heavy." Well, they weren't of course, though it's surprising how many clubs, caddies, and chorus girls have depended on me at various times for appreciable portions of their incomes. But somehow I didn't feel like mentioning those things to the silvery-eyed girl. We talked. Her name, it developed, was Joanna Caldwell, and she was going as far as Paris. She was an artist, or hoped to be one day, and of course there is no place in the world that can supply both training and inspiration like Paris. So it was there she was bound for a year of study, and despite her demurely humorous lips and laughing eyes, I could see that the business was of vast importance to her. I gathered that she had worked hard for the year in Paris, had scraped and saved for three years as fashion illustrator for some woman's magazine, though she couldn't have been many months over twenty-one. Her painting meant a great deal to her, and I could understand it. I'd felt that way about polo once. So you see, we were sympathetic spirits from the beginning. I knew that she liked me, and it was obvious that she didn't connect Dixon Wells with the N. J. Wells Corporation. And as for me—well, after that first glance into her cool silver eyes, I simply didn't care to look anywhere else. The hours seemed to drip away like minutes while I watched her. You know how those things go. Suddenly I was calling her Joanna and she was calling me Dick, and it seemed as if we'd been doing just that all our lives. I'd decided to stop over in Paris on my way back from Moscow, and I'd secured her promise to let me see her. She was different, I tell you; she was nothing like the calculating Whimsy White, and still less like the dancing, simpering, giddy youngsters one meets around at social affairs. She was just Joanna, cool and humorous, yet sympathetic and serious, and as pretty as a Majolica figurine. We could scarcely realize it when the steward passed along to take orders for luncheon. Four hours out? It seemed like forty minutes. And we had a pleasant feeling of intimacy in the discovery that both of us liked lobster salad and detested oysters. It was another bond; I told her whimsically that it was an omen, nor did she object to considering it so. Afterwards we walked along the narrow aisle to the glassed-in observation room up forward. It was almost too crowded for entry, but we didn't mind that at all, as it forced us to sit very close together. We stayed long after both of us had begun to notice the stuffiness of the air. It was just after we had returned to our seats that the catastrophe occurred. There was no warning save a sudden lurch, the result, I suppose, of the pilot's futile last-minute attempt to swerve—just that and then a grinding crash and a terrible sensation of spinning, and after that a chorus of shrieks that were like the sounds of battle. It _was_ battle. Five hundred people were picking themselves up from the floor, were trampling each other, milling around, being cast helplessly down as the great rocket-plane, its left wing but a broken stub, circled downward toward the Atlantic. The shouts of officers sounded and a loudspeaker blared. "Be calm," it kept repeating, and then, "There has been a collision. We have contacted a surface ship. There is no danger— There is no danger—" I struggled up from the debris of shattered seats. Joanna was gone; just as I found her crumpled between the rows, the ship struck the water with a jar that set everything crashing again. The speaker blared, "Put on the cork belts under the seats. The life-belts are under the seats." I dragged a belt loose and snapped it around Joanna, then donned one myself. The crowd was surging forward now, and the tail end of the ship began to drop. There was water behind us, sloshing in the darkness as the lights went out. An officer came sliding by, stooped, and fastened a belt about an unconscious woman ahead of us. "You all right?" he yelled, and passed on without waiting for an answer. The speaker must have been cut on to a battery circuit. "And get as far away as possible," it ordered suddenly. "Jump from the forward port and get as far away as possible. A ship is standing by. You will be picked up. Jump from the—". It went dead again. I got Joanna untangled from the wreckage. She was pale; her silvery eyes were closed. I started dragging her slowly and painfully toward the forward port, and the slant of the floor increased until it was like the slide of a ski-jump. The officer passed again. "Can you handle her?" he asked, and again dashed away. I was getting there. The crowd around the port looked smaller, or was it simply huddling closer? Then suddenly, a wail of fear and despair went up, and there was a roar of water. The observation room walls had given. I saw the green surge of waves, and a billowing deluge rushed down upon us. I had been late again. That was all. I raised shocked and frightened eyes from the subjunctivisor to face van Manderpootz, who was scribbling on the edge of the table. "Well?" he asked. I shuddered. "Horrible!" I murmured. "We—I guess we wouldn't have been among the survivors." "We, eh? _We?_" His eyes twinkled. I did not enlighten him. I thanked him, bade him good-night, and went dolorously home. ~ Even my father noticed something queer about me. The day I got to the office only five minutes late, he called me in for some anxious questioning as to my health. I couldn't tell him anything, of course. How could I explain that I'd been late once too often, and had fallen in love with a girl two weeks after she was dead? The thought drove me nearly crazy. Joanna! Joanna with her silvery eyes now lay somewhere at the bottom of the Atlantic. I went around half dazed, scarcely speaking. One night I actually lacked the energy to go home and sat smoking in my father's big overstuffed chair in his private office until I finally dozed off. The next morning, when old N. J. entered and found me there before him, he turned pale as paper, staggered, and gasped, "My heart!" It took a lot of explaining to convince him that I wasn't early at the office but just very late going home. At last I felt that I couldn't stand it. I had to do something—anything at all. I thought finally of the subjunctivisor. I could see—yes, I could see what would have transpired if the ship hadn't been wrecked! I could trace out that weird, unreal romance hidden somewhere in the worlds of "if". I could, perhaps, wring a somber, vicarious joy from the things that might have been. I could see Joanna once more! It was late afternoon when I rushed over to van Manderpootz's quarters. He wasn't there; I encountered him finally in the hall of the Physics Building. "Dick!" he exclaimed. "Are you sick?" "Sick? No. Not physically. Professor. I've got to use your subjunctivisor again. I've _got_ to!" "Eh? Oh—that toy. You're too late, Dick. I've dismantled it. I have a better use for the space." I gave a miserable groan and was tempted to damn the autobiography of the great van Manderpootz. A gleam of sympathy showed in his eyes, and he took my arm, dragging me into the little office adjoining his laboratory. "Tell me," he commanded. I did. I guess I made the tragedy plain enough, for his heavy brows knit in a frown of pity. "Not even van Manderpootz can bring back the dead," he murmured. "I'm sorry, Dick. Take your mind from the affair. Even were my subjunctivisor available, I wouldn't permit you to use it. That would be but to turn the knife in the wound." He paused. "Find something else to occupy your mind. Do as van Manderpootz does. Find forgetfulness in work." "Yes," I responded dully. "But who'd want to read my autobiography? That's all right for you." "Autobiography? Oh! I remember. No, I have abandoned that. History itself will record the life and works of van Manderpootz. Now I am engaged in a far grander project." "Indeed?" I was utterly, gloomily disinterested. "Yes. Gogli has been here, Gogli the sculptor. He is to make a bust of me. What better legacy can I leave to the world than a bust of van Manderpootz, sculptured from life? Perhaps I shall present it to the city, perhaps to the university. I would have given it to the Royal Society if they had been a little more receptive, if they—if—_if_!" The last in a shout. "Huh?" "_If!_" cried van Manderpootz. "What you saw in the subjunctivisor was what would have happened _if_ you had caught the ship!" "I know that." "But something quite different might really have happened! Don't you see? She—she— Where are those old newspapers?" He was pawing through a pile of them. He flourished one finally. "Here! Here are the survivors!" Like letters of flame, Joanna Caldwell's name leaped out at me. There was even a little paragraph about it, as I saw once my reeling brain permitted me to read: "At least a score of survivors owe their lives to the bravery of twenty-eight-year-old Navigator Orris Hope, who patrolled both aisles during the panic, lacing life-belts on the injured and helpless, and carrying many to the port. He remained on the sinking liner until the last, finally fighting his way to the surface through the broken walls of the observation room. Among those who owe their lives to the young officer are: Patrick Owensby, New York City; Mrs. Campbell Warren, Boston; Miss Joanna Caldwell, New York City—" I suppose my shout of joy was heard over in the Administration Building, blocks away. I didn't care; if van Manderpootz hadn't been armored in stubby whiskers, I'd have kissed him. Perhaps I did anyway; I can't be sure of my actions during those chaotic minutes in the professor's tiny office. At last I calmed. "I can look her up!" I gloated. "She must have landed with the other survivors, and they were all on that British tramp freighter the _Osgood_, that docked here last week. She must be in New York—and if she's gone over to Paris, I'll find out and follow her!" Well, it's a queer ending. She was in New York, but—you see, Dixon Wells had, so to speak, known Joanna Caldwell by means of the professor's subjunctivisor, but Joanna had never known Dixon Wells. What the ending might have been if—_if_— But it wasn't; she had married Orris Hope, the young officer who had rescued her. I was late again. THE END
216	--- author: Edgar Rice Burroughs tags: 'United States: Grosset & Dunlap,1925., Science fiction, Islands, Fiction, Survival, Adventure stories, Oceania, Cave dwellers' title: The Cave Girl summary: ' "The Cave Girl" by Edgar Rice Burroughs is a novel written in the early 20th century. The story follows the adventures of Waldo Emerson Smith-Jones, a frail young man who, after being cast away on a deserted shore, encounters both the fierce inhabitants of this primitive land and the titular cave girl, Nadara. The narrative explores themes of survival, transformation, and the contrast between civilization and savagery through Waldo''s character as he navigates his new reality. At the start of the book, Waldo finds himself alone on a deserted beach, terrorized by an unseen creature lurking in the shadows of a nearby forest. He is portrayed as a timid intellectual, raised in a cultured environment, whose lack of practical skills leaves him helpless and afraid. As he struggles to adapt to his harsh circumstances, he is suddenly pursued by a group of savage cave men, leading to a frantic escape up the rocky cliffs. Waldo''s initial panic transforms into a fight for survival, culminating in an unexpected partnership with Nadara, who admires his courage despite his self-doubt. The opening chapters set the stage for Waldo''s journey of self-discovery and growth as he confronts both human and animal threats in this wild, untamed wilderness. ' word_count: 68302 fiction_type: Novel ... # CHAPTER I: FLOTSAM The dim shadow of the thing was but a blur against the dim shadows of the wood behind it. The young man could distinguish no outline that might mark the presence as either brute or human. He could see no eyes, yet he knew that somewhere from out of that noiseless mass stealthy eyes were fixed upon him. This was the fourth time that the thing had crept from out the wood as darkness was settling—the fourth time during those three horrible weeks since he had been cast upon that lonely shore that he had watched, terror-stricken, while night engulfed the shadowy form that lurked at the forest's edge. It had never attacked him, but to his distorted imagination it seemed to slink closer and closer as night fell—waiting, always waiting for the moment that it might find him unprepared. Waldo Emerson Smith-Jones was not overly courageous. He had been reared among surroundings of culture plus and ultra-intellectuality in the exclusive Back Bay home of his ancestors. He had been taught to look with contempt upon all that savored of muscular superiority—such things were gross, brutal, primitive. It had been a giant intellect only that he had craved—he and a fond mother—and their wishes had been fulfilled. At twenty-one Waldo was an animated encyclopedia—and about as muscular as a real one. Now he slunk shivering with fright at the very edge of the beach, as far from the grim forest as he could get. Cold sweat broke from every pore of his long, lank, six-foot-two body. His skinny arms and legs trembled as with palsy. Occasionally he coughed—it had been the cough that had banished him upon this ill-starred sea voyage. As he crouched in the sand, staring with wide, horror-dilated eyes into the black night, great tears rolled down his thin, white cheeks. It was with difficulty that he restrained an overpowering desire to shriek. His mind was filled with forlorn regrets that he had not remained at home to meet the wasting death that the doctor had predicted—a peaceful death at least—not the brutal end which faced him now. The lazy swell of the South Pacific lapped his legs, stretched upon the sand, for he had retreated before that menacing shadow as far as the ocean would permit. As the slow minutes dragged into age-long hours, the nervous strain told so heavily upon the weak boy that toward midnight he lapsed into merciful unconsciousness. The warm sun awoke him the following morning, but it brought with it but a faint renewal of courage. Things could not creep to his side unseen now, but still they could come, for the sun would not protect him. Even now some savage beast might be lurking just within the forest. The thought unnerved him to such an extent that he dared not venture to the woods for the fruit that had formed the major portion of his sustenance. Along the beach he picked up a few mouthfuls of sea-food, but that was all. The day passed, as had the other terrible days which had preceded it, in scanning alternately the ocean and the forest's edge—the one for a ship and the other for the cruel death which he momentarily expected to see stalk out of the dreary shades to claim him. A more practical and a braver man would have constructed some manner of shelter in which he might have spent his nights in comparative safety and comfort, but Waldo Emerson's education had been conducted along lines of undiluted intellectuality—pursuits and knowledge which were practical were commonplace, and commonplaces were vulgar. It was preposterous that a Smith-Jones should ever have need of vulgar knowledge. For the twenty-second time since the great wave had washed him from the steamer's deck and hurled him, choking and sputtering, upon this inhospitable shore, Waldo Emerson saw the sun sinking rapidly toward the western horizon. As it descended the young man's terror increased, and he kept his eyes glued upon the spot from which the shadow had emerged the previous evening. He felt that he could not endure another night of the torture he had passed through four times before. That he should go mad he was positive, and he commenced to tremble and whimper even while daylight yet remained. For a time he tried turning his back to the forest, and then he sat huddled up gazing out upon the ocean; but the tears which rolled down his cheeks so blurred his eyes that he saw nothing. Finally he could endure it no longer, and with a sudden gasp of horror he wheeled toward the wood. There was nothing visible, yet he broke down and sobbed like a child, for loneliness and terror. When he was able to control his tears for a moment he took the opportunity to scan the deepening shadows once more. The first glance brought a piercing shriek from his white lips. The thing was there! The young man did not fall groveling to the sand this time—instead, he stood staring with protruding eyes at the vague form, while shriek after shriek broke from his grinning lips. Reason was tottering. The thing, whatever it was, halted at the first blood-curdling cry, and then when the cries continued it slunk back toward the wood. With what remained of his ebbing mentality Waldo Emerson realized that it were better to die at once than face the awful fears of the black night. He would rush to meet his fate, and thus end this awful agony of suspense. With the thought came action, so that, still shrieking, he rushed headlong toward the thing at the wood's rim. As he ran it turned and fled into the forest, and after it went Waldo Emerson, his long, skinny legs carrying his emaciated body in great leaps and bounds through the tearing underbrush. He emitted shriek after shriek—ear-piercing shrieks that ended in long drawn out wails, more wolfish than human. And the thing that fled through the night before him was shrieking, too, now. Time and again the young man stumbled and fell. Thorns and brambles tore his clothing and his soft flesh. Blood smeared him from head to feet. Yet on and on he rushed through the semidarkness of the now moonlit forest. At first impelled by the mad desire to embrace death and wrest the peace of oblivion from its cruel clutch, Waldo Emerson had come to pursue the screaming shadow before him from an entirely different motive. Now it was for companionship. He screamed now because of a fear that the thing would elude him and that he should be left alone in the depth of this weird wood. Slowly but surely it was drawing away from him, and as Waldo Emerson realized the fact he redoubled his efforts to overtake it. He had stopped screaming now, for the strain of his physical exertion found his weak lungs barely adequate to the needs of his gasping respiration. Suddenly the pursuit emerged from the forest to cross a little moonlit clearing, at the opposite side of which towered a high and rocky cliff. Toward this the fleeing creature sped, and in an instant more was swallowed, apparently, by the face of the cliff. Its disappearance was as mysterious and awesome as its identity had been, and left the young man in blank despair. With the object of pursuit gone, the reaction came, and Waldo Emerson sank trembling and exhausted at the foot of the cliff. A paroxysm of coughing seized him, and thus he lay in an agony of apprehension, fright, and misery until from very weakness he sank into a deep sleep. It was daylight when he awoke—stiff, lame, sore, hungry, and miserable—but, withal, refreshed and sane. His first consideration was prompted by the craving of a starved stomach; yet it was with the utmost difficulty that he urged his cowardly brain to direct his steps toward the forest, where hung fruit in abundance. At every little noise he halted in tense silence, poised to flee. His knees trembled so violently that they knocked together; but at length he entered the dim shadows, and presently was gorging himself with ripe fruits. To reach some of the more luscious viands he had picked from the ground a piece of fallen limb, which tapered from a diameter of four inches at one end to a trifle over an inch at the other. It was the first practical thing that Waldo Emerson had done since he had been cast upon the shore of his new home—in fact, it was, in all likelihood, the nearest approximation to a practical thing which he had ever done in all his life. Waldo had never been allowed to read fiction, nor had he ever cared to so waste his time or impoverish his brain, and nowhere in the fund of deep erudition which he had accumulated could he recall any condition analogous to those which now confronted him. Waldo, of course, knew that there were such things as step-ladders, and had he had one he would have used it as a means to reach the fruit above his hand's reach; but that he could knock the delicacies down with a broken branch seemed indeed a mighty discovery—a valuable addition to the sum total of human knowledge. Aristotle himself had never reasoned more logically. Waldo had taken the first step in his life toward independent mental action—heretofore his ideas, his thoughts, his acts, even, had been borrowed from the musty writing of the ancients, or directed by the immaculate mind of his superior mother. And he clung to his discovery as a child clings to a new toy. When he emerged from the forest he brought his stick with him. He determined to continue the pursuit of the creature that had eluded him the night before. It would, indeed, be curious to look upon a thing that feared him. In all his life he had never imagined it possible that any creature could flee from him in fear. A little glow suffused the young man as the idea timorously sought to take root. Could it be that there was a trace of swagger in that long, bony figure as Waldo directed his steps toward the cliff? Perish the thought! Pride in vulgar physical prowess! A long line of Smith-Joneses would have risen in their graves and rent their shrouds at the veriest hint of such an idea. For a long time Waldo walked back and forth along the foot of the cliff, searching for the avenue of escape used by the fugitive of yesternight. A dozen times he passed a well-defined trail that led, winding, up the cliff's face; but Waldo knew nothing of trails—he was looking for a flight of steps or a doorway. Finding neither, he stumbled by accident into the trail; and, although the evident signs that marked it as such revealed nothing to him, yet he followed it upward for the simple reason that it was the only place upon the cliff side where he could find a foothold. Some distance up he came to a narrow cleft in the cliff into which the trail led. Rocks dislodged from above had fallen into it, and, becoming wedged a few feet from the bottom, left only a small cavelike hole, into which Waldo peered. There was nothing visible, but the interior was dark and forbidding. Waldo felt cold and clammy. He began to tremble. Then he turned and looked back toward the forest. The thought of another night spent within sight of that dismal place almost overcame him. No! A thousand times no! Any fate were better than that, and so after several futile efforts he forced his unwilling body through the small aperture. He found himself on a path between two rocky walls—a path that rose before him at a steep angle. At intervals the blue sky was visible above through openings that had not been filled with debris. To another it would have been apparent that the cleft had been kept open by human beings—that it was a thoroughfare which was used, if not frequently, at least sufficiently often to warrant considerable labor having been expended upon it to keep it free from the debris which must be constantly falling from above. Where the path led, or what he expected to find at the other end, Waldo had not the remotest idea. He was not an imaginative youth. But he kept on up the ascent in the hope that at the end he would find the creature which had escaped him the night before. As it had fled for a brief instant across the clearing beneath the moon's soft rays, Waldo had thought that it bore a remarkable resemblance to a human figure; but of that he could not be positive. At last his path broke suddenly into the sunlight. The walls on either side were but little higher than his head, and a moment later he emerged from the cleft onto a broad and beautiful plateau. Before him stretched a wide, grassy plain, and beyond towered a range of mighty hills. Between them and him lay a belt of forest. A new emotion welled in the breast of Waldo Emerson Smith-Jones. It was akin to that which Balboa may have felt when he gazed for the first time upon the mighty Pacific from the Sierra de Quarequa. For the moment, as he contemplated this new and beautiful scene of rolling meadowland, distant forest, and serrated hill-tops, he almost forgot to be afraid. And on the impulse of the instant he set out across the tableland to explore the unknown which lay beyond the forest. Well it was for Waldo Emerson's peace of mind that no faint conception of what lay there entered his unimaginative mind. To him a land without civilization—without cities and towns peopled by humans with manners and customs similar to those which obtain in Boston—was beyond belief. As he walked he strained his eyes in every direction for some indication of human habitation—a fence, a chimney—anything that would be man-built; but his efforts were unrewarded. At the verge of the forest he halted, fearing to enter; but at last, when he saw that the wood was more open than that near the ocean, and that there was but little underbrush, he mustered sufficient courage to step timidly within. On careful tiptoe he threaded his way through the park-like grove, stopping every few minutes to listen, and ready at the first note of danger to fly screaming toward the open plain. Notwithstanding his fears, he reached the opposite boundary of the forest without seeing or hearing anything to arouse suspicion, and, emerging from the cool shade, found himself a little distance from a perpendicular white cliff, the face of which was honeycombed with the mouths of many caves. There was no living creature in sight, nor did the very apparent artificiality of the caves suggest to the impractical Waldo that they might be the habitations of perhaps savage human beings. With the spell of discovery still upon him, he crossed the open toward the cliffs; but he had by no means forgotten his chronic state of abject fear. Ears and eyes were alert for hidden dangers; every few steps were punctuated by a timid halt and a searching survey of his surroundings. It was during one of these halts, when he had crossed half the distance between the forest and the cliff, that he discerned a slight movement in the wood behind him. For an instant he stood staring and frozen, unable to determine whether he had been mistaken or really had seen a creature moving in the forest. He had about decided that he had but imagined a presence when a great, hairy brute of a man stepped suddenly from behind the bole of a tree. # CHAPTER II: THE WILD PEOPLE The creature was naked except for a bit of hide that hung from a leathern waist thong. If Waldo viewed the newcomer with wonder, it was no less than the wonder which the sight of him inspired in the breast of the hairy one, for what he saw was as truly remarkable to his eyes as was his appearance to those of the cultured Bostonian. And Waldo did indeed present a most startling exterior. His six-feet-two was accentuated by his extreme skinniness; his gray eyes looked weak and watery within the inflamed circles which rimmed them, and which had been produced by loss of sleep and much weeping. His yellow hair was tangled and matted, and streaked with dirt and blood. Blood stained his soiled and tattered ducks. His shirt was but a mass of frayed ribbons held to him at all only by the neckband. As he stood helplessly staring with bulging eyes at the awful figure glowering at him from the forest his jaw dropped, his knees trembled, and he seemed about to collapse from sheer terror. Then the hideous man crouched and came creeping warily toward him. With an agonized scream Waldo turned and fled toward the cliff. A quick glance over his shoulder brought another series of shrieks from the frightened fugitive, for it revealed not alone the fact that the awful man was pursuing him, but that behind him raced at least a dozen more equally frightful. Waldo ran toward the cliffs only because that direction lay straight away from his pursuers. He had no idea what he should do when he reached the rocky barrier—he was far too frightened to think. His pursuers were gaining upon him, their savage yells mingling with his piercing cries and spurring him on to undreamed-of pinnacles of speed. As he ran, his knees came nearly to his shoulders at each frantic bound; his left hand was extended far ahead, clutching wildly at the air as though he were endeavoring to pull himself ahead, while his right hand, still grasping the cudgel, described a rapid circle, like the arm of a windmill gone mad. In action Waldo was an inspiring spectacle. At the foot of the cliff he came to a momentary halt, while he glanced hurriedly about for a means of escape; but now he saw that the enemy had spread out toward the right and left, leaving no means of escape except up the precipitous side of the cliff. Up this narrow trails led steeply from ledge to ledge. In places crude ladders scaled perpendicular heights from one tier of caves to the next above; but to Waldo the thing which confronted him seemed absolutely unscalable, and then another backward glance showed him the rapidly nearing enemy; and he launched himself at the face of that seemingly impregnable barrier, clutching desperately with fingers and toes. His progress was impeded by the cudgel to which he still clung, but he did not drop it; though why it would have been difficult to tell, unless it was that his acts were now purely mechanical, there being no room in his mind for aught else than terror. Close behind him came the foremost cave man; yet, though he had acquired the agility of a monkey through a lifetime of practice, he was amazed at the uncanny speed with which Waldo Emerson clawed his shrieking way aloft. Half-way up the ascent, however, a great hairy hand came almost to his ankle. It was during the perilous negotiation of one of the loose and wabbly ladders—little more than small trees leaning precariously against the perpendicular rocky surface—that the nearest foeman came so close to the fugitive; but at the top chance intervened to save Waldo, for a time at least. It was at the moment that he scrambled frantically to a tiny ledge from the frightfully slipping sapling. In his haste he did by accident what a resourceful man would have done by intent—in pushing himself onto the ledge he kicked the ladder outward—for a second it hung toppling in the balance, and then with a lunge crashed down the cliff's face with its human burden, in its fall scraping others of the pursuing horde with it. A chorus of rage came up from below him, but Waldo had not even turned his head to learn of his temporary good fortune. Up, ever up he sped, until at length he stood upon the topmost ledge, facing an overhanging wall of blank rock that towered another twenty-five feet above him to the summit of the bluff. Time and again he leaped futilely against the smooth surface, tearing at it with his nails in a mad endeavor to climb still higher. At his right was the low opening to a black cave, but he did not see it—his mind could cope with but the single idea: to clamber from the horrible creatures which pursued him. But finally it was borne in on his half-mad brain that this was the end—he could fly no farther—here, in a moment more, death would overtake him. He turned to meet it, and below saw a number of the cave men placing another ladder in lieu of that which had fallen. In a moment they were resuming the ascent after him. On the narrow ledge above them the young man stood, chattering and grinning like a madman. His pitiful cries were now punctuated with the hollow coughing which his violent exercise had induced. Tears rolled down his begrimed face, leaving crooked, muddy streaks in their wake. His knees smote together so violently that he could barely stand, and it was into the face of this apparition of cowardice that the first of the cave men looked as he scrambled above the ledge on which Waldo stood. And then, of a sudden, there rose within the breast of Waldo Emerson Smith-Jones a spark that generations of overrefinement and emasculating culture had all but extinguished—the instinct of self-preservation by force. Heretofore it had been purely by flight. With the frenzy of the fear of death upon him, he raised his cudgel, and, swinging it high above his head, brought it down full upon the unprotected skull of his enemy. Another took the fallen man's place—he, too, went down with a broken head. Waldo was fighting now like a cornered rat, and through it all he chattered and gibbered; but he no longer wept. At first he was horrified at the bloody havoc he wrought with his crude weapon. His nature revolted at the sight of blood, and when he saw it mixed with matted hair along the side of his cudgel, and realized that it was human hair and human blood, and that he, Waldo Emerson Smith-Jones, had struck the blows that had plastered it there so thickly in all its hideousness, a wave of nausea swept over him, so that he almost toppled from his dizzy perch. For a few minutes there was a lull in hostilities while the cave men congregated below, shaking their fists at Waldo and crying out threats and challenges. The young man stood looking down upon them, scarcely able to realize that alone he had met savage men in physical encounter and defeated them. He was shocked and horrified; not, odd to say, because of the thing he had done, but rather because of a strange and unaccountable glow of pride in his brutal supremacy over brutes. What would his mother have thought could she have seen her precious boy now? Suddenly Waldo became conscious from the corner of his eye that something was creeping upon him from behind out of the dark cave before which he had fought. Simultaneously with the realization of it he swung his cudgel in a wicked blow at this new enemy as he turned to meet it. The creature dodged back, and the blow that would have crushed its skull grazed a hairbreadth from its face. Waldo struck no second blow, and the cold sweat sprang to his forehead when he realized how nearly he had come to murdering a young girl. She crouched now in the mouth of the cave, eying him fearfully. Waldo removed his tattered cap, bowing low. "I crave your pardon," he said. "I had no idea that there was a lady here. I am very glad that I did not injure you." There must have been something either in his tone or manner that reassured her, for she smiled and came out upon the ledge beside him. As she did so a scarlet flush mantled Waldo's face and neck and ears—he could feel them burning. With a nervous cough he turned and became intently occupied with the distant scenery. Presently he cast a surreptitious glance behind him. Shocking! She was still there. Again he coughed nervously. "Excuse me," he said. "But—er—ah—you—I am a total stranger, you know; hadn't you better go back in, and—er—get your clothes?" She made no reply, and so he forced himself to turn toward her once more. She was smiling at him. Waldo had never been so horribly embarrassed in all his life before—it was a distinct shock to him to realize that the girl was not embarrassed at all. He spoke to her a second time, and at last she answered; but in a tongue which he did not understand. It bore not the slightest resemblance to any language, modern or dead, with which he was familiar, and Waldo was more or less master of them all—especially the dead ones. He tried not to look at her after that, for he realized that he must appear very ridiculous. But now his attention was required by more pressing affairs—the cave men were returning to the attack. They carried stones this time, and, while some of them threw the missiles at Waldo, the others attempted to rush his position. It was then that the girl hurried back into the cave, only to reappear a moment later carrying some stone utensils in her arms. There was a huge mortar in which she had collected a pestle and several smaller pieces of stone. She pushed them along the ledge to Waldo. At first he did not grasp the meaning of her act; but presently she pretended to pick up an imaginary missile and hurl it down upon the creatures below—then she pointed to the things she had brought and to Waldo. He understood. So she was upon his side. He did not understand why, but he was glad. Following her suggestion, he gathered up a couple of the smaller objects and hurled them down upon the men beneath. But on and on they came—Waldo was not a very good shot. The girl was busy now gathering such of the cave men's missiles as fell upon the ledge. These she placed in a pile beside Waldo. Occasionally the young man would strike an enemy by accident, and then she would give a little scream of pleasure—clapping her hands and jumping up and down. It was not long before Waldo was surprised to find that this applause fell sweetly upon his ears. It was then that he began to take better aim. In the midst of it all there flashed suddenly upon him a picture of his devoted mother and the select coterie of intellectual young people with which she had always surrounded him. Waldo felt a new pang of horror as he tried to realize with what emotions they would look upon him now as he stood upon the face of a towering cliff beside an almost naked girl hurling rocks down upon the heads of hairy men who hopped about, screaming with rage, below him. It was awful! A great billow of mortification rolled over him. He turned to cast a look of disapprobation at the shameless young woman behind him—she should not think that he countenanced such coarse and vulgar proceedings. Their eyes met—in hers he saw the sparkle of excitement and the joy of life and such a look of comradeship as he never before had seen in the eyes of another mortal. Then she pointed excitedly over the edge of the ledge. Waldo looked. A great brute of a cave man had crawled, unseen, almost to their refuge. He was but five feet below them, and at the moment that he looked up Waldo dropped a fifty-pound stone mortar full upon his upturned face. The young woman emitted a little shriek of joy, and Waldo Emerson Smith-Jones, his face bisected by a broad grin, turned toward her. # CHAPTER III: THE LITTLE EDEN The mortar ended hostilities—temporarily, at least; but the cave men loitered about the base of the cliff during the balance of the afternoon, occasionally shouting taunts at the two above them. These the girl answered, evidently in kind. Sometimes she would point to Waldo and make ferocious signs, doubtless indicative of the horrible slaughter which awaited them at his hands if they did not go away and leave their betters alone. When the young man realized the significance of her pantomime he felt his heart swell with an emotion which he feared was pride in brutal, primitive, vulgar physical prowess. As the long day wore on Waldo became both very hungry and very thirsty. In the valley below he could see a tiny brooklet purling, clear and beautiful, toward the south. The sight of it drove him nearly mad, as did also that of the fruit which he glimpsed hanging ripe for eating at the edge of the forest. By means of signs he asked the girl if she, too, were hungry, for he had come to a point now where he could look at her almost without visible signs of mortification. She nodded her head and, pointing toward the descending sun, made it plain to him that after dark they would descend and eat. The cave men had not left when darkness came, and it seemed to Waldo a very foolhardy thing to venture down while they might be about; but the girl made it so evident that she considered him an invincible warrior that he was torn with the conflicting emotions of cowardice and an unaccountable desire to appear well in her eyes, that he might by his acts justify her belief in him. It seemed very wonderful to Waldo that any one should look upon him in the light of a tower of strength and a haven of refuge; he was not quite certain in his own mind but that the reputation might lead him into most uncomfortable and embarrassing situations. Incidentally, he wondered if the girl was a good runner; he hoped so. It must have been quite near midnight when his companion intimated that the time had arrived when they should fare forth and dine. Waldo wanted her to go first, but she shrank close to him, timidly, and held back. There was nothing else for it, then, than to take the plunge, though had the sun been shining it would have revealed a very pale and wide-eyed champion, who slipped gingerly over the side of the ledge to grope with his feet for a foothold beneath. Half-way down the moon rose above the forest—a great, full, tropic moon, that lighted the face of the cliff almost as brilliantly as might the sun itself. It shone into the mouth of a cave upon the ledge that Waldo had just reached in his descent, revealing to the horrified eyes of the young man a great, hairy form stretched in slumber not a yard from him. As he looked, the wicked little eyes opened and looked straight into his. With difficulty Waldo suppressed a shriek of dismay as he turned to plunge madly down the precipitous trail. The girl had not yet descended from the ledge above. She must have sensed what had happened, for as Waldo turned to fly she gave a little cry of terror. At the same instant the cave man leaped to his feet. But the girl's voice had touched something in the breast of Waldo Emerson which generations of disuse had almost atrophied, and for the first time in his life he did a brave and courageous thing. He could easily have escaped the cave man and reached the valley—alone; but at the first note of the young girl's cry he wheeled and scrambled back to the ledge to face the burly, primitive man, who could have crushed him with a single blow. Waldo Emerson no longer trembled. His nerves and muscles were very steady as he swung his cudgel in an arc that brought it crashing down upon the upraised guarding arm of the cave man. There was a snapping of bone beneath the blow, a scream of pain—the man staggered back, the girl sprang to Waldo's side from the ledge above, and hand in hand they turned and fled down the face of the cliff. From a dozen cave-mouths above issued a score of cave men, but the fleeing pair were half-way across the clearing before the slow-witted brutes were fully aware of what had happened. By the time they had taken up the pursuit Waldo and the girl had entered the forest. For a few yards the latter led Waldo straight into the shadows of the wood, then she turned abruptly toward the north, at right angles to the course they had been pursuing. She still clung to the young man's hand, nor did she slacken her speed the least after they had entered the darkness beneath the trees. She ran as surely and confidently through the impenetrable night of the forest as though the way had been lighted by flaming arcs; but Waldo was continually stumbling and falling. The sound of pursuit presently became fainter; it was apparent that the cave men had continued on straight into the wood; but the girl raced on with the panting Waldo for what seemed to the winded young man an eternity. Presently, however, they came to the banks of the little stream that had been visible from the caves. Here the girl fell into a walk, and a moment later dragged the Bostonian down a shelving bank into water that came above his knees. Up the bed of the stream she led him, sometimes floundering through holes so deep that they were entirely submerged. Waldo had never learned the vulgar art of swimming, so it was that he would have drowned but for the strong, brown hand of his companion, which dragged him, spluttering and coughing, through one awful hole after another, until, half-strangled and entirely panic-stricken, she hauled him safely upon a low, grassy bank at the foot of a rocky wall which formed one side of a gorge, through which the river boiled. It must not be assumed that when Waldo Emerson returned to face the hairy brute who threatened to separate him from his new-found companion that by a miracle he had been transformed from a hare into a lion—far from it. Now that he had a moment in which to lie quite still and speculate upon the adventures of the past hour, the reaction came, and Waldo Emerson thanked the kindly night that obscured from the eyes of the girl the pitiable spectacle of his palsied limbs and trembling lip. Once again he was in a blue funk, with shattered nerves that begged to cry aloud in the extremity of their terror. It was not warm in the damp cañon, through which the wind swept over the cold water, so that to Waldo's mental anguish was added the physical discomfort of cold and wet. He was indeed a miserable figure as he lay huddled upon the sward, praying for the rising of the sun, yet dreading the daylight that might reveal him to his enemies. But at last dawn came, and after a fitful sleep Waldo awoke to find himself in a snug and beautiful little paradise hemmed in by the high cliffs that flanked the river, upon a sloping grassy shore that was all but invisible except from a short stretch of cliff-top upon the farther side of the stream. A few feet from him lay the girl. She was still asleep. Her head was pillowed upon one firm, brown arm. Her soft black hair fell in disorder across one cheek and over the other arm, to spread gracefully upon the green grass about her. As Waldo looked he saw that she was very comely. Never before had he seen a girl just like her. His young women friends had been rather prim and plain, with long, white faces and thin lips that scarcely ever dared to smile and scorned to unbend in plebeian laughter. This girl's lips seemed to have been made for laughing—and for something else, though at the time it is only fair to Waldo to say that he did not realize the full possibilities that they presented. As his eyes wandered along the lines of her young body his Puritanical training brought a hot flush of embarrassment to his face, and he deliberately turned his back upon her. It was indeed awful to Waldo Emerson to contemplate, to say the least, the unconventional position into which fate had forced him. The longer he pondered it the redder he became. It was frightful—what would his mother say when she heard of it? What would this girl's mother say? But, more to the point, and—horrible thought—what would her father or her brothers do to Waldo if they found them thus together—and she with only a scanty garment of skin about her waist—a garment which reached scarcely below her knees at any point, and at others terminated far above? Waldo was chagrined. He could not understand what the girl could be thinking of, for in other respects she seemed quite nice, and he was sure that the great eyes of her reflected only goodness and innocence. While he sat thus, thinking, the girl awoke and with a merry laugh addressed him. "Good morning," said Waldo quite severely. He wished that he could speak her language, so that he could convey to her a suggestion of the disapprobation which he felt for her attire. He was on the point of attempting it by signs, when she rose, lithe and graceful as a tigress, and walked to the river's brim. With a deft movement of her fingers she loosed the thong that held her single garment, and as it fell to the ground Waldo, with a horrified gasp, turned upon his face, burying his tightly closed eyes in his hands. Then the girl dived into the cool waters for her matutinal bath. She called to him several times to join her, but Waldo could not look at the spectacle presented; his soul was scandalized. It was some time after she emerged from the river before he dared risk a hesitating glance. With a sigh of relief he saw that she had donned her single garment, and thereafter he could look at her unashamed when she was thus clothed. He felt that by comparison it constituted a most modest gown. Together they strolled along the river's edge, gathering such fruits and roots as the girl knew to be edible. Waldo Emerson gathered those she indicated—with all his learning he found it necessary to depend upon the untutored mind of this little primitive maiden for guidance. Then she taught him how to catch fish with a bent twig and a lightninglike movement of her brown hands—or, rather, tried to teach him, for he was far too slow and awkward to succeed. Afterward they sat upon the soft grass beneath the shade of a wild fig-tree to eat the fish she had caught. Waldo wondered how in the world the girl could make fire without matches, for he was quite sure that she had none; and even should she be able to make fire it would be quite useless, since she had neither cooking utensils nor stove. He was not left long in wonderment. She arranged the fish in a little pile between them, and with a sweet smile motioned to the man to partake; then she selected one for herself, and while Waldo Emerson looked on in horror, sunk her firm, white teeth into the raw fish. Waldo turned away in sickening disgust The girl seemed surprised and worried that he did not eat. Time and again she tried to coax him by signs to join her; but he could not even look at her. He had tried, after the first wave of revolt had subsided, but when he discovered that she ate the entire fish, without bothering to clean it or remove the scales, he became too ill to think of food. Several times during the following week they ventured from their hiding-place, and at these times it was evident from the girl's actions that she was endeavoring to elude their enemies and reach a place of safety other than that in which they were concealed. But at each venture her quick ears or sensitive nostrils warned her of the proximity of danger, so that they had been compelled to hurry back into their little Eden. During this period she taught Waldo many words of her native tongue, so that by means of signs to bridge the gaps between, they were able to communicate with a fair degree of satisfaction. Waldo's mastery of the language was rapid. On the tenth day the girl was able to make him understand that she wished to escape with him to her own people; that these men among whom he had found her were enemies of her tribe, and that she had been hiding from them when Waldo stumbled upon her cave. "I fled," she said. "My mother was killed. My father took another mate, always cruel to me. But when I had wandered into the land of these enemies I was afraid, and would have returned to my father's cave. But I had gone too far. "I would have to run very fast to escape them. Once I ran down a narrow path to the ocean. It was dark. "As I wandered through the woods I came suddenly out upon a beach, and there I saw a strange figure on the sand. It was you. I wanted to learn what manner of man you were. But I was very much afraid, so that I dared only watch you from a distance. "Five times I came down to look at you. You never saw me until the last time, then you set out after me, roaring in a horrible voice. "I was very much afraid, for I knew that you must be very brave to live all alone by the edge of the forest without any shelter, or even a stone to hurl at Nagoola, should he come out of the woods to devour you." Waldo Emerson shuddered. "Who is Nagoola?" he asked. "You do not know Nagoola!" the girl exclaimed in surprise. "Not by that name," replied Waldo. "He is as large," she began in description, "as two men, and black, with glossy coat. He has two yellow eyes, which see as well by night as by day. His great paws are armed with mighty claws. He——" A rustling from the bushes which fringed the opposite cliff-top caused her to turn, instantly alert. "Ah," she whispered, "there is Nagoola now." Waldo looked in the direction of her gaze. It was well that the girl did not see his pallid face and popping eyes as he looked into the evil mask of the great black panther that crouched watching them from the river's further bank. Into Waldo's breast came great panic. It was only because his fear-prostrated muscles refused to respond to his will that he did not scurry, screaming, from the sight of that ferocious countenance. Then, through the fog of his cowardly terror, he heard again the girl's sweet voice: "I knew that you must be very brave to live all alone by the edge of that wicked forest." For the first time in his life a wave of shame swept over Waldo Emerson. The girl called in a taunting voice to the panther, and then turned, smiling, toward Waldo. "How brave I am now," she laughed. "I am no longer afraid of Nagoola. You are with me." "No," said Waldo Emerson, in a very weak voice, "you need not fear while I am with you." "Oh!" she cried. "Slay him. How proud I should be to return to my people with one who vanquished Nagoola, and wore his hide about his loins as proof of his prowess." "Y-yes," acquiesced Waldo faintly. "But," continued the girl, "you have slain many of Nagoola's brothers and sisters. It is no longer sport to kill one of his kind." "Yes—yes," cried Waldo. "Yes, that is it—panthers bore me now." "Oh!" The girl clasped her hands in ecstasy. "How many have you slain?" "Er—why, let me see," the young man blundered. "As a matter of fact, I never kept any record of the panthers I killed." Waldo was becoming frantic. He had never lied before in all his life. He hated a lie and loathed a liar. He wondered why he had lied now. Surely it were nothing to boast of to have butchered one of God's creatures—and as for claiming to have killed so many that he could not recall the number, it was little short of horrible. Yet he became conscious of a poignant regret that he had not killed a thousand panthers, and preserved all the pelts as evidence of his valor. The panther still regarded them from the safety of the farther shore. The girl drew quite close to Waldo in the instinctive plea for protection that belongs to her sex. She laid a timid hand upon his skinny arm and raised her great, trusting eyes to his face in reverent adoration. "How do you kill them?" she whispered. "Tell me." Then it was that Waldo determined to make a clean breast of it, and admit that he never before had seen a live panther. But as he opened his mouth to make the humiliating confession he realized, quite suddenly, why it was that he had lied—he wished to appear well in the eyes of this savage, half-clothed girl. He, Waldo Emerson Smith-Jones, craved the applause of a barbarian, and to win it had simulated that physical prowess which generations of Smith-Joneses had viewed from afar—disgusted, disapproving. The girl repeated her question. "Oh," said Waldo, "it is really quite simple. After I catch them I beat them severely with a stick." The girl sighed. "How wonderful!" she said. Waldo became the victim of a number of unpleasant emotions—mortification for this suddenly developed moral turpitude; apprehension for the future, when the girl might discover him in his true colors; fear, consuming, terrible fear, that she might insist upon his going forth at once to slay Nagoola. But she did nothing of the kind, and presently the panther tired of watching them and turned back into the tangle of bushes behind him. It was with a sigh of relief that Waldo saw him depart. # CHAPTER IV: DEATH'S DOORWAY Late in the afternoon the girl suggested that they start that night upon the journey toward her village. "The bad men will not be abroad after dark," she said. "With you at my side, I shall not fear Nagoola." "How far is it to your village?" asked Waldo. "It will take us three nights," she replied. "By day we must hide, for even you could not vanquish a great number of bad men should they attack you at once." "No," said Waldo; "I presume not." "It was very wonderful to watch you, though," she went on, "when you battled upon the cliff-side, beating them down as they came upon you. How brave you were! How terrible! You trembled from rage." "Yes," admitted Waldo, "I was quite angry. I always tremble like that when my ire is excited. Sometimes I get so bad that my knees knock together. If you ever see them do that you will realize how exceedingly angry I am." "Yes," murmured the girl. Presently Waldo saw that she was laughing quietly to herself. A great fear rose in his breast. Could it be that she was less gullible than she had appeared? Did she, after all, penetrate the bombast with which he had sought to cloak his cowardice? He finally mustered sufficient courage to ask: "Why do you laugh?" "I think of the surprise that awaits old Flatfoot and Korth and the others when I lead you to them." "Why will they be surprised?" asked Waldo. "At the way you will crack their heads." Waldo shuddered. "Why should I crack their heads?" he asked. "Why should you crack their heads!" It was apparently incredible to the girl that he should not understand. "How little you know," she said. "You cannot swim, you do not know the language which men may understand, you would be lost in the woods were I to leave you, and now you say that you do not know that when you come to a strange tribe they will try to kill you, and only take you as one of them when you have proven your worth by killing at least one of their strongest men." "At least one!" said Waldo, half to himself. He was dazed by this information. He had expected to be welcomed with open arms into the best society that the girl's community afforded. He had thought of it in just this way, for he had not even yet learned that there might be a whole people living under entirely different conditions than those which existed in Boston, Massachusetts. Her reference to his ignorance also came as a distinct shock to him. He had always considered himself a man of considerable learning. It had been his secret boast and his mother's open pride. And now to be pitied for his ignorance by one who probably thought the earth flat, if she ever thought about such matters at all—by one who could neither read nor write. And the worst of it all was that her indictment was correct—only she had not gone far enough. There was little of practical value that he did know. With the realization of his limitations Waldo Emerson took, unknown to himself, a great stride toward a broader wisdom than his narrow soul had ever conceived. That night, after the sun had set and the stars and moon come out, the two set forth from their retreat toward the northwest, where the girl said that the village of her people lay. They walked hand in hand through the dark wood, the girl directing their steps, the young man grasping his long cudgel in his right hand and searching into the shadows for the terrible creatures conjured by his cowardly brain, but mostly for the two awesome spots of fire which he had gathered from the girl's talk would mark the presence of Nagoola. Strange noises assailed his ears, and once the girl crouched close to him as her quick ears caught the sound of the movement of a great body through the underbrush at their left. Waldo Emerson was almost paralyzed by terror; but at length the creature, whatever it may have been, turned off into the forest without molesting them. For several hours thereafter they suffered no alarm, but the constant tension of apprehension on the man's already over-wrought nerves had reduced him to a state of such abject nervous terror that he was no longer master of himself. So it was that when the girl suddenly halted him with an affrighted little gasp and, pointing straight ahead, whispered, "Nagoola," he went momentarily mad with fear. For a bare instant he paused in his tracks, and then breaking away from her, he raised his club above his head, and with an awful shriek dashed—straight toward the panther. In the minds of some there may be a doubt as to which of the two—the sleek, silent, black cat or the grinning, screaming Waldo—was the most awe-inspiring. Be that as it may, it was quite evident that no doubt assailed the mind of the cat, for with a single answering scream, he turned and faded into the blackness of the black night. But Waldo did not see him go. Still shrieking, he raced on through the forest until he tripped over a creeper and fell exhausted to the earth. There he lay panting, twitching, and trembling until the girl found him, an hour after sunrise. At the sound of her voice he would have struggled to his feet and dashed on into the woods, for he felt that he could never face her again after the spectacle of cowardice with which he had treated her a few hours before. But even as he gained his feet her first words reassured him, and dissipated every vestige of his intention to elude her. "Did you catch him?" she cried. "No," panted Waldo Emerson quite truthfully. "He got away." They rested a little while, and then Waldo insisted that they resume their journey by day instead of by night. He had positively determined that he never should or could endure another such a night of mental torture. He would much rather take the chance of meeting with the bad men than suffer the constant feeling that unseen enemies were peering out of the darkness at him every moment. In the day they would at least have the advantage of seeing their foes before they were struck. He did not give these reasons to the girl, however. Under the circumstances he felt that another explanation would be better adapted to her ears. "You see," he said, "if it hadn't been so dark Nagoola might not have escaped me. It is too bad—too bad." "Yes," agreed the girl, "it is too bad. We shall travel by day. It will be safe now. We have left the country of the bad men, and there are few men living between us and my people." That night they spent in a cave they found in the steep bank of a small river. It was damp and muddy and cold, but they were both very tired, and so they fell asleep and slept as soundly as though the best of mattresses lay beneath them. The girl probably slept better, since she had never been accustomed to anything much superior to this in all her life. The journey required five days, instead of three, and during all the time Waldo was learning more and more woodcraft from the girl. At first his attitude had been such that he could profit but little from her greater practical knowledge, for he had been inclined to look down upon her as an untutored savage. Now, however, he was a willing student, and when Waldo Emerson elected to study there was nothing that he could not master and retain in a remarkable manner. He had a well-trained mind—the principal trouble with it being that it had been crammed full of useless knowledge. His mother had always made the error of confusing knowledge with wisdom. Waldo was not the only one to learn new things upon this journey. The girl learned something, too—something which had been threatening for days to rise above the threshold of her conscious mind, and now she realized that it had lain in her heart almost ever since the first moment that she had been with this strange young man. Waldo Emerson had been endowed by nature with a chivalrous heart, and his training had been such that he mechanically accorded to all women the gallant little courtesies and consideration which are of the fine things that go with breeding. Nor was he one whit less punctilious in his relations with this wild cave girl than he would have been with the daughter of the finest family of his own aristocracy. He had been kind and thoughtful and sympathetic always, and to the girl, who had never been accustomed to such treatment from men, nor had ever seen a man accord it to any woman, it seemed little short of miraculous that such gentle tenderness could belong to a nature so warlike and ferocious as that with which she had endowed Waldo Emerson. But she was quite satisfied that it should be so. She would not have cared for him had he been gentle with her, yet cowardly. Had she dreamed of the real truth—had she had the slightest suspicion that Waldo Emerson was at heart the most arrant poltroon upon whom the sun had ever shone, she would have loathed and hated him, for in the primitive code of ethics which governed the savage community which was her world there was no place for the craven or the weakling—and Waldo Emerson was both. As the realization of her growing sentiment toward the man awakened, it imparted to her ways with him a sudden coyness and maidenly aloofness which had been entirely wanting before. Until then their companionship, in so far as the girl was concerned, had been rather that of one youth toward another; but now that she found herself thrilling at his slightest careless touch, she became aware of a paradoxical impulse to avoid him. For the first time in her life, too, she realized her nakedness, and was ashamed. Possibly this was due to the fact that Waldo appeared so solicitous in endeavoring to coerce his rags into the impossible feat of entirely covering his body. As they neared their journey's end Waldo became more and more perturbed. During the last night horrible visions of Flatfoot and Korth haunted his dreams. He saw the great, hairy beasts rushing upon him in all the ferocity of their primeval savagery—tearing him limb from limb in their bestial rage. With a shriek he awoke. To the girl's startled inquiry he replied that he had been but dreaming. "Did you dream of Flatfoot and Korth?" she laughed. "Of the things that you will do to them tomorrow?" "Yes," replied Waldo; "I dreamed of Flatfoot and Korth." But the girl did not see how he trembled and hid his head in the hollow of his arm. The last day's march was the most agonizing experience of Waldo Emerson's life. He was positive that he was going to his death, but to him the horror of the thing lay more in the manner of his coming death than in the thought of death itself. As a matter of fact, he had again reached a point when he would have welcomed death. The future held for him nothing but a life of discomfort and misery and constant mental anguish, superinduced by the condition of awful fear under which he must drag out his existence in this strange and terrible land. Waldo had not the slightest conception as to whether he was upon some mainland or an unknown island. That the tidal wave had come upon them somewhere in the South Pacific was all that he knew; but long since he had given up hope that succor would reach him in time to prevent him perishing miserably far from his home and his poor mother. He could not dwell long upon this dismal theme, because it always brought tears of self-pity to his eyes, and for some unaccountable reason Waldo shrunk from the thought of exhibiting this unmanly weakness before the girl. All day long he racked his brain for some valid excuse whereby he might persuade his companion to lead him elsewhere than to her village. A thousand times better would be some secluded little garden such as that which had harbored them for the ten days following their escape from the cave men. If they could but come upon such a place near the coast, where Waldo could keep a constant watch for passing vessels, he would have been as happy as he ever expected it would be possible for him in such a savage land. He wanted the girl with him for companionship; he was more afraid when he was alone. Of course, he realized that she was no fit companion for a man of his mental attainments; but then she was a human being, and her society much better than none at all. While hope had still lingered that he might live to escape and return to his beloved Boston, he had often wondered whether he would dare tell his mother of his unconventional acquaintance with this young woman. Of course, it would be out of the question for him to go at all into details. He would not, for example, dare to attempt a description of her toilet to his prim parent. The fact that they had been alone together, day and night for weeks was another item which troubled Waldo considerably. He knew that the shock of such information might prostrate his mother, and for a long time he debated the wisdom of omitting any mention of the girl whatever. At length he decided that a little, white lie would be permissible, inasmuch as his mother's health and the girl's reputation were both at stake. So he had decided to mention that the girl's aunt had been with them in the capacity of chaperon; that fixed it nicely, and on this point Waldo's mind was more at ease. Late in the afternoon they wound down a narrow trail that led from the plateau into a narrow, beautiful valley. A tree-bordered river meandered through the center of the level plain that formed the valley's floor, while beyond rose precipitous cliffs, which trailed off in either direction as far as the eye could reach. "There live my people," said the girl, pointing toward the distant barrier. Waldo groaned inwardly. "Let us rest here," he said, "until tomorrow, that we may come to your home rested and refreshed." "Oh, no," cried the girl; "we can reach the caves before dark. I can scarcely wait until I shall have seen how you shall slay Flatfoot, and maybe Korth also. Though I think that after one of them has felt your might the others will be glad to take you into the tribe at the price of your friendship." "Is there not some way," ventured the distracted Waldo, "that I may come into your village without fighting? I should dislike to kill one of your friends," said Waldo solemnly. The girl laughed. "Neither Flatfoot nor Korth are friends of mine," she replied; "I hate them both. They are terrible men. It would be better for all the tribe were they killed. They are so strong and cruel that we all hate them, since they use their strength to abuse those who are weaker. "They make us all work very hard for them. They take other men's mates, and if the other men object they kill them. There is scarcely a moon passes that does not see either Korth or Flatfoot kill some one. "Nor is it always men they kill. Often when they are angry they kill women and little children just for the pleasure of killing; but when you come among us there will be no more of that, for you will kill them both if they be not good." Waldo was too horrified by this description of his soon-to-be antagonists to make any reply—his tongue clave to the roof of his mouth—all his vocal organs seemed paralyzed. But the girl did not notice. She went on joyously, ripping Waldo's nervous system out of him and tearing it into shreds. "You see," she continued, "Flatfoot and Korth are greater than the other men of my tribe. They can do as they will. They are frightful to look upon, and I have often thought that the hearts of others dried up when they saw either of them coming for them. "And they are so strong! I have seen Korth crush the skull of a full-grown man with a single blow from his open palm; while one of Flatfoot's amusements is the breaking of men's arms and legs with his bare hands." They had entered the valley now, and in silence they continued on toward the fringe of trees which grew beside the little river. Nadara led the way toward a ford, which they quickly crossed. All the way across the valley Waldo had been searching for some avenue of escape. He dared not enter that awful village and face those terrible men, and he was almost equally averse to admitting to the girl that he was afraid. He would gladly have died to have escaped either alternative, but he preferred to choose the manner of his death. The thought of entering the village and meeting a horrible end at the hands of the brutes who awaited him there and of being compelled to demonstrate before the girl's eyes that he was neither a mighty fighter nor a hero was more than he could endure. Occupied with these harrowing speculations, Waldo and Nadara came to the farther side of the forest, whence they could see the towering cliffs rising steeply from the valley's bed, three hundred yards away. Along their face and at their feet Waldo descried a host of half-naked men, women, and children moving about in the consummation of their various duties. Involuntarily he halted. The girl came to his side. Together they looked out upon the scene, the like of which Waldo Emerson never before had seen. It was as though he had been suddenly snatched back through countless ages to a long-dead past and dropped into the midst of the prehistoric life of his paleolithic progenitors. Upon the narrow ledges before their caves, women, with long, flowing hair, ground food in rude stone mortars. Naked children played about them, perilously close to the precipitous cliff edge. Hairy men squatted, gorillalike, before pieces of flat stone, upon which green hides were stretched, while they scraped, scraped, scraped with the sharp edge of smaller bits of stone. There was no laughter and no song. Occasionally Waldo saw one of the fierce creatures address another, and sometimes one would raise his thick lips in a nasty snarl that exposed his fighting fangs; but they were too far away for their words to reach the young man. # CHAPTER V: AWAKENING "Come," said the girl, "let us make haste. I cannot wait to be home again! How good it looks!" Waldo gazed at her in horror. It did not seem credible that this beautiful young creature could be of such clay as that he looked upon. It was revolting to believe that she had sprung from the loins of one of those half-brutes, or that a woman as fierce, repulsive, such as those he saw before him, could have borne her. It made him sick with disgust. He turned from her. "Go to your people, Nadara," he said, for an idea had come to him. He had evolved a scheme for escaping a meeting with Flatfoot and Korth, and the sudden disgust which he felt for the girl made it easier for him to carry out his design. "Are you not coming with me?" she cried. "Not at once," replied Waldo, quite truthfully. "I wish you to go first. Were we to go together they might harm you when they rushed out to attack me." The girl had no fear of this, but she felt that it was very thoughtful of the man to consider her welfare so tenderly. To humor him, she acceded to his request. "As you wish, Thandar," she answered, smiling. Thandar was a name of her own choosing, after, Waldo had informed her in answer to a request for his name, that she might call him Mr. Waldo Emerson Smith-Jones. "I shall call you Thandar," she had replied; "it is shorter, more easily remembered, and describes you. It means the Brave One." And so Thandar he had become. The girl had scarcely emerged from the forest on her way toward the cliffs when Thandar the Brave One, turned and ran at top speed in the opposite direction. When he came to the river he gave immediate evidence of the strides he had taken in woodcraft during the brief weeks that he had been under the girl's tutorage, for he plunged immediately into the water, setting out up-stream upon the gravelly bottom where he would leave no spoor to be tracked down by the eagle eyes of these primitive men. He supposed that the girl would search for him; but he felt no compunction at having deserted her so scurvily. Of course, he had no suspicion of her real sentiments toward him—it would have shocked him to have imagined that a low-born person, such as she, had become infatuated with him. It would have been embarrassing and unfortunate, but, of course, quite impossible—since Waldo Emerson Smith-Jones could never form an alliance beneath him. As for the girl herself, he might as readily have considered the possibility of marrying a cow, so far from any such thoughts of her had he been. On and on he stumbled through the cold water. Sometimes it was above his head, but Waldo had learned to swim—the girl had made him, partly by pleas, but largely by the fear that she would ridicule him. As night came on he commenced to become afraid, but his fear now was not such a horribly prostrating thing as it had been a few weeks before. Without being aware of the fact, Waldo had grown a trifle less timid, though he was still far from lion-like. That night he slept in the crotch of a tree. He selected a small one, which, though less comfortable, was safer from the approach of Nagoola than a larger tree would have been. This also had he learned from Nadara. Had he paused to consider, he would have discovered that all he knew that was worth while he had had from the savage little girl whom he, from the high pinnacle of his erudition, regarded with such pity. But Waldo had not as yet learned enough to realize how very little he knew. In the morning he continued his flight, gathering his breakfast from tree and shrub as he fled. Here again was he wholly indebted to Nadara, for without her training he would have been restricted to a couple of fruits, whereas now he had a great variety of fruits, roots, berries, and nuts to choose from in safety. The stream that he had been following had now become a narrow, rushing, mountain torrent. It leaped suddenly over little precipices in wild and picturesque waterfalls; it rioted in foaming cascades; and ever it led Waldo farther into high and rugged country. The climbing was difficult and oftentimes dangerous. Waldo was surprised at the steeps he negotiated—perilous ascents from which he would have shrunk in palsied fear a few weeks earlier. Waldo was coming on. Another fact which struck him with amazement at the same time that it filled him with rejoicing, was that he no longer coughed. It was quite beyond belief, too, since never in his life had he been so exposed to cold and wet and discomfort. At home, he realized, he would long since have curled up and died had he been subjected to one-tenth the exposure that he had undergone since the great wave had lifted him bodily from the deck of the steamer to land him unceremoniously in the midst of this new life of hardships and terrors. Toward noon Waldo began to travel with less haste. He had seen or heard no evidence of pursuit. At times he stopped to look back along the trail he had passed, but though he could see the little valley below him for a considerable distance he discovered nothing to arouse alarm. Presently he realized that he was very lonely. A dozen times in as many minutes he thought of observations he would have been glad to make had there been some one with him to hear. There were queries, too, relative to this new country that he should have liked very much to propound, and it flashed upon him that in all the world there was only one whom he knew who could give him correct answers to these queries. He wondered what the girl had thought when he did not follow her into the village, and set upon Flatfoot and Korth. At the thought he found himself flushing in a most unaccountable manner. What would the girl think! Would she guess the truth? Well, what difference if she did? What was her opinion to a cultured gentleman such as Waldo Emerson Smith-Jones? But yet he found his mind constantly reverting to this unhappy speculation; it was most annoying. As he thought of her he discovered with what distinctness he recalled every feature of her piquant little face, her olive skin tinged beautifully by the ruddy glow of health; her fine, straight nose and delicate nostrils, her perfect eyes, soft, yet filled with the fire of courage and intelligence. Waldo wondered why it was that he recalled these things now, and dwelt upon them; he had been with her for weeks without realizing that he had particularly noticed them. But most vividly he conjured again the memory of her soft, liquid speech, her ready retorts, her bright, interesting observations on the little happenings of their daily life; her thoughtful kindliness to him, a stranger within her gates, and—again he flushed hotly—her sincere, though remarkable, belief in his prowess. It took Waldo a long time to admit to himself that he missed the girl; it must have been weeks before he finally did so unreservedly. Simultaneously he determined to return to her village and find her. He had even gone so far as to start the return journey when the memory of her description of Flatfoot and Korth brought him to a sudden halt—a most humiliating halt. The blood surged to his face—he could feel it burning there. And then Waldo did two things which he had never done before: he looked at his soul and saw himself as he was, and—he swore. "Waldo Emerson Smith-Jones," he said aloud, "you're a darned coward! Worse than that, you're an unthinkable cad. That girl was kind to you. She treated you with the tender solicitude of a mother. And how have you returned her kindness? By looking down upon her with arrogant condescension. By pitying her. "Pitying her! You—you miserable weakling—ingrate, pitying that fine, intelligent, generous girl. You, with your pitiful little store of second-hand knowledge, pitying that girl's ignorance. Why, she's forgotten more real things than you ever heard of, you—you—" Words utterly failed him. Waldo's awakening was thorough—painfully thorough. It left no tiny hidden recess of his contemptible little soul unrevealed from his searching self-analysis. Looking back over the twenty-one years of his uneventful life, he failed to resurrect but a single act of which he might now be proud, and that, strange to say, in the light of his past training, had to do neither with culture, intellect, birth, breeding, nor knowledge. It was a purely gross, physical act. It was hideously, violently, repulsively animal—it was no other than the instant of heroism in which he had turned back upon the cliff's face to battle with the horrible, hairy man who had threatened to prevent Nadara's escape. Even now Waldo could not realize that it had been he who ventured so foolhardy an act; but none the less his breast swelled with pride as he recalled it. It put into the heart of the man a new hope and into his head a new purpose—a purpose that would have caused his Back Bay mother to seek an early grave could she have known of it. Nor did Waldo Emerson lose any time in initiating the new regime which was eventually to fit him for the consummation of his splendid purpose. He thought of it as splendid now, though a few weeks before the vulgar atrocity of it would have nauseated him. Far up in the hills, near the source of the little river, Waldo had found a rocky cave. This he had chosen as his new home. He cleaned it out with scrupulous care, littering the floor with leaves and grasses. Before the entrance he piled a dozen large boulders, so arranged that three of them could be removed or replaced either from within or without, thus forming a means of egress and ingress which could be effectually closed against intruders. From the top of a high promontory, a half mile beyond his cave, Waldo could obtain a view of the ocean, some eight or ten miles distant. It was always in his mind that some day a ship would come, and Waldo longed to return to the haunts of civilization, but he did not expect the ship before his plans had properly matured and been put into execution. He argued that he could not sail away from this shore forever without first seeing Nadara, and restoring the confidence in him which he felt his recent desertion had unquestionably shaken to its foundations. As a part of his new regime, Waldo required exercise, and to this end he set about making a trip to the ocean at least once each week. The way was rough and hazardous, and the first few times Waldo found it almost beyond his strength to make even one leg of the journey between sunrise and dark. This necessitated sleeping out over night; but this, too, accorded with the details of the task he had set himself, and so he did it quite cheerfully and with a sense of martyrdom that he found effectually stilled his most poignant fits of cowardice. As time went on he was able to cover the whole distance to the ocean and return in a single day. He never coughed now, nor did he glance fearfully from side to side as he strode through the woods and open places of his wild domain. His eyes were bright and clear, his head and shoulders were thrown well back, and the mountain climbing had expanded his chest to a degree that appalled him—the while it gave him much secret satisfaction. It was a very different Waldo from the miserable creature which had been vomited up by the ocean upon the sand of that distant beach. The days that Waldo did not make a trip to the ocean he spent in rambling about the hills in the vicinity of his cave. He knew every rock and tree within five miles of his lair. He knew where Nagoola hid by day, and the path that he took down to the valley by night. Nor did he longer tremble at sight of the great, black cat. True, Waldo avoided him, but it was through cool and deliberate caution, which is quite another thing from the senseless panic of fear. Waldo was biding his time. He would not always avoid Nagoola. Nagoola was a part of Waldo's great plan, but Waldo was not ready for him yet. The young man still bore his cudgel, and in addition he had practised throwing rocks until he could almost have hit a nearby bird upon the wing. Besides these weapons Waldo was working upon a spear. It had occurred to him that a spear would be a mighty handy weapon against either man or beast, and so he had set to work to fashion one. He found a very straight young sapling, a little over an inch in diameter and ten feet long. By means of a piece of edged flint he succeeded in tapering it to a sharp point. A rawhide thong, plaited from many pieces of small bits of hide taken from the little animals that had fallen before his missiles, served to sling the crude weapon across his shoulders when he walked. With his spear he practised hour upon hour each day, until he could transfix a fruit the size of an apple three times out of five, at a distance of fifty feet, and at a hundred hit a target the size of a man almost without a miss. Six months had passed since he had fled from an encounter with Flatfoot and Korth. Then Waldo had been a skinny, cowardly weakling; now his great frame had filled out with healthy flesh, while beneath his skin hard muscles rolled as he bent to one of the many Herculean tasks he had set for himself. For six months he had worked with a single purpose in view, but still he felt that the day was not yet come when he might safely venture to put his new-found manhood to the test. Down, far down, in the depth of his soul he feared that he was yet a coward at heart—and he dared not take the risk. It was too much to expect, he told himself, that a man should be entirely metamorphosed in a brief half year. He would wait a little longer. It was about this time that Waldo first saw a human being after his last sight of Nadara. It was while he was on his way to the ocean, on one of the trips that had by this time become thrice weekly affairs, that he suddenly came face to face with a skulking, hairy brute. Waldo halted to see what would happen. The man eyed him with those small, cunning, red-rimmed eyes that reminded Waldo of the eyes of a pig. Finally Waldo spoke in the language of Nadara. "Who are you?" he asked. "Sag the Killer," replied the man. "Who are you?" "Thandar," answered Waldo. "I do not know you," said Sag; "but I can kill you." He lowered his bull head and came for Waldo like a battering ram. The young man dropped the point of his ready spear, bracing his feet. The point entered Sag's breast below the collar-bone, stopping only after it had passed entirely through the savage heart. Waldo had not moved; the momentum of the man's body had been sufficient to impale him. As the body rolled over, stiffening after a few convulsive kicks, Waldo withdrew his spear from it. Blood smeared its point for a distance of a foot, but Waldo showed no sign of loathing or disgust. Instead he smiled. It had been so much easier than he had anticipated. Leaving Sag where he had fallen he continued toward the ocean. An hour later he heard unusual noises behind him. He stopped to listen. He was being pursued. From the sounds he estimated that there must be several in the party, and a moment later, as he was crossing a clearing, he got his first view of them as they emerged from the forest he had just quitted. There were at least twenty powerfully muscled brutes. In skin bags thrown across their shoulders each carried a supply of stones, and these they began to hurl at Waldo as they raced toward him. For a moment the man held his ground, but he quickly realized the futility of pitting himself against such odds. Turning, he ran toward the forest upon the other side of the clearing while a shower of rocks whizzed about him. Once within the shelter of the trees there was less likelihood of his being hit by one of the missiles, but occasionally a well-aimed rock would strike him a glancing blow. Waldo hoped that they would tire of the chase before the beach was reached, for he knew that there could be but one outcome of a battle in which one man faced twenty. As the pursued and the pursuers raced on through the forest one of the latter, fleeter than his companions, commenced to close up the gap which had existed between Waldo and the twenty. On and on he came, until a backward glance showed Waldo that in another moment this swift foeman would be upon him. He was younger than his fellows and more active, and, having thrown all his stones, was free from any burden of weight other than the single garment about his hips. Waldo still clung to his tattered ducks, which from lack of support and more or less rapid disintegration were continually slipping down from his hips, so that they tended to hinder his movements and reduce his speed. Had he been as naked as his pursuer he would doubtless have distanced him; but he was not, and it was evident that because of this fact he must take a chance in a hand-to-hand encounter that might delay him sufficiently to permit the balance of the horde to reach him—that would be the end of everything. But Waldo Emerson neither screamed in terror nor trembled. When he wheeled to meet the now close savage there was a smile upon his lips, for Waldo Emerson had "killed his man," and there was no longer the haunting fear within his soul that at heart he was a coward. As he turned with couched spear the cave man came to a sudden stop. This was not what Waldo had anticipated. The other savages were running rapidly toward him, but the fellow who had first overhauled him remained at a safe twenty feet from the point of his weapon. Waldo was being cleverly held until the remainder of the enemy could arrive and overwhelm him. He knew that if he turned to run the fellow who danced and yelled just beyond his reach would plunge forward and be upon his back in an instant. He tried rushing the man, but the other retreated nimbly, drawing Waldo still closer to those who were coming on. There was no time to be lost. A moment more and the entire twenty would be upon him; but there were possibilities in a spear that the cave man in his ignorance dreamed not of. There was a lightninglike movement of Waldo's arm, and the aborigine saw the spear darting swiftly through space toward his breast. He tried to dodge, but was too late. Down he went, clutching madly at the slender thing which protruded from his heart. Although one of the dead man's companions was now quite close, Waldo could not relinquish his weapon without an effort—it had cost him considerable time to make, and twice today it had saved his life. Forgetful that he had ever been a coward he leaped toward the fallen man, reaching his side at the same instant as his foremost pursuer. The two came together like mad bulls—the savage reaching for Waldo's throat, Waldo wielding his light cudgel. For a moment they struggled backward and forward, turning and twisting, the cave man in an effort to close upon Waldo's wind, Waldo to hold the other at arm's length for the brief instant that would be necessary for one sudden, effective blow from the cudgel. The other savages were almost upon them when the young man found his antagonist's throat. Throwing all his weight and strength into the effort, Waldo forced the cave man back until there was room between them for the play of the stick. A single blow was sufficient. As the limp body of his foeman slipped from his grasp, Waldo snatched his precious spear from the heart of its victim, and with the hands of the infuriated pack almost upon him, turned once more into his flight toward the ocean. The howling band was close upon his heels now, nor could he greatly increase the distance that separated him from them. He wondered what the outcome of the matter was to be; he did not wish to die. His thoughts kept reverting to his boyhood home, to his indulgent mother, to the friends that had been his. He felt that at the last moment he was about to lose his nerve—that, after all, his hard earned manliness was counterfeit. Then there came to him a vision of an oval, olive face framed by a mass of soft, black hair; and before it the fear of death dissolved into a grim smile. He did not pause to analyze the reason for it—nor could he have done so then had he tried. He only knew that with those eyes upon him he could not be aught else than courageous. A moment later he burst through the last fringe of underbrush to emerge upon the clearing that faced the sea. There by a tiny rivulet he saw a sight that filled him with thanksgiving, and farther out upon the ocean that which he had been waiting and hoping for for all these long, hard months—a ship. # CHAPTER VI: A CHOICE Seamen upon the beach were filling water-casks. There were a dozen of them, and as Waldo plunged from the forest they looked with startled apprehension at the strange apparition. A great, brown giant they saw, clad in a few ragged strings of white duck, for Waldo had kept his apparel as immaculately clean as hard rubbing in cold water would permit. In one hand the strange creature carried a long, bloody spear, in the other a light cudgel. Long, yellow hair streamed back over his broad shoulders. Several of the men—those who were armed—leveled guns and revolvers at him; but when, as he drew closer, they saw a broad grin upon his face, and heard in perfectly good English, "Don't shoot; I'm a white man," they lowered their weapons and awaited him. He had scarcely reached them when they saw a swarm of naked men dash from the forest in his wake. Waldo saw their eyes directed past him and knew that his pursuers had come into view. "You'll have to shoot at them, I imagine," he said. "They're not exactly domesticated. Try firing over their heads at first; maybe you can scare them away without hurting any of them." He disliked the idea of seeing the poor savages slaughtered. It didn't seem just like fair play to mow them down with bullets. The sailors followed his suggestion. At the first reports the cave men halted in surprise and consternation. "Let's rush "em," suggested one of the men, and this was all that was needed to send them scurrying back into the woods. Waldo found that the ship was English, and that all the men spoke his mother tongue in more or less understandable fashion. The second mate, who was in charge of the landing party, proved to have originated in Boston. It was much like being at home again. Waldo was so excited and wanted to ask so many questions all at once that he became almost unintelligible. It seemed scarcely possible that a ship had really come. He realized now that he had never actually entertained any very definite belief that a ship ever would come to this out-of-the-way corner of the world. He had hoped and dreamed, but down in the bottom of his heart he must have felt that years might elapse before he would be rescued. Even now it was difficult to believe that these were really civilized beings like himself. They were on their way to a civilized world; they would soon be surrounded by their families and friends, and he, Waldo Emerson Smith-Jones, was going with them! In a few months he would see his mother and his father and all his friends—he would be among his books once more. Even as the last thought flashed through his mind it was succeeded by mild wonderment that this outlook failed to raise his temperature as he might have expected that it would. His books had been his real life in the past—could it be that they had lost something of their glamour? Had his brief experience with the realities of life dulled the edge of his appetite for second-hand hopes, aspirations, deeds, and emotions? It had. Waldo yet craved his books, but they alone would no longer suffice. He wanted something bigger, something more real and tangible—he wanted to read and study, but even more he wanted to do. And back there in his own world there would be plenty awaiting the doing. His heart thrilled at the possibilities that lay before the new Waldo Emerson—possibilities of which he never would have dreamed but for the strange chance which had snatched him bodily from one life to throw him into this new one, which had forced upon him the development of attributes of self-reliance, courage, initiative, and resourcefulness that would have lain dormant within him always but for the necessity which had given birth to them. Yes, Waldo realized that he owed a great deal to this experience—a great deal to—. And then a sudden realization of the truth rushed in upon him—he owed everything to Nadara. "I was never ship-wrecked on a desert island," said the second mate, breaking in upon Waldo's reveries, "but I can imagine just about how good you feel at the thought that you are at last rescued and that in an hour or so you will see the shoreline of your prison growing smaller and smaller upon the southern horizon." "Yes," acquiesced Waldo in a far away voice: "it's awfully good of you, but I am not going with you." * * * * * Two hours later Waldo Emerson stood alone upon the beach, watching the diminishing hull of a great ship as it dropped over the rim of the world far to the north. A vague hint of tears dimmed his vision; then he threw back his shoulders, swallowed the thing that had risen into his throat, and with high held head turned back into the forest. In one hand he carried a razor and a plug of tobacco—the sole mementos of his recent brief contact with the world of civilization. The kindly sailors had urged him to reconsider his decision, but when he remained obdurate they had insisted that they be permitted to leave some of the comforts of life with him. The only thing that he could think of that he wanted very badly was a razor—firearms he would not accept, for he had worked out a rather fine chivalry of his own here in this savage world—a chivalry which would not permit him to take any advantage over the primeval inhabitants he had found here other than what his own hands and head might give him. At the last moment one of the seamen, prompted by a generous heart and a keen realization of what life must be without even bare necessities, had thrust upon Waldo the plug of tobacco. As he looked at it now the young man smiled. "That would indeed be the last step, according to mother's ideas," he soliloquized. "No lower could I sink." The ship that bore away Waldo's chance of escape carried also a long letter to Waldo's mother. In portions it was rather vague and rambling. It mentioned, among other things, that he had an obligation to fulfil before he could leave his present habitat; but that the moment he was free he should "take the first steamer for Boston." The skipper of the ship which had just sailed away had told Waldo that in so far as he knew there might never be another ship touch his island, which was so far out of the beaten course that only the shoreline of it had ever been explored, and scarce a score of vessels had reported it since Captain Cook discovered it in 1773. Yet it was in the face of this that Waldo had refused to leave. As he walked slowly through the wood on his way back toward his cave he tried to convince himself that he had acted purely from motives of gratitude and fairness—that as a gentleman he could do no less than see Nadara and thank her for the friendly services she had rendered him; but for some reason this seemed a very futile and childish excuse for relinquishing what might easily be his only opportunity to return to civilization. His final decision was that he had acted the part of a fool; yet as he walked he hummed a joyous tune, and his heart was full of happiness and pleasant expectations of what he could not have told. To one thing he had made up his mind, and that was that the next sun would see him on his way to the village of Nadara. His experience with the savages that day had convinced him that he might with reasonable safety face Flatfoot and Korth. The more he dwelt upon this idea the more light-hearted he became—he could not understand it. He should be plunged into the blackest despair, for had he not but just relinquished a chance to return home, and was he not within a day or two to enter the village of the ferocious Flatfoot and the mighty Korth? Even so, his heart sang. Waldo saw nothing of his enemies of the earlier part of the day as he moved cautiously through the forest or crossed the little plains and meadows which lay along the route between the ocean and his lair; but his thoughts often reverted to them and to his adventures of the morning, and the result was that he became aware of a deficiency in his equipment—a deficiency which his recent battle made glaringly apparent. In fact, there were two points that might be easily remedied. One was the lack of a shield. Had he had protection of this nature he would have been in comparatively little danger from the shower of missiles that the savages had flung at him. The other was a sword. With a sword and shield he could have let his enemies come to very close quarters with perfect impunity to himself and then have run them through with infinite ease. This new idea would necessitate a delay in his plans; he must finish both shield and sword before he departed for the village of Flatfoot. What with his meditation and his planning, Waldo had made poor time on the return journey from the coast so that it was after sunset when he entered the last deep ravine beyond the farther summit of which lay his rocky home. In the depths of the ravine it was already quite dark, though a dim twilight still hung upon the surrounding hill-tops. He had about completed the arduous ascent of the last steep trail, at the crest of which was his journey's end, when above him, silhouetted against the darkening sky, loomed a great black, crouching mass, from the center of which blazed two balls of fire. It was Nagoola, and he occupied the center of the only trail that led over the edge of the ridge from the ravine below. "I had almost forgotten you, Nagoola," murmured Waldo Emerson. "I could never have gone upon my journey without first interviewing you, but I could have wished a different time and place than this. Let us postpone the matter for a day or so," he concluded aloud; but the only response from Nagoola was an ominous growl. Waldo felt rather uncomfortable. He could not have come upon the great, black panther at a more inopportune time or place. It was too dark for Waldo's human eyes, and the cat was above him and Waldo upon a steep hillside that under the best of conditions offered but a precarious foothold. He tried to shoo the formidable beast away by shouts and menacing gesticulations, but Nagoola would not shoo. Instead he crept slowly forward, edging his sinuous body inch by inch along the rocky trail until it hung poised above the waiting man a dozen feet below him. Six months before Waldo would long since have been shrieking in meteorlike flight down the bed of the ravine behind him. That a wonderful transformation had been wrought within him was evident from the fact that no cry of fright escaped him, and that, far from fleeing, he edged inch by inch upward toward the menacing creature hanging there above him. He carried his spear with the point leveled a trifle below those baleful eyes. He had advanced but a foot or two, however, when, with an awful shriek, the terrible beast launched itself full upon him. As the heavy body struck him Waldo went over backward down the cliff, and with him went Nagoola. Clawing, tearing, and scratching, the two rolled and bounded down the rocky hillside until, near the bottom, they came to a sudden stop against a large tree. The growling and screeching ceased, the clawing paws and hands were still. Presently the tropic moon rose over the hill-top to look down upon a little tangled mound of man and beast that lay very quiet against the bole of a great tree near the bottom of a dark ravine. # CHAPTER VII: THANDAR, THE SEEKER For a long time there was no sign of life in that strange pile of flesh and bone and brawn and glossy black fur and long, yellow hair and blood. But toward dawn it moved a little, down near the bottom of the heap, and a little later there was a groan, and then all was still again for many minutes. Presently it moved again, this time more energetically, and after several efforts a yellow head streaked and matted with blood emerged from beneath. It required the better part of an hour for the stunned and lacerated Waldo to extricate himself from the entangling embrace of Nagoola. When, finally, he staggered to his feet he saw that the great cat lay dead before him, the broken shaft of the spear protruding from the sleek, black breast. It was quite evident that the beast had lived but the barest fraction of an instant after it had launched itself upon the man; but during that brief interval of time it had wrought sore havoc with its mighty talons, though fortunately for Waldo the great jaws had not found him. From breast to knees ghastly wounds were furrowed in the man's brown skin where the powerful hind feet of the beast had raked him. That he owed his life to the chance that had brought about the encounter upon a steep hillside rather than on the level seemed quite apparent, for during their tumble down the declivity Nagoola had been unable to score with any degree of accuracy. As Waldo looked down upon himself he was at first horrified by the frightful appearance of his wounds; but when a closer examination showed them to be superficial he realized that the only danger lay in infection. Every bone and muscle in his body ached from the man-handling and the fall, and the wounds themselves were painful, almost excruciatingly so when a movement of his body stretched or tore them; but notwithstanding his suffering he found himself smiling as he contemplated the remnants of his long-suffering ducks. There remained of their once stylish glory not a shred—the panther's sharp claws had finished what time and brambles had so well commenced. And of their linen partner—the white outing shirt—only the neckband remained; with a single fragment as large as one's hand depending behind. "Nature is a wonderful leveler," thought Waldo. "It is evident that she hates artificiality as she does a vacuum. I shall really need you now," he concluded, looking at the beautiful, black coat of Nagoola. Despite his suffering, Waldo crawled to his lair, where he selected a couple of sharp-edged stones from his collection and returned to the side of Nagoola. Leaving his tools there he went on down to the bottom of the ravine, where in a little crystal stream he bathed his wounds. Then he returned once more to his kill. After half a day of the most arduous labor Waldo succeeded in removing the panther's hide, which he dragged laboriously to his lair, where he fell exhausted, unable even to crawl within. The next day Waldo worked upon the inner surface of the hide, removing every particle of flesh by scraping it with a sharp stone, so that there might be no danger of decomposition. He was still very weak and sore, but he could not bear the thought of losing the pelt that had cost him so much to obtain. When the last vestige of flesh had been scraped away he crawled into his lair, where he remained for a week, only emerging for food and water. At the end of that time his wounds were almost healed, and he had entirely recovered from his lameness and the shock of the adventure, so that it was with real pleasure and exultation that he gloated over his beautiful trophy. Always as he thought of the time that he should have it made ready for girting about his loins he saw himself, not through his own eyes, but as he imagined that another would see him, and that other was Nadara. For many days Waldo scraped and pounded the great skin as he had seen the cave men scrape and pound in the brief instant he had watched them with Nadara from the edge of the forest before the village of Flatfoot. At last he was rewarded with a pelt sufficiently pliable for the purpose of the rude apparel he contemplated. A strip an inch wide he trimmed off to form a supporting belt. With this he tied the black skin about his waist, passed one arm through a hole he had made for that purpose near the upper edge; bringing the fore paws forward about his chest, he crossed and fastened them to secure the garment from falling from the upper part of his body. It was a very proud Waldo that strutted forth in the finery of his new apparel; but the pride was in the prowess that had won the thing for him—vulgar, gross, brutal physical prowess—the very attribute upon which he had looked with supercilious contempt six months before. Next Waldo turned his attention toward the fashioning of a sword, a new spear, and a shield. The first two were comparatively easy of accomplishment—he had them both completed in half a day, and from a two-inch strip of panther hide he made also a sword belt to pass over his right shoulder and support his sword at his left side; but the shield almost defied his small skill and new-born ingenuity. With small twigs and grasses he succeeded, after nearly a week of painstaking endeavor, in weaving a rude, oval buckler some three feet long by two wide, which he covered with the skins of several small animals that had fallen before his death-dealing stones. A strip of hide fastened upon the back of the shield held it to his left arm. With it Waldo felt more secure against the swiftly thrown missiles of the savages he knew he should encounter on his forthcoming expedition. At last came the morning for departure. Rising with the sun, Waldo took his morning "tub" in the cold spring that rose a few yards from his cave, then he got out the razor that the sailor had given him, and after scraping off his scanty, yellow beard, hacked his tawny hair until it no longer fell about his shoulders and in his eyes. Then he gathered up his weapons, rolled the boulders before the entrance to his cave, and turning his back upon his rough home set off down the little stream toward the distant valley where it wound through the forest along the face of the cliffs to Flatfoot and Korth. As he stepped lightly along the hazardous trail, leaping from ledge to ledge in the descent of the many sheer drops over which the stream fell, he might have been a reincarnation of some primeval hunter from whose savage loins had sprung the warriors and the strong men of a world. The tall, well-muscled, brown body; the clear, bright eyes; the high-held head; the sword, the spear, the shield were all a far cry from the weak and futile thing that had lain groveling in the sand upon the beach, sweating and shrieking in terror six short months before. And yet it was the same. What one good but mistaken woman had smothered another had brought out, and the result of the influence of both was a much finer specimen of manhood than either might have evolved alone. In the afternoon of the third day Waldo came to the forest opposite the cliffs where lay the home of Nadara. Cautiously he stole from tree to tree until he could look out unseen upon the honeycombed face of the lofty escarpment. All was lifeless and deserted. The cave mouths looked out upon the valley, sad and lonely. There was no sign of life in any direction as far as Waldo could see. Coming from the forest he crossed the clearing and approached the cliffs. His eye, now become alert in woodcraft, detected the young grass growing in what had once been well-beaten trails. He needed no further evidence to assure him that the caves were deserted, and had been for some time. One by one he entered and explored several of the cliff dwellings. All gave the same mute corroboration of what was everywhere apparent—the village had been evacuated without haste in an orderly manner. Everything of value had been removed—only a few broken utensils remaining as indication that it had ever constituted human habitation. Waldo was utterly confounded. He had not the remotest idea in which direction to search. During the balance of the afternoon he wandered along the various ledges, entering first one cave and then another. He wondered which had been Nadara's. He tried to imagine her life among these crude, primitive surroundings; among the beast-like men and women who were her people. She did not seem to harmonize with either. He was convinced that she was more out of place here than Flatfoot would have been in a Back Bay drawing-room. The more his mind dwelt upon her the sadder he became. He tried to convince himself that it was purely disappointment in being thwarted in his desire to thank her for her kindness to him, and demonstrate that her confidence in his prowess had not been misplaced; but always he discovered that his thoughts returned to Nadara rather than to the ostensible object of his adventure. In short he began to realize, rather vaguely it is true, that he had come because he wanted to see the girl again; but why he wanted to see her he did not know. That night he slept in one of the deserted caves, and the next morning set forth upon his quest for Nadara. For three days he searched the little valley, but without results. There was no sign of any other village within it. Then he passed over into another valley to the north. For weeks he wandered hither and thither without being rewarded by even a sight of a human being. Early one afternoon as he was topping a barrier in search of other valleys he came suddenly face to face with a great, hairy man. Both stopped—the hairy one glaring with his nasty little eyes. "I can kill you," growled the savage. Waldo had no desire to fight—it was information he was searching. But he almost smiled at the ready greeting of the man. It was the same that Sag the Killer had accorded him that day he had gone down to the sea for the last time. It came as readily and as glibly from these primitive men as "good morning" falls from the lips of the civilized races, yet among the latter he realized that it had its counterpart in the stony stares which Anglo Saxon strangers vouchsafe one another. "I have no quarrel with you," replied Waldo. "Let us be friends." "You are afraid," taunted the hairy one. Waldo pointed to his sable garment. "Ask Nagoola," he said. The man looked at the trophy. There could be no mightier argument for a man's valor than that. He came a step closer that he might scrutinize it more carefully. "Full-grown and in perfect health," he grunted to himself. "This is no worn and mangy hide peeled from the rotting carcass of one dead of sickness. "How did you slay Nagoola?" he asked suddenly. Waldo indicated his spear, then he drew his garment aside and pointed to the vivid, new-healed scars that striped his body. "We met at dusk at a cliff-top. He was above, I below. When we reached the bottom of the ravine Nagoola was dead. But it was nothing for Thandar. I am Thandar." Waldo rightly suspected that a little bravado would make a good impression on the intellect primeval, nor was he mistaken. "What do you here in my country?" asked the man, but his tone was less truculent than before. "I am searching for Flatfoot and Korth—and Nadara," said Waldo. The other's eyes narrowed. "What would you of them?" he asked. "Nadara was good to me—I would repay her." "But Flatfoot and Korth—what of them?" insisted the man. "My business is with them. When I see them I shall transact it," Waldo parried, for he had seen the cunning look in the man's eyes and he did not like it. "Can you lead me to them?" "I can tell you where they are, but I am not bound thither," replied the man. "Three days toward the setting sun will bring you to the village of Flatfoot. There you will find Korth also—and Nadara," and without further parley the savage turned and trotted toward the east. # CHAPTER VIII: NADARA AGAIN Waldo watched him out of sight, half minded to follow, for he was far from satisfied that the fellow had been entirely honest with him. Why he should have been otherwise Waldo could not imagine, but nevertheless there had been an indefinable suggestion of duplicity in the man's behavior that had puzzled him. However, Waldo took up his search toward the west, passing down from the hills into a deep valley, the bottom of which was overgrown by a thick tangle of tropical jungle. He had forced his way through this for nearly half a mile when he came to the bank of a wide, slow-moving river. Its water was thick with sediment—not clean, sparkling, and inviting, as were the little mountain streams of the hills and valleys farther south. Waldo traveled along the edge of the river in a northwesterly direction, searching for a ford. The steep, muddy banks offered no foothold, so he dared not venture a crossing until he could be sure of a safe landing upon the opposite shore. A couple of hundred yards from the point at which he had come upon the stream he found a broad trail leading down into the water, and on the other side saw a similar track cutting up through the bank. This, evidently, was the ford he sought, but as he started toward the river he noticed the imprints of the feet of many animals—human and brute. Waldo stooped to examine them minutely. There were the broad pads of Nagoola, the smaller imprints of countless rodents, but back and forth among them all were old and new signs of man. There were the great, flat-foot prints of huge adult males, the smaller but equally flat-footed impresses of the women and children; but one there was that caught his eye particularly. It was the fine and dainty outline of a perfect foot, with the arch well defined. It was new, as were many of the others, and, like the other newer ones, it led down to the river and then back again, as though she who made it had come for water and then returned from whence she had come. Waldo knew that the tracks leading away from the river were the newer, because where the two trails overlapped those coming up from the ford were always over those which led downward. The multiplicity of signs indicated a considerable community, and their newness the proximity of the makers. Waldo hesitated but a moment before he reached a decision, and then he turned up the trail away from the river, and at a rapid trot followed the spoor along its winding course through the jungle to where it emerged at the base of the foothills, to wind upward toward their crest. He found that the trail he was following crossed the hills but a few yards from the spot at which he had met the cave man a short time before. Evidently the man had been returning from the river when he had espied Waldo. The young man could see where the fellow's tracks had left the main trail, and he followed them to the point where the man had stood during his conversation with Waldo; from there they led toward the east for a short distance, and then turned suddenly north to reenter the main trail. Waldo could see that as soon as the man had reached a point from which he would be safe from the stranger's observation he had broken into a rapid trot, and as he already had two hours' start Waldo felt that he would have to hurry were he to overtake him. Just why he wished to do so he did not consider, but, intuitively possibly, he felt that the surly brute could give him much more and accurate information than he had. Nor could Waldo eliminate the memory of those dainty feminine footprints. It was foolish, of course, and he fully realized the fact; but his silly mind would insist upon attributing them to the cave girl—Nadara. For two hours he trotted doggedly along the trail, which for the most part was well defined. There were places, of course, which taxed his trailing ability, but by circling widely from these points he always was able to pick up the tracks again. He had come down from the hills and entered an open forest, where the trail was entirely lost in the mossy carpet that lay beneath the trees, when he was startled by a scream—a woman's scream—and the hoarse gutturals of two men, deep and angry. Hastening toward the sound, Waldo came upon the authors of the commotion in a little glade half hidden by surrounding bushes. There were three actors in the hideous tragedy—a hairy brute dragging a protesting girl by her long, black hair and an old man, who followed, protesting futilely against the outrage that threatened the young woman. None of them saw Waldo as he ran toward them until he was almost upon them, and then the beast who grasped the girl looked up, and Waldo recognized him as the same who had sent him toward the west earlier in the day. At the same instant he saw the girl was Nadara. In the brief interval that the recognition required there sloughed from the heart and mind and soul of Waldo Emerson Smith-Jones every particle of the civilization and culture and refinement that had required countless ages in the building, stripping him naked, age on age, down to the primordial beast that had begot his first human progenitor. He saw red through blood as he leaped for the throat of the man-beast whose ruthless hands were upon Nadara. His lip curled in the fighting snarl that exposed his long-unused canine fangs. He forgot sword and shield and spear. He was no longer a man, but a terrible beast; and the hairy brute that witnessed the metamorphosis blanched and shrank back in fear. But he could not escape the fury of that mad charge or the raging creature that sought his throat. For a moment they struggled in a surging, swaying embrace, and then toppled to the ground—the hairy one beneath. Rolling, tearing, and biting, they battled—each seeking a death hold upon the other. Time and again the gleaming teeth of the once-fastidious Bostonian sank into the breast and shoulder of his antagonist, but it was the jugular his primal instinct sought. The girl and the old man had drawn away where they could watch the battle in safety. Nadara's eyes were wide in fascination. Her slim, brown hands were tight pressed against her rapidly rising and falling breasts as she leaned a little forward with parted lips, drinking in every detail of the conflict between the two beasts. Ah, but was the yellow-haired giant really fighting for possession of her, or merely in protection, because she was a woman? She could readily conceive from her knowledge of him that he might be acting now solely from some peculiar sense of duty which she realized that he might entertain, although she could not herself understand it. Yes, that was it, and when he had conquered his rival he would run away again, as he had months before. At the thought Nadara felt herself flush with mortification. No, he should never have another opportunity to repeat that terrible affront. As she allowed her mind to dwell on the humiliating moment that had witnessed the discovery that Thandar had fled from her at the very threshold of her home Nadara found herself hating him again as fiercely as she had all these long months—a hatred that had almost dissolved at sight of him as he rushed out of the underbrush a moment before to wrest her from the clutches of her hideous tormentor. Waldo and his antagonist were still tearing futilely at one another in mad efforts to maim or kill. The giant muscles of the cave man gave him but little if any advantage over his agile, though slightly less-powerful, adversary. The hairy one used his teeth to better advantage, with the result that Waldo was badly torn and bleeding from a dozen wounds. Both were weakening now, and it seemed to the girl who watched that the younger man would be the first to succumb to the terrific strain under which both had been. She took a step forward and, stooping, picked up a stone. Her small strength would be ample to turn the scales as she might choose—a sharp blow upon the head of either would give his adversary the trifling advantage that would spell death for the one she struck. The two men had struggled to their feet again as she approached with raised weapon. At the very moment that it left her hand they swung completely round, so that Waldo faced her, and in the instant before the missile struck his forehead he saw Nadara in the very act of throwing—upon her face an expression of hatred and loathing. Then he lost consciousness and went down, dragging with him the cave man, upon whose throat his fingers had just found their hold. # CHAPTER IX: THE SEEKER When the old man saw what had happened he ran forward and grasped Nadara by the wrist. "Quick!" he cried—"quick, my daughter! You have killed him who would have saved you, and now nothing but flight may keep Korth from having his way with you." As in a trance the girl turned and departed with him. They had scarcely disappeared within the underbrush when Waldo returned to consciousness, so slight had been the effect of the blow upon his head. To his surprise he found the cave man lying very still beside him, but an instant later he read the reason for it in the little projecting ridge of rock upon which lay his foe's forehead—in falling the savage man had struck thus and lost consciousness. Almost immediately the hairy one opened his eyes, but before he could gather his scattered senses sinewy fingers found his throat, and he lapsed once more into oblivion—from which there was no awakening. As Waldo staggered to his feet he saw that the girl had vanished, and there swept back into his mind the memory of the hate that had been in her face as she struck him down. It seemed incredible that she should have turned against him so, and at the very moment, too, when he had risked his life in her service; but that she had there could be no doubt, for he had seen her cast the stone—with his own eyes he had seen her, and, too, he had seen the hatred and loathing in her face as she looked straight into his. But what he had not seen was the look of horror that followed as the missile struck him instead of Korth, sending him crumpling to earth. Slowly Waldo turned away from the scene of battle, and without even a second look at his vanquished enemy limped painfully into the brush. His heart was very heavy and he was weak from exhaustion and loss of blood, but he staggered on, back toward his mountain lair, as he thought, until unable to go further he sank down upon a little grassy knoll and slept. When Nadara recovered from the shock of the thing she had done sufficiently to reason for herself she realized that after all Thandar might not be dead, and though the old man protested long and loudly against it, she insisted upon retracing her steps toward the spot where they had left the yellow giant in the clutches of Korth. Very cautiously the girl threaded her way through the maze of shrubbery and creepers that filled the intervening space between the forest trees, until she came silently to the edge of the clearing in which the two had fought. As she peered anxiously through the last curtain of foliage she saw a single body lying quiet and still upon the sward, and an instant later recognized it as Korth's. For several minutes she watched it before she became convinced that the man who had so terrorized her whole childish life could never again offer her harm. She looked about for Thandar, but he was nowhere to be seen. Nadara could scarcely believe that her eyes were not deceiving her. It was incredible that the yellow one could have gone down to unconsciousness before her unintentional blow and yet have mastered the mighty Korth; but how else could Korth have met his death and Thandar be gone? She approached quite close to the dead man, turning the body over with her foot until the throat was visible. There she saw the finger-marks that had done the work, and with a little thrill of pride she turned back into the forest, calling Thandar's name aloud. But Thandar did not hear. Half a mile away he lay weak and unconscious from loss of blood. Morning found Nadara sleeping in a sturdy tree upon the trail along which Waldo had followed Korth. She had discovered the footprints of the two men the evening before while she had been searching unsuccessfully for the trail which Waldo had followed after the battle. She hoped now that the spoor might lead her to Thandar's cave, to which she felt it quite possible he might have returned by another way. When the girl awoke she again took up her journey, following the tracks as unerringly as a hound up through the hilly country, across the divide and down into the jungle to the very watering place at which her tribe had drank a few days earlier. Here she made a brief stay. Then on again down the river, back through the jungle and onto the divide once more. She was much mystified by the windings of the trail, but for days she followed the fading spoor until, becoming fainter and fainter as it grew older, she lost it entirely at last. She was quite sure by now, however, that it led from her tribe's former territory, and so she kept on, hoping against hope, that soon she would come across the fresh track of Thandar where he had passed her on his return journey to his home. Nadara had eluded the old man when she started upon her search for Thandar, so it was that the old fellow returned to the dwellings of his people alone the following day. Flatfoot was the first to greet him. "Where is the girl?" he growled. "And where is Korth? Has he taken her? Answer me the truth or I will break every bone in your carcass." "I do not know where the girl is," answered the old man truthfully enough, "but Korth lies dead in the little glade beyond the three great trees. A mighty man killed him as he was dragging Nadara off into the thicket——" "And the man has taken the girl for himself?" yelled Flatfoot. "You old thief you. This is some of your work. Always have you tried to cheat me of this girl since first you knew that I desired her. Whither went they? Quick! before I kill you." "I do not know," replied the old man. "For hours I searched, until darkness came, but neither of them could I find, and my old eyes are no longer keen for trailing, so I was forced to abandon my hunt and return here when morning came." "By the three trees the trail starts, you say?" cried Flatfoot. "That is enough—I shall find them. And when I return with the girl it will be time enough to kill you; now it would delay me too much," and with that the cave man hurried away into the forest. It took him half a day to find Nadara's trail, but at last his search was rewarded, and as she had made no effort to hide it he moved rapidly along in the wake of the unsuspecting girl; but he was not as swift as she, and the chase bid fair to be a long one. When Waldo woke he found the sun beating down upon his face, and though he was lame and sore he felt quite strong enough to continue his journey; but whither he should go he did not know. Now that Nadara had turned against him the island held nothing for him, and he was on the point of starting back toward his far distant lair from where he might visit the ocean often to watch for a passing ship, when the sudden decision came to him to see the girl again, regardless of her evident hostility, and learn from her own lips the exact reason of her hatred for him. He had had no idea that the loss of her friendship would prove such a blow to him, so that his pride suffered as well as his heart as he contemplated his harrowed emotions. Of course he was reasonably sure that Nadara's attitude was due to his ungallant desertion, for which act he had long suffered the most acute pangs of remorse and contrition. Yet he felt that her apparent vindictiveness was not warranted by even the grave offense against chivalry and gratitude of which he had been guilty. It presently occurred to him that by the traitorous attack which he believed that she had made upon him while he was acting in her defense she had forfeited every claim which her former kindness might have given her upon him, but with this realization came another—a humiliating thought—he still wished to see her! He, Waldo Emerson Smith-Jones, had become so devoid of pride that he would voluntarily search out one who had wronged and outraged his friendship, with the avowed determination of seeking a reconciliation. It was unthinkable, and yet, as he admitted the impossibility of it, he set forth in search of her. Waldo wondered not a little at the strange emotion—inherent gregarious instinct, he thought it—which drew him toward Nadara. It did not occur to him that during all the past solitary months he had scarcely missed the old companionship of his Back Bay friends; that for once that they had been the subject of his reveries the cave girl had held the center of that mental stage a thousand times. He failed to realize that it was not the companionship of the many that he craved; that it was not the community instinct, or that his strange longing could be satisfied by but a single individual. No, Waldo Emerson did not know what was the matter with him, nor was it likely that he ever would find out before it was too late. The young man attempted to retrace his steps to the battle-ground of the previous day, but he had been so dazed after the encounter that he had no clear recollection of the direction he had taken after he quitted the glade. So it was that he stumbled in precisely the opposite direction, presently emerging from the underbrush almost at the foot of a low cliff tunneled with many caves. All about were the morose, unhappy community whose savage lives were spent in almost continual wandering from one filthy, comfortless warren to another equally foul and wretched. At sight of them Waldo did not flee in dismay, as most certainly would have been the case a few months earlier. Instead, he walked confidently toward them. As he approached they ceased whatever work they were engaged upon and eyed him suspiciously. Then several burly males approached him warily. At a hundred yards they halted. "What do you want?" they cried. "If you come to our village we can kill you." Before Waldo could reply an old man crawled from a cave near the base of the cliff, and as his eyes fell upon the stranger he hurried as rapidly as his ancient limbs would carry him to the little knot of ruffians who composed the reception committee. He spoke to them for a moment in a low tone, and as he was talking Waldo recognized him as the old man who had accompanied Nadara on the previous day at the battle in the glade. When he had finished speaking one of the cave men assented to whatever proposal the decrepit one had made, and Waldo saw that each of the others nodded his head in approval. Then the old man advanced slowly toward Waldo. When he had come quite close he spoke. "I am an old man," he said. "Thandar would not kill an old man?" "Of course not; but how know you that my name is Thandar?" replied Waldo. "Nadara, she who is my daughter, has spoken of you often. Yesterday we saw you as you battled with that son of Nagoola—Nadara told me then that it was you. What would Thandar among the people of Flatfoot?" "I come as a friend," replied Waldo, "among the friends of Nadara. For Flatfoot I care nothing. He is no friend of Nadara, whose friends are Thandar's friends, and whose enemies are Thandar's enemies. Where is Nadara—but first, where is Flatfoot? I have come to kill him." The words and the savage challenge slipped as easily from the cultured tongue of Waldo Emerson Smith-Jones as though he had been born and reared in the most rocky and barren cave of this savage island, nor did they sound strange or unusual to him. It seemed that he had said the most natural and proper thing under the circumstances that there was to say. "Flatfoot is not here," said the old man, "nor is Nadara. She—" but here Waldo interrupted him. "Korth, then," he demanded. "Where is Korth? I can kill him first and Flatfoot when he returns." The old man looked at the speaker in unfeigned surprise. "Korth!" he exclaimed. "Korth is dead. Can it be that you do not know that he, whom you killed yesterday, was Korth?" Waldo's eyes opened as wide in surprise as had the old man's. Korth! He had killed the redoubtable Korth with his bare hands—Korth, who could crush the skull of a full-grown man with a single blow from his open palm. Clearly he recollected the very words in which Nadara had described this horrible brute that time she had harrowed his poor, coward nerves, as they approached the village of Flatfoot. And now he, Waldo Emerson Smith-Jones, had met and killed the creature from whom he had so fearfully fled a few months ago! And, wonder of wonders, he had not even thought to use the weapons upon which he had spent so many hours of handicraft and months of practise in preparation for just this occasion. Of a sudden he recalled the old man's statement that Nadara was not there. "Where is she—Nadara?" he cried, turning so suddenly upon the ancient one that the old fellow drew back in alarm. "I have done nothing to harm her," he cried. "I followed and would have brought her back, but I am old and could not find her. Once, when I was young, there was no better trailer or mighty warrior among my people than I, but——" "Yes, yes," exclaimed Waldo impatiently; "but Nadara! Where is she?" "I do not know," replied the old man. "She has gone, and I could not find her. Well do I remember how, years ago, when the trail of an enemy was faint or the signs of game hard to find, men would come to ask me to help them, but now——" "Of course," interrupted Waldo; "but Nadara. Do you not even know in what direction she has gone?" "No; but since Flatfoot has set forth upon her trail it should be easy to track the two of them." "Flatfoot set out after Nadara!" cried, Waldo. "Why?" "For many moons he has craved her for his mate, as has Korth," explained Nadara's father; "but I think that each feared the other, and because of that fact Nadara was saved from both; but at last Korth came upon us alone and away from the village, and then he grasped Nadara and would have taken her away, for Flatfoot was not about to prevent. "You came then, and the rest you know. If I had been younger neither Flatfoot nor Korth would have dared menace Nadara, for when I was a young man I was very terrible and the record of my kills was a——" "How long since did Flatfoot set out after Nadara?" Waldo broke in. "But a few hours since," replied the old man. "It would be an easy thing for me to overtake him by night had I the speed of my youth, for I well remember——" "From where did Flatfoot start upon the trail?" cried the young man. "Lead me to the place." "This way then, Thandar," said the other, starting off toward the forest. "I will show you if you will save Nadara from Flatfoot. I love her. She has been very kind and good to me. She is unlike the rest of our people. "I should die happy if I knew that you have saved her from Flatfoot, but I am an old man and may not live until Nadara returns. Ah, that reminds me; there is that in my cave which belongs to Nadara, and were I to die there would be none to protect it for her. "Will you wait for the moment that it will take me to run and fetch it, that you may carry it to her, for I am sure that you will find her; though I am not as sure that you will overcome Flatfoot if you meet him. He is a very terrible man." Waldo hated to waste a minute of the precious time that was allowing Flatfoot to win nearer and nearer Nadara; but if it were in a service for the girl who had been so kind to him and for the happiness of her old father he could not refuse, so he waited impatiently while the old fellow tottered off toward the caves. Those who had come half-way to meet Waldo had hovered at a safe distance while he had been speaking to Nadara's father, and when the two turned toward the forest all had returned to their work in evident relief; for the old man had told them that the stranger was the mighty warrior who had killed the terrible Korth with his bare hands, nor had the story lost anything in the telling. After what seemed hours to the waiting Waldo the old man returned with a little package carefully wrapped in the skin of a small rodent, the seams laboriously sewed in a manner of lacing with pieces of gut. "This is Nadara's," he said as they continued their way toward the forest. "It contains many strange things of which I know not the meaning or purpose. They all were taken from the body of her mother when the woman died. You will give them to her?" "Yes," said Waldo. "I will give them to Nadara, or die in the trying of it." # CHAPTER X: THE TRAIL'S END Soon they came upon the trail of Flatfoot in the glade by the three great trees; they had not searched for it sooner, for the old man knew that it would start from that point upon its quest for the girl. The tracks circled the glade a dozen times in widening laps until at last, at the point where Flatfoot must have picked up the spoor of Nadara, they broke suddenly away into the underbrush. Once the way was plain Waldo bid the old man be of good heart, for he would surely bring his daughter back to him unharmed if the thing lay in the power of man. Then he hurried off upon the new-made trail that lay as plain and readable before him as had the printed page of his former life; but never had he bent with such keen interest to the reading of his favorite author as he did to this absorbing drama written in the turned leaves, the scattered twigs, and the soft mud of a primeval forest by the feet of a savage man and a savage maid. Toward mid-afternoon Waldo became aware that he was much weaker from the effects of his battle with Korth than he had supposed. He had lost much blood from his wounds, and the exertion of following the trail at a swift pace had reopened some of the worse ones, so that now, as he ran, he was leaving a little trail of blood behind him. The discovery made him almost frantic, for it seemed to presage failure. His condition would handicap him in the race after the two along whose track he pursued so that it would be a miracle were he to reach Flatfoot before the brute overtook Nadara. And if he did overtake him in time—what then? Would he be physically able to cope with the brawny monster? He feared that he would not, but that he kept doggedly to the grueling chase augured well for the new manhood that had been so recently born within him. On and on he stumbled, until at dusk he slipped and fell exhausted to the earth. Twice he struggled to his feet in an attempt to go on, but he was forced to give in, lying where he was until morning. Slightly refreshed, he ate of the roots and fruit which abounded in the forest, taking up the chase again, but this time more slowly. He was now convinced that the way led back along the same trail which he had followed into the country, and when he reached the point at which he had first met Korth on the previous day he cut across the little space which intervened between the cave man's tracks and the point at which he had stood before he went down over the divide into the jungle toward the river and the ford. A moment later he was rewarded by the sight of Nadara's dainty footprints as well as those of Flatfoot leading away along his old trail. The act had saved him several miles of needless tracking. All that day he followed as rapidly as his weakened condition would permit, but his best efforts seemed dismally snail-like. Along the way he bowled over a couple of large rodents, which he ate raw, for he had long since learned the desirability of a meat diet for one undergoing severe physical exertion, and had conquered his natural aversion for the uncooked flesh. He even had come to relish it, though often as he dined thus upon meat a broad grin illumined his countenance at the thought of the horror with which his mother and his Boston friends would view such a hideous performance. As he continued trailing the two he was at first surprised to discover the fidelity with which Nadara had clung to his old trail, and because of this fact he often was able to save miles at a time by taking cross-cuts where, on his way in, he had made wide detours. But at last on the third day, when he attempted this at a place which would have saved him fully ten miles, he was dismayed by the discovery that he could not again pick up either Nadara's trail or that of the cave man. Even his own old trail was entirely obliterated. It was this fact which caused him the greatest concern, for it meant that if Nadara really had been following it she must now be wandering rather aimlessly, possibly in an attempt to again locate it. In which event her speed would be materially reduced, and the probability of her capture by Flatfoot much enhanced. It was possible, too, that the beast already had overtaken her—this, in fact, might be the true cause of the cessation of the pursuit along the way which it had proceeded up to this point. The thought sent Waldo back along his former route, which he was able to follow by recollection, though the spoor was seldom visible. He came upon no sign of those he sought that day, but the next morning he found the point at which Nadara had lost his old trail upon a rocky ridge. The girl evidently assumed that it would lead into the valley below where she might pick it up again in the soft earth, and so her footprints led down a shelving bluff, while plain above them showed the huge imprints of Flatfoot. Up to this point at least he had not caught up with her. Waldo breathed a sigh of relief at the discovery. The trail was at least two days old, for Nadara and Flatfoot had traveled much more rapidly than the wounded man who haunted their footsteps like a grim shadow. About noon Waldo came to a little stream at which both those who preceded him had evidently stopped to drink—he could see where they had knelt in the soft grass at the water's edge. As Waldo stopped to quench his own thirst his eyes rested for an instant upon the farther bank, which at that point was little more than ten feet from him. He saw that the opposite shore was less grassy, and that it sloped down to the water, forming a muddy beach partially submerged. But what riveted his attention were several deep imprints in the mud. He could not be certain, of course, at that distance, but he was sure enough that he had recognized them to cause him to leap to his feet, forgetful of his thirst, and plunge through the stream for a closer inspection. As he bent to examine the spoor at close range he could scarce repress a cry of exultation—they had been made by the hands and knees of Nadara as she had stooped to drink at the very spot not twenty-four hours before. She must have circled back toward the brook for some reason; but by far the greatest cause for rejoicing was the fact that Nadara's trail alone was there. Flatfoot had not yet come upon her, and Waldo now was between them. The knowledge that he might yet be in time, and that he was gaining sufficiently in strength to make it reasonably certain that he could overhaul the girl eventually, filled Waldo with renewed vigor. He hastened along Nadara's trail now with something of the energy that had been his directly before his battle with Korth. His wounds had ceased bleeding, and for several days he had eaten well, and by night slept soundly, for he had reasoned that only by conserving his energy and fortifying himself in every way possible could he succor the girl. That night he slept in a little thicket which had evidently harbored Nadara the night before. The following day the way lay across a rolling country, cut by numerous deep ravines and lofty divides. That the pace was telling on the girl Waldo could read in the telltale spoor that revealed her lagging footsteps. Upon each eminence the man halted to strain his eyes ahead for a sight of her. About noon he discerned far ahead a shimmering line which he knew must be the sea. Surely his long pursuit must end there. As he was about to plunge on again along Nadara's trail something drew his eyes toward the rear, and there upon another hill-top a mile or two behind he saw the stocky figure of a half-naked man—it was Flatfoot. The cave man must have seen Waldo at the same instant, for, with a menacing wave of his huge fist, he increased his gait to a run, an instant later disappearing into the ravine which lay at the bottom of the hill upon which he had come into view. Waldo was undecided whether to wait for the encounter where he was or hasten on in an effort to overtake Nadara, that she might not escape him entirely. He knew that he stood a good chance of being killed in the conflict, and he also knew that were he victorious it might easily be at such a terrible price that he would be physically incapable of continuing his search for the girl for many days. As he meditated his eyes wandered back and forth across the landscape before him searching for Nadara. To his right lay, at a little distance, a level plain which stretched to the foot of low-lying cliffs at the valley's southern rim, some three or four miles distant. In this direction his view was almost unobstructed, but it was not in the direction of the girl's flight, so that it was but by accident that Waldo's eyes swept casually across the peaceful scene which would, at another time, have chained his attention with its quiet and alluring beauty. It was as he swept a backward glance in the direction of Flatfoot that his eye was arrested by the hint of something far out across the valley, a little behind his own position. To the Waldo of a few months previous it would not have been visible, but the new woodcraft of the man scented the abnormal in the vague suggestion of movement out among the long-waving grasses of the plain. And now, with every sense alert and riveted upon the spot, he was quick to perceive that it was an animal moving slowly toward the cliffs at the upper end of the valley. Presently a little rise of ground, less thickly grassed, brought the creature into full view for an instant; but in that instant Waldo saw that the thing he watched was a woman. As he turned to hurry after her he saw Flatfoot top another hill a half mile nearer than he had before been, and as the cave man came into view he turned his eyes in the direction that Waldo had been looking. A second later and he had abandoned the pursuit of Waldo and was running rapidly toward the woman. Nadara had apparently circled back once more, this time from the sea, and coming up the valley had passed Waldo and come opposite Flatfoot before either of them had discovered her. The young man gave a little cry of alarm as he realized that the cave man was nearer to the girl than he—by a good half mile, he judged, and so he put every ounce of his speed into the wild dash he made down the hill into a gully which led out upon the valley. On and on he raced unable to see either Flatfoot or Nadara; hoping, ever hoping, that he would be the first to win to her side; for Nadara had told him of the atrocities that such a creature as Flatfoot might perpetrate upon a woman rather than permit her to escape him or fall into the hands of another. Nadara, being up wind, caught neither the scent nor noise of the two who were racing madly toward her. The first knowledge she had that she was not alone in the valley was the sight of Flatfoot as he broke suddenly through a clump of tall grass not fifty paces from her. She gave a little scream and started to run; but she was very tired from the days of unremitting flight which had so sorely taxed her endurance, and thus it was no wonder that she slipped and fell before she had taken a dozen steps. Scarcely had she gained her feet when Flatfoot was upon her, one hand grasping her by the arm. "Come with me in peace or I will kill you!" he cried. "Kill me, then," retorted the despairing girl, "for I shall never come with you; first will I kill myself." Flatfoot did not wish to kill her, nor did he wish her to escape, as she would be very likely to do should he be interrupted by the fellow who must even now be quite close to them. Possibly if he could keep the girl quiet they might hide in the grass until their pursuer had gone by, and so Flatfoot, acting upon the idea, clapped a rough hand over Nadara's mouth and dragged her back along the trail he had just made. The girl struggled—striking and clawing at the hairy brute that pulled her along at his side—but she was as helpless in his clutches as if she had been a day-old babe. She did not know that help was so close at hand, or she would have found the means to free her mouth and cry out once at least. As it was, she wondered that Flatfoot should attempt to silence her in this way if there were none to hear her screams. For days she had known that the cave man was on her trail, for once in doubling back upon herself she had passed but a short distance from a ridge she had traversed the preceding day, and had seen the man's squat figure and recognized his awkward, shuffling trot. It was this knowledge that had turned her away from the old village toward which she had been traveling since she lost Thandar's trail, and sent her in search of a new country in which she might lose herself from Flatfoot. As the man dragged her roughly on through the grass Nadara racked her brain for some means of escape, or a way to end her misery before the beast could have his way with her. But there came no ray of hope to her poor, unhappy heart. If Thandar were but there! He would save her, even if it were but to desert her the next instant. But did she wish to be saved again by him? Now that she pondered the idea she was quite sure that she would rather die than see him again, for had he not twice run away from her? In her misery she put this interpretation upon the remarkable disappearance of Thandar after his battle with Korth—he had waited until she was out of sight and then he had risen and fled for fear she might return and discover him. She wondered why he should dislike her so much. She was quite sure that she had been very good to him, and had tried not to annoy him while they were together. Maybe he looked down upon her, for surely he was of a superior race; of that she was quite positive. And so Nadara was very miserable and unhappy and hopeless as the brutal Flatfoot dragged her far into the tall jungle-grass. Presently she noticed that the cave man repeatedly cast glances toward the rear. What could he expect from that direction, or from any direction whatever, so far as that was concerned? Were they not days and days from their own people, in a land where there seemed no men at all? Flatfoot heard no sign of pursuit. He was growing more confident. The stranger had lost their trail. The cave man moved less rapidly, and as he went he looked now for a burrow into which he might crawl with the maiden. Then there would be no further danger whatever. Tomorrow Flatfoot would come out and find the fellow and kill him, but now he had pleasanter work in view, nor did he wish to be disturbed. And at that very moment he caught a stealthy movement in the grasses a few yards to his right. Waldo had come upon the spot at which Flatfoot had overtaken Nadara but a few moments after the brute had dragged her away, and on the instant had sought a higher piece of ground from which he could overlook the tall grass. Nor had he been long in finding a spot that, coupled with his six feet two, brought his eyes above the level of the surrounding jungle. There he watched for a little until he discerned a movement of the grasstops at a little distance from him. After that it was but a matter of trailing. When Flatfoot saw what he took to be his enemy he threw Nadara across his shoulder and started on a run in the opposite direction—at right angles to the way he had been going. The ruse proved good, for when Waldo came to the point at which he had figured his path would cross the cave man's he found no sign of the latter, and in searching about to locate the trail lost many minutes of valuable time. But at last he came upon that which he sought, and with redoubled speed set out at a rapid run through the tall grasses. He had proceeded but a short distance when the trail broke suddenly into the open, close by the base of the cliffs that he had seen from the hill that had given him his fleeting glimpse of Nadara. Ahead of him he saw the two he sought—Nadara across the burly shoulders of Flatfoot—and the cave man was making for the caves that dotted the face of the cliff. Were he to reach these he might defend one of them against a single antagonist indefinitely. # CHAPTER XI: CAPTURE Almost at the moment that Waldo emerged from the jungle Nadara saw him, and with a lunge threw herself from Flatfoot's shoulder. The man turned with a fierce growl of rage, and his eyes fell upon the giant rushing toward them. The girl was now struggling madly to escape or delay her captor. There could be but one outcome, as Flatfoot knew. He must fight now, but the girl should never escape him. Raising the huge fist that had killed many a full-grown man with a single blow he aimed a wicked one at the side of Nadara's head. The first one she dodged, and as the arm went up to strike again, Thandar threw his spear-arm far back and with a mighty forward surge drove his light weapon across the hundred feet that separated him from Flatfoot. It was an awful risk—there was not a foot to spare between the hairy breast that was his target and the beautiful head of the fair captive. Should either move between the time the spear left his hand and the instant that it found its mark it might pierce the one it had been sped to save. Flatfoot's fist was crashing down toward that lovely face at the instant that the spear found him; but he had moved—just enough to place his arm before his breast—so that it was the falling arm that received the weapon instead of the heart that it had been intended for. But it served its purpose. With a howl of pain and rage, Flatfoot, forgetful of the girl in the madness of his anger, dropped her and sprang toward Waldo. The latter had drawn his sword—naught but a sharpened stick of hard wood—and stood waiting to receive his foe. It was his first attempt to put either sword or shield into practical use, and he was anxious to discover their value. As Flatfoot came toward his antagonist he pulled the spear from the muscles of his arm, and, stooping, gathered up one of the many rocks that lay scattered about at the base of the cliff. The cave man was roaring like a mad bull; hate and murder shot from his close-set eyes; his upper lip curled back, showing his fighting fangs, and a light froth flecked his bristling beard. Waldo was sure there had never existed a more fearsome creature, and he marveled that he was not afraid. The very thought of what the effect of this terrible monster's mad charge would have been upon him a short while ago brought a smile to his lips. At sight of that taunting smile Flatfoot hurled the rock full at the maddening face. With a quick movement of his left arm Waldo caught the missile on his buckler, from whence it dropped harmlessly to the ground. Flatfoot did not throw again, and an instant later he was upon the Bostonian—the pride and hope of the cultured and aristocratic Back Bay Smith-Joneses. When he reached for the agile, blond giant he found a thin sheet of hide-covered twigs in his way, and when he tried to tear down this barrier the point of a sharpened stick was thrust into his abdomen. This was no way to fight! Flatfoot was scandalized. He jumped back a few feet and glared at Waldo. Then he lowered his head and came at him once more with the very evident intention of rushing him off his feet by the very weight and impetuosity of his charge. This time the sharp stick slipped quickly over the top of the hide-covered atrocity and pierced Flatfoot's neck just where it joined his thick skull. Burying a foot of its point beneath the muscles of the shoulder, it brought a scream of pain and rage from the hairy beast. Before Waldo could withdraw his weapon from the tough sinews, Flatfoot had straightened up with a sudden jerk that snapped the sword short, leaving but a short stub in his antagonist's hand. Nadara had been watching the battle breathlessly, ready to flee should it turn against her champion, yet at the same time searching for an opportunity to aid him. Like Flatfoot, the girl had never before seen spear or sword or shield in use, and while she marveled at the advantage which they gave Thandar, she became dubious as to the result of the encounter when she saw the sword broken, for the spear had been snapped into kindling-wood by Flatfoot when he tore it from his arm. But Waldo still had his cudgel, fastened by a thong to his sword-belt, and as the cave man rushed upon him again he swung a mighty blow to the low, brutal forehead. Momentarily stunned, the fellow reeled backward for a step, and again Waldo wielded his new weapon. Flatfoot trembled, his knees smote together, he staggered drunkenly, and then, when Waldo looked to see him go down, the brute power that was in him, responding to nature's first law, sent him hurtling at the Bostonian's throat in the snarling, blind rage of the death-smitten beast. Catapulted by all the enormous strength of his mighty muscles, the squat, bear-like animal bore Waldo to earth, and at the same instant each found the other's throat with sinewy, viselike fingers. They lay very still now, choking with firm, relentless clutch. Every ounce of muscle was needed, every grain of endurance. Waldo was suffering agonies after a moment of that awful death-grip. He could feel his gasping, pain-racked lungs struggling for air. He tried to wriggle free from those horrible fingers, but not once did he loosen his own hold upon the throat of Flatfoot; instead he tried to close a little tighter each second that he felt his own life ebbing. He became weaker and weaker. The pain was unendurable now. A haze obscured his vision—everything became black—his brain was whizzing about at frightful velocity within the awful darkness of his skull. The girl was bending close above them now, for both were struggling less violently. She had been minded to come to Thandar's rescue when suddenly she recalled his desertion of her, and all the wild hatred of the primitive mind surged through her. Let him die, she thought. He had spurned her, cast her off; he looked down upon her. Well, let him take care of himself, then, and she turned deliberately away to leave the two men to decide the outcome of their own battle, and started back upon the trail in the direction of her tribe's village. But she had taken scarce a score of steps when something flamed up in her heart that withered the last remnant of her malice toward Thandar. As she turned back again toward the combatants she attempted to justify this new weakness by the thought that it was only fair that she should give the yellow one aid in return for the aid that he had rendered her; that done, she could go on her way with a clear conscience. She wished never to see him again, but she could not have his blood upon her hands. At that thought she gave a little cry and ran to where the men lay. Both were almost quiet now; their struggles had nearly ceased. Just as she reached them Flatfoot relaxed, his hands slipped from Waldo's throat and he lay entirely motionless. Then the fair giant struggled convulsively once or twice; he gasped, his eyes rolled up and set, and with a sudden twitching of his muscles he stiffened rigidly and was very still. Nadara gave one horrified look at the ghastly face of her champion, and fled into the jungle. She stumbled on for a quarter of a mile as fast as her tired limbs would carry her through the entangling grasses, and then she came to that which she sought—a little stream, winding slowly through the valley down toward the ocean. Dropping to her knees beside it she filled her mouth with the refreshing water. In an instant she was up again and off in the direction from which she had just come. Throwing herself at Waldo's side, she wet his face with the water from her mouth. She chafed his hands, shook him, blew upon his face when the water was exhausted, and then, tears streaming from her eyes, she threw herself upon him, covering his face with kisses, and moaning inarticulate words of love and endearment that were half stifled by anguished sobs of grief. Suddenly her lamentations ceased as quickly as they had begun. She raised her head from where it had been buried beside the man's and looked intently into his face. Then she placed her ear upon his breast; with a delighted cry she resumed chafing his hands, for she had heard the beating of his heart. Presently Waldo gasped, and for a moment suffered the agonies of returning respiration. When he opened his eyes in consciousness he saw Nadara bending over him—a severely disinterested expression upon her beautiful face. He turned his head to one side; there lay Flatfoot quite dead. It was several moments before he could speak. Then he rose, very unsteadily, to his feet. "Nadara," he said, "Korth lies dead beside the three great trees in the glade that is near the village that was Flatfoot's. Here is the dead body of Flatfoot, and about my loins hangs the pelt of Nagoola, taken in fair fight. "I have done all that you desired of me; I have tried to repay you for your kindness to me when I was a stranger in your land. I do not know why you should have tried to kill me while I battled with Korth. "No more do I know why you have allowed me to live today when it would have been so easy to have despatched me as I lay unconscious here beside Flatfoot. "I read dislike upon your face, and I am sorry, for I would have parted with you in friendship, so that when the time comes that I return to my own land I should be able to carry away with me only the pleasant memory of it. When we have rested and are refreshed I shall take you back to your father." All that had been surging to the girl's lips of love and gratitude from a heart that was filled with both was congealed by the cold tone which marked this dispassionate recital of the discharge of a moral obligation. Possibly Waldo's tone was colored by the vivid memory of the look of hate that he had seen in the girl's eyes at the instant that he went down before her missile as he battled with Korth, for it was not even tinged with friendliness. And so the girl's manner was equally distant when she replied; in fact, it was even colder, for it was fraught with bitterness. "Thandar owed nothing to Nadara," she said, "and though it matters not at all, it is only fair to say that the stone that struck you as you battled in the glade was intended for Korth." Waldo's face brightened. A load that he had not realized lay there was lifted from his heart. "You did not want to hurt me, then?" he cried. "Why should I want to hurt you?" returned the girl. "I thought"—and here Waldo spoiled the fair start they had made at a reconciliation—"I thought," he said, "that you were angry because I ran away from you after we had come to your village that time, months ago." Nadara's head went high and she laughed aloud. "I angry? I was surprised that you did not come to the village, but after an hour I had forgotten the matter—it was with difficulty that I recognized you when I next saw you, so utterly had the occurrence departed from my thoughts." Waldo wondered why he should feel such humiliation at this frank avowal. Of what moment to him was this girl's estimation of him? Why did he feel a flush suffuse his face at the knowledge that he was of so little moment to her that she had entirely forgotten him within a few months? Waldo was mortified and angry. He changed the subject brusquely; hereafter he should eschew personalities. "Let us find a cave at a distance from the dead man," he said, "and there we may rest until you are ready to attempt the return journey." "I am ready now," replied Nadara; "nor do I need or desire your company. I can return alone, as I came." "No," remonstrated Waldo doggedly; "I shall go with you whether you wish it or not. I shall see you safely with your father. I promised him." Nadara had been delighted with the first clause of his reply, but when it became evident that his only desire to return with her was to fulfil a promise made her father she became furious, though she was careful not to let him see it. "Very well," she replied; "you may come if you wish, though it is neither necessary nor as I would have it. I prefer being alone." "I shall not force my company upon you," said Waldo haughtily. "I can follow a few paces behind you." There was an injured air in his last words which did not escape the girl. She wondered if he really deserved the harsh attitude she had maintained. They found a cave a half-mile down the valley, where they took up their quarters against the time that Waldo should be rested, for the girl insisted that she was fully able to commence the return journey at once. The man knew better, and so he let her have it that the delay was on his account rather than hers, for he doubted her ability to cope with the hardships of the long journey without an interval for recuperation. The next morning found them both rested and in better spirits, so that there was no return to their acrimonious encounter of the previous day. As they walked out toward the forest that lay down the valley in the direction of the ocean Waldo dropped a few paces behind the girl in polite deference to her expressed wish of the day before. As he walked he watched the graceful movements of her lithe figure and the lines of her clear-cut profile as she turned her head this way and that in search of food. How beautiful she was! It was incredible that this wild cave girl should have greater beauty and a more regal carriage than the queens and beauties of civilization, and yet Waldo was forced to admit that he had never even dreamed, much less seen, such absolute physical perfection. He wished that he could say as much for her disposition; that was atrocious. It was unbelievable that such a wondrous exterior could harbor so much ingratitude and coldness. Presently they came among the trees where the ripe fruit hung, and as Waldo climbed nimbly among the branches and tossed the most luscious down to her, the girl, in her turn, watched him. She noted more closely the marvelous change that a few months had wrought. She had thought him wonderful before, but now he was a very god. She did not think just this, for she knew nothing of gods—other than the demons that were supposed to enter the bodies of the sick; but she thought of him as some superior creature, and then she ceased to feel aggrieved that he should care so little for her. He was not a man—he was something more than a man, and she had been very wicked to have treated him so shamefully. She would make amends. So she tried to be more kind thereafter, though there still remained a trace of aloofness. Together they sat upon the turf and ate their fruit, and as they ate they talked a little, for it is difficult for two young people to harbor animosity for a great time, especially when there is none other for them to talk to. "When you have returned with me to my father, Thandar," the girl asked, "where shall you go then?" "I shall return to the sea where I may watch for a ship to take me back to my own land," he replied. "I have seen but one ship in all my life," said Nadara, "and that was years ago. It was when we lived close by the big water that it stopped a long way from shore and sent many smaller boats to land. "There were many men in the boats, and when they landed, my father and mother took me far into the forest away from the sea, and there we stayed for many days until the strangers had sailed. They wandered up and down the coast and came back into the forests and the jungles for a few miles. "My mother said that they were searching for me, and that if they found me they would take me away. I was very much frightened." At the mention of her mother Waldo recalled the little parcel that Nadara's father had given into his custody for the girl. He unfastened it from the thong that circled his waist, where it had hung beneath his panther-skin garment. "Here is something your father asked me to bring you," he said, handing the package to Nadara. The girl took it and examined it as though it was entirely unfamiliar. "What is it?" she asked. "Your father did not say, other than that it contained articles that your mother wore when she died," he said tenderly, for a great pity had welled up in his heart for this poor, motherless girl. "That my mother wore!" Nadara repeated, her brows contracted in a puzzled frown. "When my mother died she wore nothing but a single garment of many small skins—very old and worn—and that was buried with her. I do not understand." She made no effort to open the package, but sat gazing far off toward the ocean which was just visible through the trees, entirely absorbed in the reverie which Waldo's words had engendered. "Could the thing that the old woman told me have been true?" the girl mused half aloud. "Could it have been because it was true that my mother fell upon her with tooth and nail until she had nearly killed her? I wonder if——" But here she stopped, her eyes riveted in sudden fear and hopelessness upon a thing that she had just espied in the distance. A great lump rose in her throat, tears came to her eyes, and with them the full measure of realization of what that thing beyond the forest meant to her. She turned her eyes toward the man. He was sitting with bowed head, playing idly with a large beetle that he had penned within a tiny palisade of small twigs. At length he made an opening in the barrier. "Go your way, poor thing," he murmured. "Heaven knows I realize too well the horrors of captivity to keep any other creature from its fellows and its home." A choking sigh that was almost a sob racked the girl. At the sound Waldo looked up to see her pathetic, unhappy eyes upon him. Of a sudden there enveloped him a great desire to take her in his arms and comfort her. He knew not why she was unhappy, but her sorrow cried aloud to him—as he thought simply to the protective instinct that was merely an attribute of his sex. Nadara raised her hand slowly and pointed through the trees. It was as though she had torn her heart from her breast, so harrowing she felt the consequences of her act would be, but it was for his sake—for the sake of the man she loved. As Waldo's eyes followed the direction of her pointing finger he came suddenly to his feet with a wild cry of joy; through the trees, out upon the shimmering surface of the placid sea, there lay a graceful, white yacht. "Thank God!" cried the man fervently, and sinking to his knees he raised his hands aloft toward the author of joy and sorrow. A moment later he sprang to his feet. "Home! Nadara. Home!" he cried. "Can't you realize it? I am going home. I am saved! Oh, Nadara, child, can't you realize what it means to me? Home! Home! Home!" He had been looking toward the yacht as he spoke, but now he turned toward the girl. She was crouching upon the ground, her face in her hands, her slender figure shaken by convulsive tears. He came toward her and, kneeling, laid his hand upon her shoulder. "Nadara!" he said gently. "Why do you cry, child? What is the matter?" But she only shook her head, moaning. He raised her to her feet, and as he supported her his arm circled her shoulders. "Tell me, Nadara, why you are unhappy?" he urged. But still she could not speak for sobbing, and only buried her face upon his breast. He was holding her very close now, and with the pressure of her body against his a fire that, unknown, had been smoldering in his heart for months burst into sudden flame, and in the heat of it there were consumed the mists that had been before the eyes of his heart all that time. "Nadara," he asked in a very low voice, "is it because I am going that you cry?" But at that she pulled away from him, and through her tears her eyes blazed. "No!" she cried. "I shall be glad when you have gone. I wish that you had never come. I—I—hate you!" She turned and fled back up the valley, forgetful of the little packet Thandar had brought her, which lay forgotten upon the ground where she had dropped it. Without so much as a backward glance toward the yacht Waldo was off in pursuit of her; but Nadara was as fleet as a hare, so that it was a much winded Waldo who finally overhauled her half-way up the face of a cliff two miles from the ocean. "Go away!" cried the girl. "Go back with your own kind, to your own home!" Waldo did not answer. Waldo was no more. It was Thandar, the cave man, who took Nadara in his strong arms and crushed her to him. "My girl!" he cried. "My girl! I love you! And because I am a fool I did not learn until it was almost too late." He did not ask if she loved him, for he was Thandar, the cave man. Nor, a moment later, did he need to ask, since her strong, brown arms crept up about his neck and drew his lips down to hers. It was quite half an hour later before either thought of the yacht again. From where they stood upon the cliff's face they could see the ocean and the beach. Several boats were drawn up and a number of men were coming toward the forest. Presently they would discover the two upon the cliff. "We shall go back together now," said Thandar. "I am afraid," replied Nadara. For a time the man stood gazing at the dainty yacht, and far beyond it into the civilization which it represented, and he saw there suave men and sneering women, and among them was a slender brown beauty who shrank from the cruel glances of the women—and Waldo writhed at this and at the greedy eyes of the suave men as they appraised the girl—and he, too, was afraid. "Come," he said, taking Nadara by the hand, "let us hurry back into the hills before they discover us." Just as the men from the yacht, which Mr. John Alden Smith-Jones had despatched to the South Seas in search of his missing son, emerged from the forest into a view of the valley and the cliffs a cave man and his mate clambered over the brow of the latter and disappeared toward the hills beyond. It was nearly dusk as the searchers from the yacht were returning toward the beach. They had found no sign of human habitation in the little valley, nor anywhere along the coast that they had so carefully explored. The commander of the expedition, Captain Cecil Burlinghame, a retired naval officer, was in advance. They had penetrated the woods nearly to the beach when his foot struck against a package wrapped in the skin of a small rodent. He stooped and picked it up. "Here is the first evidence that another human being than ourselves has ever set foot upon this island," he said as he cut the gut lacing with his pocket knife. Within the first wrapping he found a chamois-bag such as women sometimes use to carry jewels about their persons. From this he emptied into his palm a dozen priceless rings, a few old-fashioned brooches, bracelets, and lockets. In one of the latter he discovered the ivory miniature of a woman—a very beautiful woman. In the other side of the locket was engraved: "To Eugénie Marie Céleste de la Valois, Countess of Crecy, from Henri, her husband. 17th January, 18—" "Gad!" cried the old captain. "Now what do you make of that? "The Count and Countess of Crecy were returning to Paris from their honeymoon trip round the world in the steam yacht _Dolphin_ nearly twenty years ago, and after they touched at Australia were never heard of again. "What tragedy, what mystery, what romance might not these sparkling gems disclose had they but tongues!" PART II # CHAPTER I: KING BIG FIST Waldo Emerson Smith-Jones, scion of the aristocratic house of the John Alden Smith-Joneses of Boston, clambered up the rocky face of the precipitous cliff with the agility of a monkey. His right hand clasped the slim brown fingers of his half-naked mate, assisting her over the more dangerous or difficult stretches. At the summit the two turned their faces back toward the sea. Beyond the gently waving forest trees stretched the broad expanse of shimmering ocean. In the foreground, upon the bosom of a tiny harbor, lay a graceful yacht—a beautiful toy it looked from the distance of the cliff top. For the first time the man obtained an unobstructed view of the craft. Before, when they first had discovered it, the boles of the forest trees had revealed it but in part. Now he saw it fully from stem to stern with all its well-known, graceful lines standing out distinctly against the deep blue of the water. The shock of recognition brought an involuntary exclamation from his lips. The girl looked quickly up into his face. "What is it, Thandar?" she asked. "What do you see?" "The yacht!" he whispered. "It is the _Priscilla_—my father's. He is searching for me." "And you wish to go?" For some time he did not speak—only stood there gazing at the distant yacht. And the young girl at his side remained quite motionless and silent, too, looking up at the man's profile, watching the expression upon his face with a look of dumb misery upon her own. Quickly through the man's mind was running the gamut of his past. He recalled his careful and tender upbringing—the time, the money, the fond pride that had been expended upon his education. He thought of the result—the narrow-minded, weakling egoist; the pusillanimous coward that had been washed from the deck of a passing steamer upon the sandy beach of this savage, forgotten shore. And yet it had been love, solicitous and tender, that had prompted his parents to their misguided efforts. He was their only son. They were doubtless grieving for him. They were no longer young, and in their declining years it appeared to him a pathetic thing that they should be robbed of the happiness which he might bring them by returning to the old life. But could he ever return to the bookish existence that once had seemed so pleasant? Had not this brief year into which had been crowded so much of wild, primitive life made impossible a return to the narrow, self-centered existence? Had it not taught him that there was infinitely more in life than ever had been written into the dry and musty pages of books? It had taught him to want life at first hand—not through the proxy of the printed page. It and—Nadara. He glanced toward the girl. Could he give her up? No! A thousand times, no! He read in her face the fear that lurked in her heart. No, he could not give her up. He owed to her all that he possessed of which he was most proud—his mighty physique, his new found courage, his woodcraft, his ability to cope, primitively, with the primitive world, her savage world which he had learned to love. No, he could not give her up; but—what? His gaze lingered upon her sweet face. Slowly there sank into his understanding something of the reason for his love of this wild, half-savage cave girl other than the primitive passion of the sexes. He saw now not only the physical beauty of her face and figure, but the sweet, pure innocence of her girlishness, and, most of all, the wondrous tenderness of her love of him that was mirrored in her eyes. To remain and take her as his mate after the manner and customs of her own people would reflect no shame upon himself or her; but was she not deserving of the highest honor that it lay within his power to offer at the altar of her love? She—his wonderful Nadara—must become his through the most solemn and dignified ceremony that civilized man had devised. What the young woman of his past life demanded was none too good for her. Again the girl voiced her question. "You wish to go?" "Yes, Nadara," he replied, "I must go back to my own people—and you must go with me." Her face lighted with pleasure and happiness as she heard his last words; but the expression was quickly followed by one of doubt and fear. "I am afraid," she said; "but if you wish it I will go." "You need not fear, Nadara. None will harm you by word or deed while Thandar is with you. Come, let us return to the sea and the yacht before she sails." Hand in hand they retraced their steps down the steep cliff, across the little valley toward the forest and the sea. Nadara walked very close to Thandar, her hand snuggled in his and her shoulder pressed tightly against his side, for she was afraid of the new life among the strange creatures of civilization. At the far side of the valley, just before one enters the forest, there grows a thick jungle of bamboo—really but a narrow strip, not more than a hundred feet through at its greatest width; but so dense as to quite shut out from view any creature even a few feet within its narrow, gloomy avenues. Into this the two plunged, Thandar in the lead, Nadara close behind him, stepping exactly in his footprints—an involuntary concession to training, for there was no need here either of deceiving a pursuer, or taking advantage of easier going. The trail was well-marked and smooth-beaten by many a padded paw. It wound erratically, following the line of least resistance—it forked, and there were other trails which entered it from time to time, or crossed it. The hundred feet it traversed seemed much more when measured by the trail. The two had come almost to the forest side of the jungle when a sharp turn in the path brought Thandar face to face with a huge, bear-like man. The fellow wore a g-string of soft hide, and over one shoulder dangled an old and filthy leopard skin—otherwise, he was naked. His thick, coarse hair was matted low over his forehead. The balance of his face was covered by a bushy red beard. At sight of Thandar his close set, little eyes burned with sudden rage and cunning. From his thick lips burst a savage yell—it was the preliminary challenge. Ordinarily a certain amount of vituperation and coarse insults must pass between strangers meeting upon this inhospitable isle before they fly at one another's throat. "I am Thurg," bellowed the brute. "I can kill you," and then followed a volley of vulgar allusions to Thandar's possible origin, and the origin of his ancestors. "The bad men," whispered Nadara. With her words there swept into the man's memory the scene upon the face of the cliff that night a year before when, even in the throes of cowardly terror, he had turned to do battle with a huge cave man that the fellow might not prevent the escape of Nadara. He glanced at the right forearm of the creature who faced him. A smile touched Thandar's lips—the arm was crooked as from the knitting of a broken bone, poorly set. "You would kill Thandar—again?" he asked tauntingly, pointing toward the deformed member. Then came recognition to the red-rimmed eyes of Thurg, as, with another ferocious bellow, he launched himself toward the author of his old hurt. Thandar met the charge with his short stick of pointed hard wood—his "sword" he called it. It entered the fleshy part of Thurg's breast, calling forth a howl of pain and a trickling stream of crimson. Thurg retreated. This was no way to fight. He was scandalized. For several minutes he stood glaring at his foe, screaming hideous threats and insults at him. Then once more he charged. Again the painful point entered his body, but this time he pressed in clutching madly at the goad and for a hold upon Thandar's body. The latter held Thurg at arm's length, prodding him with the fire-hardened point of his wooden sword. The cave man's little brain wondered at the skill and prowess of this stranger who had struck him a single blow with a cudgel many moons before and then run like a rabbit to escape his wrath. Why was it that he did not run now? What strange change had taken place in him? He had expected an easy victim when he finally had recognized his foe; but instead he had met with brawn and ferocity equal to his own and with a strange weapon, the like of which he never before had seen. Thandar was puncturing him rapidly now, and Thurg was screaming in rage and suffering. Presently he could endure it no longer. With a sudden wrench he tore himself loose and ran, bellowing, through the jungle. Thandar did not pursue. It was enough that he had rid himself of his enemy. He turned toward Nadara, smiling. "It will seem very tame in Boston," he said; but though she gave him an answering smile, she did not understand, for to her Boston was but another land of primeval forests, and dense jungles; of hairy, battling men, and fierce beasts. At the edge of the forest they came again upon Thurg, but this time he was surrounded by a score of his burly tribesmen. Thandar knew better than to pit himself against so many. Thurg came rushing down upon them, his fellows at his heels. In loud tones he screamed anew his challenge, and the beasts behind him took it up until the forest echoed to their hideous bellowing. He had seen Nadara as he had battled with Thandar, and recognized her as the girl he had desired a year before—the girl whom this stranger had robbed him of. Now he was determined to wreak vengeance on the man and at the same time recapture the girl. Thandar and Nadara turned back into the jungle where but a single enemy could attack them at a time in the narrow trails. Here they managed to elude pursuit for several hours, coming again into the forest nearly a mile below the beach where the _Priscilla_ had lain at anchor. Thurg and his fellows had apparently given up the chase—they had neither seen nor heard aught of them for some time. Now the two hastened back through the wood to reach a point on the shore opposite the yacht. At last they came in sight of the harbor. Thandar halted. A look of horror and disappointment supplanted the expression of pleasurable anticipation that had lighted his countenance—the yacht was not there. A mile out they discerned her, steaming rapidly north. Thandar ran to the beach. He tore the black panther's hide from his shoulders, waving it frantically above his head, the while he shouted in futile endeavor to attract attention from the dwindling craft. Then, quite suddenly, he collapsed upon the beach, burying his face in his hands. Presently Nadara crept close to his side. Her soft arms encircled his shoulders as she drew his cheek close to hers in an attempt to comfort him. "Is it so terrible," she asked, "to be left here alone with your Nadara?" "It is not that," he answered. "If you were mine I should not care so much, but you cannot be mine until we have reached civilization and you have been made mine in accordance with the laws and customs of civilized men. And now who knows when another ship may come—if ever another will come?" "But I am yours, Thandar," insisted the girl. "You are my man—you have told me that you love me, and I have replied that I would be your mate—who can give us to each other better than we can give ourselves?" He tried, as best he could, to explain to her the marriage customs and ceremonies of his own world, but she found it difficult to understand how it might be that a stranger whom neither might possibly ever have seen before could make it right for her to love her Thandar, or that it should be wrong for her to love him without the stranger's permission. To Thandar the future looked most black and hopeless. With his sudden determination to take Nadara back to his own people he had been overwhelmed with a mad yearning for home. He realized that his past apathy to the idea of returning to Boston had been due solely to recollection of Boston as he had known it—Boston without Nadara; but now that she was to have gone back with him Boston seemed the most desirable spot in the world. As he sat pondering the unfortunate happenings that had so delayed them that the yacht had sailed before they reached the shore, he also cast about for some plan to mitigate their disappointment. To live forever upon this savage island did not seem such an appalling thing as it had a year before—but then he had not realized his love for the wild young creature at his side. Ah, if she could but be made his wife then his exile here would be a happy rather than a doleful lot. What if he had been born here too? With the thought came a new idea that seemed to offer an avenue from his dilemma. Had he, too, been native born how would he have wed Nadara? Why through the ceremony of their own people, of course. And if men and women were thus wed here, living together in faithfulness throughout their lives, what more sacred a union could civilization offer? He sprang to his feet. "Come, Nadara!" he cried. "We shall return to your people, and there you shall become my wife." Nadara was puzzled, but she made no comment; content simply to leave the future to her lord and master; to do whatever would bring Thandar the greatest happiness. The return to the dwellings of Nadara's people occupied three never-to-be-forgotten days. How different this journey by comparison with that of a year since, when the cave girl had been leading the terror-stricken Waldo Emerson in flight from the bad men toward, to him, an equally horrible fate at the hands of Korth and Flatfoot! Then the forest glades echoed to the pads of fierce beasts and the stealthy passage of naked, human horrors. No twig snapped that did not portend instant and terrifying death. Now Korth and Flatfoot were dead at the hands of the metamorphosed Waldo. The racking cough was gone. He had encountered the bad men and others like them and come away with honors. Even Nagoola, the sleek, black devil-cat of the hideous nights, no longer sent the slightest tremor through the rehabilitated nerves. Did not Thandar wear Nagoola's pelt about his shoulder and loins—a pelt that he had taken in hand to hand encounter with the dread beast? Slowly they walked beneath the shade of giant trees, beside pleasant streams, or, again, across open valleys where the grass grew knee high and countless, perfumed wild flowers opened a pathway before their naked feet. At night they slept where night found them. Sometimes in the deserted lair of a wild beast, or again perched among the branches of a spreading tree where parallel branches permitted the construction of rude platforms. And Thandar was always most solicitous to see that Nadara's couch was of the softest grasses and that his own lay at a little distance from hers and in a position where he might best protect her from prowling beasts. Again was Nadara puzzled, but still she made no comment. Finally they came to her village. Several of the younger men came forth to meet them; but when they saw that the man was he who had slain Korth they bridled their truculence, all but one, Big Fist, who had assumed the role of king since Flatfoot had left. "I can kill you," he announced by way of greeting, "for I am Big Fist, and until Flatfoot returns I am king—and maybe afterward, for some day I shall kill Flatfoot." "I do not wish to fight you," replied Thandar. "Already have I killed Korth, and Flatfoot will return no more, for Flatfoot I have killed also. And I can kill Big Fist, but what is the use? Why should we fight? Let us be friends, for we must live together, and if we do not kill one another there will be more of us to meet the bad men, should they come, and kill them." When Big Fist heard that Flatfoot was dead and by the hand of this stranger he pined less to measure his strength with that of the newcomer. He saw the knothole that the other offered, and promptly he sought to crawl through it, but with honor. "Very well," he said, "I shall not kill you—you need not be afraid. But you must know that I am king, and do as I say that you shall do." "'Afraid,"" Thandar laughed. "You may be king," he said, "but as for doing what you say—" and again he laughed. It was a very different Waldo Emerson Smith-Jones from the thing that the sea had spewed up twelve months before. # CHAPTER II: KING THANDAR The first thing that Thandar did after he entered the village was to seek out Nadara's father. They found the old man in the poorest and least protected cave in the cliff side, exposed to the attack of the first prowling carnivore, or skulking foeman. He was sick, and there was none to care for him; but he did not complain. That was the way of his people. When a man became too old to be of service to the community it were better that he died, and so they did nothing to delay the inevitable. When one became an absolute burden upon his fellows it was customary to hasten the end—a carefully delivered blow with a heavy rock was calculated quickly to relieve the burdens of the community and the suffering of the invalid. Thandar and Nadara came in and sat down beside him. The old fellow seemed glad to see them. "I am Thandar," said the young man. "I wish to take your daughter as my mate." The old man looked at him questioningly for a moment. "You have killed Korth and Flatfoot—who is to prevent you from taking Nadara?" "I wish to be joined to her with your permission and in accordance with the marriage ceremonies of your people," said Thandar. The old man shook his head. "I do not understand you," he replied at last. "There are several fine caves that are not occupied—if you wish a better one you have but to slay the present occupants if they do not get out when you tell them to—but I think they will get out when the slayer of Korth and Flatfoot tells them to." "I am not worried about a cave," said Thandar. "Tell me how men take their wives among you." "If they do not come with us willingly we take them by the hair and drag them with us," replied Nadara's father. "My mate would not come with me," he continued, "and even after I had caught her and dragged her to my cave she broke away and fled from me, but again I overhauled her, for when I was young none could run more swiftly, and this time I did what I should have done at first—I beat her upon the head until she went to sleep. When she awoke she was in my own cave, and it was night, and she did not try to ran away any more." For a long time Thandar sat in thought. Presently he spoke addressing Nadara. "In my country we do not take our wives in any such way, nor shall I take you thus. We must be married properly, according to the customs and laws of civilization." Nadara made no reply. To her it seemed that Thandar must care very little for her—that was about the only explanation she could put upon his strange behavior. It made her sad. And then the other women would laugh at her—of that she was quite certain, and that, too, made her feel very badly—they would see that Thandar did not want her. The old man, lying upon his scant bed of matted, filthy grasses, had heard the conversation. He was as much at sea as Nadara. At last he spoke—very feebly now, for rapidly he was nearing dissolution. "I am a very old man," he said to Thandar. "I have not long to live. Before I die I should like to know that Nadara has a mate who will protect her. I love her, though—" He hesitated. "Though what?" asked Thandar. "I have never told," whispered the old fellow. "My mate would not let me, but now that I am about to die it can do no harm. Nadara is not my daughter." The girl sprang to her feet. "Not your daughter? Then who am I?" "I do not know who you are, except that you are not even of my people. All that I know I will tell you now before I die. Come close, for my voice is dying faster than my body." The young man and the girl came nearer to his side, and squatting there leaned close that they might catch each faintly articulated syllable. "My mate and I," commenced the old man, "were childless, though many moons had passed since I took her to my cave. She wanted a little one, for thus only may women have aught upon which to lavish their love. "We had been hunting together for several days alone and far from the village, for I was a great hunter when I was young—no greater ever lived among our people. "And one day we came down to the great water, and there, a short distance from the shore we saw a strange thing that floated upon the surface of the water, and when it was blown closer to us we saw that it was hollow and that in it were two people—a man and a woman. Both appeared to be dead. "Finally I waded out to meet the thing, dragging it to shore, and there sure enough was a man and a woman, and the man was dead—quite dead. He must have been dead for a long time; but the woman was not dead. "She was very fair though her eyes and hair were black. We carried her ashore, and that night a little girl was born to her, but the woman died before morning. "We put her back into the strange thing that had brought her—she and the dead man who had come with her—and shoved them off upon the great water, where the breeze, which had changed over night, together with the water which runs away from the land twice each day carried them out of sight, nor ever did we see them again. "But before we sent them off my mate took from the body of the woman her strange coverings and a little bag of skin which contained many sparkling stones of different colors and metals of yellow and white made into things the purposes of which we could not guess. "It was evident that the woman had come from a strange land, for she and all her belongings were unlike anything that either of us ever had seen before. She herself was different as Nadara is different—Nadara looks as her mother looked, for Nadara is the little babe that was born that night. "We brought her back to our people after another moon, saying that she was born to my mate; but there was one woman who knew better, for it seemed that she had seen us when we found the boat, having been running away from a man who wanted her as his mate. "But my mate did not want anyone to say that Nadara was not hers, for it is a great disgrace, as you well know, for a woman to be barren, and so she several times nearly killed this woman, who knew the truth, to keep her from telling it to the whole village. "But I love Nadara as well as though she had been my own, and so I should like to see her well mated before I die." Thandar had gone white during the narration of the story of Nadara's birth. He could scarce restrain an impulse to go upon his knees and thank his God that he had harked to the call of his civilized training rather than have given in to the easier way, the way these primitive, beast-like people offered. Providence, he thought, must indeed have sent him here to rescue her. The old man, turning upon his rough pallet, fastened his sunken eyes questioningly upon Thandar. Nadara, too, with parted lips waited for him to speak. The old man gasped for breath—there was a strange rattling sound in his throat. Thandar leaned above him, raising his head and shoulders slightly. The young man never had heard that sound before, but now that he heard it he needed no interpreter. The locust, rubbing his legs along his wings, startles the uninitiated into the belief that a hidden rattler lurks in the pathway; but when the great diamond back breaks forth in warning none mistakes him for a locust. And so is it with the death rattle in the human throat. Thandar knew that it was the end. He saw the old man's mighty effort to push back the grim reaper that he might speak once more. In the dying eyes were a question and a plea. Thandar could not misunderstand. He reached forward and took Nadara's hand. "In my own land we shall be mated," he said. "None other shall wed with Nadara, and as proof that she is Thandar's she shall wear this always," and from his finger he slipped a splendid solitaire to the third finger of Nadara's left hand. The old man saw. A look of relief and contentment that was almost a smile settled upon his features, as, with a gasping sigh, he sank limply into Thandar's arms, dead. That afternoon several of the younger men carried the body of Nadara's foster father to the top of the cliff, depositing it about half a mile from the caves. There was no ceremony. In it, though, Waldo Emerson saw what might have been the first human funeral cortege—simple, sensible and utilitarian—from which the human race has retrograded to the ostentatious, ridiculous, pestilent burials of present day civilization. The young men, acting under Big Fist's orders, carried the worthless husk to a safe distance from the caves, leaving it there to the rapid disintegration provided by the beasts and birds of prey. Nadara wept, silently. An elderly lady with a single tooth, espying her, moaned in sympathy. Presently other females, attracted by the moaning, joined them, and, becoming affected by the strange hysteria to which womankind is heir, mingled their moans with those of the toothless one. Excited by their own noise they soon were shrieking and screaming in hideous chorus. Then came Big Fist and others of the men. The din annoyed them. They set upon the mourners with their fists and teeth scattering them in all directions. Thus ended the festivities. Or would have had not Big Fist made the fatal mistake of launching a blow at Nadara. Thandar had been standing nearby looking with wonder upon the strange scene. He had noted the quiet grief of the young girl—real grief; and he had witnessed the hysterical variety of the "mourners"—not sham grief. Precisely, because they made no pretense to grief—it was noise to which they aspired. And as the fiendish din had set his own nerves on edge he wondered not at all that Big Fist and the other men should take steps to quell the tumult. The female half-brutes were theirs and Waldo Emerson had reverted sufficiently to the primitive to feel no incentive to interfere. But Nadara was not theirs—she was not of them, and even had she not belonged to him the American would have felt bound to stand between her and the savage creatures among whom fate had cast her. That she did belong to him, however, sent him hot with the blood lust of the killer as he sprang to intercept the rush of Big Fist toward her. Waldo Emerson Smith-Jones had learned nothing of the manly art of self-defense in that other life that had been so zealously guarded from the rude and vulgar. This was unfortunate since it would have given him a great advantage over the man-brute. A single well-timed swing to that unguarded chin would have ended hostilities at once; but of hooks and jabs and jolts, scientific, Thandar knew nothing. Except for his crude weapons he was as primeval in battle as his original anthropoid progenitor, and quite as often as not he forgot all about his sword, his knife, his bow and arrows and his spear when, half stooped, he crouched to meet the charge of a foeman. Now he sprang for Big Fist's hairy throat. There was a sullen thud as the two bodies met, and then, rolling, biting and tearing, they struggled hither and thither upon the rocky ground at the base of the cliff. The other men desisted from their attack upon the women. The women ceased their vocal mourning. In a little circle they formed about the contestants—a circle which moved this way and that as the fighters moved, keeping them always in the center. Nadara forced her way through them to the front. She wished to be near Thandar. In her hand she carried a jagged bit of granite—one could never tell. Big Fist was burly—mountainous—but Thandar was muscled like Nagoola, the black panther. His movements were all grace and ease, but oh, so irresistible. A sudden and unexpected blow upon the side of Big Fist's head bent that bullet-shaped thing sidewards with a jerk that almost dislocated the neck. Big Fist shrieked with the pain of it. Thandar, delighted by the result of the accidental blow, repeated it. Big Fist bellowed—agonized. He made a last supreme effort to close with his agile foeman, and succeeded. His teeth sought Thandar's throat, but the act brought his own jugular close to Thandar's jaws. The strong white teeth of Waldo Emerson Smith-Jones closed upon it as naturally as though no countless ages had rolled their snail-like way between himself and the last of his progenitors to bury bloody fangs in the soft flesh of an antagonist. Wasted ages! fleeing from the primitive and the brute toward the neoteric and the human—in a brief instant your labors are undone, the veneer of eons crumbles in the heat of some pristine passion revealing again naked and unashamed, the primitive and the brute. Big Fist, white now from terror at impending death, struggled to be free. Thandar buried his teeth more deeply. There was a sudden rush of spurting blood that choked him. Big Fist relaxed, inert. Thandar, drenched crimson, rose to his feet. The huge body on the ground before him floundered spasmodically once or twice as the life blood gushed from the severed jugular. The eyes rolled up and set, there was a final twitch and Big Fist was dead. Thandar turned toward the circle of interested spectators. He singled out a burly quartet. "Bear Big Fist to the cliff top," he commanded. "When you return we shall choose a king." The men did as they were bid. They did not at all understand what Thandar meant by choosing a king. Having slain Big Fist, Thandar was king, unless some ambitious one desired to dispute his right to reign. But all had seen him slay Big Fist, and all knew that he had killed Korth and Flatfoot, so who was there would dare question his kingship? When they had come back to the village Thandar gathered them beneath a great tree that grew close to the base of the cliff. Here they squatted upon their haunches in a rough circle. Behind them stood the women and children, wide-eyed and curious. "Let us choose a king," said Thandar, when all had come. There was a long silence, then one of the older men spoke. "I am an old man. I have seen many kings. They come by killing. They go by killing. Thandar has killed two kings. Now he is king. Who wishes to kill Thandar and become king?" There was no answer. The old man arose. "It was foolish to come here to choose a king," he said, "when a king we already have." "Wait," commanded Thandar. "Let us choose a king properly. Because I have killed Flatfoot and Big Fist does not prove that I can make a good king. Was Flatfoot a good king?" "He was a bad man," replied the ancient one. "Has a good man ever been king?" asked Thandar. The old fellow puckered his brow in thought. "Not for a long time," he said. "That is because you always permit a bully and a brute to rule you," said Thandar. "That is not the proper way to choose a king. Rather you should come together as we are come, and among you talk over the needs of the tribe and when you are decided as to what measures are best for the welfare of the members of the tribe then should you select the man best fitted to carry out your plans. That is a better way to choose a king." The old man laughed. "And then," he said, "would come a Big Fist or a Flatfoot and slay our king that he might be king in his place." "Have you ever seen a man who could slay all the other men of the tribe at the same time?" The old man looked puzzled. "That is my answer to your argument," said Thandar. "Those who choose the king can protect him from his enemies. So long as he is a good king they should do so, but when he becomes a bad king they can then select another, and if the bad king refuses to obey the new it would be an easy matter for several men to kill him or drive him away, no matter how mighty a fighter he might be." Several of the men nodded understandingly. "We had not thought of that," they said. "Thandar is indeed wise." "So now," continued the American, "let us choose a king whom the majority of us want, and then so long as he is a good king the majority of us must fight for him and protect him. Let us choose a man whom we know to be a good man regardless of his ability to kill his fellows, for if he has the majority of the tribe to fight for him what need will he have to fight for himself? What we want is a wise man—one who can lead the tribe to fertile lands and good hunting, and in times of battle direct the fighting intelligently. Flatfoot and Big Fist had not brains enough between them to do aught but steal the mates of other men. Such should not be the business of kings. Your king should protect your mates from such as Flatfoot, and he should punish those who would steal them." "But how may he do these things?" asked a young man, "if he is not the best fighter in the tribe?" "Have I not shown you how?" asked Thandar. "We who make him king shall be his fighters—he will not need to fight with his own hands." Again there was a long silence. Then the old man spoke again. "There is wisdom in the talk of Thandar. Let us choose a king who will have to be good to us if he wishes to remain king. It is very bad for us to have a king whom we fear." "I, for one," said the young man who had previously spoken, "do not care to be ruled by a king unless he is able to defeat me in battle. If I can defeat him then I should be king." And so they took sides, but at last they compromised by selecting one whom they knew to be wise and a great fighter as well. Thus they chose Thandar king. "Once each week," said the new king, "we shall gather here and talk among ourselves of the things which are for the best good of the tribe, and what seems best to the majority shall be done. The tribe will tell the king what to do—the king will carry out the work. And all must fight when the king says fight and all must work when the king says work, for we shall all be fighting or working for the whole tribe, and I, Thandar, your king, shall fight and work the hardest of you all." It was a new idea to them and placed the kingship in a totally different light from any by which they had previously viewed it. That it would take a long time for them to really absorb the idea Thandar knew, and he was glad that in the meantime they had a king who could command their respect according to their former standards. And he smiled when he thought of the change that had taken place in him since first he had sat trembling, weeping and coughing upon the lonely shore before the terrifying forest. # CHAPTER III: THE GREAT NAGOOLA Waldo Emerson Smith-Jones had gladly embraced the opportunity which chance had offered him to assume the kingship of the little tribe of troglodytes. First, because his position would assure Nadara greater safety, and, second, because of the opening it would give him for the exercise of his new-found initiative. Where before he had shrunk from responsibility he now found himself anxious to assume it. He longed to do, where formerly he had been content to but read of the accomplishments of others. To his chagrin, however, he soon discovered that the classical education to which his earlier life had been devoted under the guidance of a fond and ultra-cultured mother was to prove a most inadequate foundation upon which to build a practical scheme of life for himself and his people. He wished to teach his tribe to construct permanent and comfortable houses, but he could not recollect any practical hints on carpentry that he had obtained from Ovid. His people lived by hunting small rodents, robbing birds' nests, and gathering wild fruit and vegetables. Thandar desired to institute a scheme of community farming, but the works of the Cyclic Poets, with which he was quite familiar, seemed to offer little of value along agricultural lines. He regretted that he had not matriculated at an agricultural college west of the Alleghanies rather than at Harvard. However, he determined to do the best he could with the meager knowledge he possessed of things practical—a knowledge so meager that it consisted almost entirely of the bare definition of the word agriculture. It was a germ, however, for it presupposed a knowledge of the results that might be obtained through agriculture. So Thandar found himself a step ahead of the earliest of his progenitors who had thought to plant purposely the seeds that nature heretofore had distributed haphazard through the agencies of wind and bird and beast; but only a step ahead. He realized that he occupied a very remarkable position in the march of ages. He had known and seen and benefited by all the accumulated knowledge of ages of progression from the stone age to the twentieth century, and now, suddenly, fate had snatched him back into the stone age, or possibly a few eons farther back, only to show him that all that he had from a knowledge of other men's knowledge was keen dissatisfaction with the stone age. He had lived in houses of wood and brick and looked through windows of glass. He had read in the light of gas and electricity, and he even knew of candles; but he could not fashion the tools to build a house, he could not have made a brick to have saved his life, glass had suddenly become one of the wonders of the world to him, and as for gas and electricity and candles they had become one with the mystery of the Sphinx. He could write verse in excellent Greek, but he was no longer proud of that fact. He would much rather that he had been able to tan a hide, or make fire without matches. Waldo Emerson Smith-Jones had a year ago been exceedingly proud of his intellect and his learning, but for a year his ego had been shrinking until now he felt himself the most pitiful ignoramus on earth. "Criminally ignorant," he said to Nadara, "for I have thrown away the opportunities of a lifetime devoted to the accumulation of useless erudition when I might have been profiting by the practical knowledge which has dragged the world from the black bit of barbarism to the light of modern achievement—I might not only have done this but, myself, added something to the glory and welfare of mankind. I am no good, Nadara—worse than useless." The girl touched his strong brown hand caressingly, looking proudly into his eyes. "To me you are very wonderful, Thandar," she said. "With your own hands you slew Nagoola, the most terrible beast in the world, and Korth, and Flatfoot, and Big Fist lie dead beneath the vultures because of your might—single-handed you killed them all; three awesome men. No, my Thandar is greater than all other men." Nor could Waldo Emerson repress the swelling tide of pride that surged through him as the girl he loved recounted his exploits. No longer did he think of his achievements as "vulgar physical prowess." The old Waldo Emerson, whose temperature had risen regularly at three o'clock each afternoon, whose pitifully skinny body had been racked by coughing continually, whose eyes had been terror filled by day and by night at the rustling of dry leaves, was dead. In his place stood a great, full blooded man, brown skinned and steel thewed; fearless, self-reliant, almost brutal in his pride of power—Thandar, the cave man. The months that passed as Thandar led his people from one honeycombed cliff to another as he sought a fitting place for a permanent village were filled with happiness for Nadara and the king. The girl's happiness was slightly alloyed by the fact that Thandar failed to claim her as his own. She could not yet quite understand the ethics which separated them. Thandar tried repeatedly to explain to her that some day they were to return to his own world, and that that world would not accept her unless she had been joined to him according to the rites and ceremonies which it had originated. "Will this marriage ceremony of which you tell me make you love me more?" asked Nadara. Thandar laughed and took her in his arms. "I could not love you more," he replied. "Then of what good is it?" Thandar shook his head. "It is difficult to explain," he said, "especially to such a lovable little pagan as my Nadara. You must be satisfied to know—accept my word for it—that it is because I love you that we must wait." Now it was the girl's turn to shake her head. "I cannot understand," she said. "My people take their mates as they will and they are satisfied and everybody is satisfied and all is well; but their king, who may mate as he chooses, waits until a man whom he does not know and who lives across the great water where we may never go, gives him permission to mate with one who loves him—with one whom he _says_ he loves." Thandar noticed the emphasis which Nadara put upon the word "says." "Some day," he said, "when we have reached my world you will know that I was right, and you will thank me. Until then, Nadara, you must trust me, and," he added half to himself, "God knows I have earned your trust even if you do not know it." And so Nadara made believe that she was satisfied but in her heart of hearts she still feared that Thandar did not really love her, nor did the half-veiled comments of the women add at all to her peace of mind. During all the time that Thandar was with her he had been teaching her his language for he had set his heart upon taking her home, and he wished her to be as well prepared for her introduction to Boston and civilization as he could make her. Thandar's plan was to find a suitable location within sight of the sea that he might always be upon the lookout for a ship. At last he found such a place—a level meadow land upon a low plateau overlooking the ocean. He had come upon it while he wandered alone several miles from the temporary cliff dwellings the tribe was occupying. The soil, when he dug into it, he found to be rich and black. There was timber upon one side and upon the other overhanging cliffs of soft limestone. It was Thandar's plan to build a village partly of logs against the face of the cliff, burrowing inward behind the dwellings for such additional apartments as each family might require. The caves alone would have proved sufficient shelter, but the man hoped by compelling his people to construct a portion of each dwelling of logs to engender within each family a certain feeling of ownership and pride in personal possession as would make it less easy for them to give up their abodes than in the past, when it had been necessary but to move to another cliff to find caves equally as comfortable as those which they so easily abandoned. In other words he hoped to give them a word which their vocabulary had never held—home. Whether or not he would have succeeded we may never know, for fate stepped in at the last moment to alter with a single stroke his every plan and aspiration. As he returned to his people that afternoon filled with the enthusiasm of his hopes a burly, hairy figure crept warily after him. As Thandar emerged from the brush which reaches close to the cliffs where the temporary encampment had been made Nadara, watching for him, ran forward to meet him. The creature upon Thandar's trail halted at the edge of the bush. As his close-set eyes fell upon the girl his flabby lips vibrated to the quick intaking of his breath and his red lids half closed in cunning and desire. For a few moments he watched the man and the maid as they turned and walked slowly toward the cliffs, the arm of the former about the brown shoulders of the latter. Then he too turned and melted into the tangled branches behind him. That evening Thandar gathered the members of the tribe about him at the foot of the cliff. They sat around a great fire while Thandar, their king, explained to them in minutest detail the future that he had mapped out for them. Some of the old men shook their heads, for here was an unheard of thing—a change from the accustomed ordering of their lives—and they were loath to change regardless of the benefits which might accrue. But for the most part the people welcomed the idea of comfortable and permanent habitations, though their anticipatory joy, Thandar reasoned, was due largely to a childish eagerness for something new and different—whether their enthusiasm would survive the additional labors which the new life was sure to entail was another question. So Thandar laid down the new laws that were to guide his people thereafter. The men were to make all implements and weapons, for he had already taught them to use arrows and spears. The women were to keep all edged tools sharp. The men were to hew the logs and build the houses—the women make garments, cook and keep the houses in order. The men were to turn up the soil, the women were to sow the seeds, and cultivate the growing crops, which, later, all hands must turn to and harvest. The hunting and the fighting devolved upon the men, but the fighting must be confined to enemies of the tribe. A man who killed another member of the tribe except in defense of his home or his own person was to suffer death. Other laws he made—good laws—which even these primitive people could see were good. It was quite late when the last of them crawled into his comfortless cave to dream of large, airy rooms built of the trees of the forest; of good food in plenty just before the rains as well as after; of security from the periodic raids of the "bad men." Thandar and Nadara were the last to go. Together they sat upon a narrow ledge before Nadara's cave, the moonlight falling upon their glistening, naked shoulders, while they talked and dreamed together of the future. Thandar had been talking of the wonderful plans which seemed to fill his whole mind—of the future of the tribe—of the great strides toward civilization they could make in a few brief years if they could but be made to follow the simple plans he had in mind. "Why," he said, "in ten years they should have bridged a gulf that it must have required ages for our ancestors to span." "And you are planning ten years ahead, Thandar," she asked, "when only yesterday you were saying that once beside the sea you hoped it would be but a short time before we might sight a passing vessel that would bear us away to your civilization? Must we wait ten years, Thandar?" "I am planning for them," he replied. "We may not be here to witness the changes; but I wish to start them upon the road, and when we go I shall see to it that a king is chosen in my place who has the courage and the desire to carry out my plans. "Yet," he added, musingly, "it would be splendid could we but return to complete our work. Never, Nadara, have I performed a single constructive act for the benefit of my fellow man, but now I see an opportunity to do something, however small it may seem, to—what was that?" A low rumbling muttered threateningly out of the west. Deep and ominous it sounded, yet so low that it failed to awaken any member of the sleeping tribe. Before either could again speak there came a slight trembling of the earth beneath them, scarcely sufficient to have been noticeable had it not been preceded by the distant grumbling of the earth's bowels. The two upon the moonlit ledge came to their feet, and Nadara drew close to Thandar, the man's arm encircling her shoulders protectingly. "The Great Nagoola," she whispered. "Again he seeks to escape." "What do you mean?" asked Thandar. "It is an earthquake—distant and quite harmless to us." "No, it is The Great Nagoola," insisted Nadara. "Long time ago, when our fathers' fathers were yet unborn, The Great Nagoola roamed the land devouring all that chanced to come in his way—men, beasts, birds, everything. "One day my people came upon him sleeping in a deep gorge between two mountains. They were mighty men in those days, and when they saw their great enemy asleep there in the gorge half of them went upon one side and half upon the other, and they pushed the two mountains over into the gorge upon the sleeping beast, imprisoning him there. "It is all true, for my mother had it from her mother, who in turn was told it by her mother—thus has it been handed down truthfully since it happened long time ago. "And even to this day is occasionally heard the growling of The Great Nagoola in his anger, and the earth shakes and trembles as he strives far, far beneath to shake the mountains from him and escape. Did you not hear his voice and feel the ground rock?" Thandar laughed. "Well, we are quite safe then," he cried, "for with two mountains piled upon him he cannot escape." "Who knows?" asked Nadara. "He is huge—as huge, himself, as a small mountain. Some day, they say, he will escape, and then naught will pacify his rage until he has destroyed every living creature upon the land." "Do not worry, little one," said Thandar. "The Great Nagoola will have to grumble louder and struggle more fiercely before ever he may dislodge the two mountains. Even now he is quiet again, so run to your cave, sweetheart, nor bother your pretty head with useless worries—it is time that all good people were asleep," and he stooped and kissed her as she turned to go. For a moment she clung to him. "I am afraid, Thandar," she whispered. "Why, I do not know. I only know that I am afraid, with a great fear that will not be quiet." # CHAPTER IV: THE BATTLE Early the following morning while several of the women and children were at the river drawing water the balance of the tribe of Thandar was startled into wakefulness by piercing shrieks from the direction the water carriers had taken. Before the great, hairy men, led by the smooth-skinned Thandar, had reached the foot of the cliff in their rush to the rescue of the women several of the latter appeared at the edge of the forest, running swiftly toward the caves. Mingled with their screams of terror were cries of: "The bad men! The bad men!" But these were not needed to acquaint the rescuers with the cause of the commotion, for at the heels of the women came Thurg and a score of his vicious brutes. Little better than anthropoid apes were they. Long armed, hairy, skulking monsters, whose close-set eyes and retreating foreheads proclaimed more intimate propinquity to the higher orders of brutes than to civilized man. Woe betide male or female who fell into their remorseless clutches, since to the base passions, unrestrained, that mark the primordial they were addicted to the foulest forms of cannibalism. In the past their raids upon their neighbors for meat and women had met with but slight resistance—the terrified cave dwellers scampering to the safety of their dizzy ledges from whence they might hurl stones and roll boulders down to the confusion of any foe however ferocious. Always the bad men caught a few unwary victims before the safety of the ledges could be attained, but this time there was a difference. Thurg was delighted. The men were rushing downward to meet him—great indeed would be the feast which should follow this day's fighting, for with the men disposed of there would be but little difficulty in storming the cliff and carrying off all the women and children, and as he thought upon these things there floated in his little brain the image of the beautiful girl he had watched come down the evening before from the caves to meet the smooth-skinned warrior who twice now had bested Thurg in battle. That Thandar's men might turn the tables upon him never for a moment occurred to Thurg. Nor was there little wonder, since, mighty as were the muscles of the cave men, they were weaklings by comparison with the half-brutes of Thurg—only the smooth-skinned stranger troubled the muddy mind of the near-man. It puzzled him a little, though, to see the long slim sticks that the enemy carried, and the little slivers in skin bags upon their backs, and the strange curved branches whose ends were connected by slender bits of gut. What were these things for! Soon he was to know—this and other things. Thandar's warriors did not rush upon Thurg and his brutes in a close packed, yelling mob. Instead they trotted slowly forward in a long thin line that stretched out parallel with the base of the cliff. In the center, directly in front of the charging bad men, was Thandar, calling directions to his people, first upon one hand and then upon the other. And in accordance with his commands the ends of the line began to quicken the pace, so that quickly Thurg saw that there were men before him, and men upon either hand, and now, at fifty feet, while all were advancing cautiously, crouched for the final hand-to-hand encounter, he saw the enemy slip each a sliver into the gut of the bent branches—there was a sudden chorus of twangs, and Thurg felt a sharp pain in his neck. Involuntarily he clapped his hand to the spot to find one of the slivers sticking there, scarce an inch from his jugular. With a howl of rage he snatched the thing from him, and as he leaped to the charge to punish these audacious mad-men he noted a dozen of his henchmen plucking slivers from various portions of their bodies, while two lay quite still upon the grass with just the ends of slivers protruding from their breasts. The sight brought the beast-man to a momentary halt. He saw his fellows charging in upon the foe—he saw another volley of slivers speed from the bent branches. Down went another of his fighters, and then the enemy cast aside their strange weapons at a shouted command from the smooth-skinned one and grasping their long, slim sticks ran forward to meet Thurg's people. Thurg smiled. It would soon be over now. He turned toward one who was bearing down upon him—it was Thandar. Thurg crouched to meet the charge. Rage, revenge, the lust for blood fired his bestial brain. With his huge paws he would tear the puny stick from this creature's grasp, and this time he would gain his hold upon that smooth throat. He licked his lips. And then out of the corner of his eye he glanced to the right. What strange sight was this! His people flying? It was incredible! And yet it was true. Growling and raging in pain and anger they were running a gauntlet of fire-sharpened lances. Three lay dead. The others were streaming blood as they fled before the relentless prodding devils at their backs. It was enough for Thurg. He did not wait to close with Thandar. A single howl of dismay broke from his flabby lips, and then he wheeled and dashed for the wood. He was the last to pass through the rapidly converging ends of Thandar's primitive battle line. He was running so fast that, afterward, Nadara who was watching the battle from the cliff-side insisted that his feet flew higher than his head at each frantic leap. Thandar and his victorious army pursued the enemy through the wood for a mile or more, then they returned, laughing and shouting, to receive the plaudits of the old men, the women and the children. It was a happy day. There was feasting. And Thandar, having in mind things he had read of savage races, improvised a dance in honor of the victory. He knew little more of savage dances than his tribesmen did of the two-step and the waltz; but he knew that dancing and song and play marked in themselves a great step upward in the evolution of man from the lower orders, and so he meant to teach these things to his people. A red flush spread to his temples as he thought of his dignified father and his stately mother and with what horrified emotions they would view him now could they but see him—naked but for a g-string and a panther skin, moving with leaps and bounds, and now stately waltz steps in a great circle, clapping his hands in time to his movements, while behind him strung a score of lusty, naked warriors, mimicking his every antic with the fidelity of apes. About them squatted the balance of the tribe more intensely interested in this, the first ceremonial function of their lives, than with any other occurrence that had ever befallen them. They, too, now clapped their hands in time with the dancers. Nadara stood with parted lips and wide eyes watching the strange scene. Within her it seemed that something was struggling for expression—something that she must have known long, long ago—something that she had forgotten but that she presently must recall. With it came an insistent urge—her feet could scarce remain quietly upon the ground, and great waves of melody and song welled into her heart and throat, though what they were and what they meant she did not know. She only knew that she was intensely excited and happy and that her whole being seemed as light and airy as the soft wind that blew across the gently swaying treetops of the forest. Now the dance was done. Thandar had led the warriors back to the feast. In the center of the circle where the naked bodies of the men had leaped and swirled to the clapping of many hands was an open space, deserted. Into it Nadara ran, drawn by some subtile excitement of the soul which she could not have fathomed had she tried—which she did not try to fathom. Around her slim, graceful figure was draped the glossy, black pelt of Nagoola—another trophy of the prowess of her man. It half concealed but to accentuate the beauties of her form. With eyes half-closed she took a half dozen graceful, tentative steps. Now the eyes of Thandar and several others were upon her, but she did not see them. Suddenly, with outthrown arms, she commenced to dance, bending her lithe body, swaying from side to side as she fell, with graceful abandon, into steps and poses that seemed as natural to her as repose. About the little circle she wove her simple yet intricate way, and now every eye was upon her as every savage heart leaped in unison with her shapely feet, rising and falling in harmony with her lithe, brown limbs. And of all the hearts that leaped, fastest leaped the heart of Thandar, for he saw in the poetry of motion of the untutored girl the proof of her birth-right—the truth of all that he had guessed of her origin since her foster father had related the story of her birth upon his death bed. None but a child of an age-old culture could possess this inherent talent. Any moment he expected her lips to break forth in song, nor was he to be disappointed, for presently, as the circling cave folk commenced to clap their palms in time to her steps, Nadara lifted her voice in clear and bird-like notes—a worldless paean of love and life and happiness. At last, exhausted, she paused, and as her eyes fell upon Thandar they broke into a merry laugh. "The king is not the only one who can leap and play upon his feet," she cried. Thandar came to the center of the circle and kneeling at her feet took one of her hands in his and kissed it. "The king is only mortal and a man," he said. "It is no reproach that he cannot equal the divine grace of a goddess. You are very wonderful, my Nadara," he continued, "From loving you I am coming to worship you." And within the deep and silent wood another was stirred with mighty emotions by the sight of the half-naked, graceful girl. It was Thurg, the bad man, who had sneaked back alone to the edge of the forest that he might seek an opportunity to be revenged upon Thandar and his people. Half formed in his evil brain had been a certain plan, which the sight of Nadara, dancing in the firelight, had turned to concrete resolution. With the dancing and the feasting over, the tribe of Thandar betook itself by ones and twos to the rocky caves that they expected so soon to desert for the more comfortable village which they were to build under the direction of their king, to the east, beside the great water. At last all was still—the village slept. No sentry guarded their slumbers, for Thandar, steeped in book learning, must needs add to his stock of practical knowledge by bitter experience, and never yet had the cause arisen for a night guard about his village. Having defeated Thurg and his people he thought that they would not return again, and certainly not by night, for the people of this wild island roamed seldom by night, having too much respect for the teeth and talons of Nagoola to venture forth after darkness had settled upon the grim forests and the lonely plains. But a tempest of uncontrolled emotions surged through the hairy breast of Thurg. He forgot Nagoola. He thought only of revenge—revenge and the black haired beauty who had so many times eluded him. And as he saw her dancing in the circle of hand-clapping tribesmen, in the light of the brush wood fire, his desire for her became a veritable frenzy. He could scarce restrain himself from rushing single-handed among his foes and snatching the girl before their faces. However, caution came to his rescue, and so he waited, albeit impatiently, until the last of the cave folk had retired to his cavern. He had seen into which Nadara had withdrawn—one that lay far up the face of the steep cliff and directly above the cave occupied by Thandar. The moon was overcast, the fire at the foot of the cliff had died to glowing embers, all was wrapped in darkness and in shadow. Far in the depths of the wood Nagoola coughed and cried. The weird sound raised the coarse hair at the nape of Thurg's bull neck. He cast an apprehensive backward glance, then, crouching low, he moved quickly and silently across the clearing toward the base of the cliff. Flattened against a protruding boulder there he waited, listening, for a moment. No sound broke the stillness of the sleeping village. None had seen his approach—of that he was convinced. Carefully he began the ascent of the cliff face, made difficult by the removal of the rough ladders that led from ledge to ledge by day, but which were withdrawn with the retiring of the community to their dark holes. But Thurg had dragged with him from the forest a slim sapling. This he leaned against the face of the cliff. Its uptilted end just topped the lowest ledge. Thurg was almost as large and quite as clumsy in appearance as a gorilla, yet he was not as far removed from his true arboreal ancestors as is the great simian, and so he accomplished in silence and with evident ease what his great bulk might have seemed to have relegated to the impossible. Like a huge cat he scrambled up the frail pole until his fingers clutched the ledge edge above him. Ape-like he drew himself to a squatting position there. Then he groped for the ladder that the cave folk had drawn up from below. This he erected to the next ledge above. Thereafter the way was easy, for the balance of the ledges were connected by steeply inclined trails cut into the cliff face. This had been an innovation of Thandar's who considered the rickety ladders not only a nuisance, but extremely dangerous to life and limb, for scarce a day passed that some child or woman did not receive a bad fall because of them. So Thurg, with Thandar's unintentional aid, came easily to the mouth of Nadara's cave. Great had been the temptation as he passed the cave below to enter and slay his enemy. Never had Thurg so hated any creature as he hated this smooth-skinned interloper—with all the venom of his mean soul he hated him. Now he stooped, listening, just beside the entrance to the cave. He could hear the regular breathing of the girl within. The hot blood surged through his brute veins. His huge paws opened and closed spasmodically. His breath sucked hot between his flabby lips. Just beneath him Thandar lay dreaming. He saw a wonderful vision of a beautiful nymph dancing in the firelight. In a circle about her sat the Smith-Joneses, the Percy Standishes, the Livingston-Brownes, the Quincy Adams-Cootses, and a hundred more equally aristocratic families of Boston. It did not seem strange to Thandar that there was not enough clothing among the entire assemblage to have recently draped the Laocoön. His father wore a becoming loin cloth, while the stately Mrs. John Alden Smith-Jones, his mother, was tastefully arrayed in a scant robe of the skins of small rodents sewn together with bits of gut. As the nymph danced the audience kept time to her steps with loudly clapping palms, and when she was done they approached her one by one, crawling upon their hands and knees, and kissed her hand. Suddenly he saw that the nymph was Nadara, and as he sprang forward to claim her a large man with a coarse matted beard, a slanted forehead, and close-set eyes, leaped out from among the others, seized Nadara and fled with her toward a waiting trolley car. He recognized the man as Thurg, and even in his dream it seemed rather incongruous that he should be clothed in well-fitting evening clothes. Nadara screamed once, and the scream roused Thandar from his dream. Raising upon one elbow he looked toward the entrance of his cave. The recollection of the dream swept back into his memory. With a little sigh of relief that it had been but a dream, he settled back once more upon his bed of grasses, and soon was wrapped in dreamless slumber. # CHAPTER V: THE ABDUCTION OF NADARA Cautiously Thurg crawled into the cave where Nadara slept upon her couch of soft grasses, wrapped in the glossy pelt of Nagoola, the black panther. The hulking form of the beast-man blotted out the faint light that filtered from the lesser darkness of the night without through the jagged entrance to the cave. All within was Stygian gloom. Groping with his hands Thurg came at last upon a corner of the grassy pallet. Softly he wormed inch by inch closer to the sleeper. Now his fingers felt the thick fur of the panther skin. Lightly, for so gross a thing, his touch followed the recumbent figure of the girl until his giant paws felt the silky luxuriance of her raven hair. For an instant he paused. Then, quickly and silently, one great palm clapped roughly over Nadara's mouth, while the other arm encircled her waist, lifting her from her bed. Awakened and terrified, Nadara struggled to free herself and to scream; but the giant hand across her mouth effectually sealed her lips, while the arm about her waist held her as firmly as might iron bands. Thurg spoke no word, but as Nadara's hands came in contact with his hairy breast and matted beard as she fought for freedom she guessed the identity of her abductor, and shuddered. Waiting only to assure himself that his hold upon his prisoner was secure and that no trailing end of her robe might trip him in his flight down the cliff face, Thurg commenced the descent. Opposite the entrance to Thandar's cave Nadara redoubled her efforts to free her mouth that she might scream aloud but once. Thurg, guessing her desire, pressed his palm the tighter, and in a moment the two had passed unnoticed to the ledge below. Down the winding trail of the upper ledges Thurg's task was comparatively easy—thanks to Thandar, but at the second ledge from the bottom of the cliff he was compelled to take to the upper of the two ladders which completed the way to the ground below. And here it was necessary to remove his hand from Nadara's mouth. In a low growl he warned her to silence with threats of instant death, then he removed his hand from across her face, grasped the top of the ladder and swung over the dangerous height with his burden under his arm. For an instant Nadara was too paralyzed with terror to take advantage of her opportunity, but just as Thurg set foot upon the ledge at the bottom of the ladder she screamed aloud once. Instantly Thurg's hand fell roughly across her lips. Brutally he shook her, squeezing her body in his mighty grip until she gasped for breath, and each minute expected to feel her ribs snap to the terrific strain. For a moment Thurg stood silently upon the ledge, compressing the tortured body of his victim and listening for signs of pursuit from above. Presently the agony of her suffering overcame Nadara—she swooned. Thurg felt her form relax, and his flabby lips twisted to a hideous grin. The cliff was quiet—the girl's scream had not disturbed the slumbers of her tribesmen. Thurg swung the ladder he had just descended over the edge of the cliff below, and a moment later he stood at the bottom with his burden. Without noise he removed the ladder and the sapling that he had used in his ascent, laying them upon the ground at the foot of the cliff. This would halt, temporarily, any pursuit until the cave men could bring other ladders from the higher levels, where they doubtless had them hidden. But no pursuit developed, and Thurg disappeared into the dark forest with his prize. For a long distance he carried her, his little pig eyes searching and straining to right and left into the black night for the first sign of savage beast. The half atrophied muscles of his little ears, still responding to an almost dead instinct, strove to prick those misshapen members forward that they might catch the first crackling of dead leaves beneath the padded paw of the fanged night prowlers. But the wood seemed dead. No living creature appeared to thwart the beast-man's evil intent. Far behind him Thandar slept. Thurg grinned. The moon broke through the clouds, splotching the ground all silver green beneath the forest trees. Nadara awoke from her swoon. They were in a little open glade. Instantly she recalled the happenings that had immediately preceded her unconsciousness. In the moonlight she recognized Thurg. He was smirking horribly down into her upturned face. Thandar had often talked with her of religion. He had taught her of his God, and now the girl thanked Him that Thurg was still too low in the scale of evolution to have learned to kiss. To have had that matted beard, those flabby, pendulous lips pressed to hers! It was too horrible—she closed her eyes in disgust. Thurg lowered her to her feet. With one hand he still clutched her shoulder. She saw him standing there before her—his greedy, blood-shot eyes devouring her. His awful lips shook and trembled as his hot breath sucked quickly in and out in excited gasps. She knew that the end was coming. Frantically she cast about her for some means of defense or escape. Thurg was drawing her toward him. Suddenly she drew back her clenched fist and struck him full in the mouth, then, tearing herself from his grasp, she turned and fled. But in a moment he was upon her. Seizing her roughly by the shoulders he shook her viciously, hurling her to the ground. The blood from his wounded lips dropped upon her face and throat. From the distance came a deep toned, thunderous rumbling. Thurg raised his head and listened. Again and again came that awesome sound. "The Great Nagoola is coming to punish you," whispered Nadara. Thurg still remained squatting beside her. She had ceased to fight, for now she felt that a greater power than hers was intervening to save her. The ground beneath them trembled, shook and then tossed frightfully. The rumbling and the roaring became deafening. Thurg, his passion frozen in the face of this new terror, rose to his feet. For a moment there was a lull, then came another and more terrific shock. The earth rose and fell sickeningly. Fissures opened, engulfing trees, and then closed like hungry mouths gulping food long denied. Thurg was thrown to the ground. Now he was terror stricken. He screamed aloud in his fear. Again there came a lull, and this time the beast-man leaped to his feet and dashed away into the forest. Nadara was alone. Presently the earth commenced to tremble again, and the voice of The Great Nagoola rumbled across the world. Frightened animals scampered past Nadara, fleeing in all directions. Little deer, foxes, squirrels and other rodents in countless numbers scurried, terrified, about. A great black panther and his mate trotted shoulder to shoulder into the glade where Nadara still stood too bewildered to know which way to fly. They eyed her for a moment, as they paused in the moonlight, then without a second glance they loped away into the brush. Directly behind them came three deer. Nadara realized that she had felt no fear of the panthers as she would have under ordinary circumstances. Even the little deer ran with their natural enemies. Every lesser fear was submerged in the overwhelming terror of the earthquake. Dawn was breaking in the east. The rumblings were diminishing, the tremors at greater intervals and of lessening violence. Nadara started to retrace her steps toward the village. Momentarily she looked to see Thandar coming in search of her, but she came to the edge of the forest and no sign of Thandar or another of her tribesmen had come to cheer her. At last she stepped into the open. Before her was the cliff. A cry of anguish broke from her lips at the sight that met her eyes. Torn, tortured and crumpled were the lofty crags that had been her home—the home of the tribe of Thandar. The overhanging cliff top had broken away and lay piled in a jagged heap at the foot of the cliff. The caves had disappeared. The ledges had crumbled before the titanic struggles of The Great Nagoola. All was desolation and ruin. She approached more closely. Here and there in the awful jumble of shattered rock were wedged the crushed and mangled forms of men, women and children. Tears coursed down Nadara's cheeks. Sobs wracked her slender figure. And Thandar! Where was he? With utmost difficulty the girl picked her way aloft over the tumbled debris. She could only guess at the former location of Thandar's cave, but now no sign of cave remained—only the same blank waste of silent stone. Frantically she tugged and tore at massive heaps of sharp edged rock. Her fingers were cut and bruised and bleeding. She called aloud the name of her man, but there was no response. It was late in the afternoon before, weak and exhausted, she gave up her futile search. That night she slept in a crevice between two broken boulders, and the next morning she set out in search of a cave where she might live out the remainder of her lonely life in what safety and meager comfort a lone girl could wring from this savage world. For a week she wandered hither and thither only to find most of the caves she had known in the past demolished as had been those of her people. At last she stumbled upon the very cliff which Thandar had chosen as the permanent home of his people. Here the wrath of the earthquake seemed to have been less severe, and Nadara found, high in the cliff's face, a safe and comfortable cavern. The last span to it required the use of a slender sapling, which she could draw up after her, effectually barring the approach of Nagoola and his people. To further protect herself against the chance of wandering men the girl carried a quantity of small bits of rock to the ledge beside the entrance to her cave. Fruit and nuts and vegetables she took there too, and a great gourd of water from the spring below. As she completed her last trip, and sat resting upon the ledge, her eyes wandering over the landscape and out across the distant ocean, she thought she saw something move in the shadow of the trees across the open plain beneath her. Could it have been a man? Nadara drew her sapling ladder to the ledge beside her. Thurg, fleeing from the wrath of The Great Nagoola, had come at daybreak to the spot where his people had been camped, but there he found no sign of them, only the ragged edges of a great fissure, half-closed, that might have swallowed his entire tribe as he had seen the fissures in the forest swallow many, many trees at a single bite. For some time he sought for signs of his tribesmen, but without success. Then, his fear of the earthquake allayed, he started back into the forest to find the girl. For days he sought her. He came to the ruins of the cliff that had housed her people, and there he discovered signs that the girl had been there since the demolition of the cliff. He saw the print of her dainty feet in the soft earth at the base of the rocks—he saw how she had searched the debris for Thandar—he saw her bed of grasses in the crevice between the two boulders, and then, after diligent search, he found her spoor leading away to the east. For many days he followed her until, at last, close by the sea, he come to a level plain at the edge of a forest. Across the narrow plain rose lofty cliffs—and what was that clambering aloft toward the dark mouth of a cave? Could it be a woman? Thurg's eyes narrowed as he peered intently toward the cliff. Yes, it was a woman—it was _the_ woman—it was she he sought, and, she was alone. With a whoop of exultation Thurg broke from the forest into the plain, running swiftly toward the cliff where Nadara crouched beside her little pile of jagged missiles, prepared to once more battle with this hideous monster for more than life. # CHAPTER VI: THE SEARCH A year had elapsed since Waldo Emerson Smith-Jones had departed from the Back Bay home of his aristocratic parents to seek in a long sea voyage a cure for the hacking cough and hectic cheeks which had in themselves proclaimed the almost incurable. Two months later had come the first meager press notices of the narrow escape of the steamer, upon which Waldo Emerson had been touring the south seas, from utter destruction by a huge tidal wave. The dispatch read: The captain reports that the great wave swept entirely over the steamer, momentarily submerging her. Two members of the crew, the officer upon the bridge, and one passenger were washed away. The latter was an American traveling for his health, Waldo E. Smith-Jones, son of John Alden Smith-Jones of Boston. The steamer came about, cruising back and forth for some time, but as the wave had washed her perilously close to a dangerous shore, it seemed unsafe to remain longer in the vicinity, for fear of a recurrence of the tidal wave which would have meant the utter annihilation of the vessel upon the nearby beach. No sign of any of the poor unfortunates was seen. Mrs. Smith-Jones is prostrated. Immediately John Alden Smith-Jones had fitted out his yacht, _Priscilla_, despatching her under Captain Burlinghame, a retired naval officer, and an old friend of Mr. Smith-Jones, to the far distant coast in search of the body of his son, which the captain of the steamer was of the opinion might very possibly have been washed upon the beach. And now Burlinghame was back to report the failure of his mission. The two men were sitting in the John Alden Smith-Jones library. Mrs. Smith-Jones was with them. "We searched the beach diligently at the point opposite which the tidal wave struck the steamer," Captain Burlinghame was saying. "For miles up and down the coast we patrolled every inch of the sand. "We found, at one spot upon the edge of the jungle and above the beach, the body of one of the sailors. It was not and could not have been Waldo's. The clothing was that of a seaman, the frame was much shorter and stockier than your son's. There was no sign of any other body along that entire coast. "Thinking it possible one of the men might have been washed ashore alive we sent parties into the interior. Here we found a wild and savage country, and on two occasions met with fierce, white savages, who hurled rocks at us and fled at the first report of our firearms. "We continued our search all around the island, which is of considerable extent. Upon the east coast I found this," and here the captain handed Mr. Smith-Jones the bag of jewels which Nadara had forgotten as she fled from Thandar. Briefly he narrated what he knew of the history of the poor woman to whom it had belonged. "I recall the incident well," said Mrs. Smith-Jones, "I had the pleasure of entertaining the count and countess when they stopped here upon their honeymoon. They were lovely people, and to think that they met so tragic an end!" The three lapsed into silence. Burlinghame did not know whether he was glad or sorry that he had not found the bones of Waldo Emerson—that would have meant the end of hope for his parents. Perhaps much the same thoughts were running through the minds of the others. Somewhere in the nether regions of the great house an electric bell sounded. Still the three sat on in silence. They heard the houseman open the front door. They heard low voices, and presently there came a deferential tap upon the door of the library. Mr. Smith-Jones looked up and nodded. It was the houseman. He held a letter in his hand. "What is it Krutz?" asked the master in a tired voice. It seemed that nothing ever again would interest him. "A special delivery letter, sir," replied the servant. "The boy says you must sign for it yourself, sir." "Ah, yes," replied Mr. Smith-Jones, as he reached for the letter and the receipt blank. He glanced at the post mark—San Francisco. Idly he cut the envelope. "Pardon me?" He glanced first at his wife and then at Captain Burlinghame. The two nodded. Mr. John Alden Smith-Jones opened the letter. There was a single written sheet and an enclosure in another envelope. He had read but a couple of lines when he came suddenly upright in his chair. Captain Burlinghame and Mrs. Smith-Jones looked at him in polite and surprised questioning. "My God!" exclaimed Mr. Smith-Jones. "He is alive—Waldo is alive!" Mrs. Smith-Jones and Captain Burlinghame sprang from their chairs and ran toward the speaker. With trembling hands that made it difficult to read the words that his trembling voice could scarce utter John Alden Smith-Jones read aloud: _On board the Sally Corwith, San Francisco, California._ _Mr. John Alden Smith-Jones, Boston, Mass._ _Dear Sir: Just reached port and hasten to forward letter your son gave me for his mother. He wouldn't come with us. We found him on —— ——Island, Lat. 10° —" South, Long. 150° —" West. He seemed in good health and able to look out for himself. Didn't want anything, he said, except a razor, so we gave him that and one of the men gave him a plug of chewing tobacco. Urged him to come, but he wouldn't. The enclosed letter will doubtless tell you all about him._ _Yours truly, Henry Dobbs, Master._ "Ten south, a hundred and fifty west," mused Captain Burlinghame. "That's the same island we searched. Where could he have been!" Mrs. Smith-Jones had opened the letter addressed to her, and was reading it breathlessly. _My dear Mother: I feel rather selfish in remaining and possibly causing you further anxiety, but I have certain duties to perform to several of the inhabitants which I feel obligated to fulfill before I depart._ _My treatment here has been all that anyone might desire—even more, I might say._ _The climate is delightful. My cough has left me, and I am entirely a well man—more robust than I ever recall having been in the past._ _At present I am sojourning in the mountains, having but run down to the sea shore today, where, happily, I chanced to find the Sally Corwith in the harbor, and am taking advantage of Captain Dobbs' kindness to forward this letter to you._ _Do not worry, dearest mother; my obligations will soon be fulfilled and then I shall hasten to take the first steamer for Boston._ _I have met a number of interesting people here—the most interesting people I have ever met. They quite overwhelm one with their attentions._ _And now, as Captain Dobbs is anxious to be away, I will close, with every assurance of my deepest love for you and father._ _Ever affectionately your son, Waldo._ Mrs. Smith-Jones' eyes were dim with tears—tears of thanksgiving and happiness. "And to think," she exclaimed, "that after all he is alive and well—quite well. His cough has left him—that is the best part of it, and he is surrounded by interesting people—just what Waldo needed. For some time I feared, before he sailed, that he was devoting himself too closely to his studies and to the little coterie of our own set which surrounded him. This experience will be broadening. Of course these people may be slightly provincial, but it is evident that they possess a certain culture and refinement—otherwise my Waldo would never have described them as "interesting." The coarse, illiterate, or vulgar could never prove "interesting' to a Smith-Jones." Captain Cecil Burlinghame nodded politely—he was thinking of the naked, hairy man-brutes he had seen within the interior of the island. "It is evident, Burlinghame," said Mr. Smith-Jones, "that you overlooked a portion of this island. It would seem, from Waldo's letter, that there must be a colony of civilized men and women somewhere upon it. Of course it is possible that it may be further inland than you penetrated." Burlinghame shook his head. "I am puzzled," he said. "We circled the entire coast, yet nowhere did we see any evidence of a man-improved harbor, such as one might have reason to expect were there really a colony of advanced humans in the interior. There would have been at least a shack near the beach in one of the several natural harbors which indent the coast line was there even an occasional steamer touching for purposes of commerce with the colonists. "No, my friends," he continued, "as much as I should like to believe it my judgment will not permit me to place any such translation upon Waldo's letter. "That he is safe and happy seems evident, and that is enough for us to know. Now it should be a simple matter for us to find him—if it is still your desire to send for him." "He may already have left for Boston," said Mrs. Smith-Jones; "his letter was written several months ago." Again Burlinghame shook his head. "Do not bank on that, my dear madam," he said kindly. "It may be fifty years before another vessel touches that forgotten shore—unless it be one which you yourselves send." John Alden Smith-Jones sprang to his feet, and commenced pacing up and down the library. "How soon can the _Priscilla_ be put in shape to make the return voyage to the island?" he asked. "It _can_ be done in a week, if necessary," replied Burlinghame. "And you will accompany her, in command?" "Gladly." "Good!" exclaimed Mr. Smith-Jones. "And now, my friend, let us lose no time in starting our preparations. I intend accompanying you." "And I shall go too," said Mrs. Smith-Jones. The two men looked at her in surprise. "But my dear!" cried her husband, "there is no telling what hardships and dangers we may encounter—you could never stand such a trip." "I am going," said Mrs. Smith-Jones, firmly. "I know my Waldo. I know his refined and sensitive nature. I know that I am fully capable of enduring whatever he may have endured. He tells me that he is among interesting people. Evidently there is nothing to fear, then, from the inhabitants of the island, and furthermore I wish personally to meet the people he has been living with. I have always been careful to surround Waldo with only the nicest people, and if any vulgarizing influences have been brought to bear upon him since he has been beyond my mature guidance I wish to know it, that I may determine how to combat their results." That was the end of it. If Mrs. Smith-Jones knew her son, Mr. Smith-Jones certainly knew his wife. A week later the _Priscilla_ sailed from Boston harbor on her long journey around the Horn to the south seas. Most of the old crew had been retained. The first and second officers were new men. The former, William Stark, had come to Burlinghame well recommended. From the first he seemed an intelligent and experienced officer. That he was inclined to taciturnity but enhanced his value in the eyes of Burlinghame. Stark was inclined to be something of a martinet, so that the crew soon took to hating him cordially, but as his display of this unpleasant trait was confined wholly to trivial acts the men contented themselves with grumbling among themselves, which is the prerogative and pleasure of every good sailorman. Their loyalty to the splendid Burlinghame, however, was not to be shaken by even a dozen Starks. The monotonous and uneventful journey to the vicinity of ten south and a hundred and fifty west was finally terminated. At last land showed on the starboard bow. Excitement reigned supreme throughout the trim, white _Priscilla_. Mrs. Smith-Jones peered anxiously and almost constantly through her binoculars, momentarily expecting to see the well-known thin and emaciated figure of her Waldo Emerson standing upon the beach awaiting them. For two weeks they sailed along the coast, stopping here and there for a day while parties tramped inland in search of signs of civilized habitation. They lay two days in the harbor where the _Sally Corwith_ had lain. There they pressed farther inland than at any other point, but all without avail. It was Burlinghame's plan to first make a cursory survey of the entire coast, with only short incursions toward the center of the island. Should this fail to discover the missing Waldo the party was then to go over the ground once more, remaining weeks or months as might be required to thoroughly explore every foot of the island. It was during the pursuit of the initial portion of the program that they dropped anchor in the self-same harbor upon whose waters Waldo Emerson and Nadara had seen the _Priscilla_ lying, only to fly from her. Burlinghame recalled it as the spot at which the bag of jewels had been picked up. Next to the Sally Corwith harbor, as they had come to call the other anchorage, this seemed most fraught with possibilities of success. They christened it Eugenie Bay, after that poor, unfortunate lady, Eugenie Marie Celeste de la Valois, Countess of Crecy, whose jewels had been recovered upon its shore. Burlinghame and Waldo's father with half a dozen officers and men of the _Priscilla_ had spent the day searching the woods, the plain and the hills for some slight sign of human habitation. Shortly after noon First Officer Stark stumbled upon the whitened skeleton of a man. In answer to his shouts the other members of the party hastened to his side. They found the grim thing lying in a little barren spot among the tall grasses. About it the liquids of decomposition had killed vegetation leaving the thing alone in all its grisly repulsiveness as though shocked, nature had withdrawn in terror. Stark stood pointing toward it without a word as the others came up. Burlinghame was the first to reach Stark's side. He bent low over the bones examining the skull carefully. John Alden Smith-Jones came panting up. Instantly he saw what Burlinghame was examining he turned deathly white. Burlinghame looked up at him. "It's not," he said. "Look at that skull—either a gorilla or some very low type of man." Mr. Smith-Jones breathed a sigh of relief. "What an awful creature it must have been," he said, when he had fully taken in the immense breadth of the squat skeleton. "It cannot be that Waldo has survived in a wilderness peopled by such creatures as this. Imagine him confronted by such a beast. Timid by nature and never robust he would have perished of fright at the very sight of this thing charging down upon him." Captain Cecil Burlinghame acquiesced with a nod. He knew Waldo Emerson well, and so he could not even imagine a meeting between the frail and cowardly youth and such a beast as this bleaching frame must once have supported. And at their feet the bones of Flatfoot lay mute witnesses to the impossible. Presently a shout from one of the sailors attracted their attention toward the far side of the valley. The man was standing upon a rise of ground waving his arms and gesticulating violently toward the lofty cliffs which rose sheer from the rank jungle grasses. All eyes turned in the direction indicated by the excited sailor. At first they saw nothing, but presently a figure came in sight upon a little elevation. It was the figure of a human being, and even at the distance they were from it all were assured that it was the figure of a female. She was running toward the cliffs with the speed of a deer. And now behind her, came another figure. Thick set and squat was the thing that pursued the woman. It might have been the reanimated skeleton that they had just discovered. Would the creature catch her before she reached the cliff? Would she find sanctuary even there? Already Burlinghame and Stark had started toward the cliff on a run. John Alden Smith-Jones followed more slowly. The men raced after their officers. The girl had reached the rocks and was scampering up their precipitous face like a squirrel. Close behind her came the man. They saw the girl reach a ledge just below the mouth of a cave in which she evidently expected to find safety. They saw her clambering up the rickety sapling that answered for a ladder. They breathed sighs of relief, for it seemed that she was now quite safe—the man was still one ledge below her. But in another moment the watchers were filled with horror. The brute pursuing her had reached forth a giant hand and seized the base of the sapling. He was dragging it over the edge of the cliff. In another moment the girl would be precipitated either into his arms or to a horrible death upon the jagged rocks beneath her. Burlinghame and Stark halted simultaneously. At once two rifles leaped to their shoulders. There were two reports, so close together that they seemed as one. # CHAPTER VII: FIRST MATE STARK Upon the day that Thurg discovered Nadara he had come racing to the foot of the cliff, roaring and bellowing like a mad bull. Upward he clambered half the distance to the girl's lofty perch. Then a bit of jagged rock, well aimed, had brought him to a sudden halt, spitting blood and teeth from his injured mouth. He looked up at Nadara and shrieked out his rage and his threats of vengeance. Nadara launched another missile at him that caught him full upon one eye, dropping him like a stone to the narrow ledge upon which he had been standing. Quickly the girl started to descend to his side to finish the work she had commenced, for she knew that there could be no peace or safety for her, now that Thurg had discovered her hiding place, while the monster lived. But she had scarce more than lowered her sapling to the ledge beneath her when the giant form of the man moved and Thurg sat up. Quickly Nadara clambered back to her ledge, again drawing her sapling after her. She was about to hurl another missile at the man when he spoke to her. "We are alone in the world," he said. "All your people and all my people have been slain by the Great Nagoola. Come down. Let us live together in peace. There is no other left in all the world." Nadara laughed at him. "Come down to you!" she cried, mockingly. "Live with you! I would rather live with the pigs that root in the forest. Go away, or I will finish what I have commenced, and kill you. I would not live with you though I knew that you were the last human being on earth." Thurg pleaded and threatened, but all to no avail. Again he tried to clamber to her side, but again he was repulsed with well-aimed missiles. At last he withdrew, growling and threatening. For weeks he haunted the vicinity of the cliff. Nadara's meager food supply was soon exhausted. She was forced to descend to replenish her larder and fill her gourd, or die of starvation and thirst. She made her trips to the forest at night, though black Nagoola prowled and the menace of Thurg loomed through the darkness. At last the man discovered her in one of these nocturnal expeditions and almost caught her before she reached her ledge of safety. For three days he kept her a close prisoner. Again her stock of provisions was exhausted. She was desperate. Twice had Nagoola nearly trapped her in the forest. She dared not again tempt fate in the gloomy wood by night. There was nothing left but to risk all in one last effort to elude Thurg by day and find another asylum in some far distant corner of the island. Carefully she watched her opportunity, and while the beast-man was temporarily absent seeking food for himself the girl slid swiftly to the base of the cliff and started through the tall grasses for the opposite side of the valley. Upon this day Thurg had fallen upon the spoor of deer as he had searched the forest for certain berries that were in season and which he particularly enjoyed. The trail led along the edge of the wood to the opposite side of the valley, and over the hills into the region beyond. All day Thurg followed the fleet animals, until at last not having come up with them he was forced to give up the pursuit and return to the cliffs, lest his more valuable quarry should escape. Half-way between the hills and the cliff he came suddenly face to face with Nadara. Not twenty paces separated them. With a howl of satisfaction Thurg leaped to seize her, but she turned and fled before he could lay his hand upon her. If Thurg had found his other quarry of that day swift, so, too, he now found Nadara, for terror gave wings to her flying feet. Lumbering after her came Thurg, and had the distance been less he would have been left far behind, but it was a long distance from the spot, where they had met, to Nadara's cliffs. The girl could out-run the man for a short distance, but when victory depended upon endurance the advantage was all upon the side of the brute. As they neared the goal Nadara realized that the lead she had gained at first was rapidly being overcome by the horrid creature panting so close behind her. She strained every nerve and muscle in a last mad effort to distance the fate that was closing upon her. She reached the cliff. Thurg was just behind her. Half spent, she stumbled upward in, what seemed to her, pitiful slowness. At last her hand grasped the sapling that led to the mouth of her cave—in another instant she would be safe. But her new-born hope went out as she felt the sapling slipping and glanced downward to see Thurg dragging it from its position. She shut her eyes that she might not see the depths below into which she was about to be hurled, and then there smote upon her ears the most terrific burst of sound that had ever assailed them, other than the thunders that rolled down out of the heavens when the rains came. But this sound did not come from above—it came from the valley beneath. The ladder ceased to slip. She opened her eyes and glanced downward. Far below her lay the body of Thurg. She could see that he was quite dead. He lay upon his face and from his back trickled two tiny streams of blood from little holes. Nadara clambered upward to her ledge, drawing her sapling after her, and then she looked about for an explanation of the strange noise and the sudden death of Thurg, for she could not but connect the one with the other. Below, in the valley, she saw a number of men strangely garbed. They were coming toward her cliff. She gathered her missiles closely about her, ready to her hand. Now they were below and calling up to her. Her eyes dilated in wonder—they spoke the strange tongue that Thandar had tried to teach her. She called down to them in her own tongue, but they shook their heads, motioning her to descend. She was afraid. All her life she had been afraid of men, and with reason—of all except her old foster father and Thandar. These, evidently, were men. She could only expect from them the same treatment that Thurg would have accorded her. One of them had started up the face of the cliff. It was Stark. Nadara seized a bit of rock and hurled it down upon him. He barely dodged the missile, but he desisted in his attempt to ascend to her. Now Burlinghame advanced, raising his hand, palm toward her in sign that she should not assault him. She recalled some of the language that Thandar had taught her—maybe they would understand it. "Go-way!" she cried. "Go-way! Nadara kill bad-men." A look of pleasure overspread Burlinghame's face—the girl spoke English. "We are not bad men," he called up to her. "We will not harm you." "What you want?" asked Nadara, still unconvinced by mere words. "We want to talk with you," replied Burlinghame. "We are looking for a friend who was ship-wrecked upon this island. Come down. We will not harm you. Have we not already proved our friendship by killing this fellow who pursued you?" This man spoke precisely the tongue of Thandar. Nadara could understand every word, for Thandar had talked to her much in English. She could understand it better than she could speak it. If they talked the same tongue as Thandar they must be from the same country. Maybe they were Thandar's friends. Anyway they were like him, and Thandar never harmed women. She could trust them. Slowly she lowered her sapling and began the descent. Several times she hesitated as though minded to return to her ledge, but Burlinghame's kindly voice and encouragement at last prevailed, and presently Nadara stood before them. The officers and men of the _Priscilla_ crowded around the girl. They were struck with her beauty, and the simple dignity of her manner and her carriage. The great black panther skin that fell from her left shoulder she wore with the majesty of a queen and with a naturalness that cast no reflection upon her modesty, though it revealed quite as much of her figure as it hid. William Stark, first officer of the _Priscilla_, caught his breath—never, he was positive, had God made a more lovely creature. From the top of the cliff a shaggy man peered down upon the strange scene. He blinked his little eyes, scratched his matted head, and once he picked up a large stone that lay near him; but he did not hurl it upon those below, for he had heard the loud report of the rifles, seen the smoke belch from the muzzles, and witnessed the sudden and miraculous collapse of Thurg. Burlinghame was speaking to Nadara. "Who are you?" he asked. "Nadara," replied the girl. "Where do you live?" Nadara jerked her thumb over her shoulder toward the cliff at her back. Burlinghame searched the rocky escarpment with his eyes, but saw no sign of another living being there. "Where are your people?" "Dead." "All of them?" Nadara nodded affirmatively. "How long have they been dead and what killed them?" continued Burlinghame. "Almost a moon. The Great Nagoola killed them." In answer to other questions Nadara related all that had transpired since the night of the earthquake. Her description of the catastrophe convinced the Americans that a violent quake had recently occurred to shake the island to its foundations. "Ask her about Waldo," whispered Mr. Smith-Jones, himself dreading to put the question. "We are looking for a young man," said Burlinghame, "who was lost overboard from a steamer on the west coast of this island. We know that he reached the shore alive, for we have heard from him. Have you ever seen or heard of this stranger? His name is Waldo Emerson Smith-Jones—this gentleman is his father," indicating Mr. Smith-Jones. Nadara looked with wide eyes at John Alden Smith-Jones. So this man was Thandar's father. She felt very sorry for him, for she knew that he loved Thandar—Thandar had often told her so. She did not know how to tell him—she shrank from causing another the anguish and misery that she had endured. "Did you know of him?" asked Burlinghame. Nadara nodded her head. "Where is he?" cried Waldo's father. "Where are the people with whom he lived here?" Nadara came close to John Alden Smith-Jones. There was no fear in her innocent young heart for this man who was Thandar's father—who loved Thandar—only a great compassion for him in the sorrow that she was about to inflict. Gently she took his hand in hers, raising her sad eyes to his. "Where is he? Where is my boy?" whispered Mr. Smith-Jones. "He is with his people, who were my people—the people of whom I have just told you," replied Nadara softly— "He is dead." And then she dropped her face upon the man's hand and wept. The shock staggered John Alden Smith-Jones. It seemed incredible—impossible—that Waldo could have lived through all that he must have lived through to perish at last but a few short weeks before succor reached him. For a moment he forgot the girl. It was her hot tears upon his hand that aroused him to a consciousness of the present. "Why do you weep?" he cried almost roughly. "For you," she replied, "who loved him, too." "You loved Waldo?" asked the boy's father. Nadara nodded her tumbled mass of raven hair. John Alden Smith-Jones looked down upon the bent head of the sobbing girl in silence for several minutes. Many things were racing through his patrician brain. He was by training, environment and heredity narrow and Puritanical. He saw the meager apparel of the girl—he saw her nut brown skin; but he did not see her nakedness, for something in his heart told him that sweet virtue clothed her more effectually than could silks and satins without virtue. Gently he placed an arm about her, drawing her to him. "My daughter," he said, and pressed his lips to her forehead. It was a solemn and sorrow-ridden party that boarded the _Priscilla_ an hour later. Mrs. Smith-Jones had seen them coming. Some intuitive sense may have warned her of the sorrow that lay in store for her upon their return. At any rate she did not meet them at the rail as in the past, instead she retired to her cabin to await her husband there. When he joined her he brought with him a half-naked young woman. Mrs. Smith-Jones looked upon the girl with ill concealed horror. Waldo's mother met the shock of her husband's news with much greater fortitude than he had expected. As a matter of fact she had been prepared for this from the first. She had never really believed that Waldo could survive for any considerable time far from the comforts and luxuries of his Boston home and the watchful care of herself. "And who is this—ah—person?" she asked coldly at last, holding her pince-nez before her eyes as with elevated brows she cast a look of disapproval upon Nadara. The girl, reading more in the older woman's manner than her words, drew herself up proudly. Mr. Smith-Jones coughed and colored. He stepped to Nadara's side, placing his arm about her shoulders. "She loved Waldo," he said simply. "The brazen huzzy!" exclaimed Mrs. Smith-Jones. "To dare to love a Smith-Jones!" "Come, come, Louisa!" ejaculated her husband. "Remember that she too is suffering—do not add to her sorrow. She loved our boy, and he returned her love." "How do you know that?" "She has told me," replied the man. "It is not true," cried Mrs. Smith-Jones. "It is not true! Waldo Emerson would never stoop to love one out of his own high class. Who is she, and what proof have you that Waldo loved her?" "I am Nadara," said the girl proudly, answering for herself, "and this is the proof that he loved me. He told me that this was the pledge token between us until we could come to his land and be mated according to the customs there." She held out her left hand, upon the third finger of which sparkled a great solitaire—a solitaire which Mrs. John Alden Smith-Jones recognized instantly. "He gave you that?" she asked. Then she turned toward her husband. "What do you intend doing with this girl?" she asked. "I shall take her back home," replied he. "She should be as a daughter to us, for Waldo would have made her such had he lived. She cannot remain upon the island. All her people were killed by the earthquake that destroyed Waldo. She is in constant danger of attack by wild beasts and wilder men. We cannot leave her here, and even if we could I should not do so, for we owe a duty to our dead boy to care for her as he would have cared for her—and we owe a greater duty to her." "I must be alone," was all that Mrs. Smith-Jones replied. "Please take her away, John. Give her the cabin next to this, and have Marie clothe her properly—Marie's clothes should about fit her." There was more of tired anguish in her voice now than of anger. Mr. Smith-Jones led Nadara out and summoned Marie, but Nadara upset his plans by announcing that she wished to return to shore. "She does not like me," she said, nodding toward Mrs. Smith-Jones's cabin, "and I will not stay." It took John Alden Smith-Jones a long time to persuade the girl to change her mind. He pointed out that his wife was greatly over-wrought by the shock of the news of Waldo's death. He assured Nadara that at heart she was a kindly woman, and that eventually she would regret her attitude toward the girl. And at last Nadara consented to remain aboard the _Priscilla_. But when Marie would have clothed her in the garments of civilization she absolutely refused—scorning the hideous and uncomfortable clothing. It was two days before Mrs. Smith-Jones sent for her. When she entered that lady's cabin the latter exclaimed at once against her barbarous attire. "I gave instructions that Marie should dress you properly," she said. "You are not decently clothed—that bear skin is shocking." Nadara tossed her head, and her eyes flashed fire. "I shall never wear your silly clothes," she cried. "This, Thandar gave me—he slew Nagoola, the black panther, with his own hands, and gave the skin to me who was to be his mate—do you think I would exchange it for such foolish garments as those?" and she waved a contemptuous gesture toward Mrs. Smith-Jones's expensive morning gown. The elder woman forgot her outraged dignity in the suggestion the girl had given her for an excuse to be rid of her at the first opportunity. She had mentioned a party named Thandar. She had brazenly boasted that this Thandar had killed the beast whose pelt she wore and given her the thing for a garment. She had admitted that she was to become this person's "mate." Mrs. Smith-Jones shuddered at the primitive word. At this moment Mr. Smith-Jones entered the cabin. He smiled pleasantly at Nadara, and then, seeing in the attitudes of the two women that he had stepped within a theater of war, he looked questioningly at his wife. "Now what, Louisa?" he asked, somewhat sharply. "Sufficient, John," exclaimed that lady, "to bear out my original contention that it was a very unwise move to bring this woman with us—she has just admitted that she was the promised "mate' of a person she calls Thandar. She is brazen—I refuse to permit her to enter my home; nor shall she remain upon the _Priscilla_ longer than is necessary to land her at the first civilized port." Mr. Smith-Jones looked questioningly at Nadara. The girl had guessed the erroneous reasoning that had caused Mrs. Smith-Jones's excitement. She had forgotten that they did not know that Waldo and Thandar were one. Now she could scarce repress a smile of amusement nor resist the temptation to take advantage of Mrs. Smith-Jones's ignorance to bait her further. "You had another lover beside Waldo?" asked Mr. Smith-Jones. "I loved Thandar," she replied. "Thandar was king of my people. He loved me. He slew Nagoola for me and gave me his skin. He slew Korth and Flatfoot, also. They wanted me, but Thandar slew them. And Big Fist he slew, and Sag the Killer—oh, Thandar was a mighty fighter. Can you wonder that I loved him?" "He was a hideous murderer!" cried Mrs. Smith-Jones, "and to think that my poor Waldo; poor, timid, gentle Waldo, was condemned to live among such savage brutes. Oh, it is too terrible!" Nadara's eyes went wide. It was her turn to suffer a shock. "Poor, timid, gentle Waldo!" Had she heard aright? Could it be that they were describing the same man? There must be some mistake. "Did Waldo know that you loved Thandar?" asked Mr. Smith-Jones. "Thandar was Waldo," she replied. "Thandar is the name I gave him—it means the Brave One. He was very brave," she cried. "He was not "timid," and he was only "gentle' with women and children." Mrs. Smith-Jones had never been so shocked in all her life. She sprang to her feet. "Leave my cabin!" she cried. "I see through your shallow deception. You thoughtlessly betrayed yourself and your vulgar immoralities, and now you try to hide behind a base calumny that pictures my dear, dead boy as one with your hideous, brutal chief. You shall not deceive me longer. Leave my cabin, please!" Mr. Smith-Jones stood as one paralyzed. He could not believe in the perfidy of the girl—it seemed impossible that she could have so deceived him—nor yet could he question the integrity of his own ears. It was, of course, too far beyond the pale of reason to attempt to believe that Waldo Emerson and the terrible Thandar were one and the same. The girl had gone too far, and yet he could not believe that she was bad. There must be some explanation. In the meantime Nadara had left the room, her little chin high in air. Never again, she determined, would she subject herself to the insults of Thandar's mother. She went on deck. She had found it difficult to remain below during the day. She craved the fresh air, and the excitement to be found above. The officers had been very nice to her. Stark was much with her. The man had fallen desperately in love with the half-savage girl. As she reached the deck after leaving Mrs. Smith-Jones's cabin Stark was the first she chanced to meet. She would have preferred being alone with her sorrow and her anger, but the man joined her. Together they stood by the rail watching the approach of heavy clouds. A storm was about to break over them that had been brewing for several days. Stark knew nothing of what had taken place below, but he saw that the girl was unhappy. He attempted to cheer her. At last he took her hand and stroked it caressingly as he talked with her. Before she could guess his intention he was pouring words of love and passion into her ears. Nadara drew away. A puzzled frown contracted her brows. "Do not talk so to Nadara," she said. "She does not love you." And then she moved away and went to her cabin. Stark looked after her as she departed. He was thoroughly aroused. Who was this savage girl, to repulse him? What would have been her fate but for his well-directed shot? Was not the man who had been pursuing her but acting after the customs of her wild people? He would have taken her by force. That was the only way she would have been taken had she been left upon her own island. That was the only kind of betrothal she knew. It was what she expected. He had been a fool to approach her with the soft words of civilization. They had made her despise him. She would have understood force, and loved him for it. Well, he would show her that he could be as primitive as any of her savage lovers. The storm broke. The wind became a hurricane. The _Priscilla_ was forced to turn and flee before the anger of the elements, so that she retraced her course of the past two days and then was blown to the north. Stark saw nothing of Nadara during this period. At the end of thirty-six hours the wind had died and the sea was settling to its normal quiet. It was the first evening after the storm. The deck of the _Priscilla_ was almost deserted. The yacht was moving slowly along not far off the shore of one of the many islands that dot that part of the south seas. Nadara came on deck for a walk before retiring. Stark and two sailors were on watch. At sight of the girl the first officer approached her. He spoke pleasantly as though nothing had occurred to mar their friendly relations. He talked of the storm and pointed out the black outlines of the nearby shore, and as he talked he led her toward the stern, out of sight of the sailors forward. Suddenly he turned upon her and grasped her in his arms. With brutal force he crushed her to him, covering her face with kisses. She fought to free herself, but Stark was a strong man. Slowly he forced her to the deck. She beat him in the face and upon the breast, and at last, in the extreme of desperation, she screamed for help. Instantly he struck her a heavy blow upon the jaw. The slender form of the girl relaxed upon the deck in unconsciousness. Now Stark came to a sudden realization of the gravity of the thing he had done. He knew that when Nadara regained consciousness his perfidy would come to the attention of Captain Burlinghame, and he feared the quiet, ex-naval officer more than he did the devil. He looked over the rail. It would be an easy thing to dispose of the girl. He had only to drop her unconscious body into the still waters below. He raised her in his arms and bore her to the rail. The moon shone down upon her face. He looked out over the water and saw the shore so close at hand. There would be a thorough investigation and the sailors, who had no love for him, as he well knew, would lose no time in reporting that he had been the last to be seen with the girl. Evidently he was in for it, one way or the other. Again he looked down into Nadara's face. She was very beautiful. He wanted her badly. Slowly his glance wandered to the calm waters of the ocean and on to the quiet shore line. Then back to the girl. For a moment he stood irresolute. Then he stepped to the side of the cabin where hung a life preserver to which was attached a long line. He put the life preserver about Nadara. Then he lowered her into the ocean. The moment he felt her weight transferred from the lowering rope to the life preserver he vaulted over the yacht's rail into the dark waters beneath her stern. # CHAPTER VIII: THE WILD MEN Nadara did not regain consciousness until Stark had reached shore and was dragging her out upon the beach above the surf. For several minutes after she had opened her eyes she had difficulty in recalling the events that had immediately preceded Stark's attack upon her. She felt the life belt still about her, and as Stark stooped above her to remove it she knew that it was he though she could not distinguish his features. What had happened? Slowly a realization of the man's bold act forced itself upon her—he had leaped overboard from the _Priscilla_ and swam ashore with her rather than face the consequences of his brutal conduct toward her. To a girl reared within the protective influences of civilization Nadara's position would have seemed hopeless; but Nadara knew naught of other protection than that afforded by her own quick wits and the agility of her swift young muscles. To her it would have seemed infinitely more appalling to have been confined within the narrow limits of the yacht with this man, for there all was strange and new. She still had half feared and mistrusted all aboard the _Priscilla_ except Thandar's father and Captain Burlinghame; but would they have protected her from Stark? She did not know. Among her own people only a father, brother, or mate protected a woman from one who sought her against her will, and of these she had none upon the little vessel. But now it was different. Intuitively she knew that upon a savage shore, however strange and unfamiliar it might be, she would have every advantage over the first officer of the _Priscilla_. His life had been spent close to the haunts of civilization; he knew nothing of the woodcraft that was second nature to her; he might perish in a land of plenty through ignorance of where to search for food, and of what was edible and what was not. This much her early experience with Waldo Emerson had taught her. When their paths first had crossed Waldo had been as ignorant as a new-born babe in the craft of life primeval—Nadara had had to teach him everything. Behind them Nadara heard the gentle soughing of trees—the myriad noises of the teeming jungle night—and she smiled. It was inky black about them. Stark had removed the life belt and placed it beneath the girl's head. He thought her still unconscious—perhaps dead. Now he was wringing the water from his clothes; his back toward her. Nadara rose to her feet—noiseless as Nagoola. Like a shadow she melted into the blackness of the jungle that fringed the shore. Careful and alert, she picked her way within the tangled mass for a few yards. At the hole of a large tree she halted, listening. Then she made a low, weird sound with her lips, listening again for a moment after. This she repeated thrice, and then, seemingly satisfied that no danger lurked above she swung herself into the low-hanging branches, quickly ascending until she found a comfortable seat where she might rest in ease. Down upon the beach Stark, having wrung the surplus water from his garments, turned to examine and revive the girl, if she still lived. Even in the darkness her form had been plainly visible against the yellow sand, but now she was not there. Stark was dumfounded. His eyes leaped quickly from one point to another, yet nowhere could they discover the girl. There was the beach, the sea and the jungle. Which had she chosen for her flight? It did not take Stark long to guess, and immediately he turned his steps toward the shapeless, gloomy mass that marked the forest's fringe. As he approached he went more slowly. The thought of entering that forbidding wood sent cold shivers creeping through him. Could a mere girl have dared its nameless horrors? She must have, and with the decision came new resolution. What a girl had dared certainly he might dare. Again he strode briskly toward the jungle. Just at its verge he heard a low, weird sound not a dozen paces within the black, hideous tangle. It was Nadara voicing the two notes which some ancient forbear of her tribe had discovered would wring an answering growl from Nagoola, and an uneasy hiss from that other arch enemy of man—the great, slimy serpent whose sinuous coils twined threateningly above them in the branches of the trees. Only these Nadara feared—these and man. So, before entering a tree at night it was her custom to assure herself that neither Nagoola nor Coovra lurked in the branches of the tree she had chosen for sanctuary. Stark beat a hasty retreat, nor did he again venture from the beach during the balance of the long, dismal night. When dawn broke it found Nadara much refreshed by the sleep she had enjoyed within the comparative safety of the great tree, and Stark haggard and exhausted by a sleepless night of terror and regret. He cursed himself, the girl and his bestial passion, and then as his thoughts conjured her lovely face and perfect figure before his mind's eye, he leaped to his feet and swung briskly toward the jungle. He would find her. All that he had sacrificed should not be in vain. He would find her and keep her. Together they would make a home upon this tropical shore. He would get everything out of life that there was to get. He had taken but a few steps before he discovered, plain in the damp sand before him, the prints of Nadara's naked feet in a well defined trail leading toward the wood. With a smile of satisfaction and victory the man followed it into the maze of vegetation, dank and gloomy even beneath the warm light of the morning sun. By chance he stumbled directly upon Nadara. She had descended from her tree to search for water. They saw each other simultaneously. The girl turned and fled farther into the forest. Close behind her came the man. For several hundred yards the chase led through the thick jungle which terminated abruptly at the edge of a narrow, rock-covered clearing beyond which loomed sheer, precipitous cliffs, raising their lofty heads three hundred feet above the forest. A half smile touched Stark's lips as he saw the barrier that nature had placed in the path of his quarry; but almost instantly it froze into an expression of horror as a slight noise to his right attracted his attention from the girl fleeing before him. For an instant he stood bewildered, then a quick glance toward the girl revealed her scaling the steep cliff with the agility of a monkey, and with a cry to attract her attention he leaped after her once more, but this time himself the quarry—the hunter become the hunted, for after him raced a score of painted savages, brandishing long, slim spears, or waving keen edged parangs. Nadara had not needed Stark's warning cry to apprise her of the proximity of the wild men. She had seen them the instant that she cleared the jungle, and with the sight of them she knew that she need no longer harbor fear of the white man. In them, though, she saw a graver danger for herself, since they, doubtless, would have little difficulty in overhauling her in their own haunts, while she had not had much cause for worry as to her ability to elude the white man indefinitely. Part way up the cliffs she paused to look back. Stark had reached the foot of the lowering escarpment a short distance ahead of his pursuers. He had chosen this route because of the ease with which the girl had clambered up the rocky barrier, but he had reckoned without taking into consideration the lifetime of practice which lay back of Nadara's agility. From earliest infancy she had lived upon the face and within the caves of steep cliffs. Her first toddling, baby footsteps had been along the edge of narrow shelving ledges. When the man reached the cliff, however, he found confronting him an apparently unscalable wall. He cast a frightened, appealing glance at the girl far above him. Twice he essayed to scramble out of reach of the advancing savages, whose tattooed faces, pendulous slit ears, and sharp filed, blackened teeth lent to them a more horrid aspect than even that imparted by their murderous weapons or warlike whoops and actions. Each time he slipped back, clutching frantically at rocky projections and such hardy vegetation as had found foothold in the crevices of the granite. His hands were torn and bleeding, his face scratched and his clothing rent. And now the savages were upon him. They had seen that he was unarmed. No need as yet for spear or parang—they would take him alive. And the girl. They had watched her in amazement as she clambered swiftly up the steep ascent. With all their primitive accomplishments this was beyond even them. They were a forest people and a river people. They dwelt in thatched houses raised high upon long piles. They knew little or nothing of the arts of the cliff dwellers. To them the feat of this strange, white girl was little short of miraculous. Nadara saw them seize roughly upon the terror-stricken Stark. She saw them bind his hands behind his back, and then she saw them turn their attention once more toward herself. Three of the warriors attempted to scale the cliff after her. Slowly they ascended. She smiled at their manifest fear and their awkwardness—she need have no fear of these, they never could reach her. She permitted them to approach within a dozen feet of her and then, loosening a bit of the crumbling granite, she hurled it full at the head of the foremost. With a yell of pain and terror he toppled backward upon those below him, the three tumbling, screaming and pawing to the rocks at the base of the cliff. None of them was killed, though all were badly bruised, and he who had received her missile bled profusely from a wound upon his forehead. Their fellows laughed at them—it was scant comfort they received for being bested by a girl. Then they withdrew a short distance, and squatting in a circle commenced a lengthy palaver. Their repeated gestures in her direction convinced Nadara that she was the subject of their debate. Presently one of their number arose and approached the foot of the cliff. There he harangued the girl for several minutes. When he was done he awaited, evidently for a reply from her; but as Nadara had not been able to understand a word of the fellow's language she could but shake her head. The spokesman returned to his fellows and once again a lengthy council was held. During it Nadara climbed farther aloft, that she might be out of range of the slender spears. Upon a narrow ledge she halted, gathering about her such loose bits of rock as she could dislodge from the face of the cliff—she would be prepared for a sudden onslaught, nor for a moment did she doubt the outcome of the battle. She felt that but for the lack of food and water she could hold this cliff face forever against innumerable savages—could they climb no better than these. But the wild men did not again attempt to storm her citadel. Instead they leaped suddenly from their council, and without a glance toward her disappeared in the forest, taking their prisoner with them. Out of sight of the girl, they stationed two of their number just within the screening verdure to capture the girl should she descend. The others hastened parallel with the cliff until a sudden turn inland took them to a point from which they could again emerge into the clearing out of the sight of Nadara. Here they took immediately to a well-worn path that led back and forth upward across the face of the cliff. Stark was dragged and prodded forward with them in their ascent. Sharp spears and the points of keen parangs, urged him to haste. By the time the party reached the summit the white man was bleeding from a score of superficial wounds. Now the party turned back along the top of the bluff in the direction from which they had come. Nadara, unable to fathom their reason for having abandoned the attempt to capture her, was, however, not lulled into any feeling of false security. She knew the cliff was the safest place for her, and yet the pangs of thirst and hunger warned her that she must soon leave it to seek sustenance. She was about to descend to the jungle below in search of food and water, when the faintest of movements of the earth sweeping creepers depending from a giant buttress tree below her and just within the verge of the forest arrested her acute attention. She knew that the movement had been caused by some animal beneath the tree, and finally, as she watched intently for a moment or two, she descried through an opening in the wall of verdure the long feathers of an Argus pheasant with which the war caps of the savages had been adorned. Though she knew now that she was watched, she also knew that she could reach the top of the cliff and possibly find both food and drink, if it chanced to be near, before the savages could overtake her. Then she must depend upon her wits and her speed to regain the safety of the cliff ahead of them. That they would attempt to scale the barrier at the same point at which she had climbed it she doubted, for she had seen that they were comparatively unaccustomed to this sort of going, and so she guessed that if they followed her upward at all it would be by means of some beaten trail of which they had knowledge. And so Nadara scaled the heights, passing over and around obstacles that would have blanched the cheek of the hardiest mountain climber, with the ease and speed of the chamois. At the summit she found an open, park-like forest, and into this she plunged, running forward in quest of food and drink. A few familiar fruits and nuts assuaged the keenest pangs of hunger, but nowhere could she find water or signs of water. She had traveled for almost a mile, directly inland from the coast, when she stumbled, purely by chance, upon a little spring hidden in a leafy bower. The cool, clear water refreshed her, imparting to her new life and energy. After drinking her fill she sought some means of carrying a little supply of the priceless liquid back to her cliff side refuge, but though she searched diligently she could discover no growing thing which might be transformed into a vessel. There was nothing for it then other than to return without the water, trusting to her wits to find the means of eluding the savages from time to time as it became necessary for her to quench her thirst. Later, she was sure, she should discover some form of gourd, or the bladder of an animal in which she could hoard a few precious drops. Her woodcraft, combined with her almost uncanny sense of direction, led her directly back to the spot at which she had topped the cliff. There was no sign of the savages. She breathed a sigh of relief as she stepped to the edge of the forest, and then, all about her, from behind trees and bushes, rose the main body of the wild men. With shouts of savage glee they leaped upon her. There was no chance for flight—in every direction brutal faces and murderous weapons barred her way. With greater consideration than she had looked forward to they signaled her to accompany them. Stark was with them. To him slight humanity was shown. If he lagged, a spear point, already red with his blood, urged him to greater speed; but to the girl no cruelty nor indignity was shown. In single file, the prisoners in the center of the column, the party made its way inland. All day they marched, until Stark, unused to this form of exertion, staggered and fell a dozen times in each mile. Nadara could almost have found it in her heart to be sorry for him, had it not been for the fact that she realized all too keenly that but for his own bestial brutality neither of them need have been there to be subjected to the present torture, and to be tortured by anticipation of the horrors to come. To the girl it seemed that her fate must be a thousand fold more terrible than the mere death the man was to suffer, for that these degraded savages would let him live seemed beyond the pale of reason. She prayed to the God of which her Thandar had taught her for a quick and merciful death, yet while she prayed she well knew that no such boon could be expected. She compared her captors with Korth and Flatfoot, with Big Fist and Thurg, nor did she look for greater compassion in them than in the men she had known best. Late in the afternoon it became evident that Stark could proceed no farther unless the savages carried him. That they had any intention of so doing was soon disproved. The first officer of the _Priscilla_ had fallen for the twentieth time. A dozen vicious spear thrusts had failed to bring him, staggering and tottering, to his feet as in the past. The chief of the party approached the fallen white, kicking him in the sides and face, and at last pricking him with the sharp point of his parang. Stark but lay an inert mass of suffering flesh, and groaned. The chief grew angry. He grasped the white man around the body and raised him to his feet, but the moment that he released him Stark fell to earth once more. At last the warrior could evidently control his rage no further. With a savage whoop he swung his parang aloft, bringing it down full upon the neck of the prostrate white. The head, grinning horribly, rolled to Nadara's feet. She looked at it, lying there staring up at her out of its blank and sightless eyes, without the slightest trace of emotion. Nadara, the cave girl, was accustomed to death in all its most horrible and sudden forms. She saw before her but the head of an enemy. It was nothing to her—Stark had only himself to thank. The chief gathered the severed head into a bit of bark cloth, and fastening it to the end of his spear, signaled his followers to resume the journey. On and on they went, farther into the interior, and with them went Nadara, borne to what nameless fate she could but guess. # CHAPTER IX: BUILDING THE BOAT Two days after the earthquake that had saved Nadara from Thurg and wiped out the people of the girl's tribe, a man moved feebly beneath the tumbled debris from the roof top of his clogged cavern. It was Thandar. The tons of rock that had toppled from above and buried the entrance to his cave had passed him by unscathed, while the few pounds shaken from the ceiling had stunned him into a long enduring insensibility. Slowly he regained consciousness, but it was a long time before he could marshal his faculties to even a slight appreciation of the catastrophe that had overwhelmed him. Then his first thought was of Nadara. He crawled to what had once been the entrance of his cave. He had not as yet linked the darkness to its real cause—he thought it night. It had been night when he closed his eyes. How could he guess that that had been three nights before, or all the cruel blows that fate had struck him since he slept! At the opening from the cave he met his first surprise and setback—the way was blocked! What was the meaning of it? He tugged and pushed weakly upon the mass that barred him from escape. Who had imprisoned him? He recalled the vivid dream in which he had seen Nadara stolen away by Thurg. The recollection sent him frantically at the pile of shattered rock and loose debris which choked the doorway. To his chagrin he found himself too weak to direct any long sustained effort against the obstacle. It occurred to him that he must have been injured. Whoever imprisoned him must first have beaten him. He felt of his head. Yes, there was a great gash, but his touch told him that it was not a new one. How long, then, had he been imprisoned? As he sat pondering this thing he became aware of the gnawing of hunger and the craving of thirst within his slowly awakening body. The sensations were almost painful. So much so that they forced him to a realization of the fact that he must have been without food or water for a considerable time. Again he assailed the mass that held him prisoner, and as he burrowed slowly into it the truth dawned upon him. He recalled the rumblings of the Great Nagoola that had frightened Nadara the night of the council. A terrific quake had done this thing. Thandar shuddered as he thought of Nadara. Was she, too, imprisoned in her cave, or had the worst happened her? Frantically, now, he tore at the close-packed rubble. But he soon discovered that not in ill-directed haste lay his means of escape. Slowly and carefully, piece by piece he must remove the broken rock until he had tunnelled through to the outer world. Reason told him that he was not deeply buried, for the fact that he lived and could breathe was sufficient proof that fresh air was finding its way through the debris, which it could not have done did the stuff lie before the cave in any considerable thickness. Weak as he was he could work but slowly, so that it was several hours later before he caught the first glimpse of daylight beyond the obstacle. After that he progressed more rapidly, and presently he crawled through a small opening to view the wreckage of the shattered cliff. A flock of vultures rose from their hideous feast as the sight of Thandar disturbed them. The man shuddered as he looked down upon the grisly things from which they had risen. Forgetting his hunger and his thirst he scrambled up over the tortured cliff face to where Nadara's cave had been. Its mouth was buried as his had been. Again he set to work, but this time it was easier. When at last he had opened a way within he hesitated for fear of the blighting sorrow that awaited him. At last, nerving himself to the ordeal, he crawled within the cave that had been Nadara's. Groping about in the darkness, expecting each moment to feel the body of his loved one cold in death, he at last covered the entire floor—there was no body within. Hastily he made his way to the face of the cliff again, and then commenced a horrible and pitiful search among the ghastly remnants of men and women that lay scattered about among the tumbled rocks. But even here his search was vain, for the ghoulish scavengers had torn from their prey every shred of their former likenesses. Weak, exhausted, sorrow ridden and broken, Thandar dragged himself painfully to the little river. Here he quenched his thirst and bathed his body. After, he sought food, and then he crawled to a hole he knew of in the river bank, and curling up upon the dead grasses within, slept the sun around. Refreshed and strengthened by his sleep and the food that he had taken Thandar emerged from his dark warren with renewed hope. Nadara could not be dead! It was impossible. She must have escaped and be wandering about the island. He would search for her until he found her. But as day followed day and still no sign of Nadara, or any other living human being he became painfully convinced that he alone of the inhabitants of the island had survived the cataclysm. The thought of living on through a long life without her cast him into the blackest pit of despair. He reproached heaven for not having taken him as well, for without Nadara life was not worth the living. With the passage of time his grief grew more rather than less acute. As it increased so too increased the horror of his loneliness. The island became a hated thing—life a mockery. The chances that a vessel would touch the shore again during his lifetime seemed remote indeed, unless his father sent out a relief party, but in his despair he did not even hope for such a contingency. He would not take his own life, though the temptation was great, but he courted death in every form that the savage island owned. He slept out upon the ground at night. He sought Nagoola in his lair, and armed only with his light lance he leaped to close quarters with every one of the great cats he could find. The wild boars, often as formidable as Nagoola himself, were hunted now as they never had been hunted before. Thandar lived high those days, and many were the panther pelts that lined his new-found cave in the cliff beside the sea—the same cliff in which Nadara had found shelter, and from whence she had gone away with the search party from the _Priscilla_. One day as Thandar was returning from the beach where he often went to scan the horizon for a sail, he saw something moving at the foot of his cliff. Thandar dropped behind a bush, watching. A moment later the thing moved again, and Thandar saw that it was a man. Instantly he sprang to his feet and ran forward. The days that he had been without human companionship had seemed to drag themselves into as many weary months. Now he had reached the pinnacle of loneliness from which he would gladly have embraced the devil had he come in human guise. Thandar ran noiselessly. He was almost upon the man, a great, hairy brute, before the fellow was aware of his presence. At first the fellow turned to run, but when he saw that Thandar was alone he remained to fight. "I am Roof," he cried, "and I can kill you!" The familiar primitive greeting no longer raised Thandar's temperature or filled him with the fire of battle. He wanted companionship now, not a quarrel. "I am Thandar," he replied. The slow-witted, hulking brute recognized him, and stepped back a pace. He was not so keen to fight now that he had learned the identity of the man who faced him. He had seen Thandar in battle. He had witnessed Thurg's defeat at the hands of this smooth-skinned stranger. "Let us not fight," continued Thandar. "We are alone upon the island. I have seen no other than you since the Great Nagoola came forth and destroyed the people. Let us be friends, hunting together in peace. Otherwise one of us must kill the other and thereafter live always alone until death releases him from his terrible solitude." Roof peered over Thandar's shoulder toward the wood behind him. "Are you alone?" he asked. "Yes—have I not told you that all were killed but you and I?" "All were not killed," replied Roof. "But I will be friends with Thandar. We will hunt together and cave together. Roof and Thandar are brothers." He stooped, and gathering a handful of grass advanced toward the American. Thandar did likewise, and when each had taken the peace offering of the other and rubbed it upon his forehead the ceremony of friendship was complete—simple but none the less effectual, for each knew that the other would rather die than disregard the primitive pact. "You said that all were not killed, Roof," said Thandar, the ceremony over. "What do you mean?" "All were not killed by the Great Nagoola," replied the bad man. "Thurg was not killed, nor was she who was Thandar's mate—she whom Thurg would have stolen." "What?" Thandar almost screamed the question. "Nadara not dead?" "Look," said Roof, and he led the way to the foot of the cliff. "See!" "Yes," replied Thandar, "I had noticed that body, but what of it?" "It was Thurg," explained Roof. "He sought to reach your mate, who had taken refuge in that cave far above us. Then came some strange men who made a great noise with sticks and Thurg fell dead—the loud noise had killed him from a great distance. Then came the strange men and she whom you call Nadara went away with them." "In which direction?" cried Thandar. "Where did they take her?" "They took her to the strange cliff in which they dwelt—the one in which they came. Never saw man such a thing as this cliff. It floated upon the face of the water. About its face were many tiny caves, but the people did not come out of these they came from the top of the cliff, and clambering down the sides floated ashore in hollow things of wood. On top of the cliff were two trees without leaves, and only very short, straight branches. When the cliff went away black smoke came out of it from a short black stump of a tree between the two trees. It was a very wonderful thing to see; but the most wonderful of all were the noise-sticks that killed Thurg and Nagoola a long way off." Not half of Roof's narrative did Thandar hear. Through his brain roared and thundered a single mighty thought: Nadara lives! Nadara lives! Life took on a new meaning to him now. He trembled at the thought of the chances he had been taking. Now, indeed, must he live. He leaped up and down, laughing and shouting. He threw his arms about the astonished Roof, whirling the troglodyte about in a mad waltz. Nadara lives! Nadara lives! Once again the sun shone, the birds sang, nature was her old, happy, carefree self. Nadara was alive and among civilized men. But then came a doubt. "Did Nadara go willingly with these strangers," he asked Roof, "or did they take her by force?" "They did not take her by force," replied Roof. "They talked with her for a time, and then she took the hand of one of the men in hers, stroking it, and he placed his arm about her. Afterward they walked slowly to the edge of the great water where they got into the strange things that had brought them to the land, and returned to their floating cliff. Presently the smoke came out, as I have told you, and the cliff went away toward the edge of the world. But they are all dead now." "What?" yelled Thandar. "Yes, I saw the cliff sink, very slowly when it was a long way off, until only the smoke was coming out of the water." Thandar breathed a sigh of relief. "Point," he said, "to the place where the cliff sank beneath the water." Roof pointed almost due north. "There," he said. For days Thandar puzzled over the possible identity of the ship and the men with whom Nadara had gone so willingly. Doubtless some kindly mariner, hearing her story, had taken her home, away from the terrors and the loneliness of this unhappy island. And now the man chafed to be after her, that he might search the world for his lost love. To wait for a ship appeared quite impossible to the impatient Thandar, for he knew that a ship might never come. There was but one alternative, and had Waldo Emerson been a less impractical man in the world to which he had been born he would have cast aside that single alternative as entirely beyond the pale of possibility. But Waldo was only practical and wise in the savage ways of the primitive life to which circumstance had forced him to revert. And so he decided upon as foolhardy and hair-brained a venture as the mind of man might conceive. It was no less a thing than to build a boat and set out upon the broad Pacific in search of a civilized port or a vessel that might bear him to such. To Waldo it seemed quite practical. He realized of course that the venture would be fraught with peril, but would it not be better to die in an attempt to find his Nadara than to live on forever in the hopelessness of this forgotten land? And so he set to work to build a boat. He had no tools but his crude knife and the razor the sailor of the _Sally Corwith_ had given him, so it was quite impossible for him to construct a dug-out. The possibilities that lie in fire did not occur to him. Finally he hit upon what seemed the only feasible form of construction. With his knife he cut long, pliant saplings, and lesser branches. These he fashioned into the framework of a boat. Roof helped him, keenly interested in this new work. The ribs were fastened to the keel and gunwale by thongs of panther skin, and when the framework was completed panther skins were stretched over it. The edges of the skin were sewn together with threads of gut, as tightly as Thandar and Roof could pull them. A mast was rigged well forward, and another panther skin from which the fur had been scraped was fitted as a sail, square rigged. For rudder Thandar fashioned a long, slender sapling, looped at one end, and the loop covered with skin laced tightly on. This, he figured, would serve both as rudder and paddle, as necessity demanded. At last all was done. Together Thandar and Roof carried the light, crude skiff to the ocean. They waded out beyond the surf, and upon the crest of a receding swell they launched the thing, Thandar leaping in as it floated upon the water. The sail was not taken along for this trial. Thandar merely wished to know that this craft would float, and right side up. For a moment it did so, until the sea rushing in at the loose seams filled it with water. Thandar and Roof had great difficulty in dragging it out again upon the beach. Roof now would have given up, but not so Thandar. It is true that he was slightly disheartened, for he had set great store upon the success of his little vessel. After they had carried the frail thing beyond high tide Thandar sat down upon the ground and for an hour he did naught but stare at the leaky craft. Then he arose and calling to Roof led him into the forest. For a mile they walked, and then Thandar halted before a tree from the side of which a thick and sticky stream was slowly oozing. Thandar had brought along a gourd, and now with a small branch he commenced transferring the mass from the side of the tree to the gourd. Roof helped him. In an hour the gourd was filled. Then they returned to the skiff. Leaving the gourd there Thandar and Roof walked to a clump of heavy jungle grasses not far from the cliff where their cave lay. Here Thandar gathered a great armful of the yellow, ripened grass, telling Roof to do likewise. This they took back to the skiff, where, by rolling it assiduously between their hands and pounding it with stones they reduced it to a mass of soft, tough fiber. Now Thandar showed Roof how to twist this fiber into a loose, fluffy rope, and when he had him well started he daubed the rope with the rubbery fluid he had filched from the tree, and with a sharp stick tucked it in every seam and crevice of the skiff. It took the better part of two days to accomplish this, and when it was done and the gourd empty, the two men returned to the tree and refilled it. This time they built a fire upon their return to the skiff, Roof spinning a hard wood splinter rapidly between toes and fingers in a little mass of tinder that lay in a hollowed piece of wood. Presently a thin spiral of smoke arose from the tinder, growing denser for a moment until of a sudden it broke into flame. The men piled twigs and branches upon the blaze until the fire was well started. Then Thandar taking a ball of the viscous matter from the gourd heated it in the flames, immediately daubing the melting mass upon the outside of the skiff. In this way, slowly and with infinite patience, the two at last succeeded in coating the entire outer surface of the canoe with a waterproof substance that might defy the action of water almost indefinitely. For three days Thandar let the coating dry, and then the craft was given another trial. The man's heart was in his throat as the canoe floated upon the crest of a great wave and he leaped into it. But a moment later he shouted in relief and delight—the thing floated like a cork, nor was there the slightest leak discernible. For half an hour Thandar paddled about the harbor, and then he returned for the sail. This too, though rather heavy and awkward, worked admirably, and the balance of the day he spent in sailing, even venturing out into the ocean. Much of the time he paddled, for Waldo Emerson knew more of the galleys of ancient Greece than he did of sails or sailing, so that for the most part he sailed with the wind, paddling when he wished to travel in another direction. But, withal, his attempt filled him with delight, and he could scarce wait to be off toward civilization and Nadara. The next two days were spent in collecting food and water, which Thandar packed in numerous gourds, sealing the mouths with the rubbery substance such as he had used to waterproof his craft. The flesh of wild hog, and deer, and bird he cut in narrow strips and dried over a slow fire. In this work Roof assisted him, and at last all was in readiness for the venture. The day of his departure dawned bright and clear. A gentle south wind gave promise of great speed toward the north. Thandar was wild with hope and excitement. Roof was to accompany him, but at the last moment the nerve of the troglodyte failed him, and he ran away and hid in the forest. It was just as well, thought Thandar, for now his provisions would last twice as long. And so he set out upon his perilous adventure, braving the mighty Pacific in a frail and unseaworthy cockle-shell with all the assurance and confidence that is ever born of ignorance. # CHAPTER X: THE HEAD-HUNTERS Nature so far, had been kind to Waldo Emerson Smith-Jones. No high winds or heavy seas had assailed him, and he had been upon the water for three days now. The wind had held steadily out of the south, varying but a few points during this time but even so Waldo Emerson was commencing to doubt and to worry. His supply of water was running dangerously low, his food supply would last but a few days longer; and as yet he had sighted no sail, nor seen any land. Furthermore, he had not the remotest conception of how he might retrace his way to the island he had just quitted. He could only sail before the wind. Should the wind veer around into the north he might, by chance, be blown back to the island. Otherwise he never could reach it. And he was beginning to wonder if he had not been a trifle to precipitate in his abandonment of land. In common with most other landsmen, Waldo Emerson had little conception of the vastness of the broad reaches of unbroken water wildernesses that roll in desolate immensity over three quarters of the globe. His recollection of maps pictured the calm and level blue dotted, especially in the south seas, with many islands. Their names, often, were quite reassuring. He recollected, among others, such as the Society Islands, the Friendly Islands, Christmas Island. He hoped that he would land upon one of these. There were so many islands upon the maps, and they seemed so close together that he was not a little mystified that he had failed to sight several hundred long before this. And ships! It appeared incredible that he should have seen not a single sail. He distinctly recalled the atlas he had examined prior to embarking upon his health cruise. The Pacific had been lined in all directions with the routes of long established steamer lanes, and in between, Waldo had felt, the ocean must be dotted with the innumerable tramps that come and go between the countless ports that fringe the major sea. And yet for three days nothing had broken the dull monotony of the vast circle of which he was always the center and the sole occupant. In three days, thought Waldo, he must have covered an immense distance. And three more days dragged their weary lengths. The wind had died to the faintest of breezes. The canoe was just making headway and that was all. The water was gone. The food nearly so. Waldo was suffering from lack of the former. The pitiless sun beating down upon him increased his agony. He stretched his panther skin across the stern and hid beneath it from the torrid rays. And there he lay until darkness brought relief. During the night the wind sprang up again, but this time from the west. It rose and with it rose the sea. The man, clinging to his crude steering blade, struggled to keep the light craft straight before the wind which was now howling fearfully while great waves, hungry and wide jawed, raced after him like a pack of ravenous wolves. Thandar knew that the unequal struggle against the mighty forces of the elements could not endure for long. It seemed that each fierce gust of brutal wind must tear his frail boat to shreds, and yet it was the very lightness of the thing that saved it, for it rode upon the crests of waves, blown forward at terrific velocity like a feather before the hurricane. In Thandar's heart was no terror—only regret that he might never again see his mother, his father, or his Nadara. Yet the night wore on and still he fled before the storm. The sky was overcast—the darkness was impenetrable. He imagined all about him still the same wide, tenantless circle of water, only now storm torn and perpendicular and black, instead of peacefully horizontal, and soothingly blue-green. And then, even as he was thinking this there rose before him a thunderous booming loud above the frenzied bedlam of the storm, his boat was lifted high in air to dive headforemost into what might be a bottomless abyss for all Thandar knew. But it was not bottomless. The canoe struck something and stopped suddenly, pitching Thandar out into a boiling maelstrom. A great wave picked him up, carrying him with race-horse velocity within its crest. He felt himself hurled pitilessly upon smooth, hard sand. The water tried to drag him back, but he fought with toes and fingers, clutching at the surface of the stuff upon which he had been dropped. Then the wave abandoned him and raced swiftly back into the sea. Thandar was exhausted, but he knew that he must crawl up out of the way of the surf, or be dragged back by the next roller. What he had searched for in vain through six long days he had run down in the midst of a Stygian night. He had found land! Or, to be more explicit, land had got in front of him and he had run into it. He had commenced to wonder if some terrible convulsion of nature had not swallowed up all the land in the world, leaving only a waste of desolate water. He forgot his hunger and his thirst in the happiness of the knowledge that once more he was upon land. He wondered a little what land it might be. He hoped that dawn would reveal the chimneys and steeples of a nearby city. And then, exhausted, he fell into a deep sleep. It was the sun shining down into his upturned face that awoke him. He was lying upon his back beside a clump of bushes a little way above the beach. He was about to rise and survey the new world into which fate and a hurricane had hurled him when he heard a familiar sound upon the opposite side of his bush. It was the movement of an animal creeping through long grass. Thandar, the cave man, came noiselessly to his hands and knees, peering cautiously through the intervening network of branches. What he saw sent his hand groping for his wooden sword with its fire-hardened point. There, not five paces from him, was a man going cautiously upon all fours. It was the most horrible appearing man that Thandar had ever seen—even Thurg appeared lovely by comparison. The creature's ears were split and heavy ornaments had dragged them down until the lobes rested upon its shoulders. The face was terribly marked with cicatrices and tattooing. The teeth were black and pointed. A head-dress of long feathers waved and nodded above the hideous face. There was much tattooing upon the arms and legs and abdomen; the breasts were circled with it. In a belt about the waist lay a sword in its scabbard. In the man's hand was a long spear. The warrior was creeping stealthily upon something at Thandar's left. The latter looked in the direction the other's savage gaze was bent. Through the bushes he could barely discern a figure moving toward them along the edge of the beach. The warrior had passed him now and Thandar stood erect the better to obtain a view of the fellow's quarry. Now he saw it plainly—a man strangely garbed in many colors. A yellow jacket, soiled and torn, covered the upper part of his body. Strange designs, very elaborate, were embroidered upon the garment which reached barely to the fellow's waist. Beneath was a red sash in which were stuck a long pistol and a wicked-looking knife. Baggy blue trousers reached to the bare ankles and feet. A strip of crimson cloth wound around the head completed the strange garmenture. The features of the man were Mongolian. Thandar could see the warrior pause as it became evident that the other was approaching directly toward his place of concealment, but at the last moment the unconscious quarry turned sharply to his right down upon the beach. He had discovered the wreck of Thandar's canoe and was going to investigate it. The move placed Thandar almost between the two. Suddenly the native rose to his feet—his victim's back was toward him. Grasping his spear in his left hand he drew his wicked-looking sword and emerged cautiously from the bushes. At the same moment the man upon the beach wheeled quickly as though suddenly warned of his danger. The native, discovered, leaped forward with raised sword. The man snatched his pistol from his belt, levelled it at the on-rushing warrior and pulled the trigger. There was a futile click—that was all. The weapon had missed fire. Instantly a third element was projected into the fray. Thandar, seeing a more direct link with civilization in the strangely apparelled Mongol than in the naked savage, leaped to the assistance of the former. With drawn sword he rushed out upon the savage. The wild man turned at Thandar's cry, which he had given to divert the fellow's attention from his now almost helpless victim. Thandar knew nothing of the finer points of sword play. He was ignorant of the wickedness of a Malay parang—the keen, curved sword of the head-hunter, so he rushed in upon the savage as he would have upon one of Thurg's near-men. The very impetuosity of his attack awed the native. For a moment he stood his ground, and then, with a cry of terror turned to flee; but he had failed to turn soon enough. Thandar was upon him. The sharp point entered his back beneath the left shoulder blade, and behind it were the weight and sinews of the cave man. With a shriek the savage lunged forward, clutching at the cruel point that now protruded from his breast. When he touched the earth he was dead. Thandar drew his sword from the body of the head-hunter, and turned toward the man he had rescued. The latter was approaching, talking excitedly. It was evident that he was thanking Thandar, but no word of his strange tongue could the American understand. Thandar shook his head to indicate that he was unfamiliar with the other's language, and then the latter dropped into pidgin English, which, while almost as unintelligible to the cultured Bostonian, still contained the battered remnants of some few words with which he was familiar. Thandar depreciated his act by means of gestures, immediately following these with signs to indicate that he was hungry and thirsty. The stranger evidently understood him, for he motioned him to follow, leading the way back along the beach in the direction from which he had come. Before starting, however, he had pointed toward the wreck of Thandar's canoe and then toward Thandar, nodding his head questioningly as to ask if the boat belonged to the cave man. Around the end of a promontory they came upon a little cove beside the beach of which Thandar saw a camp of nearly a score of men similar in appearance to his guide. These were preparing breakfast beside the partially completed hull of a rather large boat they seemed to have been building. At sight of Thandar they looked their astonishment, but after hearing the story of their fellow they greeted the cave man warmly, furnishing him with food and water in abundance. For three days Thandar worked with these men upon their craft, picking up their story slowly with a slow acquirement of a bowing acquaintance with the bastard tongue they used when speaking with him. He soon became aware of the fact that fate had thrown him among a band of pirates. There were Chinese, Japanese and Malays among them—the off-scourings of the south seas; men who had become discredited even among the villainous pirates of their own lands, and had been forced to join their lots in this remoter and less lucrative field, under an unhung ruffian, Tsao Ming, the Chinaman whose life Thandar had saved. He also learned that the storm that had cast them upon this shore nearly a month before had demolished their prahu, and what with the building of another and numerous skirmishes with the savages they had had a busy time of it. Only yesterday while a party of them had been hunting a mile or two inland they had been attacked by savages who had killed two and captured one of their number. They told Thandar that these savages were the most ferocious of head-hunters, but like the majority of their kind preferred ambushing an unwary victim to meeting him in fair fight in the open. Thandar did not doubt but that the latter mode of warfare would have been entirely to the liking of his piratical friends, for never in his life had he dreamed, even, of so ferocious and warlike a band as was comprised in this villainous and bloodthirsty aggregation. But the constant nervous tension under which they had worked, never knowing at what instant an arrow or a lance would leap from the shades of the jungle to pierce them in the back, had reduced them to a state of fear that only a speedy departure from the island could conquer. Their boat was almost completed, two more days would see them safely launched upon the ocean, and Tsao Ming had promised Thandar that he would carry him to a civilized port from which he could take a steamer on his return to America. Late in the afternoon of the third day since his arrival among the pirates the men were suddenly startled by the appearance of an exhausted and blood smeared apparition amongst them. From the nearby jungle the man had staggered to fall when half-way across the clearing, spent. It was Boloon—he who had been captured by the head-hunters the day before Thandar had been cast upon the shore. Revived with food and water the fellow told a most extraordinary tale. From the meager scraps that were afterward translated into pidgin English for Thandar the Bostonian learned that Boloon had been dragged far inland to a village of considerable size. Here he had been placed in a room of one of the long houses to await the pleasure of the chief. It was hinted that he was to be tortured before his head was removed to grace the rafters of the chief's palace. The remarkable portion of his tale related to a strange temple to which he had been dragged and thrown at the feet of a white goddess. Tsao Ming and the other pirates were much mystified by this part of the story, for Boloon insisted that the goddess was white with a mass of black hair, and that her body was covered by the pelt of a magnificent black panther. Though Tsao Ming pointed out that there were no panthers upon this island Boloon could not be shaken. He had seen with his own eyes, and he knew. Furthermore, he argued, there were no white goddesses upon the island, and yet the woman he had seen was white. When this strange tale was retold to Thandar he could not but recall that Nadara had worn a black panther skin, but of course it could not be Nadara—that was impossible. But yet he asked for a further description of the goddess—the color of her eyes and hair—the proportions of her body—her height. To all these questions Boloon gave replies that but caused Thandar's excitement to wax stronger. And then came the final statement that set him in a frenzy of hope and apprehension. "Upon her left hand was a great diamond," said Boloon. Thandar turned toward Tsao Ming. "I go inland to the temple," he said, "to see who this white goddess may be. If you wait two days for me and I return you shall have as much gold as you ask in payment. If you do not wait repair my canoe and hide it in the bushes where the man hid who would have killed you but for Thandar." "I shall wait three days," replied Tsao Ming. "Nor will I take a single _fun_ in pay. You saved the life of Tsao Ming—that is not soon to be forgotten. I would send men with you, but they would not go. They are afraid of the head-hunters. Too, will I repair your canoe against your coming after the third day; but," and he shrugged, "you will not come upon the third day, nor upon the fourth, nor ever, Thandar. It is better that you forget the foolish story of the frightened Boloon and come away from this accursed land with Tsao Ming." But Thandar would not relinquish his intention, and so he parted with the pirates after receiving from Boloon explicit directions for his journey toward the mysterious temple and the white goddess who might be Nadara; and yet who could not be. Straight into the tangled jungle he plunged, carrying the spear and the parang of the head-hunter he had killed, and in the string about his loins one of the long pistols of a dead pirate. This latter Tsao Ming had forced upon him with a supply of ammunition. # CHAPTER XI: THE RESCUE It was dusk of the second day when Thandar, following the directions given him by Boloon, came to the edge of the little clearing within which rose the dingy outlines of many long houses raised upon piles. Before the village ran a river. Many times had Thandar crossed and recrossed this stream, for he had become lost twice upon the way and had to return part way each time to pick up his trail. In the center of the village the man could see the outlines of a loftier structure rearing its head above those of the others. As darkness fell Thandar crept closer toward his goal—the large building which Boloon had described as the temple. Beneath the high raised houses the cave man crept, disturbing pigs and chickens as he went, but their noise was no uncommon thing, and rather than being a menace to his safety it safeguarded him, for it hid the noise of his own advance. At last he came beneath a house nearest the temple. The moon was full and high. Her brilliant light flooded the open spaces between the buildings, casting into black darkness the shadows beneath. In one of these Thandar lurked. He saw that the temple was guarded. Before its only entrance squatted two warriors. How was he to pass them? He moved to the end of the shadow of the house beneath which he spied as far from the guards as possible; but still discovery seemed certain were he to attempt to rush across the intervening space. He was at a loss as to what next to do. It seemed foolish to risk all now upon a bold advance—the time for such a risk would be when he had found the goddess and learned if she were Nadara, or another; but how might he cross that strip of moonlight and enter the temple past the two guards, without risk? He moved silently to the far end of the building, in the shadows of which he watched. For some time he stood looking across at his goal, so near, and yet seemingly infinitely farther from attainment than the day he had left the coast in search of it. He noted the long poles stuck into the ground at irregular intervals about the structure. He wondered at the significance of the rude carving upon them, of the barbaric capitals sometimes topped by the head-dress of a savage warrior, again by a dried and grinning skull, or perhaps the rudely chiseled likeness of a hideous human face. Upon many of the poles were hung shields, weapons, clothing and earthenware vessels. One especially was so weighted down by its heterogeneous burden that it leaned drunkenly against the eaves of the temple. Thandar's eye followed it upward to where it touched the crudely shingled roof. The suggestion was sufficient—where his eye had climbed he would climb. There was only the moonlight to make the attempt perilous. If the clouds would but come! But there was no indication of clouds in the star shot sky. He looked toward the guards. They lolled at the opposite end of the temple, only one of them being visible. The other was hidden by the angle of the building. The back of the fellow whom Thandar could see was turned toward the cave man. If they remained thus for a moment he could reach the roof unnoticed. But then there was the danger of discovery from one of the other buildings. An occasional whiff of tobacco smoke told him that some of the men were still awake upon the verandahs where most of the youths and bachelors slept. Thandar crawled to where he could see the only verandah which directly faced the portion of the temple he had chosen for his attempted entrance. For an hour he watched the rising and falling glow of the cigarettes of two of the native men, and listened to the low hum of their conversation. The hour seemed to drag into an eternity, but at last the glowing butt of first one cigarette and then another was flicked over into the grass and silence reigned upon the verandah. For half an hour longer Thandar waited. The guards before the temple still squatted as before. The one Thandar could see seemed to have fallen asleep, for his head drooped forward upon his breast. The time had come. There was no need of further delay or reconnaisance—if he was to be discovered that would be the end of it, and it would not profit him one iota to know a second or so in advance of the alarm that he had been detected. So he did not waste time in stealthy advance, or in much looking this way and that. Instead he moved swiftly, though silently, directly across the open, moonlit space to the foot of the leaning pole. He did not cast a glance behind nor to the right nor left. His whole attention was riveted upon the thing in hand. Thandar had scaled the rickety, toppling saplings of the cliff dwellers for so long that this pole offered no greater difficulties to him than would an ordinary staircase to you or me. First he tested it with eyes and hands to know that it rested securely at the top and that beneath his weight it would not move noisily out of its present position. Assured that it seemed secure, Thandar ran up it with the noiseless celerity of a cat. Gingerly he stepped upon the roof, not knowing the manner of its construction, which might be weak thatching that would give beneath him and precipitate him into the interior beneath. To his surprise and consternation he found that the roof was of wood, and quite as solid as one could imagine. It had been his plan to enter the temple from above, but now it seemed that he was to be thwarted, for he could not hope to cut silently through a wooden roof with his parang in the few hours that intervened before dawn. He stooped to examine the roof minutely with eyes and fingers. The moonlight was brilliant. In it he could see quite well. He pulled away the thin palm frond thatch. Beneath were shingles hand hewn from billian. In each was a small square hole through which was passed a strip of rattan that bound the shingle to the frame of the roof. Thandar lifted away the thatching over a little space some two feet square. Then he inserted the point of his keen parang beneath a rattan tie string, and an instant later had lifted aside a shingle. Another and another followed the first until an opening in the roof had been made large enough to easily admit his body. Thandar leaned over and peered into the darkness beneath. He could see nothing. His own body was between the moon and the hole in the roof, shutting out the rays of the satellite from the interior. The man lowered his legs cautiously over the edge of the hole. Feeling about, his feet came in contact with a rafter. A moment later his whole body had disappeared within the temple. Clinging to the edge of the hole with one hand, Thandar squatted upon the rafter above the temple floor. Now that his body no longer clogged the aperture in the roof the moonlight poured through it throwing a brilliant flood upon a portion of the floor at the opposite side of the interior. The balance was feebly lighted by the diffused moonlight. The temple seemed to consist of a single large room. In the center was a raised platform, and also about the walls. From the rafters hung baskets containing human skulls—one swung directly in the moonlight beneath Thandar. He could see its grisly contents plainly. His eyes followed the moonlight toward the area which it touched upon the far side of the room. It reminded Waldo Emerson of a spot light thrown from the gallery of a theater upon the stage. Directly in the center of the light a woman lay asleep upon the platform. Thandar's heart stood still. About her figure was wrapped the glossy hide of Nagoola. Over one bare, brown arm billowed a wealth of thick, black hair, fine as silk, upon the third finger of the left hand blazed a large solitaire. The woman's face was turned toward the wall—but Thandar knew that he could not be mistaken—it was Nadara. From the rafter upon which he squatted to the floor below was not over twelve or fifteen feet. Thandar swung downward, clinging to the rafter with his hands, and dropped, cat-like, upon his naked feet to the floor below. The almost noiseless descent was sufficient, however, to awaken the sleeper. With the quickness of a panther she swung around and was upon her feet facing the man almost at the instant he alighted. The moonlight was now full upon her face. Thandar rushed forward to take her in his arms. "Nadara!" he whispered. "Thank God!" The girl shrank back. She recognized the voice and the figure; but—her Thandar was dead! How could it be that he had returned from death? She was frightened. The man saw the evident terror of her action, and paused. "What is the matter, Nadara?" he asked. "Don't you know me? Don't you know Thandar?" "Thandar is dead," she whispered. The man laughed. In a few words he explained that he had been stunned, but not killed, by the earthquake. Then he came to her side and took her in his arms. "Do I feel like a dead man?" he asked. She put her arms about his neck and drew his face down to hers. She was sobbing. Thandar's back was toward the doorway of the temple. Nadara was facing it. As she raised her eyes to his again her face went deadly white, and she dragged and pushed him suddenly out of the brilliant patch of moonlight. "The guard!" she whispered. "I just saw something move beyond the door." Thandar stepped behind one of the tree trunks that supported the roof, looking toward the entrance. Yes, there was a man even now coming into the temple. His eyes were wide with surprise as he glanced upward toward the hole in the roof. Then he looked in the direction of the platform upon which Nadara had been sleeping. When he saw that it was empty he ran back to the doorway and called his companion. As he did so Thandar grasped Nadara's hand and drew her around the opposite side of the temple where the shadows were blackest, toward the doorway. They had reached the end of the room when the two warriors came running in, jabbering excitedly. One of them had passed half-way across the temple, and Thandar and Nadara had almost reached the door when the second savage caught sight of them. With a cry of warning to his companion he turned upon them with drawn parang. As the fellow rushed forward Thandar drew the pistol the pirates had given him and fired point blank at the fellow's breast. With a howl the man staggered back and collapsed upon the floor. Then his fellow rushed to the attack. Thandar had no time to reload. He handed the weapon to Nadara. "In the pouch at my right side are cartridges," he said. "Get out several of them, and when I can I will reload." As he spoke they had been edging toward the doorway. From the street beyond they could already hear excited voices raised in questioning. The shot had aroused the village. Now the fellow with the parang was upon them. Thandar was clumsy with the unaccustomed weapon with which he tried to meet the attack of the skilled savage. There could have been but one outcome to the unequal struggle had not Nadara, always quick-witted and resourceful, snatched a long spear from the temple wall. As she dragged it down there fell with it a clattering skull that broke upon the floor between the fighters. A howl of dismay and rage broke from the lips of the head-hunter. This was sacrilege. The holy of the holies had been profaned. With renewed ferocity he leaped to close quarters with Thandar, but at the same instant Nadara lunged the sharp pointed spear into his side, his guard dropped and Thandar's parang fell full upon his skull. "Come!" cried Nadara. "Make your escape the way you came. There is no hope for you if you remain. I will tell them that the two guards fought between themselves for me—that one killed the other, and that I shot the victor to save myself. They will believe me—I will tell them that I have always had the pistol hidden beneath my robe. Good-bye, my Thandar. We cannot both escape. If you remain we may both die—you, certainly." Thandar shook his head vehemently. "We shall both go—or both die," he replied. Nadara pressed his hand. "I am glad," was all that she said. The savages were pouring from their long houses. The street before the temple was filling with them. To attempt to escape in that direction would have been but suicidal. "Is there no other exit?" asked Thandar. "There is a small window in the back of the temple," replied Nadara, "in a little room that is sometimes used as a prison for those who are to die, but it lets out into another street which by this time is probably filled with natives." "There is the floor," cried Thandar. "We will try the floor there." He ran to the main entrance to the temple, and closed the doors. Then he dragged the two corpses before them, and a long wooden bench. There was no other movable thing in the temple that had any considerable weight. This done he took Nadara's hand and together the two ran for the little room. Here again they barricaded the door, and Thandar turned toward the floor. With his parang he pried up a board—it was laid but roughly upon the light logs that were the beams. Another was removed with equal ease, and then he lowered Nadara to the ground beneath the temple. Clinging to the piling, Thandar replaced the boards above his head before he, too, dropped to the ground at Nadara's side. The streets upon either side of the temple were filled with savages. They could hear them congregating before the entrance to the temple where all was now quiet and still within. They were bolstering their courage by much shouting to the point that would permit them to enter and investigate. They called the names of the guards, but there was no response. "Give me the pistol," said Thandar. He loaded it, keeping several cartridges ready in his hand. Then, with Nadara at his side, he crept to the back of the temple. Pigs, routed from their slumbers, grunted and complained. A dog growled at them. Thandar silenced it with a cut from his parang. When they reached the edge of the shadow beneath the temple they saw that there were only a few natives upon this side of the structure, and they were hurrying rapidly toward the front of the building. A hundred yards away was the jungle. Now a sudden quiet fell upon the horde before the temple doors. There was the sound of hammering, then a pushing, scraping noise, and presently shouts of savage rage—the dead bodies of the guardsmen had been discovered. Now, from above, came the padding of naked feet running through the temple. The street behind was momentarily deserted. "Now!" whispered Thandar. He seized Nadara's hand, and together the two raced from beneath the temple out into the moonlight and across the intervening space between the long houses toward the jungle. Half-way across, a belated native, emerging from the verandah of a nearby house, saw them. He set up a terrific yell and dashed toward them. Thandar's pistol roared, and the savage dropped; but the signal had been given and before the two reached the jungle a screaming horde of warriors was upon their heels. Thandar was confused. He had lost his bearings since entering the village and the temple. He turned toward Nadara. "I do not know the way to the coast," he cried. The girl took his hand. "Follow me," she said, and to the memories of each leaped the recollection of the night she had led him through the forest from the cliffs of the bad men. Once again was Waldo Emerson Smith-Jones, the learned, indebted to the greater wisdom of the unlettered cave girl for his salvation. Unerringly Nadara ran through the tangled jungle in the direction of the coast. Though she had been but once over the way she followed the direct line as unerringly as though each tree was blazed and sign posts marked each turn. Behind them came the noise of the pursuit, but always Nadara and Thandar fled ahead of it, not once did it gain upon them during the long hours of flight. It was noon before they reached the coast. They came out at the camp of the pirates, but to Thandar's dismay it was deserted. Tsao Ming had waited the allotted time and gone. If Thandar had but known it, the picturesque cut-throat had overstayed the promised period, and had but scarce left when the fugitives emerged from the jungle beside the beach. In fact his rude craft was but out of sight beyond the northern promontory. A pistol shot would have recalled him; but Thandar did not know it, and so he turned dejectedly to search for the hidden canoe. It lay behind the little clump of bushes that had hidden Thandar the morning that he had saved Tsao Ming's life, several hundred yards to the south. All signs of pursuit had now ceased, and so the two walked slowly in the direction of the craft. They found it just where Tsao Ming had promised that it would be. It was well and staunchly repaired, and in addition contained a goodly supply of food and water. Thandar blessed Tsao Ming, the unhung murderer. Together they dragged the frail thing to the water's edge, and were about to shove it out when, with a chorus of savage yells, a score or more of the head-hunters leaped from the jungle and bore down upon them. Thandar turned to meet them with drawn pistol. "Get the canoe into the water, Nadara," he called to the girl. "I will hold them off until it is launched, then we may be able to reach deep water before they can overtake us." Nadara struggled with the unwieldy boat which the rollers picked up and hurled back upon her each time she essayed to launch it. From the corner of his eye Thandar saw the difficulties that the girl was having. Already the horde was half-way across the beach, running rapidly toward them. The man feared to fire except at close range since his unfamiliarity with firearms rendered him an extremely poor shot. However, it was evident that Nadara could not launch the thing alone, and so Thandar turned his pistol upon the approaching savages, pulled the trigger, and wheeled to assist the girl. More by chance than skill the bullet lodged in the body of the foremost head-hunter. The fellow rolled screaming to the sand, and as one his companions came to a sudden halt. But seeing that Thandar was busy with the boat and not appearing to intend to follow up his shot they presently resumed the charge. Thandar and Nadara were having all that they could attend to with the canoe and so the savages came to the water's edge before they realized their proximity. When he saw them, Thandar wheeled and fired again, then picking the canoe up bodily above his head he struggled out through the surf, Nadara walking by his side, steadying him. After them came the savages—perhaps half a dozen of the bolder, when suddenly a great roller caught them all, pursuers and pursued, sweeping them out into deep water. Thandar and Nadara clung to the canoe, but the head-hunters were dragged down by the undertow. Upon the beach, yelling, threatening and gesticulating, danced thirty or forty baffled savages; but now Thandar and Nadara had crawled into the craft, which the outgoing tide was carrying rapidly from shore, and with the aid of the paddle were soon safely out upon the bosom of the Pacific. Safely? # CHAPTER XII: PIRATES As the tide and wind carried the light craft out to sea, and the shore line sank beneath the horizon behind them, Waldo Emerson looked out upon the future as he did upon the tumbling waste of desolate water encircling them, with utter hopelessness. Once before he had passed by a miracle through the many-sided menaces of the sea; but that he should be so fortunate again he could not hope. And now Nadara was with him. Before, only his own suffering and death had been possible; now he must face the greater agony of witnessing Nadara's. The wind, blowing a steady gale, was raising a considerable sea. The vast billows rolled, one upon the heels of another, with the regularity of infantry units doubling at review. The wind and the sea seemed to have been made to order for the frail vessel that bore Thandar and Nadara. It rode the long, ponderous waves like a cork; its crude sail caught the wind and bellied bravely to it, driving the boat swiftly over the water. And scarce had the shore behind them sunk forever from their sight than dead ahead another shore line showed. Thandar could scarce believe his eyes. He rubbed them and looked again. Then he asked Nadara to look. "What is that ahead?" he asked. The girl half rose with an exclamation of joy. "Land!" she cried. And land it was. The wind, driving them madly, carried them toward the north end of what appeared to be a large island. Angry breakers pounded a rocky coast line. To strike there would mean instant death to them both. But would they strike? As they neared the point of the island it became evident to Thandar that they would be borne past it. Could he hope to stem the speed of the little craft and turn it back into the sheltered water in the lee of the land? The chances were more than even that the canoe would capsize the instant he cut away the sail and attempted to paddle across the wind, as would be necessary to come about the end of the island. But there seemed no other way. He handed his parang to Nadara, telling her to be ready to cut the rawhide strips that supported the sail the instant that he gave the word. With his paddle clutched tightly in his hands he knelt in the stern, watching the progress of the canoe past the rocky point. At this extremity of the island a narrow tongue of land ran far out into the sea. It was past the outer point of this tongue that the canoe was racing. When they had passed Thandar realized the rashness of attempting to turn the canoe into the trough of the sea even for the little distance that would have been necessary to make the shelter of the point, where, almost within reach, he could see the peaceful bosom of unruffled water lying safely behind the island. And yet as he looked ahead upon the limitless waste of ocean before them he knew that one risk was no greater than the other, and then an alternative plan occurred to him. He would run a short distance past the point and then turn almost directly back and attempt to paddle the canoe in the calm water, running nearly into the face of the wind, thus avoiding the dangers of the trough. There was but a single drawback to this plan—the question of his ability to drive the canoe against the gale. At least it was worth trying. He gave Nadara the word to cut down the sail, and at the same instant, the canoe being upon the crest of a wave, he bent to the paddle. As the panther skin tumbled at the foot of the rough mast the nose of the craft swung around in reply to Thandar's vigorous strokes. So intent were both upon the life and death struggle that they were waging with the elements that neither saw the long, low-lying craft that shot from the mouth of a small harbor behind them as they came into view upon the lee side of the island. For a moment the canoe hung broadside to the wind. Thandar struggled frantically to carry it about. Down they dropped into the trough of a great sea. Above them hung the overleaning tower of the wave's crest ready to topple upon them its tons of water. The canoe rose, still broadside, almost to the crest of the wave—then the thing broke upon them. When Thandar came to the surface his first thought was for Nadara. He looked about as he shook the water from his eyes. Almost at his side Nadara's head rose from the sea. As her eyes met his a smile touched her lips. "This is better," she shouted. "Now we can reach shore," and turning she struck out for land. Just behind her swam Thandar. He knew that Nadara was like a fish in water, but he doubted her ability as he doubted his own to reach the shore in the face of both wind and tide. A wave carried them high in air, and from its crest both saw simultaneously a long craft in the hollow beneath them, and noted the fierce aspect of her crew. Nadara, fearing all men but Thandar, would have attempted to elude the craft, but the glimpse that the man had had of those aboard her had convinced him that he had fallen by good fortune into the company of Tsao Ming and his crew. "They are friends," he screamed to Nadara, and so they let the boat come alongside and pick them up; but no sooner had Thandar obtained a good look at the occupants than he discovered that never a face among them had he seen before. They were of the same type as Tsao Ming's motley horde, nor did Waldo Emerson need inquire their vocation—thief and murderer were writ upon every countenance. They jabbered questions at Nadara and Thandar in an assortment of dialects which neither could understand, and it was only after the craft had been anchored in the little bay and the party had waded to shore that Thandar tried speaking with them in pidgin English. Several among them understood him, and he was not long in making it plain to them that they would be paid well if they carried him and Nadara to a civilized port. The leader, who seemed to be a full blooded negro, laughed at him, ridiculing the idea that an almost naked man could pay for his liberty. At the same time the fellow cast such greedy glances at Nadara that Thandar became convinced that the fellow, for reasons of his own, preferred not to believe that they could pay in money for their liberty. It seemed that the party had been about to embark for another portion of the western coast of the island where the main body of the horde lay. They had but been waiting for three of their crew who had gone inland hunting, when they had seen the canoe and put out to capture its occupants. Now they returned to the little harbor to pick up their fellows, and continue toward the main camp. The black was for dispatching Thandar at once as their boat was already overcrowded, but there were others who counselled him against it, reminding him of the probable anger of their chief, who saw only in a dead prisoner the loss of a possible ransom. At last the hunters returned and all embarked. Soon the boat had passed out of the bay and was making its way south along the west coast of the island. It was almost dark when her nose was turned toward shore and the long sweeps brought into play as the sail sagged to the foot of the mast. Between two small, overlapping points that hid what lay behind, they passed into a landlocked harbor. As the boat breasted the end of the inner point, Thandar sprang to his feet with a cry of joy and amazement. Not a hundred yards away, riding quietly upon the mirror-like surface of the water, lay the _Priscilla_. The pirates looked at their prisoner in astonishment. The black rose with clenched fists as though prepared to strike him. "_Priscilla ahoy!_" shrieked Waldo Emerson. "Help! Help!" The negro grinned. There was no response from the white yacht. Then the men told Thandar that they had captured the vessel several weeks before, and were holding her crew prisoners upon land awaiting the return of the chief who had been unaccountably absent for a long time. When Waldo Emerson told them that the yacht belonged to his father the black was glad that he had not killed him, for he should bring a fat ransom. It was dark when they landed, and Thandar and Nadara were forced into squalid huts that lay side by side with several others just above the beach. For a long time the man could not sleep. His mind was occupied with doubts as to the fate of his father and mother. Nadara had told him that both had been aboard the _Priscilla_. She had said nothing of the treatment accorded her by Mrs. Smith-Jones, but Waldo had guessed near the truth, and he had seen that the sight of the _Priscilla_ had awakened no enthusiasm or happiness in the girl. After a while he dozed only to be awakened by the sound of movement outside his hut. There was something sinister in the stealthiness of the sound. Silently Thandar rose and crept to the door. The pirates had made no attempt to secure their prisoners—there was no possibility of their escaping from the island. Thandar put his head out into the lesser darkness of the night. He muttered a little growl of rage and fear, for what he saw was the huge, dark bulk of a man crawling into Nadara's hut. Instantly the American followed. At the door of the girl's shelter he paused to listen. Within he heard a sudden exclamation of fright and the sound of a scuffle. Then he was within the darkness, and a moment later stumbled against a man. Thandar's fingers sought the throat. He made no sound. The other wheeled upon him with a knife. Thandar had expected it. His forearm warded the first blow, and running down the forearm of the other his hand found the knife wrist. Then commenced the struggle within the Stygian blackness of the interior of the hut. Back and forth across the mud floor the two staggered and reeled—the one attempting to wrench free the hand that held the knife—the other seeking a hold upon the throat of his antagonist while he strove to maintain his grip upon the other's wrist. The heavy breathing of the two rose and fell upon the silence of the night—that and the scuffling of their feet were the only sounds of combat. Nadara could not assist Thandar—she knew that it was he who had come to her rescue though she could not see him. At last, with a superhuman effort, the night prowler broke away from Thandar. For a moment silence reigned in the hut. None of the three could see the other. From beneath his panther skin Thandar drew the long pistol that Tsao Ming had given him, but he dared not fire for fear of hitting Nadara, nor dared he ask her to speak that he might know her position, for then would he have divulged his own to his antagonist. For minutes that seemed hours the three stood in utter silence, endeavoring to stifle their breathing. Then Thandar heard a cautious movement upon the opposite side of the room. Was it his foe, or Nadara. He raised his pistol level with a man's breast, and then very cautiously he too moved to one side. At the slight sound of his movement there came a sudden flash and deafening roar from across the hut—the enemy had fired, and in the flash of his gun all within the interior was lighted for an instant, and Thandar saw the giant black not two paces from him, and to the man's left stood Nadara, safe from a shot from Thandar's pistol. The black, not knowing that Thandar was armed, had not guessed that his chance shot was to prove his own death messenger. The instant that the flash of the other's gun revealed his whereabouts Thandar's pistol gave an answering roar, and simultaneously Thandar leaped to one side, running swiftly to grapple with the black from the side; but when he came to him, instead of meeting with ferocious resistance as he had expected, he stumbled over his dead body. But now the whole camp was awake. The pirates were running hither and thither shouting questions and orders in their many tongues. Confusion reigned supreme, and in the midst of it Thandar grasped Nadara's hand and ran from the hut. Back of the other huts he ran until he had passed the end of the camp. Then he turned down toward the water. It was his intention to reach a boat and make his way to the _Priscilla_. Behind them the confusion of the camp grew as the pirates searched the huts for an explanation of the two shots—there could have been no better opportunity for escape. Drawn up on the beach was one of the _Priscilla's_ own boats. Together Thandar and Nadara pushed it off, and a moment later were rowing rapidly toward the yacht. It was with a feeling of unbounded security and elation that Waldo Emerson clambered over the side and drew Nadara after him; but his elation was short lived for scarcely had he set foot upon the deck than he was seized from behind by half a dozen brawny villains who had been upon guard on board the _Priscilla_ and had seen the two put off from shore, watched their flight toward the yacht and lain in wait for them as they clambered over the side. The balance of the night they were kept prisoners upon the _Priscilla_; but early the next morning they were taken ashore. There they found all the pirates congregated outside one of the huts. Within were the passengers and crew of the _Priscilla_. As Thandar and Nadara approached they were seized and hustled toward the doorway—with an accompaniment of oriental oaths they were pushed into the interior. Standing about in disconsolate and unhappy groups were the crew of the _Priscilla_, Captain Burlinghame and Mr. and Mrs. Smith-Jones. As his eyes fell upon the last, Waldo Emerson ran toward her with outstretched arms. With a horrified shriek Mrs. Smith-Jones dodged behind her husband and the captain. Waldo came to a sudden halt. The two men eyed him threateningly. He looked straight into his father's face. "Don't you know me, Father," he asked. John Alden Smith-Jones' jaw dropped. "Waldo Emerson," he cried. "It cannot be possible!" Mrs. Smith-Jones emerged from retreat. "Waldo Emerson!" she echoed. "It cannot be!" "But it is, Mother," cried the young man. "What awful apparel!" said Mrs. Smith-Jones after she had embraced her son. Then her eyes wandered to Nadara, who had been standing in demure silence just within the doorway. "You?" she gasped. "You are not dead?" Nadara shook her head, and Waldo Emerson hastened to recount her adventures since Stark's attack upon her on the deck of the _Priscilla_. Mrs. Smith-Jones approached the girl. She placed a hand upon her shoulder. "I have been doing a great deal of thinking since last I saw you," she said, "and the result of it is that I am going to do something that I have never before done in my life—I am going to ask your pardon; I treated you shamefully. I do not need to ask if my son loves you—you have already told me that you love him—and his eyes have told me where his heart lies. "For long nights I lay awake thinking of the horror of it, and almost praying that he might be dead rather than come back to find you waiting for him in Boston—that was before you went overboard. You had no birth or family, and that to me meant everything; but since I thought that you were both dead I discovered that I recalled many things about you that were infinitely to be preferred over birth and breeding. "I cannot tell you just what they are—only I cannot blame my son for loving you. Only you must discard that horrible garment for something presentable." "Mother!" shouted Waldo Emerson, as he threw his arms about her. "I knew that you would love her, too, if you ever knew her." Just then the door opened and one of the pirates entered. "Come," he said. They filed out past him. From those outside they learned that it had been decided to kill them all and after looting the _Priscilla_, sink her, as a man-of-war had been sighted cruising off the coast early in the morning. In their terror they had decided to wait no longer for the absent chief, and all thoughts of ransom were forgotten in the mad desire to erase every vestige of their piracy. The victims looked at one another in horror. They were entirely surrounded by the pirates, and one by one were securely bound that there might be no chance of any escaping. The plan was to lead them inland to the densest part of the jungle and there to cut their throats and leave their corpses to the vultures. The pirates appeared to derive much pleasure in recounting their plan to the prisoners. At last all were bound and the death march commenced. The last of the long line of hope forsaken prisoners and brutal, gibing cut-throats had disappeared in the jungle when a rude craft made its way into the harbor. At sight of the _Priscilla_ it hesitated and prepared to fly, but seeing no sign of life aboard it, approached, and finding the decks deserted, mounted. In the cabins the newcomers discovered two Malays asleep. These they awoke with much laughter and rude jests. The two guards leaped to their feet, feeling for their pistols; but when they saw who had surprised them they grinned broadly and jabbered volubly. They addressed all their remarks to a huge and villainous fellow whom they called chief. He it was whom the pirates had awaited, and whose prolonged absence had resulted in the determination to execute the prisoners of the _Priscilla_. When the chief learned of what was going on in the jungle he cursed and bellowed in rage. He saw many thousand liangs of sycee evaporating before his eyes. Shouting orders to his fellows to follow him he leaped into the craft that had brought them to the _Priscilla_, and a moment later was pushing rapidly toward the shore. Without waiting to draw the boat upon the beach the chief plunged into the jungle, his men at his heels. Far ahead of him trudged the weary and fear-sickened prisoners, lashed onward with sticks and the flats of murderous parangs. At last the pirates halted in a tangled mass of vegetation. "Here," said one; but another thought they should proceed a little further. For a few minutes the two men argued, then the first drew his parang and advanced upon Thandar. "Here!" he insisted and swung the blade about his head. A sudden crashing of the underbrush and loud and angry shouts caused him to turn his eyes in the direction of the interruption. The prisoners, too, looked. What they saw was not particularly reassuring—only another very ferocious appearing and exceeding wrathful pirate followed by a half dozen other villains. He rushed into the midst of the group, knocking men to right and left. The wicked looking fellows who had bullied and cowed the frightened prisoners but a few moments before now looked the picture of abject terror. The chief came to a halt before the man with the bared parang. His face was livid, and working spasmodically with rage and excitement. He tried to speak, and then he turned his eyes upon Thandar, standing there bound ready for decapitation. As his gaze fell upon this prisoner his eyes went wide, and then he turned upon the would-be executioner, and with a mighty blow felled him. That seemed to loose his tongue, and from his mouth flowed a torrent of the most awful abuse the prisoners had ever heard. It was directed toward the men who had dared contemplate this thing without his sanction, and principally against the cowering unfortunate who had not dared rise from where his chief's heavy fist had sprawled him. "And you would have killed Thandar," he shrieked. "Thandar, who saved my life!" And then he fell to kicking the prostrate man until Thandar himself was forced to intercede in the wretch's behalf. With the coming of Tsao Ming the troubles of the prisoners evaporated in thin air, for when he found that the owner of the _Priscilla_ was Thandar's father he restored the yacht and all the loot that his men had taken from it to their rightful owners. Nor would he have stopped there had they permitted him to have his way, which was no less than to behead half a dozen of his unfortunate lieutenants who had been over-zealous in the performance of their piratical duties. Tsao Ming's picturesque villains replenished the water casks of the _Priscilla_ and carried aboard her a sufficient stock of provisions to insure her company a plentiful table to Honolulu, the port they had chosen as their first stop. And when the preparations were completed a dozen piratical prahus escorted the white yacht a hundred miles upon her northward journey, firing a farewell salute with volley after volley from the little, brass six-pounders in their bows. As the tiny fleet diminished to mere specks astern, disappearing beneath the southern horizon, a white flanneled man with close cropped blonde hair, and a slender, black haired girl in simple shirt waist and duck skirt watched them from the deck of the _Priscilla_. An involuntary sigh escaped the lips of each, and they turned and looked into one another's eyes. "We are leaving a cruel world that has been kind to us," said the man, "for with all its cruelties it gave us each other and reunited us when we were separated." "Will civilization be more kind?" asked the girl. Thandar shook his head. "I do not know," he replied. # CHAPTER XIII: HOMEWARD BOUND At Honolulu Waldo Emerson Smith-Jones and Nadara were married. Before the ceremony there had been some discussion as to what name should be used in describing Nadara in the formal contract. "Nadara" alone seemed too brief and meaningless to the precise Mrs. Smith-Jones; but Waldo Emerson and the girl insisted that it was her name and all-sufficient. So, in lieu of another name, it was finally decided by all that "Nadara" could not be legally improved upon. Prior to the ceremony, which took place on board the _Priscilla_, Mr. and Mrs. John Alden Smith-Jones, Captain Cecil Burlinghame, several invited guests from amongst officials and friends in Honolulu, and the crew of the _Priscilla_ presented gifts to the bride. Captain Burlinghame in presenting his proffered a few words in explanation of it. "To you, Nadara," he said, "these trinkets will hold a deeper meaning and a greater value than to another, for they come from your own forgotten island, where they lay for twenty years until, by chance, I picked them up close by the sea. The poor lady to whom they once belonged you never knew—it is quite possible that she never was upon your savage coast—and how her jewels came there must always remain a mystery. But two things you hold in common with her, for she was a lady and she was very beautiful." He held toward Nadara in his open palm a little worn bag of the skins of small rodents, sewn together with bits of gut. At sight of it both the girl and Waldo Emerson exclaimed in astonishment. Nadara took the bag wonderingly in her hands and dumped the contents into her palm. Waldo pressed forward. "Did you know to whom those belonged?" he asked Burlinghame. "To Eugenie Marie Celeste de la Valois, Countess of Crecy," replied the captain. "They belonged to Nadara's mother," returned Waldo. "Her foster parents were present at her birth and took these jewels from the poor woman's body after she had passed away. She was washed ashore in a boat in which there was only a dead man beside herself—Nadara was born that night." And so, when the clergyman had performed the marriage ceremony he entered upon the certificate in the space provided there for the name of the woman: Nadara de la Valois. And they are living in Boston now in a wonderful home that you have seen if you ever have been to Boston and been driven about in one of those great sight-seeing motor busses, for the place is pointed out to all visitors because of the beauty of its architecture and the fame that attaches to the historic and aristocratic name of its owner, which, as it happens, is not Smith-Jones at all. THE END
217	--- title: The fire of Asshurbanipal author: Robert E. Howard tags: Fiction, Short Story, Adventure, Horror preview: The tale of a silent dead sea of black stone set in the drifting sands of the desert, and of a flaming gem clutched in the bony fingers of a skeleton on an ancient throne. word count: 9191 ... # The Fire of Asshurbanipal Yar Ali squinted carefully down the blue barrel of his Lee-Enfield, called devoutly on Allah and sent a bullet through the brain of a flying rider. "_Allaho akbar!_" The big Afghan shouted in glee, waving his weapon above his head, "God is great! By Allah, _sahib_, I have sent another one of the dogs to Hell!" His companion peered cautiously over the rim of the sand-pit they had scooped with their hands. He was a lean and wiry American, Steve Clarney by name. "Good work, old horse," said this person. "Four left. Look—they're drawing off." The white-robed horsemen were indeed reining away, clustering together just out of accurate rifle-range, as if in council. There had been seven when they had first swooped down on the comrades, but the fire from the two rifles in the sand-pit had been deadly. "Look, _sahib_—they abandon the fray!" Yar Ali stood up boldly and shouted taunts at the departing riders, one of whom whirled and sent a bullet that kicked up sand thirty feet in front of the pit. "They shoot like the sons of dogs," said Yar Ali in complacent self-esteem. "By Allah, did you see that rogue plunge from his saddle as my lead went home? Up, _sahib_; let us run after them and cut them down!" Paying no attention to this outrageous proposal—for he knew it was but one of the gestures Afghan nature continually demands—Steve rose, dusted off his breeches and gazing after the riders, now white specks far out on the desert, said musingly: "Those fellows ride as if they had some set purpose in mind—not a bit like men running from a licking." "Aye," agreed Yar Ali promptly and seeing nothing inconsistent with his present attitude and recent bloodthirsty suggestion, "they ride after more of their kind—they are hawks who give up their prey not quickly. We had best move our position quickly, Steve _sahib_. They will come back—maybe in a few hours, maybe in a few days—it all depends on how far away lies the oasis of their tribe. But they will be back. We have guns and lives—they want both. And behold." The Afghan levered out the empty shell and slipped a single cartridge into the breech of his rifle. "My last bullet, _sahib_." Steve nodded. "I've got three left." The raiders whom their bullets had knocked from the saddle had been looted by their own comrades. No use searching the bodies which lay in the sand for ammunition. Steve lifted his canteen and shook it. Not much water remained. He knew that Yar Ali had only a little more than he, though the big Afridi, bred in a barren land, had used and needed less water than did the American; although the latter, judged from a white man's standards, was hard and tough as a wolf. As Steve unscrewed the canteen cap and drank very sparingly, he mentally reviewed the chain of events that had led them to their present position. Wanderers, soldiers of fortune, thrown together by chance and attracted to each other by mutual admiration, he and Yar Ali had wandered from India up through Turkistan and down through Persia, an oddly assorted but highly capable pair. Driven by the restless urge of inherent wanderlust, their avowed purpose—which they swore to and sometimes believed themselves—was the accumulation of some vague and undiscovered treasure, some pot of gold at the foot of some yet unborn rainbow. Then in ancient Shiraz they had heard of the Fire of Asshurbanipal. From the lips of an ancient Persian trader, who only half believed what he repeated to them, they heard the tale that he in turn had heard from the babbling lips of delirium, in his distant youth. He had been a member of a caravan, fifty years before, which, wandering far on the southern shore of the Persian Gulf trading for pearls, had followed the tale of a rare pearl far into the desert. The pearl, rumored found by a diver and stolen by a shaykh of the interior, they did not find, but they did pick up a Turk who was dying of starvation, thirst and a bullet wound in the thigh. As he died in delirium, he babbled a wild tale of a silent dead city of black stone set in the drifting sands of the desert far to the westward, and of a flaming gem clutched in the bony fingers of a skeleton on an ancient throne. He had not dared bring it away with him, because of an overpowering brooding horror that haunted the place, and thirst had driven him into the desert again, where Bedouins had pursued and wounded him. Yet he had escaped, riding hard until his horse fell under him. He died without telling how he had reached the mythical city in the first place, but the old trader thought he must have come from the northwest—a deserter from the Turkish army, making a desperate attempt to reach the Gulf. The men of the caravan had made no attempt to plunge still further into the desert in search of the city; for, said the old trader, they believed it to be the ancient, ancient City of Evil spoken of in the _Necronomicon_ of the mad Arab Al-hazred—the city of the dead on which an ancient curse rested. Legends named it vaguely: the Arabs called it _Beled-el-Djinn_, the City of Devils, and the Turks, _Kara-Shehr_, the Black City. And the gem was that ancient and accursed jewel belonging to a king of long ago, whom the Grecians called Sardanapalus and the Semitic peoples Asshurbanipal. ~ Steve had been fascinated by the tale. Admitting to himself that it was doubtless one of the ten thousand cock-and-bull myths mooted about the East, still there was a possibility that he and Yar Ali had stumbled onto a trace of that pot of rainbow gold for which they searched. And Yar Ali had heard hints before of a silent city of the sands; tales had followed the eastbound caravans over the high Persian uplands and across the sands of Turkistan, into the mountain country and beyond—vague tales, whispers of a black city of the djinn, deep in the hazes of a haunted desert. So, following the trail of the legend, the companions had come from Shiraz to a village on the Arabian shore of the Persian Gulf, and there had heard more from an old man who had been a pearl-diver in his youth. The loquacity of age was on him and he told tales repeated to him by wandering tribesmen who had them in turn from the wild nomads of the deep interior; and again Steve and Yar Ali heard of the still black city with giant beasts carved of stone, and the skeleton sultan who held the blazing gem. And so, mentally swearing at himself for a fool, Steve had made the plunge, and Yar Ali, secure in the knowledge that all things lay on the lap of Allah, had come with him. Their scanty supply of money had been just sufficient to provide riding-camels and provisions for a bold flying invasion of the unknown. Their only chart had been the vague rumors that placed the supposed location of Kara-Shehr. There had been days of hard travel, pushing the beasts and conserving water and food. Then, deep in the desert they invaded, they had encountered a blinding sand-wind in which they had lost the camels. After that came long miles of staggering through the sands, battered by a flaming sun, subsisting on rapidly dwindling water from their canteens, and food Yar Ali had in a pouch. No thought of finding the mythical city now. They pushed on blindly, in hope of stumbling upon a spring; they knew that behind them no oases lay within a distance they could hope to cover on foot. It was a desperate chance, but their only one. Then white-clad hawks had swooped down on them, out of the haze of the skyline, and from a shallow and hastily scooped trench the adventurers had exchanged shots with the wild riders who circled them at top speed. The bullets of the Bedouins had skipped through their makeshift fortifications, knocking dust into their eyes and flicking bits of cloth from their garments, but by good chance neither had been hit. Their one bit of luck, reflected Clarney, as he cursed himself for a fool. What a mad venture it had been, anyway! To think that two men could so dare the desert and live, much less wrest from its abysmal bosom the secrets of the ages! And that crazy tale of a skeleton hand gripping a flaming jewel in a dead city—bosh! What utter rot! He must have been crazy himself to credit it, the American decided with the clarity of view that suffering and danger bring. "Well, old horse," said Steve, lifting his rifle, "let's get going. It's a toss-up if we die of thirst or get sniped off by the desert-brothers. Anyway, we're doin' no good here." "God gives," agreed Yar Ali cheerfully. "The sun sinks westward. Soon the coolness of night will be upon us. Perhaps we shall find water yet, _sahib_. Look, the terrain changes to the south." Clarney shaded his eyes against the dying sun. Beyond a level, barren expanse of several miles width, the land did indeed become more broken; aborted hills were in evidence. The American slung his rifle over his arm and sighed. "Heave ahead; we're food for the buzzards anyhow." ~ The sun sank and the moon rose, flooding the desert with weird silver light. Drifted sand glimmered in long ripples, as if a sea had suddenly been frozen into immobility. Steve, parched fiercely by a thirst he dared not fully quench, cursed beneath his breath. The desert was beautiful beneath the moon, with the beauty of a cold marble lorelei to lure men to destruction. What a mad quest! his weary brain reiterated; the Fire of Asshurbanipal retreated into the mazes of unreality with each dragging step. The desert became not merely a material wasteland, but the gray mists of the lost eons, in whose depths dreamed sunken things. Clarney stumbled and swore; was he failing already? Yar Ali swung along with the easy, tireless stride of the mountain man, and Steve set his teeth, nerving himself to greater effort. They were entering the broken country at last, and the going became harder. Shallow gullies and narrow ravines knifed the earth with wavering patterns. Most of them were nearly filled with sand, and there was no trace of water. "This country was once oasis country," commented Yar Ali. "Allah knows how many centuries ago the sand took it, as the sand has taken so many cities in Turkistan." They swung on like dead men in a gray land of death. The moon grew red and sinister as she sank, and shadowy darkness settled over the desert before they had reached a point where they could see what lay beyond the broken belt. Even the big Afghan's feet began to drag, and Steve kept himself erect only by a savage effort of will. At last they toiled up a sort of ridge, on the southern side of which the land sloped downward. "We rest," declared Steve. "There's no water in this hellish country. No use in goin' on for ever. My legs are stiff as gun-barrels. I couldn't take another step to save my neck. Here's a kind of stunted cliff, about as high as a man's shoulder, facing south. We'll sleep in the lee of it." "And shall we not keep watch, Steve _sahib_?" "We don't," answered Steve. "If the Arabs cut our throats while we're asleep, so much the better. We're goners anyhow." With which optimistic observation Clarney lay down stiffly in the deep sand. But Yar Ali stood, leaning forward, straining his eyes into the elusive darkness that turned the star-flecked horizons to murky wells of shadow. "Something lies on the skyline to the south," he muttered uneasily. "A hill? I cannot tell, or even be sure that I see anything at all." "You're seeing mirages already," said Steve irritably. "Lie down and sleep." And so saying Steve slumbered. The sun in his eyes awoke him. He sat up, yawning, and his first sensation was that of thirst. He lifted his canteen and wet his lips. One drink left. Yar Ali still slept. Steve's eyes wandered over the southern horizon and he started. He kicked the recumbent Afghan. "Hey, wake up, Ali. I reckon you weren't seeing things after all. There's your hill—and a queer-lookin' one, too." The Afridi woke as a wild thing wakes, instantly and completely, his hand leaping to his long knife as he glared about for enemies. His gaze followed Steve's pointing fingers and his eyes widened. "By Allah and by Allah!" he swore. "We have come into a land of djinn! That is no hill—it is a city of stone in the midst of the sands!" Steve bounded to his feet like a steel spring released. As he gazed with bated breath, a fierce shout escaped his lips. At his feet the slope of the ridge ran down into a wide and level expanse of sand that stretched away southward. And far away, across those sands, to his straining sight the "hill" slowly took shape, like a mirage growing from the drifting sands. He saw great uneven walls, massive battlements; all about crawled the sands like a living, sensate thing, drifted high about the walls, softening the rugged outlines. No wonder that at first glance the whole had appeared like a hill. "Kara-Shehr!" Clarney exclaimed fiercely. "Beled-el-Djinn! The city of the dead! It wasn't a pipe-dream after all! We've found it—by Heaven, we've found it! Come on! Let's go!" ~ Yar Ali shook his head uncertainly and muttered something about evil djinn under his breath, but he followed. The sight of the ruins had swept from Steve his thirst and hunger, and the fatigue that a few hours' sleep had not fully overcome. He trudged on swiftly, oblivious to the rising heat, his eyes gleaming with the lust of the explorer. It was not altogether greed for the fabled gem that had prompted Steve Clarney to risk his life in that grim wilderness; deep in his soul lurked the age-old heritage of the white man, the urge to seek out the hidden places of the world, and that urge had been stirred to the depths by the ancient tales. Now as they crossed the level wastes that separated the broken land from the city, they saw the shattered walls take clearer form and shape, as if they grew out of the morning sky. The city seemed built of huge blocks of black stone, but how high the walls had been there was no telling because of the sand that drifted high about their base; in many places they had fallen away and the sand hid the fragments entirely. The sun reached her zenith and thirst intruded itself in spite of zeal and enthusiasm, but Steve fiercely mastered his suffering. His lips were parched and swollen, but he would not take that last drink until he had reached the ruined city. Yar Ali wet his lips from his own canteen and tried to share the remainder with his friend. Steve shook his head and plodded on. In the ferocious heat of the desert afternoon they reached the ruin, and passing through a wide breach in the crumbling wall, gazed on the dead city. Sand choked the ancient streets and lent fantastic form to huge, fallen and half-hidden columns. So crumbled into decay and so covered with sand was the whole that the explorers could make out little of the original plan of the city; now it was but a waste of drifted sand and crumbling stone over which brooded, like an invisible cloud, an aura of unspeakable antiquity. But directly in front of them ran a broad avenue, the outline of which not even the ravaging sands and winds of time had been able to efface. On either side of the wide way were ranged huge columns, not unusually tall, even allowing for the sand that hid their bases, but incredibly massive. On the top of each column stood a figure carved from solid stone—great, somber images, half human, half bestial, partaking of the brooding brutishness of the whole city. Steve cried out in amazement. "The winged bulls of Nineveh! The bulls with men's heads! By the saints, Ali, the old tales are true! The Assyrians did build this city! The whole tale's true! They must have come here when the Babylonians destroyed Assyria—why, this scene's a dead ringer for pictures I've seen—reconstructed scenes of old Nineveh! And look!" He pointed down the broad street to the great building which reared at the other end, a colossal, brooding edifice whose columns and walls of solid black stone blocks defied the winds and sands of time. The drifting, obliterating sea washed about its foundations, overflowing into its doorways, but it would require a thousand years to inundate the whole structure. "An abode of devils!" muttered Yar Ali, uneasily. "The temple of Baal!" exclaimed Steve. "Come on! I was afraid we'd find all the palaces and temples hidden by the sand and have to dig for the gem." "Little good it will do us," muttered Yar Ali. "Here we die." "I reckon so." Steve unscrewed the cap of his canteen. "Let's take our last drink. Anyway, we're safe from the Arabs. They'd never dare come here, with their superstitions. We'll drink and then we'll die, I reckon, but first we'll find the jewel. When I pass out, I want to have it in my hand. Maybe a few centuries later some lucky son-of-a-gun will find our skeletons—and the gem. Here's to him, whoever he is!" With which grim jest Clarney drained his canteen and Yar Ali followed suit. They had played their last ace; the rest lay on the lap of Allah. ~ They strode up the broad way, and Yar Ali, utterly fearless in the face of human foes, glanced nervously to right and left, half expecting to see a horned and fantastic face leering at him from behind a column. Steve himself felt the somber antiquity of the place, and almost found himself fearing a rush of bronze war chariots down the forgotten streets, or to hear the sudden menacing flare of bronze trumpets. The silence in dead cities was so much more intense, he reflected, than that on the open desert. They came to the portals of the great temple. Rows of immense columns flanked the wide doorway, which was ankle-deep in sand, and from which sagged massive bronze frameworks that had once braced mighty doors, whose polished woodwork had rotted away centuries ago. They passed into a mighty hall of misty twilight, whose shadowy stone roof was upheld by columns like the trunks of forest trees. The whole effect of the architecture was one of awesome magnitude and sullen, breath-taking splendor, like a temple built by somber giants for the abode of dark gods. Yar Ali walked fearfully, as if he expected to awake sleeping gods, and Steve, without the Afridi's superstitions, yet felt the gloomy majesty of the place lay somber hands on his soul. No trace of a footprint showed in the deep dust on the floor; half a century had passed since the affrighted and devil-ridden Turk had fled these silent halls. As for the Bedouins, it was easy to see why those superstitious sons of the desert shunned this haunted city—and haunted it was, not by actual ghosts, perhaps, but by the shadows of lost splendors. As they trod the sands of the hall, which seemed endless, Steve pondered many questions: How did these fugitives from the wrath of frenzied rebels build this city? How did they pass through the country of their foes?—for Babylonia lay between Assyria and the Arabian desert. Yet there had been no other place for them to go; westward lay Syria and the sea, and north and east swarmed the "dangerous Medes", those fierce Aryans whose aid had stiffened the arm of Babylon to smite her foe to the dust. Possibly, thought Steve, Kara-Shehr—whatever its name had been in those dim days—had been built as an outpost border city before the fall of the Assyrian empire, whither survivals of that over-throw fled. At any rate it was possible that Kara-Shehr had outlasted Nineveh by some centuries—a strange, hermit city, no doubt, cut off from the rest of the world. Surely, as Yar Ali had said, this was once fertile country, watered by oases; and doubtless in the broken country they had passed over the night before, there had been quarries that furnished the stone for the building of the city. Then what caused its downfall? Did the encroachment of the sands and the filling up of the springs cause the people to abandon it, or was Kara-Shehr a city of silence before the sands crept over the walls? Did the downfall come from within or without? Did civil war blot out the inhabitants, or were they slaughtered by some powerful foe from the desert? Clarney shook his head in baffled chagrin. The answers to those questions were lost in the maze of forgotten ages. "_Allaho akbar!_" They had traversed the great shadowy hall and at its further end they came upon a hideous black stone altar, behind which loomed an ancient god, bestial and horrific. Steve shrugged his shoulders as he recognized the monstrous aspect of the image—aye, that was Baal, on which black altar in other ages many a screaming, writhing, naked victim had offered up its naked soul. The idol embodied in its utter, abysmal and sullen bestiality the whole soul of this demoniac city. Surely, thought Steve, the builders of Nineveh and Kara-Shehr were cast in another mold from the people of today. Their art and culture were too ponderous, too grimly barren of the lighter aspects of humanity, to be wholly human, as modern man understands humanity. Their architecture was repellent; of high skill, yet so massive, sullen and brutish in effect as to be almost beyond the comprehension of moderns. The adventurers passed through a narrow door which opened in the end of the hall close to the idol, and came into a series of wide, dim, dusty chambers connected by column-flanked corridors. Along these they strode in the gray ghostly light, and came at last to a wide stair, whose massive stone steps led upward and vanished in the gloom. Here Yar Ali halted. "We have dared much, _sahib_," he muttered. "Is it wise to dare more?" Steve, aquiver with eagerness, yet understood the Afghan's mind. "You mean we shouldn't go up those stairs?" "They have an evil look. To what chambers of silence and horror may they lead? When djinn haunt deserted buildings, they lurk in the upper chambers. At any moment a demon may bite off our heads." "We're dead men anyhow," grunted Steve. "But I tell you—you go on back through the hall and watch for the Arabs while I go upstairs." "Watch for a wind on the horizon," responded the Afghan gloomily, shifting his rifle and loosening his long knife in its scabbard. "No Bedouin comes here. Lead on, _sahib_. Thou'rt mad after the manner of all Franks, but I would not leave thee to face the djinn alone." So the companions mounted the massive stairs, their feet sinking deep into the accumulated dust of centuries at each step. Up and up they went, to an incredible height, until the depths below merged into a vague gloom. "We walk blind to our doom, _sahib_," muttered Yar Ali. "_Allah il allah_—and Muhammad is his Prophet! Nevertheless, I feel the presence of slumbering Evil and never again shall I hear the wind blowing up the Khyber Pass." Steve made no reply. He did not like the breathless silence that brooded over the ancient temple, nor the grisly gray light that filtered from some hidden source. Now above them the gloom lightened somewhat and they emerged into a vast circular chamber, grayly illumined by light that filtered in through the high, pierced ceiling. But another radiance lent itself to the illumination. A cry burst from Steve's lips, echoed by Yar Ali. ~ Standing on the top step of the broad stone stair, they looked directly across the broad chamber, with its dust-covered heavy tile floor and bare black stone walls. From about the center of the chamber, massive steps led up to a stone dais, and on this dais stood a marble throne. About this throne glowed and shimmered an uncanny light, and the awe-struck adventurers gasped as they saw its source. On the throne slumped a human skeleton, an almost shapeless mass of moldering bones. A fleshless hand sagged outstretched upon the broad marble throne-arm, and in its grisly clasp there pulsed and throbbed like a living thing, a great crimson stone. The Fire of Asshurbanipal! Even after they had found the lost city Steve had not really allowed himself to believe that they would find the gem, or that it even existed in reality. Yet he could not doubt the evidence of his eyes, dazzled by that evil, incredible glow. With a fierce shout he sprang across the chamber and up the steps. Yar Ali was at his heels, but when Steve would have seized the gem, the Afghan laid a hand on his arm. "Wait!" exclaimed the big Muhammadan. "Touch it not yet, _sahib_! A curse lies on ancient things—and surely this is a thing triply accursed! Else why has it lain here untouched in a country of thieves for so many centuries? It is not well to disturb the possessions of the dead." "Bosh!" snorted the American. "Superstitions! The Bedouins were scared by the tales that have come down to "em from their ancestors. Being desert-dwellers they mistrust cities anyway, and no doubt this one had an evil reputation in its lifetime. And nobody except Bedouins have seen this place before, except that Turk, who was probably half demented with suffering. "These bones may be those of the king mentioned in the legend—the dry desert air preserves such things indefinitely—but I doubt it. May be Assyrian—most likely Arab—some beggar that got the gem and then died on that throne for some reason or other." The Afghan scarcely heard him. He was gazing in fearful fascination at the great stone, as a hypnotized bird stares into a serpent's eye. "Look at it, _sahib_!" he whispered. "What is it? No such gem as this was ever cut by mortal hands! Look how it throbs and pulses like the heart of a cobra!" Steve was looking, and he was aware of a strange undefined feeling of uneasiness. Well versed in the knowledge of precious stones, he had never seen a stone like this. At first glance he had supposed it to be a monster ruby, as told in the legends. Now he was not sure, and he had a nervous feeling that Yar Ali was right, that this was no natural, normal gem. He could not classify the style in which it was cut, and such was the power of its lurid radiance that he found it difficult to gaze at it closely for any length of time. The whole setting was not one calculated to soothe restless nerves. The deep dust on the floor suggested an unwholesome antiquity; the gray light evoked a sense of unreality, and the heavy black walls towered grimly, hinting at hidden things. "Let's take the stone and go!" muttered Steve, an unaccustomed panicky dread rising in his bosom. "Wait!" Yar Ali's eyes were blazing, and he gazed, not at the gem, but at the sullen stone walls. "We are flies in the lair of the spider! _Sahib_, as Allah lives, it is more than the ghosts of old fears that lurk over this city of horror! I feel the presence of peril, as I have felt it before—as I felt it in a jungle cavern where a python lurked unseen in the darkness—as I felt it in the temple of Thuggee where the hidden stranglers of Siva crouched to spring upon us—as I feel it now, tenfold!" Steve's hair prickled. He knew that Yar Ali was a grim veteran, not to be stampeded by silly fear or senseless panic; he well remembered the incidents referred to by the Afghan, as he remembered other occasions upon which Yar Ali's Oriental telepathic instinct had warned him of danger before that danger was seen or heard. "What is it, Yar Ali?" he whispered. The Afghan shook his head, his eyes filled with a weird mysterious light as he listened to the dim occult promptings of his subconsciousness. "I know not; I know it is close to us, and that it is very ancient and very evil. I think----" Suddenly he halted and wheeled, the eery light vanishing from his eyes to be replaced by a glare of wolf-like fear and suspicion. "Hark, _sahib_!" he snapped. "Ghosts or dead men mount the stair!" Steve stiffened as the stealthy pad of soft sandals on stone reached his ear. "By Judas, Ali!" he rapped; "something's out there----" The ancient walls re-echoed to a chorus of wild yells as a horde of savage figures flooded the chamber. For one dazed insane instant Steve believed wildly that they were being attacked by re-embodied warriors of a vanished age; then the spiteful crack of a bullet past his ear and the acrid smell of powder told him that their foes were material enough. Clarney cursed; in their fancied security they had been caught like rats in a trap by the pursuing Arabs. ~ Even as the American threw up his rifle, Yar Ali fired point-blank from the hip with deadly effect, hurled his empty rifle into the horde and went down the steps like a hurricane, his three-foot Khyber knife shimmering in his hairy hand. Into his gusto for battle went real relief that his foes were human. A bullet ripped the turban from his head, but an Arab went down with a split skull beneath the hillman's first, shearing stroke. A tall Bedouin clapped his gun-muzzle to the Afghan's side, but before he could pull the trigger, Clarney's bullet scattered his brains. The very number of the attackers hindered their onslaught on the big Afridi, whose tigerish quickness made shooting as dangerous to themselves as to him. The bulk of them swarmed about him, striking with simitar and rifle-stock while others charged up the steps after Steve. At that range there was no missing; the American simply thrust his rifle muzzle into a bearded face and blasted it into a ghastly ruin. The others came on, screaming like panthers. And now as he prepared to expend his last cartridge, Clarney saw two things in one flashing instant—a wild warrior who, with froth on his beard and a heavy simitar uplifted, was almost upon him, and another who knelt on the floor drawing a careful bead on the plunging Yar Ali. Steve made an instant choice and fired over the shoulder of the charging swordsman, killing the rifleman—and voluntarily offering his own life for his friend's; for the simitar was swinging at his own head. But even as the Arab swung, grunting with the force of the blow, his sandaled foot slipped on the marble steps and the curved blade, veering erratically from its arc, clashed on Steve's rifle-barrel. In an instant the American clubbed his rifle, and as the Bedouin recovered his balance and again heaved up the simitar, Clarney struck with all his rangy power, and stock and skull shattered together. Then a heavy ball smacked into his shoulder, sickening him with the shock. As he staggered dizzily, a Bedouin whipped a turban-cloth about his feet and jerked viciously. Clarney pitched headlong down the steps, to strike with stunning force. A gun-stock in a brown hand went up to dash out his brains, but an imperious command halted the blow. "Slay him not, but bind him hand and foot." As Steve struggled dazedly against many gripping hands, it seemed to him that somewhere he had heard that imperious voice before. ~ The American's downfall had occurred in a matter of seconds. Even as Steve's second shot had cracked, Yar Ali had half severed a raider's arm and himself received a numbing blow from a rifle-stock on his left shoulder. His sheep-skin coat, worn despite the desert heat, saved his hide from half a dozen slashing knives. A rifle was discharged so close to his face that the powder burnt him fiercely, bringing a bloodthirsty yell from the maddened Afghan. As Yar Ali swung up his dripping blade the rifleman, ashy-faced, lifted his rifle above his head in both hands to parry the downward blow, whereat the Afridi, with a yelp of ferocious exultation, shifted as a jungle-cat strikes and plunged his long knife into the Arab's belly. But at that instant a rifle-stock, swung with all the hearty ill-will its wielder could evoke, crashed against the giant's head, laying open the scalp and dashing him to his knees. With the dogged and silent ferocity of his breed, Yar Ali staggered blindly up again, slashing at foes he could scarcely see, but a storm of blows battered him down again, nor did his attackers cease beating him until he lay still. They would have finished him in short order then, but for another peremptory order from their chief; whereupon they bound the senseless knife-man and flung him down alongside Steve, who was fully conscious and aware of the savage hurt of the bullet in his shoulder. He glared up at the tall Arab who stood looking down at him. "Well, _sahib_," said this one—and Steve saw he was no Bedouin—"do you not remember me?" Steve scowled; a bullet wound is no aid to concentration. "You look familiar—by Judas!—you are! Nureddin El Mekru!" "I am honored! The _sahib_ remembers!" Nureddin salaamed mockingly. "And you remember, no doubt, the occasion on which you made me a present of—this?" The dark eyes shadowed with bitter menace and the shaykh indicated a thin white scar on the angle of his jaw. "I remember," snarled Clarney, whom pain and anger did not tend to make docile. "It was in Somaliland, years ago. You were in the slave-trade then. A wretch of a nigger escaped from you and took refuge with me. You walked into my camp one night in your high-handed way, started a row and in the ensuing scrap you got a butcher-knife across your face. I wish I'd cut your lousy throat." "You had your chance," answered the Arab. "Now the tables are turned." "I thought your stamping-ground lay west," growled Clarney; "Yemen and the Somali country." "I quit the slave-trade long ago," answered the shaykh. "It is an outworn game. I led a band of thieves in Yemen for a time; then again I was forced to change my location. I came here with a few faithful followers, and by Allah, those wild men nearly slit my throat at first. But I overcame their suspicions, and now I lead more men than have followed me in years. "They whom you fought off yesterday were my men—scouts I had sent out ahead. My oasis lies far to the west. We have ridden for many days, for I was on my way to this very city. When my scouts rode in and told me of two wanderers, I did not alter my course, for I had business first in Beled-el-Djinn. We rode into the city from the west and saw your tracks in the sand. We followed them, and you were blind buffalo who heard not our coming." Steve snarled. "You wouldn't have caught us so easy, only we thought no Bedouin would dare come into Kara-Shehr." Nureddin nodded. "But I am no Bedouin. I have traveled far and seen many lands and many races, and I have read many books. I know that fear is smoke, that the dead are dead, and that djinn and ghosts and curses are mists that the wind blows away. It was because of the tales of the red stone that I came into this forsaken desert. But it has taken months to persuade my men to ride with me here. "But—I am here! And your presence is a delightful surprize. Doubtless you have guessed why I had you taken alive; I have more elaborate entertainment planned for you and that Pathan swine. Now—I take the Fire of Asshurbanipal and we will go." ~ He turned toward the dais, and one of his men, a bearded one-eyed giant, exclaimed, "Hold, my lord! Ancient evil reigned here before the days of Muhammad! The djinn howl through these halls when the winds blow, and men have seen ghosts dancing on the walls beneath the moon. No man of mortals has dared this black city for a thousand years—save one, half a century ago, who fled shrieking. "You have come here from Yemen; you do not know the ancient curse on this foul city, and this evil stone, which pulses like the red heart of Satan! We have followed you here against our judgment, because you have proven yourself a strong man, and have said you hold a charm against all evil beings. You said you but wished to look on this mysterious gem, but now we see it is your intention to take it for yourself. Do not offend the djinn!" "Nay, Nureddin, do not offend the djinn!" chorused the other Bedouins. The shaykh's own hard-bitten ruffians, standing in a compact group somewhat apart from the Bedouins, said nothing; hardened to crimes and deeds of impiety, they were less affected by the superstitions of the desert men, to whom the dread tale of the accursed city had been repeated for centuries. Steve, even while hating Nureddin with concentrated venom, realized the magnetic power of the man, the innate leadership that had enabled him to overcome thus far the fears and traditions of ages. "The curse is laid on infidels who invade the city," answered Nureddin, "not on the Faithful. See, in this chamber have we overcome our _kafar_ foes!" A white-bearded desert hawk shook his head. "The curse is more ancient than Muhammad, and recks not of race or creed. Evil men reared this black city in the dawn of the Beginnings of Days. They oppressed our ancestors of the black tents, and warred among themselves; aye, the black walls of this foul city were stained with blood, and echoed to the shouts of unholy revel and the whispers of dark intrigues. "Thus came the stone to the city: there dwelt a magician at the court of Asshurbanipal, and the black wisdom of ages was not denied to him. To gain honor and power for himself, he dared the horrors of a nameless vast cavern in a dark, untraveled land, and from those fiend-haunted depths he brought that blazing gem, which is carved of the frozen flames of Hell! By reason of his fearful power in black magic, he put a spell on the demon which guarded the ancient gem, and so stole away the stone. And the demon slept in the cavern unknowing. "So this magician—Xuthltan by name—dwelt in the court of the sultan Asshurbanipal and did magic and forecast events by scanning the lurid deeps of the stone, into which no eyes but his could look unblinded. And men called the stone the Fire of Asshurbanipal, in honor of the king. "But evil came upon the kingdom and men cried out that it was the curse of the djinn, and the sultan in great fear bade Xuthltan take the gem and cast it into the cavern from which he had taken it, lest worse ill befall them. "Yet it was not the magician's will to give up the gem wherein he read strange secrets of pre-Adamite days, and he fled to the rebel city of Kara-Shehr, where soon civil war broke out and men strove with one another to possess the gem. Then the king who ruled the city, coveting the stone, seized the magician and put him to death by torture, and in this very room he watched him die; with the gem in his hand the king sat upon the throne—even as he has sat throughout the centuries—even as now he sits!" The Arab's finger stabbed at the moldering bones on the marble throne, and the wild desert men blenched; even Nureddin's own scoundrels recoiled, catching their breath, but the shaykh showed no sign of perturbation. "As Xuthltan died," continued the old Bedouin, "he cursed the stone whose magic had not saved him, and he shrieked aloud the fearful words which undid the spell he had put upon the demon in the cavern, and set the monster free. And crying out on the forgotten gods, Cthulhu and Koth and Yog-Sothoth, and all the pre-Adamite Dwellers in the black cities under the sea and the caverns of the earth, he called upon them to take back that which was theirs, and with his dying breath pronounced doom on the false king, and that doom was that the king should sit on his throne holding in his hand the Fire of Asshurbanipal until the thunder of Judgment Day. "Thereat the great stone cried out as a live thing cries, and the king and his soldiers saw a black cloud spinning up from the floor, and out of the cloud blew a fetid wind, and out of the wind came a grisly shape which stretched forth fearsome paws and laid them on the king, who shriveled and died at their touch. And the soldiers fled screaming, and all the people of the city ran forth wailing into the desert, where they perished or gained through the wastes to the far oasis towns. Kara-Shehr lay silent and deserted, the haunt of the lizard and the jackal. And when some of the desert-people ventured into the city they found the king dead on his throne, clutching the blazing gem, but they dared not lay hand upon it, for they knew the demon lurked near to guard it through all the ages—as he lurks near even as we stand here." The warriors shuddered involuntarily and glanced about, and Nureddin said, "Why did he not come forth when the Franks entered the chamber? Is he deaf, that the sound of the combat has not awakened him?" "We have not touched the gem," answered the old Bedouin, "nor had the Franks molested it. Men have looked on it and lived; but no mortal may touch it and survive." ~ Nureddin started to speak, gazed at the stubborn, uneasy faces and realized the futility of argument. His attitude changed abruptly. "I am master here," he snapped, dropping a hand to his holster. "I have not sweat and bled for this gem to be balked at the last by groundless fears! Stand back, all! Let any man cross me at the peril of his head!" He faced them, his eyes blazing, and they fell back, cowed by the force of his ruthless personality. He strode boldly up the marble steps, and the Arabs caught their breath, recoiling toward the door; Yar Ali, conscious at last, groaned dismally. God! thought Steve, what a barbaric scene!—bound captives on the dust-heaped floor, wild warriors clustered about, gripping their weapons, the raw acrid scent of blood and burnt powder still fouling the air, corpses strewn in a horrid welter of blood, brains and entrails—and on the dais, the hawk-faced shaykh, oblivious to all except the evil crimson glow in the skeleton fingers that rested on the marble throne. A tense silence gripped all as Nureddin stretched forth his hand slowly, as if hypnotized by the throbbing crimson light. And in Steve's subconsciousness there shuddered a dim echo, as of something vast and loathsome waking suddenly from an age-long slumber. The American's eyes moved instinctively toward the grim cyclopean walls. The jewel's glow had altered strangely; it burned a deeper, darker red, angry and menacing. "Heart of all evil," murmured the shaykh, "how many princes died for thee in the Beginnings of Happenings? Surely the blood of kings throbs in thee. The sultans and the princesses and the generals who wore thee, they are dust and are forgotten, but thou blazest with majesty undimmed, fire of the world----" Nureddin seized the stone. A shuddery wail broke from the Arabs, cut through by a sharp inhuman cry. To Steve it seemed, horribly, that the great jewel had cried out like a living thing! The stone slipped from the shaykh's hand. Nureddin might have dropped it; to Steve it looked as though it leaped convulsively, as a live thing might leap. It rolled from the dais, bounding from step to step, with Nureddin springing after it, cursing as his clutching hand missed it. It struck the floor, veered sharply, and despite the deep dust, rolled like a revolving ball of fire toward the back wall. Nureddin was close upon it—it struck the wall—the shaykh's hand reached for it. A scream of mortal fear ripped the tense silence. Without warning the solid wall had opened. Out of the black wall that gaped there, a tentacle shot and gripped the shaykh's body as a python girdles its victim, and jerked him headlong into the darkness. And then the wall showed blank and solid once more; only from within sounded a hideous, high-pitched, muffled screaming that chilled the blood of the listeners. Howling wordlessly, the Arabs stampeded, jammed in a battling, screeching mass in the doorway, tore through and raced madly down the wide stairs. Steve and Yar Ali, lying helplessly, heard the frenzied clamor of their flight fade away into the distance, and gazed in dumb horror at the grim wall. The shrieks had faded into a more horrific silence. Holding their breath, they heard suddenly a sound that froze the blood in their veins—the soft sliding of metal or stone in a groove. At the same time the hidden door began to open, and Steve caught a glimmer in the blackness that might have been the glitter of monstrous eyes. He closed his own eyes; he dared not look upon whatever horror slunk from that hideous black well. He knew that there are strains the human brain cannot stand, and every primitive instinct in his soul cried out to him that this thing was nightmare and lunacy. He sensed that Yar Ali likewise closed his eyes, and the two lay like dead men. ~ Clarney heard no sound, but he sensed the presence of a horrific evil too grisly for human comprehension—of an Invader from Outer Gulfs and far black reaches of cosmic being. A deadly cold pervaded the chamber, and Steve felt the glare of inhuman eyes sear through his closed lids and freeze his consciousness. If he looked, if he opened his eyes, he knew stark black madness would be his instant lot. ~ He felt a soul-shakingly foul breath against his face and knew that the monster was bending close above him, but he lay like a man frozen in a nightmare. He clung to one thought: neither he nor Yar Ali had touched the jewel this horror guarded. Then he no longer smelled the foul odor, the coldness in the air grew appreciably less, and he heard again the secret door slide in its groove. The fiend was returning to its hiding-place. Not all the legions of Hell could have prevented Steve's eyes from opening a trifle. He had only a glimpse as the hidden door slid to—and that one glimpse was enough to drive all consciousness from his brain. Steve Clarney, iron-nerved adventurer, fainted for the only time in his checkered life. How long he lay there Steve never knew, but it could not have been long, for he was roused by Yar Ali's whisper, "Lie still, _sahib_, a little shifting of my body and I can reach thy cords with my teeth." Steve felt the Afghan's powerful teeth at work on his bonds, and as he lay with his face jammed into the thick dust, and his wounded shoulder began to throb agonizingly—he had forgotten it until now—he began to gather the wandering threads of his consciousness, and it all came back to him. How much, he wondered dazedly, had been the nightmares of delirium, born from suffering and the thirst that caked his throat? The fight with the Arabs had been real—the bonds and the wounds showed that—but the grisly doom of the shaykh—the thing that had crept out of the black entrance in the wall—surely that had been a figment of delirium. Nureddin had fallen into a well or pit of some sort—Steve felt his hands were free and he rose to a sitting posture, fumbling for a pocket-knife the Arabs had overlooked. He did not look up or about the chamber as he slashed the cords that bound his ankles, and then freed Yar Ali, working awkwardly because his left arm was stiff and useless. "Where are the Bedouins?" he asked, as the Afghan rose, lifting him to his feet. "Allah, _sahib_," whispered Yar Ali, "are you mad? Have you forgotten? Let us go quickly before the djinn returns!" "It was a nightmare," muttered Steve. "Look—the jewel is back on the throne----" His voice died out. Again that red glow throbbed about the ancient throne, reflecting from the moldering skull; again in the outstretched finger-bones pulsed the Fire of Asshurbanipal. But at the foot of the throne lay another object that had not been there before—the severed head of Nureddin el Mekru stared sightlessly up at the gray light filtering through the stone ceiling. The bloodless lips were drawn back from the teeth in a ghastly grin, the staring eyes mirrored an intolerable horror. In the thick dust of the floor three spoors showed—one of the shaykh's where he had followed the red jewel as it rolled to the wall, and above it two other sets of tracks, coming to the throne and returning to the wall—vast, shapeless tracks, as of splayed feet, taloned and gigantic, neither human nor animal. "My God!" choked Steve. "It was true—and the Thing—the Thing I saw----" ~ Steve remembered the flight from that chamber as a rushing nightmare, in which he and his companion hurtled headlong down an endless stair that was a gray well of fear, raced blindly through dusty silent chambers, past the glowering idol in the mighty hall and into the blazing light of the desert sun, where they fell slavering, fighting for breath. Again Steve was roused by the Afridi's voice: "_Sahib, sahib_, in the Name of Allah the Compassionate, our luck has turned!" Steve looked at his companion as a man might look in a trance. The big Afghan's garments were in tatters, and blood-soaked. He was stained with dust and caked with blood, and his voice was a croak. But his eyes were alight with hope and he pointed with a trembling finger. "In the shade of yon ruined wall!" he croaked, striving to moisten his blackened lips. "_Allah il allah!_ The horses of the men we killed! With canteens and food-pouches at the saddle-horns! Those dogs fled without halting for the steeds of their comrades!" New life surged up into Steve's bosom and he rose, staggering. "Out of here," he mumbled. "Out of here, quick!" Like dying men they stumbled to the horses, tore them loose and climbed fumblingly into the saddles. "We'll lead the spare mounts," croaked Steve, and Yar Ali nodded emphatic agreement. "Belike we shall need them ere we sight the coast." Though their tortured nerves screamed for the water that swung in canteens at the saddle-horns, they turned the mounts aside and, swaying in the saddle, rode like flying corpses down the long sandy street of Kara-Shehr, between the ruined palaces and the crumbling columns, crossed the fallen wall and swept out into the desert. Not once did either glance back toward that black pile of ancient horror, nor did either speak until the ruins faded into the hazy distance. Then and only then did they draw rein and ease their thirst. "_Allah il allah!_" said Yar Ali piously. "Those dogs have beaten me until it is as though every bone in my body were broken. Dismount, I beg thee, _sahib_, and let me probe for that accursed bullet, and dress thy shoulder to the best of my meager ability." While this was going on, Yar Ali spoke, avoiding his friend's eye, "You said, _sahib_, you said something about—about seeing? What saw ye, in Allah's name?" A strong shudder shook the American's steely frame. "You didn't look when—when the—the Thing put back the jewel in the skeleton's hand and left Nureddin's head on the dais?" "By Allah, not I!" swore Yar Ali. "My eyes were as closed as if they had been welded together by the molten irons of Satan!" Steve made no reply until the comrades had once more swung into the saddle and started on their long trek for the coast, which, with spare horses, food, water and weapons, they had a good chance to reach. "I looked," the American said somberly. "I wish I had not; I know I'll dream about it for the rest of my life. I had only a glance; I couldn't describe it as a man describes an earthly thing. God help me, it wasn't earthly or sane either. Mankind isn't the first owner of the earth; there were Beings here before his coming—and now, survivals of hideously ancient epochs. Maybe spheres of alien dimensions press unseen on this material universe today. Sorcerers have called up sleeping devils before now and controlled them with magic. It is not unreasonable to suppose an Assyrian magician could invoke an elemental demon out of the earth to avenge him and guard something that must have come out of Hell in the first place. "I'll try to tell you what I glimpsed; then we'll never speak of it again. It was gigantic and black and shadowy; it was a hulking monstrosity that walked upright like a man, but it was like a toad, too, and it was winged and tentacled. I saw only its back; if I'd seen the front of it—its face—I'd have undoubtedly lost my mind. The old Arab was right; God help us, it was the monster that Xuthltan called up out of the dark blind caverns of the earth to guard the Fire of Asshurbanipal!" THE END
218	--- author: Edgar Rice Burroughs tags: 'United States: Ace Books, Inc., 1931, pubdate 1932., Jungles, Fiction, Adventure stories, Explorers, Cambodia' title: The land of hidden men summary: ' "The Land of Hidden Men" by Edgar Rice Burroughs is a novel written in the early 20th century. This adventurous tale follows Gordon King, a young American and medical graduate, who ventures alone into the impenetrable jungles of Cambodia in search of ancient ruins. Despite being warned by his Cambodian guide of both the physical dangers of wild animals and the supernatural horrors of the jungle, King remains undeterred, expecting an exciting exploration filled with discovery. At the start of the story, the protagonist sets out on his expedition with a sense of youthful bravado, quickly realizing the harsh realities of his environment as he grapples with heat, fatigue, and the growing awareness of lurking predators. His journey becomes increasingly treacherous and bewildering, punctuated by encounters with dangerous wildlife and the haunting suggestion of ghostly figures from Cambodian folklore. After losing his way and becoming trapped in the jungle, King''s plight takes a pivotal turn when he witnesses the spectral visions of warriors and a beautiful woman riding an elephant. Illness soon overwhelms him, leading to a remarkable narrative of survival and self-discovery as he encounters strange locals who nurse him back to health and unveil the mystical aspects of the world he has uncovered. ' word_count: 67506 fiction_type: Novel cover_blurb: Asia, vast continent of ancient civilizations and mysterious peoples, has many corners little known to the rest of the world. One such was the jungle-hidden heart of exotic Cambodia, where Gordon King, a daring American explorer, stumbled upon the thousand-year secret kingdom of THE LAND OF HIDDEN MEN. Edgar Rice Burroughs, whose Tarzan tales have enthralled millions, has written a novel of another such jungle hero that is as exciting, as adventure-packed and as imaginative as his best. The dangers Gordon King faced, his rescue of a jungle princess, and his combat against the perils of the lost city of Pnom Dhek are first-rate Burroughs to the last exciting line. ... # I: THE JUNGLE "My Lord, I may go no farther," said the Cambodian. The young white man turned in astonishment upon his native guide. Behind them lay the partially cleared trail along which they had come. It was overgrown with tall grass that concealed the tree-stumps that had been left behind the axes of the road-builders. Before them lay a ravine, at the near edge of which the trail ended. Beyond the ravine was the primitive jungle untouched by man. "Why, we haven't even started yet!" exclaimed the white man. "You cannot turn back now. What do you suppose I hired you for?" "I promised to take my lord to the jungle," replied the Cambodian. "There it is. I did not promise to enter it." Gordon King lighted a cigarette. "Let's talk this thing over, my friend," he said. "It is yet early morning. We can get into the jungle as far as I care to go and out again before sundown." The Cambodian shook his head. "I will wait for you here, my lord," he said; "but I may not enter the jungle, and if you are wise you will not." "Why?" demanded King. "There are wild elephants, my lord, and tigers," replied the Cambodian, "and panthers which hunt by day as well as by night." "Why do you suppose we brought two rifles?" demanded the white. "At Kompong-Thom they told me you were a good shot and a brave man. You knew that we should have no need for rifles up to this point. No, sir, you have lost your nerve at the last minute, and I do not believe that it is because of tigers or wild elephants." "There are other things deep in the jungle, my lord, that no man may look upon and live." "What, for example?" demanded King. "The ghosts of my ancestors," answered the Cambodian, "the Khmers who dwelt here in great cities ages ago. Within the dark shadows of the jungle the ruins of their cities still stand, and down the dark aisles of the forest pass the ancient kings and warriors and little sad-faced queens on ghostly elephants. Fleeing always from the horrible fate that overtook them in life, they pass for ever down the corridors of the jungle, and with them are the millions of the ghostly dead that once were their subjects. We might escape My Lord the Tiger and the wild elephants, but no man may look upon the ghosts of the dead Khmers and live." "We shall be out before dark," insisted King. "They are abroad both by day and by night," said the Cambodian. "It is the curse of Siva, the Destroyer." King shrugged his shoulders, stamped out his cigarette and picked up his rifle. "Wait for me here, then," he said. "I shall be out before dark." "You will never come out," said the Cambodian. Beyond the ravine, savage, mysterious, rose the jungle, its depth screened from view by the spectral trunks of fromagers and a tangle of bamboo. At first the man could find no opening in that solid wall of vegetation. In its sheath, at his side, hung a heavy knife, but already the young day was so oppressively hot that the man did not relish the idea of exhausting himself at the very outset of his adventure if he could find some easier way. That it would be still hotter he knew, for Cambodia lies but twelve degrees above the equator in the same latitude as Nicaragua, the Sudan, and other places infamous for their heat. Along the edge of the ravine he searched, until at last he was rewarded by what appeared to be not by any means a trail but a far less formidable growth of bamboo through which he saw that he might easily force his way. Glancing back, he saw his Cambodian guide squatted upon his heels in mournful meditation. For an instant the young man hesitated, as though he was of a mind to try again to persuade the Cambodian to accompany him; but, as though immediately conscious of the futility of any such appeal, he turned again and pushed his way into the jungle. He had advanced but a short distance when the heavy undergrowth gave way to a much more open forest. The spreading branches of the lofty trees cast upon the ground a perpetual shade, which had discouraged a heavy growth of underbrush. How different looked the jungle from any picture that his imagination had conjured! How mysterious, but above all, how gloomy and how sinister! A fitting haunt, indeed, for the ghosts of weeping queens and murdered kings. Beneath his breath King cursed his Cambodian guide. He felt no fear, but he did feel an unutterable loneliness. Only for a moment did he permit the gloom of the jungle to oppress him. He glanced at his watch, opened his pocket compass, and set a course as nearly due north as the winding avenues of the jungle permitted. He may have realised that he was something of a fool to have entered upon such an adventure alone; but it was doubtful that he would have admitted it even to himself, for, indeed, what danger was there? He had, he thought, sufficient water for the day; he was well armed and carried a compass and a heavy knife for trail-cutting. Perhaps he was a little short on food, but one cannot carry too heavy a load through the midday heat of a Cambodian jungle. Gordon King was a young American who had recently graduated in medicine. Having an independent income, he had no need to practise his profession; and well realising, as he did, that there are already too many poor doctors in the world, he had decided to devote himself for a number of years to the study of strange maladies. For the moment he had permitted himself to be lured from his hobby by the intriguing mysteries of the Khmer ruins of Angkor—ruins that had worked so mightily upon his imagination that it had been impossible for him to withstand the temptation of some independent exploration on his own account. What he expected to discover he did not know; perhaps the ruins of a city more mighty than Angkor Thom; perhaps a temple of greater magnificence and grandeur than Angkor Vat; perhaps nothing more than a day's adventure. Youth is like that. The jungle that had at first appeared so silent seemed to awaken at the footfall of the trespasser; scolding birds fluttered above him, and there were monkeys now that seemed to have come from nowhere. They, too, scolded as they hurtled through the lower terraces of the forest. He found the going more difficult than he had imagined, for the floor of the jungle was far from level. There were gulleys and ravines to be crossed and fallen trees across the way, and always he must be careful to move as nearly north as was physically possible, else he might come out far from his Cambodian guide when he sought to return. His rifle grew hotter and heavier; his canteen of water insisted with the perversity of inanimate objects in sliding around in front and bumping him on the belly. He reeked with sweat, and yet he knew that he could not have come more than a few miles from the point where he had left his guide. The tall grasses bothered him most, for he could not see what they hid; and when a cobra slid from beneath his feet and glided away, he realised more fully the menace of the grasses, which in places grew so high that they brushed his face. At the end of two hours King was perfectly well assured that he was a fool to go on, but there was a certain proportion of bulldog stubbornness in his make-up that would not permit him to turn back so soon. He paused and drank from his canteen. The water was warm and had an unpleasant taste. The best that might be said of it was that it was wet. To his right and a little ahead sounded a sudden crash in the jungle. Startled, he cocked his rifle and stood listening. Perhaps a dead tree had fallen, he thought, or the noise might have been caused by a wild elephant. It was not a ghostly noise at all, and yet it had a strange effect upon his nerves, which, to his disgust, he suddenly realised were on edge. Had he permitted the silly folk tale of the Cambodian to so work upon his imagination that he translated into a suggestion of impending danger every unexpected interruption of the vast silence of the jungle? Wiping the sweat from his face, he continued on his way, keeping as nearly a northerly direction as was possible. The air was filled with strange odours, among which was one more insistent than the others—a pungent, disagreeable odour that he found strangely familiar and yet could not immediately identify. Lazy air currents, moving sluggishly through the jungle, occasionally brought this odour to his nostrils, sometimes bearing but a vague suggestion of it and again with a strength that was almost sickening; and then suddenly the odour stimulated a memory cell that identified it. He saw himself standing on the concrete floor of a large building, the sides of which were lined with heavily barred cages in which lions and tigers paced nervously to and fro or sprawled in melancholy meditation of their lost freedom; and in his nostrils was the same odour that impinged upon them now. However, it is one thing to contemplate tigers from the safe side of iron bars, and it is quite another thing suddenly to realise their near presence unrestrained by bars of any sort. It occurred to him now that he had not previously considered tigers as anything more serious than a noun; they had not represented a concrete reality. But that mental conception had passed now, routed by the odour that clung in his nostrils. He was not afraid; but realising for the first time, that he was in actual danger, he advanced more warily, always on the alert. Some marshy ground and several deep ravines had necessitated various detours. It was already almost noon, the time upon which he was determined he must turn back in order that he might reach the point where he had left his guide before darkness fell upon the jungle. Constantly for some time there had lurked within his consciousness a question as to his ability to back-track upon his trail. He had had no experience in woodcraft, and he had already found it far more difficult than he had imagined it would be to maintain a true course by compass; nor had he taken the precautions to blaze his trail in any way, as he might have done by marking the trees with the heavy trail cutter that he carried. Gordon King was disgusted with himself; he had found no ruins; he was hot, tired and hungry. He realised that he had lost all interest in ruins of any and all descriptions, and after a brief rest he turned back towards the south. It was then, almost immediately, that he realised the proportions of the task that lay ahead of him. For six hours he had been plodding deep into the jungle. If he had averaged two miles an hour, he had covered a distance of twelve miles. He did not know how fast he had walked, but he realised that twelve miles was bad enough when he considered that he had started out fresh and well fortified by a hearty breakfast and that he was returning empty, tired, and footsore. However, he still believed that he could make the distance easily before dark if he could keep to the trail. He was well prepared physically by years of athletic training, having been a field and track man at college. He was glad now that he had gone in for long distance running; he had won a marathon or two and was never appalled at the thought of long distances to be covered on foot. That he could throw the javelin and hurl the discus to almost championship distances seemed less helpful to him in an emergency of the present nature than his running experience. His only regret on this score was that during the year that he had been out of college he had permitted himself to become soft—a condition that had become increasingly noticeable with every mile that he put behind him. Within the first minute that Gordon King had been upon the back-trail toward his guide he had discovered that it was absolutely impossible for his untrained eyes to find any sign of the trail that he supposed he had made coming in. The way that he thought he had come, his compass told him, let towards the south-west; but he could find no directing spoor. With a shake of his head, he resorted again to his compass; but due south pointed into a dense section of jungle through which he was positive he had not come. He wondered whether he should attempt to skirt every obstacle, thereby making long and wide detours or continue straight toward the south, deviating from his direct line only when confronted by insurmountable obstacles. The latter, he felt, would be the shortest way out of the jungle in point of distance, and he was confident that it would bring him as close to his Cambodian guide as any other route that he might elect to follow. As he approached the patch of jungle that had seemed at first to bar his way completely, he found that it was much more open than he had suspected and that, while the trees were large and grew rather close together, there was little or no underbrush. Glancing often at his compass, he entered the gloomy forest. The heat, which had grown intense, possibly aggravated the fatigue which he now realised was rapidly attaining the proportions of a real menace. He had not appreciated when he stepped out upon this foolish adventure how soft his muscles had become, and as he contemplated the miles and hours of torture that lay ahead of him, he suddenly felt very helpless and alone. The weight of his rifle, revolver, ammunition, and water represented a definite handicap that he knew might easily defeat his hope of escaping from the jungle before dark. The smell of the great cats was heavy in the air. Against this ever-present premonition of danger, however, was the fact that he had already spent over six hours in the jungle without having caught a glimpse of any of the dread Carnivora. He was convinced, therefore, that he was in little danger of attack by day and that he might have a better chance of getting out of the jungle before dark if he discarded his weapons, which would unquestionably be useless to him after dark. And then again, he argued, perhaps, after all, there were no man-eaters in the jungle, for he had heard that not all tigers were man-eaters. For the lesser cats, the panthers and leopards, he did not entertain so great a fear, notwithstanding the fact that he had been assured that they were quite as dangerous as their larger cousins. The size, the reputation and the fearful mien of My Lord the Tiger dwarfed his estimate of the formidable nature of the others. A large, flat stone, backed by denser foliage, suggested that he rest for a moment while deliberating upon the wisdom of abandoning his weapons. The canteen of water, with its depleted store of warm and unpleasant tasting liquid, he knew he must cling to until it had been emptied. Before he sat down upon the stone he leaned his rifle against a tree, and unbuckling the belt which supported his revolver and also held his ammunition, he tossed it upon the ground at his feet. What a relief! Instantly there left him the fear that he might not be able to get out of the jungle before dark. Relieved of what had become a constantly increasing burden, he felt like a new man and equal to any efforts that the return march might demand of him. He seated himself upon the flat rock and took a very small swallow from the contents of his canteen. He had been sparing of his water and he was glad that he had been, for now he was convinced that it would last him through the remainder of the day, giving him strength and refreshment when he would most need them. As he replaced the screw cap upon his canteen, he chanced to glance at the rock upon which he was sitting and for the first time was struck by the fact that it seemed incongruously out of place in the midst of this jungle of great trees and foliage. Idly he brushed an accumulation of leaf mould from its surface, and what he saw revealed beneath increased his curiosity sufficiently to cause him to expose the entire surface of the rock, disclosing in bold bas-relief the head and shoulders of a warrior. Here, then, was the reward for which he had struggled; but he found that it left him a little cold. His interest in Khmer ruins seemed to have evaporated beneath the torrid heat of the jungle. However, he still maintained sufficient curiosity to speculate upon the presence of this single relic of the past. His examination of the ruins of Angkor Thom suggested that this must have been a part of some ancient edifice and if this were true the rest must be close at hand—perhaps just behind the screen of jungle that formed the background of this solitary fragment. Rising, he turned and tried to peer through the foliage, separating the leaves and branches with his hand. A few hours before his heart would have leaped at what he glimpsed vaguely now through the leafy screen—a vast pile of masonry through whose crumbling arches he saw stately columns still defying the ruthless inroads of the jungle in the lonely, hopeless battle they had been waging through the silent centuries. And then it was that, as he stood gazing, half-fascinated by the tragic magnificence that still clung to this crumbling monument to the transient glories and the vanities of man, his eye was attracted by a movement within the ruins; just a glimpse he got where a little sunlight filtered through a fallen roof—a little patch of fawn with dark brown stripes. In the instant that he saw it, it was gone. There had been no sound, just a passing of something among the ruins. But Gordon King felt the cold sweat upon his brow as hastily he gathered up his belt and buckled it about his waist and seized his rifle. Blessed weight! He thanked God that he had not gone on without it. Forgotten were the ruins of the Khmers as he strode cautiously on through the forest, constantly alert now, looking to the right and to the left, and turning often a hasty glance behind him. Soft are the pads of the carnivores. They give forth no sound. When the end came, if it did come, he knew that there would be a sudden rush and then the terrible fangs and talons. He experienced the uncanny sensation of unseen eyes upon him. He was sure that the beast was stalking him. It was maddening not to be able to see it again. He found it necessary to consult his compass frequently in order to keep to his course. His instrument was a small one, constructed like a hunting-case watch. When the catch was released the cover flew open, releasing the needle, which, when the cover was closed, was locked in position, that its bearings might not be injured by sudden changes of position. King was on the point of checking his direction; but as he held the compass open in his hand, he thought that he heard a slight noise behind him. As he glanced back the toe of his boot struck a rock; and trying to regain his equilibrium, he stumbled into a patch of tumbled sandstone rocks, among which he sprawled heavily upon his face. Spurred by thoughts of the sound that he had heard behind him, he scrambled quickly to his feet; but though he searched the jungle as far as his eyes could reach in every direction, he could discern no sign of any menacing beast. When he had fallen he had dropped his compass, and now that he was satisfied that no danger lurked in his immediate vicinity, he set about to recover the instrument. He found it quickly enough, but one glance at it sent his heart into his boots—his compass was broken beyond possibility of repair. It was several seconds before the full measure of this calamity unfolded itself to his stunned consciousness. For a moment Gordon King was appalled by the accident that had befallen him, for he knew that it was a real catastrophe. Practically unversed in woodcraft, he found himself in a jungle overhung by foliage so dense that it was impossible to get his bearings from the sun, menaced by the ever-present danger of the great cats and faced with what he felt now was definite assurance that he would have to spend the night in these surroundings with only a remote likelihood that he ever would be able to find his way out in the event that he did not fall prey to the carnivores or to thirst. But only momentarily did he permit himself to be crushed by contemplation of his predicament. He was well armed, and he knew that he was resourceful and intelligent. Suddenly there came to him a realisation of something that gave him renewed strength and hope. Few men know until they are actually confronted by lethal danger whether at heart they are courageous or cowardly. Never before had Gordon King been called upon to make such an appraisal of himself. Alone in this mysterious forest, uninfluenced by the possibilities of the acclaim or reproaches of another, there was borne in upon his consciousness a definite realisation of self-sufficiency. He fully realised the dangers that confronted him; he did not relish them, but he felt no sensation of fear. A new feeling of confidence pervaded him as he set out again in the direction that he had been going before he had fallen and broken his compass. He was still alert and watchful, but he did not glance behind him as much as he had previously. He felt that he was making good headway, and he was sure that he was keeping a true course toward the south. Perhaps, after all, he would get out before dark, he thought. The condition that irritated him most was his increasing thirst, against which he was compelled to pit every ounce of his will power that he might conserve the small amount of water that remained in his canteen. The route he was following was much more open than that along which he had entered the jungle, so that he was buoyantly hopeful that he would come out of his predicament and the jungle before night had enveloped the gloomy haunt of the great cats; yet he realised that at best he would win by but a small margin. He was very tired now, a fact that was borne in upon him by the frequency with which he stumbled, and when he fell he found that each time it was only with increased effort that he rose again to his feet. He was rather angry with himself for this seeming weakness. He knew that there was only one thing that he could do to overcome it, and that thing he could not afford to do, for the fleeting minutes of precious daylight would not pause in their flight while he rested. As the miles fell slowly and painfully behind him and the minutes raced as though attempting to escape him and leave him to the mercy of the darkness and the tigers, the hope that had been newborn in him for a while commenced to desert him; yet he stumbled wearily on, wondering if the jungle had no end and hoping against hope that beyond the next wall of verdure he would break through into the clearing that would mean life and food and water for him. "It can't be far now," he thought, "and there must be an hour of full daylight ahead." He was almost exhausted; a little rest would renew his strength, he knew, and there, just ahead of him, was a large, flat rock. He would rest for a moment upon it and renew his strength. As he seated himself upon this hard resting-place, something upon its surface caught his horrified gaze. It was the head and shoulders of a warrior, cut in bold bas-relief. # II: THE DELIRIUM There are circumstances in which even the bravest of men experience a hopelessness of utter despair. Such was King's state of mind when he realised that he had wandered in an aimless circle since noon and was back again at his starting-point. Weakened by physical exhaustion and hunger, he contemplated the future with nothing but pessimism. He had had his chance to escape from the jungle, and he had failed. There was no reason to believe that another day might bring greater opportunity. Rest might recoup his strength slightly, but what he needed was food, and on the morrow he would set forth not with a canteen full of water, but with only a few drops with which to moisten his parched throat. He had stumbled through plenty of mud-holes during the day, but he knew that it would doubtless prove fatal to drink from such wells of pollution. As he stood there with bowed head, searching his mind for some solution of his problem, his eyes gradually returned to focus, and as they did so he saw on the surface of the soft ground beneath his gaze something that, for the moment, drove thoughts of hunger and thirst and fatigue from his mind—it was the pug of a tiger, fresh made in the soft earth. "Why worry about to-morrow?" murmured King. "If half what that Cambodian told me about this place at night is true, I'll be in luck if I see another to-morrow." He had read somewhere that tigers started to hunt late in the afternoon, and he knew that they seldom climbed trees; but he was also aware of the fact that leopards and panthers do and that the latter, especially, on account of their size and inherent viciousness, were fully as much to be dreaded as My Lord the Tiger himself. Realising that he must find some sort of shelter as quickly as possible and recalling the ruins that he had seen through the screen of foliage behind the rock before which he stood, he parted the leafy screen ahead of him and forced his way through. Here the vegetation was less dense, as though the lesser growth of the jungle had halted in fearful reverence before this awe-inspiring work of man. Majestic even in its ruin was the great rectangular pile that loomed clearly now before the eyes of the American. But not all of the jungle had feared to encroach upon its sanctity. Great trees had taken root upon its terraced walls, among its columns and its arches, and by the slow and resistless pressure of their growth had forced aside the supporting foundation and brought much of the edifice into complete ruin. Just before him rose a tower that seemed better to have withstood the ravages of time than other portions of the building. It rose some sixty feet above the ground, and near the summit was carved in heroic size the face of a god that King suspected was Siva, the Destroyer. A few feet above the rectangular doorway was a crumbling ledge and just above that a smaller opening that might have been a window. Behind it all was dark, but it carried to King's mind the suggestion of a hiding-place—a sanctuary in the very bosom of Siva. The face of the weather-worn tower offered sufficient foothold for an agile climber, and the way was made easier by the corbelled construction that supported a series of bas-reliefs rising one above another from the ground level to the edge above the doorway. It was not, however, without considerable difficulty that King, already almost exhausted, finally reached the ledge, where he sat down for a moment's rest. Just above him was the opening which he wished to investigate. As he let his thoughts precede him in that investigation of this possible refuge, they discovered, as thoughts are prone to do, enough unpleasant possibilities to cast a pall of gloom over him. Doubtless it was the den of a panther. What more secluded spot could this horrid beast discover in which to lie up after feeding or in which to bear and rear its young? The suggestion forced him to immediate action. He did not believe that there was any panther there, but he could not endure the suspense of doubt. Cocking his rifle, he arose and approached the opening, the lower sill of which was just about level with his breast as he stood upon the ledge above the doorway. Within all was black and silent. He listened intently. If there were anything hiding there, he should hear it breathe; but no sound broke the utter silence of the tomb-like vault. Pushing his rifle ahead of him, King climbed to the sill, where he remained in silence for a moment until his eyes became accustomed to the gloom of the interior, which was slightly relieved by light filtering in through a crack at one side. A few feet below him was a stone floor, and he could see dimly now that the chamber extended the full breadth and width of the tower. In the centre of the apartment rose something, the nature of which he could not distinguish; but he was sure that it was inanimate. Stepping down to the floor and advancing cautiously, his rifle ready, King made a complete circuit of the walls. There was no panther there, nor any signs that one ever had been there. Apparently the place had never been entered by any creature since that day of mystery, centuries gone, when the priests and temple girls had departed never to return. Turning toward the object in the centre of the room, King quickly identified it as the symbol of Siva and realised that he was doubtless in the Holy of Holies. Walking back to the window, he seated himself upon the sill, took a small swallow from his scant store of water and lighted a cigarette; and as the sudden night fell upon the jungle, he heard the crisp fall of padded feet upon dry leaves in the courtyard of the temple beneath him. His position, well above the floor of the jungle, imparted a feeling of security; and the quiet enjoyment of a cigarette soothed his nerves and, temporarily at least, allayed the gnawing pangs of hunger. He derived a form of mild enjoyment by speculating upon the surprise and consternation of his friends could they visualise his present situation. Perhaps uttermost in his thoughts was Susan Anne Prentice, and he knew that he would be in for a good scolding could she be aware of the predicament into which his silly and ill-advised adventure had placed him. He recalled their parting and the motherly advice she had given him. What a peach of a girl Susan Anne was! It seemed strange to him that she had never married, for there were certainly enough eligible fellows always hanging around her. He was rather glad that she had not, for he realised that he should feel lost without the promise of her companionship when he returned home. He had known Susan Anne as far back as he could remember, and they had always been pals. In the city of their birth their fathers' grounds adjoined and there was no fence between; at the little lake where they spent their summers they were next-door neighbours. Susan Anne had been as much a part of Gordon King's life as had his father or his mother, for each was an only child and they had been as close to one another as brother and sister. He remembered telling her, the night before he had left home for this trip, that she would doubtless be married by the time he returned. "No chance," she had said with an odd little smile. "I do not see why not," he had argued. "I know at least half a dozen men who are wild about you." "Not the right one," she had replied. "So there is someone?" "Perhaps." He wondered who the fellow could be and decided that he must be an awful chump not to appreciate the wonderful qualities of Susan Anne. In so far as looks were concerned, she had it on all the girls of his acquaintance, in addition whereto she had a good head on her shoulders and was a regular fellow in every other respect. Together they had often bemoaned the fact that she was not a man, that they might have palled around on his wanderings together. His reveries were blasted by a series of low, coughing roars down there somewhere in the darkness at a little distance from the ruins. They were followed by a crashing sound, as of a large body dashing through underbrush. Then there was a scream and a thud, followed by low growls and silence. King felt his scalp tingle. What tragedy of the jungle night had been enacted in that black, mysterious void? The sudden and rather terrifying noise and its equally abrupt cessation but tended to impress upon the man and to accentuate the normal, mysterious silence of the jungle. He knew that the jungle teemed with life; yet, for the most part, it moved as silently as might the ghosts of the priests and the temple girls with which imagination might easily people this crumbling ruin of the temple of the Destroyer. Often from below him and from the surrounding jungle came the suggestion of noises—furtive, stealthy sounds that might have been the ghosts of long-dead noises. Sometimes he could interpret these sounds as the cracking of a twig or the rustling of leaves beneath a padded paw, but more often there was just the sense of things below him—grim and terrible creatures that lived by death alone. And thus the night wore on, until at last day came. He had dozed intermittently, sitting upon the window ledge with his back against its ancient stone frame, his rifle across his lap. He did not feel much refreshed, but when the full light of the day had enveloped the jungle he clambered swiftly down the ruins to the ground and set out once again toward the south, filled with a determination to push on regardless of hunger and fatigue until he had escaped the hideous clutches of this dismal forest, which now seemed to him to have assumed a malignant personality that was endeavouring to foil his efforts and retain him for ever for some sinister purpose of its own. He had come to hate the jungle; he wanted to shout aloud against it the curses that were in his heart. He was impelled to discharge his rifle against it as though it were some creature barring his way to liberty. But he held himself in leash, submerging everything to the desire for escape. He found that he moved more slowly than he had upon the preceding day. Obstacles were more difficult to surmount, and he was forced to stop more often to rest. These delays galled him; but when he tried to push on more rapidly he often stumbled and fell, and each time he found it more difficult to arise. Then there dawned upon him the realisation that he might not have sufficient strength to reach the edge of the jungle, and for the first time unquestioned fear assailed him. He sat down upon the ground and, leaning his back against a tree, argued the matter out thoroughly in his own mind. At last his strength of will overcame his fears, so that realisation of the fact that he might not get out that day no longer induced an emotional panic. "If not to-day, to-morrow," he thought; "if not to-morrow, then the day after. Am I a weakling that I cannot carry on for a few days? Am I to die of starvation in a country abounding in game?" Physical stamina being so considerably influenced as it is by the condition of the mind, it was with a sense of renewed power that King arose and continued on his way, but imbued now not solely with the desire to escape immediately from the jungle but to wrest from it sustenance and strength that it might be forced to aid him in his escape even though the consummation of his hope might be deferred indefinitely. The psychological effect of this new mental attitude wrought a sudden metamorphosis. He was no longer a hunted fugitive fleeing for his life; he had become in fact a jungle dweller hunting for food and for water. The increasing heat of the advancing day had necessitated inroads upon his scant supply of the latter, yet he still had a few drops left; and these he was determined not to use until he could no longer withstand the tortures of thirst. He had by now worked out a new and definite plan of procedure; he would work constantly downhill, keeping a sharp look out for game, knowing that eventually he must come to some of the numerous small streams that would ultimately lead him to the Mekong, the large central river that bisects Cambodia on its way to the China Sea; or perchance he might hit upon one of those streams that ran south and emptied into the Tonlé-Sap. He found it much easier going downhill, and he was glad on this account that he had adopted his present plan. The nature of the country changed a little, too; open spaces were more numerous. Sometimes these flats were marshy, requiring wide detours, and usually they were covered with elephant grass that resembled the cat tails with which he had been familiar as a boy during this summer vacations in the country. He did not like these spaces because they appeared too much the natural habitat of snakes, and he recalled having read somewhere that in a single year there had been sixteen thousand recorded deaths from snake bites in British India alone. This recollection came to him while he was in the centre of a large patch of elephant grass, and consequently he moved very slowly, examining the ground ahead of him carefully at each step. This, of course, necessitated pushing the reeds apart, a slow and laborious procedure; but it also resulted in his moving more quietly; so that when he emerged from the reeds a sight met his eyes that doubtless he would not have seen had he crashed through noisily. Directly in front of him and maybe fifty paces distant under a great spreading banyan tree lay several wild pigs, all of them comfortably asleep except one old boar, which seemed to be on guard. That King's approach had not been entirely noiseless was evidenced by the fact that the great beast was standing head-on and alert, his ears up-pricked, looking straight at the point at which the man emerged from the elephant grass. For an instant man and beast stood silently eyeing one another. King saw lying near the boar a half-grown pig, that would make better eating than the tough old tusker. He brought his rifle to his shoulder and fired at the sleeping pig, expecting the remainder of the herd to turn and flee into the jungle; but he had not taken into consideration the violent disposition of the boar. The rest of the herd, awakened with startling suddenness by the unaccustomed report of the rifle, leaped to their feet, stood for an instant in bewilderment, and then turned and disappeared among the undergrowth. Not so the boar. At the crack of the rifle he charged. There is something rather awe-inspiring in the charge of a wild boar, especially if one happens to be in the path of it, as King was. Perhaps because of his unfamiliarity with the habits of wild boars, the charge was entirely unexpected; and in the brief instant that he had in which to defend himself, he realised that he did not know what was the most vulnerable spot in a boar's anatomy. All that he sensed in that all too short interval were a pair of great flashing tusks, huge jowls, two red-rimmed wicked little eyes, and a stiffly upright tail bearing down upon him with all the velocity and apparently quite the weight of a steam locomotive. There seemed to be nothing to shoot at but a face. His first shot struck the boar squarely between the eyes and dropped him, but only for an instant. Then he was up again and coming. Giving thanks for a magazine rifle, King pumped three more bullets straight into that terrifying countenance, and to the last one the great beast rolled over against King's feet. None too sure that he had more than stunned him, the man quickly put a bullet through the savage heart. It had been a close call, and he trembled a little to think what his fate might have been had he been seriously wounded and left there dying in the jungle. Assured that the boar was dead, he went quickly to the pig that had been killed instantly by his first shot. As his knife sank into the flesh, he became suddenly conscious of a change within him. He was moved by urgings that he had never sensed before. He was impelled to bury his teeth in the raw flesh and gorge himself. He realised that this was partially the result of gnawing hunger; but yet it seemed deeper, something primitive and bestial that always had been a part of him but that never before had had occasion to come to the surface. He knew in that brief instant the feeling of the wild beast for its kill. He looked quickly and furtively about to see if there might be any creature bold enough to contest his possession of the fruit of his prowess. He felt the snarling muscles of his upper lip tense and he sensed within him the rumblings of a growl, though no sound passed his lips. It required a determined effort of will-power to refrain from eating the flesh raw, so hungry was he; but he managed to conquer the urge and set about building a fire, though the meal that he finally produced was scarcely more than a compromise, the meat being charred upon the outside and raw within. After he had eaten he felt renewed strength, but now the tortures of thirst assailed him more poignantly than before. His canteen was empty; and though he had passed by stagnant pools of water during the day, he had been able to resist the temptation to drink, realising, as he did, the germs of terrible fever that lurked in these slimy pools. The next few days constituted a long nightmare of suffering and disappointment. He found his path toward the Mekong barred by impassable swamps that forced him northward over a broken terrain of ravines and ridges that taxed his rapidly waning strength. For some time after leaving the marshes he had seen no water, but upon the third day he came to a pool in the bottom of a ravine. That it was the drinking-hole of wild beasts was evidenced by the multitude of tracks in the muddy bank. The liquid was green and thick, but not for an instant did the man hesitate. Throwing himself upon his belly, he plunged his hands and face into the foul mess and drank. Neither fever nor death could be worse than the pangs of thirst. Later that day he shot a monkey and, cooking some of the flesh, appeased his hunger; and thus for several days he wandered, shooting an occasional monkey for food and drinking water wherever he found it. He was always conscious of the presence of the great cats, though only upon one or two occasions did he catch fleeting glimpses of them; but at night he heard them moving softly beneath some tree in which he had found precarious sanctuary, where he crouched nursing the hope that no leopard or panther would discover him. Occasionally he saw small herds of wild elephants, and these he always gave a wide berth. He had long given up all hope of escaping from the jungle, and he could not but wonder at man's tenacity in clinging to life in the face of suffering and hardship when he knew that at best he was but prolonging his agony and only temporarily delaying the inevitable. Seven days and seven nights he had spent in the jungle, and the last night had been the worst of all. He had dozed intermittently. The jungle had been full of noises, and he had seen strange, dim figures passing beneath him. When the eighth morning broke, he was shivering with cold. His chattering teeth reminded him of castanets. He looked about him for dancers and was surprised that he saw none. Something moved through the foliage of the jungle beneath him. It was yellowish-brown with dark stripes. He called to it and it disappeared. Quite remarkably he ceased to be cold, and instead his body burned as though consumed by internal fires. The tree in which he sat swayed dizzily, and then with an effort he pulled himself together and slipped to the ground. He found that he was very tired and that he was forced to stop to rest every few minutes, and sometimes he shook with cold and again he burned with heat. It was about noon; the sun was high and the heat terrific. King lay shivering where he had fallen at the foot of a silk-cotton tree, against the bole of which he leaned for support. Far down a jungle aisle he saw an elephant. It was not alone; there were other things preceding it—things that could not be in this deserted primeval jungle. He closed his eyes and shook his head. It was only an hallucination brought on by a touch of fever, of that he was certain. But when he opened his eyes again the elephant was still there, and he recognised the creatures that preceded it as warriors clothed in brass. They were coming closer. King crawled back into the concealing verdure of the underbrush. His head ached terribly. There was a buzzing hum in his ears that drowned all other sounds. The caravan passed within fifty feet of him, but he heard no sound. There were archers and spear men—brown men with cuirasses of burnished brass—and then came the elephant trapped in regal splendour, and in a gorgeous howdah upon its back rode a girl. He saw her profile first, and then as something attracted her attention she turned her face full toward him. It was a face of exquisite and exotic beauty, but a sad face with frightened eyes. Her trappings were more gorgeous than the trappings of the elephant. Behind her marched other warriors, but presently all were gone down the aisles of the jungle in spectral silence. "Weeping queens on misty elephants!" He had read the phrase somewhere in a book. "Gad!" he exclaimed. "What weird tricks fever plays upon one's brain. I could have sworn that what I saw was real." Slowly he staggered to his feet and pushed on, whither or in what direction he had no idea. It was a blind urge of self-preservation that goaded him forward; to what goal, he did not know; all that he knew was that if he remained where he was he must inevitably perish. Perhaps he would perish anyway, but if he went on, there was a chance. Figures, strange and familiar, passed in jumbled and fantastic procession along the corridors of his mind. Susan Anne Prentice clothed in brass rode upon the back of an elephant. A weeping queen with painted cheeks and rouged lips came and knelt beside him offering him a draft of cold, crystal-clear water from a golden goblet, but when he lifted it to his lips the goblet became a battered canteen from which oozed a slimy green liquid that burned his mouth and nauseated him. Then he saw soldiers in brass who held platters containing steaming sirloin steaks and French-fried potatoes, which changed magically to sherbert, iced tea, and waffles with maple syrup. "This will never do," thought King. "I am going absolutely daffy. I wonder how long the fever lasts, or how long it takes to finish a fellow." He was lying upon the ground at the edge of a little clearing partially hid by the tall grass into which he had sunk. Suddenly everything seemed to whirl around in circles, and then the world went black and he lost consciousness. It was very late in the afternoon when he came to; but the fever seemed to have left him, temporarily at least, and his mind was clear. "This can't go on much longer," he soliloquised. "If I don't find some place pretty soon where I can lie in safety until after the fever has passed entirely, it will be just too bad. I wonder what it feels like to be mauled by a tiger." But when he attempted to rise he discovered to his horror that he had not sufficient strength to get to his feet. He still clung to his rifle. He had long since made up his mind that in it lay his principal hope of salvation. Without it, he must go hungry and fall prey to the first beast that attacked him. He knew that if he discarded it and his heavy belt of ammunition he might stagger on a short distance and then, when he fell again, he would be helpless. As he lay there looking out into the little clearing, speculating upon his fate and trying to estimate the number of hours of life that might remain to him, he saw a strange figure enter the clearing. It was an old man with a straggly white beard growing sparsely upon his chin and upper lip. He wore a long, yellow cloak and a fantastic headdress, above which he carried a red umbrella. He moved slowly, his eyes bent upon the ground. "Damned fever," muttered King, and shut his eyes. He kept them closed for a minute or two, but when he opened them the old man was still in sight, though by this time he had almost crossed the clearing, and now there was another figure in the picture. From out of the foliage beyond the clearing appeared a savage, snarling face—a great, vicious, yellow-fanged face; yellowish-white and tan with broken markings of dark brown stripes that looked almost black—a hideous head, and yet, at the same time, a gorgeously majestic head. Slowly, silently the great tiger emerged into the clearing, its gaunt, flat-sided body moving sinuously, its yellow-green eyes blazing terribly at the back of the unconscious old man. "God, how real!" breathed King. "I could swear that I really saw them both. Only the impossible figure of that old man with the red parasol could convince me that they are both made of the same material as the spectral elephant, the weeping queen, and the brass-bound soldiers." The tiger was creeping rapidly toward the old man. His speed gradually accelerated. "I can't stand it," cried King, raising his rifle to his shoulder. "They may be only an hallucination—" There was a short coughing roar as the tiger charged, and at the same instant King squeezed the trigger of his rifle and fainted. # III: THE HUNTER Vay Thon, high priest of the temple of Siva in the city of Lodidhapura, was the source of much anxiety on the part of the lesser priests, who felt responsible to Siva and the King for the well-being of Vay Thon. But how might one cope with the vagaries of a weakness so holy and, at the same time, so erratic as that which occasionally claimed the amnesic Vay Thon? They tried to watch over him at all times, but it is difficult to maintain constant espionage over one so holy, whose offices or whose meditations may not lightly be broken in upon by lesser mortals, even though they be priests of the great god, Siva. All was well when Vay Thon confined himself in his meditations to the innermost sanctum of the Holy of Holies; here, in the safe-keeping of his god, he was isolated from mankind and safe from danger. But the meditations of Vay Thon were not always thus securely cloistered. Often he strolled along the broad terrace beside the mighty temple, where wrapped in utter forgetfulness of himself and of the world he walked in silent communion with his god. With his long, yellow cloak and his red parasol he was also a familiar figure upon the streets of Lodidhapura. Here he was often accompanied by lesser priests, who walked in cuirasses of polished brass, who marched ahead and in the rear. Of all these symbols of worldly pomp and power, Vay Thon was entirely unconscious. During those periods that he was wrapped in the oblivion of meditation and upon the numerous occasions when he had managed to leave the temple ground unperceived, he had walked through the streets of the city equally unaware of all that surrounded him. Upon three separate and distinct occasions he had been found wandering in the jungle, and Lodivarman, the King, had threatened to wreak dire punishment upon the lesser priests should harm ever befall Vay Thon during one of these excursions. It so happened that upon this very day Vay Thon had walked out of the city and into the jungle alone. That he had been able to leave a walled city, the gates of which were heavily guarded by veteran warriors, might have seemed a surprising thing to the citizens of Lodidhapura; but not so to the one familiar with the secret galleries that lay beneath the temple and the palace, through which the ancient builders of Lodidhapura might well have expected to flee the wrath of the downtrodden slaves who comprised 75 per cent. of the population. Though times have changed with the passing centuries, the almost forgotten passageways remain. It was through one of these that Vay Thon reached the jungle. He did not know that he was in the jungle. He was as totally oblivious of his surroundings as is one who is wrapped in deep and dreamless sleep. The last that the lesser priests had seen of Vay Thon was when he had entered the Holy of Holies, which houses the symbol of Siva. As they had noticed a glassy expression in his eyes, they had known that he was entering upon a period of meditation. Therefore, they maintained a watch at the entrance to the chamber, but felt no concern during the passing hours since they knew that Vay Thon was safe. What they did not know of was the loose stone in the flooring of the chamber directly behind the symbol of Siva, or the passageway beneath, which led to a ravine in the jungle beyond the city wall. And so during those hours Vay Thon wandered far into the jungle, and with him, perhaps, walked Siva, the Destroyer. His rapt meditation, which amounted to almost total unconsciousness of his mundane surroundings, was shattered by a noise of terrific violence such as had never before impinged upon the ears of Vay Thon or any other inhabitant of Lodidhapura. Awakened suddenly as from a deep sleep, the startled priest wheeled about amazed at his surroundings, but more amazed by the sight which greeted his eyes. Wallowing in its own gore scarce three paces behind him lay a great tiger in its death throes; and a little to his right, a wisp of blue smoke rose from some grasses at the edge of the clearing. When King regained consciousness he was vaguely aware of voices that seemed to be floating in the air about him. The sounds were meaningless, but they conveyed to his fevered brain an assurance of human origin. He opened his eyes. Above him was a brown face. Supporting his head and shoulders he felt the naked flesh of a human arm. His eyes wandered. Standing close was a woman, naked but for a sampot drawn diaperwise between her legs and knotted at the belt. Hiding fearfully behind her was a naked child. The man who supported him spoke to him, but in a language that he could not understand. From whence had these people come, or were they but figments of his fevered imagination like the old man with the yellow cloak and the red parasol? Were they no more real than the spectral tiger that he had shot at in his delirium? He closed his eyes in an effort to gain control of his senses, but when he opened them again the man and the woman and the child were still there. With a sigh of resignation he gave it up. His throbbing temples were unequal to the demands of sustained thought. He closed his eyes, and his chin dropped upon his breast. "He is dying," said Che, looking up at the woman. "Let us take him to our dwelling," replied Kangrey, the woman. "I will watch over him while you lead the holy priest back to Lodidhapura." As the man lifted King in his arms and turned to carry him away, the American caught a glimpse of an old man in a long, yellow cloak and a strange headdress, who carried above his head a red parasol. The American closed his eyes against the persistent hallucination of his fever. His head swam, and once again he lost consciousness. King never knew how long he remained unconscious, but when he next opened his eyes he found himself lying upon a bed of grasses in the interior of a dark retreat which he thought, at first, was a cave. Gradually he discerned the presence of a man, a woman, and a child. He did not remember ever having seen them before. The child was naked, and the man and woman were clothed only in sampots. The woman was ministering to him, forcing a liquid between his lips. Slowly and sluggishly his mind commenced to function, and at last he recalled them—the creatures of the hallucination that had conjured the image of the old man in the yellow cloak with the red parasol, and the charging tiger that he had dreamed of shooting. Would the fever never leave him? Was he to die thus alone in the sombre jungle tortured by hallucinations that might terminate only with his discovery by a tiger? But yet how real was the feeling and taste of the liquid that the woman was forcing between his lips. He could even feel the animal warmth of the bare arm that was supporting his head and shoulders. Could any figment of a fever-tortured brain be as realistic as these? Repeatedly he closed his eyes and opened them again, but always the same picture was there before him. He raised one hand weakly and touched the woman's shoulder and face. They seemed real. He was almost convinced that they were when he sank again into unconsciousness. For days Gordon King hovered between life and death. Kangrey, the woman, ministered to him, utilising the lore of the primitive jungle dweller in the brewing of medicinal potions from the herbs of the forest. Of equal or perhaps greater value were certain incantations which she droned monotonously above him. Little Uda, the child, was much impressed with all these unusual and remarkable occurrences. The stranger with the pale skin was the first momentous event of his little life. The strange clothing that his parents had removed from their helpless charge thrilled him with awe, as did the rifle, the knife, and the revolver, which he rightfully guessed to be weapons, though he had no more conception of the mechanism of the firearms than did his parents. Uda was indefatiguable in his search for the herbs and roots that Kangrey, his mother, required; and when Che returned from the hunt it was always Uda who met him first with a full and complete history of their patient's case brought down to the last minute with infinite attention to details. At last the fever broke. Though it left King weak and helpless in body, his mind was clear, and he knew at last that the man and the woman and the child were no figments of his imagination. Of course, the old man with the yellow cloak and the red parasol had been but an hallucination of a kind with the charging tiger; but this kindly brown woman, who was nursing him back to health, was real; and his eyes filled as the thanks which he could not voice welled up within his breast. A day and a night without any return of the fever or hallucination convinced King that the ministration of the kindly natives had rid him of the illness that had nearly killed him, yet he was so weak that he still had little or no hope of ultimate recovery. He had not the strength to raise a hand to his face. It required a real physical effort to turn his head from side to side upon the rough pallet of grasses upon which he lay. He noticed that they never left him alone for long. Either the woman or the child was with him during the day, and all three slept near him upon the floor of their little den at night. In the daytime the woman or the child brushed the flies and other insects from him with a leafy branch and gave him food at frequent intervals. What the food was he did not know except that it was semi-liquid, but now that his fever had passed he was so ravenous that whatever it was they gave him he relished it. One day when he had been left alone with the little boy longer than usual, the child, possibly tiring of the monotony of brushing insects from the body of the pale one, deserted his post, leaving King alone. King did not care, for much of his time, anyway, was spent in sleep and he had become so accustomed to the insects that they no longer irritated him as they formerly had. He was awakened from a sleep by the feel of a rough hand upon his face. Opening his eyes, he saw a monkey squatting beside him. When King opened his eyes the animal leaped nimbly away, and then the American saw that there were several monkeys in the chamber. They were quite the largest that he had seen in the jungle, and in his helpless condition he knew that they might constitute a real menace to his life. But they did not attack him, nor did they come close to him again; and it soon became evident that their visit was prompted solely by curiosity. A little later he heard a scraping sound behind him in one corner of the chamber. Having regained his strength during the past few days sufficiently to be able to move his head and hands with comparative ease, he turned his head to see what was going on. The sight that met his eyes would have been highly amusing had it not been fraught with the possibility of such unhappy results. The monkeys had discovered his weapons and his clothing. All had congregated at the point of interest. They were dragging the things about and chattering excitedly. They seemed to be quarrelling about something; and their chattering and scolding rose in volume until finally one old fellow, who was apparently contesting possession of the rifle with two others, leaped angrily upon them, growling and biting. Instantly the other two relinquished their holds upon the firearm and scurried to a far corner of the chamber; whereupon the victor seized the weapon again and dragged it toward the doorway. "Hey!" shouted King in the loudest voice he could muster. "Drop that; and get out of here!" The sound of the human voice seemed to startle the monkeys, but not sufficiently to cause them to relinquish the purpose they had in mind. It is true that they scampered from the chamber, but they gathered up all of King's belongings and took them with them, even to his socks. King shouted to the boy whom he had heard the parents address as Uda; but when at last the little chap came, breathless and frightened, it was too late to avert or remedy the catastrophe, even if King had been able to explain to Uda what had happened. The night when she returned, Kangrey found her patient very weak, but she did not guess the cause of it since she could not know that in the mind of the pale one was implanted the conviction that his only hope for eventual escape from the jungle had lain in the protection that the stolen weapons would have afforded him. The days and nights wore slowly on as gradual convalescence brought returning strength to the sick man. To while away the tedious hours he sought to learn the language of his benefactors; and when, finally, they understood his wish they entered with such spirit into its consummation that he found himself deluged with such a variety of new words that his mind became fogged with information. But eventually some order and understanding came out of the chaos, so that presently he was able to converse with Che and Kangrey and Uda. Thereafter his existence was far less monotonous; but his slow recovery irked and worried him, for it seemed impossible that his strength ever would return. He was so emaciated that it was well for his peace of mind that he had no access to any mirrors. Yet surely, though slowly, his strength was returning. From sitting up with his back against the wall he came at length to standing upon his feet once more; and though he was weak and tottering, it was a beginning; and each day now he found his strength returning more rapidly. From talking with Che and Kangrey, King had learned the details of the simple life they led. Che was a hunter. Some days he brought back nothing, but as a rule he did not return without adding to the simple larder. The flesh was usually that of a monkey or bird or one of the small rodents that lived in the jungle. Fish he brought, too, and fruit and vegetables and sometimes wild honey. Che and Kangrey and Uda were equally proficient in making fires with a primitive fire stick, which they twirled between the palms of their hands. Kangrey possessed a single pot in which all food was cooked. It was a brass pot, the inside of which she kept scrupulously polished, using earth and leaves for this purpose. Che was, indeed, a primitive hunter, armed with a spear, bow and arrows, and a knife. When King explained to him the merits of the firearms that had been stolen by the monkeys, Che sympathised with his guest in their loss; but he promised to equip King with new weapons such as he himself carried; and King expressed his gratitude to the native, though he could not arouse within himself much enthusiasm at the prospect of facing a long trip through this tiger-infested forest armed only with the crude weapons of primitive man, even were he skilled in their use. As King's strength had returned, he had tried to keep together in his mind the happenings that had immediately preceded his illness, but he always felt that the old man with the yellow cloak and the red parasol and the charging tiger that had fallen to a single shot were figments of a fever-tortured brain. He had never spoken to Che and Kangrey about this hallucination because it seemed silly to do so; yet he found its memory persisting in his mind as a reality rather than an hallucination, so that at last, one evening, he determined to broach the subject, approaching it in a roundabout way. "Che," he said, "you have lived in the jungle a long while, have you not?" "Yes," replied the native. "For five years I was a slave in Lodidhapura, but then I escaped, and all the rest of my life I have spent in the jungle." "Did you ever see an old man wandering in the jungle," continued King, "an old man who wore a long yellow cloak and carried a red parasol?" "Of course," replied Che, "and you saw him, too. It was Vay Thon, whom you saved from the charge of My Lord the Tiger." King looked at the native in open-mouthed astonishment. "Have you had a touch of fever too, Che?" he asked. "No," replied the native. "Che is a strong man; he is never ill." "No," Kangrey said proudly. "Che is a very strong man. In all the years that I have known him, he has never been ill." "Did you see this old man with the yellow cloak and the red parasol, Kangrey?" asked King, sceptically. "Of course I did. Why do you ask?" inquired the woman. "And you saw me kill the tiger?" demanded the American. "I did not see you kill him; but I heard a great noise, and I saw him after he had died. There was a little round hole just behind his left ear; and when Che cut him open to see why he died, he found a piece of metal in his brain, the same metal that the walls of the palace of Lodivarman are covered with." "That is lead," said Che with an air of superiority. "Then you mean to tell me that this old man and the tiger were real?" demanded King. "What do you think they were?" asked Che. "I thought they were of the same stuff as were the other dreams that the fever brought into my brain," replied King. "No," said Che, "they were not dreams. They were real. And it was good for you and for me and for Vay Thon that you killed the tiger, though how you did it neither Vay Thon nor I can understand." "It was certainly good for Vay Thon," said King. "And good for you and for me, too," insisted Che. "Why was it so good for us?" asked the American. "Vay Thon is the high priest of Siva in the city of Lodidhapura. He is very powerful. Only Lodivarman, the King, is more powerful. Vay Thon had wandered far from the city immersed in deep thought. He did not know where he was. He did not know how to return to Lodidhapura. Kangrey and I are runaway slaves of Lodidhapura. Had we been discovered before this happened, we should have been killed; but Vay Thon promised us our freedom if I would lead him back to the city. In gratitude to you for having saved my life he charged Kangrey and me to nurse you back to health and to take care of you. So you see it was good for all of us that you killed the tiger that would have killed Vay Thon." "And you would not have nursed me back to health, Che, had Vay Thon not exacted the promise from you?" inquired King. "We are runaway slaves," said the native. "We fear all men, or until Vay Thon promised us our freedom, we did fear all men; and it would have been safer for us to let you die, since you were unknown to us and might have carried word to the soldiers of Lodidhapura and led them to our hiding-place." For a time King remained in silent thought, wondering, in view of what he had just heard, where the dividing line had lain between reality and hallucination. "Perhaps, then," he said with a smile, "the weeping queen on the misty elephant and the many soldiers in cuirasses of polished brass were real too." "You saw those?" asked Che. "Yes," replied King. "When and where?" demanded the native excitedly. "It could not have been very long before I saw the high priest and the tiger." "They are getting close," said Che nervously to Kangrey. "We must search for another hiding-place." "You forget the promise of Vay Thon," Kangrey reminded him. "We are free now; we are no longer slaves." "I had forgotten," said Che. "I am not yet accustomed to freedom, and perhaps I think, too, that possibly Vay Thon may forget." "I do not think so," said the woman. "Lodivarman might forget, but not Vay Thon, for Vay Thon is a good man. Every one in Lodidhapura said so." "You really believe that I saw an elephant, a queen, and soldiers?" demanded King. "Why not?" asked Che. "There are such things in the jungle?" inquired the young man. "Of course," said Kangrey. "And this city of Lodidhapura?" demanded King. "I have never heard of it before. Is that close beside the jungle?" "It is in the jungle," said Che. King shook his head. "It is strange," he said. "I wandered through the jungle for days and never saw signs of a human being or a human habitation." "There are many things in the jungle which men do not always see," replied Che. "There are the Nagas and the Yeacks. You may be glad that you did not see them." "What are the Nagas and the Yeacks?" asked King. "The Nagas are the Cobra people," replied Che. "They live in a great palace upon a mountain and are very powerful. They have seven heads and can change themselves into any form of creature that they desire. They are workers of magic. It is said that Lodivarman's principal wife is the queen of the Nagas and that she changed herself into the form of a beautiful woman that she might rule directly over the mortals as well as the gods. But I do not believe that, because no one, not even a Naga, would choose to be the queen of a leper. But the Yeacks are most to be feared because they do not live far away upon a mountain-top, but are everywhere in the jungle." "What are they like?" asked King. "They are horrible Ogres who live upon human flesh," replied Che. "Have you ever seen them?" asked King. "Of course not," replied the native. "Only he who is about to be devoured sees them." Gordon King listened with polite attention to the folk tales of Che and Kangrey, but he knew that they were only legends of a kind with the fabulous city of Lodidhapura and its Leper King, Lodivarman. He was somewhat at a loss to account for Vay Thon, the high priest, but he decided finally that the old man was an eccentric hermit who had come into the jungle to live and that to him might be attributed many of the fabulous tales that Che and Kangrey narrated so glibly. That his two friends were runaway slaves from the fabulous city of Lodidhapura, King doubted, attributing their story to the desire of primitive minds to inject a strain of romance into their otherwise monotonous lives. As King's strength returned rapidly, he insisted more and more upon getting out into the open. He was anxious to accompany Che upon his hunting trips, but the native insisted that he was not yet sufficiently strong. So the American had to content himself with remaining with Kangrey and Uda at home, where he practised using the weapons that Che had made for him, which consisted of a bow and arrow and a short, heavy javelin-like spear. Thanks to the training of his college days, King was proficient in the use of the latter; and he practised assiduously with his bow and arrows until his marksmanship aroused the admiring applause of even Kangrey, who considered Che the best bowman in the world, to whose expert proficiency no other mortal might hope to attain. The dwelling of Che and Kangrey and Uda was in an ancient Khmer ruin and consisted of a small room which had withstood the march of the centuries—a room that was peculiarly suited to the requirements of the little jungle family since it had but a single entrance, a small aperture that could be effectually blocked at night with a flat slab of stone against the depredations of marauding cats. Their existence was as simple and primitive as might have been that of the first man; yet there was inherent in it an undeniable charm that King felt in spite of the monotony and his anxiety to escape from the jungle. Che knew nothing but the jungle and the fabulous city of Lodidhapura. It is difficult for us to conceive of an endless infinity of space, but Che could imagine an endless jungle. The question of limitation did not enter his mind and, therefore, did not confuse him. To him, the world was a jungle. When King realised this, he knew, too, that it was hopeless to expect Che to attempt to lead him out of a jungle that he believed had no end. For some time King had been making short excursions into the jungle in search of game while he repeatedly sought to impress upon Che that he was strong enough to accompany the native upon his hunts; but he was met with so many excuses that he at last awoke to the fact that Che did not want him along; and so the American determined to set out by himself upon a prolonged and determined effort to prove his efficiency. He left one morning after Che had departed, turning his steps in a different direction from that taken by the native. He was determined to bring back something to demonstrate his prowess to Che, but though he moved silently through the jungle, keeping the sharpest look out, he saw no sign of game of any description; and having had past experience of the ease with which one might become lost in the jungle, he turned back at last empty-handed. During his long convalescence King had had an opportunity to consider many things, and one of them had been his humiliating lack of jungle craft. He knew, therefore, that he must mark the trail in some way if he were to hope to return to the dwelling of Che and Kangrey. He could not blaze the trees with his knife on a hunting excursion since the noise would unquestionably frighten away the game, and so he invented several other ways of marking the trail—sticking twigs in the rough bark of trees that he passed, scraping the ground with the sharp point of his javelin, and placing three twigs in the form of an arrow, pointing backward along the trail over which he had come. Accordingly he had little difficulty to-day in back-tracking along the way to the home of Che. Practising jungle craft necessitated moving as noiselessly as possible, and so it was that he came as silently as might a hunting cat to the edge of the ruin where lay the dwelling of his friend. As King came within sight of the familiar entrance, a scene met his eyes that froze his blood and brought his heart into his throat. In the small clearing that Che had made, little Uda was at play. He was digging with a sharp stick in the leafy mould of the ground, while watching him at the edge of the clearing crouched a great panther. King saw the beast gradually drawing its hind feet well beneath its body as it prepared to charge. # IV: FOU-TAN Returning early from a successful hunt, Che approached the clearing. He, too, moved silently, for thus he always moved through the jungle. Along a forest aisle he could see the clearing before he reached it. He saw Uda digging among the dry leaves, which made a rustling sound that would have drowned the noise of the approach of even a less careful jungle animal than Che. The father smiled as his eyes rested upon his first-born, but in the same instant the smile froze to an expression of horror as he saw a panther leap into the clearing. Kangrey, emerging at that moment from their gloomy dwelling, saw it too, and screamed as she rushed forward barehanded, impelled by the mother instinct to protect its young. And then, all in the same brief instant, Che saw a heavy javelin streak lightning-like from the jungle. He saw the panther crumple in its charge, and as he ran forward he saw the pale one leap into the clearing and snatch Uda into his arms. Che, realising, as had King, the fury of a wounded panther, rushed upon the scene with ready spear as the pale one tossed Uda to Kangrey and turned again to face the great cat. But there was no necessity for the vicious thrust with which Che drove his spear into the carcass of the beast, for the panther was already dead. For a moment they stood in silence, looking down upon the kill—four primitive jungle people, naked but for sampots. It was King's first experience of a thrill of the primitive hunter. He trembled a little, but that was reaction to the fear that he had felt for the life of little Uda. "It is a large panther," said Che simply. "Only a strong man could have slain it thus," said Kangrey. "Only Che could thus have slain with a single cast so great a panther." "It was not the spear of Che. It was the spear of the pale one that laid low the prince of darkness," said Che. Kangrey looked her astonishment and would not be convinced until she had examined the spear that protruded from beneath the left shoulder of the great cat. "This, then, is the reward that Vay Thon said would be ours if we befriended the pale one," she declared. Uda said nothing, but, squirming from his mother's arms, he ran to the side of the dead panther and belaboured it with his little stick. The next day Che invited King to accompany him upon his hunt. When after a hard day they returned empty-handed, King was convinced that in the search for small game a lone hunter would have greater chances for success. In the morning, therefore, he announced that he would hunt alone in another part of the jungle, and Che agreed with him that this plan would be better. Marking his trail as he had before, King hunted an unfamiliar territory. The forest appeared more open. There was less underbrush; and he had discovered what appeared to be a broad elephant trail, along which he moved with far greater speed than he had ever been able to attain before in his wanderings through this empire of trees and underbrush. He had no luck in his hunting; and when he had about determined that it was time to turn back, his ears caught an unfamiliar sound. What it was he did not know. There was a peculiar metallic ring and other sounds that might have been human voices at a distance. "Perhaps," soliloquised King, "I am about to see the Nagas or the Yeacks." The sound was steadily approaching; and as he had learned enough from his intercourse with Che and Kangrey to know that no friendly creatures might be encountered in the jungle, he drew to one side of the elephant trail and concealed himself behind some shrubbery. He had not waited long when he saw the authors of the sounds approaching. Suddenly he felt his head. It did not seem over-hot. As he had upon other similar occasions, he closed his eyes tightly and then opened them again, but still the vision persisted—a vision of brown-skinned soldiers in burnished brass cuirasses over leather jerkins that fell midway between their hips and their knees, with heavy sandals on their feet, strange helmets on their heads, and armed with swords and spears and bows and arrows. They came on talking among themselves, and as they passed close to King he discovered that they spoke the same language that he had learned from Che and Kangrey. Evidently the men were arguing with their leader, who wanted to go on, while the majority of his followers seemed in favour of turning back. "We shall have to spend the night in the jungle as it is," said one. "If we go on much farther, we shall have to spend two nights in the jungle. Only a fool would choose to lair with My Lord the Tiger." They had stopped now almost opposite King, so that he could clearly overhear all that passed between them. The man in charge appeared to be a petty officer with little real authority, for instead of issuing orders he argued and pleaded. "It is well enough for you to insist upon turning back," he said, "since if we return to the city without the apsaras you expect that I alone shall be punished; but let me tell you that, if you force me to turn back, the entire truth will be made known and you will share in any punishment that may be inflicted upon me." "If we cannot find her, we cannot find her," grumbled one of the men. "Are we to remain in the jungle the rest of our lives searching for a runaway apsaras?" "I would as lief face My Lord the Tiger in the jungle for the rest of my life," replied the petty officer, "as face Lodivarman if we return without the girl." "What Vama says is true," said another. "Lodivarman, the King, will not be interested in our reason for returning empty-handed. Should we return to the city to-morrow without the girl and Vama charged that we had forced him to turn back, Lodivarman, if he were in ill-humour, as he usually is, would have us all put to death; but if we remain away for many days and then return with a story of many hardships and dangers he will know that we did all that might be expected of brave warriors, and thus the anger of Lodivarman might be assuaged." "At last," commented Vama, "you are commencing to talk like intelligent and civilised men. Come, now, and let us resume the search." As they moved away King heard one of the men suggest that they find a safe and comfortable camp site where they might remain for a sufficient length of time to impress upon the King the verity of the story that they would relate to him. He waited only until they were out of sight before he arose from his place of concealment, for he was much concerned with the fact that they were proceeding in the general direction of the dwelling of Che and Kangrey. King was much mystified by what he had seen. He knew that these soldiers were no children of a fevered brain. They were flesh and blood warriors and for that reason a far greater mystery than any of the creatures he had seen in his delirium, since they could not be accounted for by any process of intelligent reasoning. His judgment told him that there were no warriors in this uninhabited jungle and certainly none with the archaic accoutrements and weapons that he had seen. It might be reasonable to expect to meet such types in an extravaganza of the stage or screen; and, doubtless, centuries ago warriors such as these patrolled this very spot which the jungle and the tiger and the elephant had long since reclaimed. He recalled the stories that his guide had told him of the ghosts of the ancient Khmers, which roamed through the sombre aisles of the forest. He remembered the other soldiers that he had seen and the girl with the frightened eyes that rode upon the great elephant, and the final result was a questioning of his own sanity. Since he knew that a fever, such as the one through which he had passed, might easily affect one's brain either temporarily or permanently, he was troubled and not a little frightened as he made his way in the direction of the dwelling of Che and Kangrey. But the fact that he took a circuitous route that he might avoid the warriors indicated that either he was quite crazy or, at least, that he was temporising with his madness. "'Weeping queens on misty elephants!"" he soliloquised. "'Warriors in brass." "A mystery of the Orient." Perhaps after all there are ghosts. There has been enough evidence accumulated during historic times to prove that the materialisation of disembodied spirits may have occurred upon countless occasions. That I never saw a ghost is not necessarily conclusive evidence that they do not exist. There are many strange things in the Orient that the western mind cannot grasp. Perhaps, after all, I have seen ghosts; but if so, they certainly were thoroughly materialised, even to the dirt on their legs and the sweat on their faces. I suppose I shall have to admit that they are ghosts, since I know that no soldiers like them exist in the flesh anywhere in the world." As King moved silently through the jungle, he presented an even more anachronistic figure than had the soldiers in brass; for they, at least, personified an era of civilisation and advancement, while King, to all outward appearances, was almost at the dawn of human evolution—a primitive hunter, naked but for a sampot of leopard skin and rude sandals fashioned by Kangrey because the soles of his feet, innocent of the callouses that shod hers and Che's, had rendered him almost helpless in the jungle without this protection. His skin was brown from exposure to the sun, and his hair had grown thick and shaggy. That he was smooth-shaven was the result of chance. He had always made it a habit, since he had taken up the study of medicine and surgery, to carry a safety razor blade with him, for what possible emergency he could not himself have explained. It was merely an idiosyncrasy, and it had so chanced that among several other things that the monkeys had dropped from his pockets and scattered in the jungle the razor blade had been recovered by little Uda along with a silver pencil and a handful of French francs. He moved through the jungle with all the assurance of a man who has known no other life, so quickly does humankind adapt itself to environment. Already his ears and his nostrils had become inured to their surroundings to such an extent, at least, as to permit them to identify and classify easily and quickly the more familiar sounds and odors of the jungle. Familiarity had induced increasing self-assurance, which had now reached a point that made him feel he might soon safely set out in search of civilization. However, to-day his mind was not on this thing; it was still engaged in an endeavor to solve the puzzle of the brass-bound warriors. But presently the baffling contemplation of this matter was rudely interrupted by a patch of buff coat and black stripes of which he caught a momentary, fleeting glimpse between the boles of two trees ahead of him. A species of unreasoning terror that had formerly seized him each time that he had glimpsed the terrifying lord of the jungle had gradually passed away as he had come to recognize the fact that every tiger that he saw was not bent upon his destruction and that nine times out of ten it would try to get out of his way. Of course, it is the tenth tiger that one must always reckon with; but where trees are numerous and a man's eyes and ears and nose are alert, even the tenth tiger may usually be circumvented. So now King did not alter his course, though he had seen the tiger directly ahead of him. It would be time enough to think of retreat when he found that the temper and intentions of the tiger warranted it, and, further, it was better to keep the brute in sight than to feel that perhaps he had circled and was creeping up behind one. It was, therefore, because of this that King pushed on a little more rapidly; and soon he was rewarded by another glimpse of the great carnivore and of something else, which presented a tableau that froze his blood. Beyond the tiger and facing it stood a girl. Her wide eyes were glassy with terror. She stood as one in a trance, frozen to the spot, while toward her the great cat crept. She was a slender girl, garbed as fantastically as had been the soldiers that had passed him in the jungle shortly before; but her gorgeous garments were soiled and torn, and even at a distance King could see that her face and arms were scratched and bleeding. In the instant that his eyes alighted upon her he sensed something strangely familiar about her. It was a sudden, wholly unaccountable impression that somewhere he had seen this girl before; but it was only a passing impression, for his whole mind now was occupied with her terrifying predicament. To save her from the terrible death creeping slowly upon her seemed beyond the realms of possibility, and yet King knew that he must make the attempt. He recognized instantly that his only hope lay in distracting the attention of the tiger. If he could center the interest of the brute upon himself, perhaps the girl might escape. He shouted, and the tiger wheeled about. "Run!" he cried to the girl. "Quick! Make for a tree!" As he spoke, King was running forward. His heavy spear was ready in his hand, but yet it was a mad chance to take. Perhaps he forgot himself and his own danger, thinking only of the girl. The tiger glanced back at the girl, who, obeying King's direction, had run quickly to a nearby tree into which she was trying to scramble, badly hampered by the long skirt that enveloped her. For only an instant did the tiger hesitate. His short and ugly temper was fully aroused now in the face of this rude interruption of his plan. With a savage snarl and then the short coughing roars with which King was all too familiar, he wheeled and sprang toward the man in long, easy bounds. Twelve to fifteen feet he covered in a single leap. Flight was futile. There was nothing that King could do but stand his ground and pit his puny spear against this awful engine of destruction. In that brief instant there was pictured upon the screen of his memory a tree-girt athletic field. He saw young men in shirts and shorts throwing javelins. He saw himself among them. It was his turn now. His arm went back. He recalled how he had put every ounce of muscle, weight, and science into that throw. He recalled the friendly congratulations that followed it, for every one knew without waiting for the official verdict that he had broken a world's record. Again his arm flew back. To-day there was more at stake than a world's record, but the man did not lose his nerve. Timed to the fraction of an instant, backed by the last ounce of his weight and his skill and his great strength, the spear met the tiger in mid-leap; full in the chest it struck him. King leaped to one side and ran for a tree, his single, frail hope lying in the possibility that the great beast might be even momentarily disabled. He did not waste the energy or the time even to glance behind him. If the tiger were able to overtake him, it must be totally a matter of indifference to King whether the great brute seized him from behind or in front—he had led his ace and he did not have another. No fangs or talons rent his flesh as King scrambled to the safety of the nearest tree. It was not without a sense of considerable surprise that he found himself safely ensconced in his leafy sanctuary, for from the instant that the tiger had turned upon him in its venomous charge he had counted himself already as good as dead. Now that he had an opportunity to look about him, he saw the tiger struggling in its death throes upon the very spot where it had anticipated wreaking its vengeance upon the rash man-thing that had dared to question its right to the possession of its intended prey; and a little to the right of the dying beast the American saw the girl crouching in the branches of a tree. Together they watched the death throes of the great cat; and when at last the man was convinced that the beast was dead, he leaped lightly to the ground and approached the tree among the branches of which the girl had sought safety. That she was still filled with terror was apparent in the strained and frightened expression upon her face. "Go away!" she cried. "The soldiers of Lodivarman, the King, are here; and if you harm me they will kill you." King smiled. "You are inconsistent," he said, "in invoking the protection of the soldiers from whom you are trying to escape; but you need not fear me. I shall not harm you." "Who are you?" she demanded. "I am a hunter who dwells in the jungle," replied King. "I am the protector of high priests and weeping queens, or so, at least, I seem to be." "High priests? Weeping queens? What do you mean?" "I have saved Vay Thon, the high priest, from My Lord the Tiger," replied King; "and now I have saved you." "But I am no queen and I am not weeping," replied the girl. "Do not disillusion me," insisted King. "I contend that you are a queen, whether you weep or smile. I should not be surprised to learn that you are the queen of the Nagas. Nothing would surprise me in this jungle of anachronism, hallucination, and impossibility." "Help me down from the tree," said the girl. "Perhaps you are mad, but you seem quite harmless." "Be assured, your majesty, that I shall not harm you," replied King, "for presently I am sure there will emerge from nowhere ten thousand elephants and a hundred thousand warriors in shining brass to succour and defend you. Nothing seems impossible after what I have witnessed; but come, let me touch you; let me assure myself that I am not again the victim of a pernicious fever." "May Siva, who protected me from My Lord the Tiger a moment ago, protect me also from this madman!" "Pardon me," said King, "I did not catch what you said." "I am afraid," said the girl. "You need not be afraid of me," King assured her; "and if you want your soldiers I believe that I can find them for you; but if I am not mistaken, I believe that you are more afraid of them than you are of me." "What do you know of that?" demanded she. "I overheard their conversation while they halted near me," replied the American, "and I learned that they are hunting for you to take you back to someone from whom you escaped. Come, I will help you down. You may trust me." He raised his hand toward her, and after a moment's hesitation she slipped into his arms and he lowered her to the ground. "I must trust you," she said. "There is no other way, for I could not remain for ever in the tree; and then, too, even though you seem mad there is something about you that makes me feel that I am safe with you." As he felt her soft, lithe body momentarily in his arms, King knew that this was no tenuous spirit of a dream. For an instant her small hand touched his shoulder, her warm breath fanned his cheek, and her firm, young breasts were pressed against his naked body. Then she stepped back and surveyed him. "What manner of man are you?" she demanded. "You are neither Khmer nor slave. Your colour is not the colour of any man that I have ever seen, nor are your features those of the people of my race. Perhaps you are a reincarnation of one of those ancients of whom our legends tell us; or perhaps you are a Naga who has taken the form of man for some dire purpose of your own." "Perhaps I am a Yeack," suggested King. "No," she said quite seriously, "I am sure you are not a Yeack, for it is reported that they are most hideous, while you, though not like any man I have ever seen, are handsome." "I am neither Yeack nor Naga," replied King. "Then perhaps you are from Lodidhapura—one of the creatures of Lodivarman." "No," replied the man. "I have never been to Lodidhapura. I have never seen the King, Lodivarman, and, as a matter of fact, I have always doubted their existence." The girl's dark eyes regarded him steadily. "I cannot believe that," she said, "for it is unconceivable that there should be anyone in the world who has not heard of Lodidhapura and Lodivarman." "I come from a far country," explained King, "where there are millions of people who never heard of the Khmers." "Impossible!" she cried. "But nevertheless quite true," he insisted. "From what country do you come?" she asked. "From America." "I never heard of such a country." "Then you should be able to understand that I may never have heard of Lodidhapura," said the man. For a moment the girl was silent, evidently pondering the logic of his statement. "Perhaps you are right," she said finally. "It may be that there are other cities within the jungle of which we have never heard. But tell me—you risked your life to save mine—why did you do that?" "What else might I have done?" he asked. "You might have run away and saved yourself." King smiled, but he made no reply. He was wondering if there existed any man who could have run away and left one so beautiful and so helpless to the mercies of My Lord the Tiger. "You are very brave," she continued presently. "What is your name?" "Gordon King." "Gordon King," she repeated in a soft, caressing voice. "That is a nice name, but it is not like any name that I have heard before." "And what is your name?" asked King. "I am called Fou-tan," she said, and she eyed him intently, as though she would note if the name made any impression upon him. King thought Fou-Tan a pretty name, but it seemed banal to say so. He was appraising her small, delicate features, her beautiful eyes and her soft brown skin. They recalled to him the weeping queen upon the misty elephant that he had seen in his delirium, and once again there arose within him doubts as to his sanity. "Tell me," he said suddenly. "Did you ever ride through the jungle on a great elephant escorted by soldiers in brass?" "Yes," she said. "And you say that you are from Lodidhapura?" he continued. "I have just come from there," she replied. "Did you ever hear of a priest called Vay Thon?" "He is the high priest of Siva in the city of Lodidhapura," she replied. King shook his head in perplexity. "It is hard to know," he murmured, "where dreams end and reality begins." "I do not understand you," she said, her brows knit in perplexity. "Perhaps I do not understand myself," he admitted. "You are a strange man," said Fou-tan. "I do not know whether to fear you or trust you. You are not like any other man I have ever known. What do you intend to do with me?" "Perhaps I had better take you back to the dwelling of Che and Kangrey," he said, "and then to-morrow Che can guide you back to Lodidhapura." "But I do not wish to return to Lodidhapura," said the girl. "Why not?" demanded King. "Listen, Gordon King, and I shall tell you," said Fou-tan. # V: THE CAPTURE "Let us sit down upon this fallen tree," said Fou-tan, "and I shall tell you why I do not wish to return to Lodidhapura." As they seated themselves, King became acutely conscious of the marked physical attraction that this girl of a forgotten age exercised over him. Every movement of her lithe body, every gesture of her graceful arms and hands, each changing expression of her beautiful face and eyes were provocative. She radiated magnetism. He sensed it in the reaction of his skin, his eyes, his nostrils. It was as though ages of careful selection had produced her for the purpose of arousing in man the desire of possession, and yet there enveloped her a divine halo of chastity that aroused within his breast the protective instinct that governs the attitude of a normal man toward a woman that Fate has thrown into his keeping. Never in his life had King been similarly attracted to any woman. "Why do you look at me so?" she inquired suddenly. "Forgive me," said King simply. "Go on with your story." "I am from Pnom Dhek," said Fou-tan, "where Beng Kher is king. Pnom Dhek is a greater city than Lodidhapura; Beng Kher is a mightier king than Lodivarman. "Bharata Rahon desired me. He wished to take me to wife. I pleaded with my father the—I pleaded with my father not to give me in marriage to Bharata Rahon; but he told me that I did not know my own mind, that I only thought that I did not like Bharata Rahon, that he would make me a good husband, and that after we were married I should be happy. "I knew that I must do something to convince my father that my mind and soul sincerely revolted at the thought of mating with Bharata Rahon, and so I conceived the idea of running away and going out into the jungle that I might prove that I preferred death to the man my father had chosen for me. "I did not want to die. I wanted them to come and find me very quickly, and when night came I was terrified. I climbed into a tree where I crouched in terror. I heard My Lord the Tiger pass beneath in the darkness of the night, and my fear was so great that I thought that I should faint and fall into his clutches; yet when day came again I was still convinced that I would rather lie in the arms of My Lord the Tiger than in those of Bharata Rahon, who is a loathsome man whose very name I detest. "Yet I moved back in the direction of Pnom Dhek, or rather I thought that I did, though now I am certain that I went in the opposite direction. I hoped that searchers sent out by my father would find me, for I did not wish to return of my own volition to Pnom Dhek. "The day dragged on and I met no searchers, and once again I became terrified, for I knew that I was lost in the jungle. Then I heard the heavy tread of an elephant and the clank of arms and men's voices, and I was filled with relief and gratitude, for I thought at last that the searchers were about to find me. "But when the warriors came within view, I saw that they wore the armour of Lodivarman. I was terrified and tried to escape them, but they had seen me and they pursued me. Easily they overtook me, and great was their joy when they looked upon me. "'Lodivarman will reward us handsomely," they cried, "when he sees that which we have brought to him from Pnom Dhek." "So they placed me in the howdah upon the elephant's back and took me through the jungle to Lodidhapura, where I was immediately taken into the presence of Lodivarman. "Oh, Gordon King, that was a terrible moment. I was terrified when I found myself so close to the leper king of Lodidhapura. He is covered with great sores, where leprosy is devouring him. That day he was ugly and indifferent. He scarcely looked at me, but ordered that I should be taken to the quarters of the apsarases, and so I became a dancing girl at the court of the leper king. "Not in a thousand years, Gordon King, could I explain to you what I suffered each time that we came before Lodivarman to dance. Each sore upon his repulsive body seemed to reach out to seize and contaminate me. It was with the utmost difficulty that, half fainting, I went through the ritual of the dance. "I tried to hide my face from him, for I knew that I was beautiful and I knew the fate of beautiful women in the court of Lodivarman. "But at last, one day, I realised that he had noticed me. I saw his dead eyes following me about. We were dancing in the great hall where he holds his court. Lodivarman was seated upon his throne. The lead-covered walls of the great apartment were gorgeous with paintings and with hangings. Beneath our feet were the polished flagstones of the floor, but they seemed softer to me than the heart of Lodivarman. "At last the dance was done, and we were permitted to retire to our apartments. Presently there came to me a captain of the King's household, resplendent in his gorgeous trappings. "'The King has looked upon you," said he, "and would honour you as befits your beauty." "'It is sufficient honour," I replied, "to dance in the palace of Lodivarman." "'You are about to receive a more signal manifestation of the King's honour," he replied. "'I am satisfied as I am," I said. "'It is not for you to choose, Fou-tan," replied the messenger. "The King has chosen you as his newest concubine. Rejoice, therefore, in the knowledge that some day you may become queen." "I could have fainted at the very horror of the suggestion. What could I do? I must gain time. I thought of suicide, but I am young, and I do not wish to die. "When must I come?" I asked. "'You will be given time to prepare yourself," replied the messenger. "For three days the women will bathe and anoint your body, and upon the fourth day you will be conducted to the King." "Four days! In four days I must find some way in which to escape the horrid fate to which my beauty had condemned me. "Go!" I said. "Leave me in peace for the four days that remain to me of even a semblance of happiness in life." "The messenger, grinning, withdrew, and I threw myself upon my pallet and burst into tears. That night the apsarases were to dance in the moonlight in the courtyard before the temple of Siva; and though they would have insisted that my preparation for the honour that was to be bestowed upon me should commence at once, I begged that I might once more, and for the last time, join with my companions in honouring Siva, the Destroyer. "It was a dark night. The flares that illumined the courtyard cast a wavering light in which exaggerated shadows of the apsarases danced grotesquely. In the dance I wore a mask, and my position was at the extreme left of the last line of apsarases. I was close to the line of spectators that encircled the courtyard, and in some of the movements of the dance I came quite close enough to touch them. This was what I had hoped for. "All the time that I was dancing I was perfecting in my mind the details of a plan that had occurred to me earlier in the day. The intricate series of postures and steps, with which I had been familiar since childhood, required of me but little mental concentration. I went through them mechanically, my thoughts wholly centred upon the mad scheme that I had conceived. I knew that at one point in the dance the attention of all the spectators would be focused upon a single apsaras, whose position was in the centre of the first line, and when this moment arrived I stepped quickly into the line of spectators. "Those in my immediate vicinity noticed me, but to these I explained that I was ill and was making my way back to the temple. A little awed by my close presence, they let me pass unmolested, for in the estimation of the people the persons of the apsarases are almost holy. "Behind the last line of the audience rose a low wall that surrounds the temple courtyard. Surmounting it at intervals rise the beautifully carved stone figures of the seven-headed cobra—emblem of the Royal Nagas. Deep were the shadows between them; and while all eyes were fixed upon the leading apsaras, I clambered quickly to the top of the low wall, where for a moment I hid in the shadow of a great Naga. Below me, black, mysterious, terrifying, lay the dark waters of the moat, beneath the surface of which lived the crocodiles placed there by the King to guard the Holy of Holies. Upon the opposite side the level of the water was but a few inches below the surface of the broad avenue that leads to the stables where the King's elephants are kept. The avenues were deserted, for all who dwelt within the walls of the royal enclosure were watching the dance of the apsarases. "To Brahma, to Vishnu, and to Siva I breathed a prayer, and then I slid as quietly as possible down into the terrifying waters of the moat. Quickly I struck out for the opposite side, every instant expecting to feel the hideous jaws of a crocodile close upon me; but my prayers had been heard, and I reached the avenue in safety. "I was forced to climb two more walls before I could escape from the royal enclosure and from the city. My wet and bedraggled costume was torn, and my hands and face were scratched and bleeding before I succeeded. "At last I was in the jungle, confronted by danger more deadly, yet far less horrible, than that from which I had escaped. How I survived that night and this day I do not know. And now the end would have come but for you, Gordon King." As King gazed at the sensitive face and delicately moulded figure of the girl beside him, he marvelled at the courage and strength of will, seemingly so out of proportion to the frail temple that housed them, that had sustained her in the conception and execution of an adventure that might have taxed the courage and stamina of a warrior. "You are a brave girl, Fou-tan," he said. "The daughter of my father could not be less," she replied simply. "You are a daughter of whom any father might be proud," said King, "but if we are to save you for him we had better be thinking about getting to the dwelling of Che and Kangrey before night falls." "Who are these people?" asked Fou-tan. "Perhaps they will return me to Lodidhapura for the reward that Lodivarman will pay." "You need have no fear on that score," replied King. "They are honest people, runaway slaves from Lodidhapura. They have been kind to me, and they will be kind to you." "And if they are not, you will protect me," said Fou-tan with a tone of finality that evidenced the confidence which she already felt in the dependability and integrity of her new-found friend. As they set out in the direction of Che's dwelling, it became apparent to King immediately that Fou-tan was tired almost to the point of exhaustion. Will-power and nerve had sustained her so far; but now, with the discovery of someone to whom she might transfer the responsibility of her safety, the reaction had come; and he often found it necessary to assist and support her over the rough places of the trail. She was small and light, and where the going was exceptionally bad he lifted her in his arms and carried her as he might have a child. "You are strong, Gordon King," she said once as he carried her thus. Her soft arms were around his neck, her lips were very close to his. "I must need be strong," he said. But if she sensed his meaning she gave no evidence of it. Her eyes closed wearily and her little head dropped to his shoulder. He carried her thus for a long way, though the trail beneath his feet was smooth and hard. Vama and his warriors had halted in a little glade where there was water. While two of them hunted in the forest for meat for their supper, the others lay stretched out upon the ground in that silence which is induced by hunger and fatigue. Presently Vama sat up alert. His ears had caught the sound of the approach of something through the jungle. "Kau and Tchek are returning from the hunt," whispered one of the warriors who lay near him and who, also, had heard the noise. "They did not go in that direction," replied Vama in a low tone. Then signalling his warriors to silence, he ordered them to conceal themselves from view. The sound, already close when they had first heard it, approached steadily; and they did not have long to wait ere a warrior, naked but for a sampot, stepped into view, and in his arms was the runaway apsaras whom they sought. Elated, Vama leaped from his place of concealment, calling to his men to follow him. At sight of them King turned to escape, but he knew that he could make no speed while burdened with the girl. She, however, had seen the soldiers and slipped quickly from his arms. "We are lost!" she cried. "Run!" cried King as he snatched a handful of arrows from his quiver and fitted one to his bow. "Stand back!" he cried to the warriors. But they only moved steadily forward. His bow-string twanged, and one of Lodivarman's brass-bound warriors sank to earth, an arrow through his throat. The others hesitated. They did not dare to cast their spears or loose their bolts for fear of injuring the girl. Slowly King, with Fou-tan behind him, backed away into the jungle from which he had appeared. At the last instant he sped another arrow, which rattled harmlessly from the cuirass of Vama. Then, knowing that he could not fire upon them from the foliage, the soldiers rushed forward, while King continued to fall back slowly with Fou-tan, another arrow fitted to his bow. Kau and Tchek had made a great circle in their hunting. With their arrows they had brought down three monkeys, and now they were returning to camp. They had almost arrived when they heard voices and the twang of a bow-string, and then they saw, directly ahead of them, a man and a girl crashing through the foliage of the jungle toward them. Instantly, by her dishevelled costume, they recognised the apsaras and guessed from the attitude of the two that they were backing away from Vama and his fellows. Kau was a powerful, a courageous, and a resourceful man. Instantly he grasped the situation and instantly he acted. Leaping forward, he threw both his sinewy arms around Gordon King, pinning the other's arms to his body; while Tchek, following the example of his companion, seized Fou-tan. Almost immediately Vama and the others were upon the scene. An instant later Gordon King was disarmed, and his wrists were bound behind him; then the soldiers of Lodivarman dragged the captives back to their camping place. Vama was tremendously elated. Now he would not have to make up any lies to appease the wrath of his king but could return to Lodidhapura in triumph, bearing not only the apsaras for whom he had been despatched, but another prisoner as well. King thought that they might make quick work of him in revenge for the soldier he had killed, but they did not appear to hold that against him at all. They questioned him at some length while they cooked their supper of monkey meat over a number of tiny fires; but as what he told them of another country far beyond their jungle was quite beyond their grasp, they naturally believed that he lied and insisted that he came from Pnom Dhek and that he was a runaway slave. They were all quite content with the happy outcome of their assignment; and so, looking forward to their return to Lodidhapura on the morrow, they were inclined to be generous in their treatment of their prisoners, giving them meat to eat and water to drink. Their attitude toward Fou-tan was one of respectful awe. They knew that she was destined to become one of the King's favourites, and it might prove ill for them, indeed, should they offer her any hurt or affront. Since their treatment of Gordon King, however, was not dictated by any such consideration, it was fortunate, indeed, for him that they were in a good humour. Regardless, however, of the respectful attention shown her, Fou-tan was immersed in melancholy. A few moments before, she had foreseen escape and counted return to her native city almost an accomplished fact; now, once again, she was in the clutches of the soldiers of Lodivarman, while simultaneously she had brought disaster and, doubtless, death to the man who had befriended her. "Oh, Gordon King," she said, "my heart is unstrung; my soul is filled with terror and consumed by horror, for not only must I return to the hideous fate from which I had escaped, but you must go to Lodidhapura to slavery or to death." "We are not in Lodidhapura yet," whispered King. "Perhaps we shall escape." The girl shook her head. "There is no hope," she said. "I shall go to the arms of Lodivarman, and you—" "And I?" he asked. "Slaves fight with other slaves and with wild beasts for the entertainment of Lodivarman and his court," she replied. "We must escape then," said King. "Perhaps we shall die in the attempt, but in any event death awaits me and worse than death awaits you." "What you command I shall do, Gordon King," replied Fou-tan. But it did not appear that there was to be much opportunity for escape that night. After King had eaten they bound his wrists behind his back again and also bound his ankles together securely, while two warriors remained constantly with the girl; the others, their simple meal completed, stripped the armour and weapons from their fallen comrade and laid him upon a thick bed of dry wood that they had gathered. Upon him, then, they piled a great quantity of limbs and branches, of twigs and dry grasses; and when night fell they lighted their weird funeral pyre, which was to answer its other dual purpose as a beast fire to protect them from the prowling carnivores. To King it was a gruesome sight, but neither Fou-tan nor the other Khmers seemed to be affected by it. The men gathered much wood and placed it near at hand that the fire might be kept burning during the night. The flames leaped high, lighting the boles of the trees about them and the foliage arching above. The shadows rose and fell and twisted and writhed. Beyond the limits of the firelight was utter darkness, silence, mystery. King felt himself in an inverted cauldron of flame in which a human body was being consumed. The warriors lay about, laughing and talking. Their reminiscences were brutal and cruel. Their jokes and stories were broad and obscene. But there was an under-current of rough kindness and loyalty to one another that they appeared to be endeavouring to conceal as though they were ashamed of such soft emotion. They were soldiers. Transplanted to the camps of modern Europe, given a modern uniform and a modern language, their campfire conversation would have been the same. Soldiers do not change. One played upon a little musical instrument that resembled a Jew's harp. Two were gambling with what appeared to be very similar to modern dice, and all that they said was so interlarded with strange and terrible oaths that the American could scarcely follow the thread of their thought. Soldiers do not change. Vama came presently and squatted down near King and Fou-tan. "Do all the men in this far country of which you tell me go naked?" he demanded. "No," replied the American. "When I had become lost in the jungle I was stricken with fever, and while I was sick the monkeys came and stole my clothing and my weapons." "You live alone in the jungle?" asked Vama. King thought quickly; he thought of Che and Kangrey and their fear of the soldiers in brass. "Yes," he said. "Are you not afraid of My Lord the Tiger?" inquired Vama. "I am watchful and I avoid him," replied the American. "You do well to do so," said Vama, "for even with spear and arrows no lone man is a match for the great beast." "But Gordon King is," said Fou-tan proudly. Vama smiled. "The apsaras has been in the jungle but a night and a day," he reminded her. "How can she know so much about this man unless, as I suspect, he is, indeed, from Pnom Dhek?" "He is not from Pnom Dhek," retorted Fou-tan. "And I know that he is a match for My Lord the Tiger because this day I saw him slay the beast with a single spear-cast." Vama looked questioningly at King. "It was only a matter of good fortune," said King. "But you did it nevertheless," insisted Fou-tan. "You killed a tiger with a single cast of your spear?" demanded Vama. "As the beast charged him," said Fou-tan. "That is, indeed, a marvellous feat," said Vama, with a soldier's ungrudging admiration for the bravery or prowess of another. "Lodivarman shall hear of this. A hunter of such spirit shall not go unrecognised in Lodidhapura. I can also bear witness that you are no mean bowman," added Vama, nodding toward the blazing funeral pyre. Then he arose and walked to the spot where King's weapons had been deposited. Picking up the spear he examined it closely. "By Siva!" he ejaculated. "The blood is scarcely dry upon it. Such a cast! You drove it a full two feet into the carcass of My Lord the Tiger." "Straight through the heart," said Fou-tan. The other soldiers had been listening to the conversation. It was noticeable immediately that their attitude toward King changed instantly, and thereafter they treated him with friendliness tinged by respect. However, they did not abate their watchfulness over him, but rather were increasingly careful to see that he was given no opportunity to escape, nor to have his hands free for any length of time. Early the next morning, after a meagre breakfast, Vama set out with his detachment and his prisoners in the direction of Lodidhapura, leaving the funeral fire still blazing as it eagerly licked at a new supply of fuel. The route they selected to Lodidhapura passed, by chance, close to the spot where King had slain the tiger; and here, in the partially devoured carcass of the great beast, the soldiers of Lodivarman found concrete substantiation of Fou-tan's story. # VI: THE LEPER KING It was late in the afternoon when the party emerged suddenly from the jungle at the edge of a great clearing. King voiced an involuntary exclamation of astonishment as he saw at a distance the walls and towers of a splendid city. "Lodidhapura," said Fou-tan; "accursed city!" There was fear in her voice, and she trembled as she pressed closer to the American. While King had long since become convinced that Lodidhapura had an actual existence of greater reality than legend or fever-wrought hallucination, yet he had been in no way prepared for the reality. A collection of nippa-thatched huts had comprised the extent of his mental picture of Lodidhapura, and now, as the reality burst suddenly upon him, he was dumbfounded. Temples and palaces of stone reared their solid masses against the sky. Mighty towers, elaborately carved, rose in stately grandeur high over all. There were nippa-thatched huts as well, but these clustered close against the city's wall and were so overshadowed by the majestic mass of masonry beyond them that they affected the picture as slightly as might the bushes growing at its foot determine the grandeur of a mountain. In the foreground were level fields in which laboured men and women, naked mostly, but for sampots—the nippa-thatched huts were their dwellings. They were the labourers, the descendants of slaves—Chams and Annamese—that the ancient, warlike Khmers had brought back from many a victory in the days when their power and their civilisation were the greatest upon earth. From the edge of the jungle, at the point where the party had emerged, a broad avenue led toward one of the gates of the city, toward which Vama was conducting them. To his right, at a distance, King could see what appeared to be another avenue leading to another gate—an avenue which seemed to be more heavily travelled than that upon which they had entered. There were many people on foot, some approaching the city, others leaving it. At a distance they looked small, but he could distinguish them and also what appeared to be bullock-carts moving slowly among the pedestrians. Presently, at the far end of this distant avenue, he saw the great bulks of elephants; in a long column they entered the highway from the jungle and approached the city. They seemed to move in an endless procession, two abreast, hundreds of them, he thought. Never before had King seen so many elephants. "Look!" he cried to Fou-tan. "There must be a circus coming to town." "The King's elephants," explained Fou-tan, unimpressed. "Why does he have so many?" asked King. "A king without elephants would be no king," replied the girl. "They proclaim to all men the king's wealth and power. When he makes war, his soldiers go into battle upon them and fight from their backs, for those are the war elephants of Lodivarman." "There must be hundreds of them," commented the American. "There are thousands," said Fou-tan. "And against whom does Lodivarman make war?" "Against Pnom Dhek." "Only against Pnom Dhek?" inquired King. "Yes, only against Pnom Dhek." "Why does he not make war elsewhere? Has he no other enemies?" "Against whom else might he make war?" demanded Fou-tan. "There are only Pnom Dhek and Lodidhapura in all the world." "Well, that does rather restrict him now, doesn't it?" admitted King. For a moment they were silent. Then the girl spoke. "Gordon King," she said in that soft, caressing voice that the man found so agreeable, that often he had sought for means to lure her into conversation. "Gordon King, soon we shall see one another no more." The American frowned. He did not like to think of that. He had tried to put it out of his mind and to imagine that by some chance they would be allowed to be together after they reached Lodidhapura, for he had found Fou-tan a cheery and pleasant companion even when her hour was darkest. Why, she was the only friend he had! Certainly they would not deny him the right to see her. From what he had gleaned during his conversation with Vama and the other warriors, King had become hopeful that Lodivarman would not treat him entirely as a prisoner or an enemy, but might give him the opportunity to serve the King as a soldier. Fou-tan had rather encouraged this hope too, for she knew that it was not at all improbable of realisation. "Why do you say that?" demanded King. "Why shall we not see one another again?" "Would you be sad, Gordon King, if you did not see Fou-tan any more?" she asked. The man hesitated before he replied, as though weighing in his mind a problem that he had never before been called upon to consider; and as he hesitated a strange, hurt look came into the eyes of the girl. "It is unthinkable, Fou-tan," he said at last, and the great brown eyes of the little apsaras softened and tears rose in them. "We have been such good friends," he added. "Yes," she said. "We have known each other but a very short time, and yet we seem such good friends that it is almost as though we had known each other always." "But why should we not see one another again?" he demanded once more. "Lodivarman may punish me for running away, and there is only one punishment that would satisfy his pride in such an event and that is death; but if he forgives me, as he doubtless will, because of my youth and my great beauty and his desire for me, then I shall be taken into the King's palace and no more then might you see me than if I were dead. So you see, either way, the result is the same." "I shall see you again, Fou-tan," said the man. She shook her head. "I like to hear you say it, even though I know that it cannot be." "You shall see, Fou-tan. If we both live I shall find a way to see you; and, too, I shall find a way to take you out of the palace of the King and back to Pnom Dhek." She looked up at him with earnest eyes, full of confidence and admiration. "When I hear you say it," she said, "the impossible seems almost possible." "Cling to the hope, Fou-tan," he told her; "and when we are separated, know always that my every thought will be centred upon the means to reach you and take you away." "That will help me to cling to life until the last horrible minute, beyond which there can be no hope and beyond which I will not go." "What do you mean, Fou-tan?" There had been that in her voice which frightened him. "I can live in the palace of the King with hope until again the King sends for me, and then—" "And then?" "And then—death." "No, Fou-tan, you must not say that. You must not think it." "What else could there be—after?" she demanded. "He is a leper!" The utter horror in her voice and expression, as her lips formed the word, aroused to its fullest the protective instinct of the man. He wanted to throw an arm about her, to soothe and reassure her; but his wrists were bound together behind him, and he could only move on dumbly at her side toward the great, carved gate of Lodidhapura. The sentry at the gate halted Vama and his party, though his greeting, following his formal challenge, indicated that he was well aware of the identity of all but King, a fact which impressed the American as indicative of the excellent military discipline that obtained in this remote domain of the leper king. Summoned by the sentry, the captain of the gate came from his quarters within the massive towers that flanked the gateway to Lodidhapura. He was a young man, resplendent in trappings of gold and blue and yellow. His burnished cuirass and his helmet were of the precious metal, but his weapons were stern and lethal. "Who comes?" he demanded. "Vama of the King's guard, with the apsaras from Pnom Dhek, who ran away into the jungle, and a warrior from a far country whom we took prisoner," replied the leader of the detachment. "You have done well, Vama," said the officer, as his eyes quickly appraised the two captives. "Enter and go at once to the palace of the King, for such were his orders in the event that you returned successful from your quest." The streets of Lodidhapura, beyond the gate, were filled with citizens and slaves. Tiny shops with wide awnings lined the street through which Vama's captives were conducted. Merchants in long robes and ornate headdresses presided over booths where were displayed a bewildering variety of merchandise, including pottery, silver and gold ornaments, rugs, stuffs, incense, weapons, and armour. Men and women of high rank, beneath gorgeous parasols borne by almost naked slaves, bartered at the booths for the wares displayed; high-hatted priests moved slowly through the throng, while burly soldiers elbowed their way roughly along the avenue. Many turned to note the escort and its prisoners, and the sight of Fou-tan elicited a wealth of ejaculation and many queries; but to all such Vama, fully aware of his importance, turned a deaf ear. As they approached the centre of Lodidhapura, King was amazed by the evident wealth of the city, by the goods displayed in the innumerable shops, and by the grandeur of the architecture. The ornate carvings that covered the façades of the great buildings, the splendour of the buildings themselves, filled him with awe; and when at last the party halted before the palace of Lodivarman, the American was staggered by the magnificence which confronted him. They had been conducted through a great park that lay below, and to the east of the stately temple of Siva, which dominated the entire city of Lodidhapura. Great trees and gorgeous shrubbery shadowed winding avenues that were flanked by statues and columns of magnificent, though sometimes barbaric, design; and then the palace of the King had burst suddenly upon his astonished gaze—a splendid building embellished from foundation to loftiest tower with tile of the most brilliant colouring and fanciful design. Before the entrance to the palace of Lodivarman stood a guard of fifty warriors. No brass-bound soldiers these, resplendent in shining cuirasses of burnished gold, whose haughty demeanour bespoke their exalted position and the high responsibility that devolved upon them. Gordon King had difficulty in convincing himself of the reality of the scene. Again and again his sane Yankee head assured him that no such things might exist in the jungles of Cambodia and that he still was the victim of the hallucinations of high fever; but when the officer at the gate had interrogated Vama and presently commands were received to conduct the entire party to the presence of Lodivarman, and still the hallucination persisted in all its conclusiveness, he resigned himself to the actualities that confronted him and would have accepted as real whatever grotesque or impossible occurrences or figures might have impinged themselves upon his perceptive faculties. Escorted by a detachment of the golden warriors of Lodivarman, the entire party was conducted through long corridors toward the centre of the palace and at last, after a wait before massive doors, was ushered into a great hall, at the far end of which a number of people were seated upon a raised dais. Upon the floor of the chamber were many men in gorgeous raiment—priests, courtiers, and soldiers. One of the latter, resplendent in rich trappings, received them and conducted them toward the far end of the chamber, where they were halted before the dais. King saw seated upon a great throne an emaciated man, upon every exposed portion of whose body were ugly and repulsive sores. To his right and below him were sombre men in rich garb, and to his left a score of sad-eyed girls and women. This, then, was Lodivarman, the Leper King of Lodidhapura! The American felt an inward revulsion at the mere sight of this repulsive creature and simultaneously understood the horror that Fou-tan had evinced at the thought of personal contact with the leper into whose clutches fate had delivered her. Before Lodivarman knelt a slave, bearing a great salver of food, into which the King continually dipped with his long-nailed fingers. He ate almost constantly during the audience, and as King was brought nearer he saw that the delicacies intended to tempt the palate of a king were naught but lowly mushrooms. "Who are these?" demanded Lodivarman, his dead eyes resting coldly on the prisoners. "Vama, the commander of ten," replied the officer addressed, "who has returned from his mission, to the honour of the King, with the apsaras for whom he was despatched and a strange warrior whom he took prisoner." "Fou-tan of Pnom Dhek," demanded Lodivarman, "why did you seek to escape the honour for which I had destined you?" "Great King," replied the girl, "my heart is still in the land of my sire. I would have returned to Pnom Dhek, for I longed for the father and the friends whom I love and who love me." "A pardonable desire," commented Lodivarman, "and this time thy transgression shall be overlooked, but beware a repetition. You are destined to the high honour of the favour of Lodivarman. See that hereafter, until death, thou dost merit it." Fou-tan, trembling, curtsied low; and Lodivarman turned his cold, fishy eyes upon Gordon King. "And what manner of man bringeth you before the King now?" he asked. "A strange warrior from some far country, Glorious King," replied Vama. "A runaway slave from Pnom Dhek more likely," commented Lodivarman. "Even as I thought, Resplendent Son of Heaven," answered Vama; "but his deeds are such as to leave no belief that he be either a slave or the son of slaves." "What deeds?" demanded the King. "He faced my detachment single-handed, and with a lone shaft he slew one of the best of the King's bowmen." "Is that all?" asked Lodivarman. "A mere freak of Fate may account for that." "No, Brother of the Gods," replied Vama, "there is more." "And what is it? Hasten, I cannot spend the whole evening in idle audience over a slave." "With a single spear-cast he slew My Lord the Tiger," cried Vama. "And you saw this?" "Fou-tan saw it, and all of us saw the carcass of the tiger the following morning. O King, he drove his spear a full two feet into the breast of the tiger as the great beast charged. He is a marvellous warrior, and Vama is proud to have brought such a one to serve in the ranks of the army of Lodivarman." For a while Lodivarman was silent, his dead eyes upon King, while he helped himself from time to time to the tender-cooked mushrooms with which the slave tempted him. "With a single cast he slew My Lord the Tiger?" demanded Lodivarman of Fou-tan. "It is even so, Great King," replied the girl. "How came he to do it? Surely no sane man would tempt the great beast unless in dire predicament." "He did it to save me, upon whom the tiger was preparing to spring." "So I am doubly indebted to this stranger," said Lodivarman. "And what gift would suit your appetite for reward?" demanded the King. "I desire no reward," replied the American, "only that you will permit Fou-tan to return to her beloved Pnom Dhek." "You do not ask much!" cried Lodivarman. "I like your ways. You shall not be destroyed, but instead you shall serve me in the palace guards; such a spear-man should prove worth his weight in gold. As for your request, remember that Fou-tan belongs to Lodivarman, the King, and so may no longer be the subject of any conversation, upon pain of death. Take him to the quarters of the guard!" he directed one of his officers, nodding at King, "and see that he is well cared for, trained and armed." "Yes, most magnificent of kings," replied the man addressed. "Take the girl to the quarters of the women and look to it that she does not again escape," commanded Lodivarman, with a gesture that dismissed them all. As he was escorted from the audience chamber through one exit, King saw Fou-tan led away toward another. Her eyes were turned back toward him, and in them was a haunting suggestion of grief and hopelessness that cut him to the heart. "Good-bye, Gordon King!" she called to him. "Until we meet again, Fou-tan," he replied. "You will not meet again," said the officer who was escorting him, as he hustled the American from the chamber. The barracks to which King was assigned stood a considerable distance in the rear of the palace, not far from the stables in which were housed the King's elephants, yet, like the latter, within the grounds of the royal enclosure. The long, low buildings that housed the soldiers of Lodivarman's royal guard were plastered inside and out with mud and thatched with palm fronds. Along either wall upon the hard-packed dirt floors were pallets of straw, where the common soldiers were bedded down like horses. A space of some four feet in width by seven in length was allotted to each man, and into the wall above his pallet pegs had been driven upon which he might hang his weapons and his clothing, a cooking-pot, and a vessel for water. Along the centres of the buildings was a clear space about eight feet wide, forming an aisle in which soldiers might be formed for inspection. Just beneath the eaves was an open space running the full length of both walls, giving ample ventilation but very little light to the interior of the barracks. The doors were at either end of the buildings. The building to which King was escorted was about two hundred feet long and housed a hundred men. It was but one of a number of similar structures, which he later learned were placed at strategic positions just inside the wall of the royal enclosure, where five thousand men-at-arms were constantly maintained. At Vama's request King was assigned to his unit of ten to replace the soldier that he had slain in the jungle, and thus the American took up his life in the unit of ten, with Kau and Tchek and Vama and the others with whom he was already acquainted as his companions. From a naked jungle hunter to a soldier of a Khmer king, he had crossed in a single step long ages of evolution, and yet he was still a thousand years from the era into which he had been born. # VII: A SOLDIER OF THE GUARD The lives of private soldiers of the royal guard of a Khmer king were far from thrilling. Their most important assignment was to guard duty, which fell to the lot of each soldier once in every four days. There were drills daily, both upon foot and upon elephants, and there were numerous parades and ceremonies. Aside from the care of their own weapons they were called upon for no manual labour, such work being attended to by slaves. Once a week the straw which formed their pallets was hauled away upon bullock-carts to the elephants' stables, where it was used to bed down the great pachyderms, and fresh straw was brought to the barracks. Their leisure, of which they usually had a little at various times during the day, the soldiers utilised in gossiping or gambling, or listening to the story-tellers, certain of whom were freely admitted to the royal grounds. Many were the stories to which King listened—stories of ancient power and stories of kings who owned a million slaves and a hundred thousand elephants; stories of Kambu, the mythical founder of the Khmer race; of Yacovarman, the king of glory; and of Jayavarman VIII., the last of the great kings. Interwoven throughout all the fabric of these hoary tales were the Nagas and the Yeacks, those ever-recurring mythological figures that he had met in the folk-lore of the people beyond the jungle, in the dark dwelling of Che and Kangrey, and now in the shadow of the palace of the great King, Lodivarman. Or when there were no story-tellers, or he tired of listening to the idle gossip of his fellows, or became bored by their endless games of chance, King would sit in silence, meditating upon the past and seeking an answer to the riddle of the future. Recollection of his distant home and friends always raised a vision of Susan Anne Prentice—home and friends and Susan Anne—they were all one; they constituted his past and beckoned him into the future. It seemed difficult to think of life without home and friends and Susan Anne when he thought of them, but always the same little figure rose in front of them, clear and distinct, as they faded slowly out of the picture: sad eyes in which there yet dwelt a wealth of inherent happiness and mirth, a piquant face, and gleaming teeth behind red lips. Always his thoughts, no matter how far they roamed, returned to this dainty flower of girlhood, and then his brows would contract and his jaws clench as he speculated upon her fate and chafed and fretted because of his inability to succour her. And one day as he sat meditating thus he saw a strange figure approaching across the barracks yard. "Ye gods!" he exclaimed, almost audibly; "one by one my dreams are coming true! If it isn't the old bird with the red umbrella that I saw just before Che and Kangrey rescued me, I'll eat my shirt." King had had considerable difficulty in differentiating between the fantastic figures of his fever-induced hallucinations and the realities of his weird experiences in the jungle, so that though Che and Kangrey had insisted that there had been an old man with a long yellow robe and a red umbrella and although King had believed them, yet it was with somewhat of a shock that he recognised the reality. As Vay Thon passed among the soldiers, they arose to their feet and bowed low before him, evincing the awe and reverence in which they held him. He passed them with nodding head and mumbled benediction, gazing intently at each face as though he sought some particular warrior. Seeing that the others rose and bowed before the high priest, King did likewise; and when Vay Thon's eyes fell upon him they lighted with recognition. "It is you, my son," he said. "Do you recall me?" "You are Vay Thon, the high priest of Siva," replied the American. "He whom you saved from My Lord the Tiger," replied the priest. "An obligation which you fully discharged when you commanded Che and Kangrey to nurse me back to life." "An obligation that I may never fully discharge," replied Vay Thon; "and because of this I came to search for you, that I may offer you proof of my undying gratitude." "How did you know that I was here?" asked King. "I have talked with Fou-tan," replied Vay Thon, "and when she had described the warrior who had rescued her, I knew at once that it must be you." "You have seen Fou-tan and talked with her?" asked King. The high priest nodded. "And she is well—and safe?" demanded King. "Her body is well, but her heart is sick," replied the high priest; "but she is safe—those who find favour in the eyes of the King are always safe, while the King's favour lasts." "Has she—has he—" "I understand what you would ask, my son," said Vay Thon. "Lodivarman has not yet sent for her." "But he will," cried King. "To-night, I think," said Vay Thon. The anguish in the young man's eyes would have been apparent to one of far less intelligence and discernment than Vay Thon. He laid his hand in compassion upon the shoulder of the American. "If I could help you, my son, I would," he said; "but in such matters kings may not be crossed even by gods." "Where is she?" asked King. "She is in the King's house," replied Vay Thon, pointing toward a wing of the palace that was visible from where they stood. For a long moment the eyes of the American, lighted by determination and by a complexity of other fires that burned within him, remained riveted upon the house of the King. Vay Thon, the high priest of Siva, was old and wise and shrewd. "I read your heart, my son," he said, "and my heart goes out in sympathy to yours, but what you plan is impossible of execution; it would but lead to torture and to death." "In what room is she in the house of the King?" demanded the American. Vay Thon shook his head sadly. "Forget this madness," he said. "It can lead but to the grave. I am your friend and I would help you, but I would be no friend were I to encourage you in the mad venture that I can only too well guess is forming in your mind. I owe you my life; and always shall I stand ready to aid you in any way that lies within my power, except in this. And now, farewell; and may the gods cause you to forget your sorrow." As Vay Thon turned and walked slowly back in the direction of the temple, Gordon King stood gazing at the house of Lodivarman; forgotten were Vay Thon; forgotten were his wise words of counsel. King seemed hypnotised; a single figure filled the retina of his mind's eye—a tiny figure, yet it crowded out all else—through walls of tile and lead he saw it crouching in despair in the house of the King. The afternoon was drawing to a close. The warriors who were to relieve the palace guard at sundown were already buckling on their brass cuirasses, straightening their leather tunics, adjusting their helmets, polishing weapons until they glistened even in the dark interior of the barracks. Gordon King was recalled to his surroundings by two tardy warriors who were hastening to accoutre themselves for guard duty; and in that instant was born the mad scheme that, without the slightest consideration, he was to attempt to put into execution. Turning quickly, he overtook the men just before they entered the barracks and touched one of them upon the shoulder. "May I have a word with you?" he asked. "I have no time. I am already late," replied the warrior. "I shall be quick, then," replied King. "Let me take your place on the guard to-night, and I will give you all of my next pay." Instantly the man was all suspicion. "That is a strange request," he said. "Most warriors would pay to be relieved of guard duty. What is your purpose?" "There is a certain slave girl attached to the house of the King, and to-night she will be looking for a certain warrior." And the American nudged the other in the ribs and gave him a sly wink. The warrior's face relaxed into a grin. "It might go hard with us if we were caught," he said; "but, by Siva, three months' pay is not to be considered lightly. Quick! Get into your harness, while I explain the matter to the others of the ten. But be sure that you do not say anything about the pay, for if they knew that, each would want his share." "You are doing it for friendship," said King with a laugh, as he hastened into the interior of the barracks. As he hurriedly adjusted his cuirass and helmet, the warrior whose place he was to take was explaining the matter to the other members of the ten, who received it with rough laughter and broad jokes. At first the petty officer in command of the ten positively forbade the exchange, and it was necessary for King to promise him a month's pay before he, at last, reluctantly acceded. "But remember," he admonished them, "I know nothing of it, for no such thing may be done with my knowledge." As the ten marched toward the house of the King, the American's excitement increased, though outwardly he was calm. Just what he was going to do and just how he was going to execute it, the man could not know, because he had no idea as to what obstacles would present themselves, or, upon the other hand, what good fortune might lie in store for him. He fully appreciated that his proposed action was unwise, ill-considered, and almost definitely doomed to defeat; but could he have turned back he would not have done so. Presently they were halted at the King's house, a little to one side of the main entrance and before a low doorway. Other contingents of the guard were arriving from other barracks, while members of the old guard emerged from the low doorway and were formed for the brief ceremony that marked the changes of the guard. Immediately following the ceremony a number of the new guard were told off to relieve the sentries upon their posts about the grounds and within the interior of the palace, and King happened to be among these. As he was marched away he could not help but wonder what post Fate would select for him, though wherever it should be he was determined that he would find the means for gaining access to the interior of the palace. The detail of the guard was first marched to the far end of the wing, and here a sentry was relieved who paced back and forth in front of a tiny doorway, shadowed by trees and shrubbery. King thought that this would have been an excellent post; but it did not fall to him; and as they continued on about the wing of the palace, relieving sentry after sentry, he began to fear that he was not going to be posted at all; and, indeed, the detail traversed the outside of the entire wing, and still the American had been assigned no post. And then they came at last before the ornate entrance to the King's house, where ten men were detached from the detail to relieve those posted at this important spot. All the sentries hitherto relieved were then marched away, and King found himself one of five who had not as yet been posted. These, to the astonishment and gratification of the American, were marched into the palace. Three were detailed to posts in the long entrance corridor, while King and the other remaining warrior were marched to the doorway of a large and luxuriously furnished apartment. At one end of the chamber, raised slightly above the floor level, was a dais covered with gorgeous rugs. Upon it stood a low table laid with a service of solid gold, with bowls of fruit and sweetmeats, several massive golden jugs, and ornately carved goblets. Behind the table was a pile of pillows covered with rich stuff, and over all a canopy of cloth of gold. On the floor of the chamber, below the dais, was a long table, similarly though not so richly laid; and this was entirely surrounded by rich cushions. On either side of the doorway, facing the interior of the room, stood King and his fellow warrior, two bronze statues cuirassed in burnished brass. For five minutes they stood there thus facing the empty chamber; and then a door at the far side opened, and a file of slaves entered, some twenty-five or thirty in all. Two of these took their places at opposite ends of the dais back of the table and the pillows, standing erect with arms folded and eyes staring straight to the front. The other slaves took similar positions at intervals behind the long table on the main floor and faced the dais. Between the long table and the dais and facing the latter stood a richly garbed individual whom King mentally classified as a sort of major-domo. Again there was a wait of several minutes, during which no one spoke or moved. Then, through the doorway which King and his fellow guarded, a party of men entered the chamber. Some were warriors, cuirassed and helmeted in gold, while others were garbed in long robes of vivid hues, richly embroidered. A number of these wore fantastic headdresses, several of which were over two feet in height. These banquet guests formed in little groups behind the long table, engaged in low-toned conversation. There was no laughter now and they spoke scarcely above a whisper. It was as though a pall of gloom had enveloped them the instant that they entered the gorgeously appointed chamber. Almost immediately an arras at the rear of the dais was drawn aside, revealing a warrior of the guard, who sounded a fanfare upon a golden trumpet. As the last note died away, the slaves in the chamber prostrated themselves, pressing their foreheads to the floor, while the guests kneeled with bowed heads; and then Lodivarman, the Leper King of Lodidhapura, came slowly through the opening at the rear of the dais. Only the trumpeter and the two guards at the door remained standing as Lodivarman advanced and seated himself upon the pillows behind his table. For a moment he looked about the apartment through his dull eyes, and then, apparently satisfied, he struck his palms together a single time. Immediately all in the apartment arose to their feet. The major-domo bowed low three times before the King. Each of the guests did the same, and then, in silence, took their places at the banquet table. When all had been seated, Lodivarman struck his palms together a second time; and immediately the slaves stepped forward upon noiseless feet and commenced to serve the viands and pour the wine. A third time Lodivarman gave the signal, upon which the guests relaxed and entered into low-voiced conversation. From his post at the entrance-way, Gordon King noticed the bountiful array of food upon the long banquet table. Only a few of the articles did he recognise, but it was evident that fruit and vegetables and meat were there in abundance. The largest bowl upon the little table of the King was filled with mushrooms, aside from which there was little else upon Lodivarman's table other than fruit, sweetmeats, and wine. From what he had previously seen of Lodivarman and from the gossip that he had heard in the barracks he was aware that this monarch was so addicted to the use of mushrooms that the eating of them had become a fixed habit with him almost to the exclusion of proper and natural food, and his taste for them was so inordinate that he had long since ordained them royal food, forbidden under pain of death to all save the King. As the tiresome meal progressed, the banqueters carried on their forced and perfunctory conversation, while Lodivarman sat silent and morose, his attention divided between his mushrooms and his wine. As King watched he could not but compare this meal with formal dinners he had attended in New York and Washington, and he sympathised with the banqueters in the hall of Lodivarman, because he knew that they were suffering the same boredom that he had once endured, but with the advantage that they did not have to appear to be happy and gay. Presently Lodivarman made a sign to the major-domo, who clapped his hands twice; and immediately all eyes turned to a doorway at one side of the chamber, through which there now filed a company of apsarases. About the hips the girls wore girdles of virgin gold, which supported skirts that fell to within a few inches of their ankles. From their hips two stiff-pointed panels of cloth bowed outward, falling almost to the floor. Above the hips their bodies were naked, except for rich armlets and necklaces. Their headdresses were fantastic contrivances that resembled ornate candelabra, heavy ear-rings fell to their shoulders, and above their bare feet were anklets of precious metal. A few wore masks of hideous design, but the painted lips and cheeks and darkened eyes of most of them were their only disguise. All of them were beautifully formed, and many of them were pretty; but there was one among them who was gorgeous in her loveliness. As the eyes of Gordon King fell upon her face, he felt his heart quicken, for she was Fou-tan. She had not seen him when she entered; and now she danced with her back toward him, a dance that consisted of strange postures of the feet and legs, the hips, the arms and hands and heads of the little dancers. As they went through the slow steps of the dance, they bent their fingers, their hands, and their arms into such unnatural positions that Gordon King marvelled, not only upon the long hours and days of practice that must have been necessary for them to perfect themselves, but also upon the mentality of an audience that could find entertainment in such a combination of beauty and grotesqueness. That the dance was ritualistic and had some hidden religious significance was the only explanation that he could place upon it, yet even so he realised that it was fully as artistic and beautiful and intelligent as much of the so-called aesthetic dancing that he had been compelled to endure in modern America and Europe. There were twenty apsarases taking part in the dance, but King saw only one—a lithe and beautiful figure that moved faultlessly through the long sequences of intricate and difficult posturing. Mad scheme after mad scheme passed through his mind as he sought for some plan whereby he might take advantage of their proximity to effect her release from the palace of the King, but each one must needs be discarded in the light of sober reflection. He must wait, but while he waited he planned and hoped. As the long dance drew to a close, Gordon King saw Lodivarman beckon to the major-domo to him and whisper briefly to that functionary; and as the apsarases were withdrawing from the room, the man hastened after them and touched Fou-tan upon the shoulder. He spoke to her, and King could see the girl shrink. Lodivarman clapped his hands three times, and again the slaves prostrated themselves and the guests kneeled; while Lodivarman rose to his feet and walked slowly from the chamber through the same doorway by which he had entered. Immediately he was gone the guests arose and left the chamber, apparently only too glad to be released from the ordeal of a state banquet. The slaves began to gather up the dishes and bear them away, while the major-domo led Fou-tan across the chamber, up on to the royal dais and bowed her into the doorway through which Lodivarman had disappeared. Gordon King could scarce restrain himself as the full import of what he had just witnessed revealed itself to his tortured mind. Inclination prompted him to run across the chamber and follow Lodivarman and Fou-tan through that doorway of mystery, but again sane judgment interposed. With the passing of the King and the guests, the American's fellow guardsman had relaxed. He no longer stood in statuesque immobility, but lounged carelessly against the wall watching the slaves bearing away the trays of unfinished food. "We should enjoy that more than the guests seemed to," he said to King, nodding toward the viands. "Yes," replied the American, his mind upon other matters. "I have stood guard here many times in the past," continued the warrior, "and never have I gone hungry after a banquet." "I am not hungry now," said King shortly. "I am," said the warrior. "Just beyond that door they stack up the dishes. If you will watch here, I can go in there and eat all that I want." "Go ahead," said the American. "If you see an officer approaching, whistle once." "If I see one I shall whistle. Go ahead," said King, seeing here a God-given opportunity to carry out the plan that the presence of the other warrior would have thwarted. "It will not take me long," said the warrior, and with that he hurried quickly toward the little door through which the slaves were carrying the food. Scarcely had the door closed behind his companion when King crossed the apartment and leaped to the dais. At the moment the chamber was empty, not even a single slave remaining within it, and there was no witness as the American parted the hangings and disappeared through the doorway that shortly before had swallowed Lodivarman and Fou-tan. # VIII: IN THE HOUSE OF THE KING The major-domo let Fou-tan through a dimly lighted corridor to a small apartment not far from the banquet hall. The interior walls of thin sheet lead, hand-pounded upon great blocks of stone, were covered with paintings depicting scenes of war, the chase, the palace, and the temple. There were spearmen and bowmen and great elephants trapped for war. A king upon horseback, followed by his courtiers, rode down a tiger and slew him with a spear. Countless apsarases posed in wooden postures of the dance. Priests in long robes and fantastic headdresses marched in interminable procession toward a temple to Siva, and everywhere throughout the decorations of the chamber was the symbol of the Destroyer. Upon the floor were costly rugs and the skins of tigers and leopards. There were low tables with vessels containing fruit or sweets and statuary of pottery and stone. At one side of the chamber, depending from the ceiling by three chains, swung an elaborately carved vessel from which arose the smoke and the heavy fragrance of burning incense, while upon the floor was an abundance of cushions covered by rich embroidery of many hues. The whole apartment was a blaze of colour, softened and subdued in the light of three cressets burning steadily in the quiet air. "Why have you brought me here?" demanded Fou-tan. "It is the will of Lodivarman, the King," replied the major-domo. "I should be allowed three days to prepare myself," said the girl. "It is the custom." The major-domo shook his head. "I know nothing beyond the orders I received from Lodivarman," he said. "Customs are made by kings—and unmade." Fou-tan looked apprehensively about her, taking in the details of the apartment. She saw that in addition to the door through which they had entered there was another door at one end of the room and that along one side there were three windows, entirely covered now by the hangings that had been drawn across them. She moved uneasily about while the major-domo remained standing, always facing her. "Will you not be seated?" he asked. "I prefer to stand," she replied, and then, "What are your orders?" "To bring you here," replied the major-domo. "And that was all?" "That was all." "Why was I brought here?" persisted the girl. "Because the King ordered it," replied the man. "Why did he order it?" "It is not for me to know or to seek to know more than the King divulges. I am but a servant." For a time the silence of the room was broken only by their breathing and the soft movements of the girl's skirt as she paced nervously the length of the gorgeous apartment that, had its walls been of cold granite, could have meant no more a prison to her. Her thoughts were confused by the hopelessness of her situation. She had had no time to prepare for this, not in the sense of the preparation that was customary for a new bride for Lodivarman, but in a sterner, a more personal sense. She had sworn to herself that she would die before she would submit to the loathsome embraces of the Leper King; but taken thus unaware she had no means for death, so that now she concentrated every faculty of her ingenuity to discover some plan whereby she might postpone the fatal hour or find the means to liberate herself at once from the hateful crisis which she felt impended. And then the door at the end of the room opened and Lodivarman entered. He halted just within the threshold, closing the door behind him, and stood thus for a moment in silence, his dead eyes upon her where, reacting unconsciously to a lifetime of training, she had gone on her knees before the King, as had the major-domo. "Arise!" commanded Lodivarman, including them both in a gesture, and then he turned to the man. "You may go," he said. "See that no one enters this wing of the palace until I summon." The major-domo, bowing low, backed from the room, closing the door softly as he departed. Then it was that Lodivarman advanced toward Fou-tan. He laid a hand upon her naked shoulder as she shrank back involuntarily. "You fear me," he said. "To you I am a loathsome leper. They all fear me; they all hate me, but what can they do? What can you do? I am King. May the gods help the poor leper who is not a king!" "Oh, King, I am not a king," cried the girl. "You call upon the gods to help the poor leper who is not a king, and yet you would make a leper of me, you who could save me!" Lodivarman laughed. "Why should I spare you?" he demanded. "It was a woman who made me a leper. Let her sin be upon all women. The accursed creature! From that moment I have hated women; even while I have held them in my arms I have hated them, but some malignant demon has thwarted me. Never has a woman contracted leprosy from me; yet I always hope, and the more beautiful and young they are the higher rises my hope, for once I was young and beautiful until that accursed woman robbed me of happiness and took away from me all except the life I had grown to hate; but perhaps in you my revenge shall be consummated as I have always hoped. With you it seems that it must be fulfilled, for you are very young and by far the most beautiful woman that has been offered in atonement for the sin of her sister. I shall tell you the story; I tell it to each of them that they may know how well they deserve whatever fate the gods may hold in store for them, because, like the accursed one, they are women. "It was many years ago. I was in the prime of my youth and my beauty. I had ridden out to hunt My Lord the Tiger with a hundred courtiers and a thousand men-at-arms. The hunt was a success. Upon that wall beside you the artist has painted Lodivarman slaying the great beast. Never shall I forget the day of our triumphal return to Lodidhapura. Ah, Siva, no, never shall I forget. It was a day of triumph, a day of discovery, and the day of my cruel undoing by the foul creature whose sin you are to expiate. "It was upon that day that I first tasted a mushroom. At a little village in the jungle a native upon bended knee offered me a platter of this then strange food. I partook. Never in my life had I tasted a viand more delicious. Dismounting, I sat beneath a tree before the hut of the poor peasant, and there I ate all of the mushrooms that he had prepared—a great platter of them—but I did not seem able to satisfy my craving for them, nor have I since then. I questioned him as to what they were and how they grew, and I gave orders that he be brought to Lodidhapura and given the means to propagate the royal food. He still lives. He has been showered with honours and riches, and still he raises mushrooms for Lodivarman; nor may any other in the realm raise them, nor any but the King partake of them. And thus there occurred a great happiness and a great satisfaction upon the selfsame day that saw all else snatched from me. "As we entered Lodidhapura later in the day, crowds lined the avenue to see their King. They sang and shouted in welcome and threw blossoms at us. My charger, frightened by the noise and the bombardment of blossoms, became unmanageable, and I was hurled heavily to the ground; whereat a woman of the crowd rushed forward and threw herself upon me and with her arms about me covered my face and mouth with kisses. When my courtiers reached my side and dragged her from me and lifted me to my feet, it was seen that the woman was a leper. A great cry of horror arose, and the people who had come to applaud me shrank away, and even my courtiers drew to one side; and alone I mounted my horse and alone I rode into the city of Lodidhapura. "Within an hour I was stricken; these hideous sores came upon my body as by magic, and never since have I been free from them. Now you shall have them, woman—daughter of a woman. As I have rotted, so shall you rot; as I am loathed, so shall you be loathed; as my youth and beauty were blasted, so shall yours be. Come!" and he laid a heavy hand upon the arm of Fou-tan. Gordon King, entering the dimly lighted corridor, paused a moment to listen, to note if he might not hear voices that would guide him to those he sought. As he stood there thus, he saw a door open farther along the corridor and a man back out whom he instantly recognised as the major-domo. King looked for a place to hide, but there was no hiding-place; the corridor was straight and none too wide, and it was inevitable that he would be discovered if the major-domo came that way, as he did immediately he had closed the door of the apartment he had just quitted. King grasped at the only chance that occurred to him for disarming the suspicions of the major-domo. Snapping to rigid attention, he stood as though a posted sentry just inside the entrance to the corridor. The major-domo saw him, and a puzzled frown crossed the man's face as he approached along the corridor, halting when he came opposite King. "What do you here, man?" he demanded suspiciously. "By the command of Lodivarman, the King, I have been posted here with orders to let no one enter." The major-domo seemed puzzled and rather at a loss as to what action he should take in the matter. He thought of returning to Lodivarman for verification of the warrior's statement, but he knew the short temper of his King and hesitated to incur his wrath in the event that the warrior had spoken the truth. "The King said naught to me of this," he said. "He commanded me to see that no one entered this wing of the palace." "That is what I am here for," replied King; "and, furthermore, I must tell you that nothing was said to me about you and, therefore, I must order you to leave at once." "But I am the major-domo," said the man haughtily. "But I am the King's sentry," replied the American, "and if you wish to question the King's orders, let us go to Lodivarman together and see what he has to say about it." "Perhaps he forgot that he had ordered a sentry posted here," temporised the major-domo. "But how else could you have been posted here other than by orders from an officer of the King?" "How else indeed?" inquired the American. "Very well," snapped the major-domo. "See that you let no one enter," and he was about to pass on when King detained him. "I have never been posted here before," he said; "perhaps you had better tell me if there is any other doorway in the corridor through which anyone might enter this section of the palace, that I may watch that also; and also if there is anyone here beside the King." "Only the King and an apsaras are here," replied the man. "They are in that room from which you saw me come. The doorway this side upon the right leads down a flight of steps to a corridor that terminates at a door opening into the royal garden at this end of the palace. It is never used except by Lodivarman, and as the door is heavily barred upon the inside and a sentry posted upon the outside, there is no likelihood that anyone will enter there, so that there remains only this doorway to be guarded." "My zeal shall merit the attention of the King," said the sentry, as the major-domo passed on into the banquet hall and disappeared from view. The moment that the man was out of sight King hastened quickly up the corridor and paused before the door, behind which the major-domo told him he had left Lodivarman and Fou-tan. As he paused he heard a woman's voice raised in a cry of terror; it came from beyond the heavy panels of the door, and it was scarcely voiced ere Gordon King pushed the portal aside and stepped into the room. Before him Fou-tan was struggling to release herself from the clutches of Lodivarman. Horror and revulsion were written large upon her countenance, while rage and lust distorted the hideous face of the Leper King. At sight of the warrior Lodivarman's face went livid with rage even greater than that which had been dominating him. "How dare you!" he screamed. "You shall die for this. Who sent you hither?" Gordon King closed the door behind him and advanced toward Lodivarman. "Gordon King!" cried the girl, her astonishment reflected in her tone and in the expression upon her face. For an instant hope sprang to her eyes, but quickly it faded to be replaced by the fear that she felt for him now as well as for herself. "Oh, Gordon King, they will kill you for this!" And now Lodivarman recognised him, too. "So you are the warrior who slew the tiger single-handed!" he cried. "What brought you here?" "I have come for Fou-tan," said King simply. Lodivarman's rotting face twitched with rage. He was rendered speechless by the effrontery of this low knave. Twice he tried to speak, but his anger choked him; and then he sprang for a cord that depended against one of the walls, but King guessed his purpose and forestalled him. Springing forward, he grasped Lodivarman roughly by the shoulder and hurled him back. "Not a sound out of you," he said, "or Lodidhapura will be needing a new king." It was then that Lodivarman found his voice. "You shall be boiled in oil for this," he said in a low voice. "Then I might as well kill you," said Gordon King, "for if I have to die, it is well that I have my vengeance first," and he raised his spear as though to cast it. "No, no!" exclaimed Lodivarman. "Do not kill me. I grant you pardon for your great offence." King could not but marvel at the workings of the great law of self-preservation that caused this diseased and rotten thing, burdened by misery, hatred, and unhappiness, so tenaciously to cling to the hope of life. "Come, come!" cried Lodivarman. "Tell me what you want and be gone." "I told you what I wanted," said King. "I came for Fou-tan." "You cannot have her," cried Lodivarman. "She is mine. Think you that a woman would leave a king for you, knave?" "Ask her," said King; but there was no need to ask her. Fou-tan crossed quickly to the American's side. "Oh, Lodivarman," she cried, "let me go away in peace with this warrior." "It is that or death, Lodivarman," said King coldly. "That or death," repeated Lodivarman in a half whisper. "Very well, then, you have won," he added presently. "Go in peace and take the girl with you." But even if he had not noted the cunning expression in the King's eyes, Gordon King would not have been deceived by this sudden acquiescence to his demand. "You are wise, Lodivarman," he said—"wise to choose the easiest solution of your problem. I, too, must be guided by wisdom and by my knowledge of the ways of tyrants. Lie down upon the floor." "Why?" demanded Lodivarman. "What would you do to me? Do you forget that I am a king, that my person is holy?" "I remember that you are a man and that men may die if, living, they present an obstacle to another man who is desperate. Lodivarman, you must know that I am desperate." "I have told you that you might go in peace," said the monarch. "Why would you humiliate me?" "I have no desire to humiliate you, Lodivarman. I only wish to assure myself that you will not be able to give the alarm before Fou-tan and I are beyond the walls of Lodidhapura. I would secure you so that you cannot leave this chamber; and as you have given orders that no one is to enter this part of the King's house until you summon, it will be morning, at least, before you can despatch warriors in pursuit of us." "He speaks the truth," said Fou-tan to the King; "you will not be harmed." For a moment Lodivarman stood silent as though in thought, and then suddenly and quite unexpectedly he leaped straight for King, striking up the warrior's spear and endeavouring to clutch him by the throat. Lodivarman was no coward. So impetuous was the leper's charge that King was borne backward beneath the man's weight. His heel caught in the fold of a tiger skin upon the floor, and he fell heavily backward with Lodivarman upon him. The fingers of the leper were already at his throat; the rotting face was close to his; the odour of fetid breath was in his nostrils. But only for an instant did the Khmer King have an advantage. As he raised his voice to summon help, the hand of the American found his throat, choking out the sound even as it was born. Youth and strength and endurance all were upon the side of the younger man. Slowly he wormed his body from beneath that of the King; and then, kicking one of Lodivarman's braced feet from beneath him, he rolled the Khmer over upon his back and was upon him. Lodivarman's grip was wrenched from King's throat, and now the Khmer was gasping for breath as he fought, violently but futilely, to disengage himself from the clutches of the man upon him. "Lie still," said King. "Do not force me to kill you." The repulsive sores upon the face of the King were directly beneath his eyes. Even in this tense moment that was so closely approaching tragedy, the habits of his medical training were still sufficiently strong to cause the American to give considerably more than cursory attention to these outward physical symptoms of the dread disease that had given Lodivarman the name of the Leper King; and what the doctor in him saw induced a keen regret that he could not investigate this strange case more fully. At King's last command and threat, Lodivarman had ceased his struggles, and the American had relaxed his grasp upon the other's throat. "Are there any cords attached to the hangings in the room, Fou-tan?" he demanded of the girl. "Yes, there are cords at the windows," replied she. "Get them for me," said the American. Quickly Fou-tan wrenched the cords loose from their fastenings and brought them to King, and with them the man bound the wrists and ankles of the Khmer King. So securely did he bind them and so tightly did he tie the knots that he had no fear that Lodivarman could release himself without aid; and now to be doubly certain that he could not summon assistance, King stuffed a gag of soft cloth into the mouth of his royal prisoner and bound it tightly there with another cord. Then he sprang to his feet. "Come, Fou-tan," he said. "We have no time to lose; but wait, you cannot go abroad in that garb. You are to accompany me as a slave girl, not as an apsaras." Fou-tan snatched off her ornate headdress and threw it upon the floor; then she loosened the golden girdle that held her voluminous skirt in place, and as it dropped to the floor King saw that she wore a silken sampot beneath it. Across a taboret was a long drape, the ends of which were spread upon the floor. This Fou-tan took and wound about her lithe form as a sarong. "I am ready, Gordon King," she said. "The ear-rings," he suggested, "the necklace, and your other wrist ornaments. They look too royal for a slave." "You are right," she said, as she removed them. King quickly extinguished the cressets, leaving the room in darkness. Then together the two groped their way to the door. Opening it a little, King looked out. The corridor was empty. He drew Fou-tan into it and closed the door behind him. To the next door in the corridor he stepped and tried it; it was not locked. He could just see the top of a flight of stone steps leading down into utter darkness. He wished that he had brought one of the cressets, but now it was too late. He drew Fou-tan within and closed the door, and now they could see nothing. "Where does this lead?" asked Fou-tan in a whisper. "It is the King's private passage to the garden," replied the American, "and if I have made no mistake in my calculations, the other end of it is guarded by a sentry who will pass us with a wink." As they groped their way slowly down the steps and along the corridor King explained to Fou-tan the subterfuge he had adopted to obtain a place upon the guard that night and that he had particularly noticed the little door at the end of this wing of the palace and when the major-domo had told him of the private passage leading to the garden he had guessed that it ended at this very door. "The sentry there," he had concluded, "is from my own barracks and knows the story. That is why you must be a little slave girl to-night, Fou-tan." "I do not mind being a slave girl—now," she said, and King felt the little fingers of the hand he held press his own more tightly. They came at last to the end of the corridor. In the darkness King's fingers ran over the surface of the door in search of bars and bolts. The fastening, which he found at last, was massive but simple. It moved beneath the pressure of his hand with only a slight grating sound. He pushed the door slowly open; the fresh night air blew in upon them; the starlit heavens bathed the garden in gentle luminosity. Cautiously King crossed the threshold. He saw the warrior upon his post without, and instantly the man saw him. "Who comes?" demanded the sentry, dropping his spear-point on a level with King's breast as he wheeled quickly toward him. "It is I—King—of Vama's ten. I have found the slave girl of whom I told you, and I would walk in the garden with her for a few moments." "I do not know you," snapped the warrior. "I never heard of you or your slave girl," and then it was that King realised that he had never seen this man before—that the sentries had been changed since he had entered the palace. His heart sank within him, yet he maintained a bold front. "It will do no harm to let us pass for a while," he said, "you can see that I am a member of the guard, as otherwise I could not have gained access to the King's house." "That may be true," replied the warrior, "but I have my orders that no one shall pass either in or out of this doorway without proper authority. I will summon an officer. If he wishes to let you pass, that is none of my affair." Fou-tan had been standing at King's side. Now she moved slowly and languorously toward the sentry. Every undulating motion of her lithe body was provocative. She came very close to him and turned her beautiful face up toward his. Her eyes were dreamy wells of promise. "For me?" she asked in a soft, caressing voice. "For me, warrior, could you not be blind for a moment?" "For you, yes," said the man huskily, "but you are not for me; you belong to him." "I have a sister," suggested Fou-tan. "When I return within the King's house, perhaps she will come to this little door. What do you say, warrior?" "Perhaps it can do no harm," he said hesitatingly. "How long will you remain in the garden?" "We shall be in the garden only a few minutes," said King. "I shall turn my back," said the sentry. "I have not seen you. Remember that, I have not seen you." "Nor have we seen you," replied King. "Do not forget your sister, little one," said the sentry, as he turned away from them and continued along his post, while Gordon King and Fou-tan merged with the shadows of the trees beyond. Perhaps, hours later, when he was relieved, the sentry realised that he had been duped, but there were excellent reasons why he should keep a still tongue in his head, though he intended at first opportunity to look up this warrior who said that his name was King and demand an accounting from him. Perhaps, after all, the slave girl had had no sister, with which thought he turned on his pallet of straw and fell asleep. # IX: THE FLIGHT True to their promise to the sentry, Fou-tan and King did not remain long within the garden of Lodivarman, the Leper King. Inasmuch as the walls had been built to keep people out of the royal enclosure, rather than to keep them in, it was not difficult to find a spot where they might be scaled, since in many places trees grew near, their branches overhanging. Along the unlighted streets of the city proper the sight of a warrior and a girl was not so uncommon as to attract attention, and so it was with comparative ease that they made their way to the city's outer wall. Here, once more, a like condition prevailed. Low sheds and buildings abutted against the inner surface of the city's ramparts, and presently King found a place where they could ascend to the roof of a building and surmount the wall itself. The drop to the ground upon the outside, however, was considerable, and here they were confronted with the greatest danger that had menaced them since they had passed the sentry. For either one of them to suffer a sprained ankle or a broken leg at this time would have been fatal to both. In the darkness King could not determine the nature of the ground at the foot of the wall; the light of the stars was not sufficient for that. "We shall have to take a chance here, Fou-tan," he said. "It is high, Gordon King; but if you tell me to I will jump." "No," he said, "that is not necessary. I judge that the wall is about twenty feet high here. My spear is six feet long; your sarong must be at least eight feet, possibly longer." "Yes, it is much too long," she said; "it was not intended for a sarong. But what has that to do with it?" "I am going to tie one end of the sarong to the end of my spear; I shall tie a knot in the other end of the sarong. Do you think that you are strong enough to cling to that knot while I lower you as near the ground as I can?" "I am very strong," said Fou-tan, "and desperation lends even greater strength." As she spoke she commenced to remove her sarong, and a moment later King was lowering her slowly over the edge of the wall. "When I have lowered you as far as I can," he whispered in her ear, "I shall tell you to drop. After you have done so, stand quickly to one side, and I will drop my spear. Then you must take it away so that I will not fall upon it; and also if the ground is rough, smooth it a little for me." "Yes," she said, and King lowered her away down the outside of the wall of Lodidhapura. Presently he was clinging only to the end of the spear and was leaning far over the edge of the wall. "Drop," he said in a low voice. Instantly the pull of her weight was gone from the spear handle in his hand. "Are you all right?" he asked in a low voice. "Yes," she replied. "Drop the spear," and then an instant later: "the grass is thick and soft here." King lowered himself over the edge of the wall and hung an instant by his fingers. Then he released his hold and dropped. As he rolled over in the tall grass, considerably jarred but unhurt, Fou-tan was at his side. "You are all right, Gordon King?" she demanded. "You are not hurt?" "I am all right," he said. "I shall sacrifice a bullock in the temple of Siva when we reach Pnom Dhek," she said. "For your sake, Fou-tan, I hope that it will not be long before you are able to sacrifice the bullock, but we are not at Pnom Dhek yet; I do not even know where it is." "I do," replied the girl. "In what direction?" he asked. She pointed. "There," she said, "but the way is long and difficult." Near them was a group of native huts, clustered close to the foot of the wall, and so they moved out straight across the clearing to the edge of the jungle and then, turning, paralleled the jungle until they had passed the city. "When we were brought into Lodidhapura I saw an avenue leading into the jungle somewhere in this direction," said King. "Yes," replied Fou-tan, "but that does not lead to Pnom Dhek." "Which is the reason that I wish to find it," said King. "The pursuit will be directed straight in the direction of Pnom Dhek, you may be assured. Men upon elephants and upon horses will travel after us much more rapidly than we can travel and we shall be overtaken if we take the road toward Pnom Dhek. We must go in some other direction and hide in the jungle for days, perhaps, before we may dare to approach Pnom Dhek." "I do not care," she said, "and I shall not be afraid if you are with me, Gordon King." It was not long before they found the road that he sought. In the open starlit night the transition to the jungle was depressing and, too, as they both realised, it was highly dangerous. All about them were the noises of the gloomy nocturnal forest: the mysterious rustling of underbrush as some beast passed on padded feet, a coughing growl in the distance, a snarl and a scream, followed by a long silence that was more terrifying than the noise. A few months ago King would have considered their position far more precarious than he did this night, but now long familiarity with the jungle had so inured him to its dangers that he had unwittingly acquired that tendency to fatalism that is a noticeable characteristic of primitive people who live constantly beneath the menace of beasts of prey. He was, however, no less aware of the dangers that confronted them, but held them the lesser of two evils. To remain in the neighbourhood of Lodidhapura would most certainly result in their early capture and subject them to a fate more merciless and more cruel than any which might waylay them along the dark aisles of the forest. Propinquity had considerably altered his estimation of the great cats; whereas formerly he had thought of them as the fearless exterminators of mankind; he had since learned that not all of them are man-killers and that more often did they avoid man than pursue him. The chances, then, that they might come through the night without attack were greatly in their favour; but should they meet a tiger or a leopard or a panther which, because of hunger, old age, or viciousness, should elect to attack them, their doom might well be sealed; and whether they were moving away from Lodidhapura upon the ground or hiding in a tree, they would be almost equally at the mercy of one or another of these fierce carnivores. The avenue that they were following, which entered the jungle from Lodidhapura, ran broad and clear for a considerable distance into the forest, dwindling at last to little more than an ordinary game-trail. To elude their pursuers, they must leave it; but that they might not attempt until daylight, since to strike out blindly into the trackless jungle, buried in the impenetrable gloom of night, must almost assuredly have spelled disaster. "Even if they find Lodivarman before morning," he said, "I doubt that they will commence their search for us before daylight." "They will be ordered out in pursuit the instant that Lodivarman can issue a command," replied Fou-tan; "but there is little likelihood that anyone will dare to risk his anger by approaching the apartment in which he lies until his long silence has aroused suspicion. If your bonds hold and he is unable to remove the gag from his mouth, I doubt very much that he will be discovered before noon. His people fear his anger, which is quick and merciless, and there is only one man in all Lodidhapura who would risk incurring it by entering that apartment before Lodivarman summoned him." "And who is that?" asked King. "Vay Thon, the high priest of Siva," replied the girl. "If I am missed and the word reaches the ears of Vay Thon," said King, "it is likely that his suspicion may be aroused." "Why?" asked Fou-tan. "Because I talked with him this afternoon, and I could see that he guessed what was in my heart. It was he who told me that Lodivarman would send for you to-night. It was Vay Thon who warned me to attempt no rash deed." "He does not love Lodivarman," said the girl, "and it may be that if he guessed the truth he might be silent, for he has been kind to me; and I know that he liked you." For hour after hour the two groped their way along the dark trail, aided now by the dim light of the moon that the canopy of foliage above blocked and diffused until that which reached the jungle floor could not be called light at all, but rather a lesser degree of darkness. With the passing of the hours King realised that Fou-tan's steps were commencing to lag. He timed his own then to suit hers and, walking close beside her, supported her with his arm. She seemed so small and delicate and unsuited to an ordeal like this that the man marvelled at her stamina. More of a hot-house plant than a girl of flesh and blood seemed Fou-tan of Pnom Dhek, and yet she was evincing the courage and endurance of a man. He recalled that not once during the night had she voiced any fear of the jungle, not even when great beasts had passed so close to them that they could almost hear their breathing. If Khmer slaves were of this stock, to what noble heights of courage must the masters achieve! "You are very tired, Fou-tan," he said; "we shall rest presently." "No," she replied. "Do not stop on my account. If you would not rest upon your own account, it must be that you do not think it wise to do so; that I am with you should make no difference. When you feel the need of rest and believe that it is safe to rest, then I may rest also, but not until then." Stealthily the dawn, advance guard of the laggard day, crept slowly through the jungle, pushing back the impenetrable shadows of the night. Shadowy trees emerged from the darkness; armies of gaunt grey boles marched in endless procession slowly by them; the trail that had been but a blank wall of darkness before projected itself forward to the next turn; the hideous night lay behind them, and a new hope was born within their bosoms. It was time now to leave the trail and search for a hiding-place, and conditions were particularly favourable at this spot, since the underbrush was comparatively scant. Turning abruptly to the left, King struck off at right angles to the trail; and for another hour the two pushed onward into the untracked mazes of the forest. This last hour was particularly difficult, for there was no trail and the ground rose rapidly, suggesting to King that they were approaching mountains. There were numerous outcroppings of rock; and at length they came to the edge of a gorge, in the bottom of which ran a stream of pure water. "The gods have been good to us," exclaimed King. "I have been praying to them all night," said Fou-tan. The little stream had cut deeply into its limestone bed; but at last they found a way down to the water, where the cool and refreshing liquid gave them renewed strength and hope. The evidences of erosion in the limestone about them suggested to King that a little search might reveal a safe and adequate hiding-place. Fortunately the water in the stream was low, giving them dry footing along its side as they followed the gorge upward; nor had they gone far before they discovered a location that was ideal for their purpose. Here the stream made a sharp bend that was almost a right angle; and where the waters had rushed for countless ages against the base of a limestone cliff, they had eaten their way far into it, hollowing out a sanctuary where the two fugitives would be safe from observation from above. Leaving Fou-tan in the little grotto, King crossed the stream and gathered an armful of dry grasses that grew above the high water-line upon the opposite side. After several trips he was able to make a reasonably comfortable bed for each of them. "Sleep now," he said to Fou-tan; "and when you are rested, I shall sleep." The girl would have demurred, wishing him to sleep first; but even as she voiced her protest, exhaustion overcame her and she sank into a profound slumber. Seated with his back against the limestone wall of their retreat, King sought desperately to keep awake; but the monotonous sound of the running water, which drowned all other sounds, acted as a soporific, which, combined with outraged Nature's craving for rest, made the battle he was waging a difficult one. Twice he dozed and then, disgusted with himself, he arose and paced to and fro the length of their sanctuary, but the instant that he sat down again he was gone. It was mid-afternoon when King awoke with a start. He had been the victim of a harrowing dream, so real that even as he awoke he grasped his spear and leaped to his feet, but there was no danger menacing. He listened intently, but the only sound came from the leaping waters of the stream. Fou-tan opened her eyes and looked at him. "What is it?" she asked. He grimaced in self-disgust. "I slept at my post," he said. "I have been asleep a long time, and I have just awakened." "I am glad," she said with a smile. "I hope that you have slept for a long time." "I have slept almost as long as you have, Fou-tan," he replied; "but suppose that they had come while I slept." "They did not come, however," she reminded him. "Well, right or wrong, we have both slept now," he said, "and my next business is to obtain food." "There is plenty in the forest," she said. "Yes, I noted it as we came this way in the morning." "Will it be safe to go out and search for food?" asked the girl. "We shall have to take the chance," he replied. "We must eat and we cannot find food at night. We shall have to go together, Fou-tan, as I cannot risk leaving you alone for a moment." As King and Fou-tan left their hiding-place and started down the gorge toward a place where they could clamber out of it into the forest in search of food, a creature at the summit of the cliff upon the opposite side of the stream crouched behind a low bush and watched them. Out of small eyes, deep-set beneath a mass of tangled hair, the creature watched every movement of the two; and when they had passed, it followed them stealthily, stalking them as a tiger might have stalked. But this was no tiger; it was a man—a huge, hulking brute of a man, standing well over six-feet-six on its great flat feet. Its only apparel was a G string, made from the skin of a wild animal. It wore no ornaments, but it carried weapons—a short spear, a bow, and arrows. The jungle lore that the American had learned under the tutorage of Che stood him in good stead now, for it permitted him quickly to locate edible fruit and tubers without waste of time and with a minimum of effort. Fou-tan, city-bred, had but a hazy and most impractical knowledge of the flora of the jungle. She knew the tall, straight teak standing leafless now in the dry season and the India-rubber tree; and with almost childish delight she recognised the leathery laurel-like leaves of the tree from whose gum resin gamboge is secured; the tall, flowering stems of the cardamon she knew too; but the sum total of her knowledge would not have given sustenance to a canary in the jungle. It was therefore that King's efficiency in this matter filled her with awe and admiration. Her dark eyes followed his every move; and when he had collected all of the food that they could conveniently carry and they had turned their steps back toward their hiding-place, Fou-tan was bubbling over with pride and confidence and happiness. Perhaps it was as well that she did not see the uncouth figure hiding in the underbrush as they passed. Back in their retreat they partially satisfied their hunger with such of the food as did not require cooking. "To-night we can have a fire," said King, "and roast some of these tubers. It would not be safe now, for the smoke might be seen for a considerable distance; but at night they will not be searching for us, and the light of a small fire will never escape from this gorge." After they had eaten, King took his spear and walked down to the stream where he had seen fish jumping. He was prompted more by a desire to pass away the time than by any hope of success in this piscatorial adventure, but so numerous were the fish and so unafraid that he succeeded in spearing two with the utmost ease while Fou-tan stood at his elbow applauding him with excited little exclamations and squeals of delight. King had never been any less sensitive to the approbation of the opposite sex than any other normal man, but never, he realised, had praise sounded more sweetly in his ears than now. There was something so altogether sincere in Fou-tan's praise that it never even remotely suggested adulation. He had always found her such an altogether forthright little person that he could never doubt her sincerity. "Now we shall have a feast," she exclaimed, as they carried the fishes back into their grotto. "It is a good thing for me that you are here, Gordon King, and not another." "Why, Fou-tan?" he asked. "Imagine Bharata Rahon or any of the others being faced with the necessity of finding food for me here in the jungle!" she exclaimed. "Why, I should either have starved to death or have been poisoned by their ignorance and stupidity. No, there is no one like Gordon King, as Fou-tan, his slave, should know." "Do not call yourself that," he said. "You are not my slave." "Let us play that I am," she said. "I like it. A slave is great in the greatness of his master; therefore, it can be no disgrace to be the slave of Gordon King." "If I had not found you here in the jungles of Cambodia," he said, "I could have sworn that you are Irish." "Irish?" she asked. "What is Irish?" "The Irish are a people who live upon a little island far, far away. They have a famous stone there, and when one has kissed this stone he cannot help thereafter speaking in terms of extravagant praise of all whom he meets. It is said that all of the Irish have kissed this stone." "I do not have to kiss a stone to tell the truth to you, Gordon King," she said. "I do not always say nice things to people, but I like to say them to you." "Why?" he asked. "I do not know, Gordon King," said Fou-tan, and her eyes dropped from his level gaze. They were sitting upon the dry grasses that he had gathered for their beds. King sat now in silence, looking at the girl. For the thousandth time he was impressed by her great beauty, and then the face of another girl arose in a vision between them. It was the face of Susan Anne Prentice. With a short laugh King turned his gaze down toward the stream; while once again, upon the opposite cliff-top, the little eyes of the great man watched them. "Why do you laugh, Gordon King?" asked Fou-tan, looking up suddenly. "You would not understand, Fou-tan," he said. He had been thinking of what Susan Anne would say could she have knowledge of the situation in which he then was—a situation which he realised was not only improbable but impossible. Here was he, Gordon King, a graduate physician, a perfectly normal product of the twentieth century, sitting almost naked under a big rock with a little slave girl of a race that had disappeared hundreds of years before. That in itself was preposterous. But there was another matter that was even less credible; he realised that he enjoyed the situation, and most of all he enjoyed the company of the little slave girl. "You are laughing at me, Gordon King," said Fou-tan, "and I do not like to be laughed at." "I was not laughing at you, Fou-tan," he replied. "I could not laugh at you. I—" "You what?" she demanded. "I could not laugh at you," he replied lamely. "You said that once before, Gordon King," she reminded him. "You started to say something else. What was it?" For a moment he was silent. "I have forgotten, Fou-tan," he said then. His eyes were turned away from her as she looked at him keenly in silence for some time. Then a slow smile lighted her face and she broke into a little humming song. The man upon the opposite cliff withdrew stealthily until he was out of sight of the two in the gorge below him. Then he arose to an erect position and crept softly away into the forest. Ready in his hands were his bow and an arrow. For all his great size and weight he moved without noise, his little eyes shifting constantly from side to side. Suddenly, and so quickly that one could scarcely follow the movements of his hands, an arrow sped from his bow, and an instant later he stepped forward and picked up a large rat that had been transfixed by his missile. The creature moved slowly onward, and presently a little monkey swung through the trees above him. Again the bow-string twanged, and the little monkey hurtled to the ground at the feet of the primitive hunter. Squatting on his haunches the man-thing ate the rat raw; then he carried the monkey back to the edge of the gorge, and after satisfying himself that the two were still there he fell to upon the principal item of his dinner; and he was still eating when darkness came. Fou-tan had not broken King's embarrassed silence, but presently the man arose. "Where are you going, Gordon King?" she asked. "There is some driftwood lodged upon the opposite bank, left there by last season's flood waters. We shall need it for our cooking fire to-night." "I will go with you and help you," said Fou-tan, and together they crossed the little stream and gathered the dry wood for their fire. From Che and Kangrey the American had learned to make fire without matches; and he soon had a little blaze burning, far back beneath the shelter of their overhanging rock. He had cleaned and washed the fish and now proceeded to grill them over the fire, while Fou-tan roasted two large tubers impaled upon the ends of sticks. "I would not exchange this for the palace of a king, Gordon King," she said. "Nor I, Fou-tan," he replied. "Are you happy, Gordon King?" she asked. "Yes," he replied. "And you, Fou-tan, are you happy?" She nodded her head. "It is because you and I are together," she said simply. "We come from opposite ends of the earth, Fou-tan," he said, "we are separated by centuries of time, we have nothing in common, your world and my world are as remote from one another as the stars; and yet, Fou-tan, it seems as though I had known you always. It does not seem possible that I have lived all my life up to now without even knowing that you existed." "I have felt that too, Gordon King," said the girl. "I cannot understand it, but it is so. However, you are wrong in one respect." "And what is that?" he asked. "You said that we had nothing in common. We have." "What is it?" demanded King. Fou-tan shuddered. "The leprosy," she said. "He touched us both. We shall both have it." Gordon King laughed. "We shall never contract leprosy from Lodivarman," he said. "I am a doctor. I know." "Why shall we not?" she demanded. "Because Lodivarman is not a leper," replied the American. # X: LOVE AND THE BRUTE From the opposite side of the gorge the brute, gnawing upon a leg bone of the monkey, watched the two below. He saw the fire kindled and it troubled him. He was afraid of fire. Muddily, in his undeveloped brain, it represented the personification of some malign power. The brute knew no god; but he knew that there were forces that brought pain, disaster, death, and that oftentimes these forces were invisible. The visible causes of such effects were the enemies he had met in the jungle in the form of men or of beasts; therefore, it was natural that he should endow the invisible causes of similar effects with the physical attributes of the enemies that he could see. He peopled the jungle accordingly with invisible men and invisible beasts that wrought pain, disaster, and death. These enemies he held in far greater fear than those that were visible to him. Fire, he knew, was the work of one of these dread creatures, and the very sight of it made him uncomfortable. The brute was not hungry; he harboured no animosity for the two creatures he stalked; he was motivated by a more powerful urge than hunger or hate. He had seen the girl! The fire annoyed him and kept him at bay; but time meant little to the brute. He saw that the two had made beds, and he guessed that they would sleep where they were during the night. On the morrow they would go out after food, and there would be no fire with them. The brute was content to wait until the morrow. He found some tall grass and, getting upon his hands and knees, turned about several times, as bedding dogs are wont to do, and then lay down. He had flattened the grasses so that they all lay in one direction, and when he turned upon his bed he always turned in that direction, so that the sharp ends of the grasses did not stick into his flesh. Perhaps he had learned this trick from the wild dogs, or perhaps the wild dogs first learned it from man. Who knows? In the darkness Fou-tan and King sat upon their beds and talked. Fou-tan was full of questions. She wanted to know all about the strange country from which King came. Most of the things he told her she could not understand; but her questions were quite often directed upon subjects that were well within her ken—there are some matters that are eternal; time does not alter them. "Are the women of your country beautiful?" she asked. "Some of them," replied the man. "Have you a wife, Gordon King?" The question was voiced in a whisper. "No, Fou-tan." "But you love someone," she insisted, for love is so important to a woman that she cannot imagine a life devoid of love. "I have been too busy to fall in love," he replied good-naturedly. "You are not very busy now," suggested Fou-tan. "I think I shall be a very busy man for the next few days trying to get you back to Pnom Dhek," he assured her. Fou-tan was silent. It was so dark that he could scarcely see her. But he could feel her presence near him, and it seemed to exert as strong an influence upon him as might have physical contact. He had recognised the power of that indefinable thing called personality when he had talked with people and looked into their eyes; but he never had had it reach out through the dark and lay hold of him as though with warm fingers of flesh and blood, and King found the sensation most disquieting. They lay in silence upon their beds of dry grasses, each occupied with his own thoughts. The heat of the jungle day was rising slowly from the narrow gorge, and a damp chill was replacing it. The absolute darkness which surrounded them was slightly mitigated in their immediate vicinity by an occasional flame rising from the embers of their dying fire as some drying twigs of their fuel ignited. King was thinking of the girl at his side, of the responsibility which her presence entailed, and of the duty that he owed to her and to himself. He tried not to think about her, but that he found impossible, and the more that she was in his mind the stronger became the realisation of the hold that she had obtained upon him; that the sensation that she animated within him was love seemed incredibly preposterous. He tried to assure himself that it was but an infatuation engendered by her beauty and propinquity, and he girded himself to conquer his infatuation that he might perform the duty that had devolved upon him in so impersonal a way that there might be no regret. In order to fortify this noble decision he cast Fou-tan from his mind entirely and occupied himself with thoughts of his friends in far-away America. In retrospect he laughed and danced again with Susan Anne Prentice; he listened to her pleasant cultured voice and enjoyed once more the sweet companionship of the girl who was to him all that a beloved sister might have been; and then a little sigh came from the bed of grasses at his side, and the vision of Susan Anne Prentice faded into oblivion. Again there was a long silence, broken only by the murmur of the tumbling stream. "Gordon King!" It was just a whisper. "What is it, Fou-tan?" "I am afraid, Gordon King," said the girl. How like a little child in the dark she sounded. Before he could answer, there came the sound of a soft thud down the gorge and the rattle of loose earth falling from above. "What was that?" asked Fou-tan in a frightened whisper. "Something is coming, Gordon King. Look!" Silently the man rose to his feet, grasping his spear in readiness. Down the gorge he saw two blazing points of flame; and quickly stepping to their fire, he placed dry twigs upon the embers, blowing upon them gently until they burst into flame. At a little distance those two glowing spots burned out of the darkness. King piled more wood upon the fire until it blazed up bravely, illuminating their little grotto and revealing Fou-tan sitting up upon her bed of grasses, gazing with wide horror-filled eyes at those two silent, ominous harbingers of death fixed so menacingly upon them. "My Lord the Tiger!" she whispered; and her low, tense tones were vibrant with all the inherent horror of the great beast that had been passed down to her by countless progenitors, for whom My Lord the Tiger had constituted life's greatest menace. Primitive creatures, constantly surrounded by lethal dangers, sleep lightly. The descent of the great cat into the gorge, followed by the sounds of the falling earth and stones it had dislodged, brought to his feet the sleeping brute upon the opposite summit. Thinking that the noise might have come from the quarry in the gorge below, the creature moved quickly to the edge of the cliff and looked down; and as the mounting blazes of King's fire illuminated the scene, the brute saw the great tiger standing with up-raised head, watching the man and the woman in their rocky retreat. Here was an interloper that aroused the ire of the brute; here was a deadly enemy about to seize that which the brute had already marked as his own. The creature selected a heavy arrow, the heaviest arrow that he carried, and, fitting it to his bow, he bent the sturdy weapon until the point of the arrow touched the fingers of his bow-hand; then he let drive at a point just behind the shoulders of the tiger. What happened thereafter happened very quickly. The arrow drove through to the great cat's lungs; the shock, the surprise and the pain brought instant reaction. Not having sensed the presence of any other formidable creature than those before him, My Lord the Tiger must naturally have assumed that they were the authors of his hurt. This supposition, at least, seemed likely if judged by that which immediately occurred. With a hideous roar, with blazing eyes, with wide distended jaws, revealing gleaming fangs, the great cat charged straight for King. Into the circle of firelight it bounded like a personification of some hideous force of destruction. Little Fou-tan, on her feet beside King, seized a blazing brand from the fire and hurled it full into the face of the charging beast; but the tiger was too far gone in pain and rage longer to harbour fear of aught. King's spear-arm went back. Through his mind flashed the recollection of the other tiger that he had killed with a single spear-cast. He had known then that he had been for the instant the favoured child of Fortune. The laws of chance would never countenance a repetition of that amazing stroke of luck; yet there was naught that he could do but try. He held his nerves and muscles in absolute control, the servants of his iron will. Every faculty of mind and body was centred upon the accuracy and the power of his spear-arm. Had he given thought to what might follow, his nerves must necessarily have faltered, but he did not. Cool and collected, he waited until he knew that he could not miss nor wait another moment. Then the bronze skin of his spear-arm flashed in the light of the fire, and at the same instant he swept Fou-tan to him with his left arm and leaped to one side. Not even My Lord the Tiger could have acted with greater celerity, calmness, and judgment. A low grunt of surprise and admiration burst from the lips of the brute watching from the summit of the opposite cliff. The charge of the tiger carried it full into the fire, scattering the burning branches in all directions. The dry grasses of the beds burst into flame. Blinded and terrified, the tiger looked about futilely for his prey; but King had leaped quickly across the stream to the opposite side of the gorge, having learned by experience that a creature near the fire can see nothing in the outer darkness. The great cat, clawing and biting at the spear protruding from its chest, rent the air with its screams of pain and growls of rage. Suddenly it was quiet, standing like a yellow and black statue carved from gold and ebony; then it took a few steps forward, sagged, and slumped lifeless to the ground. Gordon King felt very weak in the knees, so weak that he sat down quite suddenly. He had rung the bell twice in succession, but he could scarcely believe the evidence of his own eyes. Fou-tan came and sat down close beside him and rested her cheek against his arm. "My Gordon King!" she murmured softly. Almost without volition he put his arm about her. "My Fou-tan!" he said. The girl snuggled close in his embrace. For a time they sat watching the tiger, hesitating to approach lest there might remain a spark of life within the great form, each knowing that one little instant of life would be sufficient to destroy them both were they near the beast; but the great cat never moved again. The dissipated fire was dying down, and realising more than ever now the necessity for keeping it up, King and Fou-tan arose and, crossing the stream, scraped together the remaining embers of their fire and rebuilt it with fresh wood. From the cliff above the brute watched them, and once again grunted his admiration as he saw King withdraw his spear from the body of the fallen tiger. Placing one foot against the breast of the great beast, the American was forced to exert every ounce of his weight and strength to withdraw the weapon, so deeply was it embedded in the bone and sinew of its victim. "I am afraid that we shall not get much sleep to-night, Fou-tan," said King as he returned to the fire. "I am not sleepy," replied the girl; "I could not sleep, and then, too, it is commencing to get cold. I would rather sit here by the fire until morning. I would rather have my eyes open than closed in the night when My Lord the Tiger walks abroad." Once more they sat down side by side, their backs against the rocky wall that had been warmed by the heat of the nearby fire. The brute, realising that they had settled themselves for the night, returned to his primitive bed and settled himself once more for sleep. Fou-tan cuddled close to Gordon King; his arm was about her. He felt her soft hair against his cheek. He drew her closer to him. "Fou-tan!" he said. "Yes, Gordon King, what is it?" she asked. He noted that her voice trembled. "I love you," said Gordon King. A sigh that came in little gasps was his reply. He felt her heart pounding against his side. A soft arm crept upward to encircle his neck, drawing him gently down to the sweet face turned toward his. Eyes, dimmed with unshed tears, gazed into his eyes. Trembling lips fluttered beneath his lips, and then he crushed her to him in the first kiss of love. The flower-like beauty of the girl, her softness, her helplessness, combined with the exaltation of this, his first love, enveloped Fou-tan with an aura of sanctity that rendered her almost an object of veneration in the eyes of the man—a high priestess enshrined in the Holy of Holies of his heart. He marvelled that he had won the love of so glorious a creature. The little slave girl became an angel, and he her paladin. In this thought lay the secret of King's attitude toward Fou-tan. He was glad that she was small and helpless, for he liked to think of himself as her champion and protector. He liked to feel that the safety of the girl he loved lay in his hands and that he was physically and morally competent to discharge the obligations that Fate had reposed within him. Despite the fact that she was soft and small, Fou-tan was not without self-reliance and courage, as she had amply proved when she had run away from the palace of Lodivarman and risked the perils of the savage jungle; yet she was still so wholly feminine that she found her greatest happiness in the protection of the man she loved. "I am very happy," whispered Fou-tan. "And so am I," said King, "happier than I have ever been before in my life, but now we must make our plans all anew." "What do you mean?" she asked. "We may not go to Pnom Dhek now. We must find our way out of the jungle so that I can take you to my own country." "Why?" she demanded. "Before I answer you," he replied, "there is one question that I have not asked but that you must answer before we make our plans for the future." "What is that?" she asked. "Will you be my wife, Fou-tan?" "Oh, Gordon King, I have answered that already, for I have told you that I love you. Fou-tan would not tell any man that whom she could not or would not take as her husband; but what has that to do with our returning to Pnom Dhek?" "It has everything to do with it," replied King, "because I will not take the woman who is to be my wife back into slavery." She looked up into his face, her eyes alight with a new happiness and understanding. "Now I may never doubt that you love me, Gordon King," she said. He looked at her questioningly. "I do not understand what you mean," he said. "Though you thought that I was born a slave, you asked me to be your wife," she said. "You told me from the first that you were a slave girl," he reminded her. "I was a slave girl in Lodidhapura," she explained; "but in Pnom Dhek I am no slave. I must return there to my father's house. It is my duty. When the King learns what a great warrior you are, he will give you a place in his guard. Then you will be able to take a wife, and, perhaps, my father will not object." "And if he does?" asked King. "Let us not think of that," replied Fou-tan. As the night wore on, a slow rain commenced to fall, herald of the coming rainy season. King kept the fire replenished, and its heat warmed them as they sat and talked of their future, or spoke in half-awed whispers of the transcendent happiness that had come into their lives. Before dawn the rain ceased and the skies cleared, and when the sun rose he looked upon a steaming jungle, where strange odours, long imprisoned by drought, filled the air as they wandered through the forest. King rose and stretched himself. Near him the carcass of the great beast he had slain aroused within him regret that he must leave such a trophy to the carrion creatures or to decay. From the tiger's back protruded the feathered shaft of an arrow. King was puzzled. He tugged upon the missile and withdrew it. It was a crude thing—much more primitive than those made by Che. It created a mystery that appeared little likely of solution. The best that he could do was guess that the tiger had carried it for some time before he attacked them. Then, for the time, he forgot the matter, which later was to be recalled in poignant grief. Across the gorge the brute bestirred himself. He had lain quietly throughout the rain, keeping the spot beneath him dry. Physical discomfort meant little to him; he was accustomed to it. He arose, and, like King, stretched himself. Then he crept to the edge of the gorge and looked down at the man and the woman. Fou-tan, who had been dozing, awoke now and rose to her feet. With the undulating grace of youth and health and physical perfection she came and stood beside King. She leaned close against the man, who put an arm about her and, bending, kissed her upturned mouth. The brute moistened his thick lips with a red tongue. "And now," said King, "I am going up into the forest to get some more fruit. It will be a light breakfast, but better than none; and I do not dare build up the fire again by daylight." "While you are gone I shall bathe myself in the stream," said Fou-tan; "it will refresh me." "I am afraid to leave you here alone," said King. "There is no danger," replied Fou-tan. "The beasts are not hunting now, and there is little likelihood that the soldiers who are searching for us have broken camp so early. No, I shall remain here. Let me have my bath, Gordon King, and do not return too quickly." As King walked down the gorge to the place where he could ascend into the forest, the brute upon the opposite side watched his every move and then proceeded quickly up the farther bank of the gorge in the opposite direction from that taken by King. There was no trail in the jungle that the brute did not know, so that he was aware of a place where he might easily descend into the gorge a short distance above the spot where Fou-tan bathed. The girl wore only two garments beside her sandals—a silken sampot and the makeshift sarong—so that scarcely was King out of sight before she was splashing in the cold waters of the stream. The temperature of the water that came down from the high hills, coupled with her fear that King might return too soon, prompted her to haste. Having no towel, she used one end of the sarong to dry herself, adjusted her sampot and wound the sarong about her lithe body. Then she stood looking down the gorge in the direction from which King would return. Her heart was filled with her new happiness, so that it was with difficulty that she restrained her lips from song. From up the gorge, behind her, crept the brute. Even if he had approached noisily, the rushing waters would have drowned the sound, but it was not the way of the brute to move noisily. Like the other carnivores, stealth was habitual to him. The brute was the personification of the cunning and malignity of the tiger; but there the parallel ceased, for the tiger was beautiful and the brute was hideous. It is remarkable that there should be so many more beautiful creatures in the world than man, which suggests a doubt of man's boast that he is made in the image of God. There are those who believe that the image of God must transcend in its beauty the finite conceptions of man. If that be true and God chose to create any animal in His own likeness, man must have trailed at the far end of that celestial beauty contest. The brute crept stealthily down upon the unsuspecting girl. He rounded the corner of a cliff and saw her standing with her back toward him. He moved swiftly now, crouched like a charging tiger, yet his naked feet gave forth no sound; while Fou-tan, with half-closed eyes and smiling lips, dreamed of the future that love held in store. The brute sprang close behind her. A filthy, calloused paw was clapped across her mouth. A rough and powerful arm encircled her waist. She was whirled from her feet, her cries stifled in her throat, as the brute wheeled and ran swiftly up the gorge, bearing his prize. King quickly found the fruit he sought, but he loitered in returning to give Fou-tan an opportunity to complete her toilet. As he idled slowly back to the gorge, his mind was occupied with plans for the future. He was considering the advisability of remaining in hiding where they were for several days on the chance that the soldiers of Lodivarman might in the meantime give up the search and return to Lodidhapura. He determined that they might explore the gorge further in the hope of finding a safer and more comfortable retreat, where they might be less at the mercy of night prowlers and even more securely hidden from searchers than they were at present. He was also moved by the prospect of a few idyllic days during which there would be no one in the world but himself and Fou-tan. Filled with enthusiasm for his heaven-sent plan, King descended into the gorge and approached the now hallowed precincts of his greatest happiness; but as he rounded the last bend he saw that Fou-tan was not there. Perhaps she had gone farther up the stream to bathe. He called her name aloud, but there was no reply. Again he called, raising his voice, but still there was only silence. Now he became alarmed and, running quickly forward, searched about for some sign or clue to her whereabouts; nor had he long to search. In the soft earth, damp from the recent rain, he saw the imprints of a huge foot—the great bare foot of a man. He saw where the prints had stopped and turned, and it was easy to follow them up the gorge. Casting aside the fruit that he had gathered, he hastened along the well-marked trail, his mind a fiery furnace of fear and rage, his heart a cold clod in his leaden breast. Now, quite suddenly, he recalled the arrow he had found embedded behind the shoulders of the tiger that he had killed. He recalled the beast's sudden scream of rage and pain as it had charged so unexpectedly toward him, and quite accurately he reconstructed the whole scene—the man had been spying upon them from the top of the gorge; he had seen the tiger and had shot it to save his quarry to himself; then he had waited until King had left Fou-tan alone; the rest was plainly discernible in the footprints that he followed. He was confident that this was no soldier of Lodivarman; the crude arrow refuted that idea, as did the imprints of the great bare feet. But what sort of man was it and why had he stolen Fou-tan? The answer to that question goaded King to greater speed. A short distance up the gorge King discovered where the tracks turned to the right, up the bed of a dry wash and thus to the level of the forest above. He gave thanks now for the providential rain that rendered the spoor easily followed. He knew that the abductor could not be far ahead, and he was sure that he could overtake him before harm could befall Fou-tan. However, as he hastened on, he was chilled by the thought that no matter how plain the spoor, the necessity for keeping it always in sight could but retard his speed; and his fear was that the slight delay might permit the man to outdistance him; and then he came to a patch of rocky ground where the trail, becoming immediately faint, suddenly disappeared entirely. Sick with apprehension, the American was forced to stop and search for a continuation of the tracks, and when, at last, he found them he knew that his quarry had gained greatly upon him during this enforced delay. Again he sped along as rapidly as he could through a forest unusually devoid of underbrush. As he advanced he presently became aware of a new sound mingling with the subdued daylight noises of the jungle. It was a sound that he could not identify, but there was something ominous about it; and then, quite suddenly, he came upon the authors of it—great grey bulks looming among the boles of the trees directly in his path. Under other circumstances he would have halted or, at least, changed his route; and had he reflected even for an instant, his better judgment now would have prompted him to do the latter; but uppermost in his mind and entirely dominating him was the great fear that he felt for Fou-tan's safety; and when he saw this obstacle looming menacingly before him, his one thought was to override it by sheer effrontery that it might not even delay him, much less thwart him in the pursuit of his object. Had he been vouchsafed from his insanity even a single brief moment of lucidity, he would have avoided those ominous bulks moving restlessly to and fro among the boles of the giant trees, for even at the best wild elephants are nervous and short-tempered; and these, obviously disconcerted and suspicious by reason of some recent occurrence, were in a particularly hysterical and ugly mood. There were young calves among them and, therefore, watchful and irritable mothers; while the great bulls, aroused and on guard, were in no mood to be further provoked. A huge bull, his ears outspread, his tail erect, wheeled toward the advancing man. The forest trembled to his mad trumpeting, and in that instant King realised for the first time the deadly peril of his position and knew that it would serve Fou-tan nothing were he to rush headlong into that inevitable death. # XI: WARRIORS FROM PNOM DHEK As the hideous creature bore her on, Fou-tan struggled to release herself; but she was utterly helpless in the Herculean grasp of her gigantic captor. She tried to wrench the creature's hand from her mouth that she might scream a warning to King, but even in this she was doomed to failure. The creature had at first been carrying her under one arm, with her face down; but after he reached the floor of the forest he swung her lightly up in front of him, carrying her so that she had a clear view of his face; and at sight of it her heart sank within her. It was a hideous face, with thick lips and protruding teeth, great ears that flapped as the creature ran, and a low, receding forehead hidden by filthy, tangled hair that almost met the bushy, protruding eyebrows, beneath which gleamed wicked, bloodshot eyes. It did not require a second look to convince Fou-tan that she had fallen into the hands of one of the dread Yeacks. Notwithstanding the fact that she had never before seen one of these ogre people, nor had known anyone who had, she was nevertheless as positive in her identification as though she had come in daily contact with them all her life, so strongly implanted in the mind of man are the superstitions of childhood. What else, indeed, could this creature be but a Yeack? The horror of her situation was augmented by its contrast to the happy state from which it had snatched her. Had her Gordon King been there she would have been sure of rescue, so absolute was her conviction of his prowess. But how was he to know what had become of her? Being city-bred, it did not immediately occur to her that King might follow the tracks of her abductor, and so she was borne on more deeply into the sombre forest without even the slightly alleviating reassurance of faint hope. She was lost! Of that Fou-tan was convinced; for was it not well known that the Yeacks fed upon human flesh? The brute, sensing muddily that he would be pursued, and having witnessed something of the prowess of King, did not pause in his flight but hastened steadily on toward a rocky fastness which he knew, where one might hide for days or, if discovered, find a cave, the mouth of which might be easily defended. As he strode steadily through the forest his keen ears were presently attracted by a familiar sound, a sound which experience told him was a warning to change his course. A moment later he saw the elephants moving slowly across his path toward his left. He had no wish to dispute the right-of-way with them; so he veered to the right with the intention of passing behind them. They did not see him, but they caught his scent spoor, and an old bull left the herd and came ponderously down toward the point where the brute had first sighted them. The rest of the herd halted and then followed the old bull. The scent spoor of the man grated upon the nerves of the pachyderms. They became restless and irritable, more so because they could not locate the authors of this disturbing scent. As the brute moved quickly to the right to circle to the rear of the herd and resume his interrupted course toward the wild sanctuary that was his objective, he kept his eyes turned to the left upon the members of the herd, lest, by chance, one of them might discover him and charge. A remote possibility, perhaps, but it is by guarding against remote possibilities that the fittest of primitive creatures survive. So, because of the fact that his attention was riveted in one direction, he did not see the danger approaching from another. A score of soldiers, their brass cuirasses dulled and tarnished by the rain and dirt of jungle marches, halted at the sight of the brute and the burden he bore. A young officer in charge whispered a few low words of command. The soldiers crept forward, forming a half-circle as they went, to intercept the brute and his captive. One of the soldiers stumbled over a branch that had fallen from the tree above. Instantly the brute wheeled toward them. He saw twenty well-armed men advancing, their spears menacingly ready; and responding to the urge of Nature's first law, the brute cast the girl roughly to the ground and, wheeling, broke for freedom. A shower of arrows followed him and some of the soldiers would have pursued, but the officer called them back. "We have the girl," he said; "let that thing go. We were not sent out for him. He is not the man who abducted the apsaras from the palace of Lodivarman." At the moment that the brute had seen the soldiers, so had Fou-tan; and now she scrambled quickly to her feet, from where he had hurled her to the ground, and turned in flight back toward the gorge where she had last seen King. "After her!" cried the officer; "but do not harm her." Fou-tan ran fleetly and perhaps would have gotten away from them had not she tripped and fallen; as she scrambled to her feet, they were upon her. Rough hands seized her, but they did not harm her, nor did they offer her insult; for she who was to have been the favourite of Lodivarman might yet be, and it is not well to incur the displeasure of a king's favourite. "Where is the man?" asked the officer, addressing Fou-tan. The girl thought very quickly in that instant, and there was apparently no hesitation as she nodded her head in the direction that the fleeing brute had taken. "You know as well as I do," she said. "Why did you not capture him?" "Not that man," said the officer. "I refer to the soldier of the guard who abducted you from the palace of Lodivarman." "It was no soldier of the guard who abducted me," replied the girl. "This creature stole into the palace and seized me. A soldier of the guard followed us into the jungle and tried to rescue me, but he failed." "Lodivarman sent word that it was the strange warrior, Gordon King, who stole you from the palace," said the officer. "You saw the creature that stole me," said Fou-tan. "Did it look like a soldier of Lodivarman?" "No," admitted the officer, "but where is this Gordon King? He has disappeared from Lodidhapura." "I told you that he tried to rescue me," explained Fou-tan. "He followed us into the jungle. What became of him I do not know. Perhaps the Yeacks wrought a magic spell that killed him." "Yeacks!" exclaimed the officer. "What do you mean?" "Did you not recognise my captor as a Yeack?" asked Fou-tan. "Do you not know a Yeack when you see one?" Exclamations arose from the soldiers gathered about them. "By the gods, it was a Yeack," said one. "Perhaps there are others about," suggested another. The men looked about them fearfully. Fou-tan thought that she saw in their superstitious terror, which she fully shared herself, a possibility of escape. "The Yeacks will be angry with you for having taken me from one of their number," she said. "Doubtless he has gone to summon his fellows. You had best escape while you can. If you do not take me with you, they will not follow you." "By Siva, she is right!" exclaimed a warrior. "I am not afraid of the Yeacks," said the officer bravely; "but we have the apsaras and there is no reason why we should remain here longer. Come!" He took Fou-tan gently by the arm. "If you take me they will follow you," she said. "You had better leave me here." "Yes, leave her here," grumbled some of the warriors. "We shall take the girl with us," said the officer. "I may escape the wrath of the Yeacks, but if I return to Lodidhapura without the apsaras I shall not escape the wrath of Lodivarman," and he gave the command to form for the march. As the party moved away down toward the trail that leads to Lodidhapura, many were the nervous glances that the warriors cast behind them. There was much muttering and grumbling, and it was apparent that they did not relish being the escort of a recaptured prisoner of the Yeacks. Fou-tan fed their fears and their dissatisfaction by constant reference to the vengeance that would fall upon them in some form when the Yeacks should overtake them. "You are very foolish to risk your life needlessly," she told the young officer. "If you leave me here you will be safe from the Yeacks, and no one in Lodidhapura need know that you have found me." "Why should you wish to remain and become the victim of the Yeacks?" demanded the officer. "It makes no difference whether you are with me or not," insisted Fou-tan. "The Yeacks will get me again. In some form they will come and take me. If you are with me they will slay you all." "But there is a chance that we may escape them and get back to Lodidhapura," insisted the officer. "I would rather remain with the Yeacks than go back to Lodivarman," said the girl. But in her breast was the hope that she could find Gordon King before the Yeacks overtook her; and, notwithstanding her superstitious fear of them, so great was her faith in the prowess of her man that she had no doubt but that he could overcome them. Her arguments, however, were unavailing. She could not swerve the young officer from his determination to take her back to Lodidhapura. From the first, however, it was apparent that the common soldiers were less enthusiastic about her company. The warriors of Pnom Dhek they could face with courage, or the charge of My Lord the Tiger, but contemplation of the supernatural powers of the mythological Yeacks filled their superstitious breasts with naught but terror. There were those among them who even discussed the advisability of murdering the officer, abandoning the girl, and returning to Lodidhapura with some plausible explanation, which their encounter with the Yeack readily suggested; but none of these things were they destined to do. As King saw the great elephant advancing toward him he became seriously alive to the danger of his situation. He looked hurriedly about him, searching for an avenue of escape, but nowhere near was there a single tree of sufficient size to have withstood the titanic strength of the great bull should he have elected to fell it. To face the bull or to attempt to escape by running seemed equally futile; yet it was the latter alternative which commended itself to him as being the less suicidal. But just then something happened. The bull stopped in his advance and looked suddenly toward his left. His trumpeting ceased, and then most unexpectedly he wheeled about and bolted directly away from King to be immediately followed by the entire herd, which went crashing through the jungle, bowling over trees in their mad progress until finally they disappeared from view. With a sigh of relief King took up his interrupted pursuit, following in the wake of the elephants, which had disappeared in the direction taken by the abductor of Fou-tan. What had brought about the sudden change in the attitude of the bull King could not guess, nor did he ever discover. He attributed it to the mental vagaries of a naturally timid and nervous animal. He did not know that a changing breeze had brought to the nostrils of the pachyderm the scent spoor of many men—the soldiers of Lodivarman—nor was the matter of any particular importance to King, whose mind was occupied now with something of far greater moment. The stampeding elephants had entirely obliterated the tracks that King had been following, and this it was that gave him the greatest concern. It seemed that everything militated against the success of his pursuit. He zigzagged to the right and left of the elephant tracks in the hope of picking up the footprints of the fleeing man. When he had about abandoned hope, he saw in the soft earth a single familiar spoor—the imprint of a great flat foot. By what seemed little less than a miracle this single tell-tale clue had escaped the rushing feet of the herd. It pointed on in the direction that King had been going; and, with renewed hope, he hurried forward. Among fallen trees, bowled over by the terrified elephants, King pursued his quarry until he was brought to a sudden stop by a tragic tableau of the jungle that instantly filled him with dire misgiving. A short distance ahead of him lay a man pinioned to the earth by a small tree that had fallen across his legs. Facing the man, crouching belly to the ground, advancing slowly inch by inch, was a great leopard. The man was helpless. In another instant the cat would be upon him, rending and tearing. Naturally the first thought that entered King's head was that this was the man who had abducted Fou-tan, and, if so, where was the girl? Until that question was answered the man must not die. With a cry of warning intended to distract the attention of the leopard, King sprang forward, simultaneously fitting an arrow to his bow. The leopard leaped to its feet. For an instant it stood glaring menacingly at the advancing man; and seeing it hesitate, King did not launch his shaft, for he saw now that he might come within effective spear range of the beast before it charged; and he guessed that an arrow might only serve to infuriate it. Disconcerted by this unexpected interference with its plans and with the interloper's bold advance, the brute hesitated a moment and then, wheeling, bounded off into the jungle. The man lying upon the ground had been a witness to all this. He was saved from the leopard, but he looked apprehensively at King as the latter stopped beside him, for he recognised the newcomer as the man from whom he had stolen the girl. If he had any doubts as to the other's awareness of his guilt, it was dissipated by King's first words. "Where is the girl?" demanded the American. "The soldiers took her from me," replied the brute sullenly. "What soldiers?" "They were soldiers from Lodidhapura," replied the other. "I believe that you are lying," said King, "and I ought to kill you." He raised his spear. The brute did not wish to die. He had lost the girl, but he did not wish to lose his life also; and now, with effort, spurred by the desire to live, his brain gave birth to a simple idea. "You have saved my life," he said. "If you will raise this tree from my legs, I will help you to find the girl and take her away from the soldiers. That I will do if you do not kill me." The man's spear had fallen beside him. As King considered the proposition he recovered the weapon and then took the bow and arrows from the man also. "Why do you do that?" asked the brute. "So that if I decide to release you, you may not be tempted to kill me," replied King. "Very well," replied the brute, "but I shall not try to kill you." King stooped and seized the bole of the tree. It was not a very large tree, but it had fallen in such a way that the man, unassisted, could not have released himself; and as King raised it, the brute drew his legs from beneath it. "Any bones broken?" asked King. The brute rose slowly to his feet. "No," he said. "Then let's be on our way," urged King. "We have no time to lose." As the two men set out King walked a little in the rear of the other. He had been impressed from the first by the savage bestiality of his companion's face and now by his tremendous size. His huge, drooped shoulders and his long arms seemed capable of the most titanic feats of strength; yet the creature, who seemingly could have slain him as easily without weapons as with, led docilely on, until at last King was convinced that the fellow contemplated no treachery, but would carry out his part of the bargain with simple-minded loyalty. "Who are you?" demanded King after they had walked in silence for a considerable distance. "I am Prang," replied the brute. "What were you doing out here in the jungle?" asked King. "I live here," replied the brute. "Where?" "Anywhere," replied Prang with a broad gesture. "Where are your people?" asked King. "I have none; I live alone." "Have you always lived in the jungle?" "Not always, but for a long time." "Where did you come from?" "From Pnom Dhek." "Then you are a runaway slave?" asked King. The brute nodded his head. "But you need not try to return me. If you did that I should kill you." "I do not intend to try to return you to Pnom Dhek. I am not from Pnom Dhek." "Yes, I knew that from your armour," said the brute. "You are from Lodidhapura. You stole the girl and they sent soldiers after you. Is that not true?" "Yes," replied King. "It may be hard to take the girl away from the soldiers of Lodidhapura," said Prang. "We cannot do it by day, for they are many and we are few; but we can find them and follow them; and at night, perhaps, you can sneak into their camp and steal the girl, if she will come with you willingly." "She will," said King; and then: "How long have you lived alone in the jungle, Prang?" "I ran away when I was a boy. Many rains have come since then. I do not know how many, but it has been a long time." As Prang led on through the jungle they conversed but little; enough, however, to assure King that the great, hulking brute had the mind of a little child, and as long as King did nothing to arouse his suspicions or his fears he would be quite docile and tractable. King noticed that Prang was not leading him back over the same route that they had come, and when he asked the man why they were going in a different direction, Prang explained that he knew the trail that the warriors would take in returning to Lodidhapura and that this was a short-cut to it. In places the jungle was quite open and covered with tall, dry elephant grass, which, growing higher than their heads, obstructed their view in all directions, while the rustling of its leaves as they pushed their way through it drowned all other sounds. At such times King always felt particularly helpless and was relieved each time they emerged from the stifling embrace of the tall grasses; but Prang seemed not at all concerned, although he was walking almost naked and unarmed. They had passed through a particularly long stretch of elephant grass when they emerged into a clearing entirely destitute of either grass or trees. Beyond the clearing, in front of them, they could see the forest at no great distance, but there was still a narrow belt of elephant grass which they must pass through before they reached the trees. When they had advanced almost to the centre of this clearing, simultaneously their attention was attracted to a movement among the grasses ahead and to the left of them, and almost at the same moment a cuirassed soldier stepped into view, to be followed immediately by others. At the first glance King recognised that these men were not soldiers from Lodidhapura, for though their armour and harness were similar, they were not identical, and their helmets were of an entirely different pattern from that which he wore. At sight of them Prang halted; then he turned and started to run back in the direction from which they had come. "Run!" he cried. "They are warriors from Pnom Dhek." Instantly King realised that these newcomers might prove to be Fou-tan's salvation if he could guide them to her, but without Prang that might be impossible, and therefore he turned and pursued the fleeing brute. Into the tall elephant grasses, close upon his heels, ran King. "Stop!" commanded the white man. "Never!" screamed Prang. "They will take me back into slavery. Do not try to stop me, or I shall kill you." But the capture of Prang meant more to Gordon King than his life, and so he only redoubled his efforts to gain upon the fleeing man. Gradually he crept up upon him until at last he was within reach. How futile it seemed to attempt to seize that mountain of muscle and bone, yet if he could detain him even momentarily he was positive that the soldiers would overtake them, for at the instant that they had turned to flee he had seen the soldiers from Pnom Dhek start in pursuit. In King's experience he had learned but one way to stop a fleeing man without maiming or killing him, which he had no desire to do, although he held in his hands lethal weapons with which he might easily have brought down his quarry; and so he threw aside the spear that he carried and launched himself at the great legs of Prang. It was a noble tackle, and it brought Prang to earth with a resounding crash that almost knocked the wind out of him. "Hurry!" yelled King to the soldiers of Pnom Dhek. "I have him!" He heard the warriors crashing through the dry grasses behind him. "Let me go," cried the struggling Prang. "Let me go or they will take me back into slavery." But King clung to him in desperation, though it was much like attempting to cling to the business end of a mule, so mighty and vigorous were the kicks of Prang; and then the soldiers of Pnom Dhek arrived and fell upon both of them impartially. "Don't kill him!" cried King as he saw the menacing spears of the warriors. "Wait until you hear me." "Who are you?" demanded an officer. "What does this all mean? We saw you in company with this fellow; and now, though you are a soldier of Lodivarman, you turn upon your companion and capture him for us. What does it mean?" "It is a long story," said King, "and there is no time for explanations now. Somewhere ahead of us there is a girl from Pnom Dhek whom I helped to escape from Lodidhapura. She has just been recaptured by some of Lodivarman's warriors. This man was guiding me to her. Will you help me to rescue this girl?" "You are trying to lead me into a trap," said the officer suspiciously. "I do not believe that there is any girl." "Yes, there is a girl," said Prang. "Her name is Fou-tan," said King. Interest was immediately evident in the eyes of the officer and excitement in the attitude of his men. "I will go with you," said the officer. "If you have lied to me and this is indeed a trap, you shall die at the first indication of treachery." "I am content," said King; "but there is one more condition, I cannot lead you to the girl; but this man says that he can, and I know that he will do it willingly and quickly if you will promise him his freedom in return for his assistance." A sudden gleam of hope shone in Prang's eyes as he heard King's words; and he looked up expectantly at the officer, awaiting his reply. "Certainly," said the latter. "If he leads us to Fou-tan, he shall have not only his liberty but any other reward that he may desire. I can promise him that." "I wish only my freedom," said Prang. "Lead on, then," said the officer. And then as the march started he detailed two warriors to remain constantly at Prang's side and two with King, and these warriors he instructed to kill their charges at the first indication of treachery. Evidently interested in King, the officer walked beside him. It was apparent that he had noticed the lack of physical resemblance to the Khmers and his curiosity was aroused. "You do not greatly resemble the men of Lodidhapura," he said finally. "I am not of Lodidhapura," said King. "But you are in the armour of Lodivarman's warriors," insisted the officer. "I am from a far country," explained King. "Lost in the jungle, I was taken prisoner by Lodivarman's warriors. I pleased the King, and he gave me service in the royal guard." "But how is it, then, that you are befriending a girl from Pnom Dhek?" "That, as I told you, is a long story," said King, "but when we have found her she will corroborate all that I have said. I was forced into the service of Lodivarman. I owe him no loyalty, and should I fall into his hands again I can expect no mercy. Therefore, it had been my intention, when I reached Pnom Dhek with Fou-tan, to seek service in your army." "If you have befriended Fou-tan, your petition will not go unheeded," said the officer. "You have heard of her, then?" asked King. The officer gave the American a long, searching look before he replied. "Yes," he said. # XII: GUEST AND PRISONER The captors of Fou-tan were exerting no effort to make haste. For almost two days they had been marching rapidly through the jungle, searching for a clue to the whereabouts of Fou-tan and her escort; and now that they had found her, they were taking it easy, moving slowly toward the spot where they were to camp for the night. Knowing nothing of the presence of the soldiers of Beng Kher of Pnom Dhek, they anticipated no pursuit. Their conversation was often filled with conjecture as to the identity of Fou-tan's companion. Some of them insisted that the Yeack and King were one and the same. "I always knew that there was something wrong with the fellow," opined a warrior; "there was a peculiar look about him. He was no Khmer; nor was he of any race of mortal men." "Perhaps he was a Naga, who took the form first of a man and then changed himself into a Yeack," suggested another. "I think that he was a Yeack all along," said another, "and that he took the form of man only to deceive us, that he might enter the palace of Lodivarman and steal the girl." It was while they were discussing this matter that a warrior marching at the rear of the column was attracted by a noise behind him. Turning his head to look, he gave a sudden cry of alarm, for in their rear, creeping upon them, he saw the brute and a body of soldiers. "The Yeacks are coming!" he cried. The others turned quickly at his warning cry. "I told you so," screamed one. "The Yeack has brought his fellows." "Those are soldiers of Pnom Dhek," cried the officer. "Form line and advance upon them. Let it not be said that men of Lodidhapura fled from the warriors of Beng Kher." "They are Yeacks who have taken the form of soldiers of Pnom Dhek," cried a warrior. "Mortals cannot contend against them," and with that he threw down his spear and fled. At the same instant the soldiers of Pnom Dhek leaped forward, shouting their war-cry. The defection of the single Lodidhapurian warrior was all that had been needed to ignite the smouldering embers of discontent and mutiny already fully fed by their superstitious fears. To a man, the common soldiers turned and ran, leaving their officer and Fou-tan alone. For an instant the man stood his ground and then, evidently realising the hopelessness of his position, he, too, wheeled and followed his retreating men at top speed. What Fou-tan's feelings must have been, it was difficult to imagine. Here, suddenly and entirely without warning, appeared a company of soldiers from her native city, and with them were the horrid Yeack that had stolen her away from King and also Gordon King himself. For a moment she stood in mute and wide-eyed wonderment as the men approached her, and then she turned to the man she loved. "Gordon King," she said, "I knew that you would come." The soldiers of Pnom Dhek gathered around her, the common warriors keeping at a respectful distance, while the officer approached and, kneeling, kissed her hand. King was not a little puzzled for an explanation of the evident respect in which they held her, but then he realised that he was not familiar with the customs of the country. He was aware, however, that the apsarases, or dancing girls of the temples, were held in considerable veneration because of the ritualistic nature of their dances, which identified them closely with the religious life of the nation and rendered them, in a way, the particular wards of the gods. The officer questioned her briefly and respectfully; and, having thus assured himself of King's loyalty and integrity, his attitude toward the American changed from suspicion to cordiality. To Fou-tan's questions relative to Prang, King explained by telling the story of the brute as he had had it from his own lips; yet it was evidently most difficult for Fou-tan to relinquish her conviction that the creature was a Yeack; nor could any other have assured her of Prang's prosaic status than Gordon King, in whose lightest words she beheld both truth and authority. "Now that I have led you to the girl," said Prang, addressing the officer, "give me the liberty that you promised me." "It is yours," said the officer; "but if you wish to return and live in Pnom Dhek I can promise you that the King will make you a free man." "Yes," said Fou-tan, "and you shall have food and clothing as long as you live." The brute shook his head. "No," he said. "I am afraid of the city. Let me stay in the jungle, where I am safe. Give me back my weapons and let me go." They did as he requested, and a moment later Prang slouched off into the forest soon to be lost to their view, choosing the freedom of the jungle to the luxuries of the city. Once again the march was resumed, this time in the direction of Pnom Dhek. As Fou-tan and King walked side by side the girl said to him in a low voice, "Do not let them know yet of our love. First, I must win my father, and after that the whole world may know." All during the long march King was again and again impressed by the marked deference accorded Fou-tan. It was so noticeable that the natural little familiarities of their own comradeship took on the formidable aspects of sacrilege by comparison. To King's western mind it seemed strange that so much respect should be paid to a temple dancing girl; but he was glad that it was so, for in his heart he knew that whatever reverence they showed Fou-tan she deserved, because of the graces of her character and the purity of her soul. The long march to Pnom Dhek was uneventful, and near the close of the second day the walls of the city rose before them across a clearing as they emerged from the forest. In outward appearance Pnom Dhek was similar to Lodidhapura. Its majestic piles of masonry arose in stately grandeur above the jungle. Its ornate towers and splendid temples bore witness to the wealth and culture of its builders, and over all was the same indefinable suggestion of antiquity. Pnom Dhek was a living city, yet so softened and mellowed by the passing centuries that even in life it suggested more the reincarnation of ancient glories than an actuality of the present. "Pnom Dhek!" whispered Fou-tan, and in her tone there were love and reverence. "You are glad to get back?" asked King. "That can scarcely express what I feel," replied the girl. "I doubt if you can realise what Pnom Dhek means to one of her sons or daughters; and so, too, you cannot guess the gratitude that I feel to you, Gordon King, who, alone are responsible for my return." He looked at her for a moment in silence. As she stood devouring Pnom Dhek with her eyes there was a rapturous exaltation in her gaze that suggested the fervour of religious passion, and the thought gave him pause. "Perhaps, Fou-tan," he suggested, "you have mistaken gratitude for love." She looked up at him quickly. "You do not understand, Gordon King," she said. "For two thousand years love for Pnom Dhek has been bred into the blood that animates me. It is a part of me that can die only when I die; yet I could never see Pnom Dhek again and yet be happy; though should I never see you again, I might never be happy again even in Pnom Dhek. Now do you understand?" "That I was jealous of stone and wood shows how much I love you, Fou-tan," he said. A soldier, lightened of his cuirass and weapons, had run swiftly ahead to the city gates, which they were approaching, to announce their coming; and presently there was a blare of trumpets at the gate, and this was answered by the sound of other trumpets within the city and the deep booming of gongs and the ringing of bells until the whole city was alive with noise. Then once again was King mystified; but there was more to come. As they moved slowly now along the avenue toward the city gates, a company of soldiers emerged and behind them a file of elephants, gaudily trapped, and surging forward upon either side of these were people—men, women and children—shouting and singing, until from hundreds their numbers grew to thousands. So quickly had they gathered that it seemed as much a miracle to King as did the occasion for their rejoicing, and now he became convinced that Fou-tan must be a priestess at least, if all this rejoicing and pandemonium were in honour of her return. The populace, outstripping the soldiers, were the first to reach them. Quickly the warriors that composed their escort formed a ring about Fou-tan and King, but the people held their distance respectfully, and now out of the babel of voices King caught some of the words of their greeting—words that filled him with surprise. "Fou-tan! Fou-tan!" they cried. "Welcome to our beloved Princess that was lost and is found again!" King turned to the girl. "Princess!" he exclaimed. "You did not tell me, Fou-tan." "Many men have courted me because I am a princess," she said. "You loved me for myself alone, and I wanted to cling to that as long as I might." "And Beng Kher is your father?" he asked. "Yes, I am the daughter of the King," replied Fou-tan. "I am glad that I did not know," said King simply. "And so am I," replied the girl, "for now no one can ever make me doubt your love." "I wish that you were not a princess," he said in a troubled voice. "Why?" she demanded. "None would have objected had the slave girl wished to marry me," he said, "but I can well imagine that many will object to a nameless warrior taking the Princess of Pnom Dhek." "Perhaps," she said sadly, "but let us not think of that now." In the howdah of the leading elephant sat a large, stern-faced man, beneath a parasol of cloth of gold and red. When the elephant upon which he rode was stopped near them, ladder-like steps were brought from the back of an elephant in the rear and the man descended to the ground, while the people prostrated themselves and touched their foreheads to the earth. As the man approached, Fou-tan advanced to meet him, and when she was directly in front of him, she kneeled and took his hand. There was moisture in the man's stern eyes as he lifted the girl to her feet and took her into his arms. It was Beng Kher the King, father of Fou-tan. After the first greeting Fou-tan whispered a few words to Beng Kher, and immediately Beng Kher directed Gordon King to advance. Following Fou-tan's example, the American knelt and kissed the King's hand. "Arise!" said Beng Kher. "My daughter, the Princess, tells me that it is to you she owes her escape from Lodidhapura. You shall be suitably rewarded. You shall know the gratitude of Beng Kher." He signalled to one of his retinue that had descended from the elephant in his rear. "See that this brave warrior lacks for nothing," he said. "Later we shall summon him to our presence again." Once more did Fou-tan whisper a few low words to her father, the King. The King knit his brows as though he were not entirely pleased with whatever suggestion Fou-tan had made, but presently the lines of his face softened and again he turned to the official to whom he had just spoken. "You will conduct the warrior to the palace and accord him all honour, for he is to be the guest of Beng Kher." Then, with Fou-tan, he ascended into the howdah of the royal elephant, while the officer, whom he had designated to escort Gordon King, approached the American. King's first impression of the man was not a pleasant one. The fellow's face was coarse and sensual and his manner haughty and supercilious. He made no attempt to conceal his disgust as his eyes appraised the soiled and tarnished raiment of the common warrior before him. "Follow me, my man," he said. "The King has condescended to command that you be quartered in the palace," and without further words of greeting he turned and strode toward the elephant upon which he had ridden from the city. In the howdah with them were two other gorgeously dressed officials and a slave who held a great parasol over them all. With no consideration for his feelings and quite as though he had not been present, King's companions discussed the impropriety of inviting a common soldier to the palace. Suddenly his escort turned toward him. "What is your name, my man?" he demanded, arrogantly. "My name is Gordon King," replied the American; "but I am not your man." His voice was low and even and his level gaze was directed straight into the eyes of the officer. The man's eyes shifted and then he flushed and scowled. "Perhaps you do not know," he said, "that I am the prince, Bharata Rahon." His tone was supercilious, his voice unpleasant. "Yes?" inquired King politely. So this was Bharata Rahon—this was the man whom Beng Kher had selected as the husband of Fou-tan. "No wonder she ran away and hid in the jungle," murmured King. "What is that?" demanded Bharata Rahon. "What did you say?" "I am sure," said King, "that the noble prince would not be interested in anything a common warrior might say." Bharata Rahon grunted and the conversation ended; nor did either address the other again as the procession wound its way through the avenues of Pnom Dhek toward the palace of the King. The way was lined with cheering people, and strongly apparent to King was the sincerity of their welcome to Fou-tan and the reality of their happiness that she had been returned to them. The palace of Beng Kher was a low rambling building covering a considerable area. Its central portion had evidently been conceived as a harmonious unit, to which various kings had added without much attention to harmony; yet the whole was rather impressive and was much larger than the palace of Lodivarman. The grounds surrounding it were beautifully planted and maintained with meticulous care. The gate through which they passed into the royal enclosure was of great size and had evidently been designed to permit the easy passage of a column of elephants, two abreast. The avenue from the gate led straight between old trees to the main entrance to the palace, and here the party descended from their howdahs and followed in the train of Beng Kher and Fou-tan as they entered the palace amidst such pomp and ceremony as King never before had witnessed. It occurred to him that if such things must follow the comings and goings of kings, the glory of sovereignty had decided drawbacks. There were at least two hundred soldiers, functionaries, courtiers, priests, and slaves occupied with the ceremony of receiving the King and the Princess into the palace, and with such mechanical accuracy did they take their posts and perform their parts that it was readily apparent to the American that they were observing a formal custom to which they had become accustomed by long and continued usage. Down a long corridor, those in the royal party followed Beng Kher and Fou-tan to a large audience chamber, where the King dismissed them. Then he passed on through a doorway with Fou-tan; and when the door closed behind them, most of the party immediately dispersed. Bharata Rahon beckoned King to follow him and, conducting him to another part of the palace, led him into a room which was one of a suite of three. "Here are your quarters," said Bharata Rahon. "I shall send slaves with apparel more suitable for the guest of Beng Kher. Food will be served to you here. Do not leave the apartment until you receive instructions from the King or from me." "I thought that I was a guest," said King, "but it appears that I am a prisoner." "That is as the King wills," replied the prince. "You should be more grateful, fellow, for the favours that you already have received." "Phew!" exclaimed King as Bharata Rahon left the room. "It is certainly a relief to get rid of you. The more I see of you the easier it is to understand how Fou-tan preferred My Lord the Tiger to Prince Bharata Rahon." As King examined the rooms assigned to him, he saw that they overlooked the royal garden at a particularly beautiful spot; nor could he wonder now why Fou-tan loved her home. His reveries were interrupted by the coming of two slaves; one carried warm water for a bath, and the other raiment suitable for a king's guest. They told him that they had been assigned to serve him while he remained in the palace and that one of them would always be in attendance, remaining in the corridor outside his door. The water, which was contained in two earthen vessels and supported at the ends of a pole that one of the slaves carried across his shoulders, was taken to the innermost of the three rooms and deposited beside a huge earthen bowl that was so large that a man might sit down inside it. Towels and brushes were brought and other necessary requisites of the toilet. King stripped and entered the bowl, and then one of the slaves poured water over him while the other scrubbed him vigorously with two brushes. It was, indeed, a heroic bath, but it left King stimulated and exhilarated and much refreshed after his tiresome journey. The scrubbing completed to their satisfaction, they bade him step out of the bowl on to a soft rug, where they oiled his body from head to foot and then proceeded to rub his skin vigorously until all of the oil had disappeared. Following this, they anointed him with some sweet-smelling lotion; and while the water-carrier emptied the bowl and carried the bath water away, the other slave assisted King as he donned his new clothing. "I am Hamar," whispered the fellow after the other slave had left the apartment. "I belong to Fou-tan, who trusts me. She sent this to you as a sign that you may trust me also." He handed King a tiny ring, a beautiful example of the goldsmith's art. It was strung upon a golden chain. "Wear it about your neck," said Hamar. "It will take you in safety many places in Pnom Dhek. Only the King's authority is greater than this." "Did she send no message?" asked King. "She said to tell you that all was not as favourable as she had hoped, but to be of good heart." "Convey my thanks to her if you can," said King, "and tell her that her message and her gift have cheered me." The other slave returned now, and as King had no further need of them, he dismissed them both. The two had scarcely departed when a young man entered, resplendent in the rich trappings of an officer. "I am Indra Sen," announced the newcomer. "Bharata Rahon has sent me to see that you do not lack for entertainment in the palace of Beng Kher." "Bharata Rahon did not seem to relish the idea of entertaining a common warrior," said King with a smile. "No," replied the young man. "Bharata Rahon is like that. Sometimes he puts on such airs that one might think him the King himself. Indeed, he has hopes some day of becoming king, for it is said that Beng Kher would marry Fou-tan to him, and as Beng Kher has no son, Fou-tan and Bharata Rahon would rule after Beng Kher died, which may the gods forbid." "Forbid that Beng Kher die?" asked King; "or that Fou-tan and Bharata Rahon rule?" "There is none but would serve Fou-tan loyally and gladly," replied Indra Sen; "but there is none who likes Bharata Rahon, and it is feared that as Fou-tan's husband he might influence her to do things which she would not otherwise do." "It is strange," said King, "that Beng Kher has no son in a land where a king takes many wives." "He has many sons," replied Indra Sen, "but the son of a concubine may not become king. Beng Kher would take but one queen, and when she died he would have no other." "If Fou-tan had not been found and Beng Kher had died, would Bharata Rahon have become king?" asked the American. "In that event the princes would have chosen a new king, but it would not have been Bharata Rahon," replied the officer. "Then his only hope of becoming king is by marrying Fou-tan?" "That is his only hope." "And Beng Kher favours his suit?" continued King. "The man seems to exercise some strange influence over Beng Kher," explained Indra Sen. "The King's heart is set upon wedding Fou-tan to him, and because the King is growing old he would have this matter settled quickly. It is well known that Fou-tan objects. She does not want to marry Bharata Rahon, but though the King indulges her in every other whim, he is adamant in this matter. Once Fou-tan ran away into the jungle to escape the marriage; and no one knows yet what the outcome will be, for our little princess, Fou-tan, has a will and a mind of her own; but the King—well, he is the King." For three days Indra Sen performed the duties of a host. He conducted King about the palace grounds; he took him to the temples and out into the city, to the market place, and the bazaars. Together they watched the apsarases dance in the temple court; but during all this time King saw nothing of Fou-tan, nor did Beng Kher send for him. Twice he had received brief messages from Fou-tan through Hamar, but they were only such messages as might be transmitted by word of mouth through a slave and were far from satisfying the man's longing for his sweetheart. Upon the fourth day Indra Sen did not come, as was his custom, early in the morning; nor did Hamar appear, but only the other slave—an ignorant, taciturn man whom King never had been able to engage in conversation. King had never left his apartment except in the company of Indra Sen, and while Bharata Rahon had warned him against any such independent excursion the American had not taken the suggestion seriously, believing it to have been animated solely by the choler of the Khmer prince. Heretofore, Indra Sen had arrived before there might be any occasion for King to wish to venture forth alone; but there had never been anything in the attitude of the young officer to indicate that the American was other than an honoured guest, nor had there been any reason to believe that he might not come and go as he chose. Having waited, therefore, for a considerable time upon Indra Sen on this particular morning, King decided to walk out into the royal garden after leaving word with the slave, who always attended just outside his door, that the young officer, when he came, might find him there; but when he opened the door into the corridor there was no slave, but, instead, two burly warriors, who instantly turned and barred the exit with their spears. "You may not leave your quarters," said one of them gruffly and with a finality that seemed to preclude argument. "And why not?" demanded the American. "I am the King's guest and I only wish to walk in the garden." "We have received our orders," replied the warrior. "You are not permitted to leave your quarters." "Then it would appear that I am not the King's guest, but the King's prisoner." The warrior shrugged. "We have our orders," he said; "other than this we know nothing." The American turned back into the room and closed the door. What did it all mean? He crossed the apartment to one of the windows and stood looking out upon the garden. He rehearsed his every act and speech since he had entered Pnom Dhek, searching for some clue that might explain the change of attitude toward him; but he found nothing that might warrant it; and so he concluded that it was the result of something that had occurred of which he had no knowledge; but the natural inference was that it was closely allied to his love for Fou-tan and Beng Kher's determination that she should wed Bharata Rahon. The day wore on. The taciturn slave came with food, but Hamar did not appear; nor did Indra Sen. King paced his quarters like a caged tiger. Always the windows overlooking the garden attracted him, so that often he paused before them, drawn by the freedom which the garden suggested in contrast to the narrow confines of his quarters. For the thousandth time he examined the quarters that had now become his prison. The paintings and hangings that covered the leaden walls had always aroused his interest and curiosity; but to-day, by reason of constant association, he found them palling upon him. The familiar scenes depicting the activities of kings and priests and dancing girls, the stiffly delineated warriors whose spears never cast and whose bolts were never shot oppressed him now. Their actions for ever inhibited and imprisoned in the artist's paint suggested his own helpless state of imprisonment. The sun was sinking in the west; the long shadows of the parting day were creeping across the royal garden of Beng Kher; the taciturn slave had come with food and had lighted lamps in each of the three rooms of his apartment—crude wick floating in oil they were, but they served to dispel the darkness of descending night. King, vibrant with the vitality of youth and health, had eaten heartily. The slave removed the dishes and returned. "Have you further commands for the night, master?" he asked. King shook his head. "No," he said, "you need not return until the morning." The slave withdrew, and King fell to playing with an idea that had been slowly forming in his mind. The sudden change in his status here that had been suggested by the absence of Hamar and Indra Sen and by the presence of the warriors in the corridor had aroused within him a natural apprehension of impending danger, and consequently directed his mind toward thoughts of escape. The windows not far above the garden, the darkness of the night, his knowledge of the city and the jungle—all impressed upon him the belief that he might win to freedom with no considerable risk; yet he was still loath to make the attempt because as yet he had nothing definite upon which to base his suspicion that the anger of Beng Kher had been turned upon him and, further, and more important still, because he could not leave Pnom Dhek without first having word with Fou-tan. As he inwardly debated these matters he paced to and fro the length of the three rooms of his apartment. He had paused in the innermost of the three where the flickering light of the cresset projected his shadow grotesquely upon an ornate hanging that depended from the ceiling to the floor. He had paused there in deep thought, his eyes, seeing and yet unseeing, fastened upon this splendid fabric, when suddenly he saw it move and bulge. There was something or someone behind it. # XIII: FAREWELL FOR EVER! For the first time since Gordon King had entered the palace of Beng Kher as a guest he was confronted with the realisation that the ornate apparel and trappings that had been furnished him had included no weapons of defence; and now as he saw the hanging bulging mysteriously before his eyes he stepped quickly toward it, prepared to meet either friend or foe with his bare hands. He saw the bulging fold move slowly behind the fabric toward its outer edge, and he followed it, ready for any eventuality. With a quick movement the margin of the fabric was pulled aside as Hamar, the slave, stepped into the room, and at the same instant King seized him by the throat. Recognition was instantaneous and, with a smile, the American released the slave and stepped back. "I did not know whom to expect, Hamar," he said. "You were well to be prepared for an enemy, master," said the slave in low tones, "for you have powerful ones in Pnom Dhek." "What brings you here, Hamar, in secrecy and in such mystery?" demanded King. "Are you alone?" asked Hamar in a whisper. "Yes." "Then my mission is fulfilled," said Hamar. "I do but ensure the safety and the secrecy of another who follows me." Again the hanging bulged as someone passed behind it; and an instant later Fou-tan stood before Gordon King, while the slave, Hamar, bowing low, withdrew. "Fou-tan!" exclaimed Gordon King, taking a step toward the girl. "My Gordon King!" whispered Fou-tan as his arms closed about her. "What has happened that you come to me in this way?" asked King. "I knew that there was something wrong because neither Hamar nor Indra Sen came to-day and there were warriors posted at my door to keep me prisoner. But why talk of such things when I have you? Nothing else counts now my Fou-tan." "Ah, Gordon King, but there _is_ much else that counts," replied the girl. "I should have come before, but guards were placed to keep me from you. The King, my father, is mad with rage. To-morrow you are to be destroyed." "But why?" demanded King. "Because yesterday I went to my father and confessed our love. I appealed to his gratitude to you for having saved me from Lodivarman and to his love for me, believing that these might outweigh his determination to wed me to Bharata Rahon, but I was mistaken. He flew into an uncontrollable rage of passion. He ordered me to my apartment and he commanded that you be destroyed upon the morrow; but I found a way, thanks to Hamar and Indra Sen, and so I have come to bid you farewell, Gordon King, and to tell you that wherever you may go my heart goes with you, though my body may be the unwilling slave of another. Indra Sen and Hamar will guide you to the jungle and point the way toward the great river that lies in the direction of the rising sun, upon whose opposite shore you will be safe from the machination of Beng Kher and Bharata Rahon." "And you, Fou-tan—you will go with me?" The girl shook her head. "No, Gordon King, I may not," she replied sadly. "And why?" he asked. "You love me and I love you. Come away with me into a land of freedom and happiness, where no one will question our right to love and to live as the gods intended that we should; for you, Fou-tan, and I were made for one another." "It cannot be, Gordon King," replied the girl. "The thing that you suggest offers to me the only happiness that can be possible to me in life, but for such as I there is an obligation that transcends all thoughts of personal happiness. I was born a princess, and because of that there have devolved upon me certain obligations which may not be escaped. Had I brothers or sisters born of a queen it might be different, but through me alone may the royal dynasty of Pnom Dhek be perpetuated. No, Gordon King, not even love may intervene between a princess of Pnom Dhek and her duty to her people. Always shall my love be yours, and it will be harder for me than for you. If I, who am weak, am brave because of duty, how can you, a man, be less brave? Kiss me once more, then, and for the last time, Gordon King; then go with Hamar and Indra Sen, who will lead you to the jungle and point the way to safety." As she ceased speaking she threw her arms about his neck and drew his lips to hers. He felt her tears upon his cheeks, and his own eyes grew dim. Perhaps not until this instant of parting had King realised the hold that this dainty flower of the savage jungle had taken upon his heart. As fragile and beautiful as the finest of Meissen ceramics, this little, painted princess of a long-dead past held him in a bondage beyond the power of steel. "I cannot give you up, Fou-tan," he said. "Let me remain. Perhaps if I talked with your father—" "It would be useless," she said, "even if he would grant you an audience, which he will not." "Then if you love me as I love you," said King, "you will come away with me." "Do not say that, Gordon King. It is cruel," replied the girl. "I am taught to place duty above all other considerations, even love. Princesses are not born to happiness. Their exalted birth dedicates them to duty. They are more than human, and so human happiness often is denied them. And now you must go. Indra Sen and Hamar are waiting to guide you to safety. Each moment of delay lessens your chances for escape." "I do not wish to escape," said King. "I shall remain and face whatever consequences are in store for me, for without you, Fou-tan, life means nothing to me. I would rather remain and die than go away without you." "No, no," she cried. "Think of me. I must live on, and always, if I believe you to be alive, I shall be happier than I could be if I knew that you were dead." "You mean that if I were alive there still would be hope?" he asked. She shook her head. "Not in the way you mean," she replied; "but there would be happiness for me in knowing that perhaps somewhere you were happy. For my sake, you must go. If you love me you will not deny me this shred of happiness." "If I go," he said, "you will know that wherever I am, I am unhappy." "I am a woman as well as a princess," she replied, "and so perhaps it will give me a sad happiness to know that you are unhappy because I am denied you." She smiled ruefully. "Then I shall go, Fou-tan, if only to make you happy in my unhappiness; but I think that I shall not go far and that always I shall nurse hope in my breast, even though you may have put it from you. Think of me, then, as being always near you, Fou-tan, awaiting the day when I may claim you." "That will never be, Gordon King," she replied sadly; "yet it will do no harm if in our hearts we nurse a hopeless hope. Kiss me again. It is Fou-tan's last kiss of love." An eternity of love and passion were encompassed in that brief instant of their farewell embrace, and then Fou-tan tore herself from his arms and was gone. She was gone! King stood for a long time gazing at the hanging that had moved for a moment to the passage of her lithe figure. It did not seem possible that she had gone out of his life for ever. "Fou-tan!" he whispered. "Come back to me. You will come back!" But the dull pain in his breast was his own best answer to the anguished cry of his stricken soul. Again the hanging moved and bulged, and his heart leaped to his throat; but it was only Hamar, the slave. "Come, master!" cried the man. "There is no time to be lost." King nodded. With leaden steps he followed Hamar to an opening in the wall behind the hanging, and there he found Indra Sen in the mouth of a corridor, a flickering torch in his hand. "In the service of the Princess," said the officer. "May the gods protect her and give her every happiness," replied King. "Come!" said Indra Sen, and turning he led the way along the corridor and down a long flight of stone steps that King knew must lead far beneath the palace. They passed the mouths of branching corridors, attesting the labyrinthine maze that honeycombed the earth beneath the palace of Beng Kher, and then the tunnel led straight and level out beneath the city of Pnom Dhek to the jungle beyond. "That way lies the great river, Gordon King," said Indra Sen, pointing toward the east. "I should like to go with you farther, but I dare not; if Hamar and I are suspected of aiding in your escape, the blame may be placed upon the Princess, since Hamar is her slave and I an officer of her guard." "I would not ask you to go farther, Indra Sen," replied King, "nor can I find words in which to thank either you or Hamar." "Here, master," said Hamar, "is the clothing that you wore when you came to Pnom Dhek. It will be more suitable in the jungle than that you are wearing," and he handed King a bundle that he had been carrying. "Here, also, are weapons—a spear, a knife, a bow and arrows. They are gifts from the Princess, who says that no other knows so well how to use them." The two waited until King had changed into his worn trappings, and then, bidding him good-bye, they entered the mouth of the tunnel, leaving him alone in the jungle. To the east lay the Mekong, where he might construct a raft and drift down to civilisation. To the south lay Lodidhapura, and beyond that the dwelling of Che and Kangrey. King knew that if he went to the east and the Mekong he would never return. He thought of Susan Anne Prentice and his other friends of the outer world; he thought of the life of usefulness that lay ahead of him there. Then there came to him the vision of a dainty girl upon a great elephant, reminding him of that moment, now so long ago, that he had first seen Fou-tan; and he knew that he must choose now, once and for all, between civilisation and the jungle—between civilisation and the definite knowledge that he would never see her again or the jungle and hope, however remote. "Susan Anne would think me a fool, and I am quite sure that she would be right," he murmured, as with a shrug he turned his face squarely toward the south and set off upon his long and lonely journey through the jungle. In his mind there was no definite plan beyond a hazy determination to return to Che and Kangrey and to remain there with them until it would be safe to assume that Beng Kher had ceased to search for him. After that, perhaps, he might return to the vicinity of Pnom Dhek. And who could say what might happen then? Thus strongly is implanted in the breast of man the eternal seed of hope. Of course, he knew that he was a fool, but it did not displease him to be a fool if his foolishness kept him in the same jungle with Fou-tan. The familiar odours and noises of the jungle assailed his nostrils and his ears. With spear in readiness he groped his way to the trail which he knew led toward the south and his destination. When he found it, some caprice of hope prompted him to blaze a tree at the spot in such a way that he might easily identify it, should he chance to come upon it again. All night he travelled. Once, for a long time, he knew that some beast was stalking him; but if it had evil intentions toward him it evidently could not muster the courage to put them into action, for eventually he heard it no more. Shortly thereafter dawn came and with it a sense of greater security. Shortly after sunrise he came upon a herd of wild pigs, and before they were aware of his presence he sunk an arrow into the heart of a young porker. Then an old boar discovered him and charged, its gleaming tusks flecked with foam, its savage eyes red-rimmed with rage; but King did not wait to discuss matters with the great beast. Plentiful and inviting about him grew the great trees of the jungle, and into one of these he swung himself as the boar tore by. The rest of the herd had disappeared; but for a long time the boar remained in the vicinity, trotting angrily back and forth along the trail beneath King and occasionally stopping to glare up at him malevolently. It seemed an eternity to the hungry man, but at length the boar appeared to realise the futility of waiting longer for his prey to descend and trotted off into the jungle after his herd, the sound of his passage through the underbrush gradually diminishing until it was lost in the distance. Then King descended and retrieved his kill. Knowing the cunning of savage tuskers of the jungle, King was aware that the boar might return to the spot; and so he did not butcher his kill there, but, throwing it across his shoulder, continued on for about a mile. Then, finding a suitable location he stopped and built a fire, over which he soon was grilling a generous portion of his quarry. After eating, he left the trail and, going into the jungle a short distance, found a place where he could lie down to sleep; and as he dozed he dreamed of snowy linen and soft pillows and heard the voices of many people arguing and scolding. They annoyed him, so that he determined to sell his home and move to another neighbourhood; and then seemingly in the same instant he awoke, though in reality he had slept for six hours. Uppermost in his mind was his complaint against his neighbours, and loud in his ears were their voices as he opened his eyes and looked around in puzzled astonishment at the jungle about him. Then he smiled as the dream picture of his home faded into the reality of his surroundings. The smile broadened into a grin as he caught sight of the monkeys chattering and scolding in the tree above him. Another night he pushed on through the jungle, and as morning came he guessed that he must be approaching the vicinity of Lodidhapura. He made no kill that morning and built no fire, but satisfied himself with fruits and nuts, which he found in abundance. He had no intention of risking discovery and capture by attempting to pass Lodidhapura by day, and so he found a place where he could lie up until night. This time he dreamed of Fou-tan and it was a pleasant dream, for they were alone together in the jungle and all obstacles had been removed from their path, but presently they heard people approaching; they seemed to be all about them, and their presence and their talk annoyed Fou-tan and angered King; in fact, he became so angry that he awoke. As the figure of Fou-tan faded from his sight, he kept his eyes tight shut, trying to conjure her back again; but the voices of the intruders continued, and that seemed strange to King. He could even hear their words: "I tell you it is he," said one voice; and another cried, "Hey, you, wake up!" Then King opened his eyes to look upon twenty brass cuirasses upon twenty sturdy warriors in the uniform of Lodivarman. "So you have come back!" exclaimed one of the warriors. "I did not think you were such a fool." "Neither did I," said King. "Where is the girl?" demanded the speaker. "Lodivarman will be glad to have you, but he would rather have the girl." "He will never get her," said King. "She is safe in the palace of her father at Pnom Dhek." "Then it will go so much the harder for you," said the warrior, "and I am sorry for you, for you are certainly a courageous man." King shrugged. He looked about him for some avenue of escape, but he was entirely surrounded now and the odds were twenty to one against him. Slowly he arose to his feet. "Here I am," he said. "What are you going to do with me?" "We are going to take you to Lodivarman," replied the warrior who had spoken first. Then they took his weapons from him and tied his wrists behind his back. They were not cruel nor unduly rough, for in the hearts of these men, themselves brave, was admiration for the courage of their prisoner. "I'd like to know how you did it," said a warrior walking next to King. "Did what?" demanded the American. "How you got into the King's apartment unseen and got out again with the girl. Three men have died for it already, but Lodivarman is no nearer a solution of the puzzle than he was at first." "Who died and why?" demanded King. "The major-domo, for one," said the warrior. "The major-domo did naught but obey the orders of Lodivarman," said King. "You seem to know a lot about it," replied the warrior; "yet that is the very reason that he died. For once in his life he should have disobeyed the King, but he failed to do so, and Lodivarman lay bound and gagged until Vay Thon came to his rescue." "Who else died?" asked King. "The sentry who was posted at the banquet door with you. He had to admit that he had deserted his post, leaving you there alone; and with him was slain the officer of the guard who posted you, a stranger, inside the King's palace." "And these were all?" asked King. "Yes," said the warrior. And when King smiled he asked him why he smiled. "Oh, nothing of any importance," replied the American. "I was just thinking." He was thinking that the guiltiest of all had escaped—the sentry who had permitted Fou-tan to beguile him into allowing them to pass out of the palace into the garden. He guessed that this man would not be glad to see him return. "So even now Lodivarman does not know how I escaped from the palace?" he demanded. "No, but he will," replied the man with a sinister grin. "What do you mean?" asked the American. "I mean that before he kills you he will torture the truth from you." "Evidently my stay in Lodidhapura is to be a pleasant one," he said. "I do not know how pleasant it will be," replied the warrior; "but it will be short." "Perhaps I shall be glad of that," said King. "It will be short, man, but it will seem an eternity. I have seen men die before to satisfy Lodivarman's wrath." From his captors King learned that his discovery had been purely accidental; the party that had stumbled upon him constituted a patrol, making its daily rounds through the jungle in the vicinity of Lodidhapura. And soon the great city itself arose before King's eyes, magnificent in its ancient glory, but hard as the stone that formed its temples and its towers, and hard as the savage hearts that beat behind its walls. Into its building had gone the sweat and the blood and the lives of a million slaves; behind its frowning walls had been enacted two thousand years of cruelties and bloody crimes committed in the names of kings and gods. "The mills of the gods!" soliloquised King. "It is not so remarkable that they grind exceedingly fine as it is that their masters can reach out of the ages across a world and lay hold upon a victim who scarce ever heard of them." They were rapidly approaching one of the gates of Lodidhapura, at the portals of which King knew he must definitely abandon hope; and all that King found to excite his interest was his own apathy to his impending fate. He knew that his mind should be dwelling upon thoughts of escape, and yet he found himself assuming a fatalistic attitude of mind that could contemplate impending death with utmost composure, for, indeed, what had life to offer him? The orbit of his existence was determined by that shining sun about which his love revolved—his little flaming princess. Denied for ever the warmth and light of her near presence, he was a lost satellite, wandering aimlessly in the outer darkness and the cold of interstellar space. What had such an existence to offer against the peaceful oblivion of death? Yet whatever his thoughts may have been there was no reflection of them in his demeanour, as with firm stride and high-held head he entered once again the city of Lodidhapura, where immediately he and his escort were surrounded by curious crowds as word travelled quickly from mouth to mouth that the abductor of the dancing girl of the Leper King had been captured. They took him to the dungeons beneath the palace of Lodivarman, and there they chained him to a wall. As if he had been a wild beast they chained him with double chains, and the food that they brought was thrown upon the floor before him—food that one would have hesitated to cast before a beast. The darkness of his cell was mitigated by a window near the low ceiling—an aperture so small that it might scarcely be dignified by the name of window, since nothing larger than a good-sized cat could have passed through it; yet it served its purpose in a meagre way by admitting light and air. Once again, as it had many times in the past, a conviction sought foothold in King's mind that he was still the victim of the hallucinations of fever, for notwithstanding all his experiences since he had entered the jungle it did not seem possible that in this twentieth century he, a free-born American, could be the prisoner of a Khmer king. The idea was fantastic, preposterous, unthinkable. He resorted to all the time-worn expedients for proving the fallacy of mental aberration, but in the end he always found himself double-chained to a stone wall in a dark, foul-stinking dungeon. Night came and with it those most hideous of nocturnal dungeon dwellers—the rats. He fought them off, but always they returned; and all night he battled with them until, when daylight came and they left him, he sank exhausted to the stone flagging of his cell. Perhaps he slept then, but he could scarcely know, for it seemed that almost instantly a hand was laid upon his shoulder and he was shaken to wakefulness. It was the hand of Vama, the commander of the ten who first had captured him in the jungle; and so it was neither a rough nor unfriendly hand, for the brass-bound warrior could find in his heart only admiration for this courageous stranger who had dared to thwart the desires of the Leper King, whom he feared more than he respected. "I am glad to see you again, Gordon King," said Vama, "but I am sorry that we meet under such circumstances. The rage of Lodivarman is boundless and from it no man may save you, but it may lessen the anguish of your last hours to know that you have many friends among the warriors of Lodidhapura." "Thank you, Vama," replied King. "I have found more than friendship in the land of the Khmers, and if I also find death here, it is because of my own choosing. I am content with whatever fate awaits me, but I want you to know that your assurances of friendship will ameliorate whatever pangs of suffering death may hold for me. But why are you here? Has Lodivarman sent you to execute his sentence upon me?" "He will not finish you so easily as that," replied Vama. "What he has in his mind I do not know. I have been sent to conduct you to his presence, a signal honour for you, attesting the impression that your act made upon him." "Perhaps he wants to question me," suggested King. "Doubtless," replied Vama, "but that he could have delegated to his torturers, who well know how to elicit whatever they wish from the lips of their victims." Vama bent and unlocked the padlock that fettered King to the wall and led him into the corridor upon which his cell opened, where the rest of Vama's ten awaited to escort the prisoner into the presence of Lodivarman. Kau and Tchek were there with the others with whom King had become familiar while he served as a warrior of the royal guard of Lodivarman, Leper King of Lodidhapura. Rough were the greetings that they exchanged, but none the less cordial; and so, guarded by his own friends, Gordon King was conducted toward the audience chamber of Lodivarman. # XIV: MY LORD THE TIGER Lodivarman, a malignant scowl upon his face, crouched upon his great throne. Surrounding him were his warlords and his ministers, his high priests and the officers of his household; and at his left knelt a slave bearing a great golden platter piled high with mushrooms. But for the moment Lodivarman was too intent upon his vengeance to be distracted even by the cravings of his unnatural appetite, for here at last he had within his grasp the creature that had centred upon itself all the unbridled rage of a tyrant. Trembling with the anger that he could not conceal, Lodivarman glared at Gordon King as the prisoner was led to the foot of the dais below his throne. "Where is the girl?" demanded the King angrily. "The Princess Fou-tan is safe in the palace of Beng Kher," replied King. "How did you get her away? Some one must have helped you. If you would save yourself the anguish of torture, speak the truth," cried Lodivarman, his voice trembling with rage. "Lodivarman, the King, knows better than any other how I took Fou-tan from him," replied the American. "I do not mean that," screamed Lodivarman, trembling. "Siva will see that you suffer sufficient agonies for the indignity that you put upon me, but I can curtail that if you will reveal your accomplices." "I had no accomplices," replied King. "I took the Princess and walked out of your palace and no one saw me." "How did you get out?" demanded Lodivarman. King smiled. "You are going to torture me, Lodivarman, and you are going to kill me. Why should I give you even the gratification of satisfying your curiosity? Wantonly you have already destroyed three men in your anger. I shall be the fourth. The life of any one of us is worth more than yours. If I could I would not add further to the debt that you must pay in the final accounting when you face God beyond the grave." "What do you know, stranger, of the gods of the Khmers?" demanded Lodivarman. "I know little or nothing of Brahma, of Vishnu, or Siva," replied King, "but I do know that above all there is a God that kings and tyrants must face; and in His eyes even a good king is no greater than a good slave, and of all creatures a tyrant is the most despicable." "You would question the power of Brahma, of Vishnu, and of Siva!" hissed Lodivarman. "You dare to set your God above them! Before you die then, by the gods, you shall seek their mercy in your anguish." "Whatever my suffering may be, you will be its author, Lodivarman," replied King. "The gods will have nothing to do with it." A minor priest came near and whispered in the King's ear. Vay Thon, the high priest, was there, too. The old man stood with his eyes fixed compassionately upon King, but he knew he was powerless to aid his friend, for who should know better than a high priest the power of kings and the futility of gods. The priest appeared to be urging something upon his ruler with considerable enthusiasm. Lodivarman listened to the whispered words of counsel, and then for some time he sat in thought. Presently he raised his eyes to King again. "It pleases us to prove the power of our Gods, revealing their omnipotence to the eyes of our people. My Lord the Tiger knows no god; you shall contend with him. If your God be so powerful, let him preserve you from the beast." Lodivarman helped himself to mushrooms and sank back in his throne. "Take him to the pit of My Lord the Tiger," he said presently; "but do not liberate the great beast until we come." The soldiers surrounded King and led him away, but before they had reached the doorway leading from the audience chamber Lodivarman halted them. "Wait!" he cried. "It shall not be said that Lodivarman is unfair even to an enemy. When this man enters the pit with My Lord the Tiger, see that he has a javelin wherewith to defend himself. I have heard stories of his prowess; let us see if they were exaggerated." From the palace, King was led across the royal garden to the great temple of Siva; and there, upon one of the lower levels, a place where he had never been before, he was conducted to a small amphitheatre, in the centre of which was sunk a deep pit that was, perhaps, a hundred feet square. The entrance to the pit was down a stairway and along a narrow corridor of stone to massive wooden doors which the soldiers threw open. "Enter, Gordon King," said Vama. "Here is my javelin, and may your God and my gods be with you." "Thanks!" said King. "I imagine that I shall need them all," and then he stepped into the sunlit pit as the doors were closed behind him. The floor and walls of the cubicle were of blocks of stone set without mortar, but so perfectly fitted that the joints were scarcely discernible. As King stood with his back against the doorway through which he had entered the pit, he saw in the wall opposite him another door of great planks, a low sinister door, behind which he guessed paced a savage, hungry carnivore. King hefted the javelin in his hand. It was a sturdy, well-balanced weapon. Once again he recalled his college days when he had hurled a similar weapon beneath the admiring eyes of his mates; but then only distance had counted, only the superficial show that is the keynote of civilisation had mattered. What mattered it that other men might cast a javelin more accurately? which after all would be the practical test of efficiency. Gordon King could cast it farther than any of them, which was a feat far more showy than accuracy; but from the unlettered Che he had learned what college had failed to teach him and had acquired an accuracy as uncanny as the great distances that had won him fame. Twice already had he met My Lord the Tiger and vanquished him with his javelin. Each time it had seemed to King a miracle. That it could be repeated again, that for the third time he could overcome the lord of Asia seemed incredible. And what would it profit him were he to succeed? From the cruel fangs and talons of the tiger he would be transferred to the greater cruelties of Lodivarman. As he stood there upon the stone flagging of the pit beneath the hot sun that poured its unobstructed rays into the enclosure, he saw the audience sauntering to the stone benches that encircled the arena. It was evident that those who were to witness his destruction were members of the household of the King; princes and nobles and warriors there were and ministers and priests, and with them were their women. Last of all came Lodivarman with his bodyguard and slaves. To a canopied throne he made his way while the audience knelt, the meeker of them touching their foreheads to the stone flagging of the aisles. Before his throne Lodivarman halted, while his dead eyes swept quickly over the assembly, passing from them to the arena and the solitary warrior standing there below him. For a long moment the gaze of the King was riveted upon the American; hatred and suppressed rage were in that long, venomous appraisal of the man who had thwarted and humiliated him—that low creature that had dared lay profaning hands upon the person of the King. Slowly Lodivarman sank into his throne. Then he made a brief sign to an attendant, and an instant later the notes of a trumpet floated out across the still air of the arena. The kneeling men and women arose and took their seats. Once again Lodivarman raised his hand, and again the trumpet sounded, and every eye was turned upon the low doorway upon the opposite side of the arena from the American. King saw the heavy barrier rise slowly. In the darkness beyond it nothing was visible at first, but presently he was aware that something moved within, and then he saw the familiar yellow and black stripes that he had expected. Slowly a great tiger stepped into the doorway, pausing upon the threshold, blinking from the glare of the sunlight. His attention was attracted first by the people upon the stone benches above him, and he looked up at them and growled. Then he looked down and saw King. Instantly his whole attitude changed. He half crouched, and his tail moved in sinuous undulations; his head was flattened, and his eyes glared fiercely. Gordon King did not wait for the attack. He had a theory of his own based upon his experience with wild beasts. He knew them to be nervous and oftentimes timid when confronted by emergencies that offered aspects that were new and unfamiliar. A gasp of astonishment, not unmingled with admiration, arose from the people lining the edges of the pit, for the thing that they witnessed was as surprising to them as King hoped it would be to the tiger—instead of the beast charging the man, they saw the man charging the beast. Straight toward the crouching carnivore King ran, his spear balanced and ready in his hand. For an instant the tiger hesitated. He had expected nothing like this; and then he did what King had hoped that he might do, what he had known there was a fair chance that he would do. Fearful of the new and unexpected, the beast turned and broke, and as he did so he exposed his left side fully and at close range to the quick eye of his antagonist. Swift as lightning moved King's spear-arm. The heavy javelin, cast with unerring precision and backed to the last ounce by the strength and the weight of the American, tore into the striped side just behind the left shoulder of the great beast. At the instant that the weapon left his hand King turned and raced to the far extremity of the arena. The running tiger, carried by his own momentum, rolled over and over upon the stone flagging; his horrid screams and coughing roars shook the amphitheatre. King was positive that the beast's heart was pierced, but he knew that these great cats were so tenacious of life that in the brief instant of their dying they often destroyed their adversaries also. It was for this reason that he had put as much distance as he could between himself and the infuriated animal, and it was well that he had done so, for the instant that the tiger had regained his feet he discovered King and charged straight for him. Unarmed and helpless, the man stood waiting. Breathless, the spectators had arisen from their stone benches and were bending eagerly forward in tense anticipation of the cruel and bloody end. Half the length of the arena the tiger crossed in great bounds. A sudden conviction swept the man that after all he had missed the heart. He was poised for what he already knew must be a futile leap to one side in an effort to dodge the first charge of the onrushing beast, when suddenly the tiger collapsed, seemingly in mid-air; and his great carcass came rolling across the flagging to stop at King's feet. For an instant there was utter silence, and then a great shout rose from the spectators. "He has won his life, Lodivarman! He has won his freedom!" arose here and there from the braver among them, and the others cheered in approval. Lodivarman, crouching in his throne with an ugly sneer upon his lips, called a functionary to him for a few, brief whispered instructions, and then the Leper King arose and passed through the kneeling people as he departed from the amphitheatre. A moment later the door that had opened to admit King to the pit creaked again upon its hinges to admit Vama and an escort of warriors. King greeted his former comrade with a smile. "Have you come to finish the work that the tiger failed to do," he asked, "or have you come to escort me to freedom?" "Neither," replied Vama. "We have come to return you to your cell, for such are the commands of the King. But if he does not set you free eventually," added Vama in low tones, "it will be to the lasting disgrace of Lodivarman, for never was a man more deserving of his life and liberty than you. You are the first man, Gordon King, who has ever faced the tiger in this pit and come out alive." "Which does not at all satisfy Lodivarman's craving for revenge," suggested the American. "I am afraid you are right," said Vama, as they moved along the corridor toward the dungeon, "but you must know that to-day you have made many new friends in Lodidhapura, for there are those among us who can appreciate courage, strength and skill." "My mistake," said King, "was not in my selection of friends, but in my selection of an enemy; for the latter, I have found one from whom all the friends in the world may not save me." Once again in his gloomy, cheerless cell King was fettered to the cold, familiar stone; but he was cheered by the kind words of Vama and the friendly expressions of other members of the guard that had escorted him hither; and when presently a slave came with food he, too, had words of praise and friendliness; and the food that he brought was well prepared and plentiful. The day passed and the long night followed, and toward the middle of the next forenoon a visitor came to King's cell; and as he paused in the doorway, the prisoner recognised the yellow robe and the white beard of Vay Thon, the high priest of Siva, and his face lighted with pleasure, as the old man peered into the dim interior of his prison. "Welcome, Vay Thon!" he exclaimed, "and accept my apologies for the mean hospitality that I may offer so distinguished and so welcome a guest." "Give that no thought, my son," replied the old man. "It is enough that so courageous a warrior should receive a poor old priest with such pleasure as is evidenced by your tone. I am glad to be with you, but I wish that it might be under happier circumstances and that I might be the bearer of more welcome news." "You have brought news to me, then?" asked King. "Yes," replied Vay Thon. "Because of what I owe you and for the friendship that I feel for you I have come to warn you, though any warning of your impending doom can avail you nothing." "Lodivarman will not give me my liberty or my life, then?" asked King. "No," replied Vay Thon. "The affront that you put upon him he considers beyond forgiveness. You are to be destroyed, but in such a way that the responsibility shall not rest upon the shoulders of Lodivarman." "And how is this to be accomplished?" asked the American. "You are to be summoned to the audience chamber of Lodivarman to receive your freedom and then you are to be set upon and assassinated by members of his guard. The story is to be spread that you sought to take the life of Lodivarman, so that his soldiers were compelled to slay you." "Vay Thon," said King, "perhaps the warning that you bring me may not save me from the fate that Lodivarman has ordained; but it has demonstrated your friendship; and my last hours, therefore, will be happier because you came. And now go, for if the knowledge that you have imparted prompts me to take advantage of some opportunity for revenge or escape, there must be no clue to suggest that you are in any way responsible." "I appreciate your thoughtfulness, my friend," replied the old priest, "and as I can be of no service to you I shall leave you, but know that constantly I shall supplicate the gods to protect you." He came and placed his hands upon King's shoulders. "Good-bye, my son, my heart is heavy," and as the tears welled in his old eyes he turned and left the cell. Vay Thon had been gone but a short time when King heard the sound of footsteps approaching, and with these were mingled the clank of armour and the rattling of accoutrements. Presently, when the men halted before the doorway of his cell, he saw that they were all strangers to him. The officer who commanded them entered the cell, greeting King pleasantly. "I bring you good news," he said, as he stooped and unlocked the padlock and cast King's fetters from him. "Any news would be good news here," replied the American. "But this is the best of all news," said the officer. "Lodivarman has commanded that you be conducted to him that he may grant you your freedom in person." "Splendid," said King, though he could scarcely repress a smile as he recalled the message that Vay Thon had brought him. Back to the now familiar audience chamber of the King they conducted the prisoner, and once again he stood before the throne of Lodivarman. There were few in attendance upon the monarch, a fact which suggested that he had not cared to share the secret of his perfidy with more than was absolutely necessary. But few though they were, the inevitable slave was there, kneeling at Lodivarman's side with his platter of mushrooms; and it was the sight of these lowly fungi that instantly riveted the attention of the doomed man, for suddenly they had become more important than brass-bound soldiers, than palace functionaries, than the King himself, for they had suggested to the American a possible means of salvation. He knew that he must think and act quickly, for he had no means of knowing how soon the signal for his assassination would be given. Surrounded by his guards, he crossed the audience chamber and halted before the throne of Lodivarman. He should have prostrated himself then, but he did not; instead he looked straight into the dead eyes of the tyrant. "Lodivarman," he said, "listen to me for a moment before you give the signal that will put into execution the plan that you have conceived, for at this instant your own life and happiness hang in the balance." "What do you mean?" demanded Lodivarman. "You questioned the power of my God, Lodivarman," continued King, "but you saw me vanquish My Lord the Tiger in the face of the wrath of Siva, and now you know that I am aware of just what you planned for me here. How could I have vanquished the beast, or how could I have known your plans except through the intervention and the favour of my God?" Lodivarman seemed ill at ease. His eyes shifted suspiciously from one man to another. "I have been betrayed," he said angrily. "On the contrary," replied King, "you have been given such an opportunity as never could have come to you without me. Will you hear me before I am slain?" "I do not know what you are talking about. I sent for you to free you; but speak on, I am listening." "You are a leper," said King, and at the hideous word Lodivarman sprang to his feet, trembling with rage, his face livid, his dead eyes glaring. "Death to him!" he cried. "No man may speak that accursed word to me and live." At Lodivarman's words warriors sprang menacingly toward King. "Wait!" cried the American. "You have told me that you would listen. Wait until I have spoken, for what I have to say means more to you than life itself." "Speak, then, but be quick," snapped Lodivarman. "In the great country from which I come," continued King, "there are many brilliant physicians who have studied all of the diseases to which mankind is heir. I, too, am a physician, and under many of those men have I studied and particularly have I studied the disease of leprosy. Lodivarman, you believe this disease to be incurable; but I, the man whom you would destroy, can cure you." King's voice, well modulated but clear and distinct, had carried his words to every man in the audience chamber, and the silence which followed his dramatic declaration was so profound that one might have said that no man even breathed. All felt the tenseness of the moment. Lodivarman, who had sunk back into his throne after his wild outburst of anger, seemed almost to have collapsed. He was trembling visibly, his lower jaw dropped upon his chest. King knew that the man was impressed, that all within the audience chamber were impressed, and his knowledge of human nature told him that he had won, for he knew that Lodivarman, King though he was, was only human and that he would grasp at even the most impalpable suggestion of hope that might be offered him in the extremity of his fear and loathing for the disease that claimed him. Presently the tyrant found his voice. "You can cure me?" he asked, almost piteously. "My life shall be the forfeit," replied King, "on condition that you swear before your gods in the presence of Vay Thon, the high priest, that in return for your health you will grant me life and liberty—" "Life, liberty, and every honour that lies within my power shall be conferred upon you," cried Lodivarman, his voice trembling with emotion. "If you rid me of this horrid sickness, aught that you ask shall be granted. Come, let us not delay. Cure me at once." "The sickness has held you for many years, Lodivarman," replied King, "and it cannot be cured in a day. I must prepare medicine, and you must carry out the instructions that I shall give you, for I can cure you only if you obey me implicitly." "How do I know that you will not poison me?" demanded Lodivarman. King thought for a moment. Here was an obstacle that he had not foreseen, and then suddenly a solution suggested itself. "I can satisfy you as to that, Lodivarman," he replied, "for when I prepare medicine for you I shall take some of it myself in your presence." Lodivarman nodded. "That will safeguard me," he said, "and now what else?" "Put me where Vay Thon, the high priest, can watch me always. You trust him, and he will see that no harm befalls you through me. He will help me to obtain the medicine that I require, and to-morrow I shall be ready to commence the treatment. But in the meantime your system must be prepared to permit the medicine to take effect, and in this I can do nothing without your co-operation." "Speak!" said Lodivarman. "Whatever you suggest I shall do." "Have every mushroom in Lodidhapura destroyed," said King. "Have your slave burn those that have been prepared, and determine never to taste another." Lodivarman scowled angrily. "What have mushrooms to do with the cure?" he demanded. "They afford me the only pleasure that I have in life. This is naught but a trick to annoy and discomfort me." "As you will," said King with a shrug. "I can cure you, but only if you obey my instructions. My medicines will have no effect if you continue to eat mushrooms. But it is up to you, Lodivarman. Do as you choose." For a time the ruler sat tapping nervously upon the arm of his throne, and then suddenly and almost savagely he turned upon the kneeling slave at his side. "Throw out the accursed things," he cried. "Throw them out! Destroy them! Burn them! And never let me set my eyes upon you again." Trembling, the slave departed, carrying the platter of mushrooms with him, and then Lodivarman directed his attention upon one of the officers of his household. "Destroy the royal mushroom bed," he cried, "and see to it that you do it thoroughly," and then to another, "Summon Vay Thon." As the officers left the room Lodivarman turned to King again. "How long will it be before I am cured?" he asked. "I cannot tell that until I see how you react to my medicine," replied the American; "but I believe that you will see almost immediate improvement. It may be very slow, and on the other hand, it may come very rapidly." While they waited for Vay Thon, Lodivarman plied King with question after question; and now that he was convinced that men had been cured of leprosy and that he himself might be cured, a great change seemed to come over him. It was as though a new man had been born; his whole aspect appeared to change, as the hideous burden of fear and hopelessness that he had carried for so many years was dissipated by the authoritative manner and confident pronouncement of the American. And when Vay Thon entered the audience chamber, he saw a smile upon Lodivarman's face for the first time in so many years that he had almost forgotten that the man could smile. Quickly Lodivarman explained the situation to Vay Thon and gave him his instructions relative to the American, for he wished the latter to hasten the preparation of his medicine. "To-morrow," he cried, as the two men were backing from the apartment, "to-morrow my cure shall commence." And Gordon King did not tell him that his cure already had started, that it had started the instant that he had given orders for the destruction of the royal mushroom bed, for he did not wish Lodivarman to know what he knew—that the man was not a leper and never had been, that what in his ignorance he had thought was leprosy was nothing more than an aggravated form of dermatitis, resulting from food poisoning. At least King prayed that his diagnosis was correct. # XV: WAR From the quarters of Vay Thon slaves were despatched into the jungle for many strange herbs and roots, and from these King compounded three prescriptions, but the basis of each was a mild laxative. The purpose of the other ingredients was chiefly to add impressiveness and mystery to the compounds, for however much King might deplore this charlatanism he was keenly aware that he must not permit the cure to appear too simple. He was dealing with a primitive mind, and he was waging a battle of wits for his life—conditions which seemed to warrant the adoption of means that are not altogether frowned upon by the most ethical of modern practitioners. Three times a day he went in person to a small audience chamber off the bedroom of Lodivarman, and there, in the presence of Vay Thon and officers of the royal household, he tasted the medicine himself before administering it to Lodivarman. Upon the third day it became apparent that the sores upon the body of the King were drying up. Exsiccation was so manifest that Lodivarman was jubilant. He laughed and joked with those about him and renewed his assurances to the American that no reward within the power of his giving would be denied him when Lodivarman was again a whole man. Each day thereafter the improvement was marked and rapid, until, at the end of three weeks, no trace remained of the hideous sores that had so horribly disfigured the monarch for so many years. Gradually King had been diminishing the dosages that he had been administering and had tapered off the treatment from three to two a day and finally to one. Upon the twenty-first day King ordered Lodivarman to his bedroom; and there, in the presence of Vay Thon and three of the highest officers of the kingdom, he examined the King's entire body and found the skin clear, healthy, and without blemish. "Well?" demanded Lodivarman, when the examination had been completed. "Your Majesty is cured," said King. The King arose from his bed and threw a robe about him. "Life and liberty are yours, Gordon King," he said. "A palace, slaves, riches are at your disposal. You have proven yourself a great warrior and a great physician. If you will remain here you shall be an officer in the royal guard and the private physician of Lodivarman, the King." "There is but one reason why I care to remain in the land of the Khmers," replied King, "and that reason you must know, Lodivarman, before I can accept the honours that you would bestow upon me." "And what is that?" demanded Lodivarman. "To be as near as possible to the Princess Fou-tan of Pnom Dhek in the hope that some day I may claim her hand in marriage as already I have won her love." "Already have I forgiven you for that act of yours which deprived me of the girl," said Lodivarman, without an instant's hesitation. "If you can win her, I shall place no obstacles in your path, but on the contrary I shall assist you in every way within my power. Let no man say that the gratitude of Lodivarman is tinged with selfishness or with revenge." Lodivarman did even more than he had promised, for he created Gordon King a prince of Khmer, and so it was that the American found himself elevated from the position of the condemned criminal to that of the titled master of a palace—a lord over many slaves and the commander of five hundred Khmer warriors. Great was the rejoicing in Lodidhapura when the King's cure became known; and for a week the city was given over to dancing, to pageants, and to celebration. In the howdah of the royal elephant at Lodivarman's side, King rode along the avenues of Lodidhapura in the van of a procession of a thousand elephants trapped in gorgeous silks and gold and jewels. And then upon the last day, when the rejoicing was at its height, all was changed in the brief span of an instant. A sweat-streaked, exhausted messenger staggered to the gates of Lodidhapura; and ere he swooned from fatigue he gasped out his brief message to the captain of the gates. "Beng Kher comes with a great army to avenge the insult to his Princess," and then he fell unconscious at the feet of the officer. Quickly was the word carried to Lodivarman and quickly did it spread through the city of Lodidhapura. The gay trappings of a fête vanished like magic to be replaced by the grim trappings of war. Well worn and darkened with age were the housings and harnesses of the elephants as a thousand strong they filed from the north gates of Lodidhapura, bearing upon their backs the sturdy archers and spearmen of Lodivarman; and with them rode Gordon King, the prince, at the head of his new command. Alone upon a swift elephant he rode with only the mahout seated before him on the head of the great beast. Little or nothing did the American know of the tactics of Khmer warfare, except that which he had derived from fellow warriors while he served among them and from other officers since his appointment. He had learned that the battles consisted principally of individual combat between elephant crews and that the duties of an officer did little more than constitute him a focal point upon which his men might rally for the pursuit if the enemy broke and retreated. With long, rolling strides the elephants of war swung along the avenue into the jungle. Here and there were bits of colour or a glint of sunlight on a shining buckle, but for the most part the beasts were caparisoned with stern simplicity for the business of war. From the howdahs the burnished cuirasses of the warriors gave back the sunlight, and from the shaft of many a spear floated a coloured ribbon. The men themselves were grim and silent, or moved to coarse jokes and oaths as suited the individuality of each; and the music was from rough-throated trumpets and booming drums. Toward a great clearing the army made its way and there awaited the coming of Beng Kher, for wars between Lodidhapura and Pnom Dhek were governed by age-old custom. Here for a thousand years their armies had met whenever Pnom Dhek attacked Lodidhapura. Here the first engagement must take place; and if the soldiers of Beng Kher could not pass the forces of Lodivarman, they must turn back in defeat. It was a game of war governed by strict rules up to the point where one side broke and fled. If the troops of Lodivarman broke here they would be pursued to the gates of Lodidhapura; and there, within the walls of the city, they would make their final stand. But if Beng Kher's troops broke first, Lodivarman could take credit for a victory and might pursue them or not as he chose. To elude one another by strategy, to attempt to gain the rear of an enemy were not to be countenanced, largely so, perhaps, from the fact that flanking and enveloping movements were impossible with elephant troops in a dense forest, where the only avenues of advance or retreat were the well-marked trails that were known to all. The clearing, along the south side of which the troops of Lodivarman were drawn up, was some two miles in length by a half or three-quarters of a mile in width. The ground was slightly rolling and almost entirely denuded of vegetation, since it was in almost constant use for the training and drilling of elephant troops. As the last of the great pachyderms wheeled into place, the drums and the trumpets were silent; and from out of the north, to the listening ears of the warriors, came faintly the booming of Pnom Dhek's war drums. The enemy was approaching. The men looked to arrows and bowstrings. The mahouts spoke soothingly and encouragingly to their mighty charges. The officers rode slowly up and down the line in front of their men, exhorting them to deeds of courage. As the sound of the enemy drums and trumpets drew nearer, the elephants became noticeably nervous. They swayed from side to side, raising and lowering their trunks and flapping their great ears. In each howdah were many extra spears and great quantities of arrows. King, alone, had twenty spears in his howdah and fully a hundred arrows. When he had first seen them loaded upon his elephant it had not seemed possible that he was to use them against other men, and he had found himself rather shrinking from contemplation of the thought; but now with the sound of the war drums in his ears and the smell of leather and the stink of the war elephants in his nostrils and with that long line of grim faces and burnished cuirasses at his back, he felt a sudden mad blood lust that thrilled him to the depths of his being. No longer was he the learned and cultured gentleman of the twentieth century, but as much a Khmer warrior as ever drew a bow for ancient Yacovarman, The King of Glory. The enemy is coming. The blare of his trumpets resounds across the field of battle, and now the head of the enemy column emerges on to the field. The trumpets of Lodidhapura blare and her drums boom. An elephant lifts his trunk and trumpets shrilly. It is with difficulty now that the mahouts hold their charges in line. The enemy line is finally formed upon the opposite side of the great field. For a moment drums and trumpets are stilled, and then a hoarse fanfare rolls across the clearing from the trumpeters of Beng Kher. "We are ready," it seems to say, and instantly it is answered from Lodivarman's side. Simultaneously now the two lines advance upon one another; and for a moment there is a semblance of order and discipline, but presently here and there an elephant forges ahead of his fellows. They break into a trot. King is almost run down by his own men. "Forward!" he shouts to his mahout. Pandemonium has broken loose. Trumpets and drums merge with the battle cries of ten thousand warriors. The elephants, goaded to anger, scream and trumpet in their rage. As the two lines converge, the bowmen loose a shower of arrows from either side; and now the curses and cries of wounded men and the shrill screaming of hurt elephants mingle with the trumpets and the bugles and the war cries in the mad diapason of war. King found himself carried forward on the crest of battle straight toward a lone officer of the enemy forces. He was riding the swaying howdah now like a sailor on the deck of a storm-tossed ship. The antagonist approaching him was balancing his javelin, waiting until they should come within surer range; but King did not wait. He was master of his weapon, and he had no doubts. Behind him were his men. He did not know that they were watching him; but they were, for he was a new officer and this his first engagement. His standing with them would be determined now for ever. All of them had heard of his prowess and many of them had doubted the truth of the stories they had heard. They saw his spear-arm come back, they saw the heavy weapon flying through the air and a hoarse cheer broke from their throats as the point crashed through the burnished cuirass of the enemy. An instant later the two lines came together with such terrific force that a score of elephants were overthrown. King was almost pitched from his howdah; and an instant later he was fighting hand to hand, surrounded by the warriors of Beng Kher. The battle now resolved itself into a slow milling of elephants as the mahouts sought to gain advantageous positions for the crews in their howdahs. Here and there a young elephant, or one sorely wounded and driven mad by pain, broke from the mêlée and bolted for the jungle. Warriors leaped from their howdahs, risking injury rather than the almost certain death that would await them as the frightened beasts stampeded through the forest. Only the mahouts clung to their posts, facing death rather than the disgrace of abandoning their charges. The hot sun blazed down upon the stinking, sweating mass of war. The feet of the milling elephants raised clouds of dust through which it was sometimes difficult to see more than a few yards. In the moment that King was surrounded an arrow grazed his arm, while a dozen glanced from his helmet and his cuirass. His impressions were confused. He saw savage, distorted faces before him, at which he lunged with a long javelin. He was choked with dust and blinded by sweat. He heard the savage trumpeting of his own elephant and the shouts and curses of his mahout. It seemed impossible that he could extricate himself from such a position, or that he could long survive the vicious attack that was being directed upon him by the men of the officer he had slain; and then some of his own elephants came charging in, and a moment later he was surrounded by the warriors of his own command. Ever forward they pushed. What was happening elsewhere in the line they did not know, for obscuring dust hid all but those close to them. The line before them gave; and then it held and pushed them back again, and so the battle surged to and fro and back and forth. But always it seemed to King that his side gained a little more at each advance than it lost. Presently the enemy line gave way entirely. King saw the elephants of Pnom Dhek turn in the murky dust and race toward the north. Just what the rest of the line was doing he did not know; and for the moment none of his own men was visible, so thick and heavy hung the pall of dust upon the field of battle. Perhaps King forgot what little of the rules of Khmer warfare he had ever learned. Perhaps he thought only of following up an advantage already gained; but be that as it may, he shouted to his men to follow and ordered his mahout to pursue the fleeing warriors to Pnom Dhek. Amid the din of battle his men did not hear him, and so it was that, alone, Gordon King pursued that part of the enemy line that had broken directly in front of him. Presently, as they drew away from the centre of the field and the dust clouds became less impenetrable, King saw the grey bulk of an elephant moving just ahead of him; and then as the visibility increased he saw still other enemy elephants farther in advance. Now he could see that there were two men in the howdah of the elephant just in front of him; but as he raised his javelin to cast it, he suddenly recognised the man at whom his weapon was to be directed—it was Beng Kher, King of Pnom Dhek and father of Fou-tan. King lowered his spear-arm; he could not slay the father of the girl he loved. But who was his companion? Through the lessening dust King sensed a vague familiarity in that figure. It occurred to him that he might take Beng Kher prisoner and thus force him to sanction his marriage with Fou-tan. Other mad schemes passed through his head as the two swift elephants raced across the clearing. Neither Beng Kher nor his companion appeared to be paying any attention to the warrior pursuing them, which convinced King that they believed him to be one of their own men. King saw Beng Kher's companion lean forward over the front of the howdah as though issuing instructions to the mahout; and almost immediately their course was changed to the right, while ahead of them King saw the other elephants that had accompanied Beng Kher disappearing into the forest to the north. The air about them was comparatively free from dust now, so that King could see all that transpired about him. He glanced behind; and from the clouds of dust arising from the centre of the field he knew that the battle was still raging, but he kept on in pursuit of the King of Pnom Dhek. To his dismay he saw that the royal elephant was drawing away from him, being swifter than his own. He saw something else, too—he saw Beng Kher remonstrating with his companion, and then for the first time he recognised the other man in the howdah as Bharata Rahon. King was exhorting his mahout to urge the elephant to greater speed; and when he glanced up again at the two men in the howdah ahead of him, he saw Bharata Rahon suddenly raise a knife and plunge it into the neck of Beng Kher. The King staggered backward; and before he could regain his equilibrium Bharata Rahon leaped forward and gave him a tremendous shove, and King saw Beng Kher, the ruler of Pnom Dhek, topple backward out of the howdah and plunge to the ground below. Horrified by the ruthless crime he had witnessed and moved by the thought of Fou-tan's love for her father, King ordered his mahout to bring their elephant to a stop; and then sliding quickly from the howdah, he ran to where Beng Kher lay. The King was half stunned and blood was gushing from the wound in his neck. As best he could and as quickly, King stanched the flow; but what was he to do? Beng Kher was indeed his prisoner, but what would it profit him now? He signalled his mahout to bring the elephant closer and make it lie down, and then the two men lifted the wounded Beng Kher into the howdah. "What do you want with a wounded enemy?" demanded the mahout, and it was evident to King that the fellow had not recognised Beng Kher as King of Pnom Dhek. "Why do you not kill him?" continued the man. "You were detailed to drive my elephant and not to question my acts," snapped King shortly, and whatever thoughts concerning the matter the mahout had thereafter he kept to himself. "Whither, my lord?" he asked presently. That was the very question that was bothering King—whither! Were he to take Beng Kher back to Lodidhapura, he did not know but that Lodivarman might destroy him. If he tried to take him back to Pnom Dhek, Beng Kher might die before they reached the city, or if he lived, doubtless he would see that King died shortly thereafter. The American had no love for Beng Kher, but if he could protect Fou-tan from grief by saving the life of her father, he would do so if he could but find the means; and presently a possible solution of his problem occurred to him. He turned to his mahout. "I wish to go to the jungle south of Lodidhapura, avoiding the city and all men upon the way. Do you understand?" "Yes, my lord," replied the man. "Then make haste. I must reach a certain spot before dark. When we have passed Lodidhapura I will give you further directions." Little Uda was playing before the dwelling of Che and Kangrey when he heard a sound that was familiar to him—the approach of an elephant along the jungle trail that passed not far from where he played. Now and then elephants passed that way and sometimes little Uda saw them, but more often he did not. Uda and Che and Kangrey had no fear of these passing elephants, for the massive stone ruin in which they lived was off the beaten trail among a jumble of fallen ruins that was little likely to tempt the feet of the great pachyderms; so little Uda played on, giving scant heed to the approaching footsteps, but presently his keen ears noted what his eyes could not see; and leaping to his feet, he ran quickly into the dwelling, where Kangrey was preparing food for the evening meal before the return of Che. "Mamma," cried Uda, "an elephant is coming. He has left the trail and is coming here." Kangrey stepped to the doorway. To her astonishment she saw an elephant coming straight toward her dwelling. She only saw his feet and legs at first; and then, as he emerged from behind a tree that had hidden the upper part of his body, the woman gave a cry of alarm, for she saw that the elephant was driven by a mahout and that there was a warrior in the howdah upon its back. Grasping Uda by the hand, she sprang from her dwelling, bent upon escaping from the feared power of Lodivarman; but a familiar voice halted her, calling her by name. "Do not be afraid, Kangrey," came the reassuring voice. "It is I, Gordon King." The woman stopped and turned back, a smile of welcome upon her face. "Thanks be to the gods that it is you, Gordon King, and not another," she exclaimed. "But what brings you thus upon a great elephant and in the livery of Lodivarman to the poor dwelling of Kangrey?" The mahout had brought the elephant to a stop now before Kangrey's doorway, and at his command the great beast lowered its huge body to the ground. "I have brought a wounded warrior to you, Kangrey," said King, "to be nursed back to life and health as once you nursed me," and with the help of the mahout he lifted Beng Kher from the howdah. "For you, Gordon King, Kangrey would nurse Lodivarman himself," said the woman. They carried Beng Kher into the dwelling and laid him upon a pallet of dry grasses and leaves covered with the pelts of wild animals. Together King and Kangrey removed the golden cuirass from the fallen monarch. Taking off the rough bandages with which the American had stanched the flow of blood and covered the wounds, the woman bathed the gashes with water brought by Uda. Her deft fingers worked lightly and quickly; and while she prepared new bandages she sent Uda into the jungle to fetch certain leaves, which she laid upon the wounds beneath the bandages. The mahout had returned to his elephant; and as Kangrey and King were kneeling upon opposite sides of the wounded man, Beng Kher opened his eyes. For a moment they roved without comprehension about the interior of the rude dwelling and from the face of the woman leaning above him to that of the man, upon whom he noted the harness of Lodivarman, and King saw that Beng Kher did not recognise him. "Where am I?" asked the wounded man. "What has happened? But I need not ask. I fell in battle and I am a prisoner in the hands of my enemy." "No," replied King, "you are in the hands of friends, Beng Kher. This woman will nurse you back to health; after that we shall decide what is to be done." "Who are you?" demanded Beng Kher, scrutinising the features of his captor. From beneath his cuirass and his leather tunic the American withdrew a tiny ring that was suspended about his neck on a golden chain, and when Beng Kher saw it he voiced an exclamation of surprise. "It is Fou-tan's," he said. "How came you by it, man?" "Do you not recognise me?" demanded the American. "By Siva, you are the strange warrior who dared aspire to the love of the Princess of Pnom Dhek. The gods have deserted me." "Why do you say that?" demanded King. "I think they have been damn good to you." "They have delivered me into the hands of one who may profit most by destroying me," replied Beng Kher. "On the contrary, they have been kind to you, for they have given you into the keeping of the man who loves your daughter. That love, Beng Kher, is your shield and your buckler. It has saved you from death, and it will see that you are brought back to health." For a while the King of Pnom Dhek lay silent, lost in meditation, but presently he spoke again. "How came I to this sorry pass?" he asked. "We were well out of the battle, Bharata Rahon and I—by Siva, I remember now!" he exclaimed suddenly. "I saw what happened, Beng Kher," said King. "I was pursuing you and was but a short distance behind when I saw Bharata Rahon suddenly stab you and then throw you from the howdah of your elephant." Beng Kher nodded. "I remember it all now," he said. "The traitorous scoundrel! Fou-tan warned me against him, but I would not believe her. There were others who warned me, but I was stubborn. He thought he had killed me, eh? but he has not. I shall recover and have my revenge, but it will be too late to save Fou-tan." "What do you mean?" demanded Gordon King. "I can see his plan now as plainly as though he had told me in his own words," said Beng Kher. "By now he is on his way to Pnom Dhek. He will tell them that I fell in battle. He will force Fou-tan to marry him, and thus he will become King of Pnom Dhek. Ah, if I had but one of my own people here I could thwart him yet." "I am here," said Gordon King, "and it means more to me to prevent Bharata Rahon from carrying out his design than it could to any other man." He rose to his feet. "Where are you going?" demanded Beng Kher. "I am going to Pnom Dhek," replied King, "and if I am not too late I shall save Fou-tan; and if I am, I shall make her a widow." "Wait," said Beng Kher. He slipped a massive ring from one of his fingers and held it out to the American. "Take this," he said. "In Pnom Dhek it will confer upon you the authority of Beng Kher, the King. Use it as you see fit to save Fou-tan and to bring Bharata Rahon to justice. Farewell, Gordon King, and may the gods protect you and give you strength." Gordon King ran from the dwelling and leaped into the howdah of his elephant. "Back to Lodidhapura," he commanded the mahout, "and by the shortest route as fast as the beast can travel." # XVI: IN THE PALACE OF BENG KHER Lodivarman, the King, was resting after the battle that had brought victory to his arms. Never had he been in a happier mood; never had the gods been so kind to him. Free from the clutches of the loathsome disease that had gripped him for so many years and now victorious over his ancient enemy, Lodivarman had good reason for rejoicing. Yet there was a shadow upon his happiness, for he had lost many brave soldiers and officers during the engagement, and not the least of these was the new prince, Gordon King, whom he looked upon not only as his saviour, but as his protector from disease in the future. At his orders many men had searched the battlefield for the body of his erstwhile enemy, whom he now considered his most cherished captain; but no trace of it had been found, nor of his elephant nor his mahout; and it was the consensus of opinion that the beast, frenzied by wounds and terrified by the din of conflict, had bolted into the forest and that both men had been killed as the elephant plunged beneath the branches of great trees. A hundred warriors still were searching through the jungle, but no word had come from them. There could be but slight hope that the new prince lived. While Lodivarman lay upon his royal couch, grieving perhaps more for himself than for Gordon King, a palace functionary was announced. "Admit him," said Lodivarman. The courtier entered the apartment and dropped to one knee. "What word bring you?" demanded the King. "The prince, Gordon King, seeks audience with Lodivarman," announced the official. "What?" demanded Lodivarman, raising himself to a sitting position upon the edge of his couch. "He lives? He has returned?" "He is alive and unhurt, Your Majesty," replied the man. "Fetch him at once," commanded Lodivarman, and a moment later Gordon King was ushered into his presence. "The gods have been kind indeed," said Lodivarman. "We thought that you had fallen in battle." "No," replied King. "I pursued the enemy too far into the jungle, but in doing so I discovered something that means more to me than my life, Lodivarman, and I have come to you to enlist your aid." "You have but to ask and it shall be granted," replied the King. "The prince, Bharata Rahon, of Pnom Dhek, assassinated Beng Kher and is now hastening back to Pnom Dhek to force the Princess, Fou-tan, to wed him; and I have hastened to you to ask for men and elephants wherewith I may pursue Bharata Rahon and save Fou-tan from his treachery." Perhaps this was a bitter pill for Lodivarman to swallow, for no man, not even a king, may easily forget humiliation—perhaps a king least of all—and he did not like to be reminded that Fou-tan had spurned him and that this man had taken her from him. But more powerful than his chagrin was his sincere gratitude to Gordon King, and so it is only fair to record that he did not hesitate an instant when he had heard the American's request. "You shall have everything that you require—warriors, elephants, everything. You have heard?" he demanded, turning to an official standing near him. The man nodded. "It is the King's command, then," continued Lodivarman, "that the prince be furnished at once with all he requires." "A hundred elephants and five hundred men will answer my purpose," said King, "the swiftest elephants and the bravest warriors." "You shall have them," said Lodivarman. "I thank Your Majesty," said King. "And now permit me to depart, for if I am to be successful there is no time to lose." "Go," said Lodivarman, "and may the gods accompany you." Within the hour a hundred elephants and five hundred warriors swung through the north gate of Lodidhapura along the broad avenue beyond and into the jungle. Far to the north, hastening through the forest to Pnom Dhek, moved Beng Kher's defeated army; and in the van was the Prince, Bharata Rahon, gloating in anticipation over the fruits of his villainy. Already was he demanding and receiving the rights and prerogatives of royalty, for he had spread the word that Beng Kher had been killed in battle and that he was hastening to Pnom Dhek to wed the Princess Fou-tan. Early in the forenoon of the second day following the battle, Fou-tan, from her palace window, saw the column of returning elephants and warriors emerge from the forest. That the trumpets and the drums were mute told her that defeat had fallen upon the forces of the King, her father, and there were tears in her eyes as she turned away from the window and threw herself upon her couch. Perhaps an hour later one of her little ladies-in-waiting came to her. "The Prince, Bharata Rahon, awaits you in the audience chamber, my Princess," she said. "Has not my father, the King, sent for me?" demanded Fou-tan. "The Prince brings word from your father," replied the girl, and there was that in her tone more than in her words that sent a qualm of apprehension through the heart of the little Princess. She arose quickly. "Send word to Bharata Rahon, the Prince, that the Princess comes," she said. Quickly her slaves attended to her toilet, removing the traces that the tears had left and replacing the loosened strands of her hair. In the corridor outside of her apartment awaited the functionaries that would accompany her to the audience chamber and Indra Sen in command of a detachment of the warriors of her guard, for the little Princess Fou-tan moved only with pomp and ceremony. Through her own private entrance she came into the audience chamber, where she saw congregated the high officers of Pnom Dhek, the priests of the temple, and the captains in their burnished cuirasses and helmets; and as she came they knelt until she had reached the foot of the empty throne, where Bharata Rahon stood to receive her. "Where is the King, my father?" she asked in a frightened voice. "Beloved Princess," replied Bharata Rahon, "I bring you sad news." "The King is dead!" cried Fou-tan. Bharata Rahon inclined his head in assent. "He fell in battle bravely," he said, "but before he died he entrusted to me his last command to you." "Speak," said the girl. "It is believed that Lodivarman will follow up his victory and attack Pnom Dhek, and in addition to this we are threatened by enemies within our own walls—conditions which require a king upon the throne; and so it was your father's dying command that you wed at once, that Pnom Dhek may be ruled and guided by a man through the dangers which confront her." "And the man that I am to marry is you, of course," said Fou-tan coldly. "Who other could it be, my Princess?" asked Bharata Rahon. "This is a matter which I do not care to discuss in public audience," said Fou-tan. "After a suitable period of mourning for my father, the King, we may perhaps speak of the matter again." Bharata Rahon quelled the anger that arose in his heart and spoke in soft tones. "I can well appreciate the feelings of Your Majesty at this time," he said, "but the matter is urgent. Please dismiss everyone and listen to me in patience for a moment." "Send them away then," said Fou-tan wearily, and when the audience chamber had been cleared, she nodded to Bharata Rahon. "Speak," she said, "but please be brief." "Fou-tan," said the Prince, "I would that you would wed me willingly, but the time now has passed for all childishness. We must be wed to-night. It is imperative. I can be King without you, for I have the men and the power. But there are others who would rally around you, and Pnom Dhek would be so weakened by civil war that it would fall an easy prey to Lodivarman. To-night in this hall the high priest shall wed us, if it is necessary to drag you here by force." "It will be by force then," said Fou-tan, and, rising, she called to her guard that stood waiting just beyond the doorway. "By force then," snapped Bharata Rahon, "and you will see now how easily it may be done." As he spoke he pointed to the guardsmen entering the audience chamber to escort Fou-tan to her quarters. "These are not my men," she cried. "Where is Indra Sen? Where are the warriors of my guard?" "They have been dismissed, Fou-tan," replied Bharata Rahon. "The future King of Pnom Dhek will guard his Queen with his own men." The Princess Fou-tan made no reply as, surrounded by the soldiers of Bharata Rahon, she left the audience chamber and returned to her own apartment, where a new surprise and indignity awaited her. Her slaves and even her ladies-in-waiting had been replaced by women from the palace of Bharata Rahon. Her case seemed hopeless. Even the high priest, to whom in her extremity she might have turned for succour, would be deaf to her appeal, for he was bound by ties of blood to the house of Bharata Rahon and would be the willing and eager tool of his kinsman. "There is only one," she murmured to herself, "and he is far away. Perhaps, even, he is dead. Would that I, too, were dead." And then she recalled what Bharata Rahon had said of the great danger that menaced Pnom Dhek, and her breast was torn by conflicting fears, which were lighted by no faintest ray of hope or happiness. All during the long hours that followed, Fou-tan sought for some plan of escape from her predicament; but at every turn she was thwarted, for when she sought to send a message to Indra Sen, summoning him to her, and to other officials of the palace and the state whom she knew to be friendly to her, she found that she was virtually a prisoner and that no message could be delivered by her except through Bharata Rahon, nor could she leave her apartment without his permission. She might have melted into tears in her grief and anger, but the Princess of Pnom Dhek was made of sterner stuff. Through the long hours she sat in silence while slaves prepared her for the nuptial ceremony; and when at last the hour arrived, it was no little weeping queen that was escorted through the corridors of the palace toward the great audience chamber where the ceremony was to be performed, but a resentful, angry little queen with steel in her heart and another bit of shining, sharpened steel hidden in the folds of her wedding-gown; and on her lips was a whispered plea to Siva, the Destroyer, to give her strength to plunge the slim blade into the heart of Bharata Rahon or into her own before morning dawned again. Through the dark forest from the south moved a hundred elephants, their howdahs filled with grim, half-savage warriors. At their head rode Gordon King chafing at the slow pace which the darkness and the dangers of the jungle imposed upon them. Riding the howdah with King was an officer who knew well the country around Pnom Dhek and he it was who directed the mahout through the night. Presently he caused the elephant to be halted. "We are nearing Pnom Dhek now," he said, "and are very close to the point upon the trail which you described to me." "Bring the torch then and come with me," said King, and together the two men descended to the ground where the officer lighted the flare and handed it to King. Moving slowly along the trail, the American carefully examined the trees at his left, and within a hundred yards of the point at which they had left the column he halted. "Here it is," he said. "Go and fetch the warriors, dismounted. Direct the mahouts to hold the elephants here until we return or until they receive further orders from me. Make haste. I shall await you here." In the great assembly hall of the palace of Beng Kher were gathered the nobles of Pnom Dhek. The captains and the priests were there in glittering armour and gorgeous vestments, their women resplendent in silks and scintillating gems. Upon a raised dais the Prince Bharata Rahon and the Princess Fou-tan were seated upon thrones. The high priest of Siva stood between them, while massed in a half-circle behind them stood the nobles of the house of Bharata Rahon and the glittering warriors, who were their retainers. Among these was none of Fou-tan's allies. Neither Indra Sen nor any other officer or man of her personal guard was in the audience chamber, nor had she seen or heard aught of these since she had been conducted to the audience chamber in the morning. She wondered what fate had befallen them, and her heart was filled with fear for their safety, realising as well she might the extremes to which Bharata Rahon might go in his ruthless greed for power. Before the dais the apsarases were dancing to drum and xylophone, cymbal and flute. The little dancers, nude above the waist, stepped and postured through the long ritual of the sacred dance; but Fou-tan, though her eyes stared down upon them, did not see them. All that she saw was the figure of a warrior in battered brass—a warrior with bronzed skin and clear eyes, who had held her in his arms and spoken words of love into her ear. Where was he? He had told Indra Sen that he would never leave the jungle, that always he would be near; and Indra Sen had repeated his words to Fou-tan—words that she had cherished in her heart above all the jewels of memory. How close he seemed to-night! Never since he had departed had Fou-tan so felt his presence hovering near, nor ever had she so needed him. With a quick, short sigh that was half a gasp she shook herself into a realisation of the futility of her dreams. Now she saw the apsarases. Their dance was drawing to a close. When it was over the high priest and his acolytes would initiate the ceremony that would make Fou-tan the wife of Bharata Rahon and give Pnom Dhek a new king. As the girl shuddered at the thought and her fingers closed upon the hilt of the dagger beneath her gorgeous robe, a man stumbled through the darkness of the night toward the outer walls of Pnom Dhek; and behind him, silent as spectres from another world, came five hundred brass-bound men-at-arms. No light guided them now, for they were approaching the guarded walls of the city; but so indelibly fixed in the memory of Gordon King was this way which he had traversed but once before that he needed no light. Into the mouth of a shallow ravine he led his warriors; and toward its head, where the wall of Pnom Dhek crossed it, he found a little doorway, well hidden by shrubbery and vines. So well hidden was this secret passage, planned by some long-dead king, that no bar secured the door that closed its entrance—a precaution made necessary, doubtless to satisfy the requirements of a king who might find it necessary to enter as well as to leave his city in haste and secrecy. But whatever the reason it was a godsend this night to Gordon King as he led his spearmen and his archers beneath the city of Pnom Dhek toward the palace of Beng Kher. Once safely within the corridor, they lighted their torches; and in the flickering, smoky flame the column moved noiselessly toward its destination. They had gone a considerable distance passing the openings to other corridors and to dark chambers that flanked their line of march, when Gordon King was confronted by the disheartening realisation that he had lost his way. He knew that when Indra Sen and Hamar had led him from the palace they had not passed through any corridor resembling that in which he now found himself. For the moment his heart sank, and his high hopes waned. To be lost in this labyrinthine maze beneath the palace and the city was not only discouraging but might well prove fatal to his plan and, perhaps, to the safety and the lives of his command. He felt that he must keep the truth from his followers as long as possible, lest the effect upon their morale might prove disastrous; and so he moved boldly on, trusting that chance would guide him to a stairway leading to the level of the ground above. His mind was harassed by unhappy apprehensions concerning Fou-tan. He was obsessed by the conviction that she was in dire and imminent peril, and the thought left him frantic because of his helplessness. Such was his state of mind when, as he was passing along a corridor flanked on either side by dark and gloomy doorways, he saw that the passageway he was following ended at a transverse corridor. Which way should he turn? He knew that he could not hesitate, and at that moment he heard a voice calling his name from the interior of a dark cell beyond one of the gloomy doorways. King halted as did the men near him, startled and apprehensive, their weapons ready. King stepped toward the doorway from which the voice had come. "Who speaks?" he demanded. "It is I—Indra Sen," replied the voice, and with a sigh of relief that was almost a gasp King stepped quickly to the low doorway. The light of his torch illuminated a narrow cell, upon the floor of which squatted Indra Sen, chained to the wall. "May the gods be thanked that you have come, Gordon King," cried the young Khmer officer; "and may they grant that you are not too late to prevent a tragedy." "What do you mean?" demanded King. "Fou-tan is to be forced to wed Bharata Rahon to-night," replied Indra Sen. "Perhaps the ceremony already has been performed. All those whose duty it is to defend Fou-tan have been chained in the dungeon here." "Where is the ceremony to be performed?" demanded King. "In the great audience chamber," replied Indra Sen. "Can you lead me there by the shortest route?" "Take off my fetters and those of my men and I will not only lead you, but we will strike with you in the service of our Princess." "Good!" exclaimed Gordon King. "Where are your men?" "Along both sides of this corridor." To release them all was the work of but a few moments, for willing hands and strong struck off the fetters; and then, directed by Indra Sen, the party moved quickly on to its work. The warriors of Fou-tan's guard had no weapons other than their bare hands and the hatred that was in their hearts, but once within the audience chamber they knew that they would find weapons upon the bodies of their antagonists. The high priest of Siva stepped forward and, turning, faced Bharata Rahon and Fou-tan. "Arise," he said, "and kneel." Bharata Rahon stepped from his throne half-turning to await Fou-tan, but the girl sat rigid on her carved chair. "Come," whispered Bharata Rahon. "I cannot," said Fou-tan, addressing the high priest. "You must, my Princess," urged the priest. "I loathe him. I cannot mate with him." Bharata Rahon stepped quickly toward her. His lips were smiling for the benefit of those who watched from below the dais; but in his heart was rage, and cruel was the grip that he laid upon the gentle wrist of Fou-tan. "Come," he hissed, "or by the gods you shall be slain, and I shall rule alone." "Then slay me," said Fou-tan. But he dragged her to her feet; and those below saw his smiling face and thought that he was merely assisting the little Princess, who had been momentarily overcome by the excitement of the occasion. And then a great hanging parted at the rear of the dais behind the throne, and a warrior stepped out behind the semi-circle of those that half-surrounded Bharata Rahon and his unwilling bride. Perhaps some in the audience saw the tall warrior; perhaps at the instant they were moved to surprise, but before they could give an alarm, or before they could realise that an alarm was necessary, he had shouldered his way roughly through the cordon of warriors standing between him and the three principals at the front of the dais, and behind him the doorway through which he had come spewed a torrent of hostile warriors. Cries of alarm arose simultaneously from the audience and from the warriors of Bharata Rahon who stood upon the dais, and above all in sudden fury burst the war-cry of Lodidhapura. Simultaneously Bharata Rahon and Fou-tan wheeled about and instantly recognised Gordon King, but with what opposite emotions! With a curse Bharata Rahon drew his sword. A dozen spearmen leaped toward the rash intruder only to be hurled back by the warriors of Lodidhapura and the unarmed soldiers of Fou-tan's guard, led by Indra Sen. "Dog of a slave!" cried Bharata Rahon, as the two men stood face to face, and at the same time he swung a heavy blow at King's helmet—a blow that King parried and returned so swiftly that the Khmer prince had no defence ready. It was a fearful blow that Gordon King struck, for love of a princess and to avenge a king. Down through the golden helmet of the false prince his blade clove into the brain of Bharata Rahon; and as the body lunged forward upon the dais, King swung around to face whatever other antagonist might menace him. But he found himself entirely surrounded by his own warriors, and a quick glance about the audience chamber showed him that his orders had been followed to the letter. So quickly had they moved that at every entrance now stood a company of his brass-bound soldiers. There had been little resistance, for so sudden had been the attack and so overwhelming the surprise of the men of Pnom Dhek that those in the audience chamber had been completely surrounded by a superior force before many of them had realised what was happening. Indra Sen and his warriors had succeeded in wresting weapons from the men of Bharata Rahon, and with them King now dominated the situation, at least in the audience chamber; though in the city without were thousands of warriors who might easily overcome them. But this King had foreseen and had no intention of permitting. Turning toward the surprised men and women in the audience chamber, he raised his hand. "Silence!" he cried. "Let no man raise a weapon against us, and none shall be harmed. I came here not to attack Pnom Dhek but to avenge her King. Beng Kher did not fall in battle; he was stabbed by Bharata Rahon. He is not dead. Beng Kher is still King of Pnom Dhek." A cheer arose from Indra Sen and his warriors, in which joined many in the audience chamber, for with Bharata Rahon dead they no longer feared him and quickly returned their allegiance to their King. Fou-tan came close to the tall warrior standing there beside the body of Bharata Rahon and facing the officers and the dignitaries of the court of Beng Kher. She touched him gently. "My Gordon King!" she whispered. "I knew that you were near. I knew that you would come. But tell me again that my father is not dead and that he is safe." "He is wounded, Fou-tan; but I have left him with honest people who will nurse him, the same who nursed me when I was lost and ill in the jungle. He sent me here to save you from Bharata Rahon, though I would have come without the sending. Here is the priest, Fou-tan, and you are in your wedding-gown. Is it in your heart to deny me again?" "What would my father say?" she murmured, hesitatingly, and then suddenly she raised her head proudly. "He is not here, and I am Queen!" she exclaimed. "I care not what any man may say. If you will have me, Gordon King, I am yours!" King turned toward the audience. "The scene is set for a wedding," he said in clear tones. "The priest is here; the bride is ready. Let the ceremony proceed." "But the groom is dead!" cried one of Bharata Rahon's lieutenants. "I am the groom," said King. "Never!" cried another voice. "You are naught but a Lodidhapurian slave." "He is neither slave nor Lodidhapurian," said Fou-tan. "He is the man of my choice, and to-night I am Queen." "Never! Never!" shouted many voices. "Listen!" exclaimed the American. "It is not within your power to dictate, for to-night the Princess Fou-tan is Queen; and I am your conqueror." "You are already surrounded by the soldiers of Beng Kher," said the partisan of Bharata Rahon who had before spoken. "Several escaped the audience chamber when your men entered, and already they have taken word to the warriors in the barracks. Presently they will come and you and your warriors will be destroyed." "Perhaps," assented King; "but with us, then, shall die every man in this room, for I hold you as hostages to ensure our safety. If you are wise you will send a messenger at once to order your warriors to return to their barracks." And then to his own warriors he cried: "If a single warrior of Pnom Dhek enters this apartment without my authority, you will fall upon those here and slay them to a man, sparing only the women. And if my word is not sufficient I bring you the authority of your own King," and with that he displayed the King's ring, where all might see it. Beaten at every turn, the followers of Bharata Rahon were forced to accept the inevitable, while those who had hated him were secretly delighted now that they were assured that both the Princess and the King had vouched for this strange warrior. Then in the great audience chamber of the Khmer King, Beng Kher, Fou-tan the Princess, dancing girl of the Leper King, was joined to the man she loved. # XVII: CONCLUSION That night, for the first time in a thousand years perhaps, the soldiers of Lodidhapura and the soldiers of Pnom Dhek sat at the same board and laughed and joked and swore strange oaths and feasted and drank together; and the soldiers of Lodidhapura bragged of the prowess of their Prince, who single-handed and armed only with javelin had slain My Lord the Tiger; and the soldiers of Pnom Dhek boasted of the beauty of their Princess until presently those who were not sleeping beneath the table were weeping upon one another's brass cuirasses, so that when morning broke it was with aching heads that the soldiers of Lodidhapura climbed into the howdahs upon their great elephants and started back upon their homeward journey. At the same time a strong force from Pnom Dhek, including many high officials of the court, together with the Princess Fou-tan and Gordon King, mounted upon swift elephants, set out through the jungle toward the dwelling of Che and Kangrey. Upon the afternoon of the second day they reached their destination. Che and Kangrey and little Uda were overcome by the magnificence of the spectacle that burst suddenly upon their simple and astonished gaze; nor were they entirely free from apprehension until they had made sure that Gordon King was there to protect them. "How is the patient, Kangrey?" asked King. The woman shook her head. "He does not mend," she said. Together Fou-tan and Gordon King, accompanied by the high priest of Siva from Pnom Dhek and several of the highest officers of the court, entered the simple dwelling. Beng Kher lay stretched upon his mean cot of straw and hides. His eyes lighted as they rested upon Fou-tan, who ran forward and kneeled beside him. The old warrior took her in his arms and pressed her to him, and though he was very weak he insisted that she tell him all that had transpired since King had left him to return to Pnom Dhek. When she had finished, he sighed and stroked her hair; and when he motioned to Gordon King, and the man came and knelt at Fou-tan's side, Beng Kher took their hands in his. "Siva has been kind to me in my last hour," he said. "He has saved Pnom Dhek and Fou-tan from the traitor, and he has given me a new son to rule when I am dead. All praise be to Siva." The King, Beng Kher, closed his eyes. A tremor passed through his frame, which seemed suddenly to shrink and lie very still. Gordon King lifted the weeping Fou-tan to her feet. The highest officer of the Khmer court came and knelt before them. He took the hand of Gordon King in his and pressed it to his lip. "I salute the son of Beng Kher," he said, "the new King of Pnom Dhek." THE END
219	--- author: Nelson S. Bond tags: 'Chicago, IL: Ziff-Davis Publishing Company, 1940., Science fiction, Short stories, Man-woman relationships, Fiction, Space ships, Radio, Football, Betting' title: The madness of Lancelot Biggs summary: " \"The Madness of Lancelot Biggs\" by Nelson S. Bond is a science fiction short story written in the early 20th century. The story revolves around Lancelot Biggs, an officer aboard the spacecraft Saturn, who must navigate the complexities of love and rivalry while dealing with the high-stakes atmosphere of space travel. The plot unfolds during a critical time when the annual football game between rival space academies is about to be broadcast, raising the tension among the crew. In this light-hearted tale, Lancelot Biggs is caught in a love triangle involving the captain's daughter, Diane Hanson, while facing the wrath of his superior, Captain Hanson. As they embark on a journey to reconnect their ship's broken radio for the game broadcast, Biggs proposes a wager that pits his affection for Diane against his lofty ambitions and the captain\u2019s authority. Throughout the narrative, comedic misunderstandings and clever scientific principles play out, culminating in a surprising twist related to Biggs' innovative uranium audio plate. In the end, Biggs triumphs not only in securing his love but also in showcasing his genius, aiding his standing among the crew while bringing a lively resolution to their tangled relationships. \ " word_count: 6148 blurb: There was more at stake than just a football game for Lancelot Biggs and the crew of the Saturn. So Biggs made a bargain; his rocket emblem in exchange for a new uranium condenser—and how it worked! fiction_type: Short Story ... # The madness of Lancelot Biggs We had barely cleared Lunar Three and I was taking final instructions from Joe Marlowe, the port Sparks, when my plates dulled out and there I was staring at a blank expanse of metal. So I said, "Merdejo!" which is Universal for a naughty word, and started looking for the trouble. I was on my hands and knees under the audio bank when Cap Hanson came into my control turret. He said, "You lose somethin', Sparks?" "Two minutes ago," I told him. "Take a look around. If you see something bright red and covered with hairy spikes, don't step on it. It's my temper." The Skipper sighed. "If my troubles," he declaimed, "was as mild as your'n, I'd do cartwheels from here to Venus. Sparks, you got a copy of the Space Manual here, ain't you?" I nodded toward my bookcase; he found the reg book and leafed through it carefully. Finally he shook his head. "It ain't here," he gloomed. "Are you sure this is the latest edition?" "Just what are you looking for?" I asked him. "I was kinda thinkin'," he said hopefully, "there might be a paragraph givin' a space commander permission to boil his First Mate in oil, or cut him into small cubes an' feed him to the octopussies. But the waffle-fannies what wrote that book—" I knew, then. It was the same old complaint. Our lanky and incredibly omniscient friend, Lancelot Biggs, whose genius for getting ye goode shippe _Saturn_ out of tight spots was surpassed only by his ability to fester Cap Hanson's epidermis, was back in the soup. I said, "But, sweet comets, Cap, what's he done now? He hasn't had time to do much. We've just pulled our Ampie[1] out of Earth's H-layer." [Footnote 1: The strange, energy-devouring Venusian creature that serves as a protective shield for space ships going through a planetary Heaviside layer.—Ed.] "Which," rasped the skipper, "took three hours. Or time enough for Mister Biggs to render hisself liable to homicide. I've tooken plenty from that long-legged scarecrow. I got carpeted for platinum-chasin' on his say-so.[2] I caressed pirates[3]—which, by the way, if you ever tell anybody, Sparks, I'll massacre you for—an' I—" [Footnote 2: "FOB Venus", Fantastic Adventures, Nov., 1939.—Ed.] [Footnote 3: "Lancelot Biggs Cooks a Pirate," Fantastic Adventures, Feb., 1939.—Ed.] "You also," I reminded him, "got your stripes saved on two separate occasions. Not to mention your bank-roll and your life. Remember?" "Nevertheless," said the skipper stiffly, "an' however, this time he's gone too far. He's been makin' eyes at my daughter." "Your," I repeated slowly, "daughter!" "You seen her. She come aboard at Long Island Port for the Venus trip." Here his space-gnarled, leathery face cracked into a grin that would have melted custard. "Pretty as a picture, don't you think? Some say she resembles me." "Some people," I told him dazedly, "will say anything for a laugh." I was thinking about that girl. What a girl! Five and a half feet of cream and velvet, surmounted by hair the color of a Martian sunset. Eyes like blue haze over Venus, only alive with crinkly laughter. Sure, she resembled the skipper! They had the same number of arms and legs; they each had one nose and two eyes and two ears—but there the similarity ended. Their difference was that between a lumbering old space freighter like the _Saturn_ and a modern, streamlined man-o'-war. And I _do_ mean streamlined! The skipper said sourly, "Well, get the blank look off your pan, Sparks. An' take down a special message from me to Mr. Romeo Biggs, on account of if I try to tell him myself I'll forget my dignity an' tear him into asteroids. Tell him that the next time I catch him tossin' goo-goo eyes at Diane, I'll give him a one-way ticket through the air-lock. That's all!" And he left the turret, snorting. I stared after him dreamily. I found myself doing something I haven't done since I was a kid, counting off my name with that of Diane Hanson. "Friendship, courtship, love, hate, marriage—" It came out "friendship." I told you I had my troubles.... ~ After a while came a sound like a three-legged pelican doing the Martian fling in a cornpatch, and Lancelot Biggs ambled into my turret, eyes aglow, his unbelievable Adam's-apple bobbing up and down like a photon in a cyclotron. I could tell he was busting with the desire to spill his overflowing heart to me, but he said, "Trouble, Sparks?" See? That's why you just couldn't help liking the guy. Soon as he saw me fiddling around the audio bank he was ready to help. It's hard to figure a jasper like Biggs. I sometimes thought he was the dumbest mortal who ever hopped gravs, but just about the time I'd be ready to delegate him to the Booby-hatch Convention he'd come through with a spark of brilliance that would make Sol look like an infra-red ray. I told him glumly, "I wish the nearest I'd ever come to radio was playin' that kid's game with beans. This time the audio's gone haywire and I can't even find out what the hell ails it." He came over beside me and looked. He jiggled a few wires, snapped switches and succeeded in bunting the button of the feed line cable. At last he said, "The trouble's in the plate, isn't it, Sparks?" "Looks as if. It's gone cold and I can't raise a signal out of it." "These plates you use," he frowned, "are made of a seleno-aluminum alloy, aren't they?" "Right," I told him, "as rain. However right that is. And they're as dependable as a spacecomber's promises. Always going on the blink just when you need "em most." "That's what I thought." Biggs shifted his gawky length from one foot to the other, a sign of deep cogitation I'd seen before. Then, suddenly, "Listen, Sparks," he blurted, "I've been thinking over that problem—" I rose hastily. "Look, Mr. Biggs, if you've been thinking, this is where I get off. Don't tell me or I'll catch the contagion. I'm just a hard-working bug pounder—" "—and I think I know a way," he continued eagerly, "to put an end to space radio transmission difficulties. They're using the wrong metal in the audio plates, _that's_ the trouble! The seleno-aluminum alloy was all right for radio in the early days of television, but space-flight demands a sturdier, and at the same time more sensitive receptor." "Like," I demanded, "what? Comet-tails, maybe?" "Uranium," explained Biggs simply. "As I told you, I've been experimenting. And I've discovered that uranium, no longer as rare and expensive as it was when audio plates were first invented, is the ideal plate." "It's been nice," I said sarcastically, "seeing you, Mr. Biggs. Any schoolchild knows that mobile electrons account for the electrical conducting ability of metals. And as the number of electrons per atom increases, metallic properties decrease; the metals become harder, more brittle, less ductile and poorer conductors. Uranium, my friend, would be what we Universal-hurlers call, in our simple patois, a first class "stinkeroo'." Biggs flushed faintly, and his liquescent larynx leaped in a lopsided lurch. There was a hurt look in his eyes. "Would you be convinced if I showed you?" "St. Louis," I said. "I—I beg your pardon?" "I'm from there. It's in the State of Missouri." But I gave my slumbrous receiving set a glance of despair. "Still—this thing's not working. If you'd like to try out your new floppola—" "I've got it in my quarters," he said delightedly. "I'll go get it right away!" And he started toward the door. I remembered, then, that I had a message for him. "Wait a minute," I said, "I just remembered. Our beloved skipper left you a billet-doux. He told me to tell you to ipskay the assespay at the aughterday." Biggs frowned. "Latin?" he hazarded. "Pig-Latin," I told him, "and horse-sense. Hanson says you've been wearing it on the sleeve for his gal, Diane. And if he sees it pounding in the open once more, he's going to chop it into mincemeat." Biggs' face looked like a national holiday on the calendar. He strangled gently. "But—but I like the girl, Sparks. And I believe she likes me." "She'll revere your memory," I told him frankly, "if you don't obey the Old Man's orders. When he issued his manifesto he had granite in his jaw and mayhem in his eyes. You'd better do as he says." "But it's not fair!" protested Biggs. "After all, I'm an officer and a—" "And a gentleman," I finished wearily, "by courtesy of the U.S.S.A. Yeah, I know. But in my estimation, that's just strike two against you. The skipper doesn't have a lot of use for you graduate Wranglers, you know. He graduated from the N.R.I. before there was such a thing as an Academy." ~ Perhaps, for the sake of you Earth-lubbers who are tuned in I should explain this. The rivalry between Earth's two great schools of astronavigation is something paralleled only by that which existed, centuries ago, between the United States' two military schools, the U.S.M.A. and the U.S.N.A. The National Rocket Institute is the older college for spacemen. Originally designed for merchant marine training, it became a natural "friendly foe" of the United States Spaceways Academy when that institution was founded fourteen years later. Today there is a constant companionable rivalry between graduates of the two schools; one subordinate, of course, to the routine of daily work, but that flares into definite feeling when, each Earth autumn, the current football teams of the academies meet in their traditional grid battle. They tell me that in the old days soldiers and sailors the world around used to gather about their short-wave radios to hear the broadcast of the Army-Navy game. Well, it's that way—only worse—nowadays in space. Graduates of the N.R.I. ("Rocketeers," we call "em) listen, cheek-to-jowl, with "Wranglers" from the Spaceways Academy. There's a lot of groaning and a lot of cheering and a lot of drinking and sometimes there's a sizable chunk of fisticuffing. It usually ends up with the representatives of the winning team standing treat, and the grads of the losing academy vowing they'll win "Next year!" Take our ship, for instance. The _Saturn_. I won my brevet at the Academy; so did Dick Todd, the second-in-command, and Lancelot Biggs graduated just last year. Chief Engineer Garrity, on the other hand, took his sheepskin from the Rocketeers' school, and so did Cap Hanson. Which made another important reason why I should do something—and do it mighty fast—to get the _Saturn's_ radio clicking again. Because the annual Rocketeer-Wrangler grid fracas was to be broadcast just two days from now, and my scalp wouldn't be worth the price of a secondhand toupee if the old grads from both schools couldn't hear the game. Biggs spluttered like my condenser would if my audio had been working, which it wasn't—if you know what I mean. "I'm not one to complain, Sparks. But when Hanson tries to come between Diane and me—" I said, "So! Mister Biggs, accept my apology. I underrated you. It's reached the "Diane' stage already, has it?" "It—it—" Biggs stammered into silence. Then he said, almost meekly, "Sparks—can you keep a secret?" "I'm a mousetrap," I told him. "Then I'll tell you—this isn't the first time Diane and I have met. We—we knew each other before I came aboard the _Saturn_. As a matter of fact, I asked for this berth in order that I might gain her father's favor; so we could get married." That explained a lot of things. I had often wondered why Lancelot Biggs, whose uncle, Prendergast Biggs, was a Vice-president of the Corporation, should have chosen to serve out his junior officership on a wallowing, old-fashioned Earth-to-Venus freighter like the _Saturn_. Now it all became clear and I began to feel like the adviser of a lovelorn column in a daily newspaper. I said, "So to put it poetically, Biggs, you're a little bit off the gravs for the gal, hey?" "Little bit?" he said miserably. "Sparks, you'll never know." "That's what you think," I told him, remembering how it came out "friendship." "What?" Then he forgot his curiosity in a burst of—for him—uncommon petulance. "But I'll not take this lying down, Sparks. I'll show the skipper I have a right to love his daughter. I don't care if he _is_ a graduate of the N.R.I., I'll show the leather-pussed old space cow—" "Are you by any chance," roared a voice, "referrin' to _me_, Mister Biggs!" We both started. The Skipper was standing in the doorway! ~ I said, "Pardon me, folks! I've got to see a guy about a shroud!" and tried to slide past Cap Hanson to the safety of the deck, but the Old Man roared me down with a blast. "Come back here, Sparks! I want you as witness!" He turned to Biggs, whose face looked like a prism revolving in sunlight. "So! So I'm a leather-pussed old space cow, _Mister_ Biggs?" Biggs stammered, "I—I—" "_What!_" Hanson's bellow raised a dozen decibels. "You impertinent young jackanapes! Did you hear him, Sparks? He said, "Aye, aye!" Well, I'll show _you_—" He extended a horny palm. "Your rocket, sir!" Lancelot Biggs' lips quivered. He reached up and mechanically unpinned from its place over his left breast the tiny, shining gold rocket replica which is the brevet of a space lieutenant. Hanson snatched it. In a decisive voice he said, "I'm markin' you down, Biggs, for insubordination, for slander of a senior officer, conduct unbecomin' an officer, intent to malign an' injure, an'—Well, that's all for now. Maybe I'll think of a few more things later on. "To your quarters, Mister Biggs. An' consider yourself under arrest until further notice." Biggs saluted; turned on his heel and marched from the room. And it struck me, suddenly, that for once there was nothing amusing, nothing humorous, in the youngster's gangling walk. Oh, he stalked, yes. And I've often kidded him about how much like a crab on stilts he looks. But now I felt sort of choky when I saw the pathetic dignity in the set of his shoulders, the proud way he strode away without a backward glance. I guess I lifted my own gravs for a minute. My voice sounded harsh in my own ears when I snarled at Hanson, "Well, you certainly threw the book at him that time!" But to my surprise, Cap Hanson was grinning. He looked like an Ampie in a power plant. And he said, placatingly, "Oh, come now, Sparks! You don't think I'm such an ogre as all that, do you?" "You busted him," I accused. "You lifted his rocket and put him under arrest. When the Corporation learns about it, they'll—" "The Corporation," said the skipper, "isn't goin' to hear about it. I'm not even goin' to put this on the log. This is between you an' me and Lancelot Biggs, Sparks. Don't you see? I had to do somethin' to separate him an' Diane." I did see. And I realized how completely I was caught in the middle by my friendship with two guys, each of whom believed in his own ideals, each of whom thought he was doing the right thing. I said slowly, "I get it, Cap. But are you sure you're doing the right thing? After all, maybe Biggs and your daughter really like each other." Cap Hanson said seriously, "That's just what I'm afraid of, Sparks. Put yourself in my place. How would _you_ like to have a grandson what looked like Lancelot Biggs?" I don't know. Maybe he had something there. ~ Well, to make a short story longer, that happened the first day out of Long Island Spaceport. Tempus, as the old Romans liked to remark, fidgetted. I spent the working hours of the next two days trying to get that confounded instrument of mine operating; I spent my off hours shuttling back and forth between the bridge and the brig. I had the pleasure—and, boy! you'd better know I mean it—of meeting Diane Hanson. She was a rag, a bone of contention and a hank of hair, but if she'd snapped her fingers I would have jumped out the spacelock and brought her back a handful of galaxies. She had a voice that made me feel like my backbone was charging .30 amps, and when my eyes met hers my knees went all wobbly. But her heart belonged to the baddy in the hoosegow. And she didn't care who knew it—except the Old Man. She asked me, "He's all right, Sparks, he's comfortable?" "He's comfortable enough," I told her. "But he's as restless as a squirrel in a petrified forest. He's been pacing his room so much that he's not only got corns, but he's got corns on his corns." She said wistfully, "If Dad would only be reasonable. Sparks, do you think that if I went to him and told him everything—?" I shuddered. "Don't mention it! Don't even think of it! Your old ma—I mean your father might read your thoughts." I forced a grin named Santa Claus, because I didn't believe in it myself. "Cheer up, Diane. Lancelot will find a way out of this trouble." "He will?" she said hopefully. "You think he will, Sparks?" "He always does," I told her. I squared myself with Kid Conscience by muttering under my breath, "Always—except this time." ~ So finally here we were, a baker's dozen of us, in the radio turret on the fateful day. Twelve of us were scowling, and me—I was number thirteen—I was sweating like an ice-box in the Sahara. Because it was the day, and darn near the hour, of the Big Game back on Earth—and my radio _still_ was as talkative as a deaf-mute in a vacuum. Todd was there, and Chief Garrity, and Wilson, the third officer, and Billings and—oh, shucks!—every one of us who had studied at either of the two academies. And Cap Hanson was there. He was very much there. He was howling ghastly threats in my ears, the mildest of which was that if I didn't have the radio repaired within the next minute, or maybe less, he'd personally tattoo the word "Scoundrel" on my forehead with a riveting machine. I squawked, "Good golly, I'm doing the best I can! Don't you think I want to hear this game as much as you do? Maybe more. Because the Wranglers are going to beat the bejeepers out of you Rocketeers today, anyhow." Cap raged, "What's that?" but it took some of the blast out of his tubes, because he knew it was true. The Spaceways Academy team was strongly favored over the eleven from the N.R.I., having so far run through an undefeated season while the Rocketeers had lost to Army and Notre Dame and been tied by Yale. "What's that? Why, last year—" "That," Lieutenant Dick Todd taunted him, grinning, "was last year, Skipper. You beat us then, yes. But this year the shoe's on the other foot." "Well, anyhow," howled the Old Man, "my shoe's goin' to be you-know-where, Sparks, if you don't get that damn radio talkin'." I stood up and stripped off my rubber gloves. I said, "I've done everything I know how. I've had the thing apart twice and put it together again. It won't work—and for one simple reason. The seleno-aluminum plate is shot." Chief Garrity said, "Then get ye a new one, lad." "Right. As soon," I told him, "as we cradle into Sun City spaceport." The skipper looked like he'd bitten into an apple and found a worm. "You mean we're not going to hear the game?" "That's exactly what I—" Then I paused. "Wait a minute! There's a faint possibility we might. If his invention really works. He has a spare plate in his quarters, but he'll have to install it. I don't know how." "He?" yelled the Old Man. "Who? The man in the moon?" "The man in the doghouse," I corrected. "Biggs." "Biggs!" The skipper's look changed. Now he looked like a man who'd bitten into an apple and found _half_ a worm. But he turned to Dick Todd. "Go get him, Mister Todd," he ordered. Todd left. We all watched the clock. Todd returned, bringing with him L. Biggs, ex-exile. The skipper glared daggers at his First Mate. "I hear you've an invention, Mister Biggs," he said caustically. "I distrust it. It may turn out like some of your other brain-children. But this is no time to be choosey. Attach it. And be kind enough to look at the radio controls instead of my daughter!" Lancelot Biggs stood very, very still. "Well," roared the Old Man, "get going!" Lancelot Biggs smiled; a faint, thin smile. "For," he said, "a price, Captain." "A price!" Hanson's voice lifted the roof an inch. "Lieutenant, you're not tryin' to dicker with me?" "Not trying," corrected Biggs, "I'm dickering. For a price, I'll attach my new plate unit to the radio. Further, I will absolutely guarantee its operation." "You—you insolent young pup!" raved the skipper. "Todd, Wilson—put him in irons! No, stand still you damn fools! Let him alone! What's your price, Biggs? You can't have her!" "Her?" said Biggs innocently. "I don't know what you're talking about, Captain. My price is—my rocket!" Cap Hanson looked at the faces of the waiting graduates around him. He knew when he was stalemated. He said, "Well—" and reached into his pocket. Biggs pinned the tiny golden emblem where it belonged and I never saw a man look more proud. Then he said quietly, "Very well, gentlemen. Now, Sparks, if you'll lend me a hand here...." ~ The uranium plate worked. Two minutes later, as I tied in the positive cable, dancing light began to play over the tubes, the galvanometer skipped gaily, and current began to hum once again. I yelled, "Biggs, you're terrific!" and reached for the vernier. But Biggs' hand stayed mine. "Not there, Sparks! Higher. The ultra-short wave, I believe. About one over fifty thousand on the Ang vernier." Cap Hanson rasped, "Sparks knows how to operate a radio, Mister Biggs, without your help!" "Not _this_ radio," shrugged the lanky lieutenant. "This plate is considerably different from the old type. Considerably different!" I thought I detected a faint note of amusement in his voice, but the thought vanished as swiftly as it came—for at that instant my fingers found the proper spot. There was a moment of whining super-het; then— "—a great day and a great crowd, folks!" came an excited voice. "And here comes the next play. The Wranglers have the ball on their own eighteen yard line, second and ten to go—" "That's it!" roared Cap Hanson exuberantly. "By golly, that's it! Biggs, maybe you're not the dope I think you are!" But the shocks weren't over yet. You remember I told you the Wranglers were strongly favored to take the Rocketeers down the ramps? Well—this was evidently just another example that in a traditional battle anything can happen—and usually does! We had had the radio on barely five minutes when the Rocketeers blocked a Wrangler kick, fell on it, and took possession on the Wrangler nine yard line. In two power plays the eleven from Cap Hanson's academy had plunged over for a touchdown. One minute later they made the conversion and the score was 7-0 for the supposed underdogs. The faces around that room were a sight! Hanson and Garrity looked like Venusian bunny-men in a carrot patch; those of us who acknowledged the Academy as our Alma Mammy would have soured milk with our smiles. The expression on Lancelot Biggs' face defied description. He looked faintly startled, faintly pleased, like a man shouting echoes against a mountainside. Cap Hanson groped in his hip pocket; brought forth a wad of hoarded Earth and Venus credits. "Well, you broken-down Wranglers—any of you like to lay a few creds on your team making a come-back?" He got plenty of takers. After all, one touchdown isn't a football game, and the Wranglers _were_ favored to win. I shelled out to the extent of thirty credits, Todd staked a few. Chief Garrity unbuttoned his ancient wallet, shooed away the moths, and risked some of his own credits after demanding three to one odds. And the game went on. The first quarter ended, amazingly, with Rocketeers still leading by that score of 7-0. In the second quarter, Cap Hanson, overflowing with the milk of human I-told-you-so, turned to Lancelot Biggs, crowed tauntingly, "Well, Mister Biggs, I take notice you're careful not to lay any bets on that team of your'n?" Biggs, whose eyes had been fastened hungrily on a girl in that room—guess which one!—gulped, and his neck-elevator bobbled. He said, almost embarrassedly, "I—I don't know whether I should, Captain—" Hanson snorted. "Just what I might have expected of a Wrangler. Well—" Then Chief Garrity shushed him suddenly. "Quiet, skipper! Something's going on!" Something was, indeed. The radio announcer was in a dither. "—and it looks bad for the Wranglers, friends! The Rocketeers' quick kick has them on the one yard line ... now they're lining up to kick out of trouble.... Wait a minute! Here comes a substitute from the Wrangler bench. It's—we don't have time to get you his name, folks, but it's number 36. He's going in at quarterback for O'Doule—" Hanson gibed, "Well, Biggs?" The announcer continued, "Number 36 in at quarterback, folks. Now he's calling signals. There's the snapback. The new man is going to kick.... No, he's going to pass.... No, he's going to run.... No—he's fumbled! "There's a pile-up behind the goalposts! They're unscrambling the players. And—it's a touchdown for the Rocketeers, folks! The score is 13-0!" Hanson let loose a great roar of delight. "There! I knew it! Good thing you didn't bet, Biggs!" And then, astonishingly, Lancelot Biggs spoke up. "How much would you like to wager, Captain?" "How—much?" Hanson looked stunned. "Every cred in my poke, Lieutenant. Two hundred and fifty." "I'll take that bet," said Biggs. ~ I sidled to his elbow and gave him a swift poke in the ribs. I hissed, "Don't be a sap, Biggs! Make him give you odds if you _must_ bet—" But I spoke too late. The bet had already been placed in the hands of a neutral party, steward Doug Enderby. And now, a new tenseness in all of us, we listened to the remainder of the broadcast. In the third quarter, Dick Todd got out the crying towel. "Gosh, Sparks," he mourned to me, "what's the matter with our boys? This is a slaughter. The same as last year." Because by that time the Rocketeers had scored once again; this time on a smooth sixty yard forward. Garrity and Hanson were literally swooning with joy, by this time offering fantastic odds to any Wrangler who would bet. But we had all pulled in our horns. All, that is, but one man—First Mate Lancelot Biggs. In a moment of lull, he turned to the skipper. "Skipper," he said, "I have no more creds, but I'd like to wager for another stake." Hanson chuckled. "Your shirt won't fit me, Biggs." "I'll bet you," said Biggs thoughtfully, "my space claim against the privilege of the next three landings that the Wranglers beat the Rocketeers this year." We all gasped. They were _real_ stakes. Every space officer is granted, by the IPS, a space claim consisting of property rights in all unexplored areas of a given arc. He may either explore in this sector himself after he has served his trick, or he may delegate the exploration to professional space-hounds. In either case, a substantial percentage of all ores, precious stones and miscellany found in his allotted sector belong to him. Many a space officer has found himself fabulously rich overnight when his sector turned up with rock diamond detritus or granules of meteoric ore. On the other hand, Biggs was asking a great privilege. Before a space officer can become a commander, he must have made five personal cradle landings on any planet. Skippers were chary of granting permission on these, often making junior officers wait years to earn their Master's ticket. But it looked like Biggs was again sticking his neck out. I tried to stop him. I said, "Don't, Biggs! This game is in the bag for the Rocketeers. Don't be so rash!" But only half the words had garbled through my larynx when Cap Hanson yelped exuberantly, "_Done!_ Gentlemen, I call upon you to witness that wager!" And he rubbed his paws together like a raccoon eyeing a bowl of honey. ~ Twenty to nothing! That was the score then, and it was the score fifteen minutes later when, with but seven more minutes remaining in the annual fracas, Lancelot Biggs went stark, staring mad. Now, Cap Hanson contributed to that madness. I must admit that his glee annoyed me. I can stand taking a licking as well as the next man, but I hate like hell to have someone rub it in. And that's what the skipper was doing. As the minutes ticked by, and the Rocketeers' margin became momentarily more insurmountable, he first taunted us Wranglers, then insulted us by offering ridiculous odds against our winning, and finally accused us all of lacking sportsmanship. Biggs, standing carefully aloof from Diane in order not to rouse the skipper's latent wrath, had a strange pallor on his cheeks. Not so strange, maybe. It's hard to stand by and watch everything you possess slipping down the skids. Cap didn't make things any easier for him. Every so often the Old Man would bend over, slap his thighs, and howl, "Anything more you'd like to bet, Mister Biggs? Whoops! I'm a space-bitten son of Jupiter if this ain't the most fun I ever had!" And then Lancelot Biggs jolted out of his curious stupor. He said, "Yes, Captain—I _do_ have something else to bet!" Even Hanson was staggered by that one. "Huh?" was his snappiest come-back. "If—" There was a dreamy look in Biggs' eyes. "If you'd be kind enough to step into the corridor with me. You and Sparks, please?" Good old Sparks; witness extraordinary. But don't think it gave me any pleasure to witness this example of sheer madness. As we moved through the doorway, away from the wondering crowd, I pleaded with Biggs, "Biggs, for gosh sakes—haven't you lost enough already? Don't make another bet!" But the glance he turned to me was mildly puzzled. And he whispered swiftly, "It's all right, Sparks. I know what I'm doing—" Then, outside, to the skipper, "Captain Hanson, I have only one more thing of potential value left in the world. The patent rights to my new invention, the practicability of which you have witnessed all afternoon, the uranium audio plate. This will be my share of the wager." Hanson said suspiciously, "I don't know—" To me, "Sparks, is it worth anything?" I nodded sombrely. "In my estimation," I told him, "it's worth at least a quarter million credits. It's the first plate I've ever seen that really works. Didn't you notice we're not even picking up static?" The Old Man nodded. "Very well. And my stake—?" Biggs said boldly, "Permission to continue seeing your daughter. And—if she'll have me—to marry her!" Something popped, and for a minute I thought it was the Old Man's fuses, but it was only the top of his head rising two feet. "_What!_ I thought you understood—" Then a crafty grin touched his lips. "Just a minute," he said cannily, "I presume that you imply by this that if you lose, you'll never try to see Diane again?" I wanted to shout "No!" so bad I could taste it. But I was just the party of the third part. Biggs' reply was just the opposite. "Yes!" he said. I groaned. Love's young dream—twenty points away! ~ Let's get the agony over with. We returned to a control room full of madmen. For in our absence the Rocketeers had intercepted a desperate Wrangler pass, and the score was now 26-0. Just one point different from that licking they had given the U.S.S.A. boys last year. And as we listened glumly they kicked the extra point. And that was about all. For three plays after the next kickoff a gun boomed, the crowd screamed, and the announcer howled, "—and there's the end of the game, folks! The Rocketeers win a great ball game, 27-0. You have been listening to this program through the courtesy of Hornswimble's Robot Corporation, makers of the world-famous "Silent Servants." Why be lonely? A Robot in the home is a constant companion—" Chief Garrity squealed his tight-fisted glee. His palm waved simultaneously beneath the noses of three sorrowful Wranglers—including me. "Pay up!" he demanded. "Pay up, ye benighted rascals—!" And Cap Hanson was one big grin on legs. He said to Biggs triumphantly, "Well, Biggs, I hope you've learned a lesson today! Two hundred and fifty credits, if you please. I'm minded to be kind with you. I'll not accept your space claim, my lad. But that third bet—" He beamed on Diane. "_That_ one I'll hold you to! And now—" Biggs moved. To the radio bank. As he moved, he spoke. "Yes. And now," he said, "I think you should all hear _this_—" He twisted the dial. There was a moment of howling; then came a voice, clear, crisp, enthusiastic, "—four minutes of playing time remaining, folks, and the Rocketeers have the ball. But it won't do them any good. Even if they _do_ score the result will be the same. They can't overcome that tremendous Wrangler lead, 33-6—" ~ Thunder and lightning; madness and confusion! The control room became as noisy as a well-populated tomb, and out of the terrible silence came the faint, thin voice of the skipper demanding, "What—what does this mean?" Biggs boomed pleasantly, "It means, Captain, that you've lost your bets. You'll remember that all our wagers were based on the result of _this_ year's game—which you are now listening to. "It is unfortunate that human memories are so brief. Otherwise some of you gentlemen might have recognized the astonishing similarity of the broadcast we've just listened to with that of last year's game! Which it was!" Cap Hanson groaned, "Last year's game! But that's impossible! You couldn't—" "_I_ couldn't," agreed Biggs pleasantly, "but my new invention could. You see, I discovered in the course of my experiments that uranium has some definite peculiarities. It, being highly radioactive itself, has the strange property of being able to delay, almost indefinitely, the passage of electrical impulses traveling through it. "Thus, under certain circumstances—in this case, Sparks, the fact that it was activated in the ultra-short wave field—it can be used as a "time-speech-trap' to recapture sound waves released into the ether long ago. "When Earth's scientists have further investigated this phenomenon I predict some amazing results. Possibly in the near future we may be able to "listen' once again to the voices of our ancestors "way back in the Elizabethan Age, the Machine Age, or the American Business Age. But meanwhile—" He grinned amiably. "Meanwhile, you have just heard a broadcast of last year's Rocketeer-Wrangler football game. _This_ year's is just concluding!" And so it was. With the Wranglers out in front by a score of 33-6. The outraged screams of Chief Engineer Garrity will haunt me all my days.... Afterward there were just four of us in the turret. Biggs, Diane, the skipper and me. The Old Man had the look of a St. Bernard who has lost his brandy cask. He said, "But, confound you, Biggs, you're not goin' to hold me to them bets, are you? When you knew all the time—" Biggs grinned. "You were magnanimous with me, Skipper. I'll be the same with you. Keep your money. And I'll settle for two landings. But the third bet—well, you know the old saying." "I know," mourned the Captain, "plenty of "em. What one do you mean?" "'All's fair'," quoted Biggs softly, "'in love and—." We'll skip the other part. Diane, honey—" One thing about the skipper; he knew when he'd lost. He forced a grin to his lips—and, do you know, when he'd had a look at the light in Diane's eyes as she moved into the circle of Biggs' arms, that grin began to look almost natural. He gave me the high-sign, and we started to leave. But I had one more question. In the doorway I turned and asked, "Biggs, come clean! You didn't know that thing was going to work that way, did you?" He frowned gently. "I didn't _know_. I suspected." "But when," I insisted, "did you really find out for sure? Your memory's no better than mine. Certainly you didn't remember the events of last year's game?" "Some of them," he said amusedly. "I caught on when I heard that episode about the awkward quarterback, the substitute, number 36. Remember?" "Remember! You bet I do. The clumsy galoot who fumbled in the end zone and gave the Rocketeers a touchdown? He should have been drawn and quartered, the dope. But how did you remember _him_?" Biggs smiled wanly. "I just left the Academy last year, Sparks," he said. "And the football team. _I_ was number 36!" Then he turned to Diane, and she turned to him, and—aw, hell! I know when I'm not wanted! THE END
220	--- author: Nelson S. Bond tags: 'New York, NY: Ziff-Davis Publishing Company, 1943., Science fiction, Short stories, Space ships, Fiction, Human-alien encounters' title: The Ordeal of Lancelot Biggs summary: " \"The Ordeal of Lancelot Biggs\" by Nelson S. Bond is a science fiction short story written during the early 1940s. The story follows the titular character, Lancelot Biggs, a space officer navigating a dangerous mission on the moon Themis, which has a troubled history of peace treaties with Earth. The narrative combines elements of humor and adventure as it addresses the complexities of interplanetary diplomacy while exploring themes of duty, friendship, and unexpected challenges. The plot centers around Lancelot Biggs and his crew aboard the spaceship \"Saturn\", who are dispatched on an emergency mission to Themis after previous peace efforts have failed, resulting in violent clashes with the Themisite natives. As they navigate political intrigue and danger, the crew discovers that Themisites have an unusual form of governance\u2014an omnigarchy where leadership changes daily\u2014complicating their attempts to forge lasting peace. When events take a humorous turn upon learning that Biggs is expecting triplets, the story blends comedy with the stakes of the mission, ultimately addressing the themes of cooperation and understanding across cultures while celebrating extraordinary and mundane moments in life. " word_count: 7663 fiction_type: Short Story blurb: In spite of peace pacts, Earth ships were being attacked on Themis. Could Biggs answer that one? ... # The Ordeal of Lancelot Biggs Well, like it says in the old adage, "Things equal to the same thing gather no moss." When the Corporation that under-pays us snatched the _Saturn_ off the freight shuttle and turned it into a trouble-shooter for special assignments, we thought we were getting a break. Huh! We were. "Break" is just another word for "bust." The result of our alleged "promotion" was that for a fractional increase in salary we worked twice as hard at jobs ten times nastier than any we had ever tackled before. Like for instance the night Cap Hanson and I—I'm Bert Donovan, bug-pounder of the _Saturn_—were at the home of Lt. and Mrs. Lancelot Biggs. Biggs is, of course, the First Mate of our void-mangling jalopy. A year ago he married the skipper's daughter, Diane. We were sitting around, chatting about this and that and the other inconsequential truffle, trying to look calmer than we actually felt, when the telephone jangled. "Bet it's a wrong number!" I said—and picked it up. I was right. It _was_ a Wrong Number named Cheeverly, Assignment Clerk at Long Island Spaceport. He said, "_Salujo_, Sparks. Is Captain Hanson there?" "Present," I said, "but not accountable for. Listen, Dracula, how about calling back tomorrow or next month?" He snapped, "This is official business, Donovan! Put him on before I report you!" So I handed the receiver to the Old Man, and for the next few minutes Diane and Lanse and I eavesdropped upon one of those unintelligible half conversations between Hanson and the drip at the other end of the wire. "Yeah?" said the Old Man. "Yeah, this is Hanson.... Eh? Eh, what's that?... But Cheeverly, I.... What?... But I'm on furlough, man! The staff and crew of the _Saturn_ were granted a three week vaca.... Oh! Oh, I see! Emergency, eh? Well, if we _have_ to. But can't you find some other ship to.... Mmm-hmmm! I understand. Yes. Yes. Very well. I'll get in touch with my men immediately...." He hung up and turned to us gravely. I think we all knew what he was going to say before he said it. Diane cried, "Oh, _no_, Daddy! No! Not _now_!" And Biggs asked, "What is it, sir? I hope they don't want us to—?" Hanson fumed, "They do, dingbust "em to Hades! It's an emergency mission. We're to lift gravs immediately!" "Lift gravs!" exclaimed Biggs bleakly. His lump of a larynx leaped like a lemon in his scrawny neck. "But, Dad! I can't go _now_!" His jaw sagged to his wishbone, making him homelier than usual. And, brother, that's saying something! Lancelot Biggs is a lot of things. He's a genius, for one, and he's slightly whacky, for another. Also he's one of the grandest friends a guy ever had. But even his doting mother could not honestly call him good looking. ~ He's about as tall as an old-fashioned hatrack, and built along the same general lines. He's got more bumps and knobs on his gangling frame than a hyperthyroid cucumber. Of these assorted protuberances, the most prominent is an Adam's-apple which bulges from his throat like a half-swallowed egg, and jiggles up and down when he's excited like a jitter-bug on an innerspring mattress. He was excited now, and said voice-box was cavorting horribly from N to S and return in non-stop flight. "I can't go _now_!" he repeated starkly. "Not _now_, of all times, Dad—" Hanson shook his head regretfully. "It ain't a case of can or can't, Lancelot. It's a case of _got_ to. There's trouble on Themis again." I said, "Themis—again! You mean another ship—?" "That's right," nodded the skipper. "Attacked and smashed to smithereens. Not a man left alive. Yes." "But that's impossible!" I cried. "Only last month the S.S.P. announced that a peace pact had been signed with the Thagwar of Themis. The natives of that satellite agreed to join the Solar Union—" "Them Themisites," growled the Old Man, "keep their pledges about as good as them Japanese you read about in the hist'ry books. The little yellow squirts the United Nations had to wipe out a couple hundred years ago. This makes the sixth time the Thagwar has signed a peace pact. And it's the sixth time he's broke it. So—" "So," I said, "we're elected, eh?" "That's the ticket." Lanse Biggs' jaw tightened. He said stiffly, "I'm afraid this is one time I shall not be able to obey orders, sir. I—I can't go with you!" My heart did a flipflop. I understood, and heartily sympathized with Biggs. He wanted to be on Earth right now. Because—well, like a professional grape-farmer, he had raisins of his own. But I knew what his outright refusal meant. The IPC is a hardboiled corporation. When it issues an order, it expects obedience—or else. If Lanse refused to make this expedition, he would not only lose his rating and his chance to go up for Master's papers—an examination he was planning to take in the very near future—he might also lose his job! Furthermore—and if this sounds selfish, pardon my sullen accent!—I hated to think of making a truly dangerous trip without Lieutenant Biggs on the bridge. That brilliant wingding has pulled so many bunnies out of the derby, saving our individual and collective necks with such monotonous regularity, that we'd be utterly lost without his assistance. But I said nothing. After all, this was a question Biggs must decide for himself. As it turned out, though, it was not I, nor the Old Man, nor Lancelot, who solved the problem. It was Mrs. Biggs. In a calm, decisive voice she said, "But, Lanse, dear—such commotion! Of course you will go!" "What!" blurted Lanse. "And leave you? Never!" "Stuff," sniffed Diane, "and nonsense! Stop talking like a cheap play. What earthly good are you doing here? Not a bit! But out _there_, men have died ... betrayed by a race of scoundrels. Brave men. Spacemen like yourself. Your duty is plain. You must go. You have no choice." "B-but—" protested Lanse. "But," interrupted Diane, "nothing! Now, I'm tired. You boys run along and clean up this little job. I'll be here at home, waiting for you." Biggs asked apprehensively, "And—and you'll be all right while we're gone? You're sure—" "Certainly I'll be all right," declared Diane. "Now, lift gravs, sailors! And—good luck!" ~ So we went. It was one hell of a job collecting the _Saturn's_ crew. Some of them were miles away, several of them were—well, let's be charitable and say, "unshipshape"—and _all_ of them were madder than an alizarin dye at having their leaves cancelled. But none of them were foolhardy enough to refuse the order. So, to make a long story less so, several hours later the _Saturn_ roared from its mooring cradle, all jets blasting. And we were off to Themis. Well, the planet Saturn is approximately nine hundred million miles from the Sun, and (since it was currently on our side of that central beacon) about 800,000,000 from Earth. In the good old days B.B.—Before Biggs—that would have meant a voyage of weeks. But since our ship was equipped with Lancelot's invention, the V-I (or "velocity-intensifier") unit, which enables spacecraft to attain speeds limited only by the critical velocity of light, we could expect to reach our destination in a trifle more than ten hours. To forestall cracks from Earthlubber mathematicians who point out that 186,000 x 60 x 60 would give us a cruising speed of almost seven hundred million _m.p.h._, let me explain that you have to let the hypatomics warm for about five hours before you can cut in the V-I unit. Then the unit has to be switched off at least an hour before you reach your objective so you can decelerate without breaking every bone in your head. Thus we had a ten hour trip ahead of us. So, as the _Saturn_ jogged along outward into space, I sat back and tried to remember everything I'd ever heard about Themis. It wasn't much. I knew that in 1905, Pickering, the discoverer of Phoebe, had first spotted Saturn's tenth satellite. He had named this tiny body Themis, after the goddess of Law and Order. Which, in view of later events, was a huge and mirthless horselaugh. Then something queer happened. Themis—disappeared! Yeah, that's right. It got lost! Can you imagine "losing" a cosmic body about 300 miles in diameter? Well, that's exactly what the astronomers of the Bloody Twentieth Century did. According to their record books, they hunted for it time and time again, but never relocated it. Finally they decided astronomer Pickering must have been sopping up too much _spiritus frumenti_ the night he discovered the satellite, and they expunged its name from the records. Which was, of course, a terrific boner ... because it was there all the time! It was rediscovered in 1983 by the staff observers of the Goddard Memorial Telescope located in Copernicus Crater on Luna. And in 2031 A.D. it was visited, charted, and claimed in the name of the Interplanetary Union by the Space Patrol rocket _Orestes_ on a settlement investigation flight. Only nobody went to live there. ~ For one thing, it was too small pickings to bother with. During the Space Rush of 2030-80, everybody who could beg, borrow or steal a ride on a ship was hightailing it to the more important planets. Venus, Mars, Mercury, the asteroids. Later, the Jovian satellites became popular. Slowly the frontiers pushed farther and farther out from Sol. Until now adventurers were willing to take a squint at any body in space which boasted soil, air, and a modicum of gravity. So at last, after long years of ignoring them, Earthmen were trying to become palsy-walsy with the Themisites. Oh, yes, Themis had natives. Humanoid aboriginals, not terribly unlike Earth's own children, except that they had four legs instead of two. But our side wasn't getting anywhere, and in a rush! As the Old Man had said, six times a Patrol party had landed on Themis, and six times signed a peace pact with the ruler, or Thagwar, of that globe. But each time the pact had been ignored by the Themisites as soon as a party of colonists attempted to land. The defenseless cruise-ships had been set upon, destroyed, their cargoes stolen, and their passengers brutally slaughtered! So now here we were, blithely barging in where sensible angels might justifiably hesitate to tread. It didn't make sense. I asked the skipper about it. "Look, Cap," I demanded, "maybe I'm sort of slow on the intake, but how come _we_ draw this assignment? Since the Themisites seem to want trouble, how come the Space Patrol doesn't go busting out there with rotors primed and a couple battalions to occupy the world?" "On account," explained Hanson impatiently, "Themis is populated by a race with an intelligence quotient of more than .7 on the Solar Constant scale, Sparks. And also because the race has a recognized form of government. "Accordin' to interplanetary law, colonization of civilized bodies can only be carried out with the permission of the native inhabitants, and aggressive occupation is forbidden when those inhabitants possess humanoid intelligence." "Meaning," I asked, "what? We aren't allowed to grab Themis unless the Themisites let us?" "Meanin'," snorted the Old Man, "that if you was the only inhabitant of Themis, the S.S.P. wouldn't have nothin' to worry about. But the hell with that. I didn't come here to bandage words with you. I come up to ask you if you happened to notice the funny way Lanse is actin'." I had. I nodded sombrely. "Moping around," I acknowledged, "like a biddie on a china egg. But you can't expect anything different, Skipper. After all, he didn't want to leave Diane at a time like this." "Of course not. Neither did I. But since we had to, we might as well buckle down and get the job tooken care of as quick as possible. Anyway, you're keepin' in touch with home, ain't you?" "Absolutely. Holding an open circuit every minute. But don't worry about Biggs, Skipper. He'll be all right as soon as we actually get to work." ~ That's as far as I got with my Pollyanna glad-talk. For at that moment the intercommunicating system rasped into life, and in the reflector appeared the baffled pan of Dick Todd, our Second Mate. Dick was so nervous he had to lick his lips three times before he could grease out a word. At last: "S-s-skipper!" he managed. "Yeah? What is it?" "Th-th-themis! We're pulling into Themis—" The Old Man glanced at his chronometer and nodded. "O.Q. So we're dropping gravs on schedule? So?" "N-n-nothing," gulped Todd, "except that Themis has d-d-disappeared! The automatic alarm system is going crazy. According to it, there's a large cosmic body right in front of _us—but we can't see a thing_!" ~ I said, "Oh-oh!" and groped for my transmitter key. But before I could start pounding the bug, Hanson grabbed my wrist. "And just what do you think _you're_ doing, Sparks?" "I don't _think_," I told him, "I _know_! When people see things that aren't there, I know what to do. Hide the bottle. But when they start _not_ seeing things that _are_ there, that's all, folks! I'm calling the S.S.P. base on Luna and asking them to rush a hospital ship out this way, immediately if not sooner. A nice, pretty hospital ship equipped with soft, hemstitched straitjackets—" "Don't be a dope," roared the Old Man. "Todd don't talk nonsense for no good reason. There's something screwy goin' on around here. I want to know what it is. Come on!" And he galloped from my turret like a bolt of goosed lightning, hauling me along in his wake by sheer suction. We hightailed it through the corridors, up the ramp, and onto the bridge. There we found both Todd and Biggs. Todd was still a delicate shade of bilious green, but he was hunched over the plot table, scribbling hurried calculations. Biggs was in the pilot's bucket seat, punching away at the studs as cheerfully as if this were a routine test flight in home atmo. He glanced around as we came in, and his eyes popped out on stalks. He half rose from his seat. "A—a message, Sparks?" he quavered. I shook my head. "No word yet," I reassured him. "I'll let you know. Meanwhile, what's the trouble around here?" "Trouble?" repeated Lancelot wonderingly. The Old Man groaned and pawed at what little remains of his hair. "Don't look now," he rasped, "but didn't Todd call me a couple of minutes ago with some wild-and-woolly tale about Themis disappearing?" "Oh—_that_!" smiled Biggs gently. "I thought for a second you meant there was something wrong. Why, yes, Dad. Themis _has_ disappeared—temporarily. Oddest thing—" "Talk sense!" I moaned. "Todd said something about there being a large body in our path, too. Did it—" I took a look at the central vision plate which reflected nothing between us and the far stars—"did it go away?" "Oh, no," drawled Biggs nonchalantly. "It's still there." "Still there!" I looked again, more closely, at the vision plate. It was as bare as a debutante's backbone at a ball. "What's still _where_, Lanse? Have you gone off your gravs, or are my optics myopic?" "The large body," said Biggs blandly. "It's Themis' moon. It's there. Three points to starboard, and one degree to loft." "Themis' _moon_!" croaked the Old Man. "What in Hades are you talkin' about, Lancelot! Themis _is_ a moon!" "I know," agreed Biggs. His larynx bobbled pleasantly. "That's the curious part of it. This is the first time in the solar system that any satellite has ever been found to have a satellite of its own! But we've located it, charted its trajectory, and cross-checked our calculations—haven't we, Dick?" Todd looked up from the plot table. "That's right," he said hollowly. "Themis _has_ got a moon of its own. An—an invisible moon!" "_Invisible moon!_" The skipper and I did a twin act. "Yes," said Biggs. "You know, I believe that's why Themis—er—"disappears' periodically. It is circled by a large, opaque satellite with the peculiar property of being able to bend light waves around itself. Consequently, every time the moon, revolving around its primary, comes between Themis and observers, Themis is occulted—and disappears!" ~ The Old Man looked at him like he had just grown a second head. "B-but that's impossible, son!" he gasped. "Oh, no," said Lanse quietly. "Unlikely, yes. But not impossible. Because—well, because the situation _does_ exist, you see." He clucked thoughtfully. "Strange, isn't it, that we should be the first to find it out? After these many years. But that's the Laws of Chance for you. Every other time a ship visited Themis, the invisible moon must have been on the far side." Hanson was fidgeting like he had wasps in his weskit. Now he broke in, "That's all very interestin'! But how about the chances of our crackin' up on this aforesaid moon-of-a-moon?" "Oh," replied Biggs negligently, "that's all taken care of. We've plotted a new trajectory around it. We should see Themis again in a moment—Aaah!" He breathed a sigh of satisfaction. "There she is! Nice looking little satellite, isn't it!" And true enough, Themis was beginning to appear in the vision plate before us. A weird looking sight it was. A thin sliver of terrain at first ... then widening, growing into a full sized cosmic body as it stopped being occulted by its phenomenal little companion. Biggs punched the intercommunicating stud and spoke to the engine room. "All right, Mac," he called. "You can cut the V-I. Prepare to land in about fifty minutes." Then he turned to us again. "Remarkable thing, what? Some day when we're not so busy we'll have to drop jets on that invisible moon, eh? Should be an interesting visit to make." The skipper groaned feebly. "Interestin'! He finds an invisible moon, figures a trajectory around it, then says it's—Oooh! Let me out of here! I'm feelin' heat-waves!" I grinned at him consolingly. "Cheer up," I told him. "I know just how you feel. Only it's not the heat ... it's the humility." So that was that. The next hour was taken up with routine stuff. Decelerating to atmo velocity, cruising over Themis until we located the capital city of Kraalbur, where the Thagwar maintained his royal residence, dropping to a stern-jet landing ... that was all child's play for a spaceman like Lt. Lancelot Biggs. ~ Thus it was that a short while later, armed to the teeth and ready for any eventuality, our foray party of ten men stood in the lock of the _Saturn_, listening to Hanson's final instructions. "Be quiet," he advised us, "be calm ... but above all, be careful. These Themisites is as untrustworthy as three-of-a-kind in a gamblin' joint. Our orders is to improve relations, not make "em worse ... so act accordin'ly. We'll treat them exactly like they meet us. If they greet us friendly, we'll be nice. But if they get tough—" "Well?" asked one of the crew. "Give "em the works!" said the Old Man succinctly, and nodded to his son-in-law. "O.Q., Lanse. Open up!" The airlock wheezed asthmatically, and we stepped out upon the soil of the satellite Themis. A huge mob of natives had gathered around to greet us. They were a weird looking outfit. Sort of like men on horses, you might say, or like those old Centaurs you read about in mythology books. Maybe that's where the legend of Centaurs originated; I don't know. The more man travels the spaceways, the more he discovers races of beings similar to the freaks and curiosities recorded in ancient myths. Lanse Biggs believes that once upon a time, thousands of years ago, before Earth's old moon crashed, destroying the civilization then existent, Man knew the secret of spacetravel, and legend is a record of things once seen and known. But I wouldn't know about that. I'm just a radioman.... Anyhow, these Themisites were sort of like us down to the tummy. But from there on they branched out into the equine family, being endowed with strong, muscular, quadrupedal bodies and postscripted with long, bushy tails. But they were intelligent. No doubt about that. And surprisingly enough, they seemed friendly! One, their ruler, trotted forward and raised an arm in the cosmoswide gesture of greeting. He addressed us in Universale, the common language of space. "_Salujo, amiji!_" he said. "Welcome to Themis, land of peace and brotherly love!" Hanson gasped, "Get a load of that! Three days ago the four-legged punks murdered a whole crew of Earthmen, and now they yap about brotherly—" "Maybe he's right?" I suggested thoughtfully. "You ever have a brother, Skipper?" "Shhh!" whispered Biggs. He stepped forward, acting as spokesman for our team. "Greetings, O Thagwar of Themis! We come as emissaries from the Blue World, seeking to forge a bond of friendship between your people and ours." "Friendship and peace," said the Thagwar grandiloquently, "are ever the desire of my race." Lanse said, "We hear and believe, noble Thagwar. But evil tidings have lately reached our ears. It is told that a few days ago you led your people in mortal combat against a party from our planet—" ~ The Thagwar drew himself stiffly erect and shook his head in firm denial. "That," he said in a tone of outraged dignity, "is not so! It was the _old_ Thagwar who led that brutal assault." "Old Thagwar? Then you have overthrown his government since—?" "The former Thagwar," informed the Themisite leader, "has been removed from power. _I_ am now Thagwar of Themis. I wish only friendship and peace between our peoples. And now," his eyes rolled hopefully, "have you brought the usual—er—tributes?" "Tributes," of course, meant graft. Humanoid forms change with the planets, but human nature doesn't. However, we had come prepared, knowing the mentalities of our opponents. Lanse beckoned to a pair of our crewmen who lugged forward a crate packed with an assortment of the doolallies and thingamajiggers loved by abos like the Themisites. Mirrors, gaudy bits of costume jewelry, brightly-colored trinkets, yards of richly hued cloth, horn-rimmed spectacles, cheap cameras ... all that sort of thing. Crooked? Sure. Taking advantage of ignorant savages? Posilutely. But, hell, you can't interest uncultured aborigines in vanRensselaer atomo-converters and pre-Rooseveltian Era art treasures. Of course they'd be glad to get their paws on a few Haemholtz ray-pistols or a case of three-star _tekel_, but the authorities frown on the practice of supplying lower races with firearms, fireworks or firewater. So Lanse handed out the gadgets to the Thagwar, who beamed with delight. And after that the negotiations were a snapperoo. We told what we wanted: permission for Earth's colonists to settle on Themis, the right to construct spaceports, and so on and so forth ... and the ruler said, "Yes ... yes ... yes," till he sounded like a phonograph needle caught in a worn groove. There remained but one thing to be done. The formal signing of the treaty. So Lanse drew from his pocket the previously prepared sheets, and was just getting ready to help the Thagwar scrawl a legal "X" on the dotted line when a stir passed through the assemblage. ~ It was a nervousness, a jitteriness, you could _feel_! Heads craned upward to look at the sky, hooves pawed restlessly at the turf. And one by one, the centaurlike denizens of Themis began drifting away, cantering back toward the cluster of hovels which was their capital city. Even the Thagwar seemed hesitant, uncertain. For a few minutes he tried to carry on like a bold, brave monarch. Then with a little whimper that sounded almost like a whinny, he picked up his bundle of loot and galloped away, too. Cap Hanson's jaw dropped like a wildcat stock in a bear market. "Well, I'll be!" he choked. "Now what?" But Biggs had been studying the sky. Now he frowned. "Night," he said. "Eh?" "Night," repeated Lanse, "or what passes for night on this peculiar little satellite. You see, Themis doesn't revolve on its axis, therefore it has no night or daytime as we on Earth know those periods. And, of course, since it travels about its primary so swiftly, and since Saturn itself emits so strong a _gegenschein_, occultation by the mother planet doesn't create perfect darkness. "But Themis' invisible little companion swings about Themis. And whenever it comes between this world and the Sun a dark period ensues. I should judge we are about to experience one right now. Yes—see? It is beginning to get dark." "You mean," stormed Hanson, "everything's called off on account of darkness? The pact ain't goin' to be signed?" "Apparently not," admitted Lanse ruefully. "Almost all aboriginal races have a deep dread of darkness, you know. Well—" He shrugged—"there's no sense in our waiting out here until the "night' period ends. We might as well go back to the ship and be comfortable." So we did. Fortunately, the phony "night" didn't last long. Fortunately for me, I mean. Because as soon as we got to the ship, Lanse pranced along with me up to the radio turret, and there pestered the living bejabbers out of me to try to get some word from Earth. But that was strictly no go. My audio was humming like a tenor in a tepid shower. Static galore. But at last the invisible barrier cutting us off from Sol's light slipped away, and once again we marched out onto the soil of Themis. Marched out? Huh! This time we sauntered out. We were feeling very carefree and confident, you see, that everything was hunky-dory. Why not? We had been on the verge of signing the new peace pact when darkness interrupted us.... That blind, trusting confidence almost cost us our lives! The Themisites were again gathered around our ship. But when we stepped from the airlock—we stepped out into a hail of lethal fury! ~ It was a good break for us that the Themisites had no modern weapons. A couple of Haemholtz pistols in the paws of capable users, or even one .54 millimetre rotor, and yours truly wouldn't be here to chronicle the ensuing events. But the four-legged scoundrels' armaments were fortunately on the barbaric side. Stones and cudgels, crudely forged spears, incompetently carven bows and arrows that were as inaccurate as a real estate agent's descriptions ... these were the weapons with which we were assailed. Cap Hanson caught a nice sized chunk of rock amidships, and one of the crewmen had his shoulder opened up by a wobbling spear, but those were our only casualties. Above the hub-bub and furore—the Themisites were howling like a mob of unleashed demons—Lanse cried, "_Back into the ship, quickly!_" Which was a command requiring no repeat performance. For the next three seconds the airlock port looked like Bargain Day at the Girdle Counter. Then we were all inside once more, safe at home but sore as a student equestrian's coccyx. The Old Man bellowed, "Unlatch the rotors! Treacherous villains, I'll learn "em to attack Earthmen! We'll blast them clean off the face of their nasty, sneakin' little globe, the good-for-nothin' horses—" But Lanse said, "No, Dad—please! Wait a while!" "Wait? What for?" "There's something distinctly unusual about this," pondered Lancelot gravely. "A few hours ago they were friendly; now they are screaming for our blood. I don't understand it. But you know my motto: "_Get the theory first!_' If I can learn _why_ they changed so abruptly—" "What difference does it make why they changed? They did, didn't they? That's all that counts—" "No, Dad. The important thing is not to overwhelm the Themisites, beat them into submission. It is to settle our differences for all time, establish an enduring peace—" He turned to me—"Sparks, get on the wire, will you? I want a complete report from Earth on the previous peace treaties signed with Themis. Who signed them ... when ... under what circumstances ... everything we can learn." "O.Q.," I said. "It's your business. But my money bets on the Skipper's plan. "Civilize "em with a gun' is _my_ motto." Biggs shook his ungainly head disapprovingly. "That form of reasoning," he declared, "died with the dictatorships. Now, get on the key, Sparks. And, oh—while you're at it, see if there's any news from Diane, will you?" He was a very anxious looking gent. And no wonder. ~ Well, after that tempus fidgeted, as it has a habit of doing, the static had cleared, and I established contact with Joe Marlowe at Lunar III. He said he'd try to scare up the info I wanted, but it might take time. I told him to go ahead; I had more time on my hands than a professional watch repairer. So we dillied and dallied, and after a while back he came, loaded with more facts than Mr. Britannica put in his encyclopedia. The Themis situation, it seemed, was plenty complex. The first peace pact had been signed eight months ago between the Thagwar of Themis and the Solar Space Cruiser, _Ajax_, Col. A. R. Prentiss commanding. Swell! Only two weeks later the Themisites had murdered in cold blood an agent sent there by the Cosmic Corporation to set up a trading post! The S.S.P. had sent a second expedition. This party reported hostile reception. Then, after a whole day wasted in attempting to get in touch with the Thagwar, the Themisites had suddenly turned friendly—and signed a second treaty. This one had lasted exactly four days. It was busted when the quadrupeds dittoed the craniums of a party of miners who dropped gravs for fresh water supplies! Why go on? Expeditions Three, Four, Five and Six had all followed the same pattern ... an agreeable understanding followed by a swift kick in the nose. Our experience was no novelty; we were just number Seven on the Themisite hit-and-run parade. "In view of the circumstances," Joe Marlowe wound up his report, "the authorities here suggest that Captain Hanson get the situation in hand and get the situation in hand and get the situation in hand and get the situation—" I cut in on him—but quick! "Hold everything!" I shot back. "Let's play like he now has the situation in hand. What happens next?" "Let him contact the Thagwar of Themis," bugged Marlowe, "and contact the Thagwar of Themis and contact the Thagwar of Themis and contact—" Biggs was in the turret with me. He can read code almost as well as I can. He stared at me curiously. "What's the matter, Sparks?" "Don't ask me," I retorted. "I only work here. It sounds like Marlowe's developed a bad case of digital hiccups! Oh, well, we've got the information we wanted, anyhow. I'll sign off." So I did. Biggs asked, "And—and Diane?" "No word yet. Joe will let us know. The circuit's still open. Well, you've heard the report. What do you make of it?" Biggs said slowly, "I don't know, Sparks. It's very peculiar. I'll have to think it over—_Yes? What is it?_" He spoke this last to the wall audio which had come to life. Cap Hanson answered from the bridge. "Lanse, are you there, son? Listen, come up to the bridge right away, will you?" Swift apprehension tightened Biggs' features. "What's the matter? The Themisites getting violent? They're not attacking the ship?" Hanson groaned like the guest artist at a seance. "Just the opposite! Another of them phony "nights' has passed outside since you two've been fiddlin' around up there. Now it's daylight again ... and there's a mob of Themisites gathered around outside ... _wavin' banners and peltin' the_ Saturn _with flowers_! The Thagwar has just sent a messenger biddin' us friendly welcome to Themis!" ~ "Great growling guttersnipes!" I spluttered, "What's this all about? One minute they want to kill and boo ... the next they want to bill and coo! Why don't they make up their minds?" "Probably," decided the skipper, "because they ain't got none. Lanse—?" "We can't learn anything," said Biggs quietly, "in here. Let's go outside." So for the third time in as many Themisian "days', out we pranced, to be greeted by such hooraw and ballyhoo as you never saw. Those same centaurs who, a few short Earthly hours ago had been aiming lethal presents at our kissers were now aiming kisses at our presence! Their leader pranced forward gracefully and made a low bow before Cap Hanson. "Greetings, Oh child of the Blue World!" he intoned. "As Thagwar of Themis I bid you welcome to our peace-loving little planet—" "Th-thanks!" said the Old Man, and looked bewildered. "Lanse, son, suppose you—?" But Lanse was staring curiously at the speaker. He nudged me and whispered, "Sparks, study the Thagwar! Do you notice anything ... well ... _strange_ about him?" "Sure!" I assented. "He looks like a veterinarian's mistake; is that what you mean? If it's the color of his eyes you're worrying about, you'd better ask somebody else. These Themisites all look the same to me. Like peas from the same pot." "That's not what I meant," whispered Biggs. "What strikes me as being odd is that ... remember how proud he was of those ornaments we gave him before the "night' period set in? He had himself all decked out like a Christmas tree. But now look at him! Not a single decoration!" "Maybe," I suggested, "he's allergic to tin?" "And on the other hand," mused Biggs, "_that_ Themisite over there is wearing a bracelet and a brass curtain rod in his nose—" He was perfectly right. The big boss of Themis was as barren of trinkets as a Pilgrim father. But standing in the background was one of his henchmen glittering like gilt on a joy-joint bar! It was whacky. The Thagwar didn't look to me like the kind of guy—or hoss—who would donate his "tribute" to a subject. "There's something fishy about this," I said. "Ask him how come, Lanse ... just for the halibut." "I will," said Biggs, and stepped forward to do so. But before he could pop the question, the Thagwar spoke up. "Peace," he said hoarsely—no pun intended, pals! Lay down them bricks!—"Peace between your people and mine. And now—did you bring the usual tribute?" "Usual tribute!" repeated the Old Man starkly. "Of course we did! We give it to you yesterday, you rascally old scoundrel. What's the big idea of—?" The Thagwar's eyes darkened, and he pawed the ground fretfully. "That is a mistake, Earthman! You gave me nothing!" "Wha-a-at! A whole darn caseful of—" "You gave me," repeated the Thagwar with increasing ominousness, "nothing! You offered a few baubles to the _old_ Thagwar, possibly—" Cap Hanson groaned and turned agonized eyes to his son-in-law. "Ain't that something, now! Another revolution! Now we got to pay off twice!" Lanse nodded soberly. "I suspected something like that. Yes, I'm afraid we must, Dad. Tomkins ... Splicer...." ~ He called to two of the crew. So we had to do it again. Go through the same old rigmarole. I'll spare you the details this time, since they were the same as before. We donated, the Thagwar accepted, then we started talking peace-terms. The pact was presented, the Thagwar studied it and this time—fortunately—succeeded in stamping it with his official O.Q. before Themis' invisible moon brought night again. So at last our job was accomplished. As we entered the ship, Cap Hanson was jubilant. "Thank goodness _that's_ done!" he sighed happily. "And now—back to Earth! And Diane—" Biggs' Adam's-apple bobbled convulsively in his lean throat. "I—er—I think we'd better wait just a little while longer, Dad," he said mildly. "Wait? What for? We got the peace pact signed." "I know. But don't forget, that's only the eighth in a long series of such "peace pacts." We'd better stick around a little while and see if they live up to it." "Stick around a while! How long?" Lanse glanced through the quartzite viewpanes and said, "Not long. Because—see? It's night again." "Night! What's night got to do with it?" "That," said Lanse seriously, "is just what _I_ want to know. If I could only get the theory straight in my mind I might have the answer. Sparks—" He turned to me—"turn on the telaudio. Let's see if we can't get some word—" So I did, but there was nothing cooking. The circuit was as cold as a divorcee's kiss. And that was bad, because Biggs was growing nervouser and nervouser by the minute. He wanted to get back to Earth so bad he could taste it. But that's Biggs for you. Thorough and painstaking if he undertakes a thing. And he wasn't going to leave Themis until he knew this situation was completely cleared up. But at last the darkness outside began to lift, and Cap Hanson fidgeted. "Well, here's what you were waitin' for, boy. Now what?" "Now," said Biggs, "we see what happens. Are they coming back from their city?" They were. The Themisites were galloping across the plains toward the _Saturn_ again. They were the romping, roamingest bunch of mavericks I ever saw. "Yup!" I said. "And—and their attitude?" "Friendly, of course!" snorted the skipper. "Why shouldn't they be? Didn't we just sign a peace treaty with them? Lanse, I don't know what's ailin' you! You—" He never finished his denunciation of Biggs. For at that moment the oncoming Themisites hove within hurling distance—and started hurling! Only this time it was not, as it had been a short while before, flowers. This time their expressions of "everlasting peace and affection" were offered with—_stones, arrows, and spears_! ~ Well, Hanson's roar of rage threatened to lift the top clean off the control turret. "Dastards!" he screamed. "Vandals, murderers and things that rhyme with what I first called "em! This is all I'm goin' to take from them four-legged scoundrels. Call up the men, Sparks! Tell "em to man the guns! We're goin' to blast them murderin' skunks from here to Kingdom Come—" "Wait, Dad!" pleaded Biggs feverishly. "I think I'm beginning to understand—faintly. If you'll give me just a little more time—" "Time your Aunt Nellie! I've done all the delayin' I'm goin' to—" It was at that moment the telaudio, which I had set to vocode any message which came in on the Luna circuit, began squawking. It was faint at first, and sort of garbled, with lots of static, but it cleared as it went along. "Lieutenant Lancelot Biggs," it called, "aboard the _Saturn_—congratulations! You are the father of a fine baby boy!" "B-b-b-boy!" gasped Biggs. His face turned every color in the spectrum, and a couple that haven't been invented yet. "A—a boy!" "_Yippee!_" howled the Old Man, his thoughts of vengeance on the Themisites temporarily forgotten. "A grandson! I'm a grampaw! _Yippee!_" "Congratulations, Lanse!" I said. "A boy, eh? Swell! Another Biggs in space, one of these days—" "S-s-see if you can get Earth, Sparks," chattered Biggs. "F-f-find out how Diane is." "Right!" I snapped. "I'll get at it immediately." I started for the radio room. But before I had taken two steps the audio began talking again. "Lieutenant Lancelot Biggs," it called, "aboard the _Saturn_—congratulations! You are the father of a fine baby boy!" My face sort of blanched. I turned to Biggs. "Congratulations," I offered, "again, Lanse! Golly—_two_ boys!" Hanson demanded, "Whaddya mean, two boys! That's a repeat message, you dope!" Lanse smiled sort of feebly. "I—I'm afraid not, Dad," he said. "If it were a repeat message, Marlowe would have said, "Repeat." Sparks is right. I—I'm the father of twins!" "Well, I'll be darned!" ejaculated the Old Man. Then, rallying, "Twins, eh? Good! That makes me _two_ grampaws, eh? Fine! I'm twice as gla—" He stopped, his jaw dropping strickenly. For again Joe Marlowe's voice was rolling through the control turret. "Lieutenant Lancelot Biggs," it called, "aboard the _Saturn_—congratulations! You are the father of a fine baby boy—" "G-g-gracious!" gasped Biggs, and fell into a chair. "_Triplets!_" ~ This time I addressed myself to Hanson. "Congratulations, Skipper," I said. "Now you're _three_ grampaws. If Diane keeps _this_ up, you'll be able to man a whole cruiser." The Old Man's face was fiery. "Now, hold everything!" he stormed. "This is goin' too far! Diane don't have to overdo it, just because we're not there! There's such a thing as—_Triplets_! I won't allow it!" "What's the matter," I grinned at him, "afraid of the Three Little Biggs, Skipper. Don't be a big bad wolf!" But even _I_ didn't think it was funny when, at that moment, Joe Marlowe's familiar tones rolled through the room _again_. "Lieutenant Lancelot Biggs," he called, "aboard the _Saturn_—congratulations! You are the father of a fine baby boy—" "Gosh!" I gulped. "This is turning into a parade!" Cap Hanson's face was a study in technicolor. His jowls were dangling to his third weskit button. But oddly enough, at this third dire pronouncement, Lancelot Biggs did not even wince. Instead, his eyes brightened; he rose from the chair into which, a moment before, he had tumbled. "No!" he yelled. "Not a parade—a solution!" "Huh?" I gaped at him. "Solution to what? The unemployment problem?" "No, Sparks! All our troubles! Quadruplets? No! Triplets? No! Twins? No, not even that! Just one baby!" "Y-you mean," I asked him, "that's a repeat message? But, Lanse, you know as well as I do Joe would have announced it as a repeat—" "Certainly. But what we're hearing is the same message over and over again!" "Huh!" Hanson forced the query, new hope in every wrinkle of his brow. "Yes. Remember how Marlowe's orders got grooved before, Sparks? Well, this is some more of the same thing! I know _why_, too. And I _also_ know why we've been having so much trouble with the Themisites!" "Y-you do? Why?" "The moon! The invisible moon—that's the answer! Tell me, Sparks—what sort of things are invisible?" "Why?" I stammered, "dark things seen against a dark background ... light things seen against a light background ... objects marked with protective coloration...." "And _transparent_ things!" chortled Biggs. "Transparent things with just sufficient mass to cause refraction of light! That's what Themis' moon is made of! Pure, unadulterated galena in its natural form is a colorless, transparent substance, sufficiently opaque to occult Themis, but also with enough mass to refract normal light rays! And galena is—" "I get it!" I hollered. "A natural wave-trap for radio transmission. Back in the early days of the Twentieth Century, galena was the substance used in the manufacture of experimental so-called "crystal sets'!" "By golly, you're right, Lanse! That satellite is large enough to capture and retain a record of Joe Marlowe's voice, and as it revolves it keeps re-transmitting it to us over and over again—" "Lieutenant Lancelot Biggs," repeated the voice of Marlowe—"aboard the _Saturn_—congratulations! You are the father of a fine baby boy!" "—like that!" said Biggs. "Yes! Notice how Joe's voice always catches a little just before he says "congratulations'? It's been the same fault every time." "O.Q.," broke in the Old Man. "Maybe you're right. You usually are. But what's that got to do with the way the Themisites keeps changin' their attitude towards us? Don't tell me they got galena in their veins?" ~ Biggs shook his head firmly. "No, that's another question entirely. But it can be solved by the same theory." "Huh?" "Twins!" said Biggs. "Or, rather, multiple rulers! Sparks, you said you couldn't tell the difference between one Themisite and another—" "That's right." "Neither can I. Neither can any Earthman. That's why we've been unable to understand their psychology and—more important still—their form of government." "Government!" burst in the Old Man. "Now he talks about government. What's that got to do with—" "Why," explained Lancelot, "everything! The Themisites have one of the rarest forms of self-rule known. But one which early in the Greek civilization had its counterpart on earth. You see, they are an _omnigarchy_!" "A who-ni-whichy?" I choked. "Omnigarchy! From the Latin base _omni-_, meaning all! You see, on this world—everyone takes his turn at being Thagwar! Every day a new Themisite becomes master over his brethren until the next "night' period. That is why the Thagwar we signed our pact with today denied having received any gifts. He told the truth. We had given our tributes to the Thagwar of the preceding day. "That is—must be!—also why peace pacts have been broken with such regularity. Each succeeding Thagwar feels he, being now ruler, is entitled to a share of the "spoils' that go with the signing of a treaty—and being not obligated to uphold the signature of a deposed Thagwar leads a movement against colonists in an effort to win his rights. The individual natures of these Thagwars dictates the form of movement. If the Thagwar is a naturally peace-loving creature he comes with soft words and flowers; if he is a brutal type, he attempts to take his tribute by force." I demanded wildly, "But—but how the dickens are we ever going to form a permanent treaty with a race that changes rulers once a day? Especially when a Themisian day is only a couple of Earth hours?" Biggs shrugged. "That," he declaimed, "is not our problem, but that of the Interplanetary Union. My private opinion is that, since Themis has a limited population, the best way to assure peace would be to buy over every single Themisite. Of course, that means a terrific initial expenditure, but—" "But," said the Old Man, "we've done what we was sent here for. We signed a peace pact—which ain't worth the paper it's printed on—and we found out why all former treaties was failures. So if you ask me, the best thing we can do is git out of here before one of them periodic Thagwars, smarter than the rest, discovers a way to wreck our ship. What say, son?" "That," nodded Biggs, "would be my idea, too. Our task is finished; we'll leave it to the Space Patrolmen to figure out the rest. Come on, Dad—let's lift gravs for home and Lancelot, Junior!" "For Lance—!" The Old Man frowned. "Oh, no! No more silly names like that in our family. That young man's name is gonna be Waldemar—after me!" "Lancelot!" said Lancelot stubbornly. "Waldemar!" said Waldemar Hanson the same way. "Lancelot!" "Waldemar!" ~ So we all went home and met Christopher Biggs. Only trouble with those two shipmates of mine is that they forgot Diane Hanson, who, being the daughter of Waldemar and the wife of Lancelot, has a stubborn streak of her own. Kit Biggs weighed seven pounds and eight ounces. He and his mother are both doing fine, thanks. Biggs is doing O.Q., too. He's got a new title now. Around his home, that is. He's First Mate in Charge of the Three-Cornered Pants Department. But—what do you expect? After all, life is just one damp thing after another.... THE END
221	--- author: Nelson S. Bond tags: 'New York, NY: Ziff-Davis Publishing Company, 1940., Science fiction, Time travel, Fiction, Space ships' title: The Scientific Pioneer Returns summary: ' "The Scientific Pioneer Returns" by Nelson S. Bond is a science fiction narrative written in the early 20th century. The story features a mix of humor and adventure as it follows the character Lancelot Biggs, who, alongside his friend Horse-sense Hank Cleaver, navigates the perplexities of time travel and strange disappearances at Midland University. The book engages with themes of fate, the potential of scientific discovery, and the intertwining of past and future. The plot unfolds from a series of mysterious vanishings of university faculty members, leading to a frantic search by Blakeson, a publicity expert. He ultimately recruits Hank Cleaver, a seemingly simple yet remarkably insightful farmer with an uncanny knack for fixing problems. As they delve into the mystery, they face unexpected phenomena that propel them into the future aboard the space freighter, the Saturn. Characters from both the present and future clash, and they discover a malfunctioning speed accelerator has hurled them into a bizarre universe where normal physical laws are inverted. The narrative culminates in a race against time and fate as Hank devises a clever solution, ultimately saving all involved and revealing connections to future generations. ' word_count: 10143 fiction_type: Short Story ... # The Scientific Pioneer Returns This sounds silly. At half past three on a Tuesday afternoon, in broad daylight, Professor Hallowell of the Midland University physics department left Jurnegan Hall, walked down a campus path clogged to the gutters with students—and disappeared into thin air. This sounds even sillier. At nine-fifteen the next Friday morning, Travis Tomkins, chief technician of Midland's new observatory, stepped to the platform of Old Main to speak before an attentive crowd of twelve hundred undergraduates—and vanished before their eyes! But this sounds silliest. H. Logan MacDowell, fat, fifty, feverish, and president of our institute of (alleged) learning, came to _me_ about it! He came on the run. That is, he came at a brisk, lurching shamble. Which is, to him, the equivalent of a Cunningham four-minute mile. He collapsed on my studio couch, gasped and panted like the White King for a minute, then wheezed out a strangled plea. "Blakeson, you—you've got to do something!" I looked at his gaping mouth and bulging eyes, and nodded. "Right!" I remembered. "I've got to rewind my bass rod and see that the reel is oiled. They'll be running in a week or so." "No, you impertinent young snippet! I mean, you've got to do something about these mysterious disappearances." I laughed right out loud. I bared my arms frankly. I said, "Grab a look, Prexy! Nothing up the right sleeve; nothing up the left sleeve. I didn't snatch your pedagogues. After all, just because certain members of the faculty find it expedient to take a powder—" "A what?" "Powder," I repeated. "Can't you understand plain English? To lift one's feet. Scram. Blow. Take it on the lam. Sweet whistleberries, Doc, I'm not something from the "FOLLOW THAT MAN!" advertisements. I'm just the publicity expert for this football-team-with-a-campus. If you want to learn what happened to Hallowell and Tomkins, why don't you get a dick?" His jowls sagged to his breastbone. He said in an anguished tone, "I suppose that means a detective? I did hire one." "Well? And what did he find out? Aside from the well-known facts that Hallowell was carrying the torch for a red-headed senior, and Tomkins was up to his zipper in debt? Did he dig up any clues? Footprints? Blunt instruments, or ashes with rare cigarettes dangling on the end of them?" "He didn't," said H. Logan in a hollow voice, "find anything, Blakeson. _He_ disappeared, too!" ~ I said, "Oh-oh!" Which was inadequate, but it was all I could think of at the moment. "That's bad. It must be contagious. But where do I fit into the picture? Why ask me to do something?" H. Logan wrestled with his scruples for a long and difficult moment. Then, suddenly, "Cleaver!" he blurted. "Where is that man?" Merely saying the name cost him an effort. And why not? Hank Cleaver was the one soul whose amiable meanderings, crossing the life-path of H. Logan MacDowell, had interrupted the smooth flow of traffic along that broad highway, torn up the roadbed, and sprinkled tar and gravel along the right-of-way. The common-sense genius of Hank Cleaver had made MacDowell look like a cross between a baboon and a stuffed shirt, with the baboon getting the worst of the bargain. Then, to cap the climax, Hank had handed Prexy's daughter the jilt, leaving sweet Helen high and dry at the altar when he returned to his beloved cabbage patch on his farm. To say that MacDowell was unfond of Cleaver would be like saying that nice people disapprove of _Herr_ Hitler. About the campus it was commonly rumored that the president of Midland had a little China doll into which, each midnight, he jabbed many red hot needles. The plaything wore coveralls and bulldog shoes, just like Hank Cleaver! I said, "So you're going to call in "Horse-sense' Hank." "Don't talk about him!" growled MacDowell savagely. "Find him! If we don't solve this mystery soon, we're going to have F.B.I. men romping all over our campus. The reputation of glorious Midland will be ruined. Our noble banners, heretofore untouched by the faintest breath of scandal—" "Okay!" I said hastily. "Save that for the Alumni Banquet. I'll see what I can do, Doc." He left, making noises like a sizzling steak. And I got on the phone. But the results were strictly stinko. I grabbed a blank on my first call. The local operator at Westville intoned, "No, puh-lease! Sor-ree, puh-lease! There is no telephone listed under the name of "Gleeber'—" "Back up," I snorted, "and start over. Look, Sis! "C' as in cuckoo; "l' as in lunkhead, "e' as in—" "Oh, is that you, Mr. Blakeson?" she chirruped. "I knew you by the description." Ouch! "I'm sorry I can't connect you with Mr. Cleaver. Do you want to talk to Mr. Hawkins?" "Yeah," I said. "Gimme." Hawkins was the amateur star-gazer working in Westville as a lay member of the Midland observatory staff. He owed his reputation to Hank and his income to me. But he turned out to be a perfect bust, and I don't mean the Venus de Milo. He said, "Hank Cleaver? No, Jim, I haven't seen him for—oh, several days. I don't know where he is. But why do you want him? What's the matter? Is anything wrong?" "Is anything," I countered, "right? Look, Hawkins, take a run out to his farm. Find Hank and tell him I've got to see him immedi—Who's there?" "Nobody," said Hawkins querulously, "but our party-line subscribers. They're always listening in. What's ailing you, Jim?" "I wasn't talking to you. There's somebody at the door of my apartment. Who's there?" I bawled again. No answer. So I said to Hawkins, "Well—do what I say. Find Cleaver. Tell him I've got to see him immediately, if not sooner. And let me know the minute you find him. So long—Oh, _wait_ a minute, can't you?" I hung up and stormed to the door, my foot itching to bury itself in the southern exposure of a salesman facing north. I flung it open, yelled, "No, I don't want some! Go peddle your damn junk somewhere else—" And then my jaw hit the top button of my vest. "Hank!" "Hyah, Jim!" said Horse-sense Hank. ~ Big as life and twice as natural. There's only one Horse-sense Hank Cleaver. When they poured him, they laughed so hard they dropped the mold and broke it. Tall and gangly, so thin of cheek that the cud which constantly caresses his bicuspids sticks out like a cue-ball; tow-colored ravelings of hair waving experimentally in all directions; raw-boned of wrist; eyes mild and incurious as those of a heifer—that is my pal, Hank Cleaver. I clapped him on the back and dragged him, by main force, into my apartment. "Golly, guy, I'm glad to see you! You're looking a million. Do you know, I've been slaving like a census-taker to find you? I've called Westville, and—" "I figgered," said Hank mildly, "as how you might be." The wind whooshed out of my sails. "You," I gulped, "did?" "Mmm-hmm. Heard a feller say as how there'd been funny goin's-on down thisaway. Thought to myself, "Well, now, Hank, "pears like fust thing you know, ol' Jim'll be needin' a mite o' help, so you better hump along an' give him a lift. So I come, and—" He beamed. "Here I am!" "Yes," I said weakly. "Here you are." Dammit, I don't know why I should have been surprised. Especially after having lived under the same roof as this gawky genius for three solid months. But as ever, it utterly confounded me to realize that Hank's thought processes were so simple, so altogether down-to-earth and natural, that he invariably did the right thing at the right time. I said, "And a mighty good thing you came, too. But your turnips, Hank? How—" He shook his head dolefully. Turnip growing was Hank's one and only obsession. "Turnips," he grimaced, "is hell. It don't matter how you plant "em, or where, or when, or what you do—they don't never act like you'd expect "em to. I plant "em wide, I plant "em close; I plant "em in cuts an' slips an' seeds; I plant "em yeller, white an' mottled. I water "em an' potash "em an' treat "em like babies—an' I _still_ can't make "em behave!" He wedged a bulldog-tipped toe into the rug and looked at me from under his bushy brows. "Helen?" he asked. "How's Helen?" "Iroquois!" I told him grimly. "Come again?" "After your scalp. Didn't you ever hear the adage about Satan's old homestead having no fury like a woman left out on the limb? If you bump into Helen MacDowell, pal, you better fly, not run, to the nearest cavern." Hank cracked his knuckles in misery. "Couldn't do nothin' else, Jim. Couldn't marry her. "T'warn't logical." "So," I reminded him, "aren't females. But never mind that, Hank. Let's get down to brass tacks. The reason I wanted to see you—" "I know. About the way them men's been disappearin'," he said. He rose and walked to my radio set. "'Pears like you oughta have this turned on. With all the trouble, seems like you'd be listenin' for news bulletins." "It's busted," I said. "It hasn't worked for weeks." ~ "No?" He shifted it around, peered into the maze of coils, tubes, wires and utter incomprehensibles that comprise a modern radio set. "Hmm. Never see'd the innards o' one o' these things afore. Interestin', ain't it?" His lean fingers began weaving among the gleaming entrails. A tiny crease appeared over his right eye. He muttered as he pushed and jiggled and explored. "This one goes there; that one goes _there_. "Pears like—Well, I'll be durned!" Something clicked, and his fingers made a twisting motion. He grinned at me. "How d'you make "er talk, Jim?" "She doesn't. She's a deaf mute. But that vernier on the left—" He turned it. My long-silent radio went, "_Phweeee-gwobble-gwobble!_"—and became coherent. Strains of hot jive assaulted my eardrums. I moaned. "Hank, do you know everything? The repairman who looked at it said it would never work again. He said—" "He jest wanted to sell you a new one," consoled my friend. "I kinda figgered as how adjustin' that little hunk o' metal would fix it. You see—" But I never got to see. For at that moment my eyes went wobbly all of a sudden. Out of nowhere came a brilliant light, flooding the room with blinding intensity. There was no sound; just that sharp, bright glare—and my arms tingled with a sort of electric vibration. And as I blinked, the light coalesced into a form! It was, roughly, the form of a man—and from where its head should be there came a strange, strained, hollow voice. "_Ombiggs!_" Then the light flickered, and was gone, and with it was gone the voice and the last vestige of my self-control. I let loose one squawk—out loud!—and dived for the darkness and comparative security of the region under the couch! Not so Hank. He stood stockstill in the middle of the floor. I yelled at him, "Hank, did _you_ do that? Did you touch something on the radio?" There was a faint, puzzled look on his face. "Nope, Jim. I didn't do nothin'. Did you see him, too?" "I saw him. Whoever he was. But who—how?" "I dunno." Slowly. "Leastwise, the only thing I can think of is so durn unlikely—Hey, listen!" The radio music had stopped suddenly. The voice of the announcer was clear, crisp, ominous. "Ladies and gentlemen, we interrupt this program of dance music to bring you a special bulletin. _Flash!_ Midland University campus. Dr. H. Logan MacDowell, president of this institution, vanished suddenly five minutes ago from the midst of a group of friends gathered at his home to discuss two similar occurrences at Midland within the past week. "Police efforts to solve the mystery were hampered by the ensuing panic. A diabolic plot against the persons of eminent American educators is feared by observers—" The rest was lost to us. Frenzied footsteps beat a tappity-tappity path to the door of my apartment, and nervous hands beat wooden panels. A sweet, familiar voice, now high-pitched in fright, cried, "Jim! Jim Blakeson! Quick—" The door and sheer courage were all that sustained her. As I opened the first, the second gave out. And Helen MacDowell moaned gently and collapsed into my arms! # CHAPTER II Unexpected Journey I yelled, "Get some water, Hank! And some brandy!" I carried her to the studio lounge. Hank came back with two glasses. I gulped the brandy swiftly, and held the water to her lips. Pretty soon she spluttered, pushed the glass away, and opened her eyes. "Oh, Jim! The most dreadful thing has happened to daddy. We—_You_!" Hank swallowed convulsively and essayed a grin. "'Lo, Helen." Helen MacDowell's fingers made motions like shears on a rampage. Her eyes roved. She asked thoughtfully, "Jim, where's that paperknife you used to have? The long one? I'm going to stab somebody in the back!" "Look, sugar," I pleaded, "Hank's come to help us. We have more important things to worry about now than your injured ego. After we've cleared up this trouble, you can have him alone in a dark room for ten minutes—" "Is that," she demanded fretfully, "a promise?" But her bitterness subsided; anxiety rekindled in her eyes. That, and the recollection of a shocking moment. "Daddy disappeared, Jim! Right from the middle of a group. He was standing at my side; his shoulder was almost touching mine. Then all of a sudden—he was gone! Like that!" Under any other circumstances, I would have guessed that the old wind-bag had finally blown up and drifted away. But there was precedent now for his Houdini act. One with sinister overtones. Three men and an animated gumshoe detective had vanished. But I said, in a voice that I hoped wouldn't sound too much like a dish of unchilled tapioca, "Now, don't worry, Helen. Everything's going to be all right. There must be a logical explanation for this. Hank's just the man to—" And then—there it was again! A blinding flash of light. A weird vibrancy tingling my body, drawing taut the tiny hairs of my forearms and neck. Light motes dancing giddily before my eyes, coalescing to form the figure of a man. A wavering, mobile figure, from the uppermost nebulosity of which emanated a piteous, hollow voice. "_Skleeva! Skleeva_—" Then a swift, dulled paling of the light. Burning white tarnished into red-ochre, red-ochre brazened, the green palpitated to a deep blue-indigo. The figure before my eyes took on form and substance. I saw with a sense of stark disbelief it was tall and lanky as Hank himself, that it wore a uniform of some sort, that its eyes were not unfriendly but haggard and despairing. And then, "_Ombiggs!_" wailed our impossible visitor. "_Ombiggs! Skleeva?_" And vanished! I stood still. Very, very still It was not courage. It was rivets in the soles of my feet. My brain clamored, "Go, boys, go!" But my knees were clattering and banging like the fenders of a T-model Ford. ~ Helen wasn't much better off. Her eyes looked like a pair of sealed-beam headlights, and the most intelligent sound she could summon was a faint, plaintive, "Oooooh!" Only Hank retained an iota of self-control. And to tell the truth, his comment was far from enlightening. "Well!" he said. "So _that's_ it!" "What's what?" I asked him shakily. My paralysis was slipping away, and I prepared to do ditto. "Friends, did you see what I saw? Or has the little brown jug finally done what the Temperance Society told me it would do some day?" Hank said, "Now, Jim! It ain't like you to act so. "Specially when we've reached what you might call a crooshul moment. Hmm! Now, lemme see. You folks seen him most plain when he was what color? Blue?" "Sort of. Bluish-green." Helen said, "Greenish-blue." "That's near enough," mused Hank. "That'd be—Hmmm!—"bout .0005 millimetres. I'll tell him that when he comes back—" "_When he comes back?_" "Why sure!" Hank stared at me amiably. "He'll be back any minute now. He done a lot better this time than the first, don't you think? Next time he'll probably get what he wants." "And," I faltered, "and I suppose you know what that is?" "Reckon I do," said Hank complacently. "He wants _me_." I gave up trying. My brain was in a muddle, anyway. I said, "All right, Hank. You win. Now get down to straight facts. Who _is_ he, _where_ did he come from, _why_ does he want you, _how_ do you know he does, and _what_ is this all about?" Hank shifted uncomfortably. "Well, now, Jim, that's a powerful lot of questions at one lump. Dunno's I can answer "em all—yet. Hafta talk to him first, o' course, but as near as I can figger, here's the set-up. "That guy ain't from our time. He's from some time which ain't come yet. The future, so to speak. I don't know his name, "cause he didn't speak very clear, but I know who he wants "cause he said me." Helen said dazedly, "He _said_—" "'Where's Cleaver?"" explained Hank. "Oh, it wasn't very clear. He was all excited. But that's what he meant, I reckon." I swallowed hard and wished the goose pimples would get off my hide. "You mean," I said, "he's coming back out of future time to talk to you?" "Seems as if. More like, he'll want to take me with him," Hank said calmly. "What! But, Hank, that would be awful! You mustn't allow anything like that—" Hank said bluntly, "You want I should find out where Helen's old man is, don't you? And them two puffessors? Way I figger, Jim, there must be somethin' awful drastic goin' on there in the future. Somethin' so bad, it's got "em all upset an' they're back-draggin' the past for me. By accident, they musta got Hallowell an' Tomkins an' Helen's pop. I've got to get over there an' find out what's the trouble—Here it is!" ~ For an instant there had flickered again that ray of light. Hank warned hastily, "You two stand back out o' the way! Keep calm an' don't worry. I'll be back directly." He stepped into the middle of the room as the bright, golden light suddenly flamed anew. He lifted his voice. "Point oh-oh-oh-five, friend. Or thereabout—" And the light changed. Slid swiftly down the wavelengths again to that hue most favorable. The figure appeared, this time firm, unwavering. It was the face and figure of a man remarkably like Hank Cleaver himself; a young man, serious-eyed, hopeful of voice. "Cleaver?" he cried. "You Cleaver?" Hank nodded. "Mmm-hmm. I'm him." "Come!" said the young man. "Come, Hank Cleaver." He held out his hand. And Hank stepped forward into the blaze of pallid, green-blue light. Which was just one too many for Helen MacDowell. A tiny groan escaped her lips. She tottered, pitched forward to Hank's shoulder. Hank turned worried eyes to me. "Grab her, Jim! Get her back before—" And I, too, leaped forward. I got my hands on Helen, started to pull her from that color-field. I was aware of the distant throbbing of some unknown machine, then of a swift, sudden shock. Great forces wrenched at my body. I felt as if I were being racked in a titanic tug-o'-war. There was an instant of frightful cold, another of giddy nausea, a sensation of wild, hurtling motion. Then blackness, soft, warm and impenetrable.... No, not impenetrable. For there was a light in my eyes, and my head was no longer swimming, and I was lying on something comfortable, and a friendly voice was saying, "Here you are, Buster. Drink this!" So why look a gift drink in the bottle? I drank it, and immediately felt warmer inside. And more confident, too. Until I lifted my head and looked about me. Then I let loose a howl that stretched from here to there, with reverberations. "Great galloping saints, where am I? No, don't say it! Let me guess. World's Fair?" My young companion looked puzzled. He was a decent-looking chap, except for that wild costume he was wearing. A sort of uniform, but it reminded me painfully of a Buck Rogers serial. Loose tunic and slacks, sky-blue, with a Sam Browne belt and a gun holster into which was jammed a weird-appearing weapon, all knobs and studs and buttons. "How?" he said. I said, "My—my friends? Where are they?" "They're up and around. You're the only fader." He grinned. "You must be allergic to electricity, huh?" I was still staring about me. The room was a humdinger. All metal and plastic and glass; a small cubicle about six by ten, with a single bunk (that on which I now sat, poised for flight) a desk, chair, porthole— Porthole! "So that's it!" I yipped. "Shanghaied!" ~ I made a dive for the porthole, pressed my nose to it, hoping that across the bounding blue I might see at least one faint ribbon of good old terra firma. But there was no land. There was no bounding blue. There weren't even any clouds or sky! There was—just gray. Wan, dismal gray that seemed to stretch into infinity! It was plain that I needed either one less drink or one more. I settled for the latter. A long, straight one. It snapped me hurriedly out of my speechlessness. "Not that it's any of my business," I said, "but it looks to me like there's nothing outside that porthole but a lot of gray emptiness." My companion nodded dolefully. "Yeah," he said, "I know. I've looked—and looked." "Where I come from, space usually has things stuffed inside it. So apparently I'm not there. Which being the case, would you mind telling me where the hell I _am_?" I demanded. He shook his head. "That's just it, Buster. We don't know." "You," I told him, "are a big help. Pass the bottle. Do you happen to know your own name?" "Yeah," he said. "Mud. It used to be Bert Donovan. I'm the radio operator aboard this ship." "Ship?" He was beginning to talk sense now. "Lugger, I should say. This is the _Saturn_, friend. IPS freight lugger, operating on the Earth-Mars shuttle. Or, anyhow, we _used_ to. _Till_ he got monkeying around with that new power drive of his—" "IPS?" I strangled. "Earth-Mars? _He?_" "Take it easy, friend. IPS—interplanetary space ship. Earth-Mars—round-trip route, originally. Navigator, Lancelot Biggs, the first mate. Didn't you know—" "Omigod!" I bleated. "Don't tell me, but I—we—all of us are in the _future_!" Donovan caught me as I was about to collapse and clapped me heartily on the back. I think it did more harm than good, but at least it brought me out of the fog. "Correct," he said unhappily. "We're off in the future—hmm—maybe two-three hundred years. Myself, I don't understand how the hell it happened, but—" At that moment a bell sounded. We turned to a hunk of square glass set in a side wall. It lighted, and a crusty-looking face scowled down on us, eyed me appraisingly. "Ah, so you've recovered, young man? Fine! Your friends are waiting here in the control turret. Sparks, come along up here. Mr. Biggs has called a general conference." The light dimmed. Sparks grinned at me languidly. "That's the Old Man. Cap Hanson. Well, let's go, Buster. The fireworks are about to begin." "The name," I told him, "is Blakeson. And how come the fireworks? Me no savvy." "You heard him say L. Biggs was in the control turret, no? That's the tip-off, Bust—" "Blakeson!" I said firmly. "Blakeson," he corrected. "Okay. Buster. Come on!" # CHAPTER III Lancelot Biggs' [sqrt](-1) Things moved so swiftly then that the series of surprises I received was practically one continuous blow. The walk through the _Saturn_ was a revelation in itself. Like the cabin in which I had awakened, the ship was all metal, glass and plastic. And a funny metal at that. It was hard, but it looked soft, if you know what I mean. Which I'm sure _I_ don't! The name of the metal, Donovan told me, was "permalloy." It was a special, non-conductive, something-or-other resistant alloy. "—invented," said Sparks, "around the end of the twentieth century." And he looked at me curiously. "Oh. I forgot. You wouldn't know about that, would you?" "Look," I said desperately. "Let me know when we get to the Psychopathic Ward, will you?" But he didn't get it. We walked down one ramp and up another, through an observation room, climbed a ladder, and finally ended in the room the skipper had called the "control turret." And what a place _that_ was! It looked like an overgrown cyclotron with a purpose. Huge, banked panels with studs on them, cryptic plates, coiled thingamajigs, mechanical what nots and doolollies all over. More guys in sky-blue uniforms. Bells tingling, television screens popping on and off at intervals.... "Interestin'," said a voice at my elbow, "ain't it?" And it was Hank, gulping and grinning and shaking my hand. "Kinda worried about you, Jim. You shouldn't ought to have allowed yourself to be drawed into the power-field." But seeing Hank had made me think of Helen; and now, looking for Helen, I found something that completed my mental collapse. Helen was standing shoulder to shoulder with—none other than her old man, himself, in person! And right behind H. Logan MacDowell stood the missing professors, Hallowell and Tomkins. And lurking behind them, looking more baffled—if possible—than myself, was an exceedingly disgruntled individual in a hard hat. The vanishing detective. I answered their nods weakly. Then I turned to Hank. "I give up, pal. What is it? The after-world? Or Old Home Week?" Hank said seriously, "Well, reckon as how you might call it the after-world, Jim. In a way. It's the world which is to be. But here comes the feller that can explain everything." For the door had opened, and in walked the chap whom we had seen thrice in my apartment, the effervescent spirit of electricity, the blue-green mystic, the first mate of the _Saturn_—Lancelot Biggs! ~ Did I say "walked?" Excuse it, please. What he did with his feet could never, by the wildest stretch of the imagination, be called walking. Oh, he progressed forward, yes—but there are no words to describe his locomotion. Think of a polar bear on a pogo stick. Or a secretary bird on skates. A two-footed octopus, even. His gait was a combination of the worst features of all three. He lurched and shambled, his bony knees protruding as if acknowledging introductions at each passage. A sort of, "You let me by this time, and I'll let you by next time!" deal. But the peculiarities of Signor Biggs did not end at that point. He had others. I have said that he looked a bit like Hank Cleaver. That is true. They shared lean lankiness of build. Each was blessed—or cursed—with a mop of faded-yellow hair; their eyes were alike in that they mirrored soft curiosity. But Biggs had an appendage Hank lacked. Matter of fact, no man ever had an Adam's-apple like that before or since. It hung in his scrawny throat like an unswallowed cud; and when he smiled—which was often—or talked, it woggled up and down like a runaway elevator. To Sparks, beside me, I said dreamily, "I see it, but I don't believe it. Is it alive?" And then Biggs addressed us. "First of all, I must apologize to you, Mr. Cleaver, and to Miss MacDowell and Mr. Blakeson for this rude infringement upon your personal privacy. It was an unwarranted step I took, intruding on your lives this way, but I hope that you'll agree it was not unforgivable. "I have already explained to these gentlemen"—he bobbed his head toward the pedagogues and the shamus—"the urgency of our situation. To clarify in your minds the how and where of your present location—" Hank Cleaver _harrumphed!_ and interrupted. "Reckon as how you can skip that, Lootenant," he said. "It's purty clear. You bridged the time gap from _your_ time to _ours_ by means of an ultra-wave temporal aberrant. Brought us up a couple o' centuries to "bout the—well, "bout the twenty-third century." Lancelot Biggs tried hard to swallow the billiard ball under his chin. "How—how did you know that, Mr. Cleaver?" Hank scratched his head, and into his eyes came the old, baffled look that always came there when he was asked _how_ he knew anything. "Well," he confessed, "I don't "zackly know how I know, but I do. Just stands to reason, that's all. When you come slidin' down the visible waves to hunt for us, an' when we woke to find ourselves on a space ship—an' as for the time element, well, I alluz "lowed as how it'd take people bout fifty years, more or less, to make the first successful space flight, an' another two hundred to git it workin' proper—" Lancelot Biggs' eyes lighted with a great joy. "Mr. Cleaver, I touch my rocket to you! The ancient records do not lie. You are indeed a remarkable man. _Now_"—he turned to his fellow officers triumphantly—"now I _know_ we shall win free of our difficulties. With your assistance." ~ Hank flushed, and squirmed a bulldog toe. "Mebbe you better explain these here difficulties." It was Biggs' turn to flush. "I'm afraid," he said miserably, "it's all my fault. Six days ago, Earth Standard time, we lifted gravs from Long Island space port for Mars Central. This was to be my final shuttle before getting married to the skipper's daughter, Diane. Consequently I was a trifle—well, impatient. But I'm sure you understand, Mr. Cleaver." Hank said hastily, "You better git on, Lootenant." He didn't look at Helen, which was a good thing. "For some time," continued Biggs, "I have been experimenting with a new device, designed to increase the speed of our vessel. It seemed particularly appropriate that this shuttle should be the test period. So with Captain Hanson's permission I installed my new velocity intensifier on the hypatomics. After we cleared Lunar III, I switched it on—" Biggs stopped. His eyes were haunted. Horse-sense Hank said, "Yeah?" "There was a moment of frightful acceleration, then a sharp explosion, and when order was resumed—here we were!" Nobody spoke, which seemed silly. "That," I said, "doesn't make sense. Here you were. So _where_ were you?" "That," said Biggs dejectedly, "is just what we don't know! Ah, that sounds ridiculous to you, gentlemen? Believe me, if you knew space, as we who shuttle back and forth within it in our daily toil, you would recognize by merely glancing through the quartzite viewpanes that we are nowhere within the confines of man's studied universe! "Space is an ebon, eternal night, pricked by a myriad glowing sparks. The stars wheel in their courses. Comets scream through the infinitude. The planets, firmly shining in the reflected glory of their several suns are colored gems upon a velvet pall. But about us now we see nothing but a dull, endless gray. There are no cosmic clouds, no meteor mists, no stars; neither light nor dark. Only nothingness, complete and unresponsive to our best instruments!" "Huh!" broke in Hank. "Whazzat you say?" "Apparently," explained the young lieutenant, "our delicate instruments were broken during the explosion. That is the factor making more perilous our position. We are not able to orient ourselves, discover into what portion of the universe our moment of wild flight flung us. "I have studied and worked and thought on the problem, but to no avail. That is why, Mr. Cleaver, I undertook to find _you_." Cleaver looked at the youngster admiringly. "Smart feller!" he said. "Time-travel, huh? Alluz thought it could be made to work. Mighta tried it myself if it hadn't been I was so durn busy on them turnips—" "It was an accidental discovery, sir. I chanced upon it several months ago while inventing a new type of uranium speech condenser. It turned out to be a time-speech trap." "Nevertheless," insisted Hank, "you done a good job. Findin' a way to transport your body across time. An' pickin' me up outa 1940, bringin' me here. Like to talk to you about that later. But right now—" He frowned severely. "You say them instruments o' your'n won't work?" "No, sir." "Not _a_-tall?" ~ Biggs swallowed with difficulty. "The truth is, Mr. Cleaver—" "Hank's good enough." "Well, Hank, the truth is—the instruments _do_ work! But they work so dad-blamed funny—" "Let's," suggested Horse-sense Hank mildly, "have a look." That was all the invitation the young lieutenant needed. Without so much as a backward glance at the rest of us, he led Hank to the control banks of the space freighter. They began to talk in undertones. Biggs pushed buttons and explained things. I heard snatches about, "tensor alleviators," "orbital velocity adjusters," and a bunch of terms even less comprehensible, and gave it up as a bad job. It was Hank's party. And his headache. I turned to my self-appointed guide, the radioman, Bert Donovan. "Do you understand what they're talking about?" He grinned. "Buster, I've been listening to Lancelot Biggs talk for almost a year now. And I have yet to understand the first thing he tells me." "Then in that case," I said, "it looks to me like a drink is indicated. Right?" Right is might, and shall prevail. ~ I don't know how long later it was that we wandered back to the control turret. It must have been quite a while, for Sparks had shown me through the entire ship. When we got back, Cap Hanson and Doc Hallowell were playing a game of high-low, and the _Saturn's_ skipper was giving Hallowell a good old-fashioned, twenty-third century going over. Tomkins and MacDowell were napping quietly. The second mate, a guy named Todd, was making motions at guiding the ship's flight through nothing, and also making a mild play for Helen MacDowell. And not getting very far with either job. Biggs and Cleaver had finished inspecting the instrument panels, and were in earnest confab by the plot charts. Hank seemed to be summarizing their decisions. "—your new gadget was supposed to eliminate every speck of energy waste, huh?" "That's right. And thus conserve fuel, at the same time giving tremendous speed," Biggs nodded. "An' when you plugged the switch, it gave one whoop an' holler, the _Saturn_ went like a bat out o' hell for a few seconds—" "—and then," finished Biggs, "we found ourselves here. That's the story, Hank. The whole story, so help me. But if, from those few facts and what I've shown you, you can explain in what part of the universe we are, you're an even greater genius than history says you were—I mean, are." Hank cocked a quizzical eye. "That's funny, ain't it?" he mused. "I was, but I still am. Time's tricky, Lanse. But, listen, you made one mistake." "Yes?" "In sayin' "what part o' the universe." Way I see it that ain't the explanation _a_-tall. Way I see it, there's two kinds o' universes. The _is_ an' the _ain't_. An' we're in the other one." "I—I beg your pardon?" faltered Biggs. "Put it this way. You draw a graph, an' you cross two lines. The block at the upper right intersection o' them two lines is the _is_ universe. The one we live in. Ain't that right?" Biggs nodded. "That's a simple way of graphing existence, yes. The horizontal line would represent existence in space, the vertical line existence in time. At any given moment, a man's position in space and time is coördinated in the positive sector. But—" He stopped abruptly, looking at Hank with startled eyes. "But you don't mean, Hank, we're in the _bottom_ sector of the graph!" Hank sighed. "'Fraid that's "zackly what I do mean, Lanse. It's no wonder nuthin' looked natcheral to you. We done bust plumb out o' space an' time as we ordinarily know it. We're in the imaginary sector o' space-time! The coördinate of where we are now ain't even positive numbers. They're all based on a negative factor—the square root o' minus one!" # CHAPTER IV Danger Ahead I looked at Bert Donovan and he looked at me. Judging by the faces of our two screwball intellectuals, there was something smelly on the _Saturn_. But it was all a deep and dark mystery to me. I said, "Hank, for old times' sake, would you brush that off again lightly for me? In words of one syllable, what has the little letter _i_ got to do with space flight, gray skies and time-travel?" But Hank ignored me. On the right track at last, he was developing his arguments. "Reckon you know more "bout energy-mass relationships than I do, Lanse. "Spect you'll remember, then, the transformations cooked up by a guy from our time, feller by the name o' Lorentz? Him an' a couple other guys named Einstein an' Planck fiddled around with hyper-spatial mechanics an' discovered some interestin' things. Includin' the fact that mass is altered when it travels at high velocities. "Whut I figger musta happened is this. The gadget you invented worked even better'n you expected. It worked so durn well that it give the _Saturn_ one whale of a kick in the pants. Made it accelerate at a speed _greater than that of light_! "So then what? Why, then the _plus_ universe warn't big enough to hold the _Saturn_ any more! That wild minute or two you talked about was when you exceeded the limitin' velocity. An' then here you was in the minus universe! Which is, so to speak, the negative matrix of the normal _plus_ universe we ordinarily live in." It didn't make sense to me, but apparently it did to Lieutenant Biggs. He passed a damp palm across a sweating forehead. "You're right, Cleaver! You must be right, because your argument agrees with all the known theories and observed facts. The incredible readings on our instruments, the weird surroundings in which we find ourselves—" He stared at my friend sombrely. "But what are we going to do? How shall we get out of here?" Hank said, "Same way we come in. We blast out." "But I've tried that, Hank," Biggs defended. "Before I realized the full extent of our situation. And nothing happened. There's something strange in the response of the motors. Don't ask me what. It's hard to say, when the _Saturn_ is plunging into beaconless, starless nothing. But stepped-up acceleration is just a waste of fuel." "Yeah?" mused Hank. "That's queer. Now, I wonder why—" At that instant came a most unexpected interruption. Todd, who had been quietly tending his controls, suddenly came to life with a startled cry. "Well, I'll be—Biggs! Captain Hanson!" "Yes?" Both men answered at once. "There—there's a large body before us!" ~ He pressed a button. A glassy pane above the panel glowed into life. As if a portion of the _Saturn's_ prow had been sheared away, I was looking at the vista before us. But it was no longer empty as, according to Biggs, it had been ever since the moment of the "accident." The stark, gray loneliness was relieved now by a monstrous pockmark in space. A giant sphere, imponderably distant, but definitely on our trajectory! Hanson was a man of action, I learned. He leaped to the intercommunicating system. "Chief Garrity! Large body for'rd! Reverse hypes and apply drag instantly. Todd, plot a course revision! Man! What a monster! Biggs, get out the charts. Something solid at last. Maybe we've busted back into our own universe!" Biggs said, "Yes, sir! Right away, sir!" His eyes questioned Hank. But Cleaver shook his head. "Nope, I don't think so. It ain't logical. That's a phenom—a phenom—a pee-culiarity o' the cockeyed universe we're in—Hey! What's goin' on here?" The constant hum of the hypatomic motors below, one I had hardly noticed until suddenly it no longer throbbed in my ears, had subtly altered. A brief instant of silence, a jarring concussion—and a deeper, more resonant sound. Biggs explained, "That's the hypatomics being thrown into reverse. Anti-grav units are activated in the nose of the ship, then when we get the course variation we swing around our objective. Common space practice, Hank." "That's what," said Hank dubiously, "I figgered. Is it common space practice to make a beeline for danger, though, like Billy-be-damned?" And he pointed to the visiplate. Biggs' eyes followed his finger—and Biggs gasped. "Great whirling comets! It's got us caught!" For despite the mounting clamor of the reversed engines, despite the anti-gravitational units of which Biggs had boasted, despite the swiftly redoubled orders and efforts of a shocked Captain Hanson—the _Saturn's_ speed had definitely increased! The figure in the plate was looming larger moment by moment, and even to my untrained eye it was plain that we were slam-banging, hell-for-leather, toward a crackup! Don't ask me what happened in the next few minutes. I wouldn't know. It's all one whirling blind spot in my memory. Up till now, this entire affair had partaken of the nature of a dream. Amusing, not unpleasant, but quite remote and faintly incredible. Now, suddenly, I realized it was not a dream. But that I, Jim Blakeson, publicity representative of Midland U., had somehow been dragged out of the normal routine of everyday life and thrust into a wild, impossible adventure in a world three centuries beyond my time. It was a disturbing awakening. It didn't make matters a bit better to realize that I was now—along with five other twentieth century exiles—in imminent peril of being slapped out of existence by a gigantic planet that shouldn't be in a dull, gray universe that didn't exist! ~ About me, frantic figures boiled and churned. The skipper of the Saturn was bouncing about the control room like a bipedal gadfly, jerking switches, bellowing orders, pawing through charts that—to me at least—were a complete mystery. Dick Todd still sat, tense and grim-jawed, in his bucket-shaped pilot's chair. His fingers played the banked controls before him as the fingers of an accomplished organist seek stops, but so far as I could see, his movements availed nothing. For the object in the visiplate loomed larger and ever larger. Lancelot Biggs had wasted very little time scanning charts. Despairing of finding any record of this cosmic visitant, he had grabbed paper and pencil, and was now scrawling hasty calculations. Hank Cleaver was watching him. I glanced at Helen. She was watching Hank. Rather hopefully, I thought. Hank said, "What's it show, Lanse?" Biggs looked up at him haggardly. "The mass of that planet must be terrific. It has a heavy gravitational attraction. We're accelerating by leaps and bounds. At our present rate of acceleration, only about twenty minutes remain before we—we—" He paused, glancing helplessly at Helen MacDowell. There was a strange longing in his eyes. I remembered, all of a sudden, a fact he had mentioned. That somewhere back on Earth, a girl waited for him. A girl who had promised to be his wife. His next words showed that he shared my thought. "I don't mind checking out," he said quietly. "We who dare the spaceways risk that hazard always. But I wish I could have seen her once more before—" It was then that Hallowell pushed forward. He was scared, and plenty scared. So scared that his voice was a thin, bleating yammer. "Lieutenant, you can at least send us back to our proper time! You can't let us die like this! Without a chance—like trapped rats!" "Rats!" I said scornfully. "Speak for yourself, Hallowell!" But Lancelot Biggs nodded. "He's right. We still have twenty minutes. It is not right that you of another age should share our fate. We must get the temporal deflector into operation, send all of you back—" Hank cried sharply, "Just us? Why not everybody, Lanse? Let's _all_ escape to the twentieth century. The whole kit an' kiboodle!" But Biggs shook his head. "I'm afraid that is impossible, Hank. There are limitations to temporal transmission. You and your friends can enter _our_ time because there is no natural barrier, but _we_ cannot violate the established world-line of things that have been. We never were in your time, therefore we cannot now go there. But, wait—" He spun swiftly to a wall-audio, spoke to the engine room below. "Get the deflector ready. We're sending our guests back!" Then, nodding to all of us, "If you will come with me—" ~ We started for the door. But we had taken just a few steps when the audio buzzed. Biggs answered its call, listened for a moment, cried out, "But Garrity, are you absolutely sure? It can't be! It mustn't be!" The clacking voice was regretful but positive. I felt a thin, cold edge running up and down my spine. Now I look back upon it, I think I guessed what Garrity was saying even before Biggs turned to us, his eyes wide with sympathy and sorrow. "My friends," he said in a choked voice, "forgive me for what I must say. Your lot is irrevocably cast with ours. The strain on the motors has burnt out several vital units. There is not time enough now to repair them. The temporal deflector is—useless!" That was a jolt. The way my several comrades took the message was the measure of their characters. Hallowell cried out sharply, began to scream protests in a frightened voice until Prexy—fat, staid, stuffy old H. Logan, himself—silenced him with a backhander across the mouth. "That will do, Hallowell!" snapped MacDowell. And he seemed to grow three inches. It was a mile in my estimation. "I think, Lieutenant Biggs," he said, "we need no further apologies. We are not afraid to die with you." I forgot to dislike the old guy then. I loved him a little bit for that. And I liked Tomkins' reaction, too. The little observatory technician sighed wistfully. "It's too bad, though. I should have liked to take back to our time a knowledge of some of the marvels we have seen here." The detective said nothing. He still didn't seem to know what the hell it was all about. But Helen MacDowell was as game as her old man. She said, "We're not licked yet. I still think Hank—I mean, Mr. Cleaver—will find a way out of this." Biggs said gently, "I'm afraid not, Mrs. Cleaver. This is the end for all of us." Helen's eyes darkened suddenly. "_Mrs._ Cleaver! My dear lieutenant! I'll thank you not to couple my name with that of this—this person! What ever made you think I was his wife? I wouldn't marry him if he were the last man on earth—" And then Lancelot Biggs did a strange thing! For a startled moment he stared at Helen MacDowell incredulously. Then he loosed a terrific whoop. And I don't mean whisper. "_Eeee-yow!_" he howled. "You and Hank aren't married?" "Why, of course not!" "You—you haven't any children?" Helen turned brick-red. "After _all_, Lieutenant—" she began stiffly. "But, _really_!" I don't think Biggs heard her. For he had leaped to Cleaver's side, was pounding him enthusiastically upon the back and shoulders. "It's all right, then! You understand—it's all right! Get those brain-cells to work, Hank, old boy! It's in the bag! _Eeee-yowee!_" And Hank Cleaver, from the depths of a brown study, said suddenly, "Say, looka here—I been thinkin'—" # CHAPTER V Minus Math Lancelot Biggs said feverishly, "Don't think, Hank—act! Anything you say is all right by me. You're in command here! Give your orders!" Hank said hesitantly, "Well, if you say so—" and moved to the audio. With his unerring sense of assurance, he selected the right button, contacted the engine room. Chief Engineer Garrity's grizzled face appeared in the plate. "Yes, sorr?" "Chief, turn off them there reverse engines right away," said Hank hesitantly. "An' disconnect them anti—er—anti-grav doogummies." Garrity's jaw fell open. He said, "I—I beg your pardon, sorr!" and looked around the room for verification of the orders. Cap Hanson, too, had heard the command, and was turning a violent mauve. But Lancelot Biggs nodded. "Do as Mr. Cleaver says, Chief." "—an' when you git done doin' them things," Hank persisted gravely, "I want you should git up steam. An' push for'rd as hard an' as fast as you can. With—" He swallowed hard. "With the auxil'ry use o' that new speed gadget Lootenant Biggs invented." Garrity almost strangled, but he got the words out. "Yes ... sorr!" Then he faded from the plate. Biggs stared at Hank. "You—you're sure you know what you're doing, Cleaver?" "I think I do," said Horse-sense Hank. "It's the only thing makes sense. I figgered an' figgered, and it looks to me like there's only one logical way to act. We'll know in a minute if I'm right." He dug his toe into the carpet, sort of grunted, coughed, glanced at Biggs. "Got a mite excited about me not bein' married, son. I been thinkin' that over. You mean to say—" Biggs, looking confused, said, "But you see, Hank—" "Yeah. Reckon I do. An' you—an' you—" "Yes, sir," said Lancelot Biggs. I stared at Donovan. I said, "What makes with the brain trust? Double talk?" He said, "Don't ask me, Buster. I just work here. Or used to. It's even money whether I continue working or learn to play a harp. What with that screwy command your friend Hank gave—" Then he, and I and everyone in the room stopped speaking. For again there had come, remotely, a different tone-value from the engine room. Hank's orders were being obeyed! And all eyes centered painfully on the visiplate in which, almost blotting the entire frame now, was mirrored the on-rushing planet.... ~ Can I explain my feelings to you? I doubt it. All I can think of is to say that I felt like a very tiny fly on a wall, watching helplessly, wingless, unable to escape, as a gigantic flyswatter smashed down at frightful speed upon me. The _Saturn_ was a huge craft, yes, but it was a speck of dry dust compared to the colossal sphere toward which it plunged. At this velocity there could be but one result to a collision. Death, swift, crushing, horrible, for all of us. A moment, I thought, of incredible pain. A torrent of madness beating at the eardrums, the fires of hell flaming before the eyes—then oblivion. Nearer came the planet. I could see now that it was as mad and wild as the unspawned negative universe in which it floated. No life. No thin film of atmosphere to blue the sharp definition of its raw terrain. A weird, dead world in a universe that could not be. I was aware of Donovan at my side, breathing hard. I glanced across the room at Lancelot Biggs. His eyes were strained, the muscles of his jaw white. His lips were half parted. Perhaps it was imagination, but I thought I caught the whisper of a name. "Diane!" And then a stranger thing happened. There came a sudden, tender little cry from Helen MacDowell. A flurry of movement. And then she was across the room, was in the arms of Hank Cleaver! And she didn't seem to care that her words carried to all of us. "You've failed, Hank! But I don't care. I don't care. It's too late to pretend now that I hate you. For I don't. I love you, Hank...." Then everything happened at once. My eyes leaped back from the Helen-Hank tableau to the visiplate, as abruptly there came a crashing explosion from the bowels of the ship. I saw the planet before us now within—it seemed—but inches! There was a high, tortured screaming in my ears. The grind of motors, the pounding of massive drums, a scream ripping from the throat of Hallowell, a muffled curse from Cap Hanson— Then a horrible, wrenching shock. I felt my body lifting, floating, hurtling across the floor! Something fell sprawling upon me, glass splintered, a dozen voices cried out at once. And everything was black, and there was a dead and sickly pressure across my body— —from the center of which came a muffled voice. The voice of Bert Donovan. "Well, I'll be triple and everlastingly damned to a fare-you-well!" I kicked, and he wriggled. I kicked again and he moved. I said, "If you'll get off my head, you damned fool, maybe I can see what's going on!" He got up. And so did I. All about the control room, men were picking themselves up, lifting their voices in astonishment, staring at a visiplate from which had disappeared that gigantic, threatening orb. ~ A visiplate in which was now depicted sweet, jet depths of darkness, pin-pricked with glowing points of light! Cap Hanson's voice was a paean of joy. "We're home again! Home in our own universe! By God—in our own solar system! For there's Io, the pretty little devil!" Helen was crying, "Then you didn't fail, Hank! It worked! We're saved!" And Biggs, only sane man in a roomful of delight-maddened lunatics, was ambling to the audio, face wreathed in a seraphic grin. "Garrity?" he called down to the chief engineer. "Take a look out the viewpanes if you want to holler with joy. And then—set course for home! And, oh, yes, Garrity—set men to work immediately on the repairing of the temporal deflector." So that was that. We took time off to recuperate. Some hours later we were standing in the _Saturn_ before a large, cylindrical, glass-walled machine, Lancelot Biggs' "time-travel" gadget which had absorbed us up here into the future. That is most of us were still standing here in the _Saturn_. Professor Hallowell had already been projected back to our time. So had Travis Tomkins, Midland's observatory expert, his arms loaded with books from the ship's library describing the great inventions of, as on the _Saturn_, the last two centuries—or, to us of 1940, the inventions of the _next_ two hundred years. "Which books," commented Lancelot Biggs wryly, "will do Tomkins a lot of good—I don't think! They won't arrive with him, you know—because in his time they weren't even written! I hope both those fellows will return to their original places on Earth. Rather amazing, wouldn't it be," he chuckled, "if something went wrong with the machine and Hallowell appeared suddenly on the campus of Midland University with some gadget from the future—_his_ future—which fell into his pocket in his transit through space and time!" "Campus?" exclaimed H. Logan MacDowell. "Don't tell me that time-travel thing of yours will actually set us down again in our own time!" "If it doesn't," grinned Lancelot Biggs, "a lot of faces are going to be very red indeed." He motioned to the second mate, Lt. Dick Todd. Todd set himself at the controls. Then he nodded to the detective. With unseemly haste the gumshoe scrambled into the time machine. "Contact!" Biggs ordered. The second mate pressed the button that sent the snooper back to Midland campus. That lug! I don't think he ever did figure out what it was all about! In fact a week later, when I met him skulking along a corridor, I asked him how he liked his round trip through space. "I'm trying not to think about it," he groaned. "Confidentially, in another ten days I'll be able to believe it never happened _a_-tall, no sir!" "Brother," I said to myself, "if imagination was a baby chick, you couldn't scratch yourself out of an egg-shell." But I'm getting ahead of the story. After we got rid of the gumshoe, there was Prexy H. Logan MacDowell to be considered. "You are next, sir," Lancelot Biggs said courteously. "And a pleasant journey." "Harrumph!" growled his academic nibs. "This is a damnable outrage!" ~ Biggs bowed him into the time-traveling contraption. "I think you've got something there," he grinned—and signalled to Dick Todd. One second later H. Logan was flitting through space back home. And now it was time for last farewells. But Biggs asked, in gripping Hank's hand, the question I'd been dying to ask myself, but hadn't dared. "You should tell me, Hank, how you struck on the solution. We may get in a jam like that again, some day. And if we do—" "Send for me," grinned Hank. "I like this period o' your'n okay, Bud. But you won't get in no more messes like that. Not if you tone down the speed o' that gadget o' your'n, like I told you to. "My figgerin'? Why, it was just plain, dumb hosslogic, that's all. The tip-off come when we started whiskin' faster an' faster by the moment toward that there planet in our path. "Y'see, we was in a negative universe. We decided that. But whut we overlooked was the simple, logical fact that in a negative universe all natcheral physical laws ought to operate in reverse! "Way I see it, we just happened across that planet by accident. An' had we been content to let well enough alone, we'd never have come anywhere near it! It would have shunted us off on its own account!" I said, "What? How do you figure—" Biggs exclaimed, "_I_ see! In our positive universe, it is axiomatic that all objects attract each other in direct ratio to their masses. But in a _negative_ universe—" "They'd repel each other," nodded Hank. "Right. I guess we was dumb, though. We done the _one_ thing we shouldn't have ever done. Put out anti-gravs and repellor-beams against the upstart planet! Which was the one thing calc'lated to drag us to it! In this backward universe, mathematics an' physics worked in reverse. Anti-gravitational beams attracted, and propellors repelled!" Biggs sighed. "And I've always considered myself a logical man! What you did was turn on every available, ounce of energy and thrust the _Saturn_ at full speed _toward_ the planet, realizing that for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction, and that the planet's terrific repelling force would throw us completely back out of negative space—is that it?" Hank gazed at him admiringly. "I reckon," he said softly, "that's about it. But you sure explain it purty...." ~ So why go on? We got into the machine, then. Hank and Helen and I. And again things began flickering. And at the last minute, I remembered there was something I wanted to ask Biggs, but it was too late then, for there came another moment of giddy spinning, fireworks in my eyes and butterflies in my tummy, and then— We were back in my apartment. And it was broad daylight, but my radio was still on, as I had left it, and already it was blatting a news item about how Prof. Hallowell had inexplicably returned. There'd be other flashes later, I knew. And a lot of explaining to be done to an unbelieving public.... ~ Then I said, "Damn!" "Yeah?" said Hank. "Why for, Jim?" "Something I meant to ask Biggs and forgot. But you can tell me, I guess. One thing I never did understand, was why Biggs got so excited when he found out you and Helen were not married. What difference did _that_ make? Why did that cause him to show such great confidence that we were going to pull out of our jam?" Hank flushed. "Well, you see—" he hesitated. "I don't. But I'm listening." "Well, it was this way. Soon as Lanse learned me an' Helen wasn't hitched, he couldn't help knowin' everything was gonna be all right. On account of it warn't logical her an' me should git kilt _before_ we was married an'—an' had a youngster...." His face was flaming. But I was inexorable. "I still don't get it. Why not? Why wasn't it logical?" "Aw, durn, Jim—don't you see? Because Biggs knew that much o' my "history." That is, my future, to me, is my _past_ to him. He knew who I'd married, and that me an' my wife had a youngster, an' consequently if them things hadn't happened yet, we was bound to live an' make "em happen!" So it finally sank in. I said, "Golly! You're right—as usual! But wasn't it a lucky break that Lancelot Biggs happened to know something about your history, Hank? Your name must be pretty well known to the men of the future—" Hank writhed in embarrassment. "Well, now, I wouldn't "zackly say that, Jim. Lanse knew about me, yes. But then, he'd be likely to. Him an' me bein' related, so to speak—" "Related!" "Yeah. Spoke to him "bout it later. Y'see, Lanse is a sort of grandson o' mine, with a lot o' great-greats on the front of it—" He gulped and looked at Helen miserably. "I—I'm afeared they ain't nothin' we can do "bout it, Helen. Lanse says you was his great-great-grandmammy!" And then Helen MacDowell—smiled! And it was the kind of smile I hope to see some time on the lips of a woman looking at me. And she said, very softly, "There's no sense in fighting fate, is there, Hank? What must be, must be. And there _is_ something we can do—to make the future happier...." Aw, hell! I promised Helen she could have him alone in a dark room, didn't I? So I said good-by. I don't think either of them heard me. In fact, I'm sure of it! THE END
222	--- author: Harry Harrison tags: 'United States: Walker Publishing Company, Inc., 1957, pubdate 1960, copyright 1961., Science fiction, Criminals, Fiction, Police, DiGriz, James Bolivar (Fictitious character)' title: The Stainless Steel Rat summary: ' "The Stainless Steel Rat" by Harry Harrison is a science fiction novel written in the early 1960s. The story follows the clever and audacious anti-hero James Bolivar diGriz, known as "Slippery Jim," a master criminal in a futuristic society where crime is nearly nonexistent, making him a unique outlier. The novel promises a thrilling mix of heists, humor, and ingenious escapes as Jim navigates a complex world filled with robots and law enforcement. The opening of the novel introduces readers to diGriz executing a high-stakes heist, one that combines his charming wit with sharp criminal expertise. As he is caught in the act and attempts to evade capture, we witness his playful banter with a police robot and his resourcefulness in escaping disastrous situations. This initial escapade sets the tone for the book, presenting a fast-paced narrative infused with a sense of adventure. The opening positions Jim as a character who thrives in high-pressure scenarios, making it clear that readers can expect a mix of clever antics, moral ambiguity, and social commentary wrapped in the fantastical elements of the sci-fi genre. ' word_count: 51171 fiction_type: Novel ... # i When the office door opened suddenly I knew the game was up. It had been a money-maker—but it was all over. As the cop walked in I sat back in the chair and put on a happy grin. He had the same somber expression and heavy foot that they all have—and the same lack of humor. I almost knew to the word what he was going to say before he uttered a syllable. "James Bolivar diGriz I arrest you on the charge—" I was waiting for the word _charge_, I thought it made a nice touch that way. As he said it I pressed the button that set off the charge of black powder in the ceiling, the crossbeam buckled and the three-ton safe dropped through right on the top of the cop's head. He squashed very nicely, thank you. The cloud of plaster dust settled and all I could see of him was one hand, slightly crumpled. It twitched a bit and the index finger pointed at me accusingly. His voice was a little muffled by the safe and sounded a bit annoyed. In fact he repeated himself a bit. "... On the charge of illegal entry, theft, forgery—" He ran on like that for quite a while, it was an impressive list but I had heard it all before. I didn't let it interfere with my stuffing all the money from the desk drawers into my suitcase. The list ended with a new charge and I would swear on a stack of thousand credit notes _that_ high that there was a hurt tone in his voice. "In addition the charge of assaulting a police robot will be added to your record. This was foolish since my brain and larynx are armored and in my midsection—" "That I know well, George, but your little two-way radio is in the top of your pointed head and I don't want you reporting to your friends just yet." One good kick knocked the escape panel out of the wall and gave access to the steps to the basement. As I skirted the rubble on the floor the robot's fingers snapped out at my leg, but I had been waiting for that and they closed about two inches short. I have been followed by enough police robots to know by now how indestructible they are. You can blow them up or knock them down and they keep coming after you; dragging themselves by one good finger and spouting saccharine morality all the while. That's what this one was doing. Give up my life of crime and pay my debt to society and such. I could still hear his voice echoing down the stairwell as I reached the basement. Every second was timed now. I had about three minutes before they would be on my tail, and it would take me exactly one minute and eight seconds to get clear of the building. That wasn't much of a lead and I would need all of it. Another kick panel opened out into the label-removing room. None of the robots looked up as I moved down the aisle—I would have been surprised if they had. They were all low-grade M types, short on brains and good only for simple, repetitive work. That was why I hired them. They had no curiosity as to why they were taking the labels off the filled cans of azote fruits, or what was at the other end of the moving belt that brought the cans through the wall. They didn't even look up when I unlocked the Door That Was Never Unlocked that led through the wall. I left it open behind me as I had no more secrets now. * * * * * Keeping next to the rumbling belt, I stepped through the jagged hole I had chopped in the wall of the government warehouse. I had installed the belt too, this and the hole were the illegal acts that I had to do myself. Another locked door opened into the warehouse. The automatic fork-lift truck was busily piling cans onto the belt and digging fresh ones out of the ceiling-high piles. This fork-lift had hardly enough brains to be called a robot, it just followed taped directions to load the cans. I stepped around it and dog-trotted down the aisle. Behind me the sounds of my illegal activity died away. It gave me a warm feeling to still hear it going full blast like that. It _had_ been one of the nicest little rackets I had ever managed. For a small capital outlay I had rented the warehouse that backed on the government warehouse. A simple hole in the wall and I had access to the entire stock of stored goods, long-term supplies that I knew would be untouched for months or years in a warehouse this size. Untouched, that is, until I came along. After the hole had been made and the belt installed it was just a matter of business. I hired the robots to remove the old labels and substitute the colorful ones I had printed. Then I marketed my goods in a strictly legal fashion. My stock was the best and due to my imaginative operation my costs were very low. I could afford to undersell my competitors and still make a handsome profit. The local wholesalers had been quick to sense a bargain and I had orders for months ahead. It _had_ been a good operation—and could have gone on for quite a while. I stifled that train of thought before it started. One lesson that has to be remembered in my line of business is that when an operation is over it is OVER! The temptation to stay just one more day or to cash just one more check can be almost overwhelming, ah, how well I know. I also know that it is also the best way to get better acquainted with the police. _Turn your back and walk away— And live to graft another day._ That's my motto and it's a good one. I got where I am because I stuck to it. And daydreams aren't part of getting away from the police. * * * * * I pushed all thoughts from my mind as I reached the end of the aisle. The entire area outside must have been swarming with cops by this time and I had to move fast and make no mistakes. A fast look right and left. Nobody in sight. Two steps ahead and press the elevator button. I had put a meter on this back elevator and it showed that the thing was used once a month on the average. It arrived in about three seconds, empty, and I jumped in, thumbing the roof button at the same time. The ride seemed to go on forever, but that was just subjective. By the record it was exactly fourteen seconds. This was the most dangerous part of the trip. I tightened up as the elevator slowed. My .75 caliber recoilless was in my hand, that would take care of one cop, but no more. The door shuffled open and I relaxed. Nothing. They must have the entire area covered on the ground so they hadn't bothered to put cops on the roof. In the open air now I could hear the sirens for the first time—a wonderful sound. They must have had half of the entire police force out from the amount of noise they were making. I accepted it as any artist accepts tribute. The board was behind the elevator shaft where I had left it. A little weather-stained but still strong. A few seconds to carry it to the edge of the parapet and reach it across to the next building. Gently, this was the one dangerous spot where speed didn't count. Carefully onto the end of the board, the suitcase held against my chest to keep my center of gravity over the board. One step at a time. A thousand-foot drop to the ground. If you don't look down you can't fall.... Over. Time for speed. The board behind the parapet, if they didn't see it at first my trail would be covered for a while at least. Ten fast steps and there was the door to the stairwell. It opened easily—and it better have—I had put enough oil on the hinges. Once inside I threw the bolt and took a long, deep breath. I wasn't out of it yet, but the worst part where I ran the most risk was past. Two uninterrupted minutes here and they would never find James Bolivar, alias "Slippery Jim", diGriz. * * * * * The stairwell at the roof was a musty, badly lit cubicle that was never visited. I had checked it carefully a week before for phono and optic bugs and it had been clear. The dust looked undisturbed, except for my own footprints. I had to take a chance that it hadn't been bugged since then. The calculated risk must be accepted in this business. Good-by James diGriz, weight ninety-eight kilos, age about forty-five, thick in the middle and heavy in the jowls, a typical business man whose picture graces the police files of a thousand planets—also his fingerprints. They went first. When you wear them they feel like a second skin, a touch of solvent though and they peel off like a pair of transparent gloves. All my clothes next—and then the girdle in reverse—that lovely paunch that straps around my belly and holds twenty kilos of lead mixed with thermite. A quick wipe from the bottle of bleach and my hair was its natural shade of brown, the eyebrows, too. The nose plugs and cheek pads hurt coming out, but that only lasts a second. Then the blue-eyed contact lenses. This process leaves me mother-naked and I always feel as if I have been born again. In a sense it is true, I had become a new man, twenty kilos lighter, ten years younger and with a completely different description. The large suitcase held a complete change of clothes and a pair of dark-rimmed glasses that replaced the contact lenses. All the loose money fitted neatly into a brief case. When I straightened up I really felt as if ten years had been stripped from me. I was so used to wearing that weight that I never noticed it—until it was gone. Put a real spring in my step. The thermite would take care of all the evidence. I kicked it all into a heap and triggered the fuse. It caught with a roar and bottles, clothes, bag, shoes, weights, et al, burned with a cheerful glare. The police would find a charred spot on the cement and micro-analysis might get them a few molecules off the walls, but that was all they would get. The glare of the burning thermite threw jumping shadows around me as I walked down three flights to the one hundred twelfth floor. Luck was still with me, there was no one on the floor when I opened the door. One minute later the express elevator let me and a handful of other business types out into the lobby. Only one door was open to the street and a portable TV camera was trained on it. No attempt was being made to stop people from going in and out of the building, most of them didn't even notice the camera and the little group of cops around it. I walked towards it at an even pace. Strong nerves count for a lot in this business. For one instant I was square in the field of that cold, glass eye, then I was past. Nothing happened so I knew I was clear. That camera must have fed directly to the main computer at police headquarters, if my description had been close enough to the one they had on file those robots would have been notified and I would have been pinned before I had taken a step. You can't outmove a computer-robot combination, not when they move and react in microseconds—but you can outthink them. I had done it again. A cab took me about ten blocks away. I waited until it was out of sight then took another one. It wasn't until I was in the third cab that I felt safe enough to go to the space terminal. The sounds of sirens were growing fainter and fainter behind me and only an occasional police car tore by in the opposite direction. They were sure making a big fuss over a little larceny, but that's the way it goes on these overcivilized worlds. Crime is such a rarity now that the police really get carried away when they run across some. In a way I can't blame them, giving out traffic tickets must be an awful dull job. I really believe they ought to thank me for putting a little excitement in their otherwise dull lives. # ii It was a nice ride to the spaceport being located, of course, far out of town. I had time to lean back and watch the scenery and gather my thoughts. Even time to be a little philosophical. For one thing I could enjoy a good cigar again, I smoked only cigarettes in my other personality and never violated that personality, even in strictest privacy. The cigars were still fresh in the pocket humidor where I had put them six months ago. I sucked a long mouthful and blew the smoke out at the flashing scenery. It was good to be off the job, just about as good as being on it. I could never make my mind up which period I enjoyed more—I guess they are both right at the time. My life is so different from that of the overwhelming majority of people in our society that I doubt if I could even explain it to them. They exist in a fat, rich union of worlds that have almost forgotten the meaning of the word crime. There are few malcontents and even fewer that are socially maladjusted. The few of these that are born, in spite of centuries of genetic control, are caught early and the aberration quickly adjusted. Some don't show their weakness until they are adults, they are the ones who try their hand at petty crime—burglary, shop-lifting or such. They get away with it for a week or two or a month or two, depending on the degree of their native intelligence. But sure as atomic decay—and just as predestined—the police reach out and pull them in. That is almost the full extent of crime in our organized, dandified society. Ninety-nine per cent of it, let's say. It is that last and vital one per cent that keeps the police departments in business. That one per cent is me, and a handful of men scattered around the galaxy. Theoretically we can't exist, and if we do exist we can't operate—but we do. We are the rats in the wainscoting of society—we operate outside of their barriers and outside of their rules. Society had more rats when the rules were looser, just as the old wooden buildings had more rats than the concrete buildings that came later. But they still had rats. Now that society is all ferroconcrete and stainless steel there are fewer gaps between the joints, and it takes a smart rat to find them. A stainless steel rat is right at home in this environment. It is a proud and lonely thing to be a stainless steel rat—and it is the greatest experience in the galaxy if you can get away with it. The sociological experts can't seem to agree why we exist, some even doubt that we do. The most widely accepted theory says that we are victims of delayed psychological disturbance that shows no evidence in childhood when it can be detected and corrected and only appears later in life. I have naturally given a lot of thought to the topic and I don't hold with that idea at all. A few years back I wrote a small book on the subject—under a nom de plume of course—that was rather well received. My theory is that the aberration is a philosophical one, not a psychological one. At a certain stage the realization strikes through that one must either live outside of society's bonds or die of absolute boredom. There is no future or freedom in the circumscribed life and the only other life is complete rejection of the rules. There is no longer room for the soldier of fortune or the gentleman adventurer who can live both within and outside of society. Today it is all or nothing. To save my own sanity I chose the nothing. * * * * * The cab just reached the spaceport as I hit on this negative line of thought and I was glad to abandon it. Loneliness is the thing to fear in this business, that and self-pity can destroy you if they get the upper hand. Action has always helped me, the elation of danger and escape always clears my mind. When I paid the cab I short-changed the driver right under his nose, palming one of the credit notes in the act of handing it to him. He was blind as a riveted bulkhead, his gullibility had me humming with delight. The tip I gave him more than made up the loss since I only do this sort of petty business to break the monotony. There was a robot clerk behind the ticket window, he had that extra third eye in the center of this forehead that meant a camera. It clicked slightly as I purchased a ticket, recording my face and destination. A normal precaution on the part of the police, I would have been surprised if it hadn't happened. My destination was inter-system so I doubted if the picture would appear any place except in the files. I wasn't making an interstellar hop this time, as I usually did after a big job, it wasn't necessary. After a job a single world or a small system is too small for more work, but Beta Cygnus has a system of almost twenty planets all with terrafied weather. This planet, III, was too hot now, but the rest of the system was wide open. There was a lot of commercial rivalry within the system and I knew their police departments didn't co-operate too well. They would pay the price for that. My ticket was for Moriy, number XVIII, a large and mostly agricultural planet. There were a number of little stores at the spaceport. I shopped them carefully and outfitted a new suitcase with a complete wardrobe and travelling essentials. The tailor was saved for last. He ran up a couple of traveling suits and a formal kilt for me and I took them into the fitting booth. Strictly by accident I managed to hang one of the suits over the optic bug in the wall and made undressing sounds with my feet while I doctored the ticket I had just bought. The other end of my cigar cutter was a punch; with it I altered the keyed holes that indicated my destination. I was now going to planet X, not XVIII, and I had lost almost two hundred credits with the alteration. That's the secret of ticket and order changing. Don't raise the face value—there is too good a chance that this will be noticed. If you lower the value and lose money on the deal, even if it is caught, people will be sure it is a mistake on the machine's part. There is never the shadow of a doubt, since why should anyone change a ticket to lose money? Before the police could be suspicious I had the suit off the bug and tried it on, taking my time. Almost everything was ready now, I had about an hour to kill before the ship left. I spent the time wisely by going to an automatic cleaner and having all my new clothes cleaned and pressed. Nothing interests a customs man more than a suitcase full of unworn clothes. Customs was a snap and when the ship was about half full I boarded her and took a seat near the hostess. I flirted with her until she walked away, having classified me in the category of MALE, BRASH, ANNOYING. An old girl who had the seat next to mine also had me filed in the same drawer and was looking out of the window with obvious ice on her shoulder. I dozed off happily since there is one thing better than not being noticed and that is being noticed and filed into a category. Your description gets mixed up with every other guy in the file and that is the end of it. When I woke up we were almost to planet X, I half dozed in the chair until we touched down, then smoked a cigar while my bag cleared customs. My locked brief case of money raised no suspicions since I had foresightedly forged papers six months ago with my occupation listed as _bank messenger_. Interplanet credit was almost nonexistent in this system, so the customs men were used to seeing a lot of cash go back and forth. Almost by habit I confused the trail a little more and ended up in the large manufacturing city of Brouggh over one thousand kilometers from the point where I had landed. Using an entirely new set of identification papers I registered at a quiet hotel in the suburbs. Usually after a big job like this I rest up for a month or two; this was one time though I didn't feel like a rest. While I was making small purchases around town to rebuild the personality of James diGriz, I was also keeping my eyes open for new business opportunities. The very first day I was out I saw what looked like a natural—and each day it looked better and better. One of the main reasons I have stayed out of the arms of the law for as long as I have, is that I have never repeated myself. I have dreamed up some of the sweetest little rackets, run them off once, then stayed away from them forever after. About the only thing they had in common was the fact that they all made money. About the only thing I hadn't hit to date was out and out armed robbery. It was time for a change and it looked like that was it. While I was rebuilding the paunchy personality of Slippery Jim I was making plans for the operation. Just about the time the fingerprint gloves were ready the entire business was planned. It was simple like all good operations should be, the less details there are, the less things there are that can go wrong. I was going to hold up Moraio's, the largest retail store in the city. Every evening at exactly the same time, an armored car took the day's receipts to the bank. It was a tempting prize—a gigantic sum in untraceable small bills. The only real problem as far as I was concerned was how one man could handle the sheer bulk and weight of all that money. When I had an answer to that the entire operation was ready. All the preparations were of course, made only in my mind until the personality of James diGriz was again ready. The day I slipped that weighted belly back on, I felt I was back in uniform. I lit my first cigarette almost with satisfaction, then went to work. A day or two for some purchases and a few simple thefts and I was ready. I scheduled the following afternoon for the job. A large tractor-truck that I had bought was the key to the operation—along with some necessary alterations I had made to the interior. I parked the truck in an "L" shaped alley about a half mile from Moraio's. The truck almost completely blocked the alley but that wasn't important since it was used only in the early morning. It was a leisurely stroll back to the department store, I reached it at almost the same moment that the armored truck pulled up. I leaned against the wall of the gigantic building while the guards carried out the money. My money. To someone of little imagination I suppose it would have been an awe-inspiring sight. At least five armed guards standing around the entrance, two more inside the truck as well as the driver and his assistant. As an added precaution there were three monocycles purring next to the curb. They would go with the truck as protection on the road. Oh, very impressive. I had to stifle a grin behind my cigarette when I thought about what was going to happen to those elaborate precautions. I had been counting the handtrucks of money as they rolled out of the door. There were always fifteen, no more, no less; this practice made it easy for me to know the exact time to begin. Just as fourteen was being loaded into the armored truck, load number fifteen appeared in the store entrance. The truck driver had been counting the way I had, he stepped down from the cab and moved to the door in the rear in order to lock it when loading was finished. * * * * * We synchronized perfectly as we strolled by each other. At the moment he reached the rear door I reached the cab. Quietly and smoothly I climbed up into it and slammed the door behind me. The assistant had just enough time to open his mouth and pop his eyes when I placed an anesthetic bomb on his lap; he slumped in an instant. I was, of course, wearing the correct filter plugs in my nostrils. As I started the motor with my left hand, I threw a larger bomb through the connecting window to the rear with my right. There were some reassuring thumps as the guards there dropped over the bags of change. This entire process hadn't taken six seconds. The guards on the steps were just waking up to the fact that something was wrong. I gave them a cheerful wave through the window and gunned the armored truck away from the curb. One of them tried to run and throw himself through the open rear door but he was a little too late. It all had happened so fast that not one of them had thought to shoot, I had been sure there would be a _few_ bullets. The sedentary life on these planets does slow the reflexes. The monocycle drivers caught on a lot faster, they were after me before the truck had gone a hundred feet. I slowed down until they had caught up, then stamped on the accelerator, keeping just enough speed so they couldn't pass me. Their sirens were screaming of course and they had their guns working; it was just as I had planned. We tore down the street like jet racers and the traffic melted away before us. They didn't have time to think and realize that _they_ were making sure the road was clear for my escape. The situation was very humorous and I'm afraid I chuckled out loud as I tooled the truck around the tight corners. Of course the alarm had been turned in and the road blocks must have been forming up ahead—but that half mile went by fast at the speed we were doing. It was a matter of seconds before I saw the alley mouth ahead. I turned the truck into it, at the same time pressing the button on my pocket short wave. Along the entire length of the alley my smoke bombs ignited. They were, of course, home made, as was all my equipment, nevertheless they produced an adequately dense cloud in that narrow alley. I pulled the truck a bit to the right until the fenders scraped the wall and only slightly reduced my speed, this way I could steer by touch. The monocycle drivers of course couldn't do this and had the choice of stopping or rushing headlong into the darkness. I hope they made the right decision and none of them were hurt. The same radio impulse that triggered the bombs was supposed to have opened the rear door of the trailer truck up ahead and dropped the ramp. It had worked fine when I had tested it, I could only hope now that it did the same in practice. I tried to estimate the distance I had gone in the alley by timing my speed, but I was a little off. The front wheels of the truck hit the ramp with a destructive crash and the armored truck bounced rather than rolled into the interior of the larger van. I was jarred around a bit and had just enough sense left to jam on the brakes before I plowed right through into the cab. Smoke from the bombs made a black midnight of everything, that and my shaken-up brains almost ruined the entire operation. Valuable seconds went by while I leaned against the truck wall trying to get oriented. I don't know how long it took, when I finally did stumble back to the rear door I could hear the guards' voices calling back and forth through the smoke. They heard the bent ramp creak as I lifted it so I threw two gas bombs out to quiet them down. The smoke was starting to thin as I climbed up to the cab of the tractor and gunned it into life. A few feet down the alley and I broke through into sunlight. The alley mouth opened out into a main street a few feet ahead and I saw two police cars tear by. When the truck reached the street I stopped and took careful note of all witnesses. None of them showed any interest in the truck or the alley. Apparently all the commotion was still at the other end of the alley. I poured power into the engine and rolled out into the street, away from the store I had just robbed. Of course I only went a few blocks in that direction then turned down a side street. At the next corner I turned again and headed back towards Moraio's, the scene of my recent crime. The cool air coming in the window soon had me feeling better, I actually whistled a bit as I threaded the big truck through the service roads. It would have been fine to go up the highway in front of Moraio's and see all the excitement, but that would have been only asking for trouble. Time was still important. I had carefully laid out a route that avoided all congested traffic and this was what I followed. It was only a matter of minutes before I was pulling into the loading area in the back of the big store. There was a certain amount of excitement here but it was lost in the normal bustle of commerce. Here and there a knot of truck drivers or shipping foremen were exchanging views on the robbery, since robots don't gossip the normal work was going on. The men were, of course, so excited that no attention was paid to my truck when I pulled into the parking line next to the other vans. I killed the engine and settled back with a satisfied sigh. The first part was complete. The second part of the operation was just as important though. I dug into my paunch for the kit that I always take on the job—for just such an emergency as this. Normally, I don't believe in stimulants, but I was still groggy from the banging around. Two cc's of Linoten in my ante cubital cleared that up quickly enough. The spring was back in my step when I went into the back of the van. The driver's assistant and the guards were still out and would stay that way for at least ten hours. I arranged them in a neat row in the front of the truck where they wouldn't be in my way, and went to work. The armored car almost filled the body of the trailer as I knew it would; therefore I had fastened the boxes to the walls. They were fine, strong shipping boxes with Moraio's printed all over them. It had been a minor theft from their warehouse that should go unnoticed. I pulled the boxes down and folded them for packing, I was soon sweating and had to take my shirt off as I packed the money bundles into the boxes. It took almost two hours to stuff and seal the boxes with tape. Every ten minutes or so I would check through the peephole in the door; only the normal activities were going on. The police undoubtedly had the entire town sealed and were tearing it apart building by building looking for the truck. I was fairly sure that the last place they would think of looking was the rear of the robbed store. The warehouse that had provided the boxes had also provided a supply of shipping forms. I fixed one of these on each box, addressed to different pick-up addresses and marked paid of course, and was ready to finish the operation. It was almost dark by this time, however I knew that the shipping department would be busy most of the night. The engine caught on the first revolution and I pulled out of the parking rank and backed slowly up to the platform. There was a relatively quiet area where the shipping dock met the receiving dock, I stopped the trailer as close to the dividing line as I could. I didn't open the rear door until all the workmen were faced in a different direction. Even the stupidest of them would have been interested in why a truck was unloading the firm's own boxes. As I piled them up on the platform I threw a tarp over them, it only took a few minutes. Only when the truck gates were closed and locked did I pull off the tarp and sit down on the boxes for a smoke. It wasn't a long wait. Before the cigarette was finished a robot from the shipping department passed close enough for me to call him. "Over there. The M-19 that was loading these burned out a brakeband, you better see that they're taken care of." His eyes glowed with the light of duty. Some of these higher M types take their job very seriously. I had to step back quickly as the fork lifts and M-trucks appeared out of the doors behind me. There was a scurry of loading and sorting and my haul vanished down the platform. I lighted another cigarette and watched for a while as the boxes were coded and stamped and loaded on the outgoing trucks and local belts. All that was left for me now was the disposing of the truck on some side street and changing personalities. As I was getting into the truck I realized for the first time that something was wrong. I, of course, had been keeping an eye on the gate—but not watching it closely enough. Trucks had been going in and out. Now the realization hit me like a hammer blow over the solar plexus. They were the same trucks going both ways. A large, red cross-country job was just pulling out. I heard the echo of its exhaust roar down the street—then die away to an idling grumble. When it roared up again it didn't go away, instead the truck came in through the second gate. There were police cars waiting outside that wall. Waiting for me. # iii For the first time in my career I felt the sharp fear of the hunted man. This was the first time I had ever had the police on my trail when I wasn't expecting them. The money was lost, that much was certain, but I was no longer concerned with that. It was me they were after now. Think first, then act. I was safe enough for the moment. They were, of course, moving in on me, going slowly as they had no idea of where I was in the giant loading yard. How had they found me? _That_ was the important point. The local police are used to an almost crimeless world, they couldn't have found my trail this quickly. In fact, I hadn't left a trail. Whoever had set the trap here had done it with logic and reason. Unbidden the words jumped into my mind. _The Special Corps._ Nothing was ever printed about it, only a thousand whispered words heard on a thousand worlds around the galaxy. The Special Corps, the branch of the League that took care of the troubles that individual planets couldn't solve. The Corps was supposed to have finished off the remnants of Haskell's Raiders after the peace, of putting the illegal T & Z Traders out of business, of finally catching Inskipp. And now they were after me. They were out there waiting for me to make a break. They were thinking of all the ways out just as I was—and they were blocking them. I had to think fast and I had to think right. Only two ways out. Through the gates or through the store. The gates were too well covered to make a break, in the store there would be other exits. It had to be that way. Even as I made the conclusion I knew that other minds had made it too, that men were moving in to cover those doors. That thought brought fear—and made me angry as well. The very idea that someone could outthink me was odious. They could try all right—but I would give them a run for their money. I still had a few tricks left. First, a little misdirection. I started the truck, left it in low gear and aimed it at the gate. When it was going straight I locked the steering wheel with the friction clamp and dropped out the far side of the cab and strolled back to the warehouse. Once inside I moved faster. Behind me I heard some shots, a heavy crump, and a lot of shouting. That was more like it. The night locks were connected on the doors that led to the store proper. An old-fashioned alarm that I could disconnect in a few moments. My pick-locks opened the door and I gave it a quick kick with my foot and turned away. There were no alarm bells, but I knew that somewhere in the building an indicator showed that the door was opened. As fast as I could run I went to the last door on the opposite side of the building. This time I made sure the alarm was disconnected before I went through the door. I locked it behind me. It is the hardest job in the world to run and be quiet at the same time. My lungs were burning before I reached the employees' entrance. A few times I saw flashlights ahead and had to double down different aisles, it was mostly luck that I made it without being spotted. There were two men in uniform standing in front of the door I wanted to go out of. Keeping as close to the wall as I could, I made it to within twenty feet of them before I threw the gas grenade. For one second I was sure that they had gas masks on and I had reached the end of the road—then they slumped down. One of them was blocking the door, I rolled him aside and slid it open a few inches. The searchlight couldn't have been more than thirty feet from the door; when it flashed on the light was more pain than glare. I dropped the instant it came on and the slugs from the machine pistol ate a line of glaring holes across the door. My ears were numb from the roar of the exploding slugs and I could just make out the thud of running footsteps. My own .75 was in my hand and I put an entire clip of slugs through the door, aiming high so I wouldn't hurt anyone. It would not stop them, but it should slow them down. * * * * * They returned the fire, must have been a whole squad out there. Pieces of plastic flew out of the back wall and slugs screamed down the corridor. It was good cover, I knew there was nobody coming up behind me. Keeping as flat as I could I crawled in the opposite direction, out of the line of fire. I turned two corners before I was far enough from the guns to risk standing up. My knees were shaky and great blobs of color kept fogging my vision. The searchlight had done a good job, I could barely see at all in the dim light. I kept moving slowly, trying to get as far away from the gunfire as possible. The squad outside had fired as soon as I had opened the door, that meant standing orders to shoot at anyone who tried to leave the building. A nice trap. The cops inside would keep looking until they found me. If I tried to leave I would be blasted. I was beginning to feel very much like a trapped rat. Every light in the store came on and I stopped, frozen. I was near the wall of a large farm-goods showroom. Across the room from me were three soldiers. We spotted each other at the same time, I dived for the door with bullets slapping all around me. The military was in it too, they sure must have wanted me bad. A bank of elevators was on the other side of the door—and stairs leading up. I hit the elevator in one bounce and punched the sub-basement button, and just got out ahead of the closing doors. The stairs were back towards the approaching soldiers, I felt like I was running right into their guns. I must have made the turn into the stairs a split second ahead of their arrival. Up the stairs and around the first landing before they were even with the bottom. Luck was still on my side. They hadn't seen me and were sure I had gone down. I sagged against the wall, listening to the shouts and whistle blowing as they turned the hunt towards the basement. There was one smart one in the bunch. While the others were all following the phony trail I heard him start slowly up the stairs. I didn't have any gas grenades left, all I could do was climb up ahead of him, trying to do it without making a sound. He came on slowly and steadily and I stayed ahead of him. We went up four flights that way, me in my stockinged feet with my shoes around my neck, his heavy boots behind me making a dull rasping on the metal stairs. As I started up the fifth flight I stopped, my foot halfway up a step. Someone else was coming down, someone wearing the same kind of military boots. I found the door to the hall, opened it behind me and slipped through. There was a long hall in front of me lined with offices of some kind. I began to run the length of it, trying to reach a turning before the door behind me could open and those exploding slugs tear me in half. The hall seemed endless and I suddenly realized I would never reach the end in time. I was a rat looking for a hole—and there was none. The doors were locked, all of them, I tried each as I came to it, knowing I would never make it. That stairwell door was opening behind me and the gun was coming up, I didn't dare turn and look but I could feel it. When the door opened under my hand I fell through before I realized what had happened. I locked it behind me and leaned against it in the darkness, panting like a spent animal. Then the light came on and I saw the man sitting behind the desk, smiling at me. * * * * * There is a limit to the amount of shock the human body can absorb. I'd had mine. I didn't care if he shot me or offered a cigarette—I had reached the end of my line. He did neither. He offered me a cigar instead. "Have one of these, diGriz, I believe they're your brand." The body is a slave of habit. Even with death a few inches away it will respond to established custom. My fingers moved of their own volition and took the cigar, my lips clenched it and my lungs sucked it into life. And all the time my eyes watched the man behind the desk waiting for death to reach out. It must have shown. He waved towards a chair and carefully kept both hands in sight on top of the desk. I still had my gun, it was trained on him. "Sit down diGriz and put that cannon away. If I wanted to kill you, I could have done it a lot easier than herding you into this room." His eyebrows moved up in surprise when he saw the expression on my face. "Don't tell me you thought it was an accident that you ended up here?" I had, up until that moment, and the lack of intelligent reasoning on my part brought on a wave of shame that snapped me back to reality. I had been outwitted and outfought, the least I could do was surrender graciously. I threw the gun on the desk and dropped into the offered chair. He swept the pistol neatly into a drawer and relaxed a bit himself. "Had me worried there for a minute, the way you stood there rolling your eyes and waving this piece of field artillery around." "Who are you?" He smiled at the abruptness of my tone. "Well, it doesn't matter who I am. What does matter is the organization that I represent." "The Corps?" "Exactly. The Special Corps. You didn't think I was the local police, did you? They have orders to shoot you on sight. It was only after I told them how to find you that they let the Corps come along on the job. I have some of my men in the building, they're the ones who herded you up here. The rest are all locals with itchy trigger fingers." It wasn't very flattering but it was true. I had been pushed around like a class M robot, with every move charted in advance. The old boy behind the desk—for the first time I realized he was about sixty-five—really had my number. The game was over. "All right Mr. Detective, you have me so there is no sense in gloating. What's next on the program? Psychological reorientation, lobotomy—or just plain firing squad?" "None of those, I'm afraid. I am here to offer you a job on the Corps." The whole thing was so ludicrous that I almost fell out of the chair laughing. Me. James diGriz, the interplanet thief working as a policeman. It was just too funny. He sat patiently, waiting until I was through. * * * * * "I will admit it has its ludicrous side—but only at first glance. If you stop to think, you will have to admit that who is better qualified to catch a thief than another thief?" There was more than a little truth in that, but I wasn't buying my freedom by turning stool pigeon. "An interesting offer, but I'm not getting out of this by playing the rat. There is even a code among thieves, you know." That made him angry. He was bigger than he looked sitting down and the fist he shook in my face was as large as a shoe. "What kind of stupidity do you call that? It sounds like a line out of a TV thriller. You've never met another crook in your whole life and you know it! And if you did you would cheerfully turn him in if you could make a profit on the deal. The entire essence of your life is individualism—that and the excitement of doing what others can't do. Well that's over now, and you better start admitting it to yourself. You can no longer be the interplanet playboy you used to be—but you _can_ do a job that will require every bit of your special talents and abilities. Have you ever killed a man?" His change of pace caught me off guard, I stumbled out an answer. "No ... not that I know of." "Well you haven't, if that will make you sleep any better at night. You're not a homicidal, I checked that on your record before I came out after you. That is why I know you will join the Corps and get a great deal of pleasure out of going after the _other_ kind of criminal who is sick, not just socially protesting. The man who can kill and enjoy it." He was too convincing, he had all the answers. I had only one more argument and I threw it in with the air of a last ditch defense. "What about the Corps, if they ever find out you are hiring half-reformed criminals to do your dirty work we will both be shot at dawn." This time it was his turn to laugh. I could see nothing funny so I ignored him until he was finished. "In the first place my boy, _I_ am the Corps—at least the man at the top—and what do you think _my_ name is? Harold Peters Inskipp, that's what it is!" "Not the Inskipp that—" "The same. Inskipp the Uncatchable. The man who looted the Pharsydion II in mid-flight and pulled all those other deals I'm sure you read about in your misspent youth. I was recruited just the way you were." He had me on the ropes and knew it. He moved in for the kill. "And who do you think the rest of our agents are? I don't mean the bright-eyed grads of our technical schools, like the ones on my squad downstairs. I mean the full agents. The men who plan the operations, do the preliminary fieldwork and see that everything comes off smoothly. They're crooks. All crooks. The better they were on their own, the better a job they do for the Corps. It's a great, big, brawling universe and you would be surprised at some of the problems that come up. The only men we can recruit to do the job are the ones who have already succeeded at it. "Are you on?" It had happened too fast and I hadn't had time to think. I would probably go on arguing for an hour. But way down in the back of my mind the decision had been made. I was going to do it, I couldn't say no. I was losing something, and I hoped I wouldn't miss it. No matter what freedom I had working with an organization, I would still be working with other people. The old carefree, sole responsibility days were over. I was joining the ranks of society again. There was the beginning of a warm feeling at the thought. It would at least be the end of loneliness. Friendship would make up for what I had lost. # iv I have never been more wrong. The people I met were dull to the point of extinction. They treated me like just another cog going around with the rest of the wheels. I was coggy all right, and kept wondering how I had ever gotten into this mess. Not really wondering, since the memory was still quite vivid. I was carried along with the rest of the gears, their teeth sunk into mine. We ended up on a planetoid, that much was obvious. But I hadn't the dimmest idea of what planets we were near or even what solar system we were in. Everything was highly secret and hush-hush, as this place was obviously the super-secret headquarters and main base of the Corps School too. This part I liked. It was the only thing that kept me from cracking out. Dull as the cubes were who taught the courses, the material was something I could really sink my teeth into and shake. I began to see how crude my operations had been. With the gadgetry and techniques I soaked up I could be ten times the crook I had been before. Pushing the thought firmly away helped for a while, but it had a way of sneaking back and whispering nastily in my ear during periods of depression and gloom. Things went from dull to dead. Half my time was spent working at the files, learning about the numberless successes and few failures of the Corps. I contemplated cracking out, yet at the same time couldn't help but wonder if this wasn't part of a testing period—to see if I had enough sticktoitiveness to last. I swallowed my temper, muffled my yawns, and took a careful look around. If I couldn't crack out—I could crack _in_. There had to be something I could do to terminate this term of penal servitude. It wasn't easy—but I found it. By the time I tracked everything down it was well into sleep period. But that was all right. In some ways it even made it more interesting. When it comes to picking locks and cracking safes I admit to no master. The door to Inskipp's private quarters had an old-fashioned tumbler drum that was easier to pick than my teeth. I must have gone through that door without breaking step. Quiet as I was though, Inskipp still heard me. The light came on and there he was sitting up in bed pointing a .75 caliber recoilless at my sternum. "You should have more brains than that, diGriz," he snarled. "Creeping into my room at night! You could have been shot." "No I couldn't," I told him, as he stowed the cannon back under his pillow. "A man with a curiosity bump as big as yours will always talk first and shoot later. And besides—none of this pussyfooting around in the dark would be necessary if your screen was open and I could have got a call through." Inskipp yawned and poured himself a glass of water from the dispenser unit above the bed. "Just because I head the Special Corps, doesn't mean that I _am_ the Special Corps," he said moistly while he drained the glass. "I have to sleep sometime. My screen is open only for emergency calls, not for every agent who needs his hand held." "Meaning I am in the hand-holding category?" I asked with as much sweetness as I could. "Put yourself in any category you damn well please," he grumbled as he slumped down in the bed. "And also put yourself out into the hall and see me tomorrow during working hours." He was at my mercy, really. He wanted sleep so much. And he was going to be wide awake so very soon. "Do you know what this is?" I asked him, poking a large glossy pic under his long broken nose. One eye opened slowly. "Big warship of some kind, looks like Empire lines. Now for the last time—go away!" he said. "A very good guess for this late at night," I told him cheerily. "It is a late Empire battleship of the Warlord class. Undoubtedly one of the most truly efficient engines of destruction ever manufactured. Over a half mile of defensive screens and armament that could probably turn any fleet existent today into fine radioactive ash—" "Except for the fact that the last one was broken up for scrap over a thousand years ago," he mumbled. I leaned over and put my lips close to his ear. So there would be no chance of misunderstanding. Speaking softly but clearly. "True, true," I said. "But wouldn't you be just a _little_ bit interested if I was to tell you that one is being built today?" Oh, it was beautiful to watch. The covers went one way and Inskipp went the other. In a single unfolding, concerted motion he left the horizontal and recumbent and stood tensely vertical against the wall. Examining the pic of the battleship under the light. He apparently did not believe in pajama bottoms and it hurt me to see the goose-bumps rising on those thin shanks. But if the legs were thin, the voice was more than full enough to make up for the difference. "Talk, blast you diGriz—_talk_!" he roared. "What is this nonsense about a battleship? Who's building it?" I had my nail file out and was touching up a cuticle, holding it out for inspection before I said anything. From the corner of my eye I could see him getting purple about the face—but he kept quiet. I savored my small moment of power. "Put diGriz in charge of the record room for a while, you said, that way he can learn the ropes. Burrowing around in century-old, dusty files will be just the thing for a free spirit like Slippery Jim diGriz. Teach him discipline. Show him what the Corps stands for. At the same time it will get the records in shape. They have been needing reorganization for quite a while." Inskipp opened his mouth, made a choking noise, then closed it. He undoubtedly realized that any interruption would only lengthen my explanation, not shorten it. I smiled and nodded at his decision, then continued. "So you thought you had me safely out of the way. Breaking my spirit under the guise of "giving me a little background in the Corps' activities." In this sense your plan failed. Something else happened instead. I nosed through the files and found them most interesting. Particularly the C & M setup—the Categorizer and Memory. That building full of machinery that takes in and digests news and reports from all the planets in the galaxy, indexes it to every category it can possibly relate, then files it. Great machine to work with. I had it digging out spaceship info for me, something I have always been interested in—" "You should be," Inskipp interrupted rudely. "You've stolen enough of them in your time." I gave him a hurt look and went on—slowly. "I won't bore you with all the details, since you seem impatient, but eventually I turned up this plan." He had it out of my fingers before it cleared my wallet. "What are you getting at?" he mumbled as he ran his eyes over the blueprints. "This is an ordinary heavy-cargo and passenger job. It's no more a Warlord battleship than I am." * * * * * It is hard to curl your lips with contempt and talk at the same time, but I succeeded. "Of course. You don't expect them to file warship plans with the League Registry, do you? But, as I said, I know more than a little bit about ships. It seemed to me this thing was just too big for the use intended. Enough old ships are fuel-wasters, you don't have to build new ones to do that. This started me thinking and I punched for a complete list of ships that size that had been constructed in the past. You can imagine my surprise when, after three minutes of groaning, the C & M only produced six. One was built for self-sustaining colony attempt at the second galaxy. For all we know she is still on the way. The other five were all D-class colonizers, built during the Expansion when large populations were moved. Too big to be practical now. "I was still teased, as I had no idea what a ship this large could be used for. So I removed the time interlock on the C & M and let it pick around through the entire history of space to see if it could find a comparison. It sure did. Right at the Golden Age of Empire expansion, the giant Warlord battleship. The machine even found a blueprint for me." Inskipp grabbed again and began comparing the two prints. I leaned over his shoulder and pointed out the interesting parts. "Notice—if the engine room specs are changed slightly to include this cargo hold, there is plenty of room for the brutes needed. This superstructure—obviously just tacked onto the plans—gets thrown away, and turrets take its place. The hulls are identical. A change here, a shift there, and the stodgy freighter becomes the fast battle-wagon. These changes could be made during construction, then plans filed. By the time anyone in the League found out what was being built the ship would be finished and launched. Of course, this could all be coincidence—the plans of a newly built ship agreeing to six places with those of a ship built a thousand years ago. But if you think so, I will give you hundred-to-one odds you are wrong, any size bet you name." I wasn't winning any sucker bets that night. Inskipp had led just as crooked a youth as I had, and needed no help in smelling a fishy deal. While he pulled on his clothes he shot questions at me. "And the name of the peace-loving planet that is building this bad-memory from the past?" "Cittanuvo. Second planet of a B star in Corona Borealis. No other colonized planets in the system." "Never heard of it," Inskipp said as we took the private drop chute to his office. "Which may be a good or a bad sign. Wouldn't be the first time trouble came from some out-of-the-way spot I never even knew existed." With the automatic disregard for others of the truly dedicated, he pressed the scramble button on his desk. Very quickly sleepy-eyed clerks and assistants were bringing files and records. We went through them together. Modesty prevented me from speaking first, but I had a very short wait before Inskipp reached the same conclusion I had. He hurled a folder the length of the room and scowled out at the harsh dawn light. "The more I look at this thing," he said, "the fishier it gets. This planet seems to have no possible motive or use for a battleship. But they are building one—_that_ I will swear on a stack of one thousand credit notes as high as this building. Yet what will they do with it when they have it built? They have an expanding culture, no unemployment, a surplus of heavy metals and ready markets for all they produce. No hereditary enemies, feuds or the like. If it wasn't for this battleship thing, I would call them an ideal League planet. I have to know more about them." "I've already called the spaceport—in your name of course," I told him. "Ordered a fast courier ship. I'll leave within the hour." "Aren't you getting a little ahead of yourself, diGriz," he said. Voice chill as the icecap. "I still give the orders and I'll tell you when you're ready for an independent command." I was sweetness and light because a lot depended on his decision. "Just trying to help, chief, get things ready in case you wanted more info. And this isn't really an operation, just a reconnaissance. I can do that as well as any of the experienced operators. And it may give me the experience I need, so that some day, I, too, will be qualified to join the ranks...." "All right," he said. "Stop shoveling it on while I can still breathe. Get out there. Find out what is happening. Then get back. Nothing else—and that's an order." By the way he said it, I knew he thought there was little chance of its happening that way. And he was right. # v A quick stop at supply and record sections gave me everything I needed. The sun was barely clear of the horizon when the silver barb of my ship lifted in the gray field, then blasted into space. The trip took only a few days, more than enough time to memorize everything I needed to know about Cittanuvo. And the more I knew the less I could understand their need for a battleship. It didn't fit. Cittanuvo was a secondary settlement out of the Cellini system, and I had run into these settlements before. They were all united in a loose alliance and bickered a lot among themselves, but never came to blows. If anything, they shared a universal abhorrence of war. Yet they were secretly building a battleship. Since I was only chasing my tail with this line of thought, I put it out of my mind and worked on some tri-di chess problems. This filled the time until Cittanuvo blinked into the bow screen. One of my most effective mottoes has always been, "Secrecy can be an obviousity." What the magicians call misdirection. Let people very obviously see what you want them to see, then they'll never notice what is hidden. This was why I landed at midday, on the largest field on the planet, after a very showy approach. I was already dressed for my role, and out of the ship before the landing braces stopped vibrating. Buckling the fur cape around my shoulders with the platinum clasp, I stamped down the ramp. The sturdy little M-3 robot rumbled after me with my bags. Heading directly towards the main gate, I ignored the scurry of activity around the customs building. Only when a uniformed under-official of some kind ran over to me, did I give the field any attention. Before he could talk I did, foot in the door and stay on top. "Beautiful planet you have here. Delightful climate! Ideal spot for a country home. Friendly people, always willing to help strangers and all that I imagine. That's what I like. Makes me feel grateful. Very pleased to meet you. I am the Grand Duke Sant' Angelo." I shook his hand enthusiastically at this point and let a one hundred credit note slip into his palm. "Now," I added, "I wonder if you would ask the customs agents to look at my bags here. Don't want to waste time, do we? The ship is open, they can check that whenever they please." My manner, clothes, jewelry, the easy way I passed money around and the luxurious sheen of my bags, could mean only one thing. There was little that was worth smuggling into or out of Cittanuvo. Certainly nothing a rich man would be interested in. The official murmured something with a smile, spoke a few words into his phone, and the job was done. A small wave of customs men hung stickers on my luggage, peeked into one or two for conformity's sake, and waved me through. I shook hands all around—a rustling handclasp of course—then was on my way. A cab was summoned, a hotel suggested. I nodded agreement and settled back while the robot loaded the bags about me. * * * * * The ship was completely clean. Everything I might need for the job was in my luggage. Some of it quite lethal and explosive, and very embarrassing if it were discovered in my bags. In the safety of my hotel suite I made a change of clothes and personality. After the robot had checked the rooms for bugs. And very nice gadgets too, these Corps robots. It looked and acted like a moron M-3 all the time. It was anything but. The brain was as good as any other robot brain I have known, plus the fact that the chunky body was crammed with devices and machines of varying use. It chugged slowly around the room, moving my bags and laying out my kit. And all the time following a careful route that covered every inch of the suite. When it had finished it stopped and called the all-clear. "All rooms checked. Results negative except for one optic bug in that wall." "Should you be pointing like that?" I asked the robot. "Might make people suspicious, you know." "Impossible," the robot said with mechanical surety. "I brushed against it and it is now unserviceable." With this assurance I pulled off my flashy clothes and slipped into the midnight black dress uniform of an admiral in the League Grand Fleet. It came complete with decorations, gold bullion, and all the necessary documents. I thought it a little showy myself, but it was just the thing to make the right impression on Cittanuvo. Like many other planets, this one was uniform-conscious. Delivery boys, street cleaners, clerks—all had to have characteristic uniforms. Much prestige attached to them, and my black dress outfit should rate as high as any uniform in the galaxy. A long cloak would conceal the uniform while I left the hotel, but the gold-encrusted helmet and a brief case of papers were a problem. I had never explored all the possibilities of the pseudo M-3 robot, perhaps it could be of help. "You there, short and chunky," I called. "Do you have any concealed compartments or drawers built into your steel hide? If so, let's see." For a second I thought the robot had exploded. The thing had more drawers in it than a battery of cash registers. Big, small, flat, thin, they shot out on all sides. One held a gun and two more were stuffed with grenades; the rest were empty. I put the hat in one, the brief case in another and snapped my fingers. The drawers slid shut and its metal hide was as smooth as ever. I pulled on a fancy sports cap, buckled the cape up tight, and was ready to go. The luggage was all booby-trapped and could defend itself. Guns, gas, poison needles, the usual sort of thing. In the last resort it would blow itself up. The M-3 went down by a freight elevator. I used a back stairs and we met in the street. Since it was still daylight I didn't take a heli, but rented a groundcar instead. We had a leisurely drive out into the country and reached President Ferraro's house after dark. As befitted the top official of a rich planet, the place was a mansion. But the security precautions were ludicrous to say the least. I took myself and a three hundred fifty kilo robot through the guards and alarms without causing the slightest stir. President Ferraro, a bachelor, was eating his dinner. This gave me enough undisturbed time to search his study. There was absolutely nothing. Nothing to do with wars or battleships that is. If I had been interested in blackmail I had enough evidence in my hand to support me for life. I was looking for something bigger than political corruption, however. When Ferraro rolled into his study after dinner the room was dark. I heard him murmur something about the servants and fumble for the switch. Before he found it, the robot closed the door and turned on the lights. I sat behind his desk, all his personal papers before me—weighted down with a pistol—and as fierce a scowl as I could raise smeared across my face. Before he got over the shock I snapped an order at him. "Come over here and sit down, _quick_!" The robot hustled him across the room at the same time, so he had no choice except to obey. When he saw the papers on the desk his eyes bulged and he just gurgled a little. Before he could recover I threw a thick folder in front of him. "I am Admiral Thar, League Grand Fleet. These are my credentials. You had better check them." Since they were as good as any real admiral's I didn't worry in the slightest. Ferraro went through them as carefully as he could in his rattled state, even checking the seals under UV. It gave him time to regain a bit of control and he used it to bluster. "What do you mean by entering my private quarters and burglaring—" "You're in very bad trouble," I said in as gloomy a voice as I could muster. Ferraro's tanned face went a dirty gray at my words. I pressed the advantage. "I am arresting you for conspiracy, extortion, theft, and whatever other charges develop after a careful review of these documents. Seize him." This last order was directed at the robot who was well briefed in its role. It rumbled forward and locked its hand around Ferraro's wrist, handcuff style. He barely noticed. "I can explain," he said desperately. "Everything can be explained. There is no need to make such charges. I don't know what papers you have there, so I wouldn't attempt to say they are all forgeries. I have many enemies you know. If the League knew the difficulties faced on a backward planet like this...." "That will be entirely enough," I snapped, cutting him off with a wave of my hand. "All those questions will be answered by a court at the proper time. There is only one question I want an answer to now. Why are you building that battleship?" * * * * * The man was a great actor. His eyes opened wide, his jaw dropped, he sank back into the chair as if he had been tapped lightly with a hammer. When he managed to speak the words were completely unnecessary; he had already registered every evidence of injured innocence. "What battleship?" he gasped. "The Warlord class battleship that is being built at the Cenerentola Spaceyards. Disguised behind these blueprints." I threw them across the desk to him, and pointed to the one corner. "Those are your initials there, authorizing construction." Ferraro still had the baffled act going as he fumbled with the papers, examined the initials and such. I gave him plenty of time. He finally put them down, shaking his head. "I know nothing about any battleship. These are the plans for a new cargo liner. Those are my initials, I recall putting them there." I phrased my question carefully, as I had him right where I wanted him now. "You deny any knowledge of the Warlord battleship that is being built from these modified plans." "These are the plans for an ordinary passenger-freighter, that is all I know." His words had the simple innocence of a young child's. Was he ever caught. I sat back with a relaxed sigh and lit a cigar. "Wouldn't you be interested in knowing something about that robot who is holding you," I said. He looked down, as if aware for the first time that the robot had been holding him by the wrist during the interview. "That is no ordinary robot. It has a number of interesting devices built into its fingertips. Thermocouples, galvanometers, things like that. While you talked it registered your skin temperature, blood pressure, amount of perspiration and such. In other words it is an efficient and fast working lie detector. We will now hear all about your lies." Ferraro pulled away from the robot's hand as if it had been a poisonous snake. I blew a relaxed smoke ring. "Report," I said to the robot. "Has this man told any lies?" "Many," the robot said. "Exactly seventy-four per cent of all statements he made were false." "Very good," I nodded, throwing the last lock on my trap. "That means he knows all about this battleship." "The subject has no knowledge of the battleship," the robot said coldly. "All of his statements concerning the construction of this ship were true." Now it was my turn for the gaping and eye-popping act while Ferraro pulled himself together. He had no idea I wasn't interested in his other hanky-panky, but could tell I had had a low blow. It took an effort, but I managed to get my mind back into gear and consider the evidence. If President Ferraro didn't know about the battleship, he must have been taken in by the cover-up job. But if he wasn't responsible—who was? Some militaristic clique that meant to overthrow him and take power? I didn't know enough about the planet, so I enlisted Ferraro on my side. This was easy—even without the threat of exposure of the documents I had found in his files. Using their disclosure as a prod I could have made him jump through hoops. It wasn't necessary. As soon as I showed him the different blueprints and explained the possibilities he understood. If anything, he was more eager than I was to find out who was using his administration as a cat's-paw. By silent agreement the documents were forgotten. We agreed that the next logical step would be the Cenerentola Spaceyards. He had some idea of sniffing around quietly first, trying to get a line to his political opponents. I gave him to understand that the League, and the League Navy in particular, wanted to stop the construction of the battleship. After that he could play his politics. With this point understood he called his car and squadron of guards and we made a parade to the shipyards. It was a four-hour drive and we made plans on the way down. * * * * * The spaceyard manager was named Rocca, and he was happily asleep when we arrived. But not for long. The parade of uniforms and guns in the middle of the night had him frightened into a state where he could hardly walk. I imagine he was as full of petty larceny as Ferraro. No innocent man could have looked so terror-stricken. Taking advantage of the situation, I latched my motorized lie detector onto him and began snapping the questions. Even before I had all the answers I began to get the drift of things. They were a little frightening, too. The manager of the spaceyard that was building the ship had no idea of its true nature. Anyone with less self-esteem than myself—or who had led a more honest early life—might have doubted his own reasoning at that moment. I didn't. The ship on the ways _still_ resembled a warship to six places. And knowing human nature the way I do, that was too much of a coincidence to expect. Occam's razor always points the way. If there are two choices to take, take the simpler. In this case I chose the natural acquisitive instinct of man as opposed to blind chance and accident. Nevertheless I put the theory to the test. Looking over the original blueprints again, the big superstructure hit my eye. In order to turn the ship into a warship that would have to be one of the first things to go. "Rocca!" I barked, in what I hoped was authentic old space-dog manner. "Look at these plans, at this space-going front porch here. Is it still being built onto the ship?" He shook his head at once and said, "No, the plans were changed. We had to fit in some kind of new meteor-repelling gear for operating in the planetary debris belt." I flipped through my case and drew out a plan. "Does your new gear look anything like this?" I asked, throwing it across the table to him. He rubbed his jaw while he looked at it. "Well," he said hesitatingly, "I don't want to say for certain. After all, these details aren't in my department, I'm just responsible for final assembly, not unit work. But this surely looks like the thing they installed. Big thing. Lots of power leads—" It was a battleship all right, no doubt of that now. I was mentally reaching around to pat myself on the back when the meaning of his words sank in. "Installed!" I shouted. "Did you say installed?" Rocca collapsed away from my roar and gnawed his nails. "Yes—" he said, "not too long ago. I remember there was some trouble...." "And what else?" I interrupted him. Cold moisture was beginning to collect along my spine now. "The drives, controls—are they in, too?" "Why, yes," he said. "How did you know? The normal scheduling was changed around, causing a great deal of unnecessary trouble." The cold sweat was now a running river of fear. I was beginning to have the feeling that I had been missing the boat all along the line. The original estimated date of completion was nearly a year away. But there was no real reason why that couldn't be changed, too. "Cars! Guns!" I bellowed. "To the spaceyard. If that ship is anywhere near completion, we are in big, _big_ trouble!" * * * * * All the bored guards had a great time with the sirens, lights, accelerators on the floor and that sort of thing. We blasted a screaming hole through the night right to the spaceyard and through the gate. It didn't make any difference, we were still too late. A uniformed watchman frantically waved to us and the whole convoy jerked to a stop. The ship was gone. Rocca couldn't believe it, neither could the president. They wandered up and down the empty ways where it had been built. I just crunched down in the back of the car, chewing my cigar to pieces and cursing myself for being a fool. I had missed the obvious fact, being carried away by the thought of a planetary government building a warship. The government was involved for sure—but only as a pawn. No little planet-bound political mind could have dreamed up as big a scheme as this. I smelled a rat—a stainless steel one. Someone who operated the way I had done before my conversion. Now that the rodent was well out of the bag I knew just where to look, and had a pretty good idea of what I would find. Rocca, the spaceyard manager, had staggered back and was pulling at his hair, cursing and crying at the same time. President Ferraro had his gun out and was staring at it grimly. It was hard to tell if he was thinking of murder or suicide. I didn't care which. All he had to worry about was the next election, when the voters and the political competition would carve him up for losing the ship. My troubles were a little bigger. I had to find the battleship before it blasted its way across the galaxy. "Rocca!" I shouted. "Get into the car. I want to see your records—_all_ of your records—and I want to see them right now." He climbed wearily in and had directed the driver before he fully realized what was happening. Blinking at the sickly light of dawn brought him slowly back to reality. "But admiral ... the hour! Everyone will be asleep...." I just growled, but it was enough. Rocca caught the idea from my expression and grabbed the car phone. The office doors were open when we got there. Normally I curse the paper tangles of bureaucracy, but this was one time when I blessed them all. These people had it down to a fine science. Not a rivet fell, but that its fall was noted—in quintuplicate. And later followed up with a memo, _rivet, wastage, query_. The facts I needed were all neatly tucked away in their paper catacombs. All I had to do was sniff them out. I didn't try to look for first causes, this would have taken too long. Instead I concentrated my attention on the recent modifications, like the gun turret, that would quickly give me a trail to the guilty parties. Once the clerks understood what I had in mind they hurled themselves into their work, urged on by the fires of patriotism and the burning voices of their superiors. All I had to do was suggest a line of search and the relevant documents would begin appearing at once. * * * * * Bit by bit a pattern started to emerge. A delicate web-work of forgery, bribery, chicanery and falsehood. It could only have been conceived by a mind as brilliantly crooked as my own. I chewed my lip with jealousy. Like all great ideas, this one was basically simple. A party or parties unknown had neatly warped the ship construction program to their own ends. Undoubtedly they had started the program for the giant transport, that would have to be checked later. And once the program was underway, it had been guided with a skill that bordered on genius. Orders were originated in many places, passed on, changed and shuffled. I painfully traced each one to its source. Many times the source was a forgery. Some changes seemed to be unexplainable, until I noticed the officers in question had a temporary secretary while their normal assistants were ill. All the girls had had food poisoning, a regular epidemic it seemed. Each of them in turn had been replaced by the same girl. She stayed just long enough in each position to see that the battleship plan moved forward one more notch. This girl was obviously the assistant to the Mastermind who originated the scheme. He sat in the center of the plot, like a spider on its web, pulling the strings that set things into motion. My first thought that a gang was involved proved wrong. All my secondary suspects turned out to be simple forgeries, not individuals. In the few cases where forgery wasn't adequate, my mysterious X had apparently hired himself to do the job. X himself had the permanent job of Assistant Engineering Designer. One by one the untangled threads ran to this office. He also had a secretary whose "illnesses" coincided with her employment in other offices. When I straightened up from my desk the ache in my back stabbed like a hot wire. I swallowed a painkiller and looked around at my drooping, sack-eyed assistants who had shared the sleepless seventy-two hour task. They sat or slumped against the furniture, waiting for my conclusions. Even President Ferraro was there, his hair looking scraggly where he had pulled out handfuls. "You've found them, the criminal ring?" he asked, his fingers groping over his scalp for a fresh hold. "I have found them, yes," I said hoarsely. "But not a criminal ring. An inspired master criminal—who apparently has more executive ability in one ear lobe than all your bribe-bloated bureaucrats—and his female assistant. They pulled the entire job by themselves. His name, or undoubtedly pseudoname, is Pepe Nero. The girl is called Angelina...." "Arrest them at once! Guards ... guards—" Ferraro's voice died away as he ran out of the room. I talked to his vanishing back. "That is just what we intend to do, but it's a little difficult at the moment since they are the ones who not only built the battleship, but undoubtedly stole it as well. It was fully automated so no crew is necessary." "What do you plan to do?" one of the clerks asked. "I shall do nothing," I told him, with the snapped precision of an old space veteran. "The League fleet is already closing in on the renegades and you will be informed of the capture. Thank you for your assistance." # vi I threw them as snappy a salute as I could muster and they filed out. Staring gloomily at their backs I envied for one moment their simple faith in the League Navy. When in reality the vengeful fleet was just as imaginary as my admiral's rating. This was still a job for the Corps. Inskipp would have to be given the latest information at once. I had sent him a psigram about the theft, but there was no answer as yet. Maybe the identity of the thieves would stir some response out of him. My message was in code, but it could be quickly broken if someone wanted to try hard enough. I took it to the message center myself. The psiman was in his transparent cubicle and I locked myself in with him. His eyes were unfocused as he spoke softly into a mike, pulling in a message from somewhere across the galaxy. Outside the rushing transcribers copied, coded and filed messages, but no sound penetrated the insulated wall. I waited until his attention clicked back into the room, and handed him the sheets of paper. "League Central 14—rush," I told him. He raised his eyebrows, but didn't ask any questions. Establishing contact only took a few seconds, as they had an entire battery of psimen for their communications. He read the code words carefully, shaping them with his mouth but not speaking aloud, the power of his thoughts carrying across the light-years of distance. As soon as he was finished I took back the sheet, tore it up and pocketed the pieces. I had my answer back quickly enough, Inskipp must have been hovering around waiting for my message. The mike was turned off to the transcribers outside, and I took the code groups down in shorthand myself. "... xybb dfil fdno, and if you don't—don't come back!" The message broke into clear at the end and the psiman smiled as he spoke the words. I broke the point off my stylus and growled at him not to repeat _any_ of this message, as it was classified, and I would personally see him shot if he did. That got rid of the smile, but didn't make me feel any better. The decoded message turned out not to be as bad as I had imagined. Until further notice I was in charge of tracking and capturing the stolen battleship. I could call on the League for any aid I needed. I would keep my identity as an admiral for the rest of the job. I was to keep him informed of progress. Only those ominous last words in clear kept my happiness from being complete. I had been handed my long-awaited assignment. But translated into simple terms my orders were to get the battleship, or it would be my neck. Never a word about my efforts in uncovering the plot in the first place. This is a heartless world we live in. This moment of self-pity relaxed me and I immediately went to bed. Since my main job now was waiting, I could wait just as well asleep. * * * * * And waiting was all I could do. Of course there were secondary tasks, such as ordering a Naval cruiser for my own use, and digging for more information on the thieves, but these really were secondary to my main purpose. Which was waiting for bad news. There was no place I could go that would be better situated for the chase than Cittanuvo. The missing ship could have gone in any direction. With each passing minute the sphere of probable locations grew larger by the power of the squared cube. I kept the on-watch crew of the cruiser at duty stations and confined the rest within a one hundred yard radius of the ship. There was little more information on Pepe and Angelina, they had covered their tracks well. Their backgrounds were unknown, though the fact they both talked with a slight accent suggested an off-world origin. There was one dim picture of Pepe, chubby but looking too grim to be a happy fat boy. There was no picture of the girl. I shuffled the meager findings, controlled my impatience, and kept the ship's psiman busy pulling in all the reports of any kind of trouble in space. The navigator and I plotted their locations in his tank, comparing the positions in relation to the growing sphere that enclosed all the possible locations of the stolen ship. Some of the disasters and apparent accidents hit inside this area, but further investigation proved them all to have natural causes. I had left standing orders that all reports falling inside the danger area were to be brought to me at any time. The messenger woke me from a deep sleep, turning on the light and handing me the slip of paper. I blinked myself awake, read the first two lines, and pressed the _action station_ alarm over my bunk. I'll say this, the Navy boys know their business. When the sirens screamed, the crew secured ship and blasted off before I had finished reading the report. As soon as my eyeballs unsquashed back into focus I read it through, then once more carefully from the beginning. It looked like the one we had been waiting for. There were no witnesses to the tragedy, but a number of monitor stations had picked up the discharge static of a large energy weapon being fired. Triangulation had led investigators to the spot where they found a freighter, _Ogget's Dream_, with a hole punched through it as big as a railroad tunnel. The freighter's cargo of plutonium was gone. I read _Pepe_ in every line of the message. Since he was flying an undermanned battleship, he had used it in the most efficient way possible. If he attempted to negotiate or threaten another ship, the element of chance would be introduced. So he had simply roared up to the unsuspecting freighter and blasted her with the monster guns his battleship packed. All eighteen men aboard had been killed instantly. The thieves were also murderers. I was under pressure now to act. And under a greater pressure not to make any mistakes. Roly-poly Pepe had shown himself to be a ruthless killer. He knew what he wanted—then reached out and took it. Destroying anyone who stood in his way. More people would die before this was over, it was up to me to keep that number as small as possible. * * * * * Ideally I should have rushed out the fleet with guns blazing and dragged him to justice. Very nice, and I wished it could be done that way. Except where was he? A battleship may be gigantic on some terms of reference, but in the immensity of the galaxy it is microscopically infinitesimal. As long as it stayed out of the regular lanes of commerce, and clear of detector stations and planets, it would never be found. Then how _could_ I find it—and having found it, catch it? When the infernal thing was more than a match for any ship it might meet. That was my problem. It had kept me awake nights and talking to myself days, since there was no easy answer. I had to construct a solution, slowly and carefully. Since I couldn't be sure where Pepe was going to be next, I had to make him go where I wanted him to. There were some things in my favor. The most important was the fact I had forced him to make his play before he was absolutely ready. It wasn't chance that he had left the same day I arrived on Cittanuvo. Any plan as elaborate as his certainly included warning of approaching danger. The drive on the battleship, as well as controls and primary armament had been installed weeks before I showed up. Much of the subsidiary work remained to be done when the ship had left. One witness of the theft had graphically described the power lines and cables dangling from the ship's locks when she lifted. My arrival had forced Pepe off balance. Now I had to keep pushing until he fell. This meant I had to think as he did, fall into his plan, think ahead—then trap him. Set a thief to catch a thief. A great theory, only I felt uncomfortably on the spot when I tried to put it into practice. A drink helped, as did a cigar. Puffing on it, staring at the smooth bulkhead, relaxed me a bit. After all—there aren't that many things you can do with a battleship. You can't run a big con, blow safes or make burmedex with it. It is hell-on-jets for space piracy, but that's about all. "Great, great—but why a battleship?" I was talking to myself, normally a bad sign, but right now I didn't care. The mood of space piracy had seized me and I had been going along fine. Until this glaring inconsistency jumped out and hit me square in the eye. Why a battleship? Why all the trouble and years of work to get a ship that two people could just barely manage? With a tenth of the effort Pepe could have had a cruiser that would have suited his purposes just as well. Just as good for space piracy, that is—but not for _his_ purposes. He had wanted a battleship, and he had gotten himself a battleship. Which meant he had more in mind than simple piracy. What? It was obvious that Pepe was a monomaniac, an egomaniac, and as psychotic as a shorted computer. Some day the mystery of how he had slipped through the screen of official testing would have to be investigated. That wasn't my concern now. He still had to be caught. * * * * * A plan was beginning to take shape in my head, but I didn't rush it. First I had to be sure that I knew him well. Any man that can con an entire world into building a battleship for him—then steal it from them—is not going to stop there. The ship would need a crew, a base for refueling and a mission. Fuel had been taken care of first, the gutted hull of _Ogget's Dream_ was silent witness to that. There were countless planets that could be used as a base. Getting a crew would be more difficult in these peaceful times, although I could think of a few answers to that one, too. Raid the mental hospitals and jails. Do that often enough and you would have a crew that would make any pirate chief proud. Though piracy was, of course, too mean an ambition to ascribe to this boy. Did he want to rule a whole planet—or maybe an entire system? Or more? I shuddered a bit as the thought hit me. Was there really anything that could stop a plan like this once it got rolling? During the Kingly Wars any number of types with a couple of ships and less brains than Pepe had set up just this kind of empire. They were all pulled down in the end, since their success depended on one-man rule. But the price that had to be paid first! This was the plan and I felt in my bones that I was right. I might be wrong on some of the minor details, they weren't important. I knew the general outline of the idea, just as when I bumped into a mark I knew how much he could be taken for, and just how to do it. There are natural laws in crime as in every other field of human endeavor. I _knew_ this was it. "Get the Communications Officer in here at once," I shouted at the intercom. "Also a couple of clerks with transcribers. And fast—this is a matter of life or death!" This last had a hollow ring, and I realized my enthusiasm had carried me out of character. I buttoned my collar, straightened my ribbons and squared my shoulders. By the time they knocked on the door I was all admiral again. Acting on my orders the ship dropped out of warpdrive so our psiman could get through to the other operators. Captain Steng grumbled as we floated there with the engines silent, wasting precious days, while half his crew was involved in getting out what appeared to be insane instructions. My plan was beyond his understanding. Which is, of course, why he is a captain and I'm an admiral, even a temporary one. Following my orders, the navigator again constructed a sphere of speculation in his tank. The surface of the sphere contacted all the star systems a day's flight ahead of the maximum flight of the stolen battleship. There weren't too many of these at first and the psiman could handle them all, calling each in turn and sending news releases to the Naval Public Relations officers there. As the sphere kept growing he started to drop behind, steadily losing ground. By this time I had a general release prepared, along with directions for use and follow up, which he sent to Central 14. The battery of psimen there contacted the individual planets and all we had to do was keep adding to the list of planets. The release and follow-ups all harped on one theme. I expanded on it, waxed enthusiastic, condemned it, and worked it into an interview. I wrote as many variations as I could, so it could be slipped into as many different formats as possible. In one form or another I wanted the basic information in every magazine, newspaper and journal inside that expanding sphere. "What in the devil does this nonsense _mean_?" Captain Steng asked peevishly. He had long since given up the entire operation as a futile one, and spent most of the time in his cabin worrying about the effect of it on his service record. Boredom or curiosity had driven him out, and he was reading one of my releases with horror. "Billionaire to found own world ... space yacht filled with luxuries to last a hundred years," the captain's face grew red as he flipped through the stack of notes. "What connection does this tripe have with catching those murderers?" * * * * * When we were alone he was anything but courteous to me, having assured himself by not-too-subtle questioning that I was a spurious admiral. There was no doubt I was still in charge, but our relationship was anything but formal. "This tripe and nonsense," I told him, "is the bait that will snag our fish. A trap for Pepe and his partner in crime." "Who is this mysterious billionaire?" "Me," I said. "I've always wanted to be rich." "But this ship, the space yacht, where is it?" "Being built now in the naval shipyard at Udrydde. We're almost ready to go there now, soon as this batch of instructions goes out." Captain Steng dropped the releases onto the table, then carefully wiped his hands off to remove any possible infection. He was trying to be fair and considerate of my views, and not succeeding in the slightest. "It doesn't make sense," he growled. "How can you be sure this killer will ever read one of these things. And if he does—why should he be interested? It looks to me as if you are wasting time while he slips through your fingers. The alarm should be out and every ship notified. The Navy alerted and patrols set on all spacelanes—" "Which he could easily avoid by going around, or better yet not even bother about, since he can lick any ship we have. That's not the answer," I told him. "This Pepe is smart and as tricky as a fixed gambling machine. That's his strength—and his weakness as well. Characters like that never think it possible for someone else to outthink them. Which is what _I'm_ going to do." "Modest, aren't you," Steng said. "I try not to be," I told him. "False modesty is the refuge of the incompetent. I'm going to catch this thug and I'll tell you how I'll do it. He's going to hit again soon, and wherever he hits there will be some kind of a periodical with my plant in it. Whatever else he is after, he is going to take all of the magazines and papers he can find. Partly to satisfy his own ego, but mostly to keep track of the things he is interested in. Such as ship sailings." "You're just guessing—you don't know all this." His automatic assumption of my incompetence was beginning to get me annoyed. I bridled my temper and tried one last time. "Yes, I'm guessing—an informed guess—but I do know some facts as well. _Ogget's Dream_ was cleaned out of all reading matter, that was one of the first things I checked. We can't stop the battleship from attacking again, but we can see to it that the time after that she sails into a trap." "I don't know," the captain said, "it sounds to me like...." I never heard what it sounded like, which is all right since he was getting under my skin and I might have been tempted to pull my pseudo-rank. The alarm sirens cut his sentence off and we foot-raced to the communications room. Captain Steng won by a nose, it was his ship and he knew all the shortcuts. The psiman was holding out a transcription, but he summed it up in one sentence. He looked at me while he talked and his face was hard and cold. "They hit again, knocked out a Navy supply satellite, thirty-four men dead." "If your plan doesn't work, _admiral_," the captain whispered hoarsely in my ear, "I'll personally see that you're flayed alive!" "If my plan doesn't work, _captain_—there won't be enough of my skin left to pick up with a tweezer. Now if you please, I'd like to get to Udrydde and board my ship as soon as possible." The easy-going hatred and contempt of all my associates had annoyed me, thrown me off balance. I was thinking with anger now, not with logic. Forcing a bit of control, I ordered my thoughts, checking off a mental list. "Belay that last command," I shouted, getting back into my old space-dog mood. "Get a call through first and find out if any of our plants were picked up during the raid." While the psiman unfocused his eyes and mumbled under his breath I rifled some papers, relaxed and cool. The ratings and officers waited tensely, and made some slight attempt to conceal their hatred of me. It took about ten minutes to get an answer. "Affirmative," the psiman said. "A store ship docked there twenty hours before the attack. Among other things, it left newspapers containing the article." "Very good," I said calmly. "Send a general order to suspend all future activity with the planted releases. Send it by psimen only, no mention on any other Naval signaling equipment, there's a good chance now it might be "overheard."" I strolled out slowly, in command of the situation. Keeping my face turned away so they couldn't see the cold sweat. * * * * * It was a fast run to Udrydde where my billionaire's yacht, the _Eldorado_, was waiting. The dockyard commander showed me the ship, and made a noble effort to control his curiosity. I took a sadistic revenge on the Navy by not telling him a word about my mission. After checking out the controls and special apparatus with the technicians, I cleared the ship. There was a tape in the automatic navigator that would put me on the course mentioned in all the articles, just a press of a button and I would be on my way. I pressed the button. It was a beautiful ship, and the dockyard had been lavish with their attention to detail. From bow to rear tubes she was plated in pure gold. There are other metals with a higher albedo, but none that give a richer effect. All the fittings, inside and out, were either machine-turned or plated. All this work could not have been done in the time allotted, the Navy must have adapted a luxury yacht to my needs. Everything was ready. Either Pepe would make his move—or I would sail on to my billionaire's paradise planet. If that happened, it would be best if I stayed there. Now that I was in space, past the point of no return, all the doubts that I had dismissed fought for attention. The plan that had seemed so clear and logical now began to look like a patched and crazy makeshift. "Hold on there, sailor," I said to myself. Using my best admiral's voice. "Nothing has changed. It's still the best and _only_ plan possible under the circumstances." Was it? Could I be sure that Pepe, flying his mountain of a ship and eating Navy rations, would be interested in some of the comforts and luxuries of life? Or if the luxuries didn't catch his eye, would he be interested in the planetary homesteading gear? I had loaded the cards with all the things he might want, and planted the information where he could get it. He had the bait now—but would he grab the hook? I couldn't tell. And I could work myself into a neurotic state if I kept running through the worry cycle. It took an effort to concentrate on anything else, but it had to be made. The next four days passed very slowly. # vii When the alarm blew off, all I felt was an intense sensation of relief. I might be dead and blasted to dust in the next few minutes, but that didn't seem to make much difference. Pepe had swallowed the bait. There was only one ship in the galaxy that could knock back a blip that big at such a distance. It was closing fast, using the raw energy of the battleship engines for a headlong approach. My ship bucked a bit as the tug-beams locked on at maximum distance. The radio bleeped at me for attention at the same time. I waited as long as I dared, then flipped it on. The voice boomed out. "... That you are under the guns of a warship! Don't attempt to run, signal, take evasive action, or in any other way...." "Who are you—and what the devil do you want?" I spluttered into the mike. I had my scanner on, so they could see me, but my own screen stayed dark. They weren't sending any picture. In a way it made my act easier, I just played to an unseen audience. They could see the rich cut of my clothes, the luxurious cabin behind me. Of course they couldn't see my hands. "It doesn't matter who we are," the radio boomed again. "Just obey orders if you care to live. Stay away from the controls until we have tied on, then do exactly as I say." There were two distant clangs as magnetic grapples hit the hull. A little later the ship lurched, drawn home against the battleship. I let my eyes roll in fear, looking around for a way to escape—and taking a peek at the outside scanners. The yacht was flush against the space-filling bulk of the other ship. I pressed the button that sent the torch-wielding robot on his way. * * * * * "Now let me tell you something," I snapped into the mike, wiping away the worried billionaire expression. "First I'll repeat your own warning—obey orders if you want to live. I'll show you why—" When I threw the big switch a carefully worked out sequence took place. First, of course, the hull was magnetized and the bombs fused. A light blinked as the scanner in the cabin turned off, and the one in the generator room came on. I checked the monitor screen to make sure, then started into the spacesuit. It had to be done fast, at the same time it was necessary to talk naturally. They must still think of me as sitting in the control room. "That's the ship's generators you're looking at," I said. "Ninety-eight per cent of their output is now feeding into coils that make an electromagnet of this ship's hull. You will find it very hard to separate us. And I would advise you not to try." The suit was on, and I kept the running chatter up through the mike in the helmet, relaying to the ship's transmitter. The scene in the monitor receiver changed. "You are now looking at a hydrogen bomb that is primed and aware of the magnetic field holding our ships together. It will, of course, go off if you try to pull away." I grabbed up the monitor receiver and ran toward the air lock. "This is a different bomb now," I said, keeping one eye on the screen and the other on the slowly opening outer door. "This one has receptors on the hull. If you attempt to destroy any part of this ship, or even gain entry to it, this one will detonate." I was in space now, leaping across to the gigantic wall of the other ship. "What do you want?" These were the first words Pepe had spoken since his first threats. "I want to talk to you, arrange a deal. Something that would be profitable for both of us. But let me first show you the rest of the bombs, so you won't get any strange ideas about co-operating." Of course I _had_ to show him the rest of the bombs, there was no getting out of it. The scanners in the ship were following a planned program. I made light talk about all my massive armament that would carry us both to perdition, while I climbed through the hole in the battleship's hull. There was no armor or warning devices at this spot, it had been chosen carefully from the blueprints. "Yeah, yeah ... I take your word for it, you're a flying bomb. So stop with this roving reporter bit and tell me what you have in mind." This time I didn't answer him, because I was running and panting like a dog, and had the mike turned off. Just ahead, if the blueprints were right, was the door to the control room. Pepe should be there. I stepped through, gun out, and pointed it at the back of his head. Angelina stood next to him, looking at the screen. "The game's over," I said. "Stand up slowly and keep your hands in sight." "What do you mean," he said angrily, looking at the screen in front of him. The girl caught wise first. She spun around and pointed. "He's _here_!" They both stared, gaped at me, caught off guard and completely unprepared. "You're under arrest, crime-king," I told him. "And your girl friend." Angelina rolled her eyes up and slid slowly to the floor. Real or faked, I didn't care. I kept the gun on Pepe's pudgy form while he picked her up and carried her to an acceleration couch against the wall. "What ... what will happen now?" He quavered the question. His pouchy jaws shook and I swear there were tears in his eyes. I was not impressed by his acting since I could clearly remember the dead men floating in space. He stumbled over to a chair, half dropping into it. "Will they do anything to me?" Angelina asked. Her eyes were open now. "I have no idea of what will happen to you." I told her truthfully. "That is up to the courts to decide." "But he _made_ me do all those things," she wailed. She was young, dark and beautiful, the tears did nothing to spoil this. Pepe dropped his face into his hands and his shoulders shook. I flicked the gun his way and snapped at him. "Sit up, Pepe. I find it very hard to believe that you are crying. There are some Naval ships on the way now, the automatic alarm was triggered about a minute ago. I'm sure they'll be glad to see the man who...." "Don't let them take me, please!" Angelina was on her feet now, her back pressed to the wall. "They'll put me in prison, do things to my mind!" She shrunk away as she spoke, stumbling along the wall. I looked back at Pepe, not wanting to have my eyes off him for an instant. "There's nothing I can do," I told her. I glanced her way and a small door was swinging open and she was gone. "Don't try to run," I shouted after her, "it can't do any good!" Pepe made a strangling noise and I looked back to him quickly. He was sitting up now and his face was dry of tears. In fact he was laughing, not crying. "So she caught you, too, Mr. Wise-cop, poor little Angelina with the soft eyes." He broke down again, shaking with laughter. "What do you mean," I growled. "Don't you catch yet? The story she told you was true—except she twisted it around a bit. The whole plan, building the battleship, then stealing it, was _hers_. She pulled me into it, played me like an accordion. I fell in love with her, hating myself and happy at the same time. Well—I'm glad now it's over. At least I gave her a chance to get away, I owe her that much. Though I thought I would explode when she went into that innocence act!" The cold feeling was now a ball of ice that threatened to paralyze me. "You're lying," I said hoarsely, and even I didn't believe it. "Sorry. That's the way it is. Your brain-boys will pick my skull to pieces and find out the truth anyway. There's no point in lying now." "We'll search the ship, she can't hide for long." "She won't have to," Pepe said. "There's a fast scout we picked up, stowed in one of the holds. That must be it leaving now." We could feel the vibration, distantly through the floor. "The Navy will get her," I told him, with far more conviction than I felt. "Maybe," he said, suddenly slumped and tired, no longer laughing. "Maybe they will. But I gave her her chance. It is all over for me now, but she knows that I loved her to the end." He bared his teeth in sudden pain. "Not that she will care in the slightest." I kept the gun on him and neither of us moved while the Navy ships pulled up and their boots stamped outside. I had captured my battleship and the raids were over. And I couldn't be blamed if the girl had slipped away. If she evaded the Navy ships, that was their fault, not mine. I had my victory all right. But I wasn't too happy about it. I had a premonition that I wasn't finished with Angelina yet. # viii Life would have been much sweeter if my uneasy hunch hadn't proven to be true. You can't blame the Navy for being taken in by Angelina—they were neither the first nor the last to underestimate the mind that lay behind those melting eyes. And I try not to blame myself either. After my first mistake in letting Angelina slip out I tried not to make a second. I wasn't completely convinced yet that Pepe was telling the truth about her. The entire story might be a complicated lie to confuse and throw me off guard. I have a very suspicious mind. Playing it safe, I kept the muzzle of my gun aimed exactly between his eyes with my fingers resting lightly on the trigger. I kept it there until a squad of space marines thundered in and took over. As soon as they put the grab on Pepe I sent out an all-ships alarm about Angelina, with a special take-all-precautions priority. Even before all the ships had acknowledged receipt her scout rocket was sighted on the detector screen. I sighed with a great deal of relief. If she did turn out to be the brains of the operation I didn't want her slipping away. She, Pepe and the battleship made a nice package to turn over to Inskipp. There was no chance of her escaping now, with ships closing in on her from every direction. They were experienced at this sort of thing and it was only a matter of time before they had her. Turning over the battleship to the navy, I went back to the luxury yacht and tapped the stores for a large glass of Scotch whisky (that had never been within twenty light-years of Earth) and a long cigar. Sitting comfortably in front of the screen I monitored the chase. Angelina wriggled painfully on the hook, making high-G turns to avoid capture. She'd be black and blue from head to foot after some of those 15-G accelerations. It was all for nothing because in the end they still caught her in a tractor web and closed in. All the thrashing around had just gained her a little time. None of us realized how important this time really was until the boarding party cracked into the ship. It was empty of course. Fully ten days went by before we pieced together what had really happened. It was ruthless and ugly, and even if the psych docs hadn't assured me that Pepe had told the truth, I would have recognized the manner in which the escape was carried out. Angelina was one step ahead of us all the way. When she had escaped from the battleship in the scout rocket she had made no attempt to flee. Instead she must have gone at full blast to the nearest navy ship, a twelve-man pocket cruiser. They of course had no idea what had really happened aboard the battleship, as I hadn't put out the general alarm yet. I should have done that as soon as she had escaped. If I had, twelve good men might still be alive. We'll never know what story she told them, but it was obvious they weren't on their guard. Probably something about being a prisoner and escaping during the fighting. In any case she took the ship. Five of the men were dead of gas poisoning, the others shot. We discovered this when the cruiser was later found drifting and inert, parsecs away. After capturing the cruiser she had set the controls on the scout ship for evasion tactics and launched it. While we were all merrily chasing it she simply let her ship drop behind the chase and vanished from the fleet. Her trail blurs there, though it is obvious she must have captured another ship. What this ship was, and where she went in it, was a complete mystery. Back in Corps headquarters I found myself trying to explain this all to Inskipp. He had a cold eye and hardened manner and I found myself trying to justify my actions. "You can't win them all," I said. "I brought home your battleship and Pepe—may his personality rest in peace now that it has been erased. Angelina tricked me and got away, I'll admit that. But she did a much better job of fooling the boys in the navy!" "Why so much venom?" Inskipp asked in an arid voice. "No one's accusing you of dereliction of duty. You sound like a man with a guilty conscience. You did a good job. A fine job. A great job ... for a first assignment...." "You're doing it again!" I howled. "Prodding my conscience to see how soft it is. Like keeping _him_ around." I pointed to Pepe Nero who was sitting near us in the restaurant eating slowly, mumbling to himself with vacant-eyed dullness. His old personality had been stripped from his mind and a new one implanted. Only the body remained of the old Pepe who had loved Angelina and stolen a battleship. "The psychs are working on a new theory of body-personality," Inskipp said blandly, "so why not keep him around here under observation? If any of his criminal tendencies should develop in the new personality we'll be in a wonderful spot to recruit him for the Corps. Does he bother you?" "Not him," I snorted. "After the massacres he pulled for his psychotic girlfriend you could grind him into hamburger for all I care. But he does remind me that she is still out there somewhere. Free and planning new mischief. I want to go after her." "Well you're not," Inskipp said. "You've asked me before and I have refused before. The topic is now closed." "But I could ..." "You could _what_?" He gave me a nasty chuckle. "Every law officer in the galaxy has a pic of her and there is a continual search going on. How could you possibly do more than they are already doing?" "I couldn't, I guess," I grumbled. "So the hell with it, as you say." I pushed my plate away and stood and stretched as naturally as I could. "I'm going to get a large jug of liquid refreshment and go to my quarters and nurse my sorrows." "You do that. And forget Angelina. Come to my office at 0900 hours tomorrow and you better be sober." "Slavedriver," I moaned, going out the door and turning down the hall towards the residence wing. As soon as I was out of sight I took a side ramp that led to the spaceport. That's one lesson I had already learned from Angelina. When you have a plan put it into action instantly. Don't let it lie around and get stale and have other people start thinking about it themselves. I was putting myself up against the shrewdest man in the business right now, and the thought alone was enough to make me sweat. I was going against Inskipp's direct orders, walking out on him and the Corps. Not really walking out, since I only wanted to finish the job I had started for them. But I was obviously the only one who would look at it that way. There were tools, gadgets and a good deal of money in my quarters that would come in very handy on this job. I would just have to do without them. When Inskipp started to think about my sudden conversion to his point of view I wanted to be well away in space. A mechanic with a drag-robot was pulling an agent's ship into place on the launching ramp. I stamped over and used my official voice. "Is that my ship?" "No, sir—it's for Full Agent Nielsen, there he is coming up now." "Check with control central, will you? It's going to be rush no matter how we handle it." "New job, Jimmy?" Ove asked as he came up. I nodded and watched the mechanic until he vanished around the corner. "Same old business," I said. "And how's your tennis game coming?" I asked, lifting my hand with an imaginary racket. "Getting better all the time," he said, turning his head to look at his ship. "I'll teach you a new stroke," I said, bringing my hand down sharply and catching him on the side of the neck with the straightened edge. He folded without a sound and I lowered him gently to the deck and dragged him out of sight behind a row of lubrication drums. I gently pried the box with the course tapes from his limp fingers. Before the mechanic could return I was in the ship and had the lock sealed. I fed the course tape into the controls and punched the tower combination for clearance. There was a subjective century of waiting, during which eternal period of time I produced a fine beading of sweat all over my head. Then the green light came on. Step one and still in the clear. As soon as the launching acceleration stopped I was out of the chair and attacking the control panel with the screwdriver ready in my hand. There was always a remote control unit here so that any Corps ship could be flown from a distance. I had discovered it on my first flight in one of these ships since I have always maintained that there is a positive value to being nosy. I disconnected the input and output leads, then dived for the engine room. Perhaps I am too suspicious or have too low an opinion of mankind. Or of Inskipp, who had his own rules on most subjects. Someone more trusting than I would have ignored the radio controlled suicide bomb built into the engine. This could be used to scuttle the ship in case of capture. I didn't think they would use it on me except as a last resort. Nevertheless I still wanted it disconnected. The bomb was an integral part of the engine mounting, a solid block of burmedex built into the casing. The lid dropped off easily enough and inside there was a maze of circuits all leading to a fuse screwed into the thick metal. It had a big hex-head on it and I scraped my knuckles trying to get a wrench around it and turn it in the close quarters. With a last grate of bruised flesh and knuckle bones I twisted it free. It hung down from its wire leads, a nerve drawn from a deadly tooth. Then it exploded with a loud bang and a cloud of black smoke. With most unnatural calm I looked from the cloud of dispersing smoke back to the black hole in the burmedex charge. This would have turned the ship and its contents into a fine dust. "Inskipp," I said, but my throat was dry and my voice cracked and I had to start again. "Inskipp, I get your message. You thought you were giving me my discharge. Accept instead my resignation from the Special Corps." # ix My most overwhelming feeling was one of relief. I was on my own again and responsible to no man. I actually hummed a bit as I dropped the ship out of warpdrive long enough to slip in a course tape chosen at random from the file. There would be no chance of an intercept this way and I could cut a tape for a new course once I was well clear of the headquarters station. A course to where? I wasn't sure yet. That would require a bit of research, though there was no doubt about what I would be doing. Looking for Angelina. At first thought it seemed a little stupid to be taking on a job the Corps had refused me. It was still their job. On second thought I realized that it had nothing to do with the Corps now. Angy had pulled a fast one on me, pinned on the prize-chump medal. That is something that you just don't do to Slippery Jim diGriz. Call it ego if you like. But ego is the only thing that keeps a man in my profession operating. Remove that and you have removed everything. I had no real idea of what I would do with her when I found her. Probably turn her over to the police, since people like her gave the business a bad name. Better to worry about cooking the fish after I had caught it. A plan was necessary, so I prepared all the plan producing ingredients. For one terrible moment I thought there were no cigars in the ship. Then the service unit groaned and produced a box from some dark corner of the deep freeze. Not the recommended way to store cigars, but much better than having none at all. Nielsen always favored a rare brand of potent akvavit and I had no objections to drinking it. Feet up, throat lubricated and cigar smoking, I put the thinkbox to work on the project. To begin with, I had to put myself in Angelina's place at the time of her escape. I would like to have gone back physically to the scene, but I'm not that thick. There was guaranteed to be a trigger-happy navy ship or two sitting there. However this is the kind of problem they build computers to solve, so I fed in the coordinates of the space action where it all had happened. There was no need for notes on this—those figures were scratched inside my forehead in letters of fire. The computer had a large memory store and a high speed scan. It hummed happily when I asked for the stars nearest to the given position. In under thirteen seconds it flipped through its catalogs, counted on its fingers and rang its little computation-finished bell for me. I copied off the numbers of the first dozen stars, then pressed the cancel when I saw the distances were getting too great to be relevant anymore. Now I must think like Angelina. I had to be hunted, hurried, a murderess with twelve fresh corpses of my own manufacture piled around me. In every direction rode the enemy. She would have the same list, ground out by the computer on the stolen cruiser. Now—where to? Tension and speed. Get going somewhere. Somewhere away from here. A glance at the list and the answer seemed obvious. The two nearest stars were in the same quadrant of the sky, within fifteen degrees of each other. They were roughly equidistant. What was more important was the fact that star number three was in a different sector of the sky and twice as far away. That was the way to go, toward the first two stars. It was the sort of decision that can be made in a hurry and still be sound. Head toward suns and worlds and the lanes where other ships could be found. The cruiser would have to be gotten rid of before any planets were approached—the faster the better since every ship in the galaxy would be looking for it. Then meet another ship—ship X—and capture it. Abandon the cruiser and ... do what? My tenuous line of logic was ready to snap at this point so I strengthened it with some akvavit and a fresh cigar. With my eyes half closed in reverie I tried to rebuild the flight. Capture the new ship and—head for a planet. As long as she was alone in space Angelina was in constant danger. A planetfall and a change of personality were called for. When I looked up those two target stars in the catalog the planetary choice was obvious. A barbaric sounding place named Freibur. There were a half dozen other settled planets around the two suns, but all eliminated themselves easily. Either too lightly settled, so that a stranger would be easily spotted, or organized and integrated so well that it would be impossible to be around long without some notice being taken. Freibur shared none of these difficulties. It had been in the league for less than two hundred years, and would be in a happily chaotic state. A mixture of the old and new, pre-contact culture and post-contact civilization. The perfect place for her to slip into quietly, and lose herself until she could appear with a fresh identity. Reaching this conclusion produced a double glow of satisfaction. This was more than a mental exercise in survival since I was now roughly in the same place Angelina had been. The incident with the scuttling charge was a strong indication of the value the Corps put on their ships—and the low value they placed on deserters. Freibur was a place that would suit me perfectly. I retired happily with a slight buzz on and a scorched mouth from the dehydrated cigars. When I dragged myself back to consciousness it was time to drop out of warpspace and plot a new course. Except there was one thing I had to do first. A lot of the little facts I knew had _not_ been picked up in the Corps. One fact—normally of interest only to warpdrive technicians—concerns the curious propagation of radiation in warpspace. Radio waves in particular. They just don't go anyplace. If you broadcast on one frequency you get a strong return signal on all frequencies, as if the radio waves had been squeezed out thin and bounced right back. Normally of no interest, this exotic phenomena is just the thing to find out if your ship is bugged. I put nothing beyond the Special Corps, and bugging their own ships seemed a logical precaution. A concealed radio, transmitting on a narrow band, would lead them right to me wherever I went. This I had to find out before getting near any planets. There was a squeal and a growl from the speaker and I cursed my former employers. But before I wasted my time looking for a transmitter I ought to be sure one was there. Whatever was producing the signal seemed too weak to be picked up at any distance. Some quick work with a few sheets of shielding showed that my mysterious signal was nothing more than leaking radiation from the receiver itself. After it was shielded the ether was quiet. I enjoyed a sigh of justified satisfaction and dropped out of warp. Once I had a course plotted the trip wasn't a long one. I took the opportunity to scrounge through the ship's equipment and put together a kit for future use. The elaborate make-up and appearance-alteration machinery begged to be used, and of course I did. Rebuilding the working-personality of Slippery Jim was a positive pleasure. As the nose plugs and cheek pads slipped into place and the dye seeped into my hair I sighed and relaxed with happiness, an old war horse getting back on the job. Then I scowled, growled at myself in the mirror and began to remove the disguise as carefully as I had assumed it. It has always been axiomatic with me that there is no relaxation in this line of business, and anything done by rote usually leads to disaster. Inskipp knew my old working-personality only too well and they would surely be looking for me under that description as well as my normal one. The second time around I took a little more care with the disguise and built up an entirely different appearance. A simple one—with facial and hair changes—that would be easily maintained. The more elaborate a job of make-up is the more time it takes to keep it accurate. Freibur was a big question-mark so far and I didn't want to be loaded with any extra responsibilities like this. I wanted to go in relaxed, sniff around and see if I could pick up Angelina's trail. There were still two subjective days left in warpdrive and I put these to good use making some simple gadgetry that might come in handy. Pinhead grenades, tie-clasp pistols, ring-drills—the usual thing. I only brushed away the scraps and cleaned the shop up when the ship signaled the end of the trip. The only city on Freibur with a ground controlled spaceport was at Freiburbad, which was situated on the shore of an immense lake, the only sizeable body of fresh water on the planet. Looking at the sunlight glinting from it I had the sudden desire for a swim. This urge must have been the genesis of my idea to drown the stolen ship. Leave it at the bottom of a deep spot in the lake and it would always be handy if needed. I made planetfall over a jagged mountain range and picked up not as much as a beep on the radar. Coming in over the lake after dark I detected navigation radar from the spaceport, but my ship wouldn't get too far inshore. A rainstorm—cut through with hail—shortened visibility and removed my earlier bathing desire. There was a deep underwater channel not too far from shore and I touched down above it while I put my kit together. It would be foolish to carry too much, but some of the Corps gear was too valuable to leave behind. Sealing it in a waterproof cover I strapped it to my spacesuit and opened the air lock. Rain and darkness washed over me as I struck out for the unseen shore. I imagined rather than heard the gurgle behind me as the ship sank gently to the bottom. Swimming in a spacesuit is about as easy to manage as making love in free fall. I churned my way to shore in a state of near exhaustion. After crawling out of the suit I had a great deal of pleasure watching it burn to a cinder under the heat of three thermite bombs. I particularly enjoyed kicking the resultant hissing slag into the lake. The rain hammered down and washed all traces of the burning away. Apparently even the fierce light of the thermite had gone unobserved in the downpour. Huddling under a waterproof sheet I waited damply and miserably for dawn. Sometime during the night I dozed off without meaning to because it was already light when I woke up. Something was very wrong, and before I could remember what had woken me the voice called again. "Going to Freiburbad? Of course, where else is there to go? I'm going there myself. Got a boat. Old boat but a good boat. Beats walking...." The voice went on and on, but I wasn't listening. I was cursing myself for being caught unaware by this joker with the long-playing voice. He was riding in a small boat just off shore; the thing was low in the water with bales and bundles, and the man's head stuck above the top of everything. While his jaw kept moving I had a chance to look at him and draw my sleep-sodden wits together. He had a wild and bristly beard that stuck out in all directions, and tiny dark eyes hidden under the most decrepit hat I had ever seen. Some of my startled panic ebbed away. If this oddball wasn't a plant, the accidental meeting might be turned to my benefit. When mattress-face stopped to drag in a long overdue breath I accepted his offer and reached for the gunwale of the boat and drew it closer. I picked up my bundle—getting my hand on my gunbutt as I did it—and jumped in. There didn't seem to be any need for caution. Zug—that was his name, I plucked it out of the flowing stream of his monologue—bent over an outboard motor clamped to the stern and coaxed it to life. It was a tired looking atomic heat-exchanger, simple but efficient. No moving parts, it simply sucked in cold lake water, heated it to a boil and shot it out through an underwater jet. Made almost no sound while running, which was how the rig had slid up without wakening me. Everything about Zug seemed normal—I still wasn't completely convinced and kept the gun close to my hand—but if it was normal I had hit a piece of luck. His cataract of words washed over me and I began to understand why. Apparently he was a hunter, bringing his pelts to market after months of solitude and silence. The sight of a human face had induced a sort of verbal diarrhea which I made no attempt to stop. He was answering a lot of questions for me. One thing that had been a worry were my clothes. I had finally decided to wear a one-piece ship suit, done in neutral gray. You see this kind of outfit, with minor variations, on planets right across the galaxy. It had passed unnoticed by Zug, which wasn't really saying much since he was anything but a clothes fancier. He must have made his jacket himself out of the local fur. It was purplish-black and must have been very fine before the grease and twigs had been rubbed in. His pants were made of machine-woven cloth and his boots were the same as mine, of eternene plastic. If he was allowed to walk around loose in this outfit, mine would surely never be noticed. What I could see of Zug's equipment bore out the impression gained from his clothes. The old and new mixed together. A world like Freibur, not too long in the League, would be expected to be like that. The electro-static rifle leaning against a bundle of steel bolts for the crossbow made a typical picture. Undoubtedly the Voice of The Wilderness here could use both weapons with equal facility. I settled down on the soft bundles and enjoyed the voyage and the visual pleasures of the misty dawn, bathed continually in a flow of words. We reached Freiburbad before noon. Zug had more of an ambition to talk than to be talked to, and a few vague remarks of mine about going to the city satisfied him. He greatly enjoyed the food concentrates from my pack and reciprocated by producing a flask of some noxious home brew he had distilled in his mountain retreat. The taste was indescribably awful and left the mouth feeling as if it had been rasped by steel wool soaked in sulphuric acid. But the first few drinks numbed and after that we enjoyed the trip—until we tied up at a fish-smelling dock outside the city. We almost swamped the boat getting out of it, which we thought hysterically funny, and which will give you some indication of our mental state at the time. I walked into the city proper and sat in a park until my head cleared. The old and the new pressed shoulders here, plastic fronted buildings wedged in between brick and plaster. Steel, glass, wood and stone all mixed with complete indifference. The people were the same, dressed in a strange mixture of types and styles. I took more notice of them than they did of me. A newsrobot was the only thing that singled me out for attention. It blatted its dull offerings in my ear and waved a board with the printed headlines until I bought a paper to get rid of it. League currency was in circulation here, as well as local money, and the robot made no protest when I slipped a credit in its chest slot, though it did give me change in Freibur _gilden_—undoubtedly at a ruinous rate of exchange. At least that's the way I would have done it if I were programming the thing. All of the news was unimportant and trivial—the advertisements were of much more interest. Looking through the big hotels I compared their offered pleasures and prices. It was this that set me to trembling and sweating with terror. How quickly we lose the ingrained habits of a lifetime. After a month on the side of law and order I was acting like an honest man! "You're a criminal," I muttered through clenched teeth, and spat on a NO SPITTING sign. "You hate the law and live happily without it. You are a law unto yourself, and the most honest man in the galaxy. You can't break any rules since you make them up yourself and change them whenever you see fit." All of this was true, and I hated myself for forgetting it. That little period of honesty in the Corps was working like a blight to destroy all of my best anti-social tendencies. "Think dirty!" I cried aloud, startling a girl who was walking by on the path. I leered to prove that she had heard correctly and she hurried quickly away. That was better. I left myself at the same time, in the opposite direction, looking for an opportunity to do bad. I had to reestablish my identity before I could even consider finding Angelina. Opportunity was easy to find. Within ten minutes I had spotted my target. I had all the equipment I might need in my sack. What I would use for the job I stowed in my pockets and waist wallet, then checked my bag in a public locker. Everything about the First Bank of Freibur begged to be cracked. It had three entrances, four guards and was busily crowded. Four human guards! No bank in existence would pay all those salaries if they had electronic protection. It was an effort not to hum with happiness as I stood in line for one of the _human_ clerks. Fully automated banks aren't hard to rob, they just require different techniques. This mixture of man and machine was the easiest of all. "Change a League ten-star for gilden," I said, slapping the shiny coin on the counter before him. "Yessir," the cashier said, only glancing at the coin and feeding it into the accounting machine next to him. His fingers had already set up the amount for me in gilden, even before the _currency valid_ signal blinked on. My money rattled down into the cup before me and I counted it slowly. This was done mechanically, because my mind was really on the ten credit coin now rolling and clinking down inside the machine's innards. When I was sure it had finished its trip and landed in the vault I pressed the button on my wrist transmitter. It was beautiful, that was the only word for it. The kind of thing that leaves a warm glow lodged in the memory, that produces a twinge of happiness for years after whenever it is nudged. That little ten credit coin had taken hours to construct and every minute was worth it. I had sliced it in half, hollowed it out, loaded it with lead back to its original weight, built in a tiny radio receiver, a fuse and a charge of burmedex, which now went off with an incredibly satisfactory explosion. A grinding thump deep in the bank's entrails was followed by a tremendous amount of clanking and banging. The rear wall—containing the vault—split open and disgorged a torrent of money and smoke. Some last effort of the expiring accounting machine gave me an unexpected dividend. The money dispensers at every cashier's station burst into frantic life. A torrent of large and small coins poured out on the startled customers who quickly mastered their surprise and began grabbing. Their moment of pleasure was brief because the same radio cue had set off the smoke and gas bombs I had thoughtfully dropped in all the wastebaskets. Unnoticed in the excitement, I threw a few more gas bombs in with the cashiers. This gas is an effective mixture of my own concoction, a sinister brew of regurgitants and lachrymatories. Its effect was instantaneous and powerful. (There were of course no children in the bank, since I don't believe in being cruel to those too young to protect themselves.) Within seconds the clients and employees found themselves unable to see, and too preoccupied to take any notice of me. As the gas rolled towards me I lowered my head and slipped the goggles over my eyes. When I looked up I was the only person in the bank that was able to see. I was of course careful to breathe through the filter plugs in my nose, so I could enjoy the continued digestion of my last meal. My teller had vanished from sight and I did a neat dive through the opening, sliding across the counter on my stomach. After this it was just a matter of pick and choose, there was certainly no shortage of money rolling around loose. I ignored the small stuff and went to the source, the riven vault out of which poured a golden torrent. Within two minutes I had filled the bag I had brought and was ready to leave. The smoke near the doors was thinning a bit, but a few more grenades took care of that. Everything was working perfectly and under control, except for one fool of a guard who was making a nuisance of himself. His tiny brain realized dimly that something wrong was going on, so he was staggering in circles firing his gun. It was a wonder he hadn't hit anyone yet. I took the gun away and hit him on the head with it. The smoke was densest near the doors, making it impossible to see out. It was just as impossible of course to see in, so no one in the street had any real idea of what had happened. They of course knew _something_ was wrong; two policemen had rushed in with guns drawn ... but were now as helpless as the rest. I organized the relief of the sufferers then, and began pulling and guiding them to the door. When I had enough of a crowd collected I joined them and we all crawled out into the street together. I put the goggles in my pocket and kept my eyes closed until I had groped clear of the gas. Some worthy citizens helped me and I thanked them, tears streaming down my face from the fringes of the gas, and went my way. That's how easy it is. That's how easy it always is if you plan ahead and don't take foolish risks. My morale was high and the blood sang in my veins. Life was deliciously crooked and worth living again. Finding Angelina's trail now would be simplicity itself. There was nothing I couldn't do. Staying on the crest of this emotional wave, I rented a room in a spacemen's hotel near the port, cleaned up and strode forth to enjoy the pleasures of life. There were many rough-and-ready joints in the area and I made the rounds. I had a steak in one and a drink apiece in each of the others. If Angelina had come to Freibur she would surely have passed—at least briefly—through this area. The trail would be here, I felt that in my bones. Crooked bones once again, and sympathetic to her own lawlessness. "Howsabout buying a girl a drink," the tart said spiritlessly, and I shook my head no with the same lack of interest. The hostesses, pallid creatures of the night, were coming out as the evening progressed. I was getting a good share of propositions since I had taken care to look like a spaceman on leave, always a good source of revenue for these women. This one was the latest of a number who had approached me. A little better looking than most, at least better constructed. I watched her walking away with interest that bordered on admiration. Her skirt was short, tight and slashed high up on the sides. High heels lent a rotating motion to this producing a most effective result. She reached the bar and turned to survey the room, and I couldn't help but appreciate the rest of her. Her blouse was made of thin strips of shimmering fabric, joined together only at the tops and bottoms. They separated to reveal enticing slices of creamy skin whenever she moved, and I'm sure had the desired effect on masculine libidos. My eyes finally reached her face—a long trip since I had started the survey at her ankles—and she was quite attractive. Almost familiar.... Exactly at this instant my heart gave a grinding thud in my chest and I grew rigid in my chair. It seemed impossible—yet it had to be true. She was Angelina. # x Her hair had been bleached and there were some simple and obvious changes in her features. They had been altered just enough so it would be impossible to identify her from a photograph or a description. She could never be recognized. Except by me, that is. I had seen her in the stolen battleship and I had talked to her. And the nice part was I could identify her and she would have no idea of who I was. She had seen me only briefly—in a spacesuit with a tinted faceplate—and I'm sure had plenty of other things to think about at the time. This was the climax of the most successful day of my life. The fetid air of the dive was like wine in my nostrils. I relaxed and savored every last drop of irony in the situation. You had to give the girl credit, though. She had adopted a perfect cover. I myself had never imagined she would stay here, and I thought I had weighed all of the possibilities. Because she had taken a good bit of the stolen cash with her, I had never considered she would be living like a penniless tramp. The girl had guts, you had to give her credit. She had adopted an almost perfect disguise and blended neatly into the background. If only she wasn't so damned kill-happy—what a team we would make! My heart gave the second grinding thump of the evening when I realized the dead-end trail down which my emotions were leading me. Angelina was disaster to anyone she came near. Inside that lovely head squatted a highly intelligent but strangely warped brain. For my own sake I would be better off thinking about the corpses she had piled up, not about her figure. There was only one thing to be done. Get her away from here and turn her over to the Corps. I didn't even consider how I felt about the Corps—or how they felt about me. This was an entirely different affair that had to be done neatly and with dispatch before I changed my mind. I joined her at the bar and ordered two double shots of the local battery acid. Being careful, I deepened my voice and changed my accent and manner of speaking. Angelina had heard enough of my voice to identify it easily—that was the one thing I had to be aware of. "Drink up, doll," I said, raising my drink and leering at her. "Then we go up to your place. You got a place don't you?" "I gotta place, you gotta League ten-spot in hard change?" "Of course," I grumbled, feigning insult. "You think I'm buying this bilge-juice on the arm?" "I ain't no cafeteria pay-on-your-way-out," she said with a bored lack of interest that was magnificent. "Pay now and then we go." When I flipped the ten credits her way she speared it neatly out of the air, weighed it, bit it, and vanished it inside her belt. I looked on with frank admiration, which she would mistake for carnal interest, but was in reality appreciation of the faultless manner with which she played her role. Only when she turned away did I make myself remember that this was business not pleasure, and I had a stern duty to perform. My resolution was wavering and I screwed it tight again with a memory of corpses floating in space. Draining my glass I followed her marvelous rotation out of the bar and down a noisome alley. The dark decrepitude of the narrow passage jarred my reflexes awake. Angelina played her part well, but I doubted if she bedded down with all the space tramps who hit this port. There was a good chance that she had a confederate around who had a strong right arm with a heavy object clutched tightly in his hand. Or perhaps I'm naturally suspicious. My hand was on the gun in my pocket but I didn't need to use it. We treaded across another street and turned into a hallway. She went first and we didn't talk. No one came near us or even bothered to notice us. When she unlocked her room I relaxed a bit. It was small and tawdry, but offered no possible hiding place for an accomplice. Angelina went straight to the bed and I checked the door to see if it really was locked. It was. When I turned around she was pointing a .75 caliber recoilless automatic at me, so big and ugly that she had to hold it in both tiny hands. "What the hell is the racket?" I blustered, fighting back the sick sensation that I had missed an important clue someplace along the line. My hand was still on the gun in my pocket but trying to draw it would be instant suicide. "I'm going to kill you without ever even knowing your name," she said sweetly, with a cute smile that showed even white teeth. "But you have this coming for ruining my battleship operation." Still she didn't fire, but her grin widened until it was almost a laugh. She was enjoying the uncontrolled expressions on my face as I recognized the fact that I had been out-thought all the way along the line. That the trapper was the trappee. That she had me exactly precisely where she wanted me and there wasn't a single bloody damn thing I could do about it. Angelina finally had to laugh out loud, a laugh clear and charming as a silver bell, as she watched me reach these sickening conclusions one after another. She was an artist to her fingertips and waited just long enough for me to understand everything. Then, at the exact and ultimate moment of my maximum realization and despair she pulled the trigger. Not once, but over and over again. Four tearing, thundering bullets of pain directly into my heart. And a final slug directly between my eyes. # xi It wasn't really consciousness, but a sort of ruddy, pain-filled blur. A gut-gripping nausea fought with the pain, but the pain won easily. Part of the trouble was that my eyes were closed, yet opening them was incredibly difficult. I finally managed it and could make out a face swimming in a blur above me. "What happened?" the blur asked. "I was going to ask you the same thing ..." I said, and stopped, surprised at how weak and bubbly my voice was. Something brushed across my lips and I saw a red-stained pad as it went away. After I blinked some sight back into my eyes, blur-face turned out to be a youngish man dressed in white. A doctor I suppose, and I was aware of motion; we must be driving in an ambulance. "Who shot you?" the doctor asked. "Someone reported the shots and you'll be pleased to know we got there just in the old nick of time. You've lost a lot of blood—some of which I've replaced—have multiple fractures of the radius and ulna, an extensive bullet wound in your forearm, a further wound in your right temple, possible fracture of the skull, extremely probable fractures in your ribs and the possibility of internal injuries. Someone got a grudge against you? Who?" Who? My darling Angelina, that's who. Temptress, sorceress, murderess, that's who tried to kill me. I remembered now. The wide black muzzle of the gun looking big enough to park a spaceship in. The fire blasting out of it, the slugs hammering into me, and the pain as my expensive, guaranteed, bulletproof underwear soaked up the impact of the bullets, spreading it across the entire front of my body. I remembered the hope that this would satisfy her and the despair of hope as the muzzle of that reeking gun lifted to my face. I remembered the last instant of regret as I put my arms before my face and threw myself sideways in a vain attempt at escape. The funny thing is that escape attempt had worked. The bullet that had smashed my forearm must have been deflected enough by the bone to carom off my skull, instead of catching it point blank and drilling on through. All this had produced satisfactory quantities of blood and an immobile body on the floor. That had caused Angelina's mistake, her only one. The boom of the gun in that tiny room, my apparent corpse, the blood, it must have all rattled the female side of her, at least a bit. She had to leave fast before the shots were investigated and she had not taken that extra bit of time to make sure. "Lie down," the doctor said. "I'll give you an injection that will knock you out for a week if you don't lie down!" Only when he said this did I realize I was half sitting up in the stretcher and chuckling a particularly dirty laugh. I let myself be pushed down easily, since my chest was drenched in pain whenever I moved. Right at that moment my mind began ticking over plans for making the most of the situation. Ignoring the pain as well as I could I looked around the ambulance, looking for a way to capitalize on the bit of luck that had kept me still alive while she thought I was dead. We pulled up at the hospital then, and there was nothing much I could do in the ambulance except steal the stylus and official forms from the rack above my head. My right arm was still good, though it hurt like fire whenever I moved. A robot snapped the wheels down on my stretcher, latched onto it and wheeled it inside. As it went by the doctor he slipped some papers into a holder near my head and waved good-by to me. I gave him back a gallant smile as I trundled into the butcher shop. As soon as he was out of sight I pulled out the papers and scanned them quickly. Here lay my opportunity if I had enough time to grab it. There was the doctor's report—in quadruplicate. Until these forms were fed into the machinery I didn't exist. I was in a statistical limbo out of which I would be born into the hospital. Stillborn if I had my way. I pushed my pillow off onto the corridor floor and the robot stopped. He paid no attention to my writing and didn't seem to mind stopping two more times to rescue the pillow, giving me time to finish my forgery. This Doctor Mcvbklz—at least that's what his signature reads like—had a lot to learn about signing papers. He had left acres of clear space between the last line of the report and his signature. I filled this with a very passable imitation of his handwriting. _Massive internal hemorrhage, shock_ ... I wrote, _died en route_. This sounded official enough. I quickly added _All attempts resuscitation failed_. I had a moment of doubt about spelling this jaw breaker, but since Dr. Mcvbklz thought there were two P's in _multiple_ he could be expected to muff this one too. This last line made sure there wouldn't be any hanky-panky with needles and electric prods to jazz some life back into the corpse. We turned out of the corridor just as I slipped the forms back into their slot and lay back trying to look dead. "Here's a D.O.A., Svend," someone called out, rustling the papers behind my head. I heard the robot rolling away, untroubled by the fact that his writing, pillow-shedding patient was suddenly dead. This lack of curiosity is what I like about robots. I tried to think dead thoughts and hoped the right expression was showing on my face. Something jerked at my left foot and my boot and sock were pulled off. A hand grabbed my foot. "How tragic," this sympathetic soul said, "he's still warm. Maybe we should put him on the table and get the revival team down." What a nosy, mealy-mouthed, interfering sod he was. "Nah," the voice of a wiser and cooler head said from across the room. "They tried the works in the ambulance. Slide him in the box." A terrifying pain lanced through my foot and I almost gave the whole show away. Only the fiercest control enabled me to lie unmoving while this clown grimly tightened the wire around my big toe. There was a tag hanging from the wire and I heartily wished the same tag was hung from his ear secured by the same throttling wire. Pain from the toe washed up and joined the ache in my chest, head and arm, and I fought for corpselike rigidity as the stretcher trundled along. Somewhere behind me a heavy door opened and a wave of frigid air struck my skin. I allowed myself a quick look through my lashes. If the corpses in this chop shop were stashed into individual freezers I was about to be suddenly restored to life. I could think of a lot more pleasant ways of dying than in an ice box with the door handle on the outside. Lady Luck was still galloping along at my shoulder because my toe-amputator was dragging me, stretcher and all, into a good-sized room. There were slabs on all sides and a number of dearly departed had already arrived before me. With no attempt at gentleness I was slid onto a freezing surface. Footsteps went away from me across the room, the door closed heavily and the lights went out. My morale hit bottom at this moment. I had been through a lot for one day, and was thoroughly battered, bruised, contused and concussed. Being locked in a black room full of corpses had an unusually depressing effect on me. In spite of the pain in my chest and the tag trailing from my toe, I managed to slide off the slab and hobble to the door. Panic grew as I lost my direction, easing off only when I walked square into the wall. My fingers found a switch and the lights came back on. And of course my moral fiber stiffened at the same moment. The door was perfectly designed, I couldn't have done better myself, with no window and a handle on the inside. There was even a bolt so that it could be locked from this side, though for what hideous reason I couldn't possibly imagine. It gave me some needed privacy though, so I slipped it into place. Although the room was full, no one was paying any attention to me. The first thing I did was unwind the wire and massage some life back into my numb toe. On the yellow tag were the large black letters D.O.A. and a handwritten number, the same one that had been on the form I had altered. This was too good an opportunity to miss. I took the tag off the toe of the most badly battered male corpse and substituted mine. His tag I pocketed, then spent a merry few minutes changing around all the other tags. During this process I took a right shoe from the corpse with the biggest feet and jammed my frozen left foot into it. All the tags were hung from the left big toe and I loudly cursed such needless precision. My chest was bare where my shipsuit and bulletproof cover had been cut away. One of my silent friends had a warm shirt he didn't need, so I borrowed that too. Don't think for a second that all this was easy. I was staggering and mumbling to myself while I did it. When it was finished I slapped off the light and cracked the door of the freezer. The air from the hall felt like a furnace. There wasn't a soul in sight so I closed the vault and staggered over to the nearest door. It was to a storeroom and the only thing there that I could use was a chair. I sat in this as long as I dared, then went looking again. The next door was locked but the third one opened to a dark room where I could hear someone breathing evenly in his sleep. This was more like it. Whoever this sacktime artist was, he surely knew his sleeping trade. I rifled the room and fumbled with the clothes I found and put them on clumsily—yet he never heard a sound. Which was probably the best thing for him because I was in a skull-fracturing humor. The novelty of this little affair had worn off and all I could think about was the pain. There was a hat too, so I put this on and checked out. I saw people at a distance, but no one was watching when I pushed open an emergency exit and found myself back on the rain-drenched streets of Freiburbad. # xii That night and the next few days are hazy in the memory for obvious reasons. It was a risk to go back to my room, but a calculated one. The chances were good that Angelina didn't know of its existence or, even if she had found out, that she wouldn't have done anything about it. I was dead and she had no further interest in me. This appeared to be true, because I wasn't bothered after I was in the room. I had the management send up some food and at least two bottles of liquor a day so it would look like I was on an extended and solitary bender. The rotgut went down the drain and I picked a bit at the food while my body slowly recovered. I kept my aching flesh drenched in antibiotics and loaded with pain-killers, and counted myself lucky. On the third morning I felt weak but almost human. My arm in the cast throbbed when I moved it, the black and blue marks on my chest were turning gorgeous shades of violet and gold, but my headache was almost gone. It was time to plan for the future. I sipped some of the liquor I had been using to flush out the plumbing and called down for the newspapers of the past three days. The ancient delivery tube wheezed and disgorged them onto the table. Going through them carefully, I was pleased to discover that my plan had worked much better than should have been expected. The day after my murder there had been items in every paper about it, grubbed from the hospital records by the slothful newshounds who hadn't even bothered to glance at the corpse. That was all. Nothing later about Big Hospital Scandal in Missing Corpse or Suit Brought Because That's Not Uncle Frim In The Coffin. If my jiggery-pokery in the frozen meat locker had been uncovered, it was being kept a hospital family secret and heads were rolling in private. Angelina, my sharpshooting sweetheart, must then think of me as securely dead, a victim of her own murderous trigger finger. Nothing could be better. As soon as I was able to I would be getting back on her trail again, the job of tracking her made immensely simpler by her believing me to be a whisp of greasy smoke in the local crematorium. There was plenty of time now to plan this thing and plan it right. No more funny business about who was hunting whom. I was going to get as much pleasure out of arresting Angelina as she had derived from blasting away at me with her portable artillery. It was a humiliating but true fact that she had out-maneuvered me all the way down the line. She had stolen the battleship from under my nose, torn a wide swath through galactic shipping, then escaped neatly right under my gun. What made the situation most embarrassing was that she had set a trap for me—when I thought I was hunting her. Hindsight is a great revealer of obviousities and this one was painfully clear now. While escaping from the captured battleship she had not been hysterical in the slightest. That role had been feigned. She had been studying me, every bit of my face that could be seen, every intonation of my voice. Hatred had seared my picture in her memory, and while escaping she must have considered constantly how I would be thinking when I followed her. At the safest and least obvious spot in her flight she had stopped—and waited. Knowing I would come and knowing that she would be more prepared for the encounter than I was. This was all past history. Now it was my turn to deal the cards. All kinds of schemes and plans trotted through my head to be weighed and sampled. Top priority—before anything else was attempted—would be a complete physical change for me. This would be necessary if I wanted to catch up with Angelina. It was also required if I were to stay out of the long reach of the Corps. The fact had not been mentioned during my training, but I was fairly sure the only way one left the Special Corps was feet first. Though I was physically down and out there was nothing wrong with the old think box and I put it to use. Facts were needed, and I gave a small endowment to the city library in the form of rental fees. Fortunately there were filmcopies of all the local newspapers available, going back for years. I made the acquaintance of an extremely yellowish journal endearingly called "HOT NEWS!!" _Hot News!!_ aimed at a popular readership—with a vocabulary I estimated at approximately three hundred words—who relished violence in its multiform aspects. Most of the time these were just copter accidents and such, with full color photos of course. But very often there were juicy muggings, sluggings and such which proved the quieting hand of galactic civilization still hadn't throttled Freibur completely. In among these exaggerated tales of violence lay the murky crime I was searching for. Mankind has always been capricious in its lawmaking, inventing such intriguingly different terms as manslaughter, justified homicide and such, as if dead wasn't dead. Though fashions in both crime and sentencing come and go, there is one crime that will always bring universal detestation. That is the crime of being a bungling doctor. I have heard tell that certain savage tribes used to slaughter the physician if his patient died, a system that is not without merit. This singleminded loathing of the butchering quack is understandable. When ill, we deliver ourselves completely into the doctor's hands. We give a complete stranger the opportunity to toy with that which we value most. If this trust is violated there is naturally a hotness of temper among the witnesses or survivors. Ordinary-citizen Vulff Sifternitz had formerly been the Highly Esteemed Doctor Sifternitz. _Hot News!!_ explained in overly lavish detail how he had mixed the life of Playboy and Surgeon until finally the knife in his twitching fingers had cut _that_ instead of _this_ and the life of a prominent politician had been shortened by a number of no doubt profitable years. We must give Vulff credit for the fact that he had made an attempt to sober up before going to work, so that it was D.T."s not drunkenness that caused the fatal twitch. His license was removed and he must have been fined most of his savings since there were later references to his having been involved in more sordid medical affairs. Life had treated Vulff hard and dirty; he was just the man I was looking for. On my first rubber-legged trip out of my room I took the liberty of paying him a professional call. To a person of my abilities tracking down a pseudo-legal stranger in a foreign city on a far planet presents no problems. Just a matter of technique and I am rich in technique. When I hammered on the stained wooden door in the least-wholesome section of town I was ready to take the first step in my new plan. "I have some business for you, Vulff," I told the bleary-eyed stewie who opened the door. "Get the hell lost," he said and tried to close the door in my face. My carefully placed shoe prevented this and it took almost no effort at all to push in past him. "I don't do any medical work," he mumbled, looking at my bandaged arm. "Not for police stoolies I don't, so get the hell lost." "Your conversation is both dull and repetitious," I told him, because it was. "I am here to offer you a strictly legitimate business deal with value given for money received. The mere fact that it happens to be illegal should bother neither of us. Least of all you." I ignored his mumbled protests and looked into the next room. "According to information of great reliability you live here in unmarried bliss with a girl named Zina. What I have to say is not for her undoubtedly shell-like ears. Where is she?" "Out!" he shouted, "And you too, out!" He clutched a tall bottle by the neck and raised it threateningly. "Would you like that?" I asked and dropped a thick wad of fresh bank notes on the table. "And that—and that—" I followed with two more bundles. The bottle slipped from his loose fingers and fell to the floor while his eyes bulged out further and further as if they were on pistons. I added a few more bundles to the pile until I had his undivided attention. It really didn't take much discussion. Once he had assured himself that I really meant to go through with the proposition it was just a matter of settling the details. The money had an instantly sobering effect on him, and though he had a tendency to twitch and vibrate there was nothing wrong with his reasoning powers. "Just one last problem," I said as I started to leave. "What about the worthy Zina—are you going to tell her about this?" "You crazy?" Vulff asked with undisguised surprise. "I suppose that means you won't tell her. Since only you and I are going to know about this operation, how are you going to explain your absence or where the money has come from?" This was even more shocking to him. "Explain? To _her_? She isn't going to see either me or the money once I leave here. Which will be no more than ten minutes from now." "I see," I said, and I did. I also thought it was rather uncharitable of him since the unlucky Zina had been supporting him by practicing a trade that most women shun. I made a mental note to see what could be done to even the score a little. In the future though. Right now I had to see to the dissolution of James Bolivar diGriz. Sparing no expense I ordered all the surgical and operating room equipment that Vulff could suggest. Whenever possible I bought robot-controlled devices since he would be working alone. Everything was loaded in a heavy carrier rented for the occasion and we drove out to the house in the country together. Neither of us would trust the other out of his sight which was of course understandable. Financial payments were the hardest to arrange since the pure-hearted Dr. Vulff was sure I would bash in his skull and take back all of my money once the job was finished—never realizing of course that as long as there were banks I would never be broke. The safeguards were finally arranged to his satisfaction and we began our solitary and important business. The house was lonely and self contained, perched on the cliff above a far reach of the lake. What fresh food we needed was delivered once a week, along with the mail which consisted of drugs and other medical supplies. The operations began. Modern surgical techniques being what they are there was of course no pain or shock. I was confined to bed and at times was loaded with so much sedation that days passed in a dreamy fog. Between two periods of radical surgery I took the precaution of seeing that a sleeping pill was included in Vulff's evening drink. This drink was of course non-alcoholic since his traveling this entire course mounted on the water wagon was one of the conditions of our agreement. Whenever he found it difficult I restored his resolution with a little more money. All this continence had his nerves on edge and I thought he would appreciate a good night's sleep. I also wanted to do a little investigating. When I was sure he was deeply under I picked the lock of his door and searched his room. I suppose the gun was there as a matter of insurance, but you can never tell with these nervous types. My days of being a target were over if I had anything to say about it. The gun was a pocket model of a recoilless .50, neat and deadly. The mechanism worked fine and the cartridges still held all their deadly power, but there would be some difficulty in shooting the thing after I filed off the end of the firing pin. Finding the camera was no shock since I have very little faith left in the basic wholesomeness of mankind. That I was his benefactor and financer wasn't enough for Vulff. He was lining up some blackmail just in case. There was plenty of exposed film, no doubt filled with studies of my unconscious face Before and After. I put all the film, including the unexposed rolls, under the x-ray machine for a nice long treatment and that settled that. Vulff did a good job in the times when he wasn't moaning about the absence of spirituous beverages or nubile females. Bending and shortening my femurs altered my height and walk. Hands, face, skull, ears—all of these were changed permanently to build a new individual. Skillful use of the correct hormones caused a change in the pigment cells, darkening the natural color of my skin and hair, even altering the hair pattern itself. The last thing done, when Vulff's skill was at its peak, was a delicate touch on my vocal cords that deepened and roughened my speech. When it was all finished Slippery Jim diGriz was dead and Hans Schmidt was born. Not a very inspired name I admit, but it was just designed to cover the period before I shed Vulff and began my important enterprise. "Very good, very good indeed," I said, looking into the mirror and watching my fingers press a stranger's face. "God, I could use a drink," Vulff gasped behind me, sitting on his already-packed bags. He had been hitting the medical alcohol the last few days, until I had spiked it with my favorite regurgitant, and he was nervously anxious to get back to some heavy drinking. "Give me the balance of the money that's due and let's get out of here!" "Patience, doctor," I murmured and slipped him the packet of bills. He broke the bank wrapper and began to count them with quick, caressing touches of his fingers. "Waste of time doing that," I told him, but he kept right on. "I've taken the liberty of writing "STOLEN" on each bill, with ink that will fluoresce when the bank puts it under the ultraviolet." This stopped the counting all right, and drained him white at the same instant. I ought to warn him about the old ticker, that's the way he would pop off if he didn't watch out. "What do you mean, stolen?" he choked after a bit. "Well they were, you know. All of the money I paid you with was stolen." His face went even whiter and I was sure he would never reach fifty, not with circulation like that. "You shouldn't let it worry you. The other stuff was all in old bills. I've passed a lot of it without any trouble." "But ... _why_?" he finally squeezed out. "Sensible question, doctor. I've sent the same amount—in untampered bills, of course—to your old friend Zina. I felt you owed her that much at least, after all she has done for you. Fair is fair you know." He glared at me while I tossed all the machines, surgical supplies and such off the cliff. I was careful not to have my back to him when he was too close; other than this all the precautions had already been taken. When I glanced up by chance and saw that a covert smile had replaced the earlier expression, I knew it was time to reveal the rest of my arrangements. "An air cab will be here in a few minutes; we'll leave together. I regret to inform you that there won't be enough time after we arrive in Freiburbad for you to seek out Zina and thrash her as planned, and get the money back." His guilty start proved that he was really an amateur at this sort of thing. I continued, hoping he would be grateful for this complete revelation of how to do things in an efficient criminal manner. "I've timed everything rather carefully from here on in. Today is a bit unusual in that there are two starships leaving the port within minutes of each other. I've booked a ticket on one for myself—here is your ticket on the other. I've paid in advance for it, though I don't expect you to thank me." He took the ticket with all the spirited interest of an old maid picking up a dead snake. "The need for speed—if you will pardon the rhyme—is urgent. A few minutes after your ship leaves an envelope will be delivered to the police describing your part in this operation." Dear Doctor Vulff digested all this as we waited for the copter to arrive, and from his sickening expression I saw he could find no flaws in the arrangements. During the entire flight he huddled away from me in his chair and never said a word. Without a bon voyage or even a curse he made for his ship upon our arrival and I watched him board it. I of course merely went in the direction of mine and turned off before entering it. I had as much intention of leaving Freibur as I had of informing the police that an illegal operation had taken place. The last thing I wanted was attention. Both little lies had merely been devices to make sure that the alcoholic doctor went away and stayed away before he began his solitary journey to cirrhosis. There was no reason for me to leave, in fact every reason for me to stay. Angelina was still on this planet, and I wanted no interference while I tracked her down. Perhaps it was presumptuous of me to be so positive, yet I felt I knew Angelina very well by this time. Our crooked little minds rotated in many of the same cycles of dishonesty. Up to a certain point I felt I could predict her reactions with firm logic. Firstly—she would be very happy about my bloody destruction. She got the same big bang out of corpses that most girls get from new clothes. Thinking me dead would make following her that much easier. I knew she would take normal precautions against the police and other agents of the Corps. But they wouldn't know she was on Freibur—there was nothing to connect my death with her presence. Therefore she didn't have to run again, but could stay on this planet under a new cover and changed personality. That she would want to stay here I had very little doubt. Freibur was a planet that seemed designed for illegal operation. In my years of knocking around the known universe I had never before come up against a piece of fruit so ripe for plucking. A heady mixture of the old and the new. In the old, caste-ridden, feudalistic Freibur a stranger would have been instantly recognized and watched. On the modern League planets computers, mechanization, robots and an ever-vigilant police force left very little room for illegal operations. It was only when these two different cultures are mixed and merged that imaginative operations became really possible. This planet was peaceful enough; you had to give the League societics experts credit for that much. Before they brought in the first antibiotic pill or punch-card computer, they saw to it that law and order were firmly instituted. Nevertheless the opportunities were still there if you knew where to look. Angelina knew where to look and so did I. Except—after weeks of futile investigation—I finally faced the brutal fact that we were both looking for different things. I can't deny the time was spent pleasantly since I uncovered countless opportunities for fine jobs and lucrative capers. If it hadn't been for the pressure of finding Angelina I do believe I could have had the time of my life in this crook's paradise. This pleasure was denied me because the pressure to catch up with Angelina nagged at me constantly like an aching tooth. Finding intuition wanting I tried mechanical means. Hiring the best computer available, I fed entire libraries into its memory circuits and set it countless problems. In the course of this kilowatt-consuming business I became an expert on the economy of Freibur, but in the end was no closer to finding Angelina than I had been when I started. She had a driving urge for power and control, but I had no idea in what way it would find its outlet. There were many economic solutions I turned up for grabbing the reins of Freibur society, but investigation showed that she was involved in none of these. The King—Villelm IX—seemed the obvious pressure point for actual physical control of the planet. A complete investigation of Vill, his family and close royal relatives, turned up some juicy scandal but no Angelina. I was stopped dead. While drowning my sorrows in a bottle of distilled spirits the solution to this dilemma finally struck me. Admittedly I was sodden with drink at the time, yet the paralysis of my neural axons was undoubtedly the source of the idea. Any man that says he thinks better drunk than sober is a fool. But this was a different case altogether. I was feeling, not thinking, and my anger at her escape cracked the lid off my more civilized impulses. I choked a pillow to death imagining it was her neck and finally shouted, "Crazy, crazy, that's her trouble, all the way around the bend and dotty as polka-dots!" When I fell onto the bed everything swooped around and around in sickening circles and I mumbled, "Just plain crazy. I would have to be crazy myself to figure out which way she will jump next." With this my eyes closed and I fell asleep. While the words swam down through the alcohol-saturated layers until they reached a deeper level where a spark of rationality still dwelled. When they hit bottom I was wide awake and sitting up in bed, struck dumb by the ghastly truth. It would require all the conviction I had—and a little more—to do it. I would have to follow her down the path of insanity if I wanted to find her. # xiii In the cold light of morning the idea didn't look any more attractive—or any less true. I could do it, or not do it, as I chose. There could be no doubting the wild tinge of insanity that colored Angelina's life. Every one of our contacts had been marked by a ruthless indifference to human life. She killed with coldness or with pleasure—as when she had shot me—but always with total disregard for people. I doubt if even she had any idea of how many murders she had committed in her lifetime. By her standards I was a rank amateur. I hadn't killed more than—that kind of violence was rarely necessary in my type of operation—surely no more than ... none? Well, well—old chicken-hearted revealed at last. Rough and tough diGriz the Killer who never killed! It was nothing to be ashamed of, quite the opposite in fact. I placed a value on human life, the one unchanging value in existence. Angelina valued herself and her desires, and nothing else. To follow her down the twisted path of her own making I would have to place myself in the same mental state that she lived in. This is not as difficult as it sounds—at least in theory. I have had some experience with the psychotomimetic drugs and was well aware of their potency. Centuries of research have produced drugs that can simulate any mental condition in the user. Like to be paranoid for a day? Take a pill. You too can go around the bend, friend. It is a matter of record that people have actually tried these concoctions for kicks, but _that_ bored with life I don't want to be. There would have to be a lot stronger reason before I would subject my delicate gray cells to this kind of jarring around. Like finding Angelina, for instance. About the only good thing about these pixilation producers is the accepted fact that the effects are only temporary. When the drug wears off so do the hallucinations. I hoped. Nowhere in the texts I studied did they mention a devil's brew such as the one I was concocting. It was a laborious task hunting down all of Angelina's fascinating symptoms in the textbooks and trying to fit them to an inclusive psychotic pattern. I even called in some professional help to aid in analyzing her case, not mentioning, of course, to what use I intended to put the information. In the end I had a bottle of slightly smoky liquid and a taped recording of autohypnotic suggestions to play into my ears while the shot was taking effect. All that remained was screwing my courage to the sticking-place as they say in the classics. Not really all that remained—I wanted to take some precautions first. I rented a room in a cheap hotel and left orders not to be disturbed at any time. This was the first time I had ever tried this particular type of nonsense and since I had no idea of how foggy my memory would be I left a few notes around to remind me of the job. After a half day of this kind of preparation I realized I was making excuses. "Well it's not easy to deliberately go insane," I told my rather pale reflection in the mirror. The reflection agreed but that didn't stop either of us from rolling up our sleeves and filling large hypodermic needles with murky madness. "Here's looking at you," I said, and slipped the needle gently in the vein and slowly pushed the plunger home. The results were anticlimactic to say the least. Outside of a ringing in my ears and a twinge of headache that quickly passed I felt nothing. I knew better than to go out though, so I read the newspaper for a while, until I felt tired. The whole thing seemed a little foolish and pretty much of a letdown. I went to sleep with the tape player whispering softly in my ears such ego-building epigrams as, "You are better than everyone else and you know it, and people who don't know it had better watch out," and "They are all fools and if you were in charge things would be different, and why _aren't_ you in charge, it's easy enough." Waking up was uncomfortable because of the pain in my ears where the earphones were still plugged in, my own stupid voice droning away at me. Nothing had changed and the whole futile experiment was a waste and waste makes me angry. The earphones broke in my hands and I felt better, felt much better still when I had stamped the tape player into a tangle of rubble. My face rasped when I ran my hand over it; I had been days without a shave. Rubbing in the dip cream I looked into the mirror over the sink and an odd fact struck me for the first time. This new face fitted me a lot better than the old one. A fault of birth or the ugliness of my parents—whom I hated deeply, the only right thing they ever did was to produce me—had given me a face that didn't fit my personality. The new one was better, handsomer for one thing and a lot stronger. I should have thanked that fumble-finger quack Vulff for producing a masterpiece. I should have thanked him with a bullet. That would guarantee that no one would ever be able to trace me through him. It must have been a warm day and I was suffering a fever when I let him get safely away like that. On the table was a piece of paper with a single word written on it, my own handwriting though I can't imagine why the hell I left it there. _Angelina_ it said. Angelina, how I would love to get that tender white throat between my hands and squeeze until your eyeballs popped. Hah! I had to laugh at the thought, made a funny picture indeed. Yet I shouldn't be so flippant about it. Angelina was important. I was going to find her and nothing was going to stop me. She had made a fool of me and had tried to kill me. If anyone deserved to die it was her. It was an awful waste in some ways yet it had to be done. I shredded the note into fine pieces. All at once the room was very oppressing and I wanted out. What made me doubly angry was the fact the key was missing. I remember taking it out, but had no idea where I had put it. The slob at the desk was slow at answering and I was tempted to tell him just what I thought of the service, but I refrained. There is only one permanent cure for these types. A spare key rattled into the basket of the pneumo and I let myself out. I needed some food and I needed some drink and most of all I needed a quiet place for some thought. A nearby spot provided all three—after I had chased the hookers away. They were all dogs, and Angelina just playing a role had been better than this entire crowd lumped together. Angelina. She was on my mind tonight with a vengeance. The drinks warmed my gut and Angelina warmed my memory. To think that I had actually once considered turning her in or possibly killing her. What a waste! The only intelligent woman I had ever run across. And all woman—I'll never forget the way she walked in that dress. Once she had been tamed a bit—what a team we could make! This thought was so mentally aphrodisiac that my skin burned and I drained my glass at a single swallow. Something had to be done; I had to find her. She would never have left a ripe plum of a planet like this one. A girl with her ambition could go right to the top here, nothing could stop her. And that's of course where she would be—eventually if not now. She must spend her life feeling damned because she was a woman, knowing she was better than the rest of the cruds around, then proving it to herself and them over and over again. My arrival would be the biggest favor Angelina could have. I didn't have to prove myself better than the hicks on this rubeified planet—just one look did that. When Angelina hooked up with me she could stop fighting, relax and take orders. The contest would be over for all time. While I sat there something was nagging at me, some vital fact I had to remember—yet couldn't. For a second I fumbled with the memory before I realized what it was. The injection would be wearing off soon! I had to get back to the room, quickly. There had been some fear about the danger of this business, but I realized now that was just my earlier cowardice. This stuff was no more dangerous than aspirin. And at the same time it was the galaxy's greatest pick-up. New worlds of possibilities were opening up to me, my mind was clearer and my thoughts more logical. I wasn't going back to the old muddled-head stuff. At the bar I paid the bartender, my fingers tapping impatiently while he slothfully made change for me. "A wiseguy?" I asked, loud enough for everyone in the joint to hear. "A customer is in a hurry so that's your chance to shortchange him. This is two gilden short." I held the money out in my palm and when he bent to count it I came up quick with the hand and let him have the whole thing right in the face, bills, coins, thumb and fingers. At the same time I told him—in a low voice so no one else could hear—just what I thought of him. Freibur slang is rich in insult and I used the best on him. I could have done more but I was in a hurry to get back to the hotel room, and teaching him a lesson would take time. When I turned to go I kept an eye behind me in a mirror across the room and it's a good thing I did. He pulled a length of pipe out from under the bar and raised it over my head. Of course I stood still to give him a nice target and not throw off his aim—only stepping aside as the arm came down, just moving enough to let the pipe skin by me. It was no trick at all to grab the arm, keep it going down, and break the bone across the edge of the bar. The screams were heart-warming to say the least, and I only wish I had the time to stay and really give him something to scream about. There was just no time left. "You saw him viciously attack me," I told the stunned customers as I headed for the door. Rough-and-tough had slumped down and was moaning out of sight somewhere behind the bar. "I'm going to call the police now—see that he doesn't leave." Of course he had as much intention of leaving as I had of calling the law. I was out the door long before any of them had made their minds up as to just what was going on. Of course I couldn't run and draw any attention to myself. Getting back to the hotel at a fast walk was the best I could do, but I was sweating all over from the tension. Inside the room the first thing I saw was the container on the table, with the needle wrapped in cloth beside it. My hands didn't shake, but they would have if I had let them. This was a very close thing. Collapsed in a chair afterwards I held up the jar and saw that there was less than a millimeter of juice left. The very next thing on the agenda was the necessity of laying in a supply of the stuff. I could remember the formula clearly and would have no trouble rebuilding it. Of course there would be no drug suppliers open at this time of night, but that made things a lot easier. There is a law of history that says weapons were invented before money. In my suitcase was a recoilless .75 that could get me more of the galaxy's goods than all of the money in existence. That was my mistake. Some nagging worry gnawed me then but I ignored it. The tension and then the relief after getting the shot had me all loosened up. On top of that was the need to hurry, the limited time I had to find what I needed and get it back to the hotel room. My thoughts were on the job and how best to do it as I unlocked the suitcase and reached for my gun lying right there on top of the clothes. At this point the thin voice in my memory was screaming inaudibly to me, but this only made me reach faster for the gun. Something was badly wrong and this was the thing that would fix it. As I grabbed the butt the memory broke through ... just a little bit too slow. Dropping the gun I dived for the door, too late by far. Behind me I heard a pop as the sleep-gas grenade I had put under the gun let go. Even as I fell forward into darkness I wondered how I could ever have possibly done such a stupid thing as that.... xiv Coming out of the gas, my first feeling was one of regret. It is a truism that the workings of the mind are a source of constant astonishment. The effects of my devil's brew had worn off. There was nothing wrong with my memory, now that the posthypnotic blocks I had put on it had been removed. All too vividly I could recall the details of my interlude of madness. Though I sickened at the things I had thought and done, I simultaneously felt a twinge of regret that could not be abolished. There had been terrible freedom in standing so alone that even the lives of other men meant less than nothing. Undoubtedly a warped sensation, but still a tremendously attractive one. Like taking drugs. Even while detesting the thought I felt the desire for more of the same. In spite of my twelve hours of forced sleep I was exhausted. It took all of my energy to drag over to the bed and collapse on it. Foresight had provided a bottle of stimulating spirits and I poured a glassful. Sipping at this I tried to put my mental house in order, not a very easy task. I have read many times about the cesspool of dark desires that lies in our subconscious minds, but this was the first time I had ever had mine stirred up. It was quite revealing to examine some of the things that had floated to the surface. My attitude towards Angelina needed a good looking at. The most important fact I had to face was the strong attraction I felt for her. Love? Put any name to it you want—I suppose love will do as well as any, though this was no throbbing adolescent passion. I wasn't blind to her faults, in fact I rather detested them now that I knew her murderously amoral existence had an echo in my own mind. But logic and convictions have very little to do with emotions. Hating this side of her didn't remove the attraction of a personality so similar to my own. I echoed my psychotic self's attitude—what a team we might have made! This was of course impossible, but that didn't stop me from wanting it. Love and hate are reputed to be very close and in my case they were certainly rubbing shoulders. And the whole confused business wasn't helped in the slightest by the fact that Angelina was so damnably attractive. I took a long drag at my drink. Finding her should be easy now. The carelessness with which I took this for granted was a little shocking. I had gained no new information while mentally aberrant. Just a great chunk of insight into the tortured grooves that my Angelina's mind trundled along. There could be no doubt that raw power was what she desired. This couldn't be obtained through influencing the king, I saw this now. Violence was the way, a power putsch, perhaps assassination, certainly revolution and turmoil of some kind. This had been the pattern in the bad old days on Freibur when sovereignty had been the prize of battle. Any of the nobility could be crowned, and whenever the old king's grip weakened it was a cue for a power struggle that would produce the new monarch. Of course that sort of thing had stopped as soon as the societics specialists from the League worked their little tricks. The old days were on the way back—that was clear. Angelina was going to see this world bathed in blood and death to satisfy her own ambition. She was out there now—somewhere—grooming the man for the job. One of the counts, still very important in the semi-feudal economy, was having his ego inflated and guided by a new power behind the throne. This is the pattern Angelina had used before, and would be sure to use again. There could be no doubt. Only one small factor was missing. Who was the man? My dive into the depths of self-analysis had left a definitely unwholesome taste in my mouth that no amount of liquor could wash away. What I needed was a little touch of action to tone up my drooping nerve ends and accelerate my sluggish blood. Tracking down Angelina's front man would be just the charge my battery needed. Merely thinking about it helped, and it was with eagerness that I searched the newspaper for the Court News column. There was a Grand Ball just two days distant, the perfect cover for this operation. For these two days I was kept busy on the many small tasks that put the polish of perfection on a job like this. Any boob can crash a party, in fact usually does, since that is all one seems to meet at this kind of affair. It takes a unique talent like mine to construct a cover personality that is unshakeable. Research supplied me with a homeland, a distant province poor in everything except a thick dialect that provided the base for most Freibur jokes. Because of these inherent handicaps the populace of Misteldross was noted for its pugnacity and general bull-headedness. There were minor nobility there who no one took much notice of, or kept any records about, enabling me to adopt the cover of Grav Bent Diebstall. The family name meant either bandit or tax-gatherer in the local dialect, which gives you an idea of the kind of economy they had had, as well as the source of the family title. A military tailor cut me a dress uniform and while I was being fitted I memorized great chunks of the family history to bore people with. I saw where I could be the life of any party. Another thing I did was to send off a thick wad of money to the maimed bartender, who was now working with the handicap of having his arm in a cast. He really had short-changed me, but his suffering was entirely out of proportion to this minor crime. My anonymous gift was strictly conscience money and I felt much better after having done it. A moonlight visit to the royal printers supplied an invitation to the party. My uniform fitted like a sausage skin, my boots gleamed enthusiastically and I was one of the first guests to arrive since the royal table had a tremendous reputation and work had increased my appetite. I crashed and clattered wonderfully when I bowed to the King—spurs and sword, they go all the way with the archaic nonsense on Freibur—and looked at him closely while he mumbled something inaudible. His eyes were glassy and unfocused and I realized there was some truth in the rumor that he always got stoned on his private bottle before coming to one of these affairs. Apparently he hated crowds and parties and much preferred to putter with his bugs—he was an amateur entomologist of no small talents. I passed on to the queen who was much more receptive. She was twenty years his junior and attractive in a handsomely inflated, bovine way. Rumor also had it that she was bored by his beetles and much preferred homo sapiens to lepidoptera. I tested this calumny by giving her hand an extra little squeeze when I held it and queeny squeezed back with an expression of great interest. I moved on to the buffet. While I ate, the guests continued to arrive. Watching them as they entered didn't interfere with my demolishing the food or sampling all of the wines. I had finished stoking up by the time the rest were just starting, so I could circulate among them. All of the women were subjected to my very close scrutiny, and most of them enjoyed it because, if I say so myself, with my new face and the fit of the uniform I cut a mean swath through the local types. I really wasn't expecting to run across Angelina's trail this easily, but there was always the chance. Only a few of the women even remotely resembled her, but it took only a few words each time to settle the fact that they were true-blue blue-blood and not my little interstellar killer. This task was made simpler by the fact that the Freibur beauties ran heavily towards the flesh, and Angelina was a neat and petite package. I went back to the bar. "You have been given a Royal Command," an adenoidal voice said in my ear while fingers plucked at my sleeve. I turned and gave my best scowl to the character who still clutched the fabric. "Let go the suit or I push your buck-toothed face the punch bowl in," I growled in my thickest Misteldrossian accent. He let go as if he had grabbed something hot and got all red and excited-looking. "That's better," I added, cutting off his next words. "Now—who wants to see me—the King?" "Her majesty, the Queen," he managed to squeeze out between thin lips. "That's good. I want to see her too. Show the way." I forged a way through the crowd while my new friend clattered behind, trying to pass me. I stopped before I reached the group around Queen Helda and let him get ahead all out of breath and sweating. "Your majesty, this is the Baron—" "Grav not Baron," I cut in with my hideously rich accent. "Grav Bent Diebstall from a poor provincial family, cheated centuries ago of our rightful title by thieving and jealous counts." I scowled straight at my guide as if he had been in the plot and he turned the flush on again. "I don't recognize all of your honors, Grav Bent," the Queen said in her low voice that reminded me of pastures on a misty morn. She pointed to my manly chest, to the row of decorations I had purchased from a curio dealer just that morning. "Galactic medals, your majesty. A younger son of the provincial nobility, his family impoverished by the greedy and corrupt, can find little opportunity to advance himself here on Freibur. That is why I took service offplanet and served for the best years of my youth in the Stellar Guard. These are for commonplace happenings such as battles, invasions and space boardings. But _this_ is the one I can really take pride in—" I fingered through the jingling hardware until I came to an unsightly thing, all comets, novas and sparkling lights. "This is the Stellar Star, the most prized award in the Guards." I took it in my hand and gave it a long look. In fact I think it _was_ a Guard decoration, given out for reenlisting or five years of K.P. or some such. "It's beautiful," the Queen said. Her taste in medals was no better than her taste in clothes, but what can you expect on these backward planets. "It is that," I agreed. "I don't enjoy describing the medal's history, but if it is a royal command...?" It was, and given very coyly indeed. I lied about my exploits for awhile and kept them all interested. There would be plenty of talk about me in the morning and I hoped some of it would trickle down to Angelina's ears, wherever she was hiding. Thinking of her took the edge off my fun, and I managed to excuse myself and go back to the bar. I spent the rest of the evening talking up the wonders of my imaginary history to everyone I could nail. Most of them seemed to enjoy it, since the court was normally short on laughs. The only one who didn't seem to be getting a charge out of it was myself. Though the plan had seemed good at first, the more I became involved with it the slower it appeared. I might flutter around the fringe of these fantastically dull court circles for months without finding a lead to Angelina. The process had to be accelerated. There was one idea drifting in and out of my head, but it bordered on madness. If it misfired I would be either dead or barred from these noble circles forever. This last was a fate I could easily stand—but it wouldn't help me find my lovely quarry. However—if the plan did work it would shortcut all the other nonsense. I flipped a coin to decide, and of course won since I had palmed the coin before the toss. It was going to be action. Before coming I had pocketed a few items that might come in handy during the course of the evening. One of them was a sure-fire introduction to the King in case I felt that getting nearer to him might be of some importance. I slipped this into an outer pocket, filled the largest glass I could find with sweet wine, and trundled through the cavernous rooms in search of my prey. If King Villelm had been crocked when he arrived, he was now almost paralyzed. He must have had a steel bar sewn into the back of his white uniform jacket because I swear his own spine shouldn't have held him up. But he was still drinking and swaying back and forth, his head bobbing as though it were loosely attached. He had a crowd of old boys around him and they must have been swapping off-color stories because they gave me varying degrees of get-lost looks when I trundled up and snapped to attention. I was bigger than most of them and must have made a nice blob of color because I caught Villy's eye and the head slowly slewed around in my direction. One of his octogenarian cronies had met me earlier in the evening and was forced to make the introduction. "A very great pleasure to meet your majesty," I droned with a bit of a drunken blur to my voice. Not that the King noticed, but some of the others did and scowled. "I am by way of being a bit of an entomologist myself, if you will pardon the expression, hoping to follow in your royal footsteps. I am keen on this and feel that greater attention should be paid on Freibur, more respect given I should say, and more opportunity taken to utilize the advantageous aspects of the forminifera, lepidoptera and all the others. Heraldry, for instance, the flags might utilize the more visual aspects of insects...." I babbled on like this for a while, the crowd getting impatient with the unwanted interruption. The King—who wasn't getting in more than one word in ten—got tired of nodding after a while and his attention began to wander. My voice thickened and blurred and I could see them wondering how to get rid of the drunk. When the first tentative hand reached out for my elbow I played my trump card. "Because of your majesty's interest," I said, fumbling in my pocket, "I carefully kept this specimen, carrying it across countless light years to reach its logical resting place, your highness's collection." Pulling out the flat plastic case, I held it under his nose. With an effort he blinked his watery eyes back into focus and let out a little gasp. The others crowded around and I gave them a few seconds to enjoy the thing. Well it was a beautiful bug, I can't deny that. However it had not traveled across countless light-years because I had just made it myself that morning. Most of the parts were assembled from other insects, with a few pieces of plastic thrown in where nature had let me down. Its body was as long as my hand, and it had three sets of wings, each set in a different color. There were a lot of legs underneath, pretty mismatched I'm afraid since they came from a dozen other insects and a lot of them got mashed or misplaced during construction. Some other nice touches like a massive stinger, three eyes, a corkscrew tail and such-like were not lost on my rapt audience. I had had the foresight to make the case of tinted plastic which blurred the contents nicely and hinted at rather than revealed them. "But you must see it more closely, your highness," I said, snapping open the case while both of us swayed back and forth. This was a difficult juggling act as I had to hold the case in the same hand as my wine glass, leaving my other hand free to grasp the monstrosity. I plucked it out between thumb and forefinger and the king leaned close, the drink in his own glass slopping back and forth in his eagerness. I squeezed just a bit with my thumb and the bug popped forward in lively fashion and dived into the King's glass. "Save it! Save it!" I cried. "A valuable specimen!" I plunged my fingers in after it and chased it around and around. Some of the drink slopped out staining Villelm's gilt-edged cuff. A gasp went up and angry voices sounded. Someone pulled hard at my shoulder. "Leave off you title-stealing clots!" I shouted, and pulled away roughly from the grasp. The drowned insect flew out of my fingers and landed on the King's chest, from where it fell slowly to the floor, shedding wings, legs and other parts on the way. I must have used a very inferior glue. When I leaped to grab the dropping corpse the forgotten drink in my other hand splashed red and sticky onto the King's jacket. A howl of anger went up from the crowd. I'll say this much for the King, he took it well. Stood there swaying like a tree in the storm, but offering no protest outside of mumbling, "I say ... I say ..." a few times. Not even when I rubbed the wine in with my handkerchief, treading on his toes by accident as the crowd behind pushed too close. One of them pulled hard at my arm, then let go when I shrugged. My arm struck against Villelm IX's noble chest and his royal upper plate popped out on the floor to add to the fun. Fun it was too, once the old boys got cleared away. The younger nobility leaped to their majesty's defense and I showed them a thing or two about mix-it-up fighting that I had learned on a number of planets. They made up in energy what they lacked in technique and we had a really good go-around. Women screamed, strong men cursed and the King was half carried out of the fracas. After that things got dirty and I did too. I couldn't blame them, but that didn't stop me from giving just as good as I received. My last memory is of a number of them holding me while another one hit me. I got him in the face with the shoe on my free leg, but they grabbed that too and his replacement turned off all the lights. xv Uncivilized as my behavior had been, the jailers persisted in treating me in a most civilized fashion. I grumbled about this and made their job as hard as possible. I hadn't voluntarily entered prison in order to win a popularity contest. Pulling all those gags on the poor old King had been a risk. _Lèse-majesté_ is the sort of crime that is usually punishable by death. Happily the civilizing influences of the League had penetrated darkest Freibur, and the locals now fell over backwards to show me how law-abiding they were. I would have none of it. When they brought me a meal I ate it, then destroyed the dishes to show my contempt for this unlawful detention. This was the bait. The bruises I had suffered would be a small enough price to pay if my attempt at publicity paid off in the right quarters. Without a doubt I was being discussed. A figure of shame, a traitor to my class. A violent man in a peaceful world, and a pugnacious, combative uncompromising one at that. In short I was all the things a good Freiburian detested, and the sort of a man Angelina should have a great deal of interest in. In spite of its recent bloody past, Freibur was woefully short of roughneck manpower. Not at the very lowest levels of course; the portside drinkeries were stuffed with musclebound apes with pinhead brains. Angelina would be able to recruit all of those she needed. But strongarm squads alone wouldn't win her a victory. She needed allies and aid from the nobility, and from what I had seen this sort of talent was greatly lacking. In my indirect manner I had displayed all the traits she would be interested in, doing it in such a way that she wouldn't know the show had been arranged only for her. The trap was open, all she had to do was step into it. Metal boomed as the turnkey rapped on the door. "You have visitors, Grav Diebstall," he said, opening the inner grill. "Tell them to go to hell!" I shouted. "There's no one on this poxy planet I want to see." Paying no attention to my request, he bowed in the governor of the prison and a pair of ancient types wearing black clothes and severe looks. I did the best I could to ignore them. They waited grimly until the guard had gone, then the skinniest opened a folder he was carrying and slowly drew out a sheet of paper with his fingertips. "I will not sign a suicide note so you can butcher me in my sleep," I snarled at him. This rattled him a bit, but he tried to ignore it. "That is an unfair suggestion," he intoned solemnly. "I am the Royal Attorney and would never condone such an action." All three of them nodded together as though they were pulled by one string, and the effect was so compulsive that I almost nodded myself. "I will not commit suicide voluntarily," I said harshly to break the spell of agreement. "That is the last word that will be said on the subject." The Royal Attorney had been around the courts long enough not to be thrown off his mark by this kind of obliquity. He coughed, rattled the paper, and got back to basics. "There are a number of crimes you could be charged with young man," he droned, with an intensely gloomy expression draped on his face. I yawned, unimpressed. "I hope this will not have to be done," he went on, "since it would only cause harm to all concerned. The King himself does not wish to see this happen, and in fact has pressed upon me his earnest desire to have this affair ended quietly now. His desire for peace has prevailed upon us all, and I am here now to put his wish into action. If you will sign this apology, you will be placed aboard a starship leaving tonight. The matter will be ended." "Trying to get rid of me to cover up your drunken brawls at the palace, hey?" I sneered. The Attorney's face purpled but he controlled his temper with a magnificent effort. If they threw me off the planet now everything was wasted. "You are being insulting, sir!" he snorted. "You are not without blame in this matter, remember. I heartily recommend that you accept the King's leniency in this tragic affair and sign the apology." He handed the paper to me and I tore it to pieces. "Apologize? Never!" I shouted at them. "I was merely defending my honor against your drunken louts and larcenous nobility, all descended from thieves who stole the titles rightly belonging to my family!" They left then, and the prison governor was the only one young and sturdy enough for me to help on the way with the toe of my shoe in the appropriate spot. Everything was as it should be. The door clanged shut behind them—on a rebellious, cantankerous, belligerent son of the Freibur soil. I had arranged things perfectly to bring me to the attention of Angelina. But unless she became interested in me soon I stood a good chance of spending the rest of my days behind these grim walls. Waiting has always been bad for my nerves. I am a thinker during moments of peace, but a man of action most of the time. It is one thing to prepare a plan and leap boldly into it. It is another thing altogether to sit around a grubby prison cell wondering if the plan has worked or if there is a weak link in the chain of logic. Should I crack out of this pokey? That shouldn't be hard to do, but it had better be saved for a last resort. Once out I would have to stay undercover and there would be no chance of her contacting me. That was why I was gnawing my way through all my fingernails. The next move was up to Angelina; all I could do was wait. I only hoped that she would gather the right conclusions from all the violent evidence I had supplied. After a week I was stir-crazy. The Royal Attorney never came back and there was no talk of a trial or sentencing. I had presented them with an annoying problem, and they must have been scratching their heads feebly over it and hoping I would go away. I almost did. Getting out of this backwoods jail would have been simplicity itself. But I was waiting for a message from my deadly love. I toyed with the possibilities of the things she might do. Perhaps arrange pressure through the court to have me freed? Or smuggle in a file and a note to see if I could break out on my own? This second possibility appealed to me most and I shredded my bread every time it arrived to see if anything had been baked into it. There was nothing. On the eighth day Angelina made her play, in the most forthright manner of her own. It was night, but something unaccustomed woke me up. Listening produced no answers, so I slipped over to the barred opening in the door and saw a most attractive sight at the end of the hall. The night guard was sprawled on the floor and a burly masked figure dressed completely in black stood over him with a cosh in one meaty hand. Another stranger, dressed like the first, came up and they dragged the guard further along the hall towards me. One of them rummaged in his waist wallet and produced a scrap of red cloth that he put between the guard's limp fingers. Then they turned towards my cell and I moved back out of sight, climbing noiselessly into bed. A key grated in the lock and the lights came on. I sat up blinking, giving a fine imitation of a man waking up. "Who's there? What do you want?" I asked. "Up quickly, and get dressed, Diebstall. You're getting out of here." This was the first thug I had seen, the black-jack still hanging from his hand. I sagged my jaw a bit, then leaped out of bed with my back to the wall. "Assassins!" I hissed. "So that's vile King Villy's bright idea, is it? Going to put a rope around my neck and swear I hung myself? Well come on—but don't think it will be easy!" "Don't be an idiot!" the man whispered. "And shut the big mouth. We're here to get you out. We're friends." Two more men, dressed the same way, pushed in behind him, and I had a glimpse of a fourth one in the hall. "Friends!" I shouted, "Murderers is more like it! You'll pay dearly for this crime." The fourth man, still in the hall, whispered something and they charged me. I wanted a better glimpse of the boss. He was a small man—if he _was_ a man. His clothes were loose and bulky, and there was a stocking mask over his entire head. Angelina would be just about that tall. But before I could get a better look the thugs were on me. I kicked one in the stomach and ducked away. This was fighting barroom style and they had all the advantages. Without shoes or a weapon I didn't stand a chance, and they weren't afraid to use their coshes. I tried hard not to smile with victory as they worked me over. Only reluctantly did I allow myself to be dragged to the place where I wanted to go. xvi Because the pounding on the head had only made me groggy, one of them broke a sleep capsule under my nose and that was that for a while. So of course I had no idea of how far we had traveled or where on Freibur I was. They must have given me the antidote because the next thing I saw was a scrawny type with a hypodermic injector in his hand. He was peeling back my eyelid to look and I slapped his hand away. "Going to torture me before you kill me, swine!" I said, remembering the role I had to play. "Don't worry about that," a deep voice said behind me, "you are among friends. People who can understand your irritation with the present régime." This voice wasn't much like Angelina's. Neither was the burly, sour-faced owner. The medic slid out and left us alone, and I wondered if the plan had slipped up somewhere. Iron-jaw with the beady eyes had a familiar look—I recognized him as one of the Freiburian nobility. I had memorized the lot and looking at his ugly face I dredged up a mnemonic. A midget painted bright red. "Rdenrundt—The Count of Rdenrundt," I said, trying to remember what else I had read about him. "I might believe you were telling me the truth if you weren't his Highness's first cousin. I find it hard to consider that you would steal a man from the royal jail for your own purposes...." "It's not important what you believe," he snapped angrily. He had a short fuse and it took him a moment to get his temper back under control. "Villelm may be my cousin—that doesn't mean I think he is the perfect ruler for our planet. You talked a lot a about your claims to higher rank and the fact that you had been cheated. Did you mean that? Or are you just another parlor wind-bag? Think well before you answer—you may be committing yourself. There may be other people who feel as you do, that there is change in the wind." Impulsive, enthusiastic, that was me. Loyal friend and deadly enemy and just solid guts when it came to a fight. Jumping forward I grabbed his hand and pumped it. "If you are telling me the truth, then you have a man at your side who will go the whole course. If you are lying to me and this is some trick of the King's—well then, Count, be ready to fight!" "No need to fight," he said, extracting his hand with some difficulty from my clutch. "Not between us at least. We have a difficult course ahead of us, and we must learn to rely upon each other." He cracked his knuckles and looked glumly out the window. "I sincerely hope that I will be able to rely on you. Freibur is a far different world from the one our ancestors ruled. The League has sapped the fight from our people. There are none I can really rely on." "There's nothing wrong with the bunch who took me out of my cell. They seemed to do the job well enough." "Muscle!" he spat, and pressed a button on the arm of his chair. "Thugs with heads of solid stone. I can hire all of those I need. What I need are men who can lead—help me to lead Freibur into its rightful future." I didn't mention the man who led the muscle the previous night, the one who had stayed in the corridor. If Rdenrundt wasn't going to talk about Angelina I certainly couldn't bring up the topic. Since he wanted brain not brawn, I decided to give him a little. "Did you dream up the torn piece of uniform left in the guard's hand in the prison? That was a good touch." His eyes narrowed a bit when he turned to look at me. "You're quite observant, Bent," he said. "A matter of training," I told him, trying to be both unassuming and positive at the same time. "There was this piece of red cloth with a button in the guard's hand, like something he had grabbed in a struggle. Yet all of the men I saw were dressed only in black. Perhaps a bit of misdirection...." "With each passing moment I'm getting happier that you have joined me," he said, and showed me all of his ragged teeth in an expression he must have thought was a grin. "The Old Duke's men wear red livery, as you undoubtedly know...." "And the Old Duke is the strongest supporter of Villelm IX," I finished for him. "It wouldn't hurt in the slightest if he had a falling out with the King." "Not the slightest," Rdenrundt echoed, and showed me all of his teeth again. I was beginning to dislike him intensely. If this was the front man Angelina had picked for her operation, then he was undoubtedly the best one for the job on the planet. But he was such a puffed-up crumb, with barely enough imagination to appreciate the ideas Angelina was feeding him. Yet I imagine he had the money and the title—and the ambition—which combination she had to have. Once more I wondered where she was. Something came in through the door and I recoiled, thinking the war was on. It was only a robot, but it made such a hideous amount of hissing and clanking that I wondered what was wrong with it. The Count ordered the ghastly thing to wheel over the bar, as it turned away I saw what could only have been a _chimney_ projecting behind one shoulder. There was the distinct odor of coal smoke in the air. "Does that robot burn _coal_—?" I gurgled. "It does," the Count said, pouring us out a pair of drinks. "It is a perfect example of what is wrong with the Freiburian economy under the gracious rule of Villelm the Incompetent. You don't see any robots like this in the capital!" "I should hope not," I gasped, staring bug-eyed at the trickle of steam escaping from the thing, and the stains of rust and coal dust on its plates. "Of course I've been away a long time ... things change...." "They don't change fast enough! And don't act galactic-wise with me, Diebstall. I've been to Misteldross and seen how the rubes live. You have no robots at all—much less a contraption like this." He kicked at the thing in sullen anger and it staggered back a bit, valves clicking open as steam pumped into the leg pistons to straighten it up. "Two hundred years come next Grundlovsday we will have been in the League, milked dry and pacified by them—and for what? To provide luxuries for the King in Freiburbad. While out here we get a miserable consignment of a few robot brains and some control circuitry. We have to build the rest of the inefficient monsters ourselves. And out in the real sticks where you come from they think robot is a misspelling of a boat that goes with oars!" He drained his glass and I made no attempt to explain to him the economics of galactic commerce, planetary prestige, or the multifold levels of intercommunication. This lost planet had been cut off from the mainstream of galactic culture for maybe a thousand years, until contact had been reestablished after the Breakdown. They were being eased back into the culture gradually, without any violent repercussions that might upset the process. Sure, a billion robots could be dumped here tomorrow. What good would that do the economy? It was certainly much better to bring in the control units and let the locals build the things for themselves. If they didn't like the final product they could improve the design instead of complaining. The Count of course didn't see it this way. Angelina had done a nice job of playing upon his prejudices and desires. He was still glaring at the robot when he leaned forward and suddenly tapped a dial on the thing's side. "Look at that!" he shouted. "Down to eighty pounds pressure! Next thing you know the thing will be falling on its face and burning the place down. Stoke, you idiot—_stoke_!!" A couple of relays closed inside the contraption and the robot clanked and put the tray of glasses down. I took a very long drag on my drink and enjoyed the scene. Trundling over to the fireplace—at a slower pace now I'll admit—it opened a door in its stomach and flame belched out. Using the coal scoop in the pail it shoveled in a good portion of anthracite and banged the firedoor shut again. Rich black smoke boiled from its chimney. At least it was housebroken and didn't shake out its grate here. "Outside, dammit, outside!" the Count shouted, coughing at the same time. The smoke was a little thick. I poured another drink and decided right then that I was going to like Rdenrundt. I would have liked it a lot better if I could have found Angelina. This whole affair bore every sign of her light touch, yet she was nowhere in sight. I was shown to a room and met some of the officers on the Count's staff. One of them, Kurt, a youth of noble lineage but no money, showed me around the grounds. The place was a cross between a feudal keep and a small town, with a high wall cutting it off from the city proper. There appeared to be no obvious signs of the Count's plans, outside of the number of armed retainers who lounged about and practiced uninterestedly in the shooting ranges. It all looked too peaceful to be true—yet I had been brought here. That was no accident. I tried a little delicate questioning and Kurt was frank with his answers. Like a lot of the far-country gentry he bore a grudge against the central authorities, although he would of course never have gotten around to doing anything about it on his own. Somehow he had been recruited and was ready to go along with the plans, all of which were very vague to him. I doubt if he had ever seen a corpse. That he was telling me the truth about everything was obvious when I caught him in his first lie. We had passed some women and bent a knee, and Kurt had volunteered the advice that they were the wives of two of the other officers. "And you're married too?" I asked. "No. Never had the time, I guess. Now I suppose it's too late, at least for awhile. When this whole business is over and life is a little more peaceful there'll be plenty of time to settle down." "How right," I agreed. "What about the Count? Is he married? I've been away so many years that it's hard to keep track of that kind of thing. Wives, children and such." Without being obvious I was watching him when I asked this, and he gave a little start. "Well ... yes, you might say. I mean the Count was married, but there was an accident, he's not married now...." His voice tapered away and he drew my attention to something else, happy to leave the topic. Now if there is one thing that always marks Angelina's trail it is a corpse or two. It took no great amount of inspiration to connect her with the "accidental" death of the Count's wife. If the death had been natural Kurt would not have been afraid to talk about it. He didn't mention the topic again and I made no attempt to pump him. I had my lead. Angelina may not have been in sight—but her spoor was around me on all sides. It was just a matter of time now. As soon as I was able to, I would shake Kurt and hunt up the bully-boys who had spirited me out of the jail. Buy them a few drinks to assure them that there were no hard feelings about the beating they had given me. Then pump them adroitly about the man who had led them. Angelina made her move first. One of the coal-burning robots came hissing and clanking around with a message. The Count would like to see me. I slicked my hair, tucked in my shirt and reported for duty. I was pleased to see that the Count was a steady and solitary daytime drinker. In addition, there was very little tobacco in his cigarette; the sweet smoke filled the room. All this meant he was due for early dissolution, and I would not be numbered among his mourners. None of this showed in my expression or attitude of course. I was all flashing eye and hell-cracking attention. "Is it action, sir? Is that why you sent for me?" I asked. "Sit down, sit down," he mumbled, waving me towards a chair. "Relax. Want a cigarette?" He pushed the box towards me and I eyed the thin brown cylinders with distaste. "Not today, sir. I'm laying off smoking for awhile. Sharpening up the old eye. Keeping the old trigger finger limber and ready for action." The Count's mind was occupied elsewhere and I doubt if he heard a word I said. He chewed abstractedly at the inside of his cheek while he looked me up and down. A decision finally struggled up through his half-clotted brain. "What do you know about the Radebrechen family?" he asked, which is about as exotic a question as I have ever had thrown at me. "Absolutely nothing," I answered truthfully. "Should I?" "No ... no...." he answered vaguely, and went back to chewing his cheek. I was getting high just from breathing the air in the room and I wondered how he was feeling. "Come with me," he said, pushing over his chair and almost falling on top of it. We plodded through a number of halls deeper into the building, until we came to a door, no different from the ones we had passed, except this one had a guard in front of it—a rough-looking brawny type with his arms casually crossed. Just casual enough to let his fingers hang over his pistol grip. He didn't budge when we came up. "It's all right," the Duke of Rdenrundt said, with what I swear was a peevish tone. "He's with me." "Gotta search him anyway," the guard said. "Orders." More and more interesting. Who issued orders the Count couldn't change—in his own castle? As if I didn't know. And I recognized the guard's voice, he was one of the men who had taken me from my prison cell. He searched me quickly and efficiently, then stepped aside. The Count opened the door and I followed him in, trying not to tread on his heels. One thing about reality—it is always so much superior to theory. I had every reason to believe that Angelina would be here, yet it was still a healthy shock to see her sitting at the table. A kind of electric charge in my spine tingled right up to the roots of my hair. This was a moment I had waited for for a very long time. It took a positive effort to relax and appear indifferent. At least as indifferent as any healthy young male is in front of an attractive package of femininity. Of course this girl didn't resemble Angelina very much. Yet I still had no doubt. The face was changed as was the color of the hair. And though the face was a new one it still held the same sweet, angelic quality as the old. Her figure was much the way I remembered it, with perhaps a few slight improvements. Hers was a surface transformation, with no attempt at being as complete as the one I had had done to me. "This is Grav Bent Diebstall," the Count said, fixing his hot and smoky little eyes on her. "The man you wanted to see, Engela." So she was still an angel, though under a different name. That was a bad habit she should watch, only I wasn't going to tell her. A lot of people have been caught by taking an alias too similar to their old one. "Why thank you, Cassitor," she said. Cassitor indeed! I'd look unhappy too if I had to go through life with a handle like Cassitor Rdenrundt. "It was very nice of you to bring Grav Bent here," she added in the same light and empty voice. Cassi must have been expecting a warmer welcome because he stood first on one foot and then another and mumbled something which neither of us heard. But Angelina-Engela's welcome stayed at the same temperature, or perhaps dropped a degree or two as she shuffled some papers on the table in front of her. Even through his fog the Count caught on and went out mumbling something else under his breath that I was pretty sure was one of the shorter and more unwholesome words in the local dialect. We were alone. "Why did you tell all those lies about being in the Stellar Guard," she asked in a quiet voice, apparently still busy at the papers. This was my cue to smile sardonically, and flick some imaginary dust from my sleeve. "Well I certainly couldn't tell all those nice people what I've really been doing all these years I have been away, could I?" I responded with wide-eyed simplicity. "What were you doing, Bent?" she asked and there wasn't a trace of any emotion in her voice. "That's really my business, isn't it," I told her, matching toneless tone for tone. "And while we're asking questions, I would like to know who you are, and how come you seem to throw more weight around than the great Count Cassitor?" I'm good at playing this kind of guessing game. But Angy was just as good and dragged the conversation back to her own grounds. "Since I am in the stronger position here, I think you'll find it wise to answer my questions. Don't be afraid of shocking me. You would be surprised at the things I know about." No, Angelica love, I wouldn't be surprised at all. But I couldn't just tell all without a little resistance. "You're the one behind this revolution idea, aren't you," I said as a statement, not a question. "Yes," she said, laying her cards on the table so she could see mine. "Well if you must know then," I said, "I was smuggling. It is a very interesting occupation if you happen to know what to take where. For a number of years I found it was a most lucrative business. Finally though, a number of governments felt I was giving them unfair competition, since they were the only ones allowed to cheat the public. With the pressure on I returned to my sluggish native land for a period of rest." Angel-mine was buying no sealed packages and gave me an exhaustive cross-examination into my smuggling career that showed she had more than a passing knowledge of the field herself. I had of course no trouble answering her questions, since in my day I have turned many a megacredit in this illegal fashion. The only thing I was afraid of was making it too good, so I described a career of a successful but still young and not too professional operator. All the time I was talking I tried to live the role and believe everything I said. This was a crucial time when I must let drop no hints or mannerisms that might bring Slippery Jim diGriz to her mind. I had to be the local punk who had made good and was still on my way up in the universe. Mind you—our talk was of course all most casual, and carried on in an atmosphere of passing drinks and lighting cigarettes all designed to relax me enough to make a few slips. I did of course, slipping in a lie or two about my successes that she would catch and credit to boyish enthusiasm. When the chit-chat slowed I tried a question of my own. "Would you mind telling me what a local family named Radebrechen has to do with you?" "What makes you ask?" she said so calm and coolly. "Your smiling friend Cassitor Rdenrundt asked me about them before we came here. I told him I knew nothing. What's their connection with you?" "They want to kill me," she said. "That would be a shame—and a waste," I told her with my best come-hither grin. She ignored it. "What can I do about it?" I asked, going back to business, since she didn't seem interested in my masculine attractions. "I want you to be my bodyguard," she said, and when I smiled and opened my mouth to speak she went on, "and please spare me any remarks about how it is a body you would like to guard. I get enough of that from Cassitor." "All I wanted to say was that I accepted the position," which was a big lie because I had had some such phrase in mind. It was hard to stay ahead of Angelina and I mustn't relax for an instant I reminded myself again. "Just tell me more about the people who are out to kill you." "It seems that Count Rdenrundt was married," Angelicious said, toying with her glass in a simple, girlish way. "His wife committed suicide in a very stupid and compromising manner. Her family—who are of course the Radebrechen—think I killed her, and want to revenge her supposed murder by killing me in turn. Apparently in this lost corner of Freibur the vendetta still has meaning, and this family of rich morons still subscribe to it." All at once the picture was getting clearer. Count Rdenrundt—a born opportunist—aided his noble fortunes by marrying the daughter of this family. This must have worked well enough until Angelina came along. Then the extra wife was in the way, and ignorant of this charming local custom of revenge-killing, Angelina had removed a stumbling stone. Something had gone wrong—probably the Count had bungled, from the look of the man—and now the vendetta was on. And my Angel wanted me to interpose my frail flesh between her and the killers. Apparently she was finding this retarded planet more than she had bargained for. Now was the time for me to be bold. "Was it suicide?" I asked, "Or did you kill her?" "Yes, I killed her," she said. The sparring was over and all our cards were on the table. The decision was up to me. xvii Well what else was there to do? I hadn't come this far, getting myself shot, bashed on the head and well-stomped, just to arrest her. I mean I was going to arrest her, of course, but it was next to impossible in the center of the Count's stronghold. Besides that, I wanted to find out a bit more about the Count's proposed uprising, since this would certainly come within the jurisdiction of the Special Corps. If I was going to reenlist I had better bring along a few prizes to show my good intentions. Anyway—I wasn't so sure I wanted to reenlist. It was a little hard to forget that scuttling charge they had tried to blow up under me. The whole thing wasn't so simple. There were a lot of things mixed up in this. One fact being that I enjoyed Angelina and most of the time I was with her I forgot about those bodies floating in space. They returned at night all right and chopped at my conscience, but I was always tired and went to sleep quickly before they could get through and bother me. Life was a bed of roses, and I might as well enjoy it before the blossoms withered. Watching Angelady at work was a distinct pleasure, and if you stood my back to the wall and made me swear, I would be forced to admit that I learned a thing or two from her. Singlehandedly she was organizing a revolution on a peaceful planet—and it stood every chance of succeeding. In my small way I helped. The few times she mentioned a problem to me I had a ready answer and in all the cases she went along with my suggestions. Of course I had never toppled governments before, but there are basic laws in crime as in everything else, and it is just a matter of application. This didn't happen often. Most of the time during those first few weeks I was a plain bodyguard, keeping a wary eye out for assassins. This position had a certain ironical angle that appealed to me greatly. However there was a serpent in our little Eden of Insurrection, and his name was Rdenrundt. I never heard much, but from a word caught here and there I began to see that the Count wasn't really cut out to be a revolutionary. The closer we came to the day the more pallid he became. His little physical vices began to add up, and one day the whole thing came to a head. Angelegant and the Count were in a business session and I sat in the anteroom outside. I shamelessly eavesdropped whenever I could, and this time I had managed to leave the door open a crack after I had checked her into the room. Careful manipulation with my toe opened it a bit more until I could hear the murmur of their voices. An argument was progressing nicely—there were a lot of them at this time—and I could catch a word here and there. The Count was shouting and it was obvious that he wouldn't give in on some simple and necessary piece of blackmail to advance the cause. Then his tone changed and his voice dropped so I couldn't hear his words, strain as I might. There was a saccharine wheedle and whine in his voice, and Angelina's answer was clear enough. A loud and positive _no_. His bellow brought me to my feet. "Why not? It's always _no_ now and I've had enough of it!" There was the sound of tearing cloth and something fell to the floor and broke. I was through the door in a single bound. For a brief instant I had a glimpse of a struggling tableau as he pulled at her. Angelina's clothing was torn from one shoulder and his fingers were sunk into her arms like claws. Clubbing my pistol I ran forward. Angelina was a bit faster. She pulled a bottle from the table and banged it into the side of his head with neat efficiency. The Count dropped as if he had been shot. She was pulling up her torn blouse when I came roaring to a halt. "Put the gun away, Bent—it's all over," she said in a calm voice. I did, but only after making sure the Count was really out, hoping an extra slam might be needed. But she had done a good job. When I stood up Angelina was already halfway out of the room and I had to run to catch up with her. The only other thing she said was "Wait here," when she steamed into her room. It took no great power of divination to see that there was trouble coming—if it hadn't already arrived. When the Count came to with a busted head he would undoubtedly have some second thoughts about Angelina and revolutions. I thought on these and related subjects while I matched coins with the guards. A few minutes later Angelina called me in. A long robe covered her arms so the bruises he had made weren't visible. Though outwardly composed there was a telltale glint in her eyes that meant she was doing a slow burn. I spoke what was undoubtedly the uppermost thought in her mind. "Want me to fix it so the Count joins his noble ancestors in the family crypt?" She shook her head no. "He still has his uses. I managed to control my temper—so you had better hold yours." "Mine's in great shape. But what makes you think you can still get work on cooperation out of him? He's going to have an awful sore head when he comes to." Minor factors like this didn't bother her; she dismissed the thought with a wave of her hand. "I can still handle him and make him do whatever I want—within limits. The limitations are his own natural abilities, which I didn't realize were so slight when I picked him to head this revolt. I'm afraid his cowardice is slowly destroying any large hopes I might have had for him. He will still have value as a figurehead and we must use him for that. But the power and decisions must be ours." I wasn't being slow, just wary. I chewed around her statements from all sides before I answered. "Just what is this _we_ and _ours_ business? Where do I fit in?" Angelilith leaned back in her chair and tossed a lock of her lovely golden hair to one side. Her smile had about a two thousand volt charge and was aimed at me. "I want you to come in with me on this thing," she said with a voice rich as warm honey. "A partnership. We'll keep the Count of Rdenrundt out in front until the plan succeeds. Then eliminate him and go the rest of the way ourselves. Do you agree?" "Well," I said. Then with brilliant inspiration, "Well...." again. For the first time in a lifetime of verbal pyrotechnics I found the flow shut off. I paced the room and pulled my scattered wits together. "I hate to look a gift rocket in the tubes," I told her, "nevertheless—why _me_? A simple but hard working bodyguard, who will guard your person, labor for the cause and look forward to the restoration of his stolen lands and title. How come the big jump from office boy to board chairman?" "You know better than to ask that," she said and smiled, and the temperature of the room rose ten degrees. "I think you can handle this job as well as I can, and enjoy doing it. Working together, you and I will make this the cleanest revolt that ever took over a planet. What do you say?" I was pacing behind her as she talked. She stood up and took me by the arm, stilling my restless walking. I could feel the warmth of her fingers burning through my thin shirt. Her face was in front of me, smiling, and her voice pitched so low that I barely heard it. "It would be something, wouldn't it. You and I ... together." _Wouldn't_ it! There are occasions when words can't say it all and your body speaks for you. This was a time like that. Without physical deliberation my arms were around her, pulling her to me, my mouth pushing down on hers. For the briefest of instants she was the same, her arms tight on my shoulders, her lips alive. Just for a sliver of time so brief that afterwards I couldn't be sure that I hadn't imagined it. Then the warmth was suddenly drained away and everything was wrong. She didn't fight me or attempt to push back. But her lips were lifeless under mine and her eyes open, looking at me with a sterile emptiness. She did nothing until I had dropped my arms and stepped away, then she seated herself stiffly in the chair again. "What's wrong?" I asked not trusting myself to say more. "A pretty face—is that all you think of?" she asked, and the words seemed pulled from her in sobs. Expressing real emotions didn't come easily with her. "Are you men all alike—all the same—?" "Nonsense!" I shouted, angered in spite of myself. "You wanted me to kiss you—don't deny it! What changed your mind?" "Would you want to kiss _her_?" Angelina screamed, torn by emotions I couldn't understand. She pulled at a thin chain around her neck. It snapped and she half threw it at me. There was a tiny locket on the chain, still warm from her body. It had an image-enlarger in it, and when held at the right angle the picture inside could be seen clearly. I had the chance for only a single glimpse at the girl in the photograph, then Angelina changed her mind and pulled it away, pushing me towards the door at the same time. It slammed behind me and I heard the heavy safety bolts thud home. Ignoring the guard's raised eyebrows I stamped down the hall to my own room. My emotions had triumphed nicely over my powers of reason, and apparently Angelina's had too—for just an instant. Yet I couldn't understand her cold withdrawal or the significance of the picture. Why did she wear it? I had only had a single glimpse of the contents but that was enough. It was the photo of a young girl, a sister perhaps? A tragic thing, one of those horrible proofs of the law of chance that an almost infinite number of combinations are possible. This girl was cursed with ugliness, that is the only way to describe it. It was no single factor of a bent back, adenoidal jaw or protruding nose. Instead it was the damning combination of traits that combined to form a single, repellent whole. I didn't like it. But what did it matter.... I sat down suddenly with the clear realization that I was being incredibly stupid. Angelina had given me a simple brief glimpse into the dark motivations that had made her, shaped her life. Of course. The girl in the picture was Angelina herself. With this realization so many other things became clear. Many times when looking at her I had wondered why that deadly mind should be housed in such an attractive package. The answer was clearly that I wasn't looking at the original package that had shaped the mind. To be a man and to be ugly is bad enough. What must it feel like to a woman? How do you live when mirrors are your enemies and people turn away rather than look at you? How do you bear life when at the same time you are blessed—or cursed—with a keen and intelligent mind that sees and is aware of everything, makes the inescapable conclusions and misses not the slightest hint of repulsion. Some girls might commit suicide, but not Angelina. I could guess what she had done. Hating herself, loathing and detesting her world and the people on it, she would have had no compunction about committing a crime to gain the money she wanted. Money for an operation to correct one of those imperfections. Then more money for more operations. Then someone who dared to stop her in this task, and the ease and perhaps pleasure with which she killed him. The slow upward climb through crime and murder—to beauty. And during the climb the wonderful brain that had been housed in the illformed flesh had been warped and changed. Poor Angelina. I could be sorry for her without forgetting the ones she had killed. Poor, tragic, alone girl who in winning half the battle had lost the other half. Purchased skill had shaped the body into a lovely—truthfully an angelic—form. Yet in succeeding, the strength of the mind that had accomplished all this had been deformed until it had been made as ugly as the body had been in the beginning. Yet if you could change a body—couldn't you change a mind? Could something be done for her? The very pressure and magnitude of my thoughts drove me out of the small room and into the air. It was nearing midnight and the guards would be stationed below and all the doors locked. Rather than face the explanations and simple mechanical difficulties, I climbed upwards instead. There would be no one in the roofgardens and walkways this time of night; I could be alone. Freibur has no moon, but it was a clear night and the stars cast enough light to see by. The roof guard saluted when I went by, and I could see the red spark of a cigarette in his hand. I should have said something about it, but my mind was too occupied. Passing on I turned a corner and stood leaning on the parapet, looking out unseeingly at the black bulk of the mountains. Something kept gnawing for attention and after a few minutes I recognized what it was. The guard. He was there for a purpose, and smoking on duty wasn't considered the best behavior for a sentry. Perhaps I was being finicky, but it is a failing of mine. Take care of all the small factors and the big ones take care of themselves. In any case, simply thinking about it was bothering me, so I might as well go around and say a word to him. He wasn't at his usual post, which was optimistic; at least he was making the rounds and keeping an eye on things. I started to walk back when I noticed the broken flowers hanging from the edge of the garden. This was most unusual because the roofgardens were the Count's special pleasure and were practically manicured daily. Then I saw the dark patch in among the flowers and had the first intimation that something was very, very wrong. It was the guard, and he was either dead or deeply unconscious. I didn't bother to find out which. There was only one reason I could think of for someone to be here at night like this. Angelina. Her room was on the top floor, almost below this spot. Silently I ran to the decorative railing and looked over. Five meters below was the white patch of the balcony outside her window. Something black and formless was crouched there. My gun was in my room. For one of the few times in my life I had been so disturbed that my normal precautions were forgotten. My concern over Angelina was going to cost her her life. All of this I realized in a fraction of a second as my fingers ran along the balustrade. A shiny blob was fixed there, anchoring a strand so thin that it was invisible, yet I knew was as strong as a cable. The assassin had lowered himself with a web-spinner, a tiny device that spun a thin strand like a spider. Only the strand's substance was formed of a single long-chain molecule that could support a man's weight. It would slice my hands like the sharpest blade if I tried to slide down it. There was only one way I could reach that balcony, a tiny square above the two kilometer drop into the valley below. I made the decision even as I was leaping up onto the rail. It had a wide flat top and I sat for an instant to catch my balance. Below me the window swung open noiselessly and I dropped, my heels extended, aiming for the man below. I turned in the air and instead of hitting him squarely I caromed off his shoulder and we both sprawled onto the balcony. It shivered under the impact, but the ancient stone held. The fall had half-stunned me, and with pain-blurred reasoning I hoped that his shoulder felt as bad as my leg. For a few moments I could do nothing but gasp for breath and try to scramble towards him. A long, thin-bladed knife had been knocked from his hand by the impact and I could see it glittering where he reached for it. His fingers clutched it just as I attacked. He grunted and made a vicious stab at me that brushed my sleeve. Before he could draw back I had his knife wrist in my hand and clamped on. It was a silent, nightmare battle. Both of us were half-dazed from my drop, yet we knew it was life we were battling for. I couldn't stand because of my bruised leg and he was instantly on top of me, heavier and stronger. He couldn't use the arm I had landed on, but it took all the strength of both my arms to hold away the menacing blade. There was no sound other than our hoarse panting. This assassin was going to win as weight and remorseless strength brought the knife down. Sweat almost blinded me, but I could still see well enough to notice the twisted way his other arm hung. I had broken a bone when I hit—yet he had never made a sound. There is no such thing as fair fighting when you are struggling for your life. I squirmed my leg out from under him and managed to bend it enough to dig the knee into his broken arm. His whole body shuddered. I did it again. Harder. He twisted, trying to pull away from the pain. I heaved sideways, throwing him off balance. His elbow bent as he tried to save himself from falling and I put all my strength in both hands turning that sinewy wrist and driving the hand backwards. It almost worked, but he was still stronger than I was and the point of the blade merely scratched his chest. Even as I was fighting to turn the hand again he shuddered and died. A ruse would not have tricked me—but this was no ruse. I felt every muscle in his body tighten rock-hard in a spasm as he fell sideways. My grip on his wrist didn't lessen until the light came on in the room behind me. Only then did I see the ugly yellow stain halfway up the blade of the knife. A quick-acting nerve poison, silent and deadly. There, on the sleeve of my shirt, was a thin yellow mark where the blade had brushed me. I knew these poisons didn't need a puncture, they could work just as well on the naked skin. With infinite caution, struggling against the fatigue that wanted my hands to shake, I peeled my shirt slowly off. Only when it had been hurled on top of the corpse did I let myself drop backwards, gasping for air. My leg could work now, though it hurt hideously. It must have been bruised but not broken since it supported my weight. Turning, I stumbled to the high window and threw it open. Light streamed out on the body behind me. Angelina was sitting up in bed, her face smooth and her hands folded on the covers in front of her. Only her eyes showing any awareness of what had happened. "Dead," I said with a dry throat, and spat to clear it. "Killed by his own poison." I stumped into the room, testing my leg. "I was sleeping, I didn't hear him open the window," she said. "Thank you." Actress, liar, cheat, murderess. She had played a hundred roles in countless voices. Yet when she said those final words there was a ring of unforged feeling to them. This murder attempt had come too soon after the earlier traumatic scene. Her defenses were still down, her real emotions showing. Her hair hung to her shoulders, brushing the single ribbons of her nightgown which was made of some thin and soft fabric; intimate. This sight, on top of the events of the evening, removed any reserve I might have had. I was kneeling by the bed, holding her shoulders and staring deep into her eyes, trying to reach what lay behind them. The locket with the broken chain lay on the bed-side table. I grabbed it in my fist. "Don't you realize this girl doesn't exist except in your own memory," I said, and Angelina didn't move. "It's past like everything else. You were a baby—now you're a woman. You were a little girl—now you're a woman. You may have been this girl—but you are not any more!" With a convulsive movement I turned and hurled the thing out of the window into the darkness. "You're none of those things of the past, Angelina!" I said with an intensity louder than a shout. "You are yourself ... just yourself!" I kissed her then and there was no trace of the pushing away or rejection there had been before. As I needed her, she needed me. xviii Dawn was just touching the sky when I brought the assassin's body in to the Count. I was deprived of the pleasure of waking him since the sergeant of the guard had already done this when the roof sentry had been discovered. The guard was dead too, from a tiny puncture of the same poison-tipped blade. The guardsmen and the Count were all gathered around the body on the floor of the Count's sitting room and chattering away about this mystery, the inexplicable death of the sentry. They didn't see me until I dropped my corpse down by the other one, and they all jumped back. "Here's the killer," I told them, not without a certain amount of pride. Count Cassitor must have recognized the thug because he gave a shuddering start and popped his eyes. No doubt an ex-relative, brother-in-law or something. I imagined he hadn't believed that the Radebrechen family would really go through with their threats of revenge. A certain uneasiness about the guard sergeant gave me my first cue that I was imagining wrong. The sergeant glanced back and forth from the corpse to the Count and I wondered what thoughts were going through his shaven and thick-skulled military head. There were wheels within wheels here and I would like to have known what was going on. I made a mental note to have a buddy-to-buddy talk with sarge at the first opportunity. The Count chewed his cheek and cracked his knuckles over the bodies, and finally ordered them dragged out. "Stay here, Bent," he said as I started to leave with the others. I dropped into a chair while he locked the rest out. Then he made a rush for the bar and choked down about a waterglass full of the local spirits. Only when he was working on his second glass did he remember to offer me some of this potable aqua regia. I wasn't saying no, and while I sipped at it I wondered what he was so upset about. First the Count checked the locks on all the doors and sealed the single window. His ring key unlocked the bottom drawer of his desk and he took out a small electronic device with controls and an extendible aerial on top. "Well look at that!" I said when he pulled out the aerial. He didn't answer me, just shot a long look at me from under his eyebrows, and went back to adjusting the thing. Only when it was turned on and the green light glowed on the top did he relax a bit. "You know what this is?" he asked, pointing at the gadget. "Of course," I said. "But not from seeing them on Freibur. They aren't that common." "They aren't common at all," he mumbled, staring at the green light which glowed steadily. "As far as I know this is the only one on the planet—so I wish you wouldn't mention it to anybody. _Anybody_," he repeated with emphasis. "Not my business," I told him with disarming lack of interest. "I think a man's entitled to his privacy." I liked privacy myself and had used snooper-detectors like this one plenty of times. They could sense electronic or radiation snoopers and gave instant warning. There were ways of fooling them, but it wasn't easy to do. As long as no one knew about the thing the Count could be sure he wasn't being eavesdropped on. But who would want to do that? He was in the middle of his own building—and even he must know that snooper devices couldn't be worked from a distance. There was distinct smell of rat in the air, and I was beginning to get an idea of what was going on. The Count didn't leave me any doubt as to who the rat was. "You're not a stupid man, Grav Diebstall," he said, which means he thought I was a lot stupider than he was. "You've been offplanet and seen other worlds. You know how backward and suppressed we are here, or you wouldn't have joined with me to help throw off the yoke around our planet's neck. No sacrifice is too great if it will bring closer this day of liberation." For some reason he was sweating now and had resumed his unpleasant habit of cracking the knuckles. The side of his head—where Angela had landed the bottle—was covered with plasti-skin and dry of sweat. I hoped it hurt. "This foreign woman you have been guarding—" the Count said, turning sideways but still watching me from the corners of his eyes. "She had been of some help in organizing things, but is now putting us in an embarrassing position. There has been one attempt on her life and there will probably be others. The Radebrechen are an old and loyal family—her presence is a continued insult to them." Then he pulled at his drink and delivered the punch line. "I think that _you_ can do the job she is doing. Just as well, and perhaps better. How would you like that?" Without a doubt I was just brimming over with talent—or there was a shortage of revolutionaries on this planet. This was the second time within twelve hours that I had been offered a partnership in the new order. One thing I was sure of though—Angelovely's offer had been sincere. Cassi Duke of Rdenrundt's proposition had a distinctly bad odor to it. I played along to see what he was leading up to. "I am honored, noble Count," I oozed. "But what will happen to the foreign woman? I don't imagine she will think much of the idea." "What she thinks is not important," he snarled and touched his fingers lightly to the side of his head. He swallowed and got his temper back under control. "We cannot be cruel to her," he said with one of the most insincere smiles I have ever seen on a human being's face. "We'll just hold her in custody. She has some guards who I imagine will be loyal, but my men will take care of them. You will be with her and arrest her at the proper time. Just turn her over to the jailers who will keep her safe. Safe for herself, and out of sight where she can cause no more trouble for us." "It's a good plan," I agreed with winning insincerity. "I don't enjoy the thought of putting this poor woman in jail, but if it is necessary to the cause it must be done. The ends justify the means." "You're right. I only wish I was able to state it so clearly. You have a remarkable ability to turn a phrase, Bent. I'm going to write that down so I can remember it. The ends justify...." He scratched away industriously on a note plate. What a knowledge of history he had—just the man to plan a revolution! I searched my memory for a few more old saws to supply him with, until my brain was flooded with a sudden anger. I jumped to my feet. "If we are going to do this we should not waste any time, Count Rdenrundt," I said. "I suggest 1800 hours tonight for the action. That will give you enough time to arrange for the capture of her guards. I will be in her rooms and will arrest her as soon as I have a message from you that the first move has succeeded." "You're correct. A man of action as always, Bent. It will be as you say." We shook hands then and it took all the will power I possessed to stop from crushing to a pulp his limp, moist, serpentine paw. I went straight to Angelina. "Can we be overheard here?" I asked her. "No, the room is completely shielded." "Your former boy-friend, Count Cassi, has a snooper-detector. He may have other equipment for listening to what goes on here." This thought didn't bother Angelic in the slightest. She sat by the mirror, brushing her hair. The scene was lovely but distracting. There were strong winds blowing through the revolution that threatened to knock everything down. "I know about the detector," she said calmly, brushing. "I arranged for him to get it—without his knowledge of course—and made sure it was useless on the best frequencies. I keep a close watch on his affairs that way." "Were you listening in a few minutes ago when he was making arrangements with me to kill your guards and throw you into the dungeons downstairs?" "No, I wasn't listening," she said with that amazing self-possession and calm that marked all her actions. She smiled in the mirror at me. "I was busy just remembering last night." Women! They insist on mixing everything up together. Perhaps they operate better that way, but it is very hard on those of us who find that keeping emotion and logic separate produces sounder thinking. I had to make her understand the seriousness of this situation. "Well, if that little bit of news doesn't interest you," I said as calmly as I could, "Perhaps this does. The rough Radebrechens didn't send that killer last night—the Count did." Success at last. Angelina actually stopped combing her hair and her eyes widened a bit at the import of what I said. She didn't ask any stupid questions, but waited for me to finish. "I think you have underestimated the desperation of that rat upstairs. When you dropped him with that bottle yesterday, you pushed him just as far as he could be pushed. He must have had his plans already made and you made his mind up for him. The sergeant of the guard recognized the assassin and connected him with the Count. That also explains how the killer got access to the roof and knew just where to find you. It's also the best explanation I can imagine for the suddenness of this attack. There's too much coincidence here with the thing happening right after your battle with Cassitor the Cantankerous." Angelina had gone back to combing her hair while I talked, fluffing up the curls. She made no response. Her apparent lack of interest was beginning to try my nerves. "Well—what are you going to do about it?" I asked, with more than a little note of peevishness in my voice. "Don't you think it's more important to ask what _you_ are going to do about it?" She delivered this line very lightly, but there was a lot behind it. I saw she was watching me in the mirror, so I turned and went over to the window, looking out over the fatal balcony at the snow-summitted mountain peaks beyond. What was I going to do about it? Of course that was the question here—much bigger than she realized. What was I going to do about the whole thing? Everyone was offering me half-interests in a revolution I hadn't the slightest interest in. Or did I? What _was_ I doing here? Had I come to arrest Angelina for the Special Corps? That assignment seemed to have been forgotten a while back. A decision had to be reached soon. My body disguise was good—but not that good. It wasn't intended to stand up to long inspection. Only the fact that Angelina was undoubtedly sure that she had killed me had prevented her from recognizing my real identity so far. I had certainly recognized her easily enough, facial changes and all. Just at this point the bottom dropped out of everything. There is a little process called selective forgetting whereby we suppress and distort memories we find distasteful. My disguise hadn't been meant to stand inspection this long. Originally I had been sure she would have penetrated it by now. With this realization came the memory of what I had said the night before. A wickedly revealing statement that I had pushed back and forgotten until now. _You're none of these things out of the past_, I had shouted. _None of these things ... Angelina._ I had bellowed this and there had been no protest from her. Except that she no longer used the name Angelina, she used the alias Engela here. When I turned to face her my guilty thoughts must have been scrawled all over my face, but she only gave me that enigmatic smile and said nothing. At least she had stopped combing her hair. "You know I'm not Grav Bent Diebstall," I said with an effort. "How long have you known?" "For quite a while; since soon after you came here, in fact." "Do you know who I am—?" "I have no idea what your real name is, if that's what you mean. But I do remember how angry I was when you tricked me out of the battleships, after all my work. And I recall the intense satisfaction with which I shot you in Freiburbad. Can you tell me your name now?" "Jim," I said through the haze I was rooted in. "James diGriz, known as Slippery Jim to the trade." "How nice. My name _is_ really Angela. I think it was done as a horrid joke by my father, which is one of the reasons I enjoyed seeing him die." "Why haven't you killed me?" I asked, having a fairly good idea of how father had passed on. "Why should I, darling?" she asked, and her light, empty tone was gone. "We've both made mistakes in the past and it has taken us a dreadfully long time to find out that we are just alike. I might as well ask you why you haven't arrested me—that's what you started out to do isn't it?" "It was—but...." "But, what? You must have come here with that idea in mind, but you were fighting an awful battle with yourself. That's why I hid the fact that I knew who you really were. You were growing up, getting over whatever idiotic notions ever involved you with the police in the first place. I had no idea how the whole thing would come out, though I did hope. You see I didn't want to kill you, not unless I had to. I knew you loved me, that was obvious from the beginning. It was different from the feeble animal passion of all those male brutes who have told me that they love me. They loved a malleable case of flesh. You love me for everything that I am, because we are both the same." "We are not the same," I insisted, but there was no conviction in my voice. She only smiled. "You kill—and enjoy killing—that's our basic difference. Don't you see that?" "Nonsense!" She dismissed the idea with an airy wave. "You killed last night—rather a good job too—and I didn't notice any reluctance on your part. In fact, wasn't there a certain amount of enthusiasm?" I don't know why, but I felt as if a noose was tightening around my neck. Everything she said was wrong—but I couldn't see where it was wrong. Where was the way out, the solution that would solve everything? "Let's leave Freibur," I said at last. "Get away from this monstrous and unnecessary rebellion. There will be deaths and killing and no need for them." "We'll go—if we go someplace where we can do just as well," Angela said, and there was a hardness back in her voice. "That's not the major point though. There's something you are going to have to settle in your own mind before you will be happy. This stupid importance you attach to death. Don't you realize how completely trivial it is? Two hundred years from now you, I and every person now living in the galaxy will be dead. What does it matter if a few of them are helped along and reach their destination a bit quicker? They'd do the same to you if they had the chance." "You're wrong," I insisted, knowing that there is more to living and dying than just this pessimistic philosophy, but unable in this moment of stress to clarify and speak my ideas. Angela was a powerful drug and my tiny remaining shard of compassionate reserve didn't stand a chance, washed under by the flood of stronger emotions. I pulled her to me, kissing her, knowing that this solved most of the problems although it made the final solution that much more difficult. A thin and irritating buzz scratched at my ears, and Angela heard it too. Separating was difficult for both of us. I sat and watched unseeingly while she went to the vidiphone. She blanked the video circuits and snapped a query into it. I couldn't hear the answer because she had the speaker off and listened through the earpiece. Once or twice she said _yes_, and looked up suddenly at me. There was no indication of whom she was talking to, and I hadn't the slightest interest. There were problems enough around. After hanging up she just stood quietly for a moment and I waited for her to speak. Instead she walked to her dressing table and opened the drawer. There were a lot of things that could have been concealed there, but she took out the one thing I was least suspecting. A gun. Big barreled and deadly, pointing at me. "Why did you do it, Jim?" she asked, tears in the corners of her eyes. "Why did you want to do it?" She didn't even hear my baffled answer. Her thoughts were on herself—though the recoilless never wavered from a point aimed midway in my skull. With alarming suddenness she straightened up and angrily brushed at her eyes. "You didn't do anything," she said with the old hard chill on her words. "I did it myself because I let myself believe that one man could be any different from the others. You have taught me a valuable lesson, and out of gratitude I will kill you quickly, instead of in the way I would much prefer." "What the hell are you talking about," I roared, completely baffled. "Don't play the innocent to the very end," she said, as she reached carefully behind her and drew a small heavy bag from under the bed. "That was the radar post. I installed the equipment myself and have the operators bribed to give me first notice. A ring of ships—as you well know—has dropped from space and surrounded this area. Your job was to keep me occupied so I wouldn't notice this. The plan came perilously close to succeeding." She put a coat over her arm and backed across the room. "If I told you I was innocent—gave you my most sincere word of honor—would you believe me?" I asked. "I have nothing to do with this and know nothing about it." "Hooray for the Boy Space Scout," Angela said with bitter mockery. "Why don't you admit the truth, since you will be dead in twenty seconds no matter what you say." "I've told you the truth." I wondered if I could reach her before she fired, but knew it was impossible. "Good-by, James diGriz. It was nice knowing you—for a while. Let me leave you with a last pleasant thought. All this was in vain. There is a door and an exit behind me that no one knows about. Before your police get here I shall be safely gone. And if the thought tortures you a bit, I intend to go on killing and killing and killing and you will never be able to stop me." My Angela raised the gun for a surer aim as she touched a switch in the molding. A panel rolled back revealing a square of blackness in the wall. "Spare me the histrionics, Jim," she said disgustedly, her eyes looking into mine over the sight of the gun. Her finger tightened. "I wouldn't expect that kind of juvenile trick from you, staring over my shoulder and widening your eyes as if there were someone behind me. I'm not going to turn and look. You're not getting out of this one alive." "Famous last words," I said as I jumped sideways. The gun boomed but the bullet plowed into the ceiling. Inskipp stood behind her, twisting the gun into the air, pulling it out of her hand. Angela just stared at me in horror and made no move to resist. There were handcuffs locked on her tiny wrists and she still didn't struggle or cry out. I jumped forward, shouting her name. There were two burly types in Patrol uniforms behind Inskipp, and they took her. Before I could reach the door he stepped through and closed it behind him. I stumbled to a halt before it, as unable to fight as Angela had been a minute ago. # xix "Have a drink," Inskipp said, dropping into Angela's chair and pulling out a hip flask. "Ersatz terran brandy, not this local brand of plastic solvent." He offered me a cupful. "Drop dead, you...." I followed with some of the choicer selections from my interstellar vocabulary, and tried to knock the cup out of his hand. He fooled me by raising it and drinking it himself, not in the least annoyed. "Is that any kind of language to use on your superior officer in the Special Corps?" He asked and refilled the cup. "It's a good thing we're a relaxed organization without too many rules. Still—there are limits." He held out the cup again and this time I grabbed it and drained it. "Why did you do it?" I asked, still wracked by conflicting emotions. "Because you didn't, that's why. The operation is over, you are a success. Before you were merely on probation, but now you are a full agent." He grubbed in one pocket and pulled out a little gold star made of paper. After licking it carefully and solemnly he reached out and stuck it to the front of my shirt. "I hereby appoint you a Full Agent of the Special Corps," he intoned, "by authority of the power vested in me." Cursing, I reached to pick the damn thing off—and laughed instead. It was absurd. It was also a fine commentary on the honors that went with the job. "I thought I was no longer a member of the crew," I told him. "I never received your resignation," Inskipp said. "Not that it would have meant anything. You can't resign from the Corps." "Yeah—but I got your message when you gave me a discharge. Or did you forget that I stole a ship and you set off the scuttling charge by remote to blow me up? As you see I managed to pull the fuse just before it let go." "Nothing of the sort, my boy," he said, settling back to sip his second drink. "You were so insistent about looking for the fair Angelina that I thought you might want to borrow a ship before we had a chance to assign you one. The one you took had the fuse rigged as it always is on these occasions. The fuse—not the charge—is set to explode five seconds _after_ it is removed. I find this gives a certain independence of mind to prospective agents who regret their manner of departure." "You mean—the whole thing was a frame-up?" I gurgled. "You might say that. I prefer the term "graduating-exercise'. This is the time when we find out if our crooked novices really will devote the rest of their lives to the pursuit of law and order. When they find out, too. We don't want there to be any regrets in later years. You found out, didn't you Jim?" "I found out something ... I'm not quite sure what yet," I said, still not able to talk about the one thing closest to me. "It was a fine operation. I must say you showed a lot of imagination in the way you carried it out." Then he frowned. "But that business with the bank, I can't say I approve of it. The Corps has all the funds you will need...." "Same money," I snapped. "Where does the Corps get it? From planetary governments. And where do they get it from? Taxes of course. So I take it directly from the bank. The insurance company pays the bank for the loss, then declares a smaller income that year, pays less taxes to the government—and the result is exactly the same as your way!" Inskipp was well acquainted with this brand of logic so didn't even bother to answer. I still didn't want to talk about Angela. "How did you find me?" I asked. "There was no bug on the ship." "Simple child of nature that you are," Inskipp said, raising his hands in feigned horror. "Do you really think that any of our ships _aren't_ bugged? And the job done so well it cannot be detected if you don't know where to look. For your information the apparently solid outer door of the spacelock contains quite a complex transmitter, strong enough for us to detect at quite a distance." "Then why didn't I hear it?" "For the simple reason that it wasn't broadcasting. I should add that the door also contains a receiver. The device only transmits when it receives the proper signal. We gave you time to reach your destination and then followed you. We lost you for a while in Freiburbad, but picked up your trail again in the hospital, right after you played musical chairs with the corpses. We lent you a hand there, the hospital was justifiably annoyed but we managed to keep them quiet. After that it was just a matter of keeping an eye on doctors and surgical equipment since your next move was obvious. I hope you'll be pleased to know that you are carrying a very compact little transmitter in your sternum." I looked at my chest but of course saw nothing. "It was too good an opportunity to miss," Inskipp went on. There was no stopping the man. "One night when you were under sedation the good doctor found the alcohol we had seen fit to include in one of your supply packages. He of course took advantage of this shipping error and a Corps surgeon made a little operation of his own." "Then you have been following me and watching ever since?" "That's right. But this was your case, just as much as it would have been if you knew we were there." "Then why did you move in for the kill like this?" I snapped. "I didn't blow the whistle for the marines." This was the big question of the hour and the only one that mattered to me. Inskipp took his time about answering. "It's like this," he drawled, and took a sip of his drink. "I like a new man to have enough rope. But not so much that he will hang himself. You were here for what might be called a goodly long time, and I wasn't receiving any reports about revolutions or arrests you had made." What could I say? His voice was quieter, more sympathetic. "Would _you_ have arrested her if we hadn't moved in?" That was the question. "I don't know," was all I could say. "Well I damn well knew what I was going to do," he said with the old venom. "So I did it. The plot is well nipped before it could bud and our multiple murderess is offplanet by now." "Let her go!" I shouted as I grabbed him by the front of the jacket and swung him free of the ground and shook him. "Let her go I tell you!" "Would you turn her loose again—the way she is?" was all he answered. Would I? I suppose I wouldn't. I dropped him while I was thinking about it and he straightened out the wrinkles in the front of his suit. "This has been a rough assignment for you," he said as he started to put the flask away. "At times there can be a very thin line between right and wrong. If you are emotionally involved the line is almost impossible to see." "What will happen to her?" I asked. He hesitated before he answered. "The truth—for a change," I told him. "All right, the truth. No promises—but the psych boys might be able to do something with her. If they can find the cause of the basic aberration. But that can be impossible to find at times." "Not in this case—I can tell them." He looked surprised at that, giving me some small satisfaction. "In that case there might be a chance. I'll give positive orders that everything is to be tried before they even consider anything like personality removal. If that is done she is just another body, of which there are plenty in the galaxy. Sentenced to death she's just another corpse—of which there is an equal multitude." I grabbed the flask away from him before it reached his pocket, and opened it. "I know you Inskipp," I said as I poured. "You're a born recruiting sergeant. When you lick them—make them join." "What else," he said. "She'd make a great agent." "We'd make a great team," I told him and we raised our cups. "_Here's to crime._" THE END
223	--- author: Fritz Leiber tags: Science fiction, Short stories, Boys, Fiction title: Time In the Round blurb: "Poor Butcher suffered more than any dictator in history: everybody gave in to him because he was so puny and they were so impregnable!" summary: ' "Time In the Round" by Fritz Leiber is a science fiction short story published in the mid-20th century, specifically in the late 1950s. This narrative follows a young boy named Butcher who navigates a futuristic society where violence has been eradicated and replaced with harmless, simulated experiences. The story explores themes of childhood curiosity, the nature of violence, and the complexities of time perception. In the tale, Butcher is a discontented child longing for the excitement of genuine conflict and adventure, as he feels constrained by the overly sanitized environment around him. His rebellion leads him to the Time Theater, a place where the past can be observed through a "Time Bubble." Wanting to experience the harsh realities of history firsthand, he manages to sneak into the theater. During a viewing of a barbaric culture, he inadvertently disrupts the presentation, leading to chaos as warriors from the past emerge into the present. The narrative tackles the tensions between innocence and a yearning for authenticity, culminating in the Butcher''s vicarious confrontation with bloodshed and heroism, ultimately revealing the conflicting desires of humanity toward violence and safety. ' word_count: 5170 fiction_type: Short Story ... # Time In the Round From the other end of the Avenue of Wisdom that led across the Peace Park, a gray, hairless, heavily built dog was barking soundlessly at the towering crystal glory of the Time Theater. For a moment, the effect was almost frightening: a silent picture of the beginning of civilization challenging the end of it. Then a small boy caught up with the dog and it rolled over enthusiastically at his feet and the scene was normal again. The small boy, however, seemed definitely pre-civilization. He studied the dog coldly and then inserted a thin metal tube under its eyelid and poked. The dog wagged its stumpy tail. The boy frowned, tightened his grip on the tube and jabbed hard. The dog's tail thumped the cushiony pavement and the four paws beat the air. The boy shortened his grip and suddenly jabbed the dog several times in the stomach. The stiff tube rebounded from the gray, hairless hide. The dog's face split in an upside-down grin, revealing formidable ivory fangs across which a long black tongue lolled. The boy regarded the tongue speculatively and pocketed the metal tube with a grimace of utter disgust. He did not look up when someone called: "Hi, Butch! Sic "em, Darter, sic "em!" A larger small boy and a somewhat older one were approaching across the luxurious, neatly cropped grass, preceded by a hurtling shape that, except for a black hide, was a replica of Butch's gray dog. Butch shrugged his shoulders resignedly and said in a bored voice: "Kill "em, Brute." ~ The gray dog hurled itself on Darter. Jaws gaped to get a hold on necks so short and thick as to be mere courtesy terms. They whirled like a fanged merry-go-round. Three more dogs, one white, one slate blue and one pink, hurried up and tried to climb aboard. Butch yawned. "What's the matter?" inquired Darter's master. "I thought you liked dog fights, Butch." "I do like dog fights," Butch said somberly, without looking around. "I don't like uninj fights. They're just a pretend, like everything else. Nobody gets hurt. And look here, Joggy—and you, too, Hal—when you talk to me, don't just say Butch. It's the Butcher, see?" "That's not exactly a functional name," Hal observed with the judiciousness of budding maturity, while Joggy said agreeably: "All right, Butcher, I suppose you'd like to have lived way back when people were hurting each other all the time so the blood came out?" "I certainly would," the Butcher replied. As Joggy and Hal turned back skeptically to watch the fight, he took out the metal tube, screwed up his face in a dreadful frown and jabbed himself in the hand. He squeaked with pain and whisked the tube out of sight. "A kid can't do anything any more," he announced dramatically. "Can't break anything except the breakables they give him to break on purpose. Can't get dirty except in the dirt-pen—and they graduate him from that when he's two. Can't even be bitten by an uninj—it's contraprogrammed." "Where'd you ever get so fixated on dirt?" Hal asked in a gentle voice acquired from a robot adolescer. "I've been reading a book about a kid called Huckleberry Finn," the Butcher replied airily. "A swell book. That guy got dirtier than anything." His eyes became dreamy. "He even ate out of a garbage pail." "What's a garbage pail?" "I don't know, but it sounds great." The battling uninjes careened into them. Brute had Darter by the ear and was whirling him around hilariously. "Aw, _quit_ it, Brute," the Butcher said in annoyance. Brute obediently loosed his hold and returned to his master, paying no attention to his adversary's efforts to renew the fight. The Butcher looked Brute squarely in the eyes. "You're making too much of a rumpus," he said. "I want to think." ~ He kicked Brute in the face. The dog squirmed joyously at his feet. "Look," Joggy said, "you wouldn't hurt an uninj, for instance, would you?" "How can you hurt something that's uninjurable?" the Butcher demanded scathingly. "An uninj isn't really a dog. It's just a lot of circuits and a micropack bedded in hyperplastic." He looked at Brute with guarded wistfulness. "I don't know about that," Hal put in. "I've heard an uninj is programmed with so many genuine canine reactions that it practically has racial memory." "I mean if you _could_ hurt an uninj," Joggy amended. "Well, maybe I wouldn't," the Butcher admitted grudgingly. "But shut up—I want to think." "About what?" Hal asked with saintly reasonableness. The Butcher achieved a fearful frown. "When I'm World Director," he said slowly, "I'm going to have warfare again." "You think so now," Hal told him. "We all do at your age." "We do not," the Butcher retorted. "I bet _you_ didn't." "Oh, yes, I was foolish, too," the older boy confessed readily. "All newborn organisms are self-centered and inconsiderate and ruthless. They have to be. That's why we have uninjes to work out on, and death games and fear houses, so that our emotions are cleared for adult conditioning. And it's just the same with newborn civilizations. Why, long after atom power and the space drive were discovered, people kept having wars and revolutions. It took ages to condition them differently. Of course, you can't appreciate it this year, but Man's greatest achievement was when he learned to automatically reject all violent solutions to problems. You'll realize that when you're older." "I will not!" the Butcher countered hotly. "I'm not going to be a sissy." Hal and Joggy blinked at the unfamiliar word. "And what if we were attacked by bloodthirsty monsters from outside the Solar System?" "The Space Fleet would take care of them," Hal replied calmly. "That's what it's for. Adults aren't conditioned to reject violent solutions to problems where non-human enemies are concerned. Look at what we did to viruses." "But what if somebody got at us through the Time Bubble?" "They can't. It's impossible." "Yes, but suppose they did all the same." "You've never been inside the Time Theater—you're not old enough yet—so you just can't know anything about it or about the reasons why it's impossible," Hal replied with friendly factuality. "The Time Bubble is just a viewer. You can only look through it, and just into the past, at that. But you can't travel through it because you can't change the past. Time traveling is a lot of kid stuff." "I don't care," the Butcher asserted obstinately. "I'm still going to have warfare when I'm World Director." "They'll condition you out of the idea," Hal assured him. "They will not. I won't let "em." "It doesn't matter what you think now," Hal said with finality. "You'll have an altogether different opinion when you're six." "Well, what if I will?" the Butcher snapped back. "You don't have to keep _telling_ me about it, do you?" ~ The others were silent. Joggy began to bounce up and down abstractedly on the resilient pavement. Hal called in his three uninjes and said in soothing tones: "Joggy and I are going to swim over to the Time Theater. Want to walk us there, Butch?" Butch scowled. "How about it, Butch?" Still Butch did not seem to hear. The older boy shrugged and said: "Oh, well, how about it—Butcher?" The Butcher swung around. "They won't let me in the Time Theater. You said so yourself." "You could walk us over there." "Well, maybe I will and maybe I won't." "While you're deciding, we'll get swimming. Come along, Joggy." Still scowling, the Butcher took a white soapy crayon from the bulging pocket in his silver shorts. Pressed into the pavement, it made a black mark. He scrawled pensively: KEEP ON THE GRASS. He gazed at his handiwork. No, darn it, that was just what grownups wanted you to do. This grass couldn't be hurt. You couldn't pull it up or tear it off; it hurt your fingers to try. A rub with the side of the crayon removed the sign. He thought for a moment, then wrote: KEEP OFF THE GRASS. With an untroubled countenance, he sprang up and hurried after the others. Joggy and the older boy were swimming lazily through the air at shoulder height. In the pavement directly under each of them was a wide, saucer-shaped depression which swam along with them. The uninjes avoided the depressions. Darter was strutting on his hind legs, looking up inquiringly at his master. "Gimme a ride, Hal, gimme a ride!" the Butcher called. The older boy ignored him. "Aw, gimme a ride, Joggy." "Oh, all right." Joggy touched the small box attached to the front of his broad metal harness and dropped lightly to the ground. The Butcher climbed on his back. There was a moment of rocking and pitching, during which each boy accused the other of trying to upset them. Then the Butcher got his balance and they began to swim along securely, though at a level several inches lower. Brute sprang up after his master and was invisibly rebuffed. He retired baffled, but a few minutes later, he was amusing himself by furious futile efforts to climb the hemispherical repulsor field. Slowly the little cavalcade of boys and uninjes proceeded down the Avenue of Wisdom. Hal amused himself by stroking toward a tree. When he was about four feet from it, he was gently bounced away. ~ It was really a more tiring method of transportation than walking and quite useless against the wind. True, by rocking the repulsor hemisphere backward, you could get a brief forward push, but it would be nullified when you rocked forward. A slow swimming stroke was the simplest way to make progress. The general sensation, however, was delightful and levitators were among the most prized of toys. "There's the Theater," Joggy announced. "I _know_," the Butcher said irritably. But even he sounded a little solemn and subdued. From the Great Ramp to the topmost airy finial, the Time Theater was the dream of a god realized in unearthly substance. It imparted the aura of demigods to the adults drifting up and down the ramp. "My father remembers when there wasn't a Time Theater," Hal said softly as he scanned the facade's glowing charts and maps. "Say, they're viewing Earth, somewhere in Scandinavia around zero in the B.C.-A.D. time scale. It should be interesting." "Will it be about Napoleon?" the Butcher asked eagerly. "Or Hitler?" A red-headed adult heard and smiled and paused to watch. A lock of hair had fallen down the middle of the Butcher's forehead, and as he sat Joggy like a charger, he did bear a faint resemblance to one of the grim little egomaniacs of the Dawn Era. "Wrong millennium," Hal said. "Tamerlane then?" the Butcher pressed. "He killed cities and piled the skulls. Blood-bath stuff. Oh, yes, and Tamerlane was a Scand of the Navies." Hal looked puzzled and then quickly erased the expression. "Well, even if it is about Tamerlane, you can't see it. How about it, Joggy?" "They won't let me in, either." "Yes, they will. You're five years old now." "But I don't feel any older," Joggy replied doubtfully. "The feeling comes at six. Don't worry, the usher will notice the difference." Hal and Joggy switched off their levitators and dropped to their feet. The Butcher came down rather hard, twisting an ankle. He opened his mouth to cry, then abruptly closed it hard, bearing his pain in tight-lipped silence like an ancient soldier—like Stalin, maybe, he thought. The red-headed adult's face twitched in half-humorous sympathy. Hal and Joggy mounted the Ramp and entered a twilit corridor which drank their faint footsteps and returned pulses of light. The Butcher limped manfully after them, but when he got inside, he forgot his battle injury. ~ Hal looked back. "Honestly, the usher will stop you." The Butcher shook his head. "I'm going to think my way in. I'm going to think old." "You won't be able to fool the usher, Butcher. You under-fives simply aren't allowed in the Time Theater. There's a good reason for it—something dangerous might happen if an under-five got inside." "Why?" "I don't exactly know, but something." "Hah! I bet they're scared we'd go traveling in the Time Bubble and have some excitement." "They are not. I guess they just know you'd get bored and wander away from your seats and maybe disturb the adults or upset the electronics or something. But don't worry about it, Butcher. The usher will take care of you." "Shut up—I'm thinking I'm World Director," the Butcher informed them, contorting his face diabolically. Hal spoke to the uninjes, pointing to the side of the corridor. Obediently four of them lined up. But Brute was peering down the corridor toward where it merged into a deeper darkness. His short legs stiffened, his neckless head seemed to retreat even further between his powerful shoulders, his lips writhed back to show his gleaming fangs, and a completely unfamiliar sound issued from his throat. A choked, grating sound. A growl. The other uninjes moved uneasily. "Do you suppose something's the matter with his circuits?" Joggy whispered. "Maybe he's getting racial memories from the Scands." "Of course not," Hal said irritably. "Brute, get over there," the Butcher commanded. Unwillingly, eyes still fixed on the blackness ahead, Brute obeyed. The three boys started on. Hal and Joggy experienced a vaguely electrical tingling that vanished almost immediately. They looked back. The Butcher had been stopped by an invisible wall. "I told you you couldn't fool the usher," Hal said. The Butcher hurled himself forward. The wall gave a little, then bounced him back with equal force. "I bet it'll be a bum time view anyway," the Butcher said, not giving up, but not trying again. "And I still don't think the usher can tell how old you are. I bet there's an over-age teacher spying on you through a hole, and if he doesn't like your looks, he switches on the usher." ~ But the others had disappeared in the blackness. The Butcher waited and then sat down beside the uninjes. Brute laid his head on his knee and growled faintly down the corridor. "Take it easy, Brute," the Butcher consoled him. "I don't think Tamerlane was really a Scand of the Navies anyhow." Two chattering girls hardly bigger than himself stepped through the usher as if it weren't there. The Butcher grimly slipped out the metal tube and put it to his lips. There were two closely spaced faint _plops_ and a large green stain appeared on the bare back of one girl, while purple fluid dripped from the close-cropped hair of the other. They glared at him and one of them said: "A cub!" But he had his arms folded and wasn't looking at them. Meanwhile, subordinate ushers had guided Hal and Joggy away from the main entrance to the Time Theater. A sphincter dilated and they found themselves in a small transparent cubicle from which they could watch the show without disturbing the adult audience. They unstrapped their levitators, laid them on the floor and sat down. The darkened auditorium was circular. Rising from a low central platform was a huge bubble of light, its lower surface somewhat flattened. The audience was seated in concentric rows around the bubble, their keen and compassionate faces dimly revealed by the pale central glow. But it was the scene within the bubble that riveted the attention of the boys. Great brooding trees, the trunks of the nearer ones sliced by the bubble's surface, formed the background. Through the dark, wet foliage appeared glimpses of a murky sky, while from the ceiling of the bubble, a ceaseless rain dripped mournfully. A hooded figure crouched beside a little fire partly shielded by a gnarled trunk. Squatting round about were wiry, blue-eyed men with shoulder-length blond hair and full blond beards. They were clothed in furs and metal-studded leather. Here and there were scattered weapons and armor—long swords glistening with oil to guard them from rust, crudely painted circular shields, and helmets from which curved the horns of beasts. Back and forth, lean, wolflike dogs paced with restless monotony. ~ Sometimes the men seemed to speak together, or one would rise to peer down the misty forest vistas, but mostly they were motionless. Only the hooded figure, which they seemed to regard with a mingled wonder and fear, swayed incessantly to the rhythm of some unheard chant. "The Time Bubble has been brought to rest in one of the barbaric cultures of the Dawn Era," a soft voice explained, so casually that Joggy looked around for the speaker, until Hal nudged him sharply, whispering with barely perceptible embarrassment: "Don't do that, Joggy. It's just the electronic interpreter. It senses our development and hears our questions and then it automats background and answers. But it's no more alive than an adolescer or a kinderobot. Got a billion microtapes, though." The interpreter continued: "The skin-clad men we are viewing in Time in the Round seem to be a group of warriors of the sort who lived by pillage and rapine. The hooded figure is a most unusual find. We believe it to be that of a sorcerer who pretended to control the forces of nature and see into the future." Joggy whispered: "How is it that we can't see the audience through the other side of the bubble? We can see through this side, all right." "The bubble only shines light out," Hal told him hurriedly, to show he knew some things as well as the interpreter. "Nothing, not even light, can get into the bubble from outside. The audience on the other side of the bubble sees into it just as we do, only they're seeing the other way—for instance, they can't see the fire because the tree is in the way. And instead of seeing us beyond, they see more trees and sky." Joggy nodded. "You mean that whatever way you look at the bubble, it's a kind of hole through time?" "That's right." Hal cleared his throat and recited: "The bubble is the locus of an infinite number of one-way holes, all centering around two points in space-time, one now and one then. The bubble looks completely open, but if you tried to step inside, you'd be stopped—and so would an atom beam. It takes more energy than an atom beam just to maintain the bubble, let alone maneuver it." "I see, I guess," Joggy whispered. "But if the hole works for light, why can't the people inside the bubble step out of it into our world?" "Why—er—you see, Joggy—" The interpreter took over. "The holes are one-way for light, but no-way for matter. If one of the individuals inside the bubble walked toward you, he would cross-section and disappear. But to the audience on the opposite side of the bubble, it would be obvious that he had walked away along the vista down which they are peering." ~ As if to provide an example, a figure suddenly materialized on their side of the bubble. The wolflike dogs bared their fangs. For an instant, there was only an eerie, distorted, rapidly growing silhouette, changing from blood-red to black as the boundary of the bubble cross-sectioned the intruding figure. Then they recognized the back of another long-haired warrior and realized that the audience on the other side of the bubble had probably seen him approaching for some time. He bowed to the hooded figure and handed him a small bag. "More atavistic cubs, big and little! Hold still, Cynthia," a new voice cut in. Hal turned and saw that two cold-eyed girls had been ushered into the cubicle. One was wiping her close-cropped hair with one hand while mopping a green stain from her friend's back with the other. Hal nudged Joggy and whispered: "Butch!" But Joggy was still hypnotized by the Time Bubble. "Then how is it, Hal," he asked, "that light comes out of the bubble, if the people don't? What I mean is, if one of the people walks toward us, he shrinks to a red blot and disappears. Why doesn't the light coming our way disappear, too?" "Well—you see, Joggy, it isn't real light. It's—" Once more the interpreter helped him out. "The light that comes from the bubble is an isotope. Like atoms of one element, photons of a single frequency also have isotopes. It's more than a matter of polarization. One of these isotopes of light tends to leak futureward through holes in space-time. Most of the light goes down the vistas visible to the other side of the audience. But one isotope is diverted through the walls of the bubble into the Time Theater. Perhaps, because of the intense darkness of the theater, you haven't realized how dimly lit the scene is. That's because we're getting only a single isotope of the original light. Incidentally, no isotopes have been discovered that leak pastward, though attempts are being made to synthesize them." "Oh, explanations!" murmured one of the newly arrived girls. "The cubs are always angling for them. Apple-polishers!" "_I_ like this show," a familiar voice announced serenely. "They cut anybody yet with those choppers?" Hal looked down beside him. "Butch! How did you manage to get in?" "I don't see any blood. Where's the bodies?" "But how _did_ you get in—Butcher?" ~ The Butcher replied airily: "A red-headed man talked to me and said it certainly was sad for a future dictator not to be able to enjoy scenes of carnage in his youth, so I told him I'd been inside the Time Theater and just come out to get a drink of water and go to the eliminator, but then my sprained ankle had got worse—I kind of tried to get up and fell down again—so he picked me up and carried me right through the usher." "Butcher, that wasn't honest," Hal said a little worriedly. "You tricked him into thinking you were older and his brain waves blanketed yours, going through the usher. I really _have_ heard it's dangerous for you under-fives to be in here." "The way those cubs beg for babying and get it!" one of the girls commented. "Talk about sex favoritism!" She and her companion withdrew to the far end of the cubicle. The Butcher grinned at them briefly and concentrated his attention on the scene in the Time Bubble. "Those big dogs—" he began suddenly. "Brute must have smelled "em." "Don't be silly," Hal said. "Smells can't come out of the Time Bubble. Smells haven't any isotopes and—" "I don't care," the Butcher asserted. "I bet somebody'll figure out someday how to use the bubble for time traveling." "You can't travel in a point of view," Hal contradicted, "and that's all the bubble is. Besides, some scientists think the bubble isn't real at all, but a—uh—" "I believe," the interpreter cut in smoothly, "that you're thinking of the theory that the Time Bubble operates by hypermemory. Some scientists would have us believe that all memory is time traveling and that the basic location of the bubble is not space-time at all, but ever-present eternity. Some of them go so far as to state that it is only a mental inability that prevents the Time Bubble from being used for time traveling—just as it may be a similar disability that keeps a robot with the same or even more scopeful memories from being a real man or animal. "It is because of this minority theory that under-age individuals and other beings with impulsive mentalities are barred from the Time Theater. But do not be alarmed. Even if the minority theory should prove true—and no evidence for it has ever appeared—there are automatically operating safeguards to protect the audience from any harmful consequences of time traveling (almost certainly impossible, remember) in either direction." "Sissies!" was the Butcher's comment. ~ "You're rather young to be here, aren't you?" the interpreter inquired. The Butcher folded his arms and scowled. The interpreter hesitated almost humanly, probably snatching through a quarter-million microtapes. "Well, you wouldn't have got in unless a qualified adult had certified you as plus-age. Enjoy yourself." There was no need for the last injunction. The scene within the bubble had acquired a gripping interest. The shaggy warriors were taking up their swords, gathering about the hooded sorcerer. The hood fell back, revealing a face with hawklike, disturbing eyes that seemed to be looking straight out of the bubble at the future. "This is getting good," the Butcher said, squirming toward the edge of his seat. "Stop being an impulsive mentality," Hal warned him a little nervously. "Hah!" The sorcerer emptied the small bag on the fire and a thick cloud of smoke puffed toward the ceiling of the bubble. A clawlike hand waved wildly. The sorcerer appeared to be expostulating, commanding. The warriors stared uncomprehendingly, which seemed to exasperate the sorcerer. "That's right," the Butcher approved loudly. "Sock it to "em!" "Butcher!" Hal admonished. Suddenly the bubble grew very bright, as if the Sun had just shone forth in the ancient world, though the rain still dripped down. "A viewing anomaly has occurred," the interpreter announced. "It may be necessary to collapse the Time Bubble for a short period." In a frenzy, his ragged robes twisting like smoke, the sorcerer rushed at one of the warriors, pushing him backward so that in a moment he must cross-section. "Attaboy!" the Butcher encouraged. Then the warrior was standing outside the bubble, blinking toward the shadows, rain dripping from his beard and furs. "Oh, _boy_!" the Butcher cheered in ecstasy. "Butcher, you've done it!" Hal said, aghast. "I sure did," the Butcher agreed blandly, "but that old guy in the bubble helped me. Must take two to work it." "Keep your seats!" the interpreter said loudly. "We are energizing the safeguards!" ~ The warriors inside the bubble stared in stupid astonishment after the one who had disappeared from their view. The sorcerer leaped about, pushing them in his direction. Abrupt light flooded the Time Theater. The warriors who had emerged from the bubble stiffened themselves, baring their teeth. "The safeguards are now energized," the interpreter said. A woman in a short golden tunic stood up uncertainly from the front row of the audience. The first warrior looked her up and down, took one hesitant step forward, then another, then suddenly grabbed her and flung her over his left shoulder, looking around menacingly and swinging his sword in his right hand. "I repeat, the safeguards have been fully energized! Keep your seats!" the interpreter enjoined. In the cubicle, Hal and Joggy gasped, the two girls squeaked, but the Butcher yelled a "Hey!" of disapproval, snatched up something from the floor and darted out through the sphincter. Here and there in the audience, other adults stood up. The emerged warriors formed a ring of swinging swords and questing eyes. Between their legs their wolfish dogs, emerged with them, crouched and snarled. Then the warriors began to fan out. "There has been an unavoidable delay in energizing the safeguards," the interpreter said. "Please be patient." At that moment, the Butcher entered the main auditorium, brandishing a levitator above his head and striding purposefully down the aisle. At his heels, five stocky forms trotted. In a definitely pre-civilization voice, or at least with pre-civilization volume, he bellowed: "Hey, you! You quit that!" The first warrior looked toward him, gave his left shoulder a shake to quiet his wriggling captive, gave his right shoulder one to supple his sword arm, and waited until the dwarfish challenger came into range. Then his sword swished down in a flashing arc. Next moment, the Butcher was on his knees and the warrior was staring at him open-mouthed. The sword had rebounded from something invisible an arm's length above the gnomelike creature's head. The warrior backed a step. The Butcher stayed down, crouching half behind an aisle seat and digging for something in his pocket. But he didn't stay quiet. "Sic "em, Brute!" he shrilled. "Sic "em, Darter! Sic "em, Pinkie and Whitie and Blue!" Then he stopped shouting and raised his hand to his mouth. ~ Growling quite unmechanically, the five uninjes hurled themselves forward and closed with the warrior's wolflike dogs. At the first encounter, Brute and Pinkie were grabbed by the throats, shaken, and tossed a dozen feet. The warriors snarled approval and advanced. But then Brute and Pinkie raced back eagerly to the fight—and suddenly the face of the leading warrior was drenched with scarlet. He blinked and touched his fingers to it, then looked at his hand in horror. The Butcher spared a second to repeat his command to the uninjes. But already the battle was going against the larger dogs. The latter had the advantage of weight and could toss the smaller dogs like so many foxes. But their terrible fangs did no damage, and whenever an uninj clamped on a throat, that throat was torn out. Meanwhile, great bloody stains had appeared on the bodies of all the warriors. They drew back in a knot, looking at each other fearfully. That was when the Butcher got to his feet and strode forward, hand clenching the levitator above his head. "Get back where you belong, you big jerks! And drop that lady!" The first warrior pointed toward him and hissed something. Immediately, a half dozen swords were smiting at the Butcher. "We are working to energize the safeguards," the interpreter said in mechanical panic. "Remain patient and in your seats." The uninjes leaped into the melee, at first tearing more fur than flesh. Swords caught them and sent them spinning through the air. They came yapping back for more. Brute fixed on the first warrior's ankle. He dropped the woman, stamped unavailingly on the uninj, and let out a screech. Swords were still rebounding from the invisible shield under which the Butcher crouched, making terrible faces at his attackers. They drew back, looked again at their bloodstains, goggled at the demon dogs. At their leader's screech, they broke and plunged back into the Time Bubble, their leader stumbling limpingly after them. There they wasted no time on their own ragged sorcerer. Their swords rose and fell, and no repulsor field stayed them. "Brute, come back!" the Butcher yelled. ~ The gray uninj let go his hold on the leader's ankle and scampered out of the Time Bubble, which swiftly dimmed to its original light intensity and then winked out. For once in their very mature lives, all of the adults in the auditorium began to jabber at each other simultaneously. "We are sorry, but the anomaly has made it necessary to collapse the Time Bubble," the interpreter said. "There will be no viewing until further announcement. Thank you for your patience." Hal and Joggy caught up with the Butcher just as Brute jumped into his arms and the woman in gold picked him up and hugged him fiercely. The Butcher started to pull away, then grudgingly submitted. "Cubs!" came a small cold voice from behind Hal and Joggy. "Always playing hero! Say, what's that awful smell, Cynthia? It must have come from those dirty past men." Hal and Joggy were shouting at the Butcher, but he wasn't listening to them or to the older voices clamoring about "revised theories of reality" and other important things. He didn't even squirm as Brute licked his cheek and the woman in gold planted a big kiss practically on his mouth. He smiled dreamily and stroked Brute's muzzle and murmured softly: "We came, we saw, we conquered, didn't we, Brute?" THE END
224	--- author: E. C. (Edmund Clerihew) Bentley tags: Detective and mystery stories, Trent, Philip (Fictitious character), Fiction title: Trent's Last Case summary: ' "Trent''s Last Case" by E. C. Bentley is a detective novel written in the early 20th century. The story revolves around the murder of Sigsbee Manderson, a powerful financier, which sends shockwaves through the financial markets and ignites intrigue among those connected to him. The narrative introduces several key characters, including Philip Trent, an artist and amateur detective, who is drawn into the case as he investigates the circumstances surrounding Manderson''s death. At the start of the novel, the scene is set with the overwhelming impact of Manderson''s murder on both his personal circle and the broader financial community. We learn that he was a man of immense wealth and few true friends, described as a "Colossus" of finance. Within the opening chapters, we see the immediate aftermath of the murder with various characters reacting, including Sir James Molloy, the editor of the "Record", who enlists Trent''s help. The chapters delve into details surrounding Manderson''s life, his strained marriage to Mrs. Manderson, and the peculiar circumstances leading to his death, setting the stage for an intricate investigation steeped in social dynamics and hidden motives. As Trent arrives at the scene and begins to piece together the puzzle, elements of class, power, and the darkness of human relationships begin to unfold, promising a compelling mystery ahead. ' word_count: 73544 fiction_type: Novel ... # Chapter I. Bad News Between what matters and what seems to matter, how should the world we know judge wisely? When the scheming, indomitable brain of Sigsbee Manderson was scattered by a shot from an unknown hand, that world lost nothing worth a single tear; it gained something memorable in a harsh reminder of the vanity of such wealth as this dead man had piled up—without making one loyal friend to mourn him, without doing an act that could help his memory to the least honour. But when the news of his end came, it seemed to those living in the great vortices of business as if the earth too shuddered under a blow. In all the lurid commercial history of his country there had been no figure that had so imposed itself upon the mind of the trading world. He had a niche apart in its temples. Financial giants, strong to direct and augment the forces of capital, and taking an approved toll in millions for their labour, had existed before; but in the case of Manderson there had been this singularity, that a pale halo of piratical romance, a thing especially dear to the hearts of his countrymen, had remained incongruously about his head through the years when he stood in every eye as the unquestioned guardian of stability, the stamper-out of manipulated crises, the foe of the raiding chieftains that infest the borders of Wall Street. The fortune left by his grandfather, who had been one of those chieftains on the smaller scale of his day, had descended to him with accretion through his father, who during a long life had quietly continued to lend money and never had margined a stock. Manderson, who had at no time known what it was to be without large sums to his hand, should have been altogether of that newer American plutocracy which is steadied by the tradition and habit of great wealth. But it was not so. While his nurture and education had taught him European ideas of a rich man's proper external circumstance; while they had rooted in him an instinct for quiet magnificence, the larger costliness which does not shriek of itself with a thousand tongues; there had been handed on to him nevertheless much of the Forty-Niner and financial buccaneer, his forbear. During that first period of his business career which had been called his early bad manner, he had been little more than a gambler of genius, his hand against every man's—an infant prodigy—who brought to the enthralling pursuit of speculation a brain better endowed than any opposed to it. At St Helena it was laid down that war is _une belle occupation;_ and so the young Manderson had found the multitudinous and complicated dog-fight of the Stock Exchange of New York. Then came his change. At his father's death, when Manderson was thirty years old, some new revelation of the power and the glory of the god he served seemed to have come upon him. With the sudden, elastic adaptability of his nation he turned to steady labour in his father's banking business, closing his ears to the sound of the battles of the Street. In a few years he came to control all the activity of the great firm whose unimpeached conservatism, safety, and financial weight lifted it like a cliff above the angry sea of the markets. All mistrust founded on the performances of his youth had vanished. He was quite plainly a different man. How the change came about none could with authority say, but there was a story of certain last words spoken by his father, whom alone he had respected and perhaps loved. He began to tower above the financial situation. Soon his name was current in the bourses of the world. One who spoke the name of Manderson called up a vision of all that was broad-based and firm in the vast wealth of the United States. He planned great combinations of capital, drew together and centralized industries of continental scope, financed with unerring judgement the large designs of state or of private enterprise. Many a time when he "took hold" to smash a strike, or to federate the ownership of some great field of labour, he sent ruin upon a multitude of tiny homes; and if miners or steelworkers or cattlemen defied him and invoked disorder, he could be more lawless and ruthless than they. But this was done in the pursuit of legitimate business ends. Tens of thousands of the poor might curse his name, but the financier and the speculator execrated him no more. He stretched a hand to protect or to manipulate the power of wealth in every corner of the country. Forcible, cold, and unerring, in all he did he ministered to the national lust for magnitude; and a grateful country surnamed him the Colossus. But there was an aspect of Manderson in this later period that lay long unknown and unsuspected save by a few, his secretaries and lieutenants and certain of the associates of his bygone hurling time. This little circle knew that Manderson, the pillar of sound business and stability in the markets, had his hours of nostalgia for the lively times when the Street had trembled at his name. It was, said one of them, as if Blackbeard had settled down as a decent merchant in Bristol on the spoils of the Main. Now and then the pirate would glare suddenly out, the knife in his teeth and the sulphur matches sputtering in his hatband. During such spasms of reversion to type a score of tempestuous raids upon the market had been planned on paper in the inner room of the offices of Manderson, Colefax and Company. But they were never carried out. Blackbeard would quell the mutiny of his old self within him and go soberly down to his counting-house—humming a stave or two of "Spanish Ladies", perhaps, under his breath. Manderson would allow himself the harmless satisfaction, as soon as the time for action had gone by, of pointing out to some Rupert of the markets a coup worth a million to the depredator might have been made. "Seems to me," he would say almost wistfully, "the Street is getting to be a mighty dull place since I quit." By slow degrees this amiable weakness of the Colossus became known to the business world, which exulted greatly in the knowledge. At the news of his death panic went through the markets like a hurricane; for it came at a luckless time. Prices tottered and crashed like towers in an earthquake. For two days Wall Street was a clamorous inferno of pale despair. All over the United States, wherever speculation had its devotees, went a waft of ruin, a plague of suicide. In Europe also not a few took with their own hands lives that had become pitiably linked to the destiny of a financier whom most of them had never seen. In Paris a well-known banker walked quietly out of the Bourse and fell dead upon the broad steps among the raving crowd of Jews, a phial crushed in his hand. In Frankfort one leapt from the Cathedral top, leaving a redder stain where he struck the red tower. Men stabbed and shot and strangled themselves, drank death or breathed it as the air, because in a lonely corner of England the life had departed from one cold heart vowed to the service of greed. The blow could not have fallen at a more disastrous moment. It came when Wall Street was in a condition of suppressed "scare"—suppressed, because for a week past the great interests known to act with or to be actually controlled by the Colossus had been desperately combating the effects of the sudden arrest of Lucas Hahn, and the exposure of his plundering of the Hahn banks. This bombshell, in its turn, had fallen at a time when the market had been "boosted" beyond its real strength. In the language of the place, a slump was due. Reports from the corn-lands had not been good, and there had been two or three railway statements which had been expected to be much better than they were. But at whatever point in the vast area of speculation the shudder of the threatened break had been felt, "the Manderson crowd" had stepped in and held the market up. All through the week the speculator's mind, as shallow as it is quick-witted, as sentimental as greedy, had seen in this the hand of the giant stretched out in protection from afar. Manderson, said the newspapers in chorus, was in hourly communication with his lieutenants in the Street. One journal was able to give in round figures the sum spent on cabling between New York and Marlstone in the past twenty-four hours; it told how a small staff of expert operators had been sent down by the Post Office authorities to Marlstone to deal with the flood of messages. Another revealed that Manderson, on the first news of the Hahn crash, had arranged to abandon his holiday and return home by the _Lusitania;_ but that he soon had the situation so well in hand that he had determined to remain where he was. All this was falsehood, more or less consciously elaborated by the "finance editors", consciously initiated and encouraged by the shrewd business men of the Manderson group, who knew that nothing could better help their plans than this illusion of hero-worship—knew also that no word had come from Manderson in answer to their messages, and that Howard B. Jeffrey, of Steel and Iron fame, was the true organizer of victory. So they fought down apprehension through four feverish days, and minds grew calmer. On Saturday, though the ground beneath the feet of Mr. Jeffrey yet rumbled now and then with Etna-mutterings of disquiet, he deemed his task almost done. The market was firm, and slowly advancing. Wall Street turned to its sleep of Sunday, worn out but thankfully at peace. In the first trading hour of Monday a hideous rumour flew round the sixty acres of the financial district. It came into being as the lightning comes—a blink that seems to begin nowhere; though it is to be suspected that it was first whispered over the telephone—together with an urgent selling order by some employee in the cable service. A sharp spasm convulsed the convalescent share-list. In five minutes the dull noise of the kerbstone market in Broad Street had leapt to a high note of frantic interrogation. From within the hive of the Exchange itself could be heard a droning hubbub of fear, and men rushed hatless in and out. Was it true? asked every man; and every man replied, with trembling lips, that it was a lie put out by some unscrupulous "short" interest seeking to cover itself. In another quarter of an hour news came of a sudden and ruinous collapse of "Yankees" in London at the close of the Stock Exchange day. It was enough. New York had still four hours' trading in front of her. The strategy of pointing to Manderson as the saviour and warden of the markets had recoiled upon its authors with annihilating force, and Jeffrey, his ear at his private telephone, listened to the tale of disaster with a set jaw. The new Napoleon had lost his Marengo. He saw the whole financial landscape sliding and falling into chaos before him. In half an hour the news of the finding of Manderson's body, with the inevitable rumour that it was suicide, was printing in a dozen newspaper offices; but before a copy reached Wall Street the tornado of the panic was in full fury, and Howard B. Jeffrey and his collaborators were whirled away like leaves before its breath. All this sprang out of nothing. Nothing in the texture of the general life had changed. The corn had not ceased to ripen in the sun. The rivers bore their barges and gave power to a myriad engines. The flocks fattened on the pastures, the herds were unnumbered. Men laboured everywhere in the various servitudes to which they were born, and chafed not more than usual in their bonds. Bellona tossed and murmured as ever, yet still slept her uneasy sleep. To all mankind save a million or two of half-crazed gamblers, blind to all reality, the death of Manderson meant nothing; the life and work of the world went on. Weeks before he died strong hands had been in control of every wire in the huge network of commerce and industry that he had supervised. Before his corpse was buried his countrymen had made a strange discovery—that the existence of the potent engine of monopoly that went by the name of Sigsbee Manderson had not been a condition of even material prosperity. The panic blew itself out in two days, the pieces were picked up, the bankrupts withdrew out of sight; the market "recovered a normal tone". While the brief delirium was yet subsiding there broke out a domestic scandal in England that suddenly fixed the attention of two continents. Next morning the Chicago Limited was wrecked, and the same day a notable politician was shot down in cold blood by his wife's brother in the streets of New Orleans. Within a week of its rising, "the Manderson story", to the trained sense of editors throughout the Union, was "cold". The tide of American visitors pouring through Europe made eddies round the memorial or statue of many a man who had died in poverty; and never thought of their most famous plutocrat. Like the poet who died in Rome, so young and poor, a hundred years ago, he was buried far away from his own land; but for all the men and women of Manderson's people who flock round the tomb of Keats in the cemetery under the Monte Testaccio, there is not one, nor ever will be, to stand in reverence by the rich man's grave beside the little church of Marlstone. # Chapter II. Knocking the Town Endways In the only comfortably furnished room in the offices of the _Record,_ the telephone on Sir James Molloy's table buzzed. Sir James made a motion with his pen, and Mr. Silver, his secretary, left his work and came over to the instrument. "Who is that?" he said. "Who?... I can't hear you.... Oh, it's Mr. Bunner, is it?... Yes, but... I know, but he's fearfully busy this afternoon. Can't you... Oh, really? Well, in that case—just hold on, will you?" He placed the receiver before Sir James. "It's Calvin Bunner, Sigsbee Manderson's right-hand man," he said concisely. "He insists on speaking to you personally. Says it is the gravest piece of news. He is talking from the house down by Bishopsbridge, so it will be necessary to speak clearly." Sir James looked at the telephone, not affectionately, and took up the receiver. "Well?" he said in his strong voice, and listened. "Yes," he said. The next moment Mr. Silver, eagerly watching him, saw a look of amazement and horror. "Good God!" murmured Sir James. Clutching the instrument, he slowly rose to his feet, still bending ear intently. At intervals he repeated "Yes." Presently, as he listened, he glanced at the clock, and spoke quickly to Mr. Silver over the top of the transmitter. "Go and hunt up Figgis and young Williams. Hurry." Mr. Silver darted from the room. The great journalist was a tall, strong, clever Irishman of fifty, swart and black-moustached, a man of untiring business energy, well known in the world, which he understood very thoroughly, and played upon with the half-cynical competence of his race. Yet was he without a touch of the charlatan: he made no mysteries, and no pretences of knowledge, and he saw instantly through these in others. In his handsome, well-bred, well-dressed appearance there was something a little sinister when anger or intense occupation put its imprint about his eyes and brow; but when his generous nature was under no restraint he was the most cordial of men. He was managing director of the company which owned that most powerful morning paper, the _Record,_ and also that most indispensable evening paper, the _Sun,_ which had its offices on the other side of the street. He was, moreover, editor-in-chief of the _Record,_ to which he had in the course of years attached the most variously capable personnel in the country. It was a maxim of his that where you could not get gifts, you must do the best you could with solid merit; and he employed a great deal of both. He was respected by his staff as few are respected in a profession not favourable to the growth of the sentiment of reverence. "You're sure that's all?" asked Sir James, after a few minutes of earnest listening and questioning. "And how long has this been known?... Yes, of course, the police are; but the servants? Surely it's all over the place down there by now.... Well, we'll have a try.... Look here, Bunner, I'm infinitely obliged to you about this. I owe you a good turn. You know I mean what I say. Come and see me the first day you get to town.... All right, that's understood. Now I must act on your news. Goodbye." Sir James hung up the receiver, and seized a railway timetable from the rack before him. After a rapid consultation of this oracle, he flung it down with a forcible word as Mr. Silver hurried into the room, followed by a hard-featured man with spectacles, and a youth with an alert eye. "I want you to jot down some facts, Figgis," said Sir James, banishing all signs of agitation and speaking with a rapid calmness. "When you have them, put them into shape just as quick as you can for a special edition of the _Sun_." The hard-featured man nodded and glanced at the clock, which pointed to a few minutes past three; he pulled out a notebook and drew a chair up to the big writing-table. "Silver," Sir James went on, "go and tell Jones to wire our local correspondent very urgently, to drop everything and get down to Marlstone at once. He is not to say why in the telegram. There must not be an unnecessary word about this news until the _Sun_ is on the streets with it—you all understand. Williams, cut across the way and tell Mr. Anthony to hold himself ready for a two-column opening that will knock the town endways. Just tell him that he must take all measures and precautions for a scoop. Say that Figgis will be over in five minutes with the facts, and that he had better let him write up the story in his private room. As you go, ask Miss Morgan to see me here at once, and tell the telephone people to see if they can get Mr. Trent on the wire for me. After seeing Mr. Anthony, return here and stand by." The alert-eyed young man vanished like a spirit. Sir James turned instantly to Mr. Figgis, whose pencil was poised over the paper. "Sigsbee Manderson has been murdered," he began quickly and clearly, pacing the floor with his hands behind him. Mr. Figgis scratched down a line of shorthand with as much emotion as if he had been told that the day was fine—the pose of his craft. "He and his wife and two secretaries have been for the past fortnight at the house called White Gables, at Marlstone, near Bishopsbridge. He bought it four years ago. He and Mrs. Manderson have since spent a part of each summer there. Last night he went to bed about half-past eleven, just as usual. No one knows when he got up and left the house. He was not missed until this morning. About ten o'clock his body was found by a gardener. It was lying by a shed in the grounds. He was shot in the head, through the left eye. Death must have been instantaneous. The body was not robbed, but there were marks on the wrists which pointed to a struggle having taken place. Dr Stock, of Marlstone, was at once sent for, and will conduct the post-mortem examination. The police from Bishopsbridge, who were soon on the spot, are reticent, but it is believed that they are quite without a clue to the identity of the murderer. There you are, Figgis. Mr. Anthony is expecting you. Now I must telephone him and arrange things." Mr. Figgis looked up. "One of the ablest detectives at Scotland Yard," he suggested, "has been put in charge of the case. It's a safe statement." "If you like," said Sir James. "And Mrs. Manderson? Was she there?" "Yes. What about her?" "Prostrated by the shock," hinted the reporter, "and sees nobody. Human interest." "I wouldn't put that in, Mr. Figgis," said a quiet voice. It belonged to Miss Morgan, a pale, graceful woman, who had silently made her appearance while the dictation was going on. "I have seen Mrs. Manderson," she proceeded, turning to Sir James. "She looks quite healthy and intelligent. Has her husband been murdered? I don't think the shock would prostrate her. She is more likely to be doing all she can to help the police." "Something in your own style, then, Miss Morgan," he said with a momentary smile. Her imperturbable efficiency was an office proverb. "Cut it out, Figgis. Off you go! Now, madam, I expect you know what I want." "Our Manderson biography happens to be well up to date," replied Miss Morgan, drooping her dark eyelashes as she considered the position. "I was looking over it only a few months ago. It is practically ready for tomorrow's paper. I should think the _Sun_ had better use the sketch of his life they had about two years ago, when he went to Berlin and settled the potash difficulty. I remember it was a very good sketch, and they won't be able to carry much more than that. As for our paper, of course we have a great quantity of cuttings, mostly rubbish. The sub-editors shall have them as soon as they come in. Then we have two very good portraits that are our own property; the best is a drawing Mr. Trent made when they were both on the same ship somewhere. It is better than any of the photographs; but you say the public prefers a bad photograph to a good drawing. I will send them down to you at once, and you can choose. As far as I can see, the Record is well ahead of the situation, except that you will not be able to get a special man down there in time to be of any use for tomorrow's paper." Sir James sighed deeply. "What are we good for, anyhow?" he enquired dejectedly of Mr. Silver, who had returned to his desk. "She even knows Bradshaw by heart." Miss Morgan adjusted her cuffs with an air of patience. "Is there anything else?" she asked, as the telephone bell rang. "Yes, one thing," replied Sir James, as he took up the receiver. "I want you to make a bad mistake some time, Miss Morgan—an everlasting bloomer—just to put us in countenance." She permitted herself the fraction of what would have been a charming smile as she went out. "Anthony?" asked Sir James, and was at once deep in consultation with the editor on the other side of the road. He seldom entered the _Sun_ building in person; the atmosphere of an evening paper, he would say, was all very well if you liked that kind of thing. Mr. Anthony, the Murat of Fleet Street, who delighted in riding the whirlwind and fighting a tumultuous battle against time, would say the same of a morning paper. It was some five minutes later that a uniformed boy came in to say that Mr. Trent was on the wire. Sir James abruptly closed his talk with Mr. Anthony. "They can put him through at once," he said to the boy. "Hullo!" he cried into the telephone after a few moments. A voice in the instrument replied, "Hullo be blowed! What do you want?" "This is Molloy," said Sir James. "I know it is," the voice said. "This is Trent. He is in the middle of painting a picture, and he has been interrupted at a critical moment. Well, I hope it's something important, that's all!" "Trent," said Sir James impressively, "it is important. I want you to do some work for us." "Some play, you mean," replied the voice. "Believe me, I don't want a holiday. The working fit is very strong. I am doing some really decent things. Why can't you leave a man alone?" "Something very serious has happened." "What?" "Sigsbee Manderson has been murdered—shot through the brain—and they don't know who has done it. They found the body this morning. It happened at his place near Bishopsbridge." Sir James proceeded to tell his hearer, briefly and clearly, the facts that he had communicated to Mr. Figgis. "What do you think of it?" he ended. A considering grunt was the only answer. "Come now," urged Sir James. "Tempter!" "You will go down?" There was a brief pause. "Are you there?" said Sir James. "Look here, Molloy," the voice broke out querulously, "the thing may be a case for me, or it may not. We can't possibly tell. It may be a mystery; it may be as simple as bread and cheese. The body not being robbed looks interesting, but he may have been outed by some wretched tramp whom he found sleeping in the grounds and tried to kick out. It's the sort of thing he would do. Such a murderer might easily have sense enough to know that to leave the money and valuables was the safest thing. I tell you frankly, I wouldn't have a hand in hanging a poor devil who had let daylight into a man like Sig Manderson as a measure of social protest." Sir James smiled at the telephone—a smile of success. "Come, my boy, you're getting feeble. Admit you want to go and have a look at the case. You know you do. If it's anything you don't want to handle, you're free to drop it. By the by, where are you?" "I am blown along a wandering wind," replied the voice irresolutely, "and hollow, hollow, hollow all delight." "Can you get here within an hour?" persisted Sir James. "I suppose I can," the voice grumbled. "How much time have I?" "Good man! Well, there's time enough—that's just the worst of it. I've got to depend on our local correspondent for tonight. The only good train of the day went half an hour ago. The next is a slow one, leaving Paddington at midnight. You could have the Buster, if you like"—Sir James referred to a very fast motor car of his—"but you wouldn't get down in time to do anything tonight." "And I'd miss my sleep. No, thanks. The train for me. I am quite fond of railway travelling, you know; I have a gift for it. I am the stoker and the stoked. I am the song the porter sings." "What's that you say?" "It doesn't matter," said the voice sadly. "I say," it continued, "will your people look out a hotel near the scene of action, and telegraph for a room?" "At once," said Sir James. "Come here as soon as you can." He replaced the receiver. As he turned to his papers again a shrill outcry burst forth in the street below. He walked to the open window. A band of excited boys was rushing down the steps of the _Sun_ building and up the narrow thoroughfare toward Fleet Street. Each carried a bundle of newspapers and a large broadsheet with the simple legend: MURDER OF SIGSBEE MANDERSON Sir James smiled and rattled the money in his pockets cheerfully. "It makes a good bill," he observed to Mr. Silver, who stood at his elbow. Such was Manderson's epitaph. # Chapter III. Breakfast At about eight o'clock in the morning of the following day Mr. Nathaniel Burton Cupples stood on the veranda of the hotel at Marlstone. He was thinking about breakfast. In his case the colloquialism must be taken literally: he really was thinking about breakfast, as he thought about every conscious act of his life when time allowed deliberation. He reflected that on the preceding day the excitement and activity following upon the discovery of the dead man had disorganized his appetite, and led to his taking considerably less nourishment than usual. This morning he was very hungry, having already been up and about for an hour; and he decided to allow himself a third piece of toast and an additional egg; the rest as usual. The remaining deficit must be made up at luncheon, but that could be gone into later. So much being determined, Mr. Cupples applied himself to the enjoyment of the view for a few minutes before ordering his meal. With a connoisseur's eye he explored the beauty of the rugged coast, where a great pierced rock rose from a glassy sea, and the ordered loveliness of the vast tilted levels of pasture and tillage and woodland that sloped gently up from the cliffs toward the distant moor. Mr. Cupples delighted in landscape. He was a man of middle height and spare figure, nearly sixty years old, by constitution rather delicate in health, but wiry and active for his age. A sparse and straggling beard and moustache did not conceal a thin but kindly mouth; his eyes were keen and pleasant; his sharp nose and narrow jaw gave him very much of a clerical air, and this impression was helped by his commonplace dark clothes and soft black hat. The whole effect of him, indeed, was priestly. He was a man of unusually conscientious, industrious, and orderly mind, with little imagination. His father's household had been used to recruit its domestic establishment by means of advertisements in which it was truthfully described as a serious family. From that fortress of gloom he had escaped with two saintly gifts somehow unspoiled: an inexhaustible kindness of heart, and a capacity for innocent gaiety which owed nothing to humour. In an earlier day and with a clerical training he might have risen to the scarlet hat. He was, in fact, a highly regarded member of the London Positivist Society, a retired banker, a widower without children. His austere but not unhappy life was spent largely among books and in museums; his profound and patiently accumulated knowledge of a number of curiously disconnected subjects which had stirred his interest at different times had given him a place in the quiet, half-lit world of professors and curators and devotees of research; at their amiable, unconvivial dinner parties he was most himself. His favourite author was Montaigne. Just as Mr. Cupples was finishing his meal at a little table on the veranda, a big motor car turned into the drive before the hotel. "Who is this?" he enquired of the waiter. "Id is der manager," said the young man listlessly. "He have been to meed a gendleman by der train." The car drew up and the porter hurried from the entrance. Mr. Cupples uttered an exclamation of pleasure as a long, loosely built man, much younger than himself, stepped from the car and mounted the veranda, flinging his hat on a chair. His high-boned, quixotic face wore a pleasant smile; his rough tweed clothes, his hair and short moustache were tolerably untidy. "Cupples, by all that's miraculous!" cried the man, pouncing upon Mr. Cupples before he could rise, and seizing his outstretched hand in a hard grip. "My luck is serving me today," the newcomer went on spasmodically. "This is the second slice within an hour. How are you, my best of friends? And why are you here? Why sit'st thou by that ruined breakfast? Dost thou its former pride recall, or ponder how it passed away? I _am_ glad to see you!" "I was half expecting you, Trent," Mr. Cupples replied, his face wreathed in smiles. "You are looking splendid, my dear fellow. I will tell you all about it. But you cannot have had your own breakfast yet. Will you have it at my table here?" "Rather!" said the man. "An enormous great breakfast, too—with refined conversation and tears of recognition never dry. Will you get young Siegfried to lay a place for me while I go and wash? I shan't be three minutes." He disappeared into the hotel, and Mr. Cupples, after a moment's thought, went to the telephone in the porter's office. He returned to find his friend already seated, pouring out tea, and showing an unaffected interest in the choice of food. "I expect this to be a hard day for me," he said, with the curious jerky utterance which seemed to be his habit. "I shan't eat again till the evening, very likely. You guess why I'm here, don't you?" "Undoubtedly," said Mr. Cupples. "You have come down to write about the murder." "That is rather a colourless way of stating it," the man called Trent replied, as he dissected a sole. "I should prefer to put it that I have come down in the character of avenger of blood, to hunt down the guilty, and vindicate the honour of society. That is my line of business. Families waited on at their private residences. I say, Cupples, I have made a good beginning already. Wait a bit, and I'll tell you." There was a silence, during which the newcomer ate swiftly and abstractedly, while Mr. Cupples looked on happily. "Your manager here," said the tall man at last, "is a fellow of remarkable judgement. He is an admirer of mine. He knows more about my best cases than I do myself. The _Record_ wired last night to say I was coming, and when I got out of the train at seven o'clock this morning, there he was waiting for me with a motor car the size of a haystack. He is beside himself with joy at having me here. It is fame." He drank a cup of tea and continued: "Almost his first words were to ask me if I would like to see the body of the murdered man—if so, he thought he could manage it for me. He is as keen as a razor. The body lies in Dr Stock's surgery, you know, down in the village, exactly as it was when found. It's to be post-mortem'd this morning, by the way, so I was only just in time. Well, he ran me down here to the doctor's, giving me full particulars about the case all the way. I was pretty well _au fait_ by the time we arrived. I suppose the manager of a place like this has some sort of a pull with the doctor. Anyhow, he made no difficulties, nor did the constable on duty, though he was careful to insist on my not giving him away in the paper." "I saw the body before it was removed," remarked Mr. Cupples. "I should not have said there was anything remarkable about it, except that the shot in the eye had scarcely disfigured the face at all, and caused scarcely any effusion of blood, apparently. The wrists were scratched and bruised. I expect that, with your trained faculties, you were able to remark other details of a suggestive nature." "Other details, certainly; but I don't know that they suggest anything. They are merely odd. Take the wrists, for instance. How was it you could see bruises and scratches on them? I dare say you saw something of Manderson down here before the murder." "Certainly," Mr. Cupples said. "Well, did you ever see his wrists?" Mr. Cupples reflected. "No. Now you raise the point, I am reminded that when I interviewed Manderson here he was wearing stiff cuffs, coming well down over his hands." "He always did," said Trent. "My friend the manager says so. I pointed out to him the fact you didn't observe, that there were no cuffs visible, and that they had, indeed, been dragged up inside the coat-sleeves, as yours would be if you hurried into a coat without pulling your cuffs down. That was why you saw his wrists." "Well, I call that suggestive," observed Mr. Cupples mildly. "You might infer, perhaps, that when he got up he hurried over his dressing." "Yes, but did he? The manager said just what you say. ‘He was always a bit of a swell in his dress,' he told me, and he drew the inference that when Manderson got up in that mysterious way, before the house was stirring, and went out into the grounds, he was in a great hurry. ‘Look at his shoes,' he said to me: ‘Mr. Manderson was always specially neat about his footwear. But those shoe-laces were tied in a hurry.' I agreed. ‘And he left his false teeth in his room,' said the manager. ‘Doesn't _that_ prove he was flustered and hurried?' I allowed that it looked like it. But I said, ‘Look here: if he was so very much pressed, why did he part his hair so carefully? That parting is a work of art. Why did he put on so much? for he had on a complete outfit of underclothing, studs in his shirt, sock-suspenders, a watch and chain, money and keys and things in his pockets. That's what I said to the manager. He couldn't find an explanation. Can you?' Mr. Cupples considered. "Those facts might suggest that he was hurried only at the end of his dressing. Coat and shoes would come last." "But not false teeth. You ask anybody who wears them. And besides, I'm told he hadn't washed at all on getting up, which in a neat man looks like his being in a violent hurry from the beginning. And here's another thing. One of his waistcoat pockets was lined with wash-leather for the reception of his gold watch. But he had put his watch into the pocket on the other side. Anybody who has settled habits can see how odd that is. The fact is, there are signs of great agitation and haste, and there are signs of exactly the opposite. For the present I am not guessing. I must reconnoitre the ground first, if I can manage to get the right side of the people of the house." Trent applied himself again to his breakfast. Mr. Cupples smiled at him benevolently. "That is precisely the point," he said, "on which I can be of some assistance to you." Trent glanced up in surprise. "I told you I half expected you. I will explain the situation. Mrs. Manderson, who is my niece—" "What!" Trent laid down his knife and fork with a clash. "Cupples, you are jesting with me." "I am perfectly serious, Trent, really," returned Mr. Cupples earnestly. "Her father, John Peter Domecq, was my wife's brother. I never mentioned my niece or her marriage to you before, I suppose. To tell the truth, it has always been a painful subject to me, and I have avoided discussing it with anybody. To return to what I was about to say: last night, when I was over at the house—by the way, you can see it from here. You passed it in the car." He indicated a red roof among poplars some three hundred yards away, the only building in sight that stood separate from the tiny village in the gap below them. "Certainly I did," said Trent. "The manager told me all about it, among other things, as he drove me in from Bishopsbridge." "Other people here have heard of you and your performances," Mr. Cupples went on. "As I was saying, when I was over there last night, Mr. Bunner, who is one of Manderson's two secretaries, expressed a hope that the _Record_ would send you down to deal with the case, as the police seemed quite at a loss. He mentioned one or two of your past successes, and Mabel—my niece—was interested when I told her afterwards. She is bearing up wonderfully well, Trent; she has remarkable fortitude of character. She said she remembered reading your articles about the Abinger case. She has a great horror of the newspaper side of this sad business, and she had entreated me to do anything I could to keep journalists away from the place—I'm sure you can understand her feeling, Trent; it isn't really any reflection on that profession. But she said you appeared to have great powers as a detective, and she would not stand in the way of anything that might clear up the crime. Then I told her you were a personal friend of mine, and gave you a good character for tact and consideration of others' feelings; and it ended in her saying that, if you should come, she would like you to be helped in every way." Trent leaned across the table and shook Mr. Cupples by the hand in silence. Mr. Cupples, much delighted with the way things were turning out, resumed: "I spoke to my niece on the telephone only just now, and she is glad you are here. She asks me to say that you may make any enquiries you like, and she puts the house and grounds at your disposal. She had rather not see you herself; she is keeping to her own sitting-room. She has already been interviewed by a detective officer who is there, and she feels unequal to any more. She adds that she does not believe she could say anything that would be of the smallest use. The two secretaries and Martin, the butler (who is a most intelligent man), could tell you all you want to know, she thinks." Trent finished his breakfast with a thoughtful brow. He filled a pipe slowly, and seated himself on the rail of the veranda. "Cupples," he said quietly, "is there anything about this business that you know and would rather not tell me?" Mr. Cupples gave a slight start, and turned an astonished gaze on the questioner. "What do you mean?" he said. "I mean about the Mandersons. Look here! Shall I tell you a thing that strikes me about this affair at the very beginning? Here's a man suddenly and violently killed, and nobody's heart seems to be broken about it, to say the least. The manager of this hotel spoke to me about him as coolly as if he'd never set eyes on him, though I understand they've been neighbours every summer for some years. Then you talk about the thing in the coldest of blood. And Mrs. Manderson—well, you won't mind my saying that I have heard of women being more cut up about their husbands being murdered than she seems to be. Is there something in this, Cupples, or is it my fancy? Was there something queer about Manderson? I travelled on the same boat with him once, but never spoke to him. I only know his public character, which was repulsive enough. You see, this may have a bearing on the case; that's the only reason why I ask." Mr. Cupples took time for thought. He fingered his sparse beard and looked out over the sea. At last he turned to Trent. "I see no reason," he said, "why I shouldn't tell you as between ourselves, my dear fellow. I need not say that this must not be referred to, however distantly. The truth is that nobody really liked Manderson; and I think those who were nearest to him liked him least." "Why?" the other interjected. "Most people found a difficulty in explaining why. In trying to account to myself for my own sensations, I could only put it that one felt in the man a complete absence of the sympathetic faculty. There was nothing outwardly repellent about him. He was not ill-mannered, or vicious, or dull—indeed, he could be remarkably interesting. But I received the impression that there could be no human creature whom he would not sacrifice in the pursuit of his schemes, in his task of imposing himself and his will upon the world. Perhaps that was fanciful, but I think not altogether so. However, the point is that Mabel, I am sorry to say, was very unhappy. I am nearly twice your age, my dear boy, though you always so kindly try to make me feel as if we were contemporaries—I am getting to be an old man, and a great many people have been good enough to confide their matrimonial troubles to me; but I never knew another case like my niece's and her husband's. I have known her since she was a baby, Trent, and I know—you understand, I think, that I do not employ that word lightly—I _know_ that she is as amiable and honourable a woman, to say nothing of her other good gifts, as any man could wish. But Manderson, for some time past, had made her miserable." "What did he do?" asked Trent, as Mr. Cupples paused. "When I put that question to Mabel, her words were that he seemed to nurse a perpetual grievance. He maintained a distance between them, and he would say nothing. I don't know how it began or what was behind it; and all she would tell me on that point was that he had no cause in the world for his attitude. I think she knew what was in his mind, whatever it was; but she is full of pride. This seems to have gone on for months. At last, a week ago, she wrote to me. I am the only near relative she has. Her mother died when she was a child; and after John Peter died I was something like a father to her until she married—that was five years ago. She asked me to come and help her, and I came at once. That is why I am here now." Mr. Cupples paused and drank some tea. Trent smoked and stared out at the hot June landscape. "I would not go to White Gables," Mr. Cupples resumed. "You know my views, I think, upon the economic constitution of society, and the proper relationship of the capitalist to the employee, and you know, no doubt, what use that person made of his vast industrial power upon several very notorious occasions. I refer especially to the trouble in the Pennsylvania coal-fields, three years ago. I regarded him, apart from an all personal dislike, in the light of a criminal and a disgrace to society. I came to this hotel, and I saw my niece here. She told me what I have more briefly told you. She said that the worry and the humiliation of it, and the strain of trying to keep up appearances before the world, were telling upon her, and she asked for my advice. I said I thought she should face him and demand an explanation of his way of treating her. But she would not do that. She had always taken the line of affecting not to notice the change in his demeanour, and nothing, I knew, would persuade her to admit to him that she was injured, once pride had led her into that course. Life is quite full, my dear Trent," said Mr. Cupples with a sigh, "of these obstinate silences and cultivated misunderstandings." "Did she love him?" Trent enquired abruptly. Mr. Cupples did not reply at once. "Had she any love left for him?" Trent amended. Mr. Cupples played with his teaspoon. "I am bound to say," he answered slowly, "that I think not. But you must not misunderstand the woman, Trent. No power on earth would have persuaded her to admit that to any one—even to herself, perhaps—so long as she considered herself bound to him. And I gather that, apart from this mysterious sulking of late, he had always been considerate and generous." "You were saying that she refused to have it out with him." "She did," replied Mr. Cupples. "And I knew by experience that it was quite useless to attempt to move a Domecq where the sense of dignity was involved. So I thought it over carefully, and next day I watched my opportunity and met Manderson as he passed by this hotel. I asked him to favour me with a few minutes' conversation, and he stepped inside the gate down there. We had held no communication of any kind since my niece's marriage, but he remembered me, of course. I put the matter to him at once and quite definitely. I told him what Mabel had confided to me. I said that I would neither approve nor condemn her action in bringing me into the business, but that she was suffering, and I considered it my right to ask how he could justify himself in placing her in such a position." "And how did he take that?" said Trent, smiling secretly at the landscape. The picture of this mildest of men calling the formidable Manderson to account pleased him. "Not very well," Mr. Cupples replied sadly. "In fact, far from well. I can tell you almost exactly what he said—it wasn't much. He said, ‘See here, Cupples, you don't want to butt in. My wife can look after herself. I've found that out, along with other things.' He was perfectly quiet—you know he was said never to lose control of himself—though there was a light in his eyes that would have frightened a man who was in the wrong, I dare say. But I had been thoroughly roused by his last remark, and the tone of it, which I cannot reproduce. You see," said Mr. Cupples simply, "I love my niece. She is the only child that there has been in our—in my house. Moreover, my wife brought her up as a girl, and any reflection on Mabel I could not help feeling, in the heat of the moment, as an indirect reflection upon one who is gone." "You turned upon him," suggested Trent in a low tone. "You asked him to explain his words." "That is precisely what I did," said Mr. Cupples. "For a moment he only stared at me, and I could see a vein on his forehead swelling—an unpleasant sight. Then he said quite quietly, ‘This thing has gone far enough, I guess,' and turned to go." "Did he mean your interview?" Trent asked thoughtfully. "From the words alone you would think so," Mr. Cupples answered. "But the way in which he uttered them gave me a strange and very apprehensive feeling. I received the impression that the man had formed some sinister resolve. But I regret to say I had lost the power of dispassionate thought. I fell into a great rage"—Mr. Cupples's tone was mildly apologetic—"and said a number of foolish things. I reminded him that the law allowed a measure of freedom to wives who received intolerable treatment. I made some utterly irrelevant references to his public record, and expressed the view that such men as he were unfit to live. I said these things, and others as ill-considered, under the eyes, and very possibly within earshot, of half a dozen persons sitting on this veranda. I noticed them, in spite of my agitation, looking at me as I walked up to the hotel again after relieving my mind for it undoubtedly did relieve it," sighed Mr. Cupples, lying back in his chair. "And Manderson? Did he say no more?" "Not a word. He listened to me with his eyes on my face, as quiet as before. When I stopped he smiled very slightly, and at once turned away and strolled through the gate, making for White Gables." "And this happened—?" "On the Sunday morning." "Then I suppose you never saw him alive again?" "No," said Mr. Cupples. "Or rather yes—once. It was later in the day, on the golf-course. But I did not speak to him. And next morning he was found dead." The two regarded each other in silence for a few moments. A party of guests who had been bathing came up the steps and seated themselves, with much chattering, at a table near them. The waiter approached. Mr. Cupples rose, and, taking Trent's arm, led him to a long tennis-lawn at the side of the hotel. "I have a reason for telling you all this," began Mr. Cupples as they paced slowly up and down. "Trust you for that," rejoined Trent, carefully filling his pipe again. He lit it, smoked a little, and then said, "I'll try and guess what your reason is, if you like." Mr. Cupples's face of solemnity relaxed into a slight smile. He said nothing. "You thought it possible," said Trent meditatively—"may I say you thought it practically certain?—that I should find out for myself that there had been something deeper than a mere conjugal tiff between the Mandersons. You thought that my unwholesome imagination would begin at once to play with the idea of Mrs. Manderson having something to do with the crime. Rather than that I should lose myself in barren speculations about this, you decided to tell me exactly how matters stood, and incidentally to impress upon me, who know how excellent your judgement is, your opinion of your niece. Is that about right?" "It is perfectly right. Listen to me, my dear fellow," said Mr. Cupples earnestly, laying his hand on the other's arm. "I am going to be very frank. I am extremely glad that Manderson is dead. I believe him to have done nothing but harm in the world as an economic factor. I know that he was making a desert of the life of one who was like my own child to me. But I am under an intolerable dread of Mabel being involved in suspicion with regard to the murder. It is horrible to me to think of her delicacy and goodness being in contact, if only for a time, with the brutalities of the law. She is not fitted for it. It would mark her deeply. Many young women of twenty-six in these days could face such an ordeal, I suppose. I have observed a sort of imitative hardness about the products of the higher education of women today which would carry them through anything, perhaps. "I am not prepared to say it is a bad thing in the conditions of feminine life prevailing at present. Mabel, however, is not like that. She is as unlike that as she is unlike the simpering misses that used to surround me as a child. She has plenty of brains; she is full of character; her mind and her tastes are cultivated; but it is all mixed up"—Mr. Cupples waved his hands in a vague gesture—"with ideals of refinement and reservation and womanly mystery. I fear she is not a child of the age. You never knew my wife, Trent. Mabel is my wife's child." The younger man bowed his head. They paced the length of the lawn before he asked gently, "Why did she marry him?" "I don't know," said Mr. Cupples briefly. "Admired him, I suppose," suggested Trent. Mr. Cupples shrugged his shoulders. "I have been told that a woman will usually be more or less attracted by the most successful man in her circle. Of course we cannot realize how a wilful, dominating personality like his would influence a girl whose affections were not bestowed elsewhere; especially if he laid himself out to win her. It is probably an overwhelming thing to be courted by a man whose name is known all over the world. She had heard of him, of course, as a financial great power, and she had no idea—she had lived mostly among people of artistic or literary propensities—how much soulless inhumanity that might involve. For all I know, she has no adequate idea of it to this day. When I first heard of the affair the mischief was done, and I knew better than to interpose my unsought opinions. She was of age, and there was absolutely nothing against him from the conventional point of view. Then I dare say his immense wealth would cast a spell over almost any woman. Mabel had some hundreds a year of her own; just enough, perhaps, to let her realize what millions really meant. But all this is conjecture. She certainly had not wanted to marry some scores of young fellows who to my knowledge had asked her; and though I don't believe, and never did believe, that she really loved this man of forty-five, she certainly did want to marry him. But if you ask me why, I can only say I don't know." Trent nodded, and after a few more paces looked at his watch. "You've interested me so much," he said, "that I had quite forgotten my main business. I mustn't waste my morning. I am going down the road to White Gables at once, and I dare say I shall be poking about there until midday. If you can meet me then, Cupples, I should like to talk over anything I find out with you, unless something detains me." "I am going for a walk this morning," Mr. Cupples replied. "I meant to have luncheon at a little inn near the golf-course, The Three Tuns. You had better join me there. It's further along the road, about a quarter of a mile beyond White Gables. You can just see the roof between those two trees. The food they give one there is very plain, but good." "So long as they have a cask of beer," said Trent, "they are all right. We will have bread and cheese, and oh, may Heaven our simple lives prevent from luxury's contagion, weak and vile! Till then, goodbye." He strode off to recover his hat from the veranda, waved it to Mr. Cupples, and was gone. The old gentleman, seating himself in a deck-chair on the lawn, clasped his hands behind his head and gazed up into the speckless blue sky. "He is a dear fellow," he murmured. "The best of fellows. And a terribly acute fellow. Dear me! How curious it all is!" # Chapter IV. Handcuffs in the Air A painter and the son of a painter, Philip Trent had while yet in his twenties achieved some reputation within the world of English art. Moreover, his pictures sold. An original, forcible talent and a habit of leisurely but continuous working, broken by fits of strong creative enthusiasm, were at the bottom of it. His father's name had helped; a patrimony large enough to relieve him of the perilous imputation of being a struggling man had certainly not hindered. But his best aid to success had been an unconscious power of getting himself liked. Good spirits and a lively, humorous fancy will always be popular. Trent joined to these a genuine interest in others that gained him something deeper than popularity. His judgement of persons was penetrating, but its process was internal; no one felt on good behaviour with a man who seemed always to be enjoying himself. Whether he was in a mood for floods of nonsense or applying himself vigorously to a task, his face seldom lost its expression of contained vivacity. Apart from a sound knowledge of his art and its history, his culture was large and loose, dominated by a love of poetry. At thirty-two he had not yet passed the age of laughter and adventure. His rise to a celebrity a hundred times greater than his proper work had won for him came of a momentary impulse. One day he had taken up a newspaper to find it chiefly concerned with a crime of a sort curiously rare in our country—a murder done in a railway train. The circumstances were puzzling; two persons were under arrest upon suspicion. Trent, to whom an interest in such affairs was a new sensation, heard the thing discussed among his friends, and set himself in a purposeless mood to read up the accounts given in several journals. He became intrigued; his imagination began to work, in a manner strange to him, upon facts; an excitement took hold of him such as he had only known before in his bursts of art-inspiration or of personal adventure. At the end of the day he wrote and dispatched a long letter to the editor of the _Record_, which he chose only because it had contained the fullest and most intelligent version of the facts. In this letter he did very much what Poe had done in the case of the murder of Mary Rogers. With nothing but the newspapers to guide him, he drew attention to the significance of certain apparently negligible facts, and ranged the evidence in such a manner as to throw grave suspicion upon a man who had presented himself as a witness. Sir James Molloy had printed this letter in leaded type. The same evening he was able to announce in the Sun the arrest and full confession of the incriminated man. Sir James, who knew all the worlds of London, had lost no time in making Trent's acquaintance. The two men got on well, for Trent possessed some secret of native tact which had the effect of almost abolishing differences of age between himself and others. The great rotary presses in the basement of the _Record_ building had filled him with a new enthusiasm. He had painted there, and Sir James had bought at sight, what he called a machinery-scape in the manner of Heinrich Kley. Then a few months later came the affair known as the Ilkley mystery. Sir James had invited Trent to an emollient dinner, and thereafter offered him what seemed to the young man a fantastically large sum for his temporary services as special representative of the _Record_ at Ilkley. "You could do it," the editor had urged. "You can write good stuff, and you know how to talk to people, and I can teach you all the technicalities of a reporter's job in half an hour. And you have a head for a mystery; you have imagination and cool judgement along with it. Think how it would feel if you pulled it off!" Trent had admitted that it would be rather a lark. He had smoked, frowned, and at last convinced himself that the only thing that held him back was fear of an unfamiliar task. To react against fear had become a fixed moral habit with him, and he had accepted Sir James's offer. He had pulled it off. For the second time he had given the authorities a start and a beating, and his name was on all tongues. He withdrew and painted pictures. He felt no leaning towards journalism, and Sir James, who knew a good deal about art, honourably refrained—as other editors did not—from tempting him with a good salary. But in the course of a few years he had applied to him perhaps thirty times for his services in the unravelling of similar problems at home and abroad. Sometimes Trent, busy with work that held him, had refused; sometimes he had been forestalled in the discovery of the truth. But the result of his irregular connection with the _Record_ had been to make his name one of the best known in England. It was characteristic of him that his name was almost the only detail of his personality known to the public. He had imposed absolute silence about himself upon the Molloy papers; and the others were not going to advertise one of Sir James's men. The Manderson case, he told himself as he walked rapidly up the sloping road to White Gables, might turn out to be terribly simple. Cupples was a wise old boy, but it was probably impossible for him to have an impartial opinion about his niece. But it was true that the manager of the hotel, who had spoken of her beauty in terms that aroused his attention, had spoken even more emphatically of her goodness. Not an artist in words, the manager had yet conveyed a very definite idea to Trent's mind. "There isn't a child about here that don't brighten up at the sound of her voice," he had said, "nor yet a grown-up, for the matter of that. Everybody used to look forward to her coming over in the summer. I don't mean that she's one of those women that are all kind heart and nothing else. There's backbone with it, if you know what I mean—pluck— any amount of go. There's nobody in Marlstone that isn't sorry for the lady in her trouble—not but what some of us may think she's lucky at the last of it." Trent wanted very much to meet Mrs. Manderson. He could see now, beyond a spacious lawn and shrubbery, the front of the two-storied house of dull-red brick, with the pair of great gables from which it had its name. He had had but a glimpse of it from the car that morning. A modern house, he saw; perhaps ten years old. The place was beautifully kept, with that air of opulent peace that clothes even the smallest houses of the well-to-do in an English countryside. Before it, beyond the road, the rich meadow-land ran down to the edge of the cliffs; behind it a woody landscape stretched away across a broad vale to the moors. That such a place could be the scene of a crime of violence seemed fantastic; it lay so quiet and well ordered, so eloquent of disciplined service and gentle living. Yet there beyond the house, and near the hedge that rose between the garden and the hot, white road, stood the gardener's toolshed, by which the body had been found, lying tumbled against the wooden wall, Trent walked past the gate of the drive and along the road until he was opposite this shed. Some forty yards further along the road turned sharply away from the house, to run between thick plantations; and just before the turn the grounds of the house ended, with a small white gate at the angle of the boundary hedge. He approached the gate, which was plainly for the use of gardeners and the service of the establishment. It swung easily on its hinges, and he passed slowly up a path that led towards the back of the house, between the outer hedge and a tall wall of rhododendrons. Through a gap in this wall a track led him to the little neatly built erection of wood, which stood among trees that faced a corner of the front. The body had lain on the side away from the house; a servant, he thought, looking out of the nearer windows in the earlier hours of the day before, might have glanced unseeing at the hut, as she wondered what it could be like to be as rich as the master. He examined the place carefully and ransacked the hut within, but he could note no more than the trodden appearance of the uncut grass where the body had lain. Crouching low, with keen eyes and feeling fingers, he searched the ground minutely over a wide area; but the search was fruitless. It was interrupted by the sound—the first he had heard from the house—of the closing of the front door. Trent unbent his long legs and stepped to the edge of the drive. A man was walking quickly away from the house in the direction of the great gate. At the noise of a footstep on the gravel, the man wheeled with nervous swiftness and looked earnestly at Trent. The sudden sight of his face was almost terrible, so white and worn it was. Yet it was a young man's face. There was not a wrinkle about the haggard blue eyes, for all their tale of strain and desperate fatigue. As the two approached each other, Trent noted with admiration the man's breadth of shoulder and lithe, strong figure. In his carriage, inelastic as weariness had made it; in his handsome, regular features; in his short, smooth, yellow hair; and in his voice as he addressed Trent, the influence of a special sort of training was confessed. "Oxford was your playground, I think, my young friend," said Trent to himself. "If you are Mr. Trent," said the young man pleasantly, "you are expected. Mr. Cupples telephoned from the hotel. My name is Marlowe." "You were secretary to Mr. Manderson, I believe," said Trent. He was much inclined to like young Mr. Marlowe. Though he seemed so near a physical breakdown, he gave out none the less that air of clean living and inward health that is the peculiar glory of his social type at his years. But there was something in the tired eyes that was a challenge to Trent's penetration; an habitual expression, as he took it to be, of meditating and weighing things not present to their sight. It was a look too intelligent, too steady and purposeful, to be called dreamy. Trent thought he had seen such a look before somewhere. He went on to say: "It is a terrible business for all of you. I fear it has upset you completely, Mr. Marlowe." "A little limp, that's all," replied the young man wearily. "I was driving the car all Sunday night and most of yesterday, and I didn't sleep last night after hearing the news—who would? But I have an appointment now, Mr. Trent, down at the doctor's—arranging about the inquest. I expect it'll be tomorrow. If you will go up to the house and ask for Mr. Bunner, you'll find him expecting you; he will tell you all about things and show you round. He's the other secretary; an American, and the best of fellows; he'll look after you. There's a detective here, by the way—Inspector Murch, from Scotland Yard. He came yesterday." "Murch!" Trent exclaimed. "But he and I are old friends. How under the sun did he get here so soon?" "I have no idea," Mr. Marlowe answered. "But he was here last evening, before I got back from Southampton, interviewing everybody, and he's been about here since eight this morning. He's in the library now—that's where the open French window is that you see at the end of the house there. Perhaps you would like to step down there and talk about things." "I think I will," said Trent. Marlowe nodded and went on his way. The thick turf of the lawn round which the drive took its circular sweep made Trent's footsteps as noiseless as a cat's. In a few moments he was looking in through the open leaves of the window at the southward end of the house, considering with a smile a very broad back and a bent head covered with short grizzled hair. The man within was stooping over a number of papers laid out on the table. "'Twas ever thus," said Trent in a melancholy tone, at the first sound of which the man within turned round with startling swiftness. "From childhood's hour I've seen my fondest hopes decay. I did think I was ahead of Scotland Yard this time, and now here is the hugest officer in the entire Metropolitan force already occupying the position." The detective smiled grimly and came to the window. "I was expecting you, Mr. Trent," he said. "This is the sort of case that you like." "Since my tastes were being considered," Trent replied, stepping into the room, "I wish they had followed up the idea by keeping my hated rival out of the business. You have got a long start, too—I know all about it." His eyes began to wander round the room. "How did you manage it? You are a quick mover, I know; the dun deer's hide on fleeter foot was never tied; but I don't see how you got here in time to be at work yesterday evening. Has Scotland Yard secretly started an aviation corps? Or is it in league with the infernal powers? In either case the Home Secretary should be called upon to make a statement." "It's simpler than that," said Mr. Murch with professional stolidity. "I happened to be on leave with the missus at Havley, which is only twelve miles or so along the coast. As soon as our people there heard of the murder they told me. I wired to the Chief, and was put in charge of the case at once. I bicycled over yesterday evening, and have been at it since then." "Arising out of that reply," said Trent inattentively, "how is Mrs. Inspector Murch?" "Never better, thank you," answered the inspector, "and frequently speaks of you and the games you used to have with our kids. But you'll excuse me saying, Mr. Trent, that you needn't trouble to talk your nonsense to me while you're using your eyes. I know your ways by now. I understand you've fallen on your feet as usual, and have the lady's permission to go over the place and make enquiries." "Such is the fact," said Trent. "I am going to cut you out again, inspector. I owe you one for beating me over the Abinger case, you old fox. But if you really mean that you're not inclined for the social amenities just now, let us leave compliments and talk business." He stepped to the table, glanced through the papers arranged there in order, and then turned to the open roll-top desk. He looked into the drawers swiftly. "I see this has been cleared out. Well now, inspector, I suppose we play the game as before." Trent had found himself on a number of occasions in the past thrown into the company of Inspector Murch, who stood high in the councils of the Criminal Investigation Department. He was a quiet, tactful, and very shrewd officer, a man of great courage, with a vivid history in connection with the more dangerous class of criminals. His humanity was as broad as his frame, which was large even for a policeman. Trent and he, through some obscure working of sympathy, had appreciated one another from the beginning, and had formed one of those curious friendships with which it was the younger man's delight to adorn his experience. The inspector would talk more freely to him than to any one, under the rose, and they would discuss details and possibilities of every case, to their mutual enlightenment. There were necessarily rules and limits. It was understood between them that Trent made no journalistic use of any point that could only have come to him from an official source. Each of them, moreover, for the honour and prestige of the institution he represented, openly reserved the right to withhold from the other any discovery or inspiration that might come to him which he considered vital to the solution of the difficulty. Trent had insisted on carefully formulating these principles of what he called detective sportsmanship. Mr. Murch, who loved a contest, and who only stood to gain by his association with the keen intelligence of the other, entered very heartily into "the game". In these strivings for the credit of the press and of the police, victory sometimes attended the experience and method of the officer, sometimes the quicker brain and livelier imagination of Trent, his gift of instinctively recognizing the significant through all disguises. The inspector then replied to Trent's last words with cordial agreement. Leaning on either side of the French window, with the deep peace and hazy splendor of the summer landscape before them, they reviewed the case. Trent had taken out a thin notebook, and as they talked he began to make, with light, secure touches, a rough sketch plan of the room. It was a thing he did habitually on such occasions, and often quite idly, but now and then the habit had served him to good purpose. This was a large, light apartment at the corner of the house, with generous window-space in two walls. A broad table stood in the middle. As one entered by the window the roll-top desk stood just to the left of it against the wall. The inner door was in the wall to the left, at the farther end of the room; and was faced by a broad window divided into openings of the casement type. A beautifully carved old corner-cupboard rose high against the wall beyond the door, and another cupboard filled a recess beside the fireplace. Some coloured prints of Harunobu, with which Trent promised himself a better acquaintance, hung on what little wall-space was unoccupied by books. These had a very uninspiring appearance of having been bought by the yard and never taken from their shelves. Bound with a sober luxury, the great English novelists, essayists, historians, and poets stood ranged like an army struck dead in its ranks. There were a few chairs made, like the cupboard and table, of old carved oak; a modern armchair and a swivel office-chair before the desk. The room looked costly but very bare. Almost the only portable objects were a great porcelain bowl of a wonderful blue on the table, a clock and some cigar boxes on the mantelshelf, and a movable telephone standard on the top of the desk. "Seen the body?" enquired the inspector. Trent nodded. "And the place where it lay," he said. "First impressions of this case rather puzzle me," said the inspector. "From what I heard at Halvey I guessed it might be common robbery and murder by some tramp, though such a thing is very far from common in these parts. But as soon as I began my enquiries I came on some curious points, which by this time I dare say you've noted for yourself. The man is shot in his own grounds, quite near the house, to begin with. Yet there's not the slightest trace of any attempt at burglary. And the body wasn't robbed. In fact, it would be as plain a case of suicide as you could wish to see, if it wasn't for certain facts. Here's another thing: for a month or so past, they tell me, Manderson had been in a queer state of mind. I expect you know already that he and his wife had some trouble between them. The servants had noticed a change in his manner to her for a long time, and for the past week he had scarcely spoken to her. They say he was a changed man, moody and silent—whether on account of that or something else. The lady's maid says he looked as if something was going to arrive. It's always easy to remember that people looked like that, after something has happened to them. Still, that's what they say. There you are again, then: suicide! Now, why wasn't it suicide, Mr. Trent?" "The facts so far as I know them are really all against it," Trent replied, sitting on the threshold of the window and clasping his knees. "First, of course, no weapon is to be found. I've searched, and you've searched, and there's no trace of any firearm anywhere within a stone's throw of where the body lay. Second, the marks on the wrists, fresh scratches and bruises, which we can only assume to have been done in a struggle with somebody. Third, who ever heard of anybody shooting himself in the eye? Then I heard from the manager of the hotel here another fact, which strikes me as the most curious detail in this affair. Manderson had dressed himself fully before going out there, but he forgot his false teeth. Now how could a suicide who dressed himself to make a decent appearance as a corpse forget his teeth?" "That last argument hadn't struck me," admitted Mr. Murch. "There's something in it. But on the strength of the other points, which had occurred to me, I am not considering suicide. I have been looking about for ideas in this house, this morning. I expect you were thinking of doing the same." "That is so. It is a case for ideas, it seems to me. Come, Murch, let us make an effort; let us bend our spirits to a temper of general suspicion. Let us suspect everybody in the house, to begin with. Listen: I will tell you whom I suspect. I suspect Mrs. Manderson, of course. I also suspect both the secretaries—I hear there are two, and I hardly know which of them I regard as more thoroughly open to suspicion. I suspect the butler and the lady's maid. I suspect the other domestics, and especially do I suspect the boot-boy. By the way, what domestics are there? I have more than enough suspicion to go round, whatever the size of the establishment; but as a matter of curiosity I should like to know." "All very well to laugh," replied the inspector, "but at the first stage of affairs it's the only safe principle, and you know that as well as I do, Mr. Trent. However, I've seen enough of the people here, last night and today, to put a few of them out of my mind for the present at least. You will form your own conclusions. As for the establishment, there's the butler and lady's maid, cook, and three other maids, one a young girl. One chauffeur, who's away with a broken wrist. No boy." "What about the gardener? You say nothing about that shadowy and sinister figure, the gardener. You are keeping him in the background, Murch. Play the game. Out with him—or I report you to the Rules Committee." "The garden is attended to by a man in the village, who comes twice a week. I've talked to him. He was here last on Friday." "Then I suspect him all the more," said Trent. "And now as to the house itself. What I propose to do, to begin with, is to sniff about a little in this room, where I am told Manderson spent a great deal of his time, and in his bedroom; especially the bedroom. But since we're in this room, let's start here. You seem to be at the same stage of the inquiry. Perhaps you've done the bedrooms already?" The inspector nodded. "I've been over Manderson's and his wife's. Nothing to be got there, I think. His room is very simple and bare, no signs of any sort—that _I_ could see. Seems to have insisted on the simple life, does Manderson. Never employed a valet. The room's almost like a cell, except for the clothes and shoes. You'll find it all exactly as I found it; and they tell me that's exactly as Manderson left it, at we don't know what o'clock yesterday morning. Opens into Mrs. Manderson's bedroom—not much of the cell about that, I can tell you. I should say the lady was as fond of pretty things as most. But she cleared out of it on the morning of the discovery—told the maid she could never sleep in a room opening into her murdered husband's room. Very natural feeling in a woman, Mr. Trent. She's camping out, so to say, in one of the spare bedrooms now." "Come, my friend," Trent was saying to himself, as he made a few notes in his little book. "Have you got your eye on Mrs. Manderson? Or haven't you? I know that colourless tone of the inspectorial voice. I wish I had seen her. Either you've got something against her and you don't want me to get hold of it; or else you've made up your mind she's innocent, but have no objection to my wasting my time over her. Well, it's all in the game; which begins to look extremely interesting as we go on." To Mr. Murch he said aloud: "Well, I'll draw the bedroom later on. What about this?" "They call it the library," said the inspector. "Manderson used to do his writing and that in here; passed most of the time he spent indoors here. Since he and his wife ceased to hit it off together, he had taken to spending his evenings alone, and when at this house he always spent 'em in here. He was last seen alive, as far as the servants are concerned, in this room." Trent rose and glanced again through the papers set out on the table. "Business letters and documents, mostly," said Mr. Murch. "Reports, prospectuses, and that. A few letters on private matters, nothing in them that I can see. The American secretary—Bunner his name is, and a queerer card I never saw turned—he's been through this desk with me this morning. He had got it into his head that Manderson had been receiving threatening letters, and that the murder was the outcome of that. But there's no trace of any such thing; and we looked at every blessed paper. The only unusual things we found were some packets of banknotes to a considerable amount, and a couple of little bags of unset diamonds. I asked Mr. Bunner to put them in a safer place. It appears that Manderson had begun buying diamonds lately as a speculation—it was a new game to him, the secretary said, and it seemed to amuse him." "What about these secretaries?" Trent enquired. "I met one called Marlowe just now outside; a nice-looking chap with singular eyes, unquestionably English. The other, it seems, is an American. What did Manderson want with an English secretary?" "Mr. Marlowe explained to me how that was. The American was his right-hand business man, one of his office staff, who never left him. Mr. Marlowe had nothing to do with Manderson's business as a financier, knew nothing of it. His job was to look after Manderson's horses and motors and yacht and sporting arrangements and that—make himself generally useful, as you might say. He had the spending of a lot of money, I should think. The other was confined entirely to the office affairs, and I dare say he had his hands full. As for his being English, it was just a fad of Manderson's to have an English secretary. He'd had several before Mr. Marlowe." "He showed his taste," observed Trent. "It might be more than interesting, don't you think, to be minister to the pleasures of a modern plutocrat with a large P. Only they say that Manderson's were exclusively of an innocent kind. Certainly Marlowe gives me the impression that he would be weak in the part of Petronius. But to return to the matter in hand." He looked at his notes. "You said just now that he was last seen alive here, ‘so far as the servants were concerned'. That meant—?" "He had a conversation with his wife on going to bed. But for that, the manservant, Martin by name, last saw him in this room. I had his story last night, and very glad he was to tell it. An affair like this is meat and drink to the servants of the house." Trent considered for some moments, gazing through the open window over the sun-flooded slopes. "Would it bore you to hear what he has to say again?" he asked at length. For reply, Mr. Murch rang the bell. A spare, clean-shaven, middle-aged man, having the servant's manner in its most distinguished form, answered it. "This is Mr. Trent, who is authorized by Mrs. Manderson to go over the house and make enquiries," explained the detective. "He would like to hear your story." Martin bowed distantly. He recognized Trent for a gentleman. Time would show whether he was what Martin called a gentleman in every sense of the word. "I observed you approaching the house, sir," said Martin with impassive courtesy. He spoke with a slow and measured utterance. "My instructions are to assist you in every possible way. Should you wish me to recall the circumstances of Sunday night?" "Please," said Trent with ponderous gravity. Martin's style was making clamorous appeal to his sense of comedy. He banished with an effort all vivacity of expression from his face. "I last saw Mr. Manderson—" "No, not that yet," Trent checked him quietly. "Tell me all you saw of him that evening—after dinner, say. Try to recollect every little detail." "After dinner, sir?—yes. I remember that after dinner Mr. Manderson and Mr. Marlowe walked up and down the path through the orchard, talking. If you ask me for details, it struck me they were talking about something important, because I heard Mr. Manderson say something when they came in through the back entrance. He said, as near as I can remember, ‘If Harris is there, every minute is of importance. You want to start right away. And not a word to a soul.' Mr. Marlowe answered, ‘Very well. I will just change out of these clothes and then I am ready'—or words to that effect. I heard this plainly as they passed the window of my pantry. Then Mr. Marlowe went up to his bedroom, and Mr. Manderson entered the library and rang for me. He handed me some letters for the postman in the morning and directed me to sit up, as Mr. Marlowe had persuaded him to go for a drive in the car by moonlight." "That was curious," remarked Trent. "I thought so, sir. But I recollected what I had heard about ‘not a word to a soul', and I concluded that this about a moonlight drive was intended to mislead." "What time was this?" "It would be about ten, sir, I should say. After speaking to me, Mr. Manderson waited until Mr. Marlowe had come down and brought round the car. He then went into the drawing-room, where Mrs. Manderson was." "Did that strike you as curious?" Martin looked down his nose. "If you ask me the question, sir," he said with reserve, "I had not known him enter that room since we came here this year. He preferred to sit in the library in the evenings. That evening he only remained with Mrs. Manderson for a few minutes. Then he and Mr. Marlowe started immediately." "You saw them start?" "Yes, sir. They took the direction of Bishopsbridge." "And you saw Mr. Manderson again later?" "After an hour or thereabouts, sir, in the library. That would have been about a quarter past eleven, I should say; I had noticed eleven striking from the church. I may say I am peculiarly quick of hearing, sir." "Mr. Manderson had rung the bell for you, I suppose. Yes? And what passed when you answered it?" "Mr. Manderson had put out the decanter of whisky and a syphon and glass, sir, from the cupboard where he kept them—" Trent held up his hand. "While we are on that point, Martin, I want to ask you plainly, did Mr. Manderson drink very much? You understand this is not impertinent curiosity on my part. I want you to tell me, because it may possibly help in the clearing up of this case." "Perfectly, sir," replied Martin gravely. "I have no hesitation in telling you what I have already told the inspector. Mr. Manderson was, considering his position in life, a remarkably abstemious man. In my four years of service with him I never knew anything of an alcoholic nature pass his lips, except a glass or two of wine at dinner, very rarely a little at luncheon, and from time to time a whisky and soda before going to bed. He never seemed to form a habit of it. Often I used to find his glass in the morning with only a little soda water in it; sometimes he would have been having whisky with it, but never much. He never was particular about his drinks; ordinary soda was what he preferred, though I had ventured to suggest some of the natural minerals, having personally acquired a taste for them in my previous service. He used to keep them in the cupboard here, because he had a great dislike of being waited on more than was necessary. It was an understood thing that I never came near him after dinner unless sent for. And when he sent for anything, he liked it brought quick, and to be left alone again at once. He hated to be asked if he required anything more. Amazingly simple in his tastes, sir, Mr. Manderson was." "Very well; and he rang for you that night about a quarter past eleven. Now can you remember exactly what he said?" "I think I can tell you with some approach to accuracy, sir. It was not much. First he asked me if Mr. Bunner had gone to bed, and I replied that he had been gone up some time. He then said that he wanted some one to sit up until 12.30, in case an important message should come by telephone, and that Mr. Marlowe having gone to Southampton for him in the motor, he wished me to do this, and that I was to take down the message if it came, and not disturb him. He also ordered a fresh syphon of soda water. I believe that was all, sir." "You noticed nothing unusual about him, I suppose?" "No, sir, nothing unusual. When I answered the ring, he was seated at the desk listening at the telephone, waiting for a number, as I supposed. He gave his orders and went on listening at the same time. "When I returned with the syphon he was engaged in conversation over the wire." "Do you remember anything of what he was saying?" "Very little, sir; it was something about somebody being at some hotel—of no interest to me. I was only in the room just time enough to place the syphon on the table and withdraw. As I closed the door he was saying, ‘You're sure he isn't in the hotel?' or words to that effect." "And that was the last you saw and heard of him alive?" "No, sir. A little later, at half-past eleven, when I had settled down in my pantry with the door ajar, and a book to pass the time, I heard Mr. Manderson go upstairs to bed. I immediately went to close the library window, and slipped the lock of the front door. I did not hear anything more." Trent considered. "I suppose you didn't doze at all," he said tentatively, "while you were sitting up waiting for the telephone message?" "Oh no, sir. I am always very wakeful about that time. I'm a bad sleeper, especially in the neighbourhood of the sea, and I generally read in bed until somewhere about midnight." "And did any message come?" "No, sir." "No. And I suppose you sleep with your window open, these warm nights?" "It is never closed at night, sir." Trent added a last note; then he looked thoughtfully through those he had taken. He rose and paced up and down the room for some moments with a downcast eye. At length he paused opposite Martin. "It all seems perfectly ordinary and simple," he said. "I just want to get a few details clear. You went to shut the windows in the library before going to bed. Which windows?" "The French window, sir. It had been open all day. The windows opposite the door were seldom opened." "And what about the curtains? I am wondering whether any one outside the house could have seen into the room." "Easily, sir, I should say, if he had got into the grounds on that side. The curtains were never drawn in the hot weather. Mr. Manderson would often sit right in the doorway at nights, smoking and looking out into the darkness. But nobody could have seen him who had any business to be there." "I see. And now tell me this. Your hearing is very acute, you say, and you heard Mr. Manderson enter the house when he came in after dinner from the garden. Did you hear him re-enter it after returning from the motor drive?" Martin paused. "Now you mention it, sir, I remember that I did not. His ringing the bell in this room was the first I knew of his being back. I should have heard him come in, if he had come in by the front. I should have heard the door go. But he must have come in by the window." The man reflected for a moment, then added, "As a general rule, Mr. Manderson would come in by the front, hang up his hat and coat in the hall, and pass down the hall into the study. It seems likely to me that he was in a great hurry to use the telephone, and so went straight across the lawn to the window. He was like that, sir, when there was anything important to be done. He had his hat on, now I remember, and had thrown his greatcoat over the end of the table. He gave his order very sharp, too, as he always did when busy. A very precipitate man indeed was Mr. Manderson; a hustler, as they say." "Ah! he appeared to be busy. But didn't you say just now that you noticed nothing unusual about him?" A melancholy smile flitted momentarily over Martin's face. "That observation shows that you did not know Mr. Manderson, sir, if you will pardon my saying so. His being like that was nothing unusual; quite the contrary. It took me long enough to get used to it. Either he would be sitting quite still and smoking a cigar, thinking or reading, or else he would be writing, dictating, and sending off wires all at the same time, till it almost made one dizzy to see it, sometimes for an hour or more at a stretch. As for being in a hurry over a telephone message, I may say it wasn't in him to be anything else." Trent turned to the inspector, who met his eye with a look of answering intelligence. Not sorry to show his understanding of the line of inquiry opened by Trent, Mr. Murch for the first time put a question. "Then you left him telephoning by the open window, with the lights on, and the drinks on the table; is that it?" "That is so, Mr. Murch." The delicacy of the change in Martin's manner when called upon to answer the detective momentarily distracted Trent's appreciative mind. But the big man's next question brought it back to the problem at once. "About those drinks. You say Mr. Manderson often took no whisky before going to bed. Did he have any that night?" "I could not say. The room was put to rights in the morning by one of the maids, and the glass washed, I presume, as usual. I know that the decanter was nearly full that evening. I had refilled it a few days before, and I glanced at it when I brought the fresh syphon, just out of habit, to make sure there was a decent-looking amount." The inspector went to the tall corner-cupboard and opened it. He took out a decanter of cut glass and set it on the table before Martin. "Was it fuller than that?" he asked quietly. "That's how I found it this morning." The decanter was more than half empty. For the first time Martin's self-possession wavered. He took up the decanter quickly, tilted it before his eyes, and then stared amazedly at the others. He said slowly: "There's not much short of half a bottle gone out of this since I last set eyes on it—and that was that Sunday night." "Nobody in the house, I suppose?" suggested Trent discreetly. "Out of the question!" replied Martin briefly; then he added, "I beg pardon, sir, but this is a most extraordinary thing to me. Such a thing never happened in all my experience of Mr. Manderson. As for the women-servants, they never touch anything, I can answer for it; and as for me, when I want a drink I can help myself without going to the decanters." He took up the decanter again and aimlessly renewed his observation of the contents, while the inspector eyed him with a look of serene satisfaction, as a master contemplates his handiwork. Trent turned to a fresh page of his notebook, and tapped it thoughtfully with his pencil. Then he looked up and said, "I suppose Mr. Manderson had dressed for dinner that night?" "Certainly, sir. He had on a suit with a dress-jacket, what he used to refer to as a Tuxedo, which he usually wore when dining at home." "And he was dressed like that when you saw him last?" "All but the jacket, sir. When he spent the evening in the library, as usually happened, he would change it for an old shooting-jacket after dinner, a light-coloured tweed, a little too loud in pattern for English tastes, perhaps. He had it on when I saw him last. It used to hang in this cupboard here"—Martin opened the door of it as he spoke—"along with Mr. Manderson's fishing-rods and such things, so that he could slip it on after dinner without going upstairs." "Leaving the dinner-jacket in the cupboard?" "Yes, sir. The housemaid used to take it upstairs in the morning." "In the morning," Trent repeated slowly. "And now that we are speaking of the morning, will you tell me exactly what you know about that? I understand that Mr. Manderson was not missed until the body was found about ten o'clock." "That is so, sir. Mr. Manderson would never be called, or have anything brought to him in the morning. He occupied a separate bedroom. Usually he would get up about eight and go round to the bathroom, and he would come down some time before nine. But often he would sleep till nine or ten o'clock. Mrs. Manderson was always called at seven. The maid would take in tea to her. Yesterday morning Mrs. Manderson took breakfast about eight in her sitting-room as usual, and every one supposed that Mr. Manderson was still in bed and asleep, when Evans came rushing up to the house with the shocking intelligence." "I see," said Trent. "And now another thing. You say you slipped the lock of the front door before going to bed. Was that all the locking-up you did?" "To the front door, sir, yes; I slipped the lock. No more is considered necessary in these parts. But I had locked both the doors at the back, and seen to the fastenings of all the windows on the ground floor. In the morning everything was as I had left it." "As you had left it. Now here is another point—the last, I think. Were the clothes in which the body was found the clothes that Mr. Manderson would naturally have worn that day?" Martin rubbed his chin. "You remind me how surprised I was when I first set eyes on the body, sir. At first I couldn't make out what was unusual about the clothes, and then I saw what it was. The collar was a shape of collar Mr. Manderson never wore except with evening dress. Then I found that he had put on all the same things that he had worn the night before—large fronted shirt and all—except just the coat and waistcoat and trousers, and the brown shoes, and blue tie. As for the suit, it was one of half a dozen he might have worn. But for him to have simply put on all the rest just because they were there, instead of getting out the kind of shirt and things he always wore by day; well, sir, it was unprecedented. It shows, like some other things, what a hurry he must have been in when getting up." "Of course," said Trent. "Well, I think that's all I wanted to know. You have put everything with admirable clearness, Martin. If we want to ask any more questions later on, I suppose you will be somewhere about." "I shall be at your disposal, sir." Martin bowed, and went out quietly. Trent flung himself into the armchair and exhaled a long breath. "Martin is a great creature," he said. "He is far, far better than a play. There is none like him, none, nor will be when our summers have deceased. Straight, too; not an atom of harm in dear old Martin. Do you know, Murch, you are wrong in suspecting that man." "I never said a word about suspecting him." The inspector was taken aback. "You know, Mr. Trent, he would never have told his story like that if he thought I suspected him." "I dare say he doesn't think so. He is a wonderful creature, a great artist; but, in spite of that, he is not at all a sensitive type. It has never occurred to his mind that you, Murch, could suspect him, Martin, the complete, the accomplished. But I know it. You must understand, inspector, that I have made a special study of the psychology of officers of the law. It is a grossly neglected branch of knowledge. They are far more interesting than criminals, and not nearly so easy. All the time I was questioning him I saw handcuffs in your eye. Your lips were mutely framing the syllables of those tremendous words: ‘It is my duty to tell you that anything you now say will be taken down and used in evidence against you.' Your manner would have deceived most men, but it could not deceive me." Mr. Murch laughed heartily. Trent's nonsense never made any sort of impression on his mind, but he took it as a mark of esteem, which indeed it was; so it never failed to please him. "Well, Mr. Trent," he said, "you're perfectly right. There's no point in denying it, I have got my eye on him. Not that there's anything definite; but you know as well as I do how often servants are mixed up in affairs of this kind, and this man is such a very quiet customer. You remember the case of Lord William Russell's valet, who went in as usual, in the morning, to draw up the blinds in his master's bedroom, as quiet and starchy as you please, a few hours after he had murdered him in his bed. I've talked to all the women of the house, and I don't believe there's a morsel of harm in one of them. But Martin's not so easy set aside. I don't like his manner; I believe he's hiding something. If so, I shall find it out." "Cease!" said Trent. "Drain not to its dregs the urn of bitter prophecy. Let us get back to facts. Have you, as a matter of evidence, anything at all to bring against Martin's story as he has told it to us?" "Nothing whatever at present. As for his suggestion that Manderson came in by way of the window after leaving Marlowe and the car, that's right enough, I should say. I questioned the servant who swept the room next morning, and she tells me there were gravelly marks near the window, on this plain drugget that goes round the carpet. And there's a footprint in this soft new gravel just outside." The inspector took a folding rule from his pocket and with it pointed out the traces. "One of the patent shoes Manderson was wearing that night exactly fits that print; you'll find them," he added, "on the top shelf in the bedroom, near the window end, the only patents in the row. The girl who polished them in the morning picked them out for me." Trent bent down and studied the faint marks keenly. "Good!" he said. "You have covered a lot of ground, Murch, I must say. That was excellent about the whisky; you made your point finely. I felt inclined to shout ‘Encore!' It's a thing that I shall have to think over." "I thought you might have fitted it in already," said Mr. Murch. "Come, Mr. Trent, we're only at the beginning of our enquiries, but what do you say to this for a preliminary theory? There's a plan of burglary, say a couple of men in it and Martin squared. They know where the plate is, and all about the handy little bits of stuff in the drawing-room and elsewhere. They watch the house; see Manderson off to bed; Martin comes to shut the window, and leaves it ajar, accidentally on purpose. They wait till Martin goes to bed at twelve-thirty; then they just walk into the library, and begin to sample the whisky first thing. Now suppose Manderson isn't asleep, and suppose they make a noise opening the window, or however it might be. He hears it; thinks of burglars; gets up very quietly to see if anything's wrong; creeps down on them, perhaps, just as they're getting ready for work. They cut and run; he chases them down to the shed, and collars one; there's a fight; one of them loses his temper and his head, and makes a swinging job of it. Now, Mr. Trent, pick that to pieces." "Very well," said Trent; "just to oblige you, Murch, especially as I know you don't believe a word of it. First: no traces of any kind left by your burglar or burglars, and the window found fastened in the morning, according to Martin. Not much force in that, I allow. Next: nobody in the house hears anything of this stampede through the library, nor hears any shout from Manderson either inside the house or outside. Next: Manderson goes down without a word to anybody, though Bunner and Martin are both at hand. Next: did you ever hear, in your long experience, of a householder getting up in the night to pounce on burglars, who dressed himself fully, with underclothing, shirt; collar and tie, trousers, waistcoat and coat, socks and hard leather shoes; and who gave the finishing touches to a somewhat dandified toilet by doing his hair, and putting on his watch and chain? Personally, I call that over-dressing the part. The only decorative detail he seems to have forgotten is his teeth." The inspector leaned forward thinking, his large hands clasped before him. "No," he said at last. "Of course there's no help in that theory. I rather expect we have some way to go before we find out why a man gets up before the servants are awake, dresses himself awry, and is murdered within sight of his house early enough to be "cold and stiff by ten in the morning." Trent shook his head. "We can't build anything on that last consideration. I've gone into the subject with people who know. I shouldn't wonder," he added, "if the traditional notions about loss of temperature and rigour after death had occasionally brought an innocent man to the gallows, or near it. Dr. Stock has them all, I feel sure; most general practitioners of the older generation have. That Dr. Stock will make an ass of himself at the inquest, is almost as certain as that tomorrow's sun will rise. I've seen him. He will say the body must have been dead about so long, because of the degree of coldness and _rigor mortis_. I can see him nosing it all out in some textbook that was out of date when he was a student. Listen, Murch, and I will tell you some facts which will be a great hindrance to you in your professional career. There are many things that may hasten or retard the cooling of the body. This one was lying in the long dewy grass on the shady side of the shed. As for rigidity, if Manderson died in a struggle, or labouring under sudden emotion, his corpse might stiffen practically instantaneously; there are dozens of cases noted, particularly in cases of injury to the skull, like this one. On the other hand, the stiffening might not have begun until eight or ten hours after death. You can't hang anybody on _rigor mortis_ nowadays, inspector, much as you may resent the limitation. No, what we _can_ say is this. If he had been shot after the hour at which the world begins to get up and go about its business, it would have been heard, and very likely seen too. In fact, we must reason, to begin with, at any rate, on the assumption that he wasn't shot at a time when people might be awake; it isn't done in these parts. Put that time at 6.30 a.m. Manderson went up to bed at 11 p.m., and Martin sat up till 12.30. Assuming that he went to sleep at once on turning in, that leaves us something like six hours for the crime to be committed in; and that is a long time. But whenever it took place, I wish you would suggest a reason why Manderson, who was a fairly late riser, was up and dressed at or before 6.30; and why neither Martin, who sleeps lightly, nor Bunner, nor his wife heard him moving about, or letting himself out of the house. He must have been careful. He must have crept about like a cat. Do you feel as I do, Murch, about all this; that it is very, very strange and baffling?" "That's how it looks," agreed the inspector. "And now," said Trent, rising to his feet, "I'll leave you to your meditations, and take a look at the bedrooms. Perhaps the explanation of all this will suddenly burst upon you while I am poking about up there. But," concluded Trent in a voice of sudden exasperation, turning round in the doorway, "if you can tell me at any time, how under the sun a man who put on all those clothes could forget to put in his teeth, you may kick me from here to the nearest lunatic asylum, and hand me over as an incipient dement." # Chapter V. Poking About There are moments in life, as one might think, when that which is within us, busy about its secret affair, lets escape into consciousness some hint of a fortunate thing ordained. Who does not know what it is to feel at times a wave of unaccountable persuasion that it is about to go well with him?—not the feverish confidence of men in danger of a blow from fate, not the persistent illusion of the optimist, but an unsought conviction, springing up like a bird from the heather, that success is at hand in some great or fine thing. The general suddenly knows at dawn that the day will bring him victory; the man on the green suddenly knows that he will put down the long putt. As Trent mounted the stairway outside the library door he seemed to rise into certainty of achievement. A host of guesses and inferences swarmed apparently unsorted through his mind; a few secret observations that he had made, and which he felt must have significance, still stood unrelated to any plausible theory of the crime; yet as he went up he seemed to know indubitably that light was going to appear. The bedrooms lay on either side of a broad carpeted passage, lighted by a tall end window. It went the length of the house until it ran at right angles into a narrower passage, out of which the servants' rooms opened. Martin's room was the exception: it opened out of a small landing half-way to the upper floor. As Trent passed it he glanced within. A little square room, clean and commonplace. In going up the rest of the stairway he stepped with elaborate precaution against noise, hugging the wall closely and placing each foot with care; but a series of very audible creaks marked his passage. He knew that Manderson's room was the first on the right hand when the bedroom floor was reached, and he went to it at once. He tried the latch and the lock, which worked normally, and examined the wards of the key. Then he turned to the room. It was a small apartment, strangely bare. The plutocrat's toilet appointments were of the simplest. All remained just as it had been on the morning of the ghastly discovery in the grounds. The sheets and blankets of the unmade bed lay tumbled over a narrow wooden bedstead, and the sun shone brightly through the window upon them. It gleamed, too, upon the gold parts of the delicate work of dentistry that lay in water in a shallow bowl of glass placed on a small, plain table by the bedside. On this also stood a wrought-iron candlestick. Some clothing lay untidily over one of the two rush-bottomed chairs. Various objects on the top of a chest of drawers, which had been used as a dressing-table, lay in such disorder as a hurried man might make. Trent looked them over with a questing eye. He noted also that the occupant of the room had neither washed nor shaved. With his finger he turned over the dental plate in the bowl, and frowned again at its incomprehensible presence. The emptiness and disarray of the little room, flooded by the sunbeams, were producing in Trent a sense of gruesomeness. His fancy called up a picture of a haggard man dressing himself in careful silence by the first light of dawn, glancing constantly at the inner door behind which his wife slept, his eyes full of some terror. Trent shivered, and to fix his mind again on actualities, opened two tall cupboards in the wall on either side of the bed. They contained clothing, a large choice of which had evidently been one of the very few conditions of comfort for the man who had slept there. In the matter of shoes, also, Manderson had allowed himself the advantage of wealth. An extraordinary number of these, treed and carefully kept, was ranged on two long low shelves against the wall. No boots were among them. Trent, himself an amateur of good shoe-leather, now turned to these, and glanced over the collection with an appreciative eye. It was to be seen that Manderson had been inclined to pride himself on a rather small and well-formed foot. The shoes were of a distinctive shape, narrow and round-toed, beautifully made; all were evidently from the same last. Suddenly his eyes narrowed themselves over a pair of patent-leather shoes on the upper shelf. These were the shoes of which the inspector had already described the position to him; the shoes worn by Manderson the night before his death. They were a well-worn pair, he saw at once; he saw, too, that they had been very recently polished. Something about the uppers of these shoes had seized his attention. He bent lower and frowned over them, comparing what he saw with the appearance of the neighbouring shoes. Then he took them up and examined the line of junction of the uppers with the soles. As he did this, Trent began unconsciously to whistle faintly, and with great precision, an air which Inspector Murch, if he had been present, would have recognized. Most men who have the habit of self-control have also some involuntary trick which tells those who know them that they are suppressing excitement. The inspector had noted that when Trent had picked up a strong scent he whistled faintly a certain melodious passage; though the inspector could not have told you that it was in fact the opening movement of Mendelssohn's _Lied ohne Worter_ in A Major. He turned the shoes over, made some measurements with a marked tape, and looked minutely at the bottoms. On each, in the angle between the heel and the instep, he detected a faint trace of red gravel. Trent placed the shoes on the floor, and walked with his hands behind him to the window, out of which, still faintly whistling, he gazed with eyes that saw nothing. Once his lips opened to emit mechanically the Englishman's expletive of sudden enlightenment. At length he turned to the shelves again, and swiftly but carefully examined every one of the shoes there. This done, he took up the garments from the chair, looked them over closely and replaced them. He turned to the wardrobe cupboards again, and hunted through them carefully. The litter on the dressing-table now engaged his attention for the second time. Then he sat down on the empty chair, took his head in his hands, and remained in that attitude, staring at the carpet, for some minutes. He rose at last and opened the inner door leading to Mrs. Manderson's room. It was evident at a glance that the big room had been hurriedly put down from its place as the lady's bower. All the array of objects that belong to a woman's dressing-table had been removed; on bed and chairs and smaller tables there were no garments or hats, bags or boxes; no trace remained of the obstinate conspiracy of gloves and veils, handkerchiefs and ribbons, to break the captivity of the drawer. The room was like an unoccupied guest-chamber. Yet in every detail of furniture and decoration it spoke of an unconventional but exacting taste. Trent, as his expert eye noted the various perfection of colour and form amid which the ill-mated lady dreamed her dreams and thought her loneliest thoughts, knew that she had at least the resources of an artistic nature. His interest in this unknown personality grew stronger; and his brows came down heavily as he thought of the burdens laid upon it, and of the deed of which the history was now shaping itself with more and more of substance before his busy mind. He went first to the tall French window in the middle of the wall that faced the door, and opening it, stepped out upon a small balcony with an iron railing. He looked down on a broad stretch of lawn that began immediately beneath him, separated from the house-wall only by a narrow flower-bed, and stretched away, with an abrupt dip at the farther end, toward the orchard. The other window opened with a sash above the garden-entrance of the library. In the farther inside corner of the room was a second door giving upon the passage; the door by which the maid was wont to come in, and her mistress to go out, in the morning. Trent, seated on the bed, quickly sketched in his notebook a plan of the room and its neighbour. The bed stood in the angle between the communicating-door and the sash-window, its head against the wall dividing the room from Manderson's. Trent stared at the pillows; then he lay down with deliberation on the bed and looked through the open door into the adjoining room. This observation taken, he rose again and proceeded to note on his plan that on either side of the bed was a small table with a cover. Upon that furthest from the door was a graceful electric-lamp standard of copper connected by a free wire with the wall. Trent looked at it thoughtfully, then at the switches connected with the other lights in the room. They were, as usual, on the wall just within the door, and some way out of his reach as he sat on the bed. He rose, and satisfied himself that the lights were all in order. Then he turned on his heel, walked quickly into Manderson's room, and rang the bell. "I want your help again, Martin," he said, as the butler presented himself, upright and impassive, in the doorway. "I want you to prevail upon Mrs. Manderson's maid to grant me an interview." "Certainly, sir," said Martin. "What sort of a woman is she? Has she her wits about her?" "She's French, sir," replied Martin succinctly; adding after a pause: "She has not been with us long, sir, but I have formed the impression that the young woman knows as much of the world as is good for her—since you ask me." "You think butter might possibly melt in her mouth, do you?" said Trent. "Well, I am not afraid. I want to put some questions to her." "I will send her up immediately, sir." The butler withdrew, and Trent wandered round the little room with his hands at his back. Sooner than he had expected, a small neat figure in black appeared quietly before him. The lady's maid, with her large brown eyes, had taken favourable notice of Trent from a window when he had crossed the lawn, and had been hoping desperately that the resolver of mysteries (whose reputation was as great below-stairs as elsewhere) would send for her. For one thing, she felt the need to make a scene; her nerves were overwrought. But her scenes were at a discount with the other domestics, and as for Mr. Murch, he had chilled her into self-control with his official manner. Trent, her glimpse of him had told her, had not the air of a policeman, and at a distance he had appeared _sympathique_. As she entered the room, however, instinct decided for her that any approach to coquetry would be a mistake, if she sought to make a good impression at the beginning. It was with an air of amiable candour, then, that she said, "Monsieur desire to speak with me." She added helpfully, "I am called Célestine." "Naturally," said Trent with businesslike calm. "Now what I want you to tell me, Célestine, is this. When you took tea to your mistress yesterday morning at seven o'clock, was the door between the two bedrooms—this door here—open?" Célestine became intensely animated in an instant. "Oh yes!" she said, using her favourite English idiom. "The door was open as always, monsieur, and I shut it as always. But it is necessary to explain. Listen! When I enter the room of madame from the other door in there—ah! but if monsieur will give himself the pain to enter the other room, all explains itself." She tripped across to the door, and urged Trent before her into the larger bedroom with a hand on his arm. "See! I enter the room with the tea like this. I approach the bed. Before I come quite near the bed, here is the door to my right hand—open always—so! But monsieur can perceive that I see nothing in the room of Monsieur Manderson. The door opens to the bed, not to me who approach from down there. I shut it without seeing in. It is the order. Yesterday it was as ordinary. I see nothing of the next room. Madame sleep like an angel—she see nothing. I shut the door. I place the _plateau_—I open the curtains—I prepare the toilette—I retire—voilà!" Célestine paused for breath and spread her hands abroad. Trent, who had followed her movements and gesticulations with deepening gravity, nodded his head. "I see exactly how it was now," he said. "Thank you, Célestine. So Mr. Manderson was supposed to be still in his room while your mistress was getting up, and dressing, and having breakfast in her boudoir?" "Oui, monsieur." "Nobody missed him, in fact," remarked Trent. "Well, Célestine, I am very much obliged to you." He reopened the door to the outer bedroom. "It is nothing, monsieur," said Célestine, as she crossed the small room. "I hope that monsieur will catch the assassin of Monsieur Manderson. But I not regret him too much," she added with sudden and amazing violence, turning round with her hand on the knob of the outer door. She set her teeth with an audible sound, and the colour rose in her small dark face. English departed from her. "Je ne le regrette pas du tout, du tout!" she cried with a flood of words. "Madame—ah! je me jetterais au feu pour madame—une femme si charmante, si adorable! Mais un homme comme monsieur—maussade, boudeur, impassible! Ah, non!—de ma vie! J'en avais par-dessus la tête, de monsieur! Ah! vrai! Est-ce insupportable, tout de même, qu'il existe des types comme ça? Je vous jure que—" "Finissez ce chahut, Célestine!" Trent broke in sharply. Célestine's tirade had brought back the memory of his student days with a rush. "En voilà une scène! C'est rasant, vous savez. Faut rentret ça, mademoiselle. Du reste, c'est bien imprudent, croyez-moi. Hang it! Have some common sense! If the inspector downstairs heard you saying that kind of thing, you would get into trouble. And don't wave your fists about so much; you might hit something. You seem," he went on more pleasantly, as Célestine grew calmer under his authoritative eye, "to be even more glad than other people that Mr. Manderson is out of the way. I could almost suspect, Célestine, that Mr. Manderson did not take as much notice of you as you thought necessary and right." "A peine s'il m'avait regardé!" Célestine answered simply. "Ça, c'est un comble!" observed Trent. "You are a nice young woman for a small tea-party, I don't think. A star upon your birthday burned, whose fierce, serene, red, pulseless planet never yearned in heaven, Célestine. Mademoiselle, I am busy. Bon jour. You certainly are a beauty!" Célestine took this as a scarcely expected compliment. The surprise restored her balance. With a sudden flash of her eyes and teeth at Trent over her shoulder, the lady's maid opened the door and swiftly disappeared. Trent, left alone in the little bedroom, relieved his mind with two forcible descriptive terms in Célestine's language, and turned to his problem. He took the pair of shoes which he had already examined, and placed them on one of the two chairs in the room, then seated himself on the other opposite to this. With his hands in his pockets he sat with eyes fixed upon those two dumb witnesses. Now and then he whistled, almost inaudibly, a few bars. It was very still in the room. A subdued twittering came from the trees through the open window. From time to time a breeze rustled in the leaves of the thick creeper about the sill. But the man in the room, his face grown hard and sombre now with his thoughts, never moved. So he sat for the space of half an hour. Then he rose quickly to his feet. He replaced the shoes on their shelf with care, and stepped out upon the landing. Two bedroom doors faced him on the other side of the passage. He opened that which was immediately opposite, and entered a bedroom by no means austerely tidy. Some sticks and fishing-rods stood confusedly in one corner, a pile of books in another. The housemaid's hand had failed to give a look of order to the jumble of heterogeneous objects left on the dressing-table and on the mantelshelf—pipes, penknives, pencils, keys, golf-balls, old letters, photographs, small boxes, tins, and bottles. Two fine etchings and some water-colour sketches hung on the walls; leaning against the end of the wardrobe, unhung, were a few framed engravings. A row of shoes and boots was ranged beneath the window. Trent crossed the room and studied them intently; then he measured some of them with his tape, whistling very softly. This done, he sat on the side of the bed, and his eyes roamed gloomily about the room. The photographs on the mantelshelf attracted him presently. He rose and examined one representing Marlowe and Manderson on horseback. Two others were views of famous peaks in the Alps. There was a faded print of three youths—one of them unmistakably his acquaintance of the haggard blue eyes—clothed in tatterdemalion soldier's gear of the sixteenth century. Another was a portrait of a majestic old lady, slightly resembling Marlowe. Trent, mechanically taking a cigarette from an open box on the mantel-shelf, lit it and stared at the photographs. Next he turned his attention to a flat leathern case that lay by the cigarette-box. It opened easily. A small and light revolver, of beautiful workmanship, was disclosed, with a score or so of loose cartridges. On the stock were engraved the initials "J. M." A step was heard on the stairs, and as Trent opened the breech and peered into the barrel of the weapon, Inspector Murch appeared at the open door of the room. "I was wondering—" he began; then stopped as he saw what the other was about. His intelligent eyes opened slightly. "Whose is the revolver, Mr. Trent?" he asked in a conversational tone. "Evidently it belongs to the occupant of the room, Mr. Marlowe," replied Trent with similar lightness, pointing to the initials. "I found this lying about on the mantelpiece. It seems a handy little pistol to me, and it has been very carefully cleaned, I should say, since the last time it was used. But I know little about firearms." "Well, I know a good deal," rejoined the inspector quietly, taking the revolver from Trent's outstretched hand. "It's a bit of a speciality with me, is firearms, as I think you know, Mr. Trent. But it don't require an expert to tell one thing." He replaced the revolver in its case on the mantel-shelf, took out one of the cartridges, and laid it on the spacious palm of one hand; then, taking a small object from his waistcoat pocket, he laid it beside the cartridge. It was a little leaden bullet, slightly battered about the nose, and having upon it some bright new scratches. "Is that _the_ one?" Trent murmured as he bent over the inspector's hand. "That's him," replied Mr. Murch. "Lodged in the bone at the back of the skull. Dr Stock got it out within the last hour, and handed it to the local officer, who has just sent it on to me. These bright scratches you see were made by the doctor's instruments. These other marks were made by the rifling of the barrel—a barrel like this one." He tapped the revolver. "Same make, same calibre. There is no other that marks the bullet just like this." With the pistol in its case between them, Trent and the inspector looked into each other's eyes for some moments. Trent was the first to speak. "This mystery is all wrong," he observed. "It is insanity. The symptoms of mania are very marked. Let us see how we stand. We were not in any doubt, I believe, about Manderson having dispatched Marlowe in the car to Southampton, or about Marlowe having gone, returning late last night, many hours after the murder was committed." "There _is_ no doubt whatever about all that," said Mr. Murch, with a slight emphasis on the verb. "And now," pursued Trent, "we are invited by this polished and insinuating firearm to believe the following line of propositions: that Marlowe never went to Southampton; that he returned to the house in the night; that he somehow, without waking Mrs. Manderson or anybody else, got Manderson to get up, dress himself, and go out into the grounds; that he then and there shot the said Manderson with his incriminating pistol; that he carefully cleaned the said pistol, returned to the house and, again without disturbing any one, replaced it in its case in a favourable position to be found by the officers of the law; that he then withdrew and spent the rest of the day in hiding—_with_ a large motor car; and that he turned up, feigning ignorance of the whole affair, at—what time was it?" "A little after 9 p.m." The inspector still stared moodily at Trent. "As you say, Mr. Trent, that is the first theory suggested by this find, and it seems wild enough—at least it would do if it didn't fall to pieces at the very start. When the murder was done Marlowe must have been fifty to a hundred miles away. He _did_ go to Southampton." "How do you know?" "I questioned him last night, and took down his story. He arrived in Southampton about 6.30 on the Monday morning." "Come off" exclaimed Trent bitterly. "What do I care about his story? What do you care about his story? I want to know how you _know_ he went to Southampton." Mr. Murch chuckled. "I thought I should take a rise out of you, Mr. Trent," he said. "Well, there's no harm in telling you. After I arrived yesterday evening, as soon as I had got the outlines of the story from Mrs. Manderson and the servants, the first thing I did was to go to the telegraph office and wire to our people in Southampton. Manderson had told his wife when he went to bed that he had changed his mind, and sent Marlowe to Southampton to get some important information from some one who was crossing by the next day's boat. It seemed right enough, but, you see, Marlowe was the only one of the household who wasn't under my hand, so to speak. He didn't return in the car until later in the evening; so before thinking the matter out any further, I wired to Southampton making certain enquiries. Early this morning I got this reply." He handed a series of telegraph slips to Trent, who read: Person answering description in motor answering description arrived Bedford Hotel here 6.30 this morning gave name Marlowe left car hotel garage told attendant car belonged Manderson had bath and breakfast went out heard of later at docks inquiring for passenger name Harris on Havre boat inquired repeatedly until boat left at noon next heard of at hotel where he lunched about 1.15 left soon afterwards in car company's agents inform berth was booked name Harris last week but Harris did not travel by boat Burke Inspector. "Simple and satisfactory," observed Mr. Murch as Trent, after twice reading the message, returned it to him. "His own story corroborated in every particular. He told me he hung about the dock for half an hour or so on the chance of Harris turning up late, then strolled back, lunched, and decided to return at once. He sent a wire to Manderson—‘Harris not turned up missed boat returning Marlowe,' which was duly delivered here in the afternoon, and placed among the dead man's letters. He motored back at a good rate, and arrived dog-tired. When he heard of Manderson's death from Martin, he nearly fainted. What with that and the being without sleep for so long, he was rather a wreck when I came to interview him last night; but he was perfectly coherent." Trent picked up the revolver and twirled the cylinder idly for a few moments. "It was unlucky for Manderson that Marlowe left his pistol and cartridges about so carelessly," he remarked at length, as he put it back in the case. "It was throwing temptation in somebody's way, don't you think?" Mr. Murch shook his head. "There isn't really much to lay hold of about the revolver, when you come to think. That particular make of revolver is common enough in England. It was introduced from the States. Half the people who buy a revolver today for self-defence or mischief provide themselves with that make, of that calibre. It is very reliable, and easily carried in the hip-pocket. There must be thousands of them in the possession of crooks and honest men. For instance," continued the inspector with an air of unconcern, "Manderson himself had one, the double of this. I found it in one of the top drawers of the desk downstairs, and it's in my overcoat pocket now." "Aha! so you were going to keep that little detail to yourself." "I was," said the inspector; "but as you've found one revolver, you may as well know about the other. As I say, neither of them may do us any good. The people in the house—" Both men started, and the inspector checked his speech abruptly, as the half-closed door of the bedroom was slowly pushed open, and a man stood in the doorway. His eyes turned from the pistol in its open case to the faces of Trent and the inspector. They, who had not heard a sound to herald this entrance, simultaneously looked at his long, narrow feet. He wore rubber-soled tennis shoes. "You must be Mr. Bunner," said Trent. # Chapter VI. Mr. Bunner on the Case "Calvin C. Bunner, at your service," amended the newcomer, with a touch of punctilio, as he removed an unlighted cigar from his mouth. He was used to finding Englishmen slow and ceremonious with strangers, and Trent's quick remark plainly disconcerted him a little. "You are Mr. Trent, I expect," he went on. "Mrs. Manderson was telling me a while ago. Captain, good-morning." Mr. Murch acknowledged the outlandish greeting with a nod. "I was coming up to my room, and I heard a strange voice in here, so I thought I would take a look in." Mr. Bunner laughed easily. "You thought I might have been eavesdropping, perhaps," he said. "No, sir; I heard a word or two about a pistol—this one, I guess—and that's all." Mr. Bunner was a thin, rather short young man with a shaven, pale, bony, almost girlish face, and large, dark, intelligent eyes. His waving dark hair was parted in the middle. His lips, usually occupied with a cigar, in its absence were always half open with a curious expression as of permanent eagerness. By smoking or chewing a cigar this expression was banished, and Mr. Bunner then looked the consummately cool and sagacious Yankee that he was. Born in Connecticut, he had gone into a broker's office on leaving college, and had attracted the notice of Manderson, whose business with his firm he had often handled. The Colossus had watched him for some time, and at length offered him the post of private secretary. Mr. Bunner was a pattern business man, trustworthy, long-headed, methodical, and accurate. Manderson could have found many men with those virtues; but he engaged Mr Bunner because he was also swift and secret, and had besides a singular natural instinct in regard to the movements of the stock market. Trent and the American measured one another coolly with their eyes. Both appeared satisfied with what they saw. "I was having it explained to me," said Trent pleasantly, "that my discovery of a pistol that might have shot Manderson does not amount to very much. I am told it is a favourite weapon among your people, and has become quite popular over here." Mr. Bunner stretched out a bony hand and took the pistol from its case. "Yes, sir," he said, handling it with an air of familiarity; "the captain is right. This is what we call out home a Little Arthur, and I dare say there are duplicates of it in a hundred thousand hip-pockets this minute. I consider it too light in the hand myself," Mr. Bunner went on, mechanically feeling under the tail of his jacket, and producing an ugly looking weapon. "Feel of that, now, Mr. Trent—it's loaded, by the way. Now this Little Arthur—Marlowe bought it just before we came over this year to please the old man. Manderson said it was ridiculous for a man to be without a pistol in the twentieth century. So he went out and bought what they offered him, I guess—never consulted me. Not but what it's a good gun," Mr. Bunner conceded, squinting along the sights. "Marlowe was poor with it at first, but I've coached him some in the last month or so, and he's practised until he is pretty good. But he never could get the habit of carrying it around. Why, it's as natural to me as wearing my pants. I have carried one for some years now, because there was always likely to be somebody laying for Manderson. And now," Mr. Bunner concluded sadly, "they got him when I wasn't around. Well, gentlemen, you must excuse me. I am going into Bishopsbridge. There is a lot to do these days, and I have to send off a bunch of cables big enough to choke a cow." "I must be off too," said Trent. "I have an appointment at the ‘Three Tuns' inn." "Let me give you a lift in the automobile," said Mr. Bunner cordially. "I go right by that joint. Say, cap., are you coming my way too? No? Then come along, Mr. Trent, and help me get out the car. The chauffeur is out of action, and we have to do 'most everything ourselves except clean the dirt off her." Still tirelessly talking in his measured drawl, Mr. Bunner led Trent downstairs and through the house to the garage at the back. It stood at a little distance from the house, and made a cool retreat from the blaze of the midday sun. Mr. Bunner seemed to be in no hurry to get out the car. He offered Trent a cigar, which was accepted, and for the first time lit his own. Then he seated himself on the footboard of the car, his thin hands clasped between his knees, and looked keenly at the other. "See here, Mr. Trent," he said, after a few moments. "There are some things I can tell you that may be useful to you. I know your record. You are a smart man, and I like dealing with smart men. I don't know if I have that detective sized up right, but he strikes me as a mutt. I would answer any questions he had the gumption to ask me—I have done so, in fact—but I don't feel encouraged to give him any notions of mine without his asking. See?" Trent nodded. "That is a feeling many people have in the presence of our police," he said. "It's the official manner, I suppose. But let me tell you, Murch is anything but what you think. He is one of the shrewdest officers in Europe. He is not very quick with his mind, but he is very sure. And his experience is immense. My forte is imagination, but I assure you in police work experience outweighs it by a great deal." "Outweigh nothing!" replied Mr. Bunner crisply. "This is no ordinary case, Mr. Trent. I will tell you one reason why. I believe the old man knew there was something coming to him. Another thing: I believe it was something he thought he couldn't dodge." Trent pulled a crate opposite to Mr. Bunner's place on the footboard and seated himself. "This sounds like business," he said. "Tell me your ideas." "I say what I do because of the change in the old man's manner this last few weeks. I dare say you have heard, Mr. Trent, that he was a man who always kept himself well in hand. That was so. I have always considered him the coolest and hardest head in business. That man's calm was just deadly—I never saw anything to beat it. And I knew Manderson as nobody else did. I was with him in the work he really lived for. I guess I knew him a heap better than his wife did, poor woman. I knew him better than Marlowe could—he never saw Manderson in his office when there was a big thing on. I knew him better than any of his friends." "Had he any friends?" interjected Trent. Mr. Bunner glanced at him sharply. "Somebody has been putting you next, I see that," he remarked. "No: properly speaking, I should say not. He had many acquaintances among the big men, people he saw, most every day; they would even go yachting or hunting together. But I don't believe there ever was a man that Manderson opened a corner of his heart to. But what I was going to say was this. Some months ago the old man began to get like I never knew him before—gloomy and sullen, just as if he was everlastingly brooding over something bad, something that he couldn't fix. This went on without any break; it was the same down town as it was up home, he acted just as if there was something lying heavy on his mind. But it wasn't until a few weeks back that his self-restraint began to go; and let me tell you this, Mr. Trent"—the American laid his bony claw on the other's knee—"I'm the only man that knows it. With every one else he would be just morose and dull; but when he was alone with me in his office, or anywhere where we would be working together, if the least little thing went wrong, by George! he would fly off the handle to beat the Dutch. In this library here I have seen him open a letter with something that didn't just suit him in it, and he would rip around and carry on like an Indian, saying he wished he had the man that wrote it here, he wouldn't do a thing to him, and so on, till it was just pitiful. I never saw such a change. And here's another thing. For a week before he died Manderson neglected his work, for the first time in my experience. He wouldn't answer a letter or a cable, though things looked like going all to pieces over there. I supposed that this anxiety of his, whatever it was, had got on to his nerves till they were worn out. Once I advised him to see a doctor, and he told me to go to hell. But nobody saw this side of him but me. If he was having one of these rages in the library here, for example, and Mrs. Manderson would come into the room, he would be all calm and cold again in an instant." "And you put this down to some secret anxiety, a fear that somebody had designs on his life?" asked Trent. The American nodded. "I suppose," Trent resumed, "you had considered the idea of there being something wrong with his mind—a break-down from overstrain, say. That is the first thought that your account suggests to me. Besides, it is what is always happening to your big business men in America, isn't it? That is the impression one gets from the newspapers." "Don't let them slip you any of that bunk," said Mr. Bunner earnestly. "It's only the ones who have got rich too quick, and can't make good, who go crazy. Think of all our really big men—the men anywhere near Manderson's size: did you ever hear of any one of them losing his senses? They don't do it—believe _me_. I know they say every man has his loco point," Mr. Bunner added reflectively, "but that doesn't mean genuine, sure-enough craziness; it just means some personal eccentricity in a man ... like hating cats ... or my own weakness of not being able to touch any kind of fish-food." "Well, what was Manderson's?" "He was full of them—the old man. There was his objection to all the unnecessary fuss and luxury that wealthy people don't kick at much, as a general rule. He didn't have any use for expensive trifles and ornaments. He wouldn't have anybody do little things for him; he hated to have servants tag around after him unless he wanted them. And although Manderson was as careful about his clothes as any man I ever knew, and his shoes—well, sir, the amount of money he spent on shoes was sinful—in spite of that, I tell you, he never had a valet. He never liked to have anybody touch him. All his life nobody ever shaved him." "I've heard something of that," Trent remarked. "Why was it, do you think?" "Well," Mr. Bunner answered slowly, "it was the Manderson habit of mind, I guess; a sort of temper of general suspicion and jealousy. "They say his father and grandfather were just the same.... Like a dog with a bone, you know, acting as if all the rest of creation was laying for a chance to steal it. He didn't really _think_ the barber would start in to saw his head off; he just felt there was a possibility that he _might_, and he was taking no risks. Then again in business he was always convinced that somebody else was after his bone—which was true enough a good deal of the time; but not all the time. The consequence of that was that the old man was the most cautious and secret worker in the world of finance; and that had a lot to do with his success, too.... But that doesn't amount to being a lunatic, Mr. Trent; not by a long way. You ask me if Manderson was losing his mind before he died. I say I believe he was just worn out with worrying over something, and was losing his nerve." Trent smoked thoughtfully. He wondered how much Mr. Bunner knew of the domestic difficulty in his chief's household, and decided to put out a feeler. "I understood that he had trouble with his wife." "Sure," replied Mr. Bunner. "But do you suppose a thing like that was going to upset Sig Manderson that way? No, sir! He was a sight too big a man to be all broken up by any worry of that kind." Trent looked half-incredulously into the eyes of the young man. But behind all their shrewdness and intensity he saw a massive innocence. Mr. Bunner really believed a serious breach between husband and wife to be a minor source of trouble for a big man. "What _was_ the trouble between them, anyhow?" Trent inquired. "You can search me," Mr. Bunner replied briefly. He puffed at his cigar. "Marlowe and I have often talked about it, and we could never make out a solution. I had a notion at first," said Mr. Bunner in a lower voice, leaning forward, "that the old man was disappointed and vexed because he had expected a child; but Marlowe told me that the disappointment on that score was the other way around, likely as not. His idea was all right, I guess; he gathered it from something said by Mrs. Manderson's French maid." Trent looked up at him quickly. "Célestine!" he said; and his thought was, "So that was what she was getting at!" Mr. Bunner misunderstood his glance. "Don't you think I'm giving a man away, Mr. Trent," he said. "Marlowe isn't that kind. Célestine just took a fancy to him because he talks French like a native, and she would always be holding him up for a gossip. French servants are quite unlike English that way. And servant or no servant," added Mr. Bunner with emphasis, "I don't see how a woman could mention such a subject to a man. But the French beat me." He shook his head slowly. "But to come back to what you were telling me just now," Trent said. "You believe that Manderson was going in terror of his life for some time. Who should threaten it? I am quite in the dark." "Terror—I don't know," replied Mr. Bunner meditatively. "Anxiety, if you like. Or suspense—that's rather my idea of it. The old man was hard to terrify, anyway; and more than that, he wasn't taking any precautions—he was actually avoiding them. It looked more like he was asking for a quick finish—supposing there's any truth in my idea. Why, he would sit in that library window, nights, looking out into the dark, with his white shirt just a target for anybody's gun. As for who should threaten his life well, sir," said Mr. Bunner with a faint smile, "it's certain you have not lived in the States. To take the Pennsylvania coal hold-up alone, there were thirty thousand men, with women and children to keep, who would have jumped at the chance of drilling a hole through the man who fixed it so that they must starve or give in to his terms. Thirty thousand of the toughest aliens in the country, Mr. Trent. There's a type of desperado you find in that kind of push who has been known to lay for a man for years, and kill him when he had forgotten what he did. They have been known to dynamite a man in Idaho who had done them dirt in New Jersey ten years before. Do you suppose the Atlantic is going to stop them?... It takes some sand, I tell you, to be a big business man in our country. No, sir: the old man knew—had always known—that there was a whole crowd of dangerous men scattered up and down the States who had it in for him. My belief is that he had somehow got to know that some of them were definitely after him at last. What licks me altogether is why he should have just laid himself open to them the way he did—why he never tried to dodge, but walked right down into the garden yesterday morning to be shot at." Mr. Bunner ceased to speak, and for a little while both men sat with wrinkled brows, faint blue vapours rising from their cigars. Then Trent rose. "Your theory is quite fresh to me," he said. "It's perfectly rational, and it's only a question of whether it fits all the facts. I mustn't give away what I'm doing for my newspaper, Mr. Bunner, but I will say this: I have already satisfied myself that this was a premeditated crime, and an extraordinarily cunning one at that. I'm deeply obliged to you. We must talk it over again." He looked at his watch. "I have been expected for some time by my friend. Shall we make a move?" "Two o'clock," said Mr. Bunner, consulting his own, as he got up from the foot-board. "Ten a.m. in little old New York. You don't know Wall Street, Mr. Trent. Let's you and I hope we never see anything nearer hell than what's loose in the Street this minute." # Chapter VII. The Lady in Black The sea broke raging upon the foot of the cliff under a good breeze; the sun flooded the land with life from a dappled blue sky. In this perfection of English weather Trent, who had slept ill, went down before eight o'clock to a pool among the rocks, the direction of which had been given him, and dived deep into clear water. Between vast grey boulders he swam out to the tossing open, forced himself some little way against a coast-wise current, and then returned to his refuge battered and refreshed. Ten minutes later he was scaling the cliff again, and his mind, cleared for the moment of a heavy disgust for the affair he had in hand, was turning over his plans for the morning. It was the day of the inquest, the day after his arrival in the place. He had carried matters not much further after parting with the American on the road to Bishopsbridge. In the afternoon he had walked from the inn into the town, accompanied by Mr. Cupples, and had there made certain purchases at a chemist's shop, conferred privately for some time with a photographer, sent off a reply-paid telegram, and made an enquiry at the telephone exchange. He had said but little about the case to Mr. Cupples, who seemed incurious on his side, and nothing at all about the results of his investigation or the steps he was about to take. After their return from Bishopsbridge, Trent had written a long dispatch for the _Record_ and sent it to be telegraphed by the proud hands of the paper's local representative. He had afterwards dined with Mr. Cupples, and had spent the rest of the evening in meditative solitude on the veranda. This morning as he scaled the cliff he told himself that he had never taken up a case he liked so little, or which absorbed him so much. The more he contemplated it in the golden sunshine of this new day, the more evil and the more challenging it appeared. All that he suspected and all that he almost knew had occupied his questing brain for hours to the exclusion of sleep; and in this glorious light and air, though washed in body and spirit by the fierce purity of the sea, he only saw the more clearly the darkness of the guilt in which he believed, and was more bitterly repelled by the motive at which he guessed. But now at least his zeal was awake again, and the sense of the hunt quickened. He would neither slacken nor spare; here need be no compunction. In the course of the day, he hoped, his net would be complete. He had work to do in the morning; and with very vivid expectancy, though not much serious hope, he awaited the answer to the telegram which he had shot into the sky, as it were, the day before. The path back to the hotel wound for some way along the top of the cliff, and on nearing a spot he had marked from the sea level, where the face had fallen away long ago, he approached the edge and looked down, hoping to follow with his eyes the most delicately beautiful of all the movements of water—the wash of a light sea over broken rock. But no rock was there. A few feet below him a broad ledge stood out, a rough platform as large as a great room, thickly grown with wiry grass and walled in steeply on three sides. There, close to the verge where the cliff at last dropped sheer, a woman was sitting, her arms about her drawn-up knees, her eyes fixed on the trailing smoke of a distant liner, her face full of some dream. This woman seemed to Trent, whose training had taught him to live in his eyes, to make the most beautiful picture he had ever seen. Her face of southern pallor, touched by the kiss of the wind with colour on the cheek, presented to him a profile of delicate regularity in which there was nothing hard; nevertheless the black brows bending down toward the point where they almost met gave her in repose a look of something like severity, strangely redeemed by the open curves of the mouth. Trent said to himself that the absurdity or otherwise of a lover writing sonnets to his mistress's eyebrow depended after all on the quality of the eyebrow. Her nose was of the straight and fine sort, exquisitely escaping the perdition of too much length, which makes a conscientious mind ashamed that it cannot help, on occasion, admiring the tip-tilted. Her hat lay pinned to the grass beside her, and the lively breeze played with her thick dark hair, blowing backward the two broad bandeaux that should have covered much of her forehead, and agitating a hundred tiny curls from the mass gathered at her nape. Everything about this lady was black, from her shoes of suede to the hat that she had discarded; lustreless black covered her to her bare throat. All she wore was fine and well put on. Dreamy and delicate of spirit as her looks declared her, it was very plain that she was long-practised as only a woman grown can be in dressing well, the oldest of the arts, and had her touch of primal joy in the excellence of the body that was so admirably curved now in the attitude of embraced knees. With the suggestion of French taste in her clothes, she made a very modern figure seated there, until one looked at her face and saw the glow and triumph of all vigorous beings that ever faced sun and wind and sea together in the prime of the year. One saw, too, a womanhood so unmixed and vigorous, so unconsciously sure of itself, as scarcely to be English, still less American. Trent, who had halted only for a moment in the surprise of seeing the woman in black, had passed by on the cliff above her, perceiving and feeling as he went the things set down. At all times his keen vision and active brain took in and tasted details with an easy swiftness that was marvellous to men of slower chemistry; the need to stare, he held, was evidence of blindness. Now the feeling of beauty was awakened and exultant, and doubled the power of his sense. In these instants a picture was printed on his memory that would never pass away. As he went by unheard on the turf the woman, still alone with her thoughts, suddenly moved. She unclasped her long hands from about her knees, stretched her limbs and body with feline grace, then slowly raised her head and extended her arms with open, curving fingers, as if to gather to her all the glory and overwhelming sanity of the morning. This was a gesture not to be mistaken: it was a gesture of freedom, the movement of a soul's resolution to be, to possess, to go forward, perhaps to enjoy. So he saw her for an instant as he passed, and he did not turn. He knew suddenly who the woman must be, and it was as if a curtain of gloom were drawn between him and the splendour of the day. During breakfast at the hotel Mr. Cupples found Trent little inclined to talk. He excused himself on the plea of a restless night. Mr. Cupples, on the other hand, was in a state of bird-like alertness. The prospect of the inquest seemed to enliven him. He entertained Trent with a disquisition upon the history of that most ancient and once busy tribunal, the coroner's court, and remarked upon the enviable freedom of its procedure from the shackles of rule and precedent. From this he passed to the case that was to come before it that morning. "Young Bunner mentioned to me last night," he said, "when I went up there after dinner, the hypothesis which he puts forward in regard to the crime. A very remarkable young man, Trent. His meaning is occasionally obscure, but in my opinion he is gifted with a clearheaded knowledge of the world quite unusual in one of his apparent age. Indeed, his promotion by Manderson to the position of his principal lieutenant speaks for itself. He seems to have assumed with perfect confidence the control at this end of the wire, as he expresses it, of the complicated business situation caused by the death of his principal, and he has advised very wisely as to the steps I should take on Mabel's behalf, and the best course for her to pursue until effect has been given to the provisions of the will. I was accordingly less disposed than I might otherwise have been to regard his suggestion of an industrial vendetta as far-fetched. When I questioned him he was able to describe a number of cases in which attacks of one sort or another—too often successful—had been made upon the lives of persons who had incurred the hostility of powerful labour organizations. This is a terrible time in which we live, my dear boy. There is none recorded in history, I think, in which the disproportion between the material and the moral constituents of society has been so great or so menacing to the permanence of the fabric. But nowhere, in my judgement, is the prospect so dark as it is in the United States." "I thought," said Trent listlessly, "that Puritanism was about as strong there as the money-getting craze." "Your remark," answered Mr. Cupples, with as near an approach to humour as was possible to him, "is not in the nature of a testimonial to what you call Puritanism—a convenient rather than an accurate term; for I need not remind you that it was invented to describe an Anglican party which aimed at the purging of the services and ritual of their Church from certain elements repugnant to them. The sense of your observation, however, is none the less sound, and its truth is extremely well illustrated by the case of Manderson himself, who had, I believe, the virtues of purity, abstinence, and self-restraint in their strongest form. No, Trent, there are other and more worthy things among the moral constituents of which I spoke; and in our finite nature, the more we preoccupy ourselves with the bewildering complexity of external apparatus which science places in our hands, the less vigour have we left for the development of the holier purposes of humanity within us. Agricultural machinery has abolished the festival of the Harvest Home. Mechanical travel has abolished the inn, or all that was best in it. I need not multiply instances. The view I am expressing to you," pursued Mr. Cupples, placidly buttering a piece of toast, "is regarded as fundamentally erroneous by many of those who think generally as I do about the deeper concerns of life, but I am nevertheless firmly persuaded of its truth." "It needs epigrammatic expression," said Trent, rising from the table. "If only it could be crystallized into some handy formula, like ‘No Popery', or ‘Tax the Foreigner', you would find multitudes to go to the stake for it. But you were planning to go to White Gables before the inquest, I think. You ought to be off if you are to get back to the court in time. I have something to attend to there myself, so we might walk up together. I will just go and get my camera." "By all means," Mr. Cupples answered; and they set off at once in the ever-growing warmth of the morning. The roof of White Gables, a surly patch of dull red against the dark trees, seemed to harmonize with Trent's mood; he felt heavy, sinister, and troubled. If a blow must fall that might strike down that creature radiant of beauty and life whom he had seen that morning, he did not wish it to come from his hand. An exaggerated chivalry had lived in Trent since the first teachings of his mother; but at this moment the horror of bruising anything so lovely was almost as much the artist's revulsion as the gentleman's. On the other hand, was the hunt to end in nothing? The quality of the affair was such that the thought of forbearance was an agony. There never was such a case; and he alone, he was confident, held the truth of it under his hand. At least, he determined, that day should show whether what he believed was a delusion. He would trample his compunction underfoot until he was quite sure that there was any call for it. That same morning he would know. As they entered at the gate of the drive they saw Marlowe and the American standing in talk before the front door. In the shadow of the porch was the lady in black. She saw them, and came gravely forward over the lawn, moving as Trent had known that she would move, erect and balanced, stepping lightly. When she welcomed him on Mr. Cupples's presentation her eyes of golden-flecked brown observed him kindly. In her pale composure, worn as the mask of distress, there was no trace of the emotion that had seemed a halo about her head on the ledge of the cliff. She spoke the appropriate commonplace in a low and even voice. After a few words to Mr. Cupples she turned her eyes on Trent again. "I hope you will succeed," she said earnestly. "Do you think you will succeed?" He made his mind up as the words left her lips. He said, "I believe I shall do so, Mrs. Manderson. When I have the case sufficiently complete I shall ask you to let me see you and tell you about it. It may be necessary to consult you before the facts are published." She looked puzzled, and distress showed for an instant in her eyes. "If it is necessary, of course you shall do so," she said. On the brink of his next speech Trent hesitated. He remembered that the lady had not wished to repeat to him the story already given to the inspector—or to be questioned at all. He was not unconscious that he desired to hear her voice and watch her face a little longer, if it might be; but the matter he had to mention really troubled his mind, it was a queer thing that fitted nowhere into the pattern within whose corners he had by this time brought the other queer things in the case. It was very possible that she could explain it away in a breath; it was unlikely that any one else could. He summoned his resolution. "You have been so kind," he said, "in allowing me access to the house and every opportunity of studying the case, that I am going to ask leave to put a question or two to yourself—nothing that you would rather not answer, I think. May I?" She glanced at him wearily. "It would be stupid of me to refuse. Ask your questions, Mr. Trent." "It's only this," said Trent hurriedly. "We know that your husband lately drew an unusually large sum of ready money from his London bankers, and was keeping it here. It is here now, in fact. Have you any idea why he should have done that?" She opened her eyes in astonishment. "I cannot imagine," she said. "I did not know he had done so. I am very much surprised to hear it." "Why is it surprising?" "I thought my husband had very little money in the house. On Sunday night, just before he went out in the motor, he came into the drawing-room where I was sitting. He seemed to be irritated about something, and asked me at once if I had any notes or gold I could let him have until next day. I was surprised at that, because he was never without money; he made it a rule to carry a hundred pounds or so about him always in a note-case. I unlocked my escritoire, and gave him all I had by me. It was nearly thirty pounds." "And he did not tell you why he wanted it?" "No. He put it in his pocket, and then said that Mr. Marlowe had persuaded him to go for a run in the motor by moonlight, and he thought it might help him to sleep. He had been sleeping badly, as perhaps you know. Then he went off with Mr. Marlowe. I thought it odd he should need money on Sunday night, but I soon forgot about it. I never remembered it again until now." "It was curious, certainly," said Trent, staring into the distance. Mr Cupples began to speak to his niece of the arrangements for the inquest, and Trent moved away to where Marlowe was pacing slowly upon the lawn. The young man seemed relieved to talk about the coming business of the day. Though he still seemed tired out and nervous, he showed himself not without a quiet humour in describing the pomposities of the local police and the portentous airs of Dr Stock. Trent turned the conversation gradually toward the problem of the crime, and all Marlowe's gravity returned. "Bunner has told me what he thinks," he said when Trent referred to the American's theory. "I don't find myself convinced by it, because it doesn't really explain some of the oddest facts. But I have lived long enough in the United States to know that such a stroke of revenge, done in a secret, melodramatic way, is not an unlikely thing. It is quite a characteristic feature of certain sections of the labour movement there. Americans have a taste and a talent for that sort of business. Do you know _Huckleberry Finn?_" "Do I know my own name?" exclaimed Trent. "Well, I think the most American thing in that great American epic is Tom Sawyer's elaboration of an extremely difficult and romantic scheme, taking days to carry out, for securing the escape of the nigger Jim, which could have been managed quite easily in twenty minutes. You know how fond they are of lodges and brotherhoods. Every college club has its secret signs and handgrips. You've heard of the Know-Nothing movement in politics, I dare say, and the Ku Klux Klan. Then look at Brigham Young's penny-dreadful tyranny in Utah, with real blood. The founders of the Mormon State were of the purest Yankee stock in America; and you know what they did. It's all part of the same mental tendency. Americans make fun of it among themselves. For my part, I take it very seriously." "It can have a very hideous side to it, certainly," said Trent, "when you get it in connection with crime—or with vice—or even mere luxury. But I have a sort of sneaking respect for the determination to make life interesting and lively in spite of civilization. To return to the matter in hand, however; has it struck you as a possibility that Manderson's mind was affected to some extent by this menace that Bunner believes in? For instance, it was rather an extraordinary thing to send you posting off like that in the middle of the night." "About ten o'clock, to be exact," replied Marlowe. "Though, mind you, if he'd actually roused me out of my bed at midnight I shouldn't have been very much surprised. It all chimes in with what we've just been saying. Manderson had a strong streak of the national taste for dramatic proceedings. He was rather fond of his well-earned reputation for unexpected strokes and for going for his object with ruthless directness through every opposing consideration. He had decided suddenly that he wanted to have word from this man Harris—" "Who is Harris?" interjected Trent. "Nobody knows. Even Bunner never heard of him, and can't imagine what the business in hand was. All I know is that when I went up to London last week to attend to various things I booked a deck-cabin, at Manderson's request, for a Mr. George Harris on the boat that sailed on Monday. It seems that Manderson suddenly found he wanted news from Harris which presumably was of a character too secret for the telegraph; and there was no train that served; so I was sent off as you know." Trent looked round to make sure that they were not overheard, then faced the other gravely, "There is one thing I may tell you," he said quietly, "that I don't think you know. Martin the butler caught a few words at the end of your conversation with Manderson in the orchard before you started with him in the car. He heard him say, ‘If Harris is there, every moment is of importance.' Now, Mr. Marlowe, you know my business here. I am sent to make enquiries, and you mustn't take offence. I want to ask you if, in the face of that sentence, you will repeat that you know nothing of what the business was." Marlowe shook his head. "I know nothing, indeed. I'm not easily offended, and your question is quite fair. What passed during that conversation I have already told the detective. Manderson plainly said to me that he could not tell me what it was all about. He simply wanted me to find Harris, tell him that he desired to know how matters stood, and bring back a letter or message from him. Harris, I was further told, might not turn up. If he did, ‘every moment was of importance'. And now you know as much as I do." "That talk took place _before_ he told his wife that you were taking him for a moonlight run. Why did he conceal your errand in that way, I wonder." The young man made a gesture of helplessness. "Why? I can guess no better than you." "Why," muttered Trent as if to himself, gazing on the ground, "did he conceal it—from Mrs. Manderson?" He looked up at Marlowe. "And from Martin," the other amended coolly. "He was told the same thing." With a sudden movement of his head Trent seemed to dismiss the subject. He drew from his breast-pocket a letter-case, and thence extracted two small leaves of clean, fresh paper. "Just look at these two slips, Mr. Marlowe," he said. "Did you ever see them before? Have you any idea where they come from?" he added as Marlowe took one in each hand and examined them curiously. "They seem to have been cut with a knife or scissors from a small diary for this year from the October pages," Marlowe observed, looking them over on both sides. "I see no writing of any kind on them. Nobody here has any such diary so far as I know. What about them?" "There may be nothing in it," Trent said dubiously. "Any one in the house, of course, might have such a diary without your having seen it. But I didn't much expect you would be able to identify the leaves—in fact, I should have been surprised if you had." He stopped speaking as Mrs. Manderson came towards them. "My uncle thinks we should be going now," she said. "I think I will walk on with Mr. Bunner," Mr. Cupples said as he joined them. "There are certain business matters that must be disposed of as soon as possible. Will you come on with these two gentlemen, Mabel? We will wait for you before we reach the place." Trent turned to her. "Mrs. Manderson will excuse me, I hope," he said. "I really came up this morning in order to look about me here for some indications I thought I might possibly find. I had not thought of attending the—the court just yet." She looked at him with eyes of perfect candour. "Of course, Mr. Trent. Please do exactly as you wish. We are all relying upon you. If you will wait a few moments, Mr. Marlowe, I shall be ready." She entered the house. Her uncle and the American had already strolled towards the gate. Trent looked into the eyes of his companion. "That is a wonderful woman," he said in a lowered voice. "You say so without knowing her," replied Marlowe in a similar tone. "She is more than that." Trent said nothing to this. He stared out over the fields towards the sea. In the silence a noise of hobnailed haste rose on the still air. A little distance down the road a boy appeared trotting towards them from the direction of the hotel. In his hand was the orange envelope, unmistakable afar off, of a telegram. Trent watched him with an indifferent eye as he met and passed the two others. Then he turned to Marlowe. "A propos of nothing in particular," he said, "were you at Oxford?" "Yes," said the young man. "Why do you ask?" "I just wondered if I was right in my guess. It's one of the things you can very often tell about a man, isn't it?" "I suppose so," Marlowe said. "Well, each of us is marked in one way or another, perhaps. I should have said you were an artist, if I hadn't known it." "Why? Does my hair want cutting?" "Oh, no! It's only that you look at things and people as I've seen artists do, with an eye that moves steadily from detail to detail—rather looking them over than looking at them." The boy came up panting. "Telegram for you, sir," he said to Trent. "Just come, sir." Trent tore open the envelope with an apology, and his eyes lighted up so visibly as he read the slip that Marlowe's tired face softened in a smile. "It must be good news," he murmured half to himself. Trent turned on him a glance in which nothing could be read. "Not exactly news," he said. "It only tells me that another little guess of mine was a good one." # Chapter VIII. The Inquest The coroner, who fully realized that for that one day of his life as a provincial solicitor he was living in the gaze of the world, had resolved to be worthy of the fleeting eminence. He was a large man of jovial temper, with a strong interest in the dramatic aspects of his work, and the news of Manderson's mysterious death within his jurisdiction had made him the happiest coroner in England. A respectable capacity for marshalling facts was fortified in him by a copiousness of impressive language that made juries as clay in his hands, and sometimes disguised a doubtful interpretation of the rules of evidence. The court was held in a long, unfurnished room lately built on to the hotel, and intended to serve as a ballroom or concert-hall. A regiment of reporters was entrenched in the front seats, and those who were to be called on to give evidence occupied chairs to one side of the table behind which the coroner sat, while the jury, in double row, with plastered hair and a spurious ease of manner, flanked him on the other side. An undistinguished public filled the rest of the space, and listened, in an awed silence, to the opening solemnities. The newspaper men, well used to these, muttered among themselves. Those of them who knew Trent by sight assured the rest that he was not in the court. The identity of the dead man was proved by his wife, the first witness called, from whom the coroner, after some enquiry into the health and circumstances of the deceased, proceeded to draw an account of the last occasion on which she had seen her husband alive. Mrs. Manderson was taken through her evidence by the coroner with the sympathy which every man felt for that dark figure of grief. She lifted her thick veil before beginning to speak, and the extreme paleness and unbroken composure of the lady produced a singular impression. This was not an impression of hardness. Interesting femininity was the first thing to be felt in her presence. She was not even enigmatic. It was only clear that the force of a powerful character was at work to master the emotions of her situation. Once or twice as she spoke she touched her eyes with her handkerchief, but her voice was low and clear to the end. Her husband, she said, had come up to his bedroom about his usual hour for retiring on Sunday night. His room was really a dressing-room attached to her own bedroom, communicating with it by a door which was usually kept open during the night. Both dressing-room and bedroom were entered by other doors giving on the passage. Her husband had always had a preference for the greatest simplicity in his bedroom arrangements, and liked to sleep in a small room. She had not been awake when he came up, but had been half-aroused, as usually happened, when the light was switched on in her husband's room. She had spoken to him. She had no clear recollection of what she had said, as she had been very drowsy at the time; but she had remembered that he had been out for a moonlight run in the car, and she believed she had asked whether he had had a good run, and what time it was. She had asked what the time was because she felt as if she had only been a very short time asleep, and she had expected her husband to be out very late. In answer to her question he had told her it was half-past eleven, and had gone on to say that he had changed his mind about going for a run. "Did he say why?" the coroner asked. "Yes," replied the lady, "he did explain why. I remember very well what he said, because—" she stopped with a little appearance of confusion. "Because—" the coroner insisted gently. "Because my husband was not as a rule communicative about his business affairs," answered the witness, raising her chin with a faint touch of defiance. "He did not—did not think they would interest me, and as a rule referred to them as little as possible. That was why I was rather surprised when he told me that he had sent Mr. Marlowe to Southampton to bring back some important information from a man who was leaving for Paris by the next day's boat. He said that Mr. Marlowe could do it quite easily if he had no accident. He said that he had started in the car, and then walked back home a mile or so, and felt all the better for it." "Did he say any more?" "Nothing, as well as I remember," the witness said. "I was very sleepy, and I dropped off again in a few moments. I just remember my husband turning his light out, and that is all. I never saw him again alive." "And you heard nothing in the night?" "No: I never woke until my maid brought my tea in the morning at seven o'clock. She closed the door leading to my husband's room, as she always did, and I supposed him to be still there. He always needed a great deal of sleep. He sometimes slept until quite late in the morning. I had breakfast in my sitting-room. It was about ten when I heard that my husband's body had been found." The witness dropped her head and silently waited for her dismissal. But it was not to be yet. "Mrs. Manderson." The coroner's voice was sympathetic, but it had a hint of firmness in it now. "The question I am going to put to you must, in these sad circumstances, be a painful one; but it is my duty to ask it. Is it the fact that your relations with your late husband had not been, for some time past, relations of mutual affection and confidence? Is it the fact that there was an estrangement between you?" The lady drew herself up again and faced her questioner, the colour rising in her cheeks. "If that question is necessary," she said with cold distinctness, "I will answer it so that there shall be no misunderstanding. During the last few months of my husband's life his attitude towards me had given me great anxiety and sorrow. He had changed towards me; he had become very reserved, and seemed mistrustful. I saw much less of him than before; he seemed to prefer to be alone. I can give no explanation at all of the change. I tried to work against it; I did all I could with justice to my own dignity, as I thought. Something was between us, I did not know what, and he never told me. My own obstinate pride prevented me from asking what it was in so many words; I only made a point of being to him exactly as I had always been, so far as he would allow me. I suppose I shall never know now what it was." The witness, whose voice had trembled in spite of her self-control over the last few sentences, drew down her veil when she had said this, and stood erect and quiet. One of the jury asked a question, not without obvious hesitation. "Then was there never anything of the nature of what they call Words between you and your husband, ma'am?" "Never." The word was colourlessly spoken; but every one felt that a crass misunderstanding of the possibilities of conduct in the case of a person like Mrs. Manderson had been visited with some severity. Did she know, the coroner asked, of any other matter which might have been preying upon her husband's mind recently? Mrs. Manderson knew of none whatever. The coroner intimated that her ordeal was at an end, and the veiled lady made her way to the door. The general attention, which followed her for a few moments, was now eagerly directed upon Martin, whom the coroner had proceeded to call. It was at this moment that Trent appeared at the doorway and edged his way into the great room. But he did not look at Martin. He was observing the well-balanced figure that came quickly toward him along an opening path in the crowd, and his eye was gloomy. He started, as he stood aside from the door with a slight bow, to hear Mrs. Manderson address him by name in a low voice. He followed her a pace or two into the hall. "I wanted to ask you," she said in a voice now weak and oddly broken, "if you would give me your arm a part of the way to the house. I could not see my uncle near the door, and I suddenly felt rather faint.... I shall be better in the air.... No, no; I cannot stay here—please, Mr. Trent!" she said, as he began to make an obvious suggestion. "I must go to the house." Her hand tightened momentarily on his arm as if, for all her weakness, she could drag him from the place; then again she leaned heavily upon it, and with that support, and with bent head, she walked slowly from the hotel and along the oak-shaded path toward White Gables. Trent went in silence, his thoughts whirling, dancing insanely to a chorus of "Fool! fool!" All that he alone knew, all that he guessed and suspected of this affair, rushed through his brain in a rout; but the touch of her unnerved hand upon his arm never for an instant left his consciousness, filling him with an exaltation that enraged and bewildered him. He was still cursing himself furiously behind the mask of conventional solicitude that he turned to the lady when he had attended her to the house and seen her sink upon a couch in the morning-room. Raising her veil, she thanked him gravely and frankly, with a look of sincere gratitude in her eyes. She was much better now, she said, and a cup of tea would work a miracle upon her. She hoped she had not taken him away from anything important. She was ashamed of herself; she thought she could go through with it, but she had not expected those last questions. "I am glad you did not hear me," she said when he explained. "But of course you will read it all in the reports. It shook me so to have to speak of that," she added simply; "and to keep from making an exhibition of myself took it out of me. And all those staring men by the door! Thank you again for helping me when I asked you.... I thought I might," she ended queerly, with a little tired smile; and Trent took himself away, his hand still quivering from the cool touch of her fingers. The testimony of the servants and of the finder of the body brought nothing new to the reporters' net. That of the police was as colourless and cryptic as is usual at the inquest stage of affairs of the kind. Greatly to the satisfaction of Mr. Bunner, his evidence afforded the sensation of the day, and threw far into the background the interesting revelation of domestic difficulty made by the dead man's wife. He told the court in substance what he had already told Trent. The flying pencils did not miss a word of the young American's story, and it appeared with scarcely the omission of a sentence in every journal of importance in Great Britain and the United States. Public opinion next day took no note of the faint suggestion of the possibility of suicide which the coroner, in his final address to the jury, had thought it right to make in connection with the lady's evidence. The weight of evidence, as the official had indeed pointed out, was against such a theory. He had referred with emphasis to the fact that no weapon had been found near the body. "This question, of course, is all-important, gentlemen," he had said to the jury. "It is, in fact, the main issue before you. You have seen the body for yourselves. You have just heard the medical evidence; but I think it would be well for me to read you my notes of it in so far as they bear on this point, in order to refresh your memories. Dr Stock told you—I am going to omit all technical medical language and repeat to you merely the plain English of his testimony—that in his opinion death had taken place six or eight hours previous to the finding of the body. He said that the cause of death was a bullet wound, the bullet having entered the left eye, which was destroyed, and made its way to the base of the brain, which was quite shattered. The external appearance of the wound, he said, did not support the hypothesis of its being self-inflicted, inasmuch as there were no signs of the firearm having been pressed against the eye, or even put very close to it; at the same time it was not physically impossible that the weapon should have been discharged by the deceased with his own hand, at some small distance from the eye. Dr Stock also told us that it was impossible to say with certainty, from the state of the body, whether any struggle had taken place at the time of death; that when seen by him, at which time he understood that it had not been moved since it was found, the body was lying in a collapsed position such as might very well result from the shot alone; but that the scratches and bruises upon the wrists and the lower part of the arms had been very recently inflicted, and were, in his opinion, marks of violence. "In connection with this same point, the remarkable evidence given by Mr Bunner cannot be regarded, I think, as without significance. It may have come as a surprise to some of you to hear that risks of the character described by this witness are, in his own country, commonly run by persons in the position of the deceased. On the other hand, it may have been within the knowledge of some of you that in the industrial world of America the discontent of labour often proceeds to lengths of which we in England happily know nothing. I have interrogated the witness somewhat fully upon this. At the same time, gentlemen, I am by no means suggesting that Mr. Bunner's personal conjecture as to the cause of death can fitly be adopted by you. That is emphatically not the case. What his evidence does is to raise two questions for your consideration. First, can it be said that the deceased was to any extent in the position of a threatened man—of a man more exposed to the danger of murderous attack than an ordinary person? Second, does the recent alteration in his demeanour, as described by this witness, justify the belief that his last days were overshadowed by a great anxiety? These points may legitimately be considered by you in arriving at a conclusion upon the rest of the evidence." Thereupon the coroner, having indicated thus clearly his opinion that Mr Bunner had hit the right nail on the head, desired the jury to consider their verdict. # Chapter IX. A Hot Scent "Come in!" called Trent. Mr. Cupples entered his sitting-room at the hotel. It was the early evening of the day on which the coroner's jury, without leaving the box, had pronounced the expected denunciation of a person or persons unknown. Trent, with a hasty glance upward, continued his intent study of what lay in a photographic dish of enamelled metal, which he moved slowly about in the light of the window. He looked very pale, and his movements were nervous. "Sit on the sofa," he advised. "The chairs are a job lot bought at the sale after the suppression of the Holy Inquisition in Spain. This is a pretty good negative," he went on, holding it up to the light with his head at the angle of discriminating judgement. "Washed enough now, I think. Let us leave it to dry, and get rid of all this mess." Mr. Cupples, as the other busily cleared the table of a confusion of basins, dishes, racks, boxes, and bottles, picked up first one and then another of the objects and studied them with innocent curiosity. "That is called hypo-eliminator," said Trent, as Mr. Cupples uncorked and smelt at one of the bottles. "Very useful when you're in a hurry with a negative. I shouldn't drink it, though, all the same. It eliminates sodium hypophosphite, but I shouldn't wonder if it would eliminate human beings too." He found a place for the last of the litter on the crowded mantel-shelf, and came to sit before Mr. Cupples on the table. "The great thing about a hotel sitting-room is that its beauty does not distract the mind from work. It is no place for the mayfly pleasures of a mind at ease. Have you ever been in this room before, Cupples? I have, hundreds of times. It has pursued me all over England for years. I should feel lost without it if, in some fantastic, far-off hotel, they were to give me some other sitting-room. Look at this table-cover; there is the ink I spilt on it when I had this room in Halifax. I burnt that hole in the carpet when I had it in Ipswich. But I see they have mended the glass over the picture of ‘Silent Sympathy', which I threw a boot at in Banbury. I do all my best work here. This afternoon, for instance, since the inquest, I have finished several excellent negatives. There is a very good dark room downstairs." "The inquest—that reminds me," said Mr. Cupples, who knew that this sort of talk in Trent meant the excitement of action, and was wondering what he could be about. "I came in to thank you, my dear fellow, for looking after Mabel this morning. I had no idea she was going to feel ill after leaving the box; she seemed quite unmoved, and, really, she is a woman of such extraordinary self-command, I thought I could leave her to her own devices and hear out the evidence, which I thought it important I should do. It was a very fortunate thing she found a friend to assist her, and she is most grateful. She is quite herself again now." Trent, with his hands in his pockets and a slight frown on his brow, made no reply to this. "I tell you what," he said after a short pause, "I was just getting to the really interesting part of the job when you came in. Come; would you like to see a little bit of high-class police work? It's the very same kind of work that old Murch ought to be doing at this moment. Perhaps he is; but I hope to glory he isn't." He sprang off the table and disappeared into his bedroom. Presently he came out with a large drawing-board on which a number of heterogeneous objects was ranged. "First I must introduce you to these little things," he said, setting them out on the table. "Here is a big ivory paper-knife; here are two leaves cut out of a diary—my own diary; here is a bottle containing dentifrice; here is a little case of polished walnut. Some of these things have to be put back where they belong in somebody's bedroom at White Gables before night. That's the sort of man I am—nothing stops me. I borrowed them this very morning when every one was down at the inquest, and I dare say some people would think it rather an odd proceeding if they knew. Now there remains one object on the board. Can you tell me, without touching it, what it is?" "Certainly I can," said Mr. Cupples, peering at it with great interest. "It is an ordinary glass bowl. It looks like a finger-bowl. I see nothing odd about it," he added after some moments of close scrutiny. "I can't see much myself," replied Trent, "and that is exactly where the fun comes in. Now take this little fat bottle, Cupples, and pull out the cork. Do you recognize that powder inside it? You have swallowed pounds of it in your time, I expect. They give it to babies. Grey powder is its ordinary name—mercury and chalk. It is great stuff. Now, while I hold the basin sideways over this sheet of paper, I want you to pour a little powder out of the bottle over this part of the bowl—just here.... Perfect! Sir Edward Henry himself could not have handled the powder better. You have done this before, Cupples, I can see. You are an old hand." "I really am not," said Mr. Cupples seriously, as Trent returned the fallen powder to the bottle. "I assure you it is all a complete mystery to me. What did I do then?" "I brush the powdered part of the bowl lightly with this camel-hair brush. Now look at it again. You saw nothing odd about it before. Do you see anything now?" Mr. Cupples peered again. "How curious!" he said. "Yes, there are two large grey finger-marks on the bowl. They were not there before." "I am Hawkshaw the detective," observed Trent. "Would it interest you to hear a short lecture on the subject of glass finger-bowls? When you take one up with your hand you leave traces upon it, usually practically invisible, which may remain for days or months. You leave the marks of your fingers. The human hand, even when quite clean, is never quite dry, and sometimes—in moments of great anxiety, for instance, Cupples—it is very moist. It leaves a mark on any cold smooth surface it may touch. That bowl was moved by somebody with a rather moist hand quite lately." He sprinkled the powder again. "Here on the other side, you see, is the thumb-mark—very good impressions all of them." He spoke without raising his voice, but Mr. Cupples could perceive that he was ablaze with excitement as he stared at the faint grey marks. "This one should be the index finger. I need not tell a man of your knowledge of the world that the pattern of it is a single-spiral whorl, with deltas symmetrically disposed. This, the print of the second finger, is a simple loop, with a staple core and fifteen counts. I know there are fifteen, because I have just the same two prints on this negative, which I have examined in detail. Look!"—he held one of the negatives up to the light of the declining sun and demonstrated with a pencil point. "You can see they're the same. You see the bifurcation of that ridge. There it is in the other. You see that little scar near the centre. There it is in the other. There are a score of ridge-characteristics on which an expert would swear in the witness-box that the marks on that bowl and the marks I have photographed on this negative were made by the same hand." "And where did you photograph them? What does it all mean?" asked Mr Cupples, wide-eyed. "I found them on the inside of the left-hand leaf of the front window in Mrs. Manderson's bedroom. As I could not bring the window with me, I photographed them, sticking a bit of black paper on the other side of the glass for the purpose. The bowl comes from Manderson's room. It is the bowl in which his false teeth were placed at night. I could bring that away, so I did." "But those cannot be Mabel's finger-marks." "I should think not!" said Trent with decision. "They are twice the size of any print Mrs. Manderson could make." "Then they must be her husband's." "Perhaps they are. Now shall we see if we can match them once more? I believe we can." Whistling faintly, and very white in the face, Trent opened another small squat bottle containing a dense black powder. "Lamp-black," he explained. "Hold a bit of paper in your hand for a second or two, and this little chap will show you the pattern of your fingers." He carefully took up with a pair of tweezers one of the leaves cut from his diary, and held it out for the other to examine. No marks appeared on the leaf. He tilted some of the powder out upon one surface of the paper, then, turning it over, upon the other; then shook the leaf gently to rid it of the loose powder. He held it out to Mr. Cupples in silence. On one side of the paper appeared unmistakably, clearly printed in black, the same two finger-prints that he had already seen on the bowl and on the photographic plate. He took up the bowl and compared them. Trent turned the paper over, and on the other side was a bold black replica of the thumb-mark that was printed in grey on the glass in his hand. "Same man, you see," Trent said with a short laugh. "I felt that it must be so, and now I know." He walked to the window and looked out. "Now I know," he repeated in a low voice, as if to himself. His tone was bitter. Mr. Cupples, understanding nothing, stared at his motionless back for a few moments. "I am still completely in the dark," he ventured presently. "I have often heard of this fingerprint business, and wondered how the police went to work about it. It is of extraordinary interest to me, but upon my life I cannot see how in this case Manderson's fingerprints are going—" "I am very sorry, Cupples," Trent broke in upon his meditative speech with a swift return to the table. "When I began this investigation I meant to take you with me every step of the way. You mustn't think I have any doubts about your discretion if I say now that I must hold my tongue about the whole thing, at least for a time. I will tell you this: I have come upon a fact that looks too much like having very painful consequences if it is discovered by any one else." He looked at the other with a hard and darkened face, and struck the table with his hand. "It is terrible for me here and now. Up to this moment I was hoping against hope that I was wrong about the fact. I may still be wrong in the surmise that I base upon that fact. There is only one way of finding out that is open to me, and I must nerve myself to take it." He smiled suddenly at Mr. Cupples's face of consternation. "All right—I'm not going to be tragic any more, and I'll tell you all about it when I can. Look here, I'm not half through my game with the powder-bottles yet." He drew one of the defamed chairs to the table and sat down to test the broad ivory blade of the paper knife. Mr. Cupples, swallowing his amazement, bent forward in an attitude of deep interest and handed Trent the bottle of lamp-black. # Chapter X. The Wife of Dives Mrs. Manderson stood at the window of her sitting-room at White Gables gazing out upon a wavering landscape of fine rain and mist. The weather had broken as it seldom does in that part in June. White wreathings drifted up the fields from the sullen sea; the sky was an unbroken grey deadness shedding pin-point moisture that was now and then blown against the panes with a crepitation of despair. The lady looked out on the dim and chilling prospect with a woeful face. It was a bad day for a woman bereaved, alone, and without a purpose in life. There was a knock, and she called "Come in," drawing herself up with an unconscious gesture that always came when she realized that the weariness of the world had been gaining upon her spirit. Mr. Trent had called, the maid said; he apologized for coming at such an early hour, but hoped that Mrs. Manderson would see him on a matter of urgent importance. Mrs Manderson would see Mr. Trent. She walked to a mirror, looked into the olive face she saw reflected there, shook her head at herself with the flicker of a grimace, and turned to the door as Trent was shown in. His appearance, she noted, was changed. He had the jaded look of the sleepless, and a new and reserved expression, in which her quick sensibilities felt something not propitious, took the place of his half smile of fixed good-humour. "May I come to the point at once?" he said, when she had given him her hand. "There is a train I ought to catch at Bishopsbridge at twelve o'clock, but I cannot go until I have settled this thing, which concerns you only, Mrs. Manderson. I have been working half the night and thinking the rest; and I know now what I ought to do." "You look wretchedly tired," she said kindly. "Won't you sit down? This is a very restful chair. Of course it is about this terrible business and your work as correspondent. Please ask me anything you think I can properly tell you, Mr. Trent. I know that you won't make it worse for me than you can help in doing your duty here. If you say you must see me about something, I know it must be because, as you say, you ought to do it." "Mrs. Manderson," said Trent, slowly measuring his words, "I won't make it worse for you than I can help. But I am bound to make it bad for you—only between ourselves, I hope. As to whether you can properly tell me what I shall ask you, you will decide that; but I tell you this on my word of honour: I shall ask you only as much as will decide me whether to publish or to withhold certain grave things that I have found out about your husband's death, things not suspected by any one else, nor, I think, likely to be so. What I have discovered—what I believe that I have practically proved—will be a great shock to you in any case. But it may be worse for you than that; and if you give me reason to think it would be so, then I shall suppress this manuscript," he laid a long envelope on the small table beside him, "and nothing of what it has to tell shall ever be printed. It consists, I may tell you, of a short private note to my editor, followed by a long dispatch for publication in the _Record_. Now you may refuse to say anything to me. If you do refuse, my duty to my employers, as I see it, is to take this up to London with me today and leave it with my editor to be dealt with at his discretion. My view is, you understand, that I am not entitled to suppress it on the strength of a mere possibility that presents itself to my imagination. But if I gather from you—and I can gather it from no other person—that there is substance in that imaginary possibility I speak of, then I have only one thing to do as a gentleman and as one who"—he hesitated for a phrase—"wishes you well. I shall not publish that dispatch of mine. In some directions I decline to assist the police. Have you followed me so far?" he asked with a touch of anxiety in his careful coldness; for her face, but for its pallor, gave no sign as she regarded him, her hands clasped before her, and her shoulders drawn back in a pose of rigid calm. She looked precisely as she had looked at the inquest. "I understand quite well," said Mrs. Manderson in a low voice. She drew a deep breath, and went on: "I don't know what dreadful thing you have found out, or what the possibility that has occurred to you can be, but it was good, it was honourable of you to come to me about it. Now will you please tell me?" "I cannot do that," Trent replied. "The secret is my newspaper's if it is not yours. If I find it is yours, you shall have my manuscript to read and destroy. Believe me," he broke out with something of his old warmth, "I detest such mystery-making from the bottom of my soul; but it is not I who have made this mystery. This is the most painful hour of my life, and you make it worse by not treating me like a hound. The first thing I ask you to tell me," he reverted with an effort to his colourless tone, "is this: is it true, as you stated at the inquest, that you had no idea at all of the reason why your late husband had changed his attitude toward you, and become mistrustful and reserved, during the last few months of his life?" Mrs. Manderson's dark brows lifted and her eyes flamed; she quickly rose from her chair. Trent got up at the same moment, and took his envelope from the table; his manner said that he perceived the interview to be at an end. But she held up a hand, and there was colour in her cheeks and quick breathing in her voice as she said: "Do you know what you ask, Mr Trent? You ask me if I perjured myself." "I do," he answered unmoved; and he added after a pause, "you knew already that I had not come here to preserve the polite fictions, Mrs. Manderson. The theory that no reputable person, being on oath, could withhold a part of the truth under any circumstances is a polite fiction." He still stood as awaiting dismissal, but she was silent. She walked to the window, and he stood miserably watching the slight movement of her shoulders until it subsided. Then with face averted, looking out on the dismal weather, she spoke at last clearly. "Mr. Trent," she said, "you inspire confidence in people, and I feel that things which I don't want known or talked about are safe with you. And I know you must have a very serious reason for doing what you are doing, though I don't know what it is. I suppose it would be assisting justice in some way if I told you the truth about what you asked just now. To understand that truth you ought to know about what went before—I mean about my marriage. After all, a good many people could tell you as well as I can that it was not... a very successful union. I was only twenty. I admired his force and courage and certainty; he was the only strong man I had ever known. But it did not take me long to find out that he cared for his business more than for me, and I think I found out even sooner that I had been deceiving myself and blinding myself, promising myself impossible things and wilfully misunderstanding my own feelings, because I was dazzled by the idea of having more money to spend than an English girl ever dreams of. I have been despising myself for that for five years. My husband's feeling for me... well, I cannot speak of that... what I want to say is that along with it there had always been a belief of his that I was the sort of woman to take a great place in society, and that I should throw myself into it with enjoyment, and become a sort of personage and do him great credit—that was his idea; and the idea remained with him after other delusions had gone. I was a part of his ambition. That was his really bitter disappointment, that I failed him as a social success. I think he was too shrewd not to have known in his heart that such a man as he was, twenty years older than I, with great business responsibilities that filled every hour of his life, and caring for nothing else—he must have felt that there was a risk of great unhappiness in marrying the sort of girl I was, brought up to music and books and unpractical ideas, always enjoying myself in my own way. But he had really reckoned on me as a wife who would do the honours of his position in the world; and I found I couldn't." Mrs. Manderson had talked herself into a more emotional mood than she had yet shown to Trent. Her words flowed freely, and her voice had begun to ring and give play to a natural expressiveness that must hitherto have been dulled, he thought, by the shock and self-restraint of the past few days. Now she turned swiftly from the window and faced him as she went on, her beautiful face flushed and animated, her eyes gleaming, her hands moving in slight emphatic gestures, as she surrendered herself to the impulse of giving speech to things long pent up. "The people," she said. "Oh, those people! Can you imagine what it must be for any one who has lived in a world where there was always creative work in the background, work with some dignity about it, men and women with professions or arts to follow, with ideals and things to believe in and quarrel about, some of them wealthy, some of them quite poor; can you think what it means to step out of that into another world where you _have_ to be very rich, shamefully rich, to exist at all—where money is the only thing that counts and the first thing in everybody's thoughts—where the men who make the millions are so jaded by the work, that sport is the only thing they can occupy themselves with when they have any leisure, and the men who don't have to work are even duller than the men who do, and vicious as well; and the women live for display and silly amusements and silly immoralities; do you know how awful that life is? Of course I know there are clever people, and people of taste in that set, but they're swamped and spoiled, and it's the same thing in the end; empty, empty! Oh! I suppose I'm exaggerating, and I did make friends and have some happy times; but that's how I feel after it all. The seasons in New York and London—how I hated them! And our house-parties and cruises in the yacht and the rest—the same people, the same emptiness. "And you see, don't you, that my husband couldn't have an idea of all this. _His_ life was never empty. He did not live it in society, and when he was in society he had always his business plans and difficulties to occupy his mind. He hadn't a suspicion of what I felt, and I never let him know; I couldn't, it wouldn't have been fair. I felt I must do _something_ to justify myself as his wife, sharing his position and fortune; and the only thing I could do was to try, and try, to live up to his idea about my social qualities... I did try. I acted my best. And it became harder year by year... I never was what they call a popular hostess, how could I be? I was a failure; but I went on trying... I used to steal holidays now and then. I used to feel as if I was not doing my part of a bargain—it sounds horrid to put it like that, I know, but it _was_ so—when I took one of my old school-friends, who couldn't afford to travel, away to Italy for a month or two, and we went about cheaply all by ourselves, and were quite happy; or when I went and made a long stay in London with some quiet people who had known me all my life, and we all lived just as in the old days, when we had to think twice about seats at the theatre, and told each other about cheap dressmakers. Those and a few other expeditions of the same sort were my best times after I was married, and they helped me to go through with it the rest of the time. But I felt my husband would have hated to know how much I enjoyed every hour of those returns to the old life. "And in the end, in spite of everything I could do, he came to know.... He could see through anything, I think, once his attention was turned to it. He had always been able to see that I was not fulfilling his idea of me as a figure in the social world, and I suppose he thought it was my misfortune rather than my fault. But the moment he began to see, in spite of my pretending, that I wasn't playing my part with any spirit, he knew the whole story; he divined how I loathed and was weary of the luxury and the brilliancy and the masses of money just because of the people who lived among them—who were made so by them, I suppose.... It happened last year. I don't know just how or when. It may have been suggested to him by some woman—for _they_ all understood, of course. He said nothing to me, and I think he tried not to change in his manner to me at first; but such things hurt—and it was working in both of us. I knew that he knew. After a time we were just being polite and considerate to each other. Before he found me out we had been on a footing of—how can I express it to you?—of intelligent companionship, I might say. We talked without restraint of many things of the kind we could agree or disagree about without its going very deep... if you understand. And then that came to an end. I felt that the only possible basis of our living in each other's company was going under my feet. And at last it was gone. "It had been like that," she ended simply, "for months before he died." She sank into the corner of a sofa by the window, as though relaxing her body after an effort. For a few moments both were silent. Trent was hastily sorting out a tangle of impressions. He was amazed at the frankness of Mrs. Manderson's story. He was amazed at the vigorous expressiveness in her telling of it. In this vivid being, carried away by an impulse to speak, talking with her whole personality, he had seen the real woman in a temper of activity, as he had already seen the real woman by chance in a temper of reverie and unguarded emotion. In both she was very unlike the pale, self-disciplined creature of majesty that she had been to the world. With that amazement of his went something like terror of her dark beauty, which excitement kindled into an appearance scarcely mortal in his eyes. Incongruously there rushed into his mind, occupied as it was with the affair of the moment, a little knot of ideas... she was unique not because of her beauty but because of its being united with intensity of nature; in England all the very beautiful women were placid, all the fiery women seemed to have burnt up the best of their beauty; that was why no beautiful woman had ever cast this sort of spell on him before; when it was a question of wit in women he had preferred the brighter flame to the duller, without much regarding the lamp. "All this is very disputable," said his reason; and instinct answered, "Yes, except that I am under a spell"; and a deeper instinct cried out, "Away with it!" He forced his mind back to her story, and found growing swiftly in him an irrepressible conviction. It was all very fine; but it would not do. "I feel as if I had led you into saying more than you meant to say, or than I wanted to learn," he said slowly. "But there is one brutal question which is the whole point of my enquiry." He braced his frame like one preparing for a plunge into cold waters. "Mrs. Manderson, will you assure me that your husband's change toward you had nothing to do with John Marlowe?" And what he had dreaded came. "Oh!" she cried with a sound of anguish, her face thrown up and open hands stretched out as if for pity; and then the hands covered the burning face, and she flung herself aside among the cushions at her elbow, so that he saw nothing but her heavy crown of black hair, and her body moving with sobs that stabbed his heart, and a foot turned inward gracelessly in an abandonment of misery. Like a tall tower suddenly breaking apart she had fallen in ruins, helplessly weeping. Trent stood up, his face white and calm. With a senseless particularity he placed his envelope exactly in the centre of the little polished table. He walked to the door, closed it noiselessly as he went out, and in a few minutes was tramping through the rain out of sight of White Gables, going nowhere, seeing nothing, his soul shaken in the fierce effort to kill and trample the raving impulse that had seized him in the presence of her shame, that clamoured to him to drag himself before her feet, to pray for pardon, to pour out words—he knew not what words, but he knew that they had been straining at his lips—to wreck his self-respect for ever, and hopelessly defeat even the crazy purpose that had almost possessed him, by drowning her wretchedness in disgust, by babbling with the tongue of infatuation to a woman with a husband not yet buried, to a woman who loved another man. Such was the magic of her tears, quickening in a moment the thing which, as his heart had known, he must not let come to life. For Philip Trent was a young man, younger in nature even than his years, and a way of life that kept his edge keen and his spirit volcanic had prepared him very ill for the meeting that comes once in the early manhood of most of us, usually—as in his case, he told himself harshly—to no purpose but the testing of virtue and the power of the will. # Chapter XI. Hitherto Unpublished My Dear Molloy:—This is in case I don't find you at your office. I have found out who killed Manderson, as this dispatch will show. This was my problem; yours is to decide what use to make of it. It definitely charges an unsuspected person with having a hand in the crime, and practically accuses him of being the murderer, so I don't suppose you will publish it before his arrest, and I believe it is illegal to do so afterwards until he has been tried and found guilty. You may decide to publish it then; and you may find it possible to make some use or other before then of the facts I have given. That is your affair. Meanwhile, will you communicate with Scotland Yard, and let them see what I have written? I have done with the Manderson mystery, and I wish to God I had never touched it. Here follows my dispatch. P.T. Marlstone, _June_ 16_th_. I begin this, my third and probably my final dispatch to the _Record_ upon the Manderson murder, with conflicting feelings. I have a strong sense of relief, because in my two previous dispatches I was obliged, in the interests of justice, to withhold facts ascertained by me which would, if published then, have put a certain person upon his guard and possibly have led to his escape; for he is a man of no common boldness and resource. These facts I shall now set forth. But I have, I confess, no liking for the story of treachery and perverted cleverness which I have to tell. It leaves an evil taste in the mouth, a savour of something revolting in the deeper puzzle of motive underlying the puzzle of the crime itself, which I believe I have solved. It will be remembered that in my first dispatch I described the situation as I found it on reaching this place early on Tuesday morning. I told how the body was found, and in what state; dwelt upon the complete mystery surrounding the crime, and mentioned one or two local theories about it; gave some account of the dead man's domestic surroundings; and furnished a somewhat detailed description of his movements on the evening before his death. I gave, too, a little fact which may or may not have seemed irrelevant: that a quantity of whisky much larger than Manderson habitually drank at night had disappeared from his private decanter since the last time he was seen alive. On the following day, the day of the inquest, I wired little more than an abstract of the proceedings in the coroner's court, of which a verbatim report was made at my request by other representatives of the _Record_. That day is not yet over as I write these lines; and I have now completed an investigation which has led me directly to the man who must be called upon to clear himself of the guilt of the death of Manderson. Apart from the central mystery of Manderson's having arisen long before his usual hour to go out and meet his death, there were two minor points of oddity about this affair which, I suppose, must have occurred to thousands of those who have read the accounts in the newspapers: points apparent from the very beginning. The first of these was that, whereas the body was found at a spot not thirty yards from the house, all the people of the house declared that they had heard no cry or other noise in the night. Manderson had not been gagged; the marks on his wrists pointed to a struggle with his assailant; and there had been at least one pistol-shot. (I say at least one, because it is the fact that in murders with firearms, especially if there has been a struggle, the criminal commonly misses his victim at least once.) This odd fact seemed all the more odd to me when I learned that Martin the butler was a bad sleeper, very keen of hearing, and that his bedroom, with the window open, faced almost directly toward the shed by which the body was found. The second odd little fact that was apparent from the outset was Manderson's leaving his dental plate by the bedside. It appeared that he had risen and dressed himself fully, down to his necktie and watch and chain, and had gone out of doors without remembering to put in this plate, which he had carried in his mouth every day for years, and which contained all the visible teeth of the upper jaw. It had evidently not been a case of frantic hurry; and even if it had been, he would have been more likely to forget almost anything than this denture. Any one who wears such a removable plate will agree that the putting it in on rising is a matter of second nature. Speaking as well as eating, to say nothing of appearances, depend upon it. Neither of these queer details, however, seemed to lead to anything at the moment. They only awakened in me a suspicion of something lurking in the shadows, something that lent more mystery to the already mysterious question how and why and through whom Manderson met his end. With this much of preamble I come at once to the discovery which, in the first few hours of my investigation, set me upon the path which so much ingenuity had been directed to concealing. I have already described Manderson's bedroom, the rigorous simplicity of its furnishing, contrasted so strangely with the multitude of clothes and shoes, and the manner of its communication with Mrs. Manderson's room. On the upper of the two long shelves on which the shoes were ranged I found, where I had been told I should find them, the pair of patent leather shoes which Manderson had worn on the evening before his death. I had glanced over the row, not with any idea of their giving me a clue, but merely because it happens that I am a judge of shoes, and all these shoes were of the very best workmanship. But my attention was at once caught by a little peculiarity in this particular pair. They were the lightest kind of lace-up dress shoes, very thin in the sole, without toe-caps, and beautifully made, like all the rest. These shoes were old and well worn; but being carefully polished, and fitted, as all the shoes were, upon their trees, they looked neat enough. What caught my eye was a slight splitting of the leather in that part of the upper known as the vamp—a splitting at the point where the two laced parts of the shoe rise from the upper. It is at this point that the strain comes when a tight shoe of this sort is forced upon the foot, and it is usually guarded with a strong stitching across the bottom of the opening. In both the shoes I was examining this stitching had parted, and the leather below had given way. The splitting was a tiny affair in each case, not an eighth of an inch long, and the torn edges having come together again on the removal of the strain, there was nothing that a person who was not something of a connoisseur of shoe-leather would have noticed. Even less noticeable, and indeed not to be seen at all unless one were looking for it, was a slight straining of the stitches uniting the upper to the sole. At the toe and on the outer side of each shoe this stitching had been dragged until it was visible on a close inspection of the join. These indications, of course, could mean only one thing—the shoes had been worn by some one for whom they were too small. Now it was clear at a glance that Manderson was always thoroughly well shod, and careful, perhaps a little vain, of his small and narrow feet. Not one of the other shoes in the collection, as I soon ascertained, bore similar marks; they had not belonged to a man who squeezed himself into tight shoe-leather. Someone who was not Manderson had worn these shoes, and worn them recently; the edges of the tears were quite fresh. The possibility of some one having worn them since Manderson's death was not worth considering; the body had only been found about twenty-six hours when I was examining the shoes; besides, why should any one wear them? The possibility of some one having borrowed Manderson's shoes and spoiled them for him while he was alive seemed about as negligible. With others to choose from he would not have worn these. Besides, the only men in the place were the butler and the two secretaries. But I do not say that I gave those possibilities even as much consideration as they deserved, for my thoughts were running away with me, and I have always found it good policy, in cases of this sort, to let them have their heads. Ever since I had got out of the train at Marlstone early that morning I had been steeped in details of the Manderson affair; the thing had not once been out of my head. Suddenly the moment had come when the daemon wakes and begins to range. Let me put it less fancifully. After all, it is a detail of psychology familiar enough to all whose business or inclination brings them in contact with difficult affairs of any kind. Swiftly and spontaneously, when chance or effort puts one in possession of the key-fact in any system of baffling circumstances, one's ideas seem to rush to group themselves anew in relation to that fact, so that they are suddenly rearranged almost before one has consciously grasped the significance of the key-fact itself. In the present instance, my brain had scarcely formulated within itself the thought, "Somebody who was not Manderson has been wearing these shoes," when there flew into my mind a flock of ideas, all of the same character and all bearing upon this new notion. It was unheard-of for Manderson to drink much whisky at night. It was very unlike him to be untidily dressed, as the body was when found—the cuffs dragged up inside the sleeves, the shoes unevenly laced; very unlike him not to wash when he rose, and to put on last night's evening shirt and collar and underclothing; very unlike him to have his watch in the waistcoat pocket that was not lined with leather for its reception. (In my first dispatch I mentioned all these points, but neither I nor any one else saw anything significant in them when examining the body.) It was very strange, in the existing domestic situation, that Manderson should be communicative to his wife about his doings, especially at the time of his going to bed, when he seldom spoke to her at all. It was extraordinary that Manderson should leave his bedroom without his false teeth. All these thoughts, as I say, came flocking into my mind together, drawn from various parts of my memory of the morning's enquiries and observations. They had all presented themselves, in far less time than it takes to read them as set down here, as I was turning over the shoes, confirming my own certainty on the main point. And yet when I confronted the definite idea that had sprung up suddenly and unsupported before me—"_It was not Manderson who was in the house that night_"—it seemed a stark absurdity at the first formulating. It was certainly Manderson who had dined at the house and gone out with Marlowe in the car. People had seen him at close quarters. But was it he who returned at ten? That question too seemed absurd enough. But I could not set it aside. It seemed to me as if a faint light was beginning to creep over the whole expanse of my mind, as it does over land at dawn, and that presently the sun would be rising. I set myself to think over, one by one, the points that had just occurred to me, so as to make out, if possible, why any man masquerading as Manderson should have done these things that Manderson would not have done. I had not to cast about very long for the motive a man might have in forcing his feet into Manderson's narrow shoes. The examination of footmarks is very well understood by the police. But not only was the man concerned to leave no footmarks of his own: he was concerned to leave Manderson's, if any; his whole plan, if my guess was right, must have been directed to producing the belief that Manderson was in the place that night. Moreover, his plan did not turn upon leaving footmarks. He meant to leave the shoes themselves, and he did so. The maidservant had found them outside the bedroom door, as Manderson always left his shoes, and had polished them, replacing them on the shoe-shelves later in the morning, after the body had been found. When I came to consider in this new light the leaving of the false teeth, an explanation of what had seemed the maddest part of the affair broke upon me at once. A dental plate is not inseparable from its owner. If my guess was right, the unknown had brought the denture to the house with him, and left it in the bedroom, with the same object as he had in leaving the shoes: to make it impossible that any one should doubt that Manderson had been in the house and had gone to bed there. This, of course, led me to the inference that _Manderson was dead before the false Manderson came to the house_; and other things confirmed this. For instance, the clothing, to which I now turned in my review of the position. If my guess was right, the unknown in Manderson's shoes had certainly had possession of Manderson's trousers, waistcoat, and shooting jacket. They were there before my eyes in the bedroom; and Martin had seen the jacket—which nobody could have mistaken—upon the man who sat at the telephone in the library. It was now quite plain (if my guess was right) that this unmistakable garment was a cardinal feature of the unknown's plan. He knew that Martin would take him for Manderson at the first glance. And there my thinking was interrupted by the realization of a thing that had escaped me before. So strong had been the influence of the unquestioned assumption that it was Manderson who was present that night, that neither I nor, as far as I know, any one else had noted the point. _Martin had not seen the man's face, nor had Mrs. Manderson._ Mrs. Manderson (judging by her evidence at the inquest, of which, as I have said, I had a full report made by the _Record_ stenographers in court) had not seen the man at all. She hardly could have done, as I shall show presently. She had merely spoken with him as she lay half asleep, resuming a conversation which she had had with her living husband about an hour before. Martin, I perceived, could only have seen the man's back, as he sat crouching over the telephone; no doubt a characteristic pose was imitated there. And the man had worn his hat, Manderson's broad-brimmed hat! There is too much character in the back of a head and neck. The unknown, in fact, supposing him to have been of about Manderson's build, had had no need for any disguise, apart from the jacket and the hat and his powers of mimicry. I paused there to contemplate the coolness and ingenuity of the man. The thing, I now began to see, was so safe and easy, provided that his mimicry was good enough, and that his nerve held. Those two points assured, only some wholly unlikely accident could unmask him. To come back to my puzzling out of the matter as I sat in the dead man's bedroom with the tell-tale shoes before me. The reason for the entrance by the window instead of by the front door will already have occurred to any one reading this. Entering by the door, the man would almost certainly have been heard by the sharp-eared Martin in his pantry just across the hall; he might have met him face to face. Then there was the problem of the whisky. I had not attached much importance to it; whisky will sometimes vanish in very queer ways in a household of eight or nine persons; but it had seemed strange that it should go in that way on that evening. Martin had been plainly quite dumbfounded by the fact. It seemed to me now that many a man—fresh, as this man in all likelihood was, from a bloody business, from the unclothing of a corpse, and with a desperate part still to play—would turn to that decanter as to a friend. No doubt he had a drink before sending for Martin; after making that trick with ease and success, he probably drank more. But he had known when to stop. The worst part of the enterprise was before him: the business—clearly of such vital importance to him, for whatever reason—of shutting himself in Manderson's room and preparing a body of convincing evidence of its having been occupied by Manderson; and this with the risk—very slight, as no doubt he understood, but how unnerving!—of the woman on the other side of the half-open door awaking and somehow discovering him. True, if he kept out of her limited field of vision from the bed, she could only see him by getting up and going to the door. I found that to a person lying in her bed, which stood with its head to the wall a little beyond the door, nothing was visible through the doorway but one of the cupboards by Manderson's bed-head. Moreover, since this man knew the ways of the household, he would think it most likely that Mrs. Manderson was asleep. Another point with him, I guessed, might have been the estrangement between the husband and wife, which they had tried to cloak by keeping up, among other things, their usual practice of sleeping in connected rooms, but which was well known to all who had anything to do with them. He would hope from this that if Mrs. Manderson heard him, she would take no notice of the supposed presence of her husband. So, pursuing my hypothesis, I followed the unknown up to the bedroom, and saw him setting about his work. And it was with a catch in my own breath that I thought of the hideous shock with which he must have heard the sound of all others he was dreading most: the drowsy voice from the adjoining room. What Mrs. Manderson actually said, she was unable to recollect at the inquest. She thinks she asked her supposed husband whether he had had a good run in the car. And now what does the unknown do? Here, I think, we come to a supremely significant point. Not only does he—standing rigid there, as I picture him, before the dressing-table, listening to the sound of his own leaping heart—not only does he answer the lady in the voice of Manderson; he volunteers an explanatory statement. He tells her that he has, on a sudden inspiration, sent Marlowe in the car to Southampton; that he has sent him to bring back some important information from a man leaving for Paris by the steamboat that morning. Why these details from a man who had long been uncommunicative to his wife, and that upon a point scarcely likely to interest her? Why these details _about Marlowe?_ Having taken my story so far, I now put forward the following definite propositions: that between a time somewhere about ten, when the car started, and a time somewhere about eleven, Manderson was shot—probably at a considerable distance from the house, as no shot was heard; that the body was brought back, left by the shed, and stripped of its outer clothing; that at some time round about eleven o'clock a man who was not Manderson, wearing Manderson's shoes, hat, and jacket, entered the library by the garden window; that he had with him Manderson's black trousers, waistcoat, and motor-coat, the denture taken from Manderson's mouth, and the weapon with which he had been murdered; that he concealed these, rang the bell for the butler, and sat down at the telephone with his hat on and his back to the door; that he was occupied with the telephone all the time Martin was in the room; that on going up to the bedroom floor he quietly entered Marlowe's room and placed the revolver with which the crime had been committed—Marlowe's revolver—in the case on the mantelpiece from which it had been taken; and that he then went to Manderson's room, placed Manderson's shoes outside the door, threw Manderson's garments on a chair, placed the denture in the bowl by the bedside, and selected a suit of clothes, a pair of shoes, and a tie from those in the bedroom. Here I will pause in my statement of this man's proceedings to go into a question for which the way is now sufficiently prepared: _Who was the false Manderson?_ Reviewing what was known to me, or might almost with certainty be surmised, about that person, I set down the following five conclusions: (1.) He had been in close relations with the dead man. In his acting before Martin and his speaking to Mrs. Manderson he had made no mistake. (2.) He was of a build not unlike Manderson's, especially as to height and breadth of shoulder, which mainly determine the character of the back of a seated figure when the head is concealed and the body loosely clothed. But his feet were larger, though not greatly larger, than Manderson's. (3.) He had considerable aptitude for mimicry and acting—probably some experience too. (4.) He had a minute acquaintance with the ways of the Manderson household. (5.) He was under a vital necessity of creating the belief that Manderson was alive and in that house until some time after midnight on the Sunday night. So much I took as either certain or next door to it. It was as far as I could see. And it was far enough. I proceed to give, in an order corresponding with the numbered paragraphs above, such relevant facts as I was able to obtain about Mr. John Marlowe, from himself and other sources: (1.) He had been Mr. Manderson's private secretary, upon a footing of great intimacy, for nearly four years. (2.) The two men were nearly of the same height, about five feet eleven inches; both were powerfully built and heavy in the shoulder. Marlowe, who was the younger by some twenty years, was rather slighter about the body, though Manderson was a man in good physical condition. Marlowe's shoes (of which I examined several pairs) were roughly about one shoemaker's size longer and broader than Manderson's. (3.) In the afternoon of the first day of my investigation, after arriving at the results already detailed, I sent a telegram to a personal friend, a Fellow of a college at Oxford, whom I knew to be interested in theatrical matters, in these terms: _Please wire John Marlowe's record in connection with acting at Oxford some time past decade very urgent and confidential._ My friend replied in the following telegram, which reached me next morning (the morning of the inquest): _Marlowe was member O.U.D.S for three years and president 19— played Bardolph Cleon and Mercutio excelled in character acting and imitations in great demand at smokers was hero of some historic hoaxes._ I had been led to send the telegram which brought this very helpful answer by seeing on the mantel-shelf in Marlowe's bedroom a photograph of himself and two others in the costume of Falstaff's three followers, with an inscription from _The Merry Wives_, and by noting that it bore the imprint of an Oxford firm of photographers. (4.) During his connection with Manderson, Marlowe had lived as one of the family. No other person, apart from the servants, had his opportunities for knowing the domestic life of the Mandersons in detail. (5.) I ascertained beyond doubt that Marlowe arrived at a hotel in Southampton on the Monday morning at 6.30, and there proceeded to carry out the commission which, according to his story, and according to the statement made to Mrs. Manderson in the bedroom by the false Manderson, had been entrusted to him by his employer. He had then returned in the car to Marlstone, where he had shown great amazement and horror at the news of the murder. These, I say, are the relevant facts about Marlowe. We must now examine fact number 5 (as set out above) in connection with conclusion number 5 about the false Manderson. I would first draw attention to one important fact. _The only person who professed to have heard Manderson mention Southampton at all before he started in the car was Marlowe_. His story—confirmed to some extent by what the butler overheard—was that the journey was all arranged in a private talk before they set out, and he could not say, when I put the question to him, why Manderson should have concealed his intentions by giving out that he was going with Marlowe for a moonlight drive. This point, however, attracted no attention. Marlowe had an absolutely air-tight alibi in his presence at Southampton by 6.30; nobody thought of him in connection with a murder which must have been committed after 12.30—the hour at which Martin the butler had gone to bed. But it was the Manderson who came back from the drive who went out of his way to mention Southampton openly to two persons. _He even went so far as to ring up a hotel at Southampton and ask questions which bore out Marlowe's story of his errand._ This was the call he was busy with when Martin was in the library. Now let us consider the alibi. If Manderson was in the house that night, and if he did not leave it until some time after 12.30, Marlowe could not by any possibility have had a direct hand in the murder. It is a question of the distance between Marlstone and Southampton. If he had left Marlstone in the car at the hour when he is supposed to have done so—between 10 and 10.30—with a message from Manderson, the run would be quite an easy one to do in the time. But it would be physically impossible for the car—a 15 h.p. four-cylinder Northumberland, an average medium-power car—to get to Southampton by half-past six unless it left Marlstone by midnight at latest. Motorists who will examine the road-map and make the calculations required, as I did in Manderson's library that day, will agree that on the facts as they appeared there was absolutely no case against Marlowe. But even if they were not as they appeared; if Manderson was dead by eleven o'clock, and if at about that time Marlowe impersonated him at White Gables; if Marlowe retired to Manderson's bedroom—how can all this be reconciled with his appearance next morning at Southampton? _He had to get out of the house, unseen and unheard, and away in the car by midnight._ And Martin, the sharp-eared Martin, was sitting up until 12.30 in his pantry, with the door open, listening for the telephone bell. Practically he was standing sentry over the foot of the staircase, the only staircase leading down from the bedroom floor. With this difficulty we arrive at the last and crucial phase of my investigation. Having the foregoing points clearly in mind, I spent the rest of the day before the inquest in talking to various persons and in going over my story, testing it link by link. I could only find the one weakness which seemed to be involved in Martin's sitting up until 12.30; and since his having been instructed to do so was certainly a part of the plan, meant to clinch the alibi for Marlowe, I knew there must be an explanation somewhere. If I could not find that explanation, my theory was valueless. I must be able to show that at the time Martin went up to bed the man who had shut himself in Manderson's bedroom might have been many miles away on the road to Southampton. I had, however, a pretty good idea already—as perhaps the reader of these lines has by this time, if I have made myself clear—of how the escape of the false Manderson before midnight had been contrived. But I did not want what I was now about to do to be known. If I had chanced to be discovered at work, there would have been no concealing the direction of my suspicions. I resolved not to test them on this point until the next day, during the opening proceedings at the inquest. This was to be held, I knew, at the hotel, and I reckoned upon having White Gables to myself so far as the principal inmates were concerned. So in fact it happened. By the time the proceedings at the hotel had begun I was hard at work at White Gables. I had a camera with me. I made search, on principles well known to and commonly practised by the police, and often enough by myself, for certain indications. Without describing my search, I may say at once that I found and was able to photograph two fresh fingerprints, very large and distinct, on the polished front of the right-hand top drawer of the chest of drawers in Manderson's bedroom; five more (among a number of smaller and less recent impressions made by other hands) on the glasses of the French window in Mrs. Manderson's room, a window which always stood open at night with a curtain before it; and three more upon the glass bowl in which Manderson's dental plate had been found lying. I took the bowl with me from White Gables. I took also a few articles which I selected from Marlowe's bedroom, as bearing the most distinct of the innumerable fingerprints which are always to be found upon toilet articles in daily use. I already had in my possession, made upon leaves cut from my pocket diary, some excellent fingerprints of Marlowe's which he had made in my presence without knowing it. I had shown him the leaves, asking if he recognized them; and the few seconds during which he had held them in his fingers had sufficed to leave impressions which I was afterwards able to bring out. By six o'clock in the evening, two hours after the jury had brought in their verdict against a person or persons unknown, I had completed my work, and was in a position to state that two of the five large prints made on the window-glasses, and the three on the bowl, were made by the left hand of Marlowe; that the remaining three on the window and the two on the drawer were made by his right hand. By eight o'clock I had made at the establishment of Mr. H. T. Copper, photographer, of Bishopsbridge, and with his assistance, a dozen enlarged prints of the finger-marks of Marlowe, clearly showing the identity of those which he unknowingly made in my presence and those left upon articles in his bedroom, with those found by me as I have described, and thus establishing the facts that Marlowe was recently in Manderson's bedroom, where he had in the ordinary way no business, and in Mrs Manderson's room, where he had still less. I hope it may be possible to reproduce these prints for publication with this dispatch. At nine o'clock I was back in my room at the hotel and sitting down to begin this manuscript. I had my story complete. I bring it to a close by advancing these further propositions: that on the night of the murder the impersonator of Manderson, being in Manderson's bedroom, told Mrs Manderson, as he had already told Martin, that Marlowe was at that moment on his way to Southampton; that having made his dispositions in the room, he switched off the light, and lay in the bed in his clothes; that he waited until he was assured that Mrs. Manderson was asleep; that he then arose and stealthily crossed Mrs. Manderson's bedroom in his stocking feet, having under his arm the bundle of clothing and shoes for the body; that he stepped behind the curtain, pushing the doors of the window a little further open with his hands, strode over the iron railing of the balcony, and let himself down until only a drop of a few feet separated him from the soft turf of the lawn. All this might very well have been accomplished within half an hour of his entering Manderson's bedroom, which, according to Martin, he did at about half-past eleven. What followed your readers and the authorities may conjecture for themselves. The corpse was found next morning clothed—rather untidily. Marlowe in the car appeared at Southampton by half-past six. I bring this manuscript to an end in my sitting-room at the hotel at Marlstone. It is four o'clock in the morning. I leave for London by the noon train from Bishopsbridge, and immediately after arriving I shall place these pages in your hands. I ask you to communicate the substance of them to the Criminal Investigation Department. PHILIP TRENT. # Chapter XII. Evil Days "I am returning the cheque you sent for what I did on the Manderson case," Trent wrote to Sir James Molloy from Munich, whither he had gone immediately after handing in at the _Record_ office a brief dispatch bringing his work on the case to an unexciting close. "What I sent you wasn't worth one-tenth of the amount; but I should have no scruple about pocketing it if I hadn't taken a fancy—never mind why—not to touch any money at all for this business. I should like you, if there is no objection, to pay for the stuff at your ordinary space-rate, and hand the money to some charity which does not devote itself to bullying people, if you know of any such. I have come to this place to see some old friends and arrange my ideas, and the idea that comes out uppermost is that for a little while I want some employment with activity in it. I find I can't paint at all: I couldn't paint a fence. Will you try me as your Own Correspondent somewhere? If you can find me a good adventure I will send you good accounts. After that I could settle down and work." Sir James sent him instructions by telegram to proceed at once to Kurland and Livonia, where Citizen Browning was abroad again, and town and countryside blazed in revolt. It was a roving commission, and for two months Trent followed his luck. It served him not less well than usual. He was the only correspondent who saw General Dragilew killed in the street at Volmar by a girl of eighteen. He saw burnings, lynchings, fusillades, hangings; each day his soul sickened afresh at the imbecilities born of misrule. Many nights he lay down in danger. Many days he went fasting. But there was never an evening or a morning when he did not see the face of the woman whom he hopelessly loved. He discovered in himself an unhappy pride at the lasting force of this infatuation. It interested him as a phenomenon; it amazed and enlightened him. Such a thing had not visited him before. It confirmed so much that he had found dubious in the recorded experience of men. It was not that, at thirty-two, he could pretend to ignorance of this world of emotion. About his knowledge let it be enough to say that what he had learned had come unpursued and unpurchased, and was without intolerable memories; broken to the realities of sex, he was still troubled by its inscrutable history. He went through life full of a strange respect for certain feminine weakness and a very simple terror of certain feminine strength. He had held to a rather lukewarm faith that something remained in him to be called forth, and that the voice that should call would be heard in its own time, if ever, and not through any seeking. But he had not thought of the possibility that, if this proved true some day, the truth might come in a sinister shape. The two things that had taken him utterly by surprise in the matter of his feeling towards Mabel Manderson were the insane suddenness of its uprising in full strength and its extravagant hopelessness. Before it came, he had been much disposed to laugh at the permanence of unrequited passion as a generous boyish delusion. He knew now that he had been wrong, and he was living bitterly in the knowledge. Before the eye of his fancy the woman always came just as she was when he had first had sight of her, with the gesture which he had surprised as he walked past unseen on the edge of the cliff; that great gesture of passionate joy in her new liberty which had told him more plainly than speech that her widowhood was a release from torment, and had confirmed with terrible force the suspicion, active in his mind before, that it was her passport to happiness with a man whom she loved. He could not with certainty name to himself the moment when he had first suspected that it might be so. The seed of the thought must have been sown, he believed, at his first meeting with Marlowe; his mind would have noted automatically that such evident strength and grace, with the sort of looks and manners that the tall young man possessed, might go far with any woman of unfixed affections. And the connection of this with what Mr. Cupples had told him of the Mandersons' married life must have formed itself in the unconscious depths of his mind. Certainly it had presented itself as an already established thing when he began, after satisfying himself of the identity of the murderer, to cast about for the motive of the crime. Motive, motive! How desperately he had sought for another, turning his back upon that grim thought, that Marlowe—obsessed by passion like himself, and privy perhaps to maddening truths about the wife's unhappiness—had taken a leaf, the guiltiest, from the book of Bothwell. But in all his investigations at the time, in all his broodings on the matter afterwards, he had been able to discover nothing that could prompt Marlowe to such a deed—nothing but that temptation, the whole strength of which he could not know, but which if it had existed must have pressed urgently upon a bold spirit in which scruple had been somehow paralysed. If he could trust his senses at all, the young man was neither insane nor by nature evil. But that could not clear him. Murder for a woman's sake, he thought, was not a rare crime, Heaven knew! If the modern feebleness of impulse in the comfortable classes, and their respect for the modern apparatus of detection, had made it rare among them, it was yet far from impossible. It only needed a man of equal daring and intelligence, his soul drugged with the vapours of an intoxicating intrigue, to plan and perform such a deed. A thousand times, with a heart full of anguish, he had sought to reason away the dread that Mabel Manderson had known too much of what had been intended against her husband's life. That she knew all the truth after the thing was done he could not doubt; her unforgettable collapse in his presence when the question about Marlowe was suddenly and bluntly put, had swept away his last hope that there was no love between the pair, and had seemed to him, moreover, to speak of dread of discovery. In any case, she knew the truth after reading what he had left with her; and it was certain that no public suspicion had been cast upon Marlowe since. She had destroyed his manuscript, then, and taken him at his word to keep the secret that threatened her lover's life. But it was the monstrous thought that she might have known murder was brewing, and guiltily kept silence, that haunted Trent's mind. She might have suspected, have guessed something; was it conceivable that she was aware of the whole plot, that she connived? He could never forget that his first suspicion of Marlowe's motive in the crime had been roused by the fact that his escape was made through the lady's room. At that time, when he had not yet seen her, he had been ready enough to entertain the idea of her equal guilt and her co-operation. He had figured to himself some passionate _hystérique_, merciless as a cat in her hate and her love, a zealous abettor, perhaps even the ruling spirit in the crime. Then he had seen her, had spoken with her, had helped her in her weakness; and such suspicions, since their first meeting, had seemed the vilest of infamy. He had seen her eyes and her mouth; he had breathed the woman's atmosphere. Trent was one of those who fancy they can scent true wickedness in the air. In her presence he had felt an inward certainty of her ultimate goodness of heart; and it was nothing against this that she had abandoned herself a moment, that day on the cliff, to the sentiment of relief at the ending of her bondage, of her years of starved sympathy and unquickened motherhood. That she had turned to Marlowe in her destitution he believed; that she had any knowledge of his deadly purpose he did not believe. And yet, morning and evening the sickening doubts returned, and he recalled again that it was almost in her presence that Marlowe had made his preparations in the bedroom of the murdered man, that it was by the window of her own chamber that he had escaped from the house. Had he forgotten his cunning and taken the risk of telling her then? Or had he, as Trent thought more likely, still played his part with her then, and stolen off while she slept? He did not think she had known of the masquerade when she gave evidence at the inquest; it read like honest evidence. Or—the question would never be silenced, though he scorned it—had she lain expecting the footsteps in the room and the whisper that should tell her that it was done? Among the foul possibilities of human nature, was it possible that black ruthlessness and black deceit as well were hidden behind that good and straight and gentle seeming? These thoughts would scarcely leave him when he was alone. Trent served Sir James, well earning his pay for six months, and then returned to Paris where he went to work again with a better heart. His powers had returned to him, and he began to live more happily than he had expected among a tribe of strangely assorted friends, French, English, and American, artists, poets, journalists, policemen, hotel-keepers, soldiers, lawyers, business men, and others. His old faculty of sympathetic interest in his fellows won for him, just as in his student days, privileges seldom extended to the Briton. He enjoyed again the rare experience of being taken into the bosom of a Frenchman's family. He was admitted to the momentous confidence of _les jeunes_, and found them as sure that they had surprised the secrets of art and life as the departed _jeunes_ of ten years before had been. The bosom of the Frenchman's family was the same as those he had known in the past, even to the patterns of the wallpaper and movables. But the _jeunes_, he perceived with regret, were totally different from their forerunners. They were much more shallow and puerile, much less really clever. The secrets they wrested from the Universe were not such important and interesting secrets as had been wrested by the old _jeunes_. This he believed and deplored until one day he found himself seated at a restaurant next to a too well-fed man whom, in spite of the ravages of comfortable living, he recognized as one of the _jeunes_ of his own period. This one had been wont to describe himself and three or four others as the Hermits of the New Parnassus. He and his school had talked outside cafes and elsewhere more than solitaries do as a rule; but, then, rules were what they had vowed themselves to destroy. They proclaimed that verse, in particular, was free. The Hermit of the New Parnassus was now in the Ministry of the Interior, and already decorated: he expressed to Trent the opinion that what France needed most was a hand of iron. He was able to quote the exact price paid for certain betrayals of the country, of which Trent had not previously heard. Thus he was brought to make the old discovery that it was he who had changed, like his friend of the Administration, and that _les jeunes_ were still the same. Yet he found it hard to say what precisely he had lost that so greatly mattered; unless indeed it were so simple a thing as his high spirits. One morning in June, as he descended the slope of the Rue des Martyrs, he saw approaching a figure that he remembered. He glanced quickly round, for the thought of meeting Mr. Bunner again was unacceptable. For some time he had recognized that his wound was healing under the spell of creative work; he thought less often of the woman he loved, and with less pain. He would not have the memory of those three days reopened. But the straight and narrow thoroughfare offered no refuge, and the American saw him almost at once. His unforced geniality made Trent ashamed, for he had liked the man. They sat long over a meal, and Mr. Bunner talked. Trent listened to him, now that he was in for it, with genuine pleasure, now and then contributing a question or remark. Besides liking his companion, he enjoyed his conversation, with its unending verbal surprises, for its own sake. Bunner was, it appeared, resident in Paris as the chief Continental agent of the Manderson firm, and fully satisfied with his position and prospects. He discoursed on these for some twenty minutes. This subject at length exhausted, he went on to tell Trent, who confessed that he had been away from England for a year, that Marlowe had shortly after the death of Manderson entered his father's business, which was now again in a flourishing state, and had already come to be practically in control of it. They had kept up their intimacy, and were even now planning a holiday for the summer. Mr. Bunner spoke with generous admiration of his friend's talent for affairs. "Jack Marlowe has a natural big head," he declared, "and if he had more experience, I wouldn't want to have him up against me. He would put a crimp in me every time." As the American's talk flowed on, Trent listened with a slowly growing perplexity. It became more and more plain that something was very wrong in his theory of the situation; there was no mention of its central figure. Presently Mr. Bunner mentioned that Marlowe was engaged to be married to an Irish girl, whose charms he celebrated with native enthusiasm. Trent clasped his hands savagely together beneath the table. What could have happened? His ideas were sliding and shifting. At last he forced himself to put a direct question. Mr. Bunner was not very fully informed. He knew that Mrs. Manderson had left England immediately after the settlement of her husband's affairs, and had lived for some time in Italy. She had returned not long ago to London, where she had decided not to live in the house in Mayfair, and had bought a smaller one in the Hampstead neighbourhood; also, he understood, one somewhere in the country. She was said to go but little into society. "And all the good hard dollars just waiting for some one to spraddle them around," said Mr. Bunner, with a note of pathos in his voice. "Why, she has money to burn—money to feed to the birds—and nothing doing. The old man left her more than half his wad. And think of the figure she might make in the world. She is beautiful, and she is the best woman I ever met, too. But she couldn't ever seem to get the habit of spending money the way it ought to be spent." His words now became a soliloquy: Trent's thoughts were occupying all his attention. He pleaded business soon, and the two men parted with cordiality. Half an hour later Trent was in his studio, swiftly and mechanically "cleaning up". He wanted to know what had happened; somehow he must find out. He could never approach herself, he knew; he would never bring back to her the shame of that last encounter with him; it was scarcely likely that he would even set eyes on her. But he must get to know!... Cupples was in London, Marlowe was there.... And, anyhow, he was sick of Paris. Such thoughts came and went; and below them all strained the fibres of an unseen cord that dragged mercilessly at his heart, and that he cursed bitterly in the moments when he could not deny to himself that it was there. The folly, the useless, pitiable folly of it! In twenty-four hours his feeble roots in Paris had been torn out. He was looking over a leaden sea at the shining fortress-wall of the Dover cliffs. But though he had instinctively picked out the lines of a set purpose from among the welter of promptings in his mind, he found it delayed at the very outset. He had decided that he must first see Mr. Cupples, who would be in a position to tell him much more than the American knew. But Mr. Cupples was away on his travels, not expected to return for a month; and Trent had no reasonable excuse for hastening his return. Marlowe he would not confront until he had tried at least to reconnoitre the position. He constrained himself not to commit the crowning folly of seeking out Mrs. Manderson's house in Hampstead; he could not enter it, and the thought of the possibility of being seen by her lurking in its neighbourhood brought the blood to his face. He stayed at an hotel, took a studio, and while he awaited Mr. Cupples's return attempted vainly to lose himself in work. At the end of a week he had an idea that he acted upon with eager precipitancy. She had let fall some word at their last meeting, of a taste for music. Trent went that evening, and thenceforward regularly, to the opera. He might see her; and if, in spite of his caution, she caught sight of him, they could be blind to each other's presence—anybody might happen to go to the opera. So he went alone each evening, passing as quickly as he might through the people in the vestibule; and each evening he came away knowing that she had not been in the house. It was a habit that yielded him a sort of satisfaction along with the guilty excitement of his search; for he too loved music, and nothing gave him so much peace while its magic endured. One night as he entered, hurrying through the brilliant crowd, he felt a touch on his arm. Flooded with an incredible certainty at the touch, he turned. It was she: so much more radiant in the absence of grief and anxiety, in the fact that she was smiling, and in the allurement of evening dress, that he could not speak. She, too, breathed a little quickly, and there was a light of daring in her eyes and cheeks as she greeted him. Her words were few. "I wouldn't miss a note of _Tristan_," she said, "nor must you. Come and see me in the interval." She gave him the number of the box. # Chapter XIII. Eruption The following two months were a period in Trent's life that he has never since remembered without shuddering. He met Mrs. Manderson half a dozen times, and each time her cool friendliness, a nicely calculated mean between mere acquaintance and the first stage of intimacy, baffled and maddened him. At the opera he had found her, to his further amazement, with a certain Mrs. Wallace, a frisky matron whom he had known from childhood. Mrs. Manderson, it appeared, on her return from Italy, had somehow wandered into circles to which he belonged by nurture and disposition. It came, she said, of her having pitched her tent in their hunting-grounds; several of his friends were near neighbours. He had a dim but horrid recollection of having been on that occasion unlike himself, ill at ease, burning in the face, talking with idiot loquacity of his adventures in the Baltic provinces, and finding from time to time that he was addressing himself exclusively to Mrs. Wallace. The other lady, when he joined them, had completely lost the slight appearance of agitation with which she had stopped him in the vestibule. She had spoken pleasantly to him of her travels, of her settlement in London, and of people whom they both knew. During the last half of the opera, which he had stayed in the box to hear, he had been conscious of nothing, as he sat behind them, but the angle of her cheek and the mass of her hair, the lines of her shoulder and arm, her hand upon the cushion. The black hair had seemed at last a forest, immeasurable, pathless and enchanted, luring him to a fatal adventure.... At the end he had been pale and subdued, parting with them rather formally. The next time he saw her—it was at a country house where both were guests—and the subsequent times, he had had himself in hand. He had matched her manner and had acquitted himself, he thought, decently, considering— Considering that he lived in an agony of bewilderment and remorse and longing. He could make nothing, absolutely nothing, of her attitude. That she had read his manuscript and understood the suspicion indicated in his last question to her at White Gables was beyond the possibility of doubt. Then how could she treat him thus and frankly, as she treated all the world of men who had done no injury? For it had become clear to his intuitive sense, for all the absence of any shade of differentiation in her outward manner, that an injury had been done, and that she had felt it. Several times, on the rare and brief occasions when they had talked apart, he had warning from the same sense that she was approaching this subject; and each time he had turned the conversation with the ingenuity born of fear. Two resolutions he made. The first was that when he had completed a commissioned work which tied him to London he would go away and stay away. The strain was too great. He no longer burned to know the truth; he wanted nothing to confirm his fixed internal conviction by faith, that he had blundered, that he had misread the situation, misinterpreted her tears, written himself down a slanderous fool. He speculated no more on Marlowe's motive in the killing of Manderson. Mr. Cupples returned to London, and Trent asked him nothing. He knew now that he had been right in those words—Trent remembered them for the emphasis with which they were spoken—"So long as she considered herself bound to him... no power on earth could have persuaded her." He met Mrs. Manderson at dinner at her uncle's large and tomb-like house in Bloomsbury, and there he conversed most of the evening with a professor of archaeology from Berlin. His other resolution was that he would not be with her alone. But when, a few days after, she wrote asking him to come and see her on the following afternoon, he made no attempt to excuse himself. This was a formal challenge. While she celebrated the rites of tea, and for some little time thereafter, she joined with such natural ease in his slightly fevered conversation on matters of the day that he began to hope she had changed what he could not doubt had been her resolve, to corner him and speak to him gravely. She was to all appearance careless now, smiling so that he recalled, not for the first time since that night at the opera, what was written long ago of a Princess of Brunswick: "Her mouth has ten thousand charms that touch the soul." She made a tour of the beautiful room where she had received him, singling out this treasure or that from the spoils of a hundred bric-à-brac shops, laughing over her quests, discoveries, and bargainings. And when he asked if she would delight him again with a favourite piece of his which he had heard her play at another house, she consented at once. She played with a perfection of execution and feeling that moved him now as it had moved him before. "You are a musician born," he said quietly when she had finished, and the last tremor of the music had passed away. "I knew that before I first heard you." "I have played a great deal ever since I can remember. It has been a great comfort to me," she said simply, and half-turned to him smiling. "When did you first detect music in me? Oh, of course: I was at the opera. But that wouldn't prove much, would it?" "No," he said abstractedly, his sense still busy with the music that had just ended. "I think I knew it the first time I saw you." Then understanding of his own words came to him, and turned him rigid. For the first time the past had been invoked. There was a short silence. Mrs. Manderson looked at Trent, then hastily looked away. Colour began to rise in her cheeks, and she pursed her lips as if for whistling. Then with a defiant gesture of the shoulders which he remembered she rose suddenly from the piano and placed herself in a chair opposite to him. "That speech of yours will do as well as anything," she began slowly, looking at the point of her shoe, "to bring us to what I wanted to say. I asked you here today on purpose, Mr. Trent, because I couldn't bear it any longer. Ever since the day you left me at White Gables I have been saying to myself that it didn't matter what you thought of me in that affair; that you were certainly not the kind of man to speak to others of what you believed about me, after what you had told me of your reasons for suppressing your manuscript. I asked myself how it could matter. But all the time, of course, I knew it did matter. It mattered horribly. Because what you thought was not true." She raised her eyes and met his gaze calmly. Trent, with a completely expressionless face, returned her look. "Since I began to know you," he said, "I have ceased to think it." "Thank you," said Mrs. Manderson; and blushed suddenly and deeply. Then, playing with a glove, she added, "But I want you to know what _was_ true. "I did not know if I should ever see you again," she went on in a lower voice, "but I felt that if I did I must speak to you about this. I thought it would not be hard to do so, because you seemed to me an understanding person; and besides, a woman who has been married isn't expected to have the same sort of difficulty as a young girl in speaking about such things when it is necessary. And then we did meet again, and I discovered that it was very difficult indeed. You made it difficult." "How?" he asked quietly. "I don't know," said the lady. "But yes—I do know. It was just because you treated me exactly as if you had never thought or imagined anything of that sort about me. I had always supposed that if I saw you again you would turn on me that hard, horrible sort of look you had when you asked me that last question—do you remember?—at White Gables. Instead of that you were just like any other acquaintance. You were just"—she hesitated and spread out her hands—"nice. You know. After that first time at the opera when I spoke to you I went home positively wondering if you had really recognized me. I mean, I thought you might have recognized my face without remembering who it was." A short laugh broke from Trent in spite of himself, but he said nothing. She smiled deprecatingly. "Well, I couldn't remember if you had spoken my name; and I thought it might be so. But the next time, at the Iretons', you did speak it, so I knew; and a dozen times during those few days I almost brought myself to tell you, but never quite. I began to feel that you wouldn't let me, that you would slip away from the subject if I approached it. Wasn't I right? Tell me, please." He nodded. "But why?" He remained silent. "Well," she said, "I will finish what I had to say, and then you will tell me, I hope, why you had to make it so hard. When I began to understand that you wouldn't let me talk of the matter to you, it made me more determined than ever. I suppose you didn't realize that I would insist on speaking even if you were quite discouraging. I dare say I couldn't have done it if I had been guilty, as you thought. You walked into my parlour today, never thinking I should dare. Well, now you see." Mrs. Manderson had lost all her air of hesitancy. She had, as she was wont to say, talked herself enthusiastic, and in the ardour of her purpose to annihilate the misunderstanding that had troubled her so long she felt herself mistress of the situation. "I am going to tell you the story of the mistake you made," she continued, as Trent, his hands clasped between his knees, still looked at her enigmatically. "You will have to believe it, Mr. Trent; it is utterly true to life, with its confusions and hidden things and cross-purposes and perfectly natural mistakes that nobody thinks twice about taking for facts. Please understand that I don't blame you in the least, and never did, for jumping to the conclusion you did. You knew that I was estranged from my husband, and you knew what that so often means. You knew before I told you, I expect, that he had taken up an injured attitude towards me; and I was silly enough to try and explain it away. I gave you the explanation of it that I had given myself at first, before I realized the wretched truth; I told you he was disappointed in me because I couldn't take a brilliant lead in society. Well, that was true; he was so. But I could see you weren't convinced. You had guessed what it took me much longer to see, because I knew how irrational it was. Yes; my husband was jealous of John Marlowe; you divined that. "Then I behaved like a fool when you let me see you had divined it; it was such a blow, you understand, when I had supposed all the humiliation and strain was at an end, and that his delusion had died with him. You practically asked me if my husband's secretary was not my lover, Mr. Trent—I _have_ to say it, because I want you to understand why I broke down and made a scene. You took that for a confession; you thought I was guilty of that, and I think you even thought I might be a party to the crime, that I had consented.... That did hurt me; but perhaps you couldn't have thought anything else—I don't know." Trent, who had not hitherto taken his eyes from her face, hung his head at the words. He did not raise it again as she continued. "But really it was simple shock and distress that made me give way, and the memory of all the misery that mad suspicion had meant to me. And when I pulled myself together again you had gone." She rose and went to an escritoire beside the window, unlocked a drawer, and drew out a long, sealed envelope. "This is the manuscript you left with me," she said. "I have read it through again and again. I have always wondered, as everybody does, at your cleverness in things of this kind." A faintly mischievous smile flashed upon her face, and was gone. "I thought it was splendid, Mr. Trent—I almost forgot that the story was my own, I was so interested. And I want to say now, while I have this in my hand, how much I thank you for your generous, chivalrous act in sacrificing this triumph of yours rather than put a woman's reputation in peril. If all had been as you supposed, the facts must have come out when the police took up the case you put in their hands. Believe me, I understood just what you had done, and I never ceased to be grateful even when I felt most crushed by your suspicion." As she spoke her thanks her voice shook a little, and her eyes were bright. Trent perceived nothing of this. His head was still bent. He did not seem to hear. She put the envelope into his hand as it lay open, palm upwards, on his knee. There was a touch of gentleness about the act which made him look up. "Can you—" he began slowly. She raised her hand as she stood before him. "No, Mr. Trent; let me finish before you say anything. It is such an unspeakable relief to me to have broken the ice at last, and I want to end the story while I am still feeling the triumph of beginning it." She sank down into the sofa from which she had first risen. "I am telling you a thing that nobody else knows. Everybody knew, I suppose, that something had come between us, though I did everything in my power to hide it. But I don't think any one in the world ever guessed what my husband's notion was. People who know me don't think that sort of thing about me, I believe. And his fancy was so ridiculously opposed to the facts. I will tell you what the situation was. Mr. Marlowe and I had been friendly enough since he came to us. For all his cleverness—my husband said he had a keener brain than any man he knew—I looked upon him as practically a boy. You know I am a little older than he is, and he had a sort of amiable lack of ambition that made me feel it the more. One day my husband asked me what I thought was the best thing about Marlowe, and not thinking much about it I said, ‘His manners.' He surprised me very much by looking black at that, and after a silence he said, ‘Yes, Marlowe is a gentleman; that's so', not looking at me. "Nothing was ever said about that again until about a year ago, when I found that Mr. Marlowe had done what I always expected he would do—fallen desperately in love with an American girl. But to my disgust he had picked out the most worthless girl, I do believe, of all those whom we used to meet. She was the daughter of wealthy parents, and she did as she liked with them; very beautiful, well educated, very good at games—what they call a woman-athlete—and caring for nothing on earth but her own amusement. She was one of the most unprincipled flirts I ever knew, and quite the cleverest. Every one knew it, and Mr. Marlowe must have heard it; but she made a complete fool of him, brain and all. I don't know how she managed it, but I can imagine. She liked him, of course; but it was quite plain to me that she was playing with him. The whole affair was so idiotic, I got perfectly furious. One day I asked him to row me in a boat on the lake—all this happened at our house by Lake George. We had never been alone together for any length of time before. In the boat I talked to him. I was very kind about it, I think, and he took it admirably, but he didn't believe me a bit. He had the impudence to tell me that I misunderstood Alice's nature. When I hinted at his prospects—I knew he had scarcely anything of his own—he said that if she loved him he could make himself a position in the world. I dare say that was true, with his abilities and his friends—he is rather well connected, you know, as well as popular. But his enlightenment came very soon after that. "My husband helped me out of the boat when we got back. He joked with Mr Marlowe about something, I remember; for through all that followed he never once changed in his manner to him, and that was one reason why I took so long to realize what he thought about him and myself. But to me he was reserved and silent that evening—not angry. He was always perfectly cold and expressionless to me after he took this idea into his head. After dinner he only spoke to me once. Mr. Marlowe was telling him about some horse he had bought for the farm in Kentucky, and my husband looked at me and said, ‘Marlowe may be a gentleman, but he seldom quits loser in a horse-trade.' I was surprised at that, but at that time—and even on the next occasion when he found us together—I didn't understand what was in his mind. That next time was the morning when Mr Marlowe received a sweet little note from the girl asking for his congratulations on her engagement. It was in our New York house. He looked so wretched at breakfast that I thought he was ill, and afterwards I went to the room where he worked, and asked what was the matter. He didn't say anything, but just handed me the note, and turned away to the window. I was very glad that was all over, but terribly sorry for him too, of course. I don't remember what I said, but I remember putting my hand on his arm as he stood there staring out on the garden and just then my husband appeared at the open door with some papers. He just glanced at us, and then turned and walked quietly back to his study. I thought that he might have heard what I was saying to comfort Mr. Marlowe, and that it was rather nice of him to slip away. Mr. Marlowe neither saw nor heard him. My husband left the house that morning for the West while I was out. Even then I did not understand. He used often to go off suddenly like that, if some business project called him. "It was not until he returned a week later that I grasped the situation. He was looking white and strange, and as soon as he saw me he asked me where Mr. Marlowe was. Somehow the tone of his question told me everything in a flash. "I almost gasped; I was wild with indignation. You know, Mr. Trent, I don't think I should have minded at all if any one had thought me capable of openly breaking with my husband and leaving him for somebody else. I dare say I might have done that. But that coarse suspicion... a man whom he trusted... and the notion of concealment. It made me see scarlet. Every shred of pride in me was strung up till I quivered, and I swore to myself on the spot that I would never show by any word or sign that I was conscious of his having such a thought about me. I would behave exactly as I always had behaved, I determined—and that I did, up to the very last. Though I knew that a wall had been made between us now that could never be broken down—even if he asked my pardon and obtained it—I never once showed that I noticed any change. "And so it went on. I never could go through such a time again. My husband showed silent and cold politeness to me always when we were alone—and that was only when it was unavoidable. He never once alluded to what was in his mind; but I felt it, and he knew that I felt it. Both of us were stubborn in our different attitudes. To Mr. Marlowe he was more friendly, if anything, than before—Heaven only knows why. I fancied he was planning some sort of revenge; but that was only a fancy. Certainly Mr. Marlowe never knew what was suspected of him. He and I remained good friends, though we never spoke of anything intimate after that disappointment of his; but I made a point of seeing no less of him than I had always done. Then we came to England and to White Gables, and after that followed—my husband's dreadful end." She threw out her right hand in a gesture of finality. "You know about the rest—so much more than any other man," she added, and glanced up at him with a quaint expression. Trent wondered at that look, but the wonder was only a passing shadow on his thought. Inwardly his whole being was possessed by thankfulness. All the vivacity had returned to his face. Long before the lady had ended her story he had recognized the certainty of its truth, as from the first days of their renewed acquaintance he had doubted the story that his imagination had built up at White Gables, upon foundations that seemed so good to him. He said, "I don't know how to begin the apologies I have to make. There are no words to tell you how ashamed and disgraced I feel when I realize what a crude, cock-sure blundering at a conclusion my suspicion was. Yes, I suspected—you! I had almost forgotten that I was ever such a fool. Almost—not quite. Sometimes when I have been alone I have remembered that folly, and poured contempt on it. I have tried to imagine what the facts were. I have tried to excuse myself." She interrupted him quickly. "What nonsense! Do be sensible, Mr. Trent. You had only seen me on two occasions in your life before you came to me with your solution of the mystery." Again the quaint expression came and was gone. "If you talk of folly, it really is folly for a man like you to pretend to a woman like me that I had innocence written all over me in large letters—so large that you couldn't believe very strong evidence against me after seeing me twice." "What do you mean by ‘a man like me'?" he demanded with a sort of fierceness. "Do you take me for a person without any normal instincts? I don't say you impress people as a simple, transparent sort of character—what Mr. Calvin Bunner calls a case of open-work; I don't say a stranger might not think you capable of wickedness, if there was good evidence for it: but I say that a man who, after seeing you and being in your atmosphere, could associate you with the particular kind of abomination I imagined, is a fool—the kind of fool who is afraid to trust his senses.... As for my making it hard for you to approach the subject, as you say, it is true. It was simply moral cowardice. I understood that you wished to clear the matter up; and I was revolted at the notion of my injurious blunder being discussed. I tried to show you by my actions that it was as if it had never been. I hoped you would pardon me without any words. I can't forgive myself, and I never shall. And yet if you could know—" He stopped short, and then added quietly, "Well, will you accept all that as an apology? The very scrubbiest sackcloth made, and the grittiest ashes on the heap.... I didn't mean to get worked up," he ended lamely. Mrs. Manderson laughed, and her laugh carried him away with it. He knew well by this time that sudden rush of cascading notes of mirth, the perfect expression of enjoyment; he had many times tried to amuse her merely for his delight in the sound of it. "But I love to see you worked up," she said. "The bump with which you always come down as soon as you realize that you are up in the air at all is quite delightful. Oh, we're actually both laughing. What a triumphant end to our explanations, after all my dread of the time when I should have it out with you. And now it's all over, and you know; and we'll never speak of it any more." "I hope not," Trent said in sincere relief. "If you're resolved to be so kind as this about it, I am not high-principled enough to insist on your blasting me with your lightnings. And now, Mrs. Manderson, I had better go. Changing the subject after this would be like playing puss-in-the-corner after an earthquake." He rose to his feet. "You are right," she said. "But no! Wait. There is another thing—part of the same subject; and we ought to pick up all the pieces now while we are about it. Please sit down." She took the envelope containing Trent's manuscript dispatch from the table where he had laid it. "I want to speak about this." His brows bent, and he looked at her questioningly. "So do I, if you do," he said slowly. "I want very much to know one thing." "Tell me." "Since my reason for suppressing that information was all a fantasy, why did you never make any use of it? When I began to realize that I had been wrong about you, I explained your silence to myself by saying that you could not bring yourself to do a thing that would put a rope round a man's neck, whatever he might have done. I can quite understand that feeling. Was that what it was? Another possibility I thought of was that you knew of something that was by way of justifying or excusing Marlowe's act. Or I thought you might have a simple horror, quite apart from humanitarian scruples, of appearing publicly in connection with a murder trial. Many important witnesses in such cases have to be practically forced into giving their evidence. They feel there is defilement even in the shadow of the scaffold." Mrs. Manderson tapped her lips with the envelope without quite concealing a smile. "You didn't think of another possibility, I suppose, Mr. Trent," she said. "No." He looked puzzled. "I mean the possibility of your having been wrong about Mr. Marlowe as well as about me. No, no; you needn't tell me that the chain of evidence is complete. I know it is. But evidence of what? Of Mr. Marlowe having impersonated my husband that night, and having escaped by way of my window, and built up an alibi. I have read your dispatch again and again, Mr. Trent, and I don't see that those things can be doubted." Trent gazed at her with narrowed eyes. He said nothing to fill the brief pause that followed. Mrs. Manderson smoothed her skirt with a preoccupied air, as one collecting her ideas. "I did not make any use of the facts found out by you," she slowly said at last, "because it seemed to me very likely that they would be fatal to Mr. Marlowe." "I agree with you," Trent remarked in a colourless tone. "And," pursued the lady, looking up at him with a mild reasonableness in her eyes, "as I knew that he was innocent I was not going to expose him to that risk." There was another little pause. Trent rubbed his chin, with an affectation of turning over the idea. Inwardly he was telling himself, somewhat feebly, that this was very right and proper; that it was quite feminine, and that he liked her to be feminine. It was permitted to her—more than permitted—to set her loyal belief in the character of a friend above the clearest demonstrations of the intellect. Nevertheless, it chafed him. He would have had her declaration of faith a little less positive in form. It was too irrational to say she "knew". In fact (he put it to himself bluntly), it was quite unlike her. If to be unreasonable when reason led to the unpleasant was a specially feminine trait, and if Mrs. Manderson had it, she was accustomed to wrap it up better than any woman he had known. "You suggest," he said at length, "that Marlowe constructed an alibi for himself, by means which only a desperate man would have attempted, to clear himself of a crime he did not commit. Did he tell you he was innocent?" She uttered a little laugh of impatience. "So you think he has been talking me round. No, that is not so. I am merely sure he did not do it. Ah! I see you think that absurd. But see how unreasonable you are, Mr Trent! Just now you were explaining to me quite sincerely that it was foolishness in you to have a certain suspicion of me after seeing me and being in my atmosphere, as you said." Trent started in his chair. She glanced at him, and went on: "Now, I and my atmosphere are much obliged to you, but we must stand up for the rights of other atmospheres. I know a great deal more about Mr. Marlowe's atmosphere than you know about mine even now. I saw him constantly for several years. I don't pretend to know all about him; but I do know that he is incapable of a crime of bloodshed. The idea of his planning a murder is as unthinkable to me as the idea of your picking a poor woman's pocket, Mr. Trent. I can imagine you killing a man, you know... if the man deserved it and had an equal chance of killing you. I could kill a person myself in some circumstances. But Mr. Marlowe was incapable of doing it, I don't care what the provocation might be. He had a temper that nothing could shake, and he looked upon human nature with a sort of cold magnanimity that would find excuses for absolutely anything. It wasn't a pose; you could see it was a part of him. He never put it forward, but it was there always. It was quite irritating at times.... Now and then in America, I remember, I have heard people talking about lynching, for instance, when he was there. He would sit quite silent and expressionless, appearing not to listen; but you could feel disgust coming from him in waves. He really loathed and hated physical violence. He was a very strange man in some ways, Mr. Trent. He gave one a feeling that he might do unexpected things—do you know that feeling one has about some people? What part he really played in the events of that night I have never been able to guess. But nobody who knew anything about him could possibly believe in his deliberately taking a man's life." Again the movement of her head expressed finality, and she leaned back in the sofa, calmly regarding him. "Then," said Trent, who had followed this with earnest attention, "we are forced back on two other possibilities, which I had not thought worth much consideration until this moment. Accepting what you say, he might still conceivably have killed in self-defence; or he might have done so by accident." The lady nodded. "Of course I thought of those two explanations when I read your manuscript." "And I suppose you felt, as I did myself, that in either of those cases the natural thing, and obviously the safest thing, for him to do was to make a public statement of the truth, instead of setting up a series of deceptions which would certainly stamp him as guilty in the eyes of the law, if anything went wrong with them." "Yes," she said wearily, "I thought over all that until my head ached. And I thought somebody else might have done it, and that he was somehow screening the guilty person. But that seemed wild. I could see no light in the mystery, and after a while I simply let it alone. All I was clear about was that Mr. Marlowe was not a murderer, and that if I told what you had found out, the judge and jury would probably think he was. I promised myself that I would speak to you about it if we should meet again; and now I've kept my promise." Trent, his chin resting on his hand, was staring at the carpet. The excitement of the hunt for the truth was steadily rising in him. He had not in his own mind accepted Mrs. Manderson's account of Marlowe's character as unquestionable. But she had spoken forcibly; he could by no means set it aside, and his theory was much shaken. "There is only one thing for it," he said, looking up. "I must see Marlowe. It worries me too much to have the thing left like this. I will get at the truth. Can you tell me," he broke off, "how he behaved after the day I left White Gables?" "I never saw him after that," said Mrs. Manderson simply. "For some days after you went away I was ill, and didn't go out of my room. When I got down he had left and was in London, settling things with the lawyers. He did not come down to the funeral. Immediately after that I went abroad. After some weeks a letter from him reached me, saying he had concluded his business and given the solicitors all the assistance in his power. He thanked me very nicely for what he called all my kindness, and said goodbye. There was nothing in it about his plans for the future, and I thought it particularly strange that he said not a word about my husband's death. I didn't answer. Knowing what I knew, I couldn't. In those days I shuddered whenever I thought of that masquerade in the night. I never wanted to see or hear of him again." "Then you don't know what has become of him?" "No, but I dare say Uncle Burton—Mr. Cupples, you know—could tell you. Some time ago he told me that he had met Mr. Marlowe in London, and had some talk with him. I changed the conversation." She paused and smiled with a trace of mischief. "I rather wonder what you supposed had happened to Mr. Marlowe after you withdrew from the scene of the drama that you had put together so much to your satisfaction." Trent flushed. "Do you really want to know?" he said. "I ask you," she retorted quietly. "You ask me to humiliate myself again, Mrs. Manderson. Very well. I will tell you what I thought I should most likely find when I returned to London after my travels: that you had married Marlowe to live abroad." She heard him with unmoved composure. "We certainly couldn't have lived very comfortably in England on his money and mine," she observed thoughtfully. "He had practically nothing then." He stared at her—"gaped", she told him some time afterwards. At the moment she laughed with a little embarrassment. "Dear me, Mr. Trent! Have I said anything dreadful? You surely must know.... I thought everybody understood by now.... I'm sure I've had to explain it often enough... if I marry again I lose everything that my husband left me." The effect of this speech upon Trent was curious. For an instant his face was flooded with the emotion of surprise. As this passed away he gradually drew himself together, as he sat, into a tense attitude. He looked, she thought as she saw his knuckles grow white on the arms of the chair, like a man prepared for pain under the hand of the surgeon. But all he said, in a voice lower than his usual tone, was, "I had no idea of it." "It is so," she said calmly, trifling with a ring on her finger. "Really, Mr. Trent, it is not such a very unusual thing. I think I am glad of it. For one thing, it has secured me—at least since it became generally known—from a good many attentions of a kind that a woman in my position has to put up with as a rule." "No doubt," he said gravely. "And... the other kind?" She looked at him questioningly. "Ah!" she laughed. "The other kind trouble me even less. I have not yet met a man silly enough to want to marry a widow with a selfish disposition, and luxurious habits and tastes, and nothing but the little my father left me." She shook her head, and something in the gesture shattered the last remnants of Trent's self-possession. "Haven't you, by Heaven!" he exclaimed, rising with a violent movement and advancing a step towards her. "Then I am going to show you that human passion is not always stifled by the smell of money. I am going to end the business—my business. I am going to tell you what I dare say scores of better men have wanted to tell you, but couldn't summon up what I have summoned up—the infernal cheek to do it. They were afraid of making fools of themselves. I am not. You have accustomed me to the feeling this afternoon." He laughed aloud in his rush of words, and spread out his hands. "Look at me! It is the sight of the century! It is one who says he loves you, and would ask you to give up very great wealth to stand at his side." She was hiding her face in her hands. He heard her say brokenly, "Please... don't speak in that way." He answered: "It will make a great difference to me if you will allow me to say all I have to say before I leave you. Perhaps it is in bad taste, but I will risk that; I want to relieve my soul; it needs open confession. This is the truth. You have troubled me ever since the first time I saw you—and you did not know it—as you sat under the edge of the cliff at Marlstone, and held out your arms to the sea. It was only your beauty that filled my mind then. As I passed by you it seemed as if all the life in the place were crying out a song about you in the wind and the sunshine. And the song stayed in my ears; but even your beauty would be no more than an empty memory to me by now if that had been all. It was when I led you from the hotel there to your house, with your hand on my arm, that—what was it that happened? I only knew that your stronger magic had struck home, and that I never should forget that day, whatever the love of my life should be. Till that day I had admired as I should admire the loveliness of a still lake; but that day I felt the spell of the divinity of the lake. And next morning the waters were troubled, and she rose—the morning when I came to you with my questions, tired out with doubts that were as bitter as pain, and when I saw you without your pale, sweet mask of composure—when I saw you moved and glowing, with your eyes and your hands alive, and when you made me understand that for such a creature as you there had been emptiness and the mere waste of yourself for so long. Madness rose in me then, and my spirit was clamouring to say what I say at last now: that life would never seem a full thing again because you could not love me, that I was taken for ever in the nets of your black hair and by the incantation of your voice—" "Oh, stop!" she cried, suddenly throwing back her head, her face flaming and her hands clutching the cushions beside her. She spoke fast and disjointedly, her breath coming quick. "You shall not talk me into forgetting common sense. What does all this mean? Oh, I do not recognize you at all—you seem another man. We are not children; have you forgotten that? You speak like a boy in love for the first time. It is foolish, unreal—I know that if you do not. I will not hear it. What has happened to you?" She was half sobbing. "How can these sentimentalities come from a man like you? Where is your self-restraint?" "Gone!" exclaimed Trent, with an abrupt laugh. "It has got right away. I am going after it in a minute." He looked gravely down into her eyes. "I don't care so much now. I never could declare myself to you under the cloud of your great fortune. It was too heavy. There's nothing creditable in that feeling, as I look at it; as a matter of simple fact it was a form of cowardice—fear of what you would think, and very likely say—fear of the world's comment too, I suppose. But the cloud being rolled away, I have spoken, and I don't care so much. I can face things with a quiet mind now that I have told you the truth in its own terms. You may call it sentimentality or any other nickname you like. It is quite true that it was not intended for a scientific statement. Since it annoys you, let it be extinguished. But please believe that it was serious to me if it was comedy to you. I have said that I love you, and honour you, and would hold you dearest of all the world. Now give me leave to go." But she held out her hands to him. # Chapter XIV. Writing a Letter "If you insist," Trent said, "I suppose you will have your way. But I had much rather write it when I am not with you. However, if I must, bring me a tablet whiter than a star, or hand of hymning angel; I mean a sheet of note-paper not stamped with your address. Don't underestimate the sacrifice I am making. I never felt less like correspondence in my life." She rewarded him. "What shall I say?" he enquired, his pen hovering over the paper. "Shall I compare him to a summer's day? What _shall_ I say?" "Say what you want to say," she suggested helpfully. He shook his head. "What I want to say—what I have been wanting for the past twenty-four hours to say to every man, woman, and child I met—is ‘Mabel and I are betrothed, and all is gas and gaiters.' But that wouldn't be a very good opening for a letter of strictly formal, not to say sinister, character. I have got as far as ‘Dear Mr. Marlowe.' What comes next?" "I am sending you a manuscript," she prompted, "which I thought you might like to see." "Do you realize," he said, "that in that sentence there are only two words of more than one syllable? This letter is meant to impress, not to put him at his ease. We must have long words." "I don't see why," she answered. "I know it is usual, but why is it? I have had a great many letters from lawyers and business people, and they always begin, ‘with reference to our communication', or some such mouthful, and go on like that all the way through. Yet when I see them they don't talk like that. It seems ridiculous to me." "It is not at all ridiculous to them." Trent laid aside the pen with an appearance of relief and rose to his feet. "Let me explain. A people like our own, not very fond of using its mind, gets on in the ordinary way with a very small and simple vocabulary. Long words are abnormal, and like everything else that is abnormal, they are either very funny or tremendously solemn. Take the phrase ‘intelligent anticipation', for instance. If such a phrase had been used in any other country in Europe, it would not have attracted the slightest attention. With us it has become a proverb; we all grin when we hear it in a speech or read it in a leading article; it is considered to be one of the best things ever said. Why? Just because it consists of two long words. The idea expressed is as commonplace as cold mutton. Then there's ‘terminological inexactitude'. How we all roared, and are still roaring, at that! And the whole of the joke is that the words are long. It's just the same when we want to be very serious; we mark it by turning to long words. When a solicitor can begin a sentence with, ‘pursuant to the instructions communicated to our representative,' or some such gibberish, he feels that he is earning his six-and-eightpence. Don't laugh! It is perfectly true. Now Continentals haven't got that feeling. They are always bothering about ideas, and the result is that every shopkeeper or peasant has a vocabulary in daily use that is simply Greek to the vast majority of Britons. I remember some time ago I was dining with a friend of mine who is a Paris cabman. We had dinner at a dirty little restaurant opposite the central post office, a place where all the clients were cabmen or porters. Conversation was general, and it struck me that a London cabman would have felt a little out of his depth. Words like ‘functionary' and ‘unforgettable' and ‘exterminate' and ‘independence' hurtled across the table every instant. And these were just ordinary, vulgar, jolly, red-faced cabmen. Mind you," he went on hurriedly, as the lady crossed the room and took up his pen, "I merely mention this to illustrate my point. I'm not saying that cab-men ought to be intellectuals. I don't think so; I agree with Keats—happy is England, sweet her artless cabmen, enough their simple loveliness for me. But when you come to the people who make up the collective industrial brain-power of the country.... Why, do you know—" "Oh no, no, no!" cried Mrs. Manderson. "I don't know anything at the moment, except that your talking must be stopped somehow, if we are to get any further with that letter to Mr. Marlowe. You shall not get out of it. Come!" She put the pen into his hand. Trent looked at it with distaste. "I warn you not to discourage my talking," he said dejectedly. "Believe me, men who don't talk are even worse to live with than men who do. O have a care of natures that are mute. I confess I'm shirking writing this thing. It is almost an indecency. It's mixing two moods to write the sort of letter I mean to write, and at the same time to be sitting in the same room with you." She led him to his abandoned chair before the escritoire and pushed him gently into it. "Well, but please try. I want to see what you write, and I want it to go to him at once. You see, I would be contented enough to leave things as they are; but you say you must get at the truth, and if you must, I want it to be as soon as possible. Do it now—you know you can if you will—and I'll send it off the moment it's ready. Don't you ever feel that—the longing to get the worrying letter into the post and off your hands, so that you can't recall it if you would, and it's no use fussing any more about it?" "I will do as you wish," he said, and turned to the paper, which he dated as from his hotel. Mrs. Manderson looked down at his bent head with a gentle light in her eyes, and made as if to place a smoothing hand upon his rather untidy crop of hair. But she did not touch it. Going in silence to the piano, she began to play very softly. It was ten minutes before Trent spoke. "If he chooses to reply that he will say nothing?" Mrs. Manderson looked over her shoulder. "Of course he dare not take that line. He will speak to prevent you from denouncing him." "But I'm not going to do that anyhow. You wouldn't allow it—you said so; besides, I won't if you would. The thing's too doubtful now." "But," she laughed, "poor Mr. Marlowe doesn't know you won't, does he?" Trent sighed. "What extraordinary things codes of honour are!" he remarked abstractedly. "I know that there are things I should do, and never think twice about, which would make you feel disgraced if you did them—such as giving any one who grossly insulted me a black eye, or swearing violently when I barked my shin in a dark room. And now you are calmly recommending me to bluff Marlowe by means of a tacit threat which I don't mean; a thing which hell's most abandoned fiend did never, in the drunkenness of guilt—well, anyhow, I won't do it." He resumed his writing, and the lady, with an indulgent smile, returned to playing very softly. In a few minutes more, Trent said: "At last I am his faithfully. Do you want to see it?" She ran across the twilight room, and turned on a reading lamp beside the escritoire. Then, leaning on his shoulder, she read what follows: DEAR MR. MARLOWE,—_You will perhaps remember that we met, under unhappy circumstances, in June of last year at Marlstone._ _On that occasion it was my duty, as representing a newspaper, to make an independent investigation of the circumstances of the death of the late Sigsbee Manderson. I did so, and I arrived at certain conclusions. You may learn from the enclosed manuscript, which was originally written as a dispatch for my newspaper, what those conclusions were. For reasons which it is not necessary to state I decided at the last moment not to make them public, or to communicate them to you, and they are known to only two persons beside myself._ At this point Mrs. Manderson raised her eyes quickly from the letter. Her dark brows were drawn together. "Two persons?" she said with a note of enquiry. "Your uncle is the other. I sought him out last night and told him the whole story. Have you anything against it? I always felt uneasy at keeping it from him as I did, because I had led him to expect I should tell him all I discovered, and my silence looked like mystery-making. Now it is to be cleared up finally, and there is no question of shielding you, I wanted him to know everything. He is a very shrewd adviser, too, in a way of his own; and I should like to have him with me when I see Marlowe. I have a feeling that two heads will be better than one on my side of the interview." She sighed. "Yes, of course, uncle ought to know the truth. I hope there is nobody else at all." She pressed his hand. "I so much want all that horror buried—buried deep. I am very happy now, dear, but I shall be happier still when you have satisfied that curious mind of yours and found out everything, and stamped down the earth upon it all." She continued her reading. _Quite recently, however [the letter went on], facts have come to my knowledge which have led me to change my decision. I do not mean that I shall publish what I discovered, but that I have determined to approach you and ask you for a private statement. If you have anything to say which would place the matter in another light, I can imagine no reason why you should withhold it._ _I expect, then, to hear from you when and where I may call upon you; unless you prefer the interview to take place at my hotel. In either case I desire that Mr. Cupples whom you will remember, and who has read the enclosed document, should be present also.—Faithfully yours,_ _Philip Trent._ "What a very stiff letter!" she said. "Now I am sure you couldn't have made it any stiffer in your own rooms." Trent slipped the letter and enclosure into a long envelope. "Yes," he said, "I think it will make him sit up suddenly. Now this thing mustn't run any risk of going wrong. It would be best to send a special messenger with orders to deliver it into his own hands. If he's away it oughtn't to be left." She nodded. "I can arrange that. Wait here for a little." When Mrs. Manderson returned, he was hunting through the music cabinet. She sank on the carpet beside him in a wave of dark brown skirts. "Tell me something, Philip," she said. "If it is among the few things that I know." "When you saw uncle last night, did you tell him about—about us?" "I did not," he answered. "I remembered you had said nothing about telling any one. It is for you—isn't it?—to decide whether we take the world into our confidence at once or later on." "Then will you tell him?" She looked down at her clasped hands. "I wish you to tell him. Perhaps if you think you will guess why.... There! that is settled." She lifted her eyes again to his, and for a time there was silence between them. He leaned back at length in the deep chair. "What a world!" he said. "Mabel, will you play something on the piano that expresses mere joy, the genuine article, nothing feverish or like thorns under a pot, but joy that has decided in favour of the universe? It's a mood that can't last altogether, so we had better get all we can out of it." She went to the instrument and struck a few chords while she thought. Then she began to work with all her soul at the theme in the last movement of the Ninth Symphony which is like the sound of the opening of the gates of Paradise. # Chapter XV. Double Cunning An old oaken desk with a deep body stood by the window in a room that overlooked St. James's Park from a height. The room was large, furnished and decorated by some one who had brought taste to the work; but the hand of the bachelor lay heavy upon it. John Marlowe unlocked the desk and drew a long, stout envelope from the back of the well. "I understand," he said to Mr. Cupples, "that you have read this." "I read it for the first time two days ago," replied Mr. Cupples, who, seated on a sofa, was peering about the room with a benignant face. "We have discussed it fully." Marlowe turned to Trent. "There is your manuscript," he said, laying the envelope on the table. "I have gone over it three times. I do not believe there is another man who could have got at as much of the truth as you have set down there." Trent ignored the compliment. He sat by the table gazing stonily at the fire, his long legs twisted beneath his chair. "You mean, of course, he said, drawing the envelope towards him, "that there is more of the truth to be disclosed now. We are ready to hear you as soon as you like. I expect it will be a long story, and the longer the better, so far as I am concerned; I want to understand thoroughly. What we should both like, I think, is some preliminary account of Manderson and your relations with him. It seemed to me from the first that the character of the dead man must be somehow an element in the business." "You were right, Marlowe answered grimly. He crossed the room and seated himself on a corner of the tall cushion-topped fender. "I will begin as you suggest." "I ought to tell you beforehand," said Trent, looking him in the eyes, "that although I am here to listen to you, I have not as yet any reason to doubt the conclusions I have stated here." He tapped the envelope. "It is a defence that you will be putting forward—you understand that?" "Perfectly." Marlowe was cool and in complete possession of himself, a man different indeed from the worn-out, nervous being Trent remembered at Marlstone a year and a half ago. His tall, lithe figure was held with the perfection of muscular tone. His brow was candid, his blue eyes were clear, though they still had, as he paused collecting his ideas, the look that had troubled Trent at their first meeting. Only the lines of his mouth showed that he knew himself in a position of difficulty, and meant to face it. "Sigsbee Manderson was not a man of normal mind," Marlowe began in his quiet voice. "Most of the very rich men I met with in America had become so by virtue of abnormal greed, or abnormal industry, or abnormal personal force, or abnormal luck. None of them had remarkable intellects. Manderson delighted too in heaping up wealth; he worked incessantly at it; he was a man of dominant will; he had quite his share of luck; but what made him singular was his brainpower. In his own country they would perhaps tell you that it was his ruthlessness in pursuit of his aims that was his most striking characteristic; but there are hundreds of them who would have carried out his plans with just as little consideration for others if they could have formed the plans. "I'm not saying Americans aren't clever; they are ten times cleverer than we are, as a nation; but I never met another who showed such a degree of sagacity and foresight, such gifts of memory and mental tenacity, such sheer force of intelligence, as there was behind everything Manderson did in his money-making career. They called him the ‘Napoleon of Wall Street' often enough in the papers; but few people knew so well as I did how much truth there was in the phrase. He seemed never to forget a fact that might be of use to him, in the first place; and he did systematically with the business facts that concerned him what Napoleon did, as I have read, with military facts. He studied them in special digests which were prepared for him at short intervals, and which he always had at hand, so that he could take up his report on coal or wheat or railways, or whatever it might be, in any unoccupied moment. Then he could make a bolder and cleverer plan than any man of them all. People got to know that Manderson would never do the obvious thing, but they got no further; the thing he did do was almost always a surprise, and much of his success flowed from that. The Street got rattled, as they used to put it, when it was known that the old man was out with his gun, and often his opponents seemed to surrender as easily as Colonel Crockett's coon in the story. The scheme I am going to describe to you would have occupied most men long enough. Manderson could have plotted the thing, down to the last detail, while he shaved himself. "I used to think that his strain of Indian blood, remote as it was, might have something to do with the cunning and ruthlessness of the man. Strangely enough, its existence was unknown to any one but himself and me. It was when he asked me to apply my taste for genealogical work to his own obscure family history that I made the discovery that he had in him a share of the blood of the Iroquois chief Montour and his French wife, a terrible woman who ruled the savage politics of the tribes of the Wilderness two hundred years ago. The Mandersons were active in the fur trade on the Pennsylvanian border in those days, and more than one of them married Indian women. Other Indian blood than Montour's may have descended to Manderson, for all I can say, through previous and subsequent unions; some of the wives' antecedents were quite untraceable, and there were so many generations of pioneering before the whole country was brought under civilization. My researches left me with the idea that there is a very great deal of the aboriginal blood present in the genealogical make-up of the people of America, and that it is very widely spread. The newer families have constantly intermarried with the older, and so many of them had a strain of the native in them—and were often rather proud of it, too, in those days. But Manderson had the idea about the disgracefulness of mixed blood, which grew much stronger, I fancy, with the rise of the negro question after the war. He was thunderstruck at what I told him, and was anxious to conceal it from every soul. Of course I never gave it away while he lived, and I don't think he supposed I would; but I have thought since that his mind took a turn against me from that time onward. It happened about a year before his death." "Had Manderson," asked Mr. Cupples, so unexpectedly that the others started, "any definable religious attitude?" Marlowe considered a moment. "None that ever I heard of," he said. "Worship and prayer were quite unknown to him, so far as I could see, and I never heard him mention religion. I should doubt if he had any real sense of God at all, or if he was capable of knowing God through the emotions. But I understood that as a child he had had a religious upbringing with a strong moral side to it. His private life was, in the usual limited sense, blameless. He was almost ascetic in his habits, except as to smoking. I lived with him four years without ever knowing him to tell a direct verbal falsehood, constantly as he used to practise deceit in other forms. Can you understand the soul of a man who never hesitated to take steps that would have the effect of hoodwinking people, who would use every trick of the markets to mislead, and who was at the same time scrupulous never to utter a direct lie on the most insignificant matter? Manderson was like that, and he was not the only one. I suppose you might compare the state of mind to that of a soldier who is personally a truthful man, but who will stick at nothing to deceive the enemy. The rules of the game allow it; and the same may be said of business as many business men regard it. Only with them it is always wartime." "It is a sad world," observed Mr. Cupples. "As you say," Marlowe agreed. "Now I was saying that one could always take Manderson's word if he gave it in a definite form. The first time I ever heard him utter a downright lie was on the night he died; and hearing it, I believe, saved me from being hanged as his murderer." Marlowe stared at the light above his head and Trent moved impatiently in his chair. "Before we come to that," he said, "will you tell us exactly on what footing you were with Manderson during the years you were with him?" "We were on very good terms from beginning to end," answered Marlowe. "Nothing like friendship—he was not a man for making friends—but the best of terms as between a trusted employee and his chief. I went to him as private secretary just after getting my degree at Oxford. I was to have gone into my father's business, where I am now, but my father suggested that I should see the world for a year or two. So I took this secretaryship, which seemed to promise a good deal of varied experience, and I had let the year or two run on to four years before the end came. The offer came to me through the last thing in the world I should have put forward as a qualification for a salaried post, and that was chess." At the word Trent struck his hands together with a muttered exclamation. The others looked at him in surprise. "Chess!" repeated Trent. "Do you know," he said, rising and approaching Marlowe, "what was the first thing I noted about you at our first meeting? It was your eye, Mr. Marlowe. I couldn't place it then, but I know now where I had seen your eyes before. They were in the head of no less a man than the great Nikolay Korchagin, with whom I once sat in the same railway carriage for two days. I thought I should never forget the chess eye after that, but I could not put a name to it when I saw it in you. I beg your pardon," he ended suddenly, resuming his marmoreal attitude in his chair. "I have played the game from my childhood, and with good players," said Marlowe simply. "It is an hereditary gift, if you can call it a gift. At the University I was nearly as good as anybody there, and I gave most of my brains to that and the O.U.D.S. and playing about generally. At Oxford, as I dare say you know, inducements to amuse oneself at the expense of one's education are endless, and encouraged by the authorities. Well, one day toward the end of my last term, Dr. Munro of Queen's, whom I had never defeated, sent for me. He told me that I played a fairish game of chess. I said it was very good of him to say so. Then he said, ‘They tell me you hunt, too.' I said, ‘Now and then.' He asked, ‘Is there anything else you can do?' ‘No,' I said, not much liking the tone of the conversation—the old man generally succeeded in putting people's backs up. He grunted fiercely, and then told me that enquiries were being made on behalf of a wealthy American man of business who wanted an English secretary. Manderson was the name, he said. He seemed never to have heard it before, which was quite possible, as he never opened a newspaper and had not slept a night outside the college for thirty years. If I could rub up my spelling—as the old gentleman put it—I might have a good chance for the post, as chess and riding and an Oxford education were the only indispensable points. "Well, I became Manderson's secretary. For a long time I liked the position greatly. When one is attached to an active American plutocrat in the prime of life one need not have many dull moments. Besides, it made me independent. My father had some serious business reverses about that time, and I was glad to be able to do without an allowance from him. At the end of the first year Manderson doubled my salary. ‘It's big money,' he said, ‘but I guess I don't lose.' You see, by that time I was doing a great deal more than accompany him on horseback in the morning and play chess in the evening, which was mainly what he had required. I was attending to his houses, his farm in Ohio, his shooting in Maine, his horses, his cars, and his yacht. I had become a walking railway-guide and an expert cigar-buyer. I was always learning something. "Well, now you understand what my position was in regard to Manderson during the last two or three years of my connection with him. It was a happy life for me on the whole. I was busy, my work was varied and interesting; I had time to amuse myself too, and money to spend. At one time I made a fool of myself about a girl, and that was not a happy time; but it taught me to understand the great goodness of Mrs. Manderson." Marlowe inclined his head to Mr. Cupples as he said this. "She may choose to tell you about it. As for her husband, he had never varied in his attitude towards me, in spite of the change that came over him in the last months of his life, as you know. He treated me well and generously in his unsympathetic way, and I never had a feeling that he was less than satisfied with his bargain—that was the sort of footing we lived upon. And it was that continuance of his attitude right up to the end that made the revelation so shocking when I was suddenly shown, on the night on which he met his end, the depth of crazy hatred of myself that was in Manderson's soul." The eyes of Trent and Mr. Cupples met for an instant. "You never suspected that he hated you before that time?" asked Trent; and Mr. Cupples asked at the same moment, "To what did you attribute it?" "I never guessed until that night," answered Marlowe, "that he had the smallest ill-feeling toward me. How long it had existed I do not know. I cannot imagine why it was there. I was forced to think, when I considered the thing in those awful days after his death, that it was a case of a madman's delusion, that he believed me to be plotting against him, as they so often do. Some such insane conviction must have been at the root of it. But who can sound the abysses of a lunatic's fancy? Can you imagine the state of mind in which a man dooms himself to death with the object of delivering some one he hates to the hangman?" Mr. Cupples moved sharply in his chair. "You say Manderson was responsible for his own death?" he asked. Trent glanced at him with an eye of impatience, and resumed his intent watch upon the face of Marlowe. In the relief of speech it was now less pale and drawn. "I do say so," Marlowe answered concisely, and looked his questioner in the face. Mr. Cupples nodded. "Before we proceed to the elucidation of your statement," observed the old gentleman, in a tone of one discussing a point of abstract science, "it may be remarked that the state of mind which you attribute to Manderson—" "Suppose we have the story first," Trent interrupted, gently laying a hand on Mr. Cupples's arm. "You were telling us," he went on, turning to Marlowe, "how things stood between you and Manderson. Now will you tell us the facts of what happened that night?" Marlowe flushed at the barely perceptible emphasis which Trent laid upon the word "facts". He drew himself up. "Bunner and myself dined with Mr. and Mrs. Manderson that Sunday evening," he began, speaking carefully. "It was just like other dinners at which the four of us had been together. Manderson was taciturn and gloomy, as we had latterly been accustomed to see him. We others kept a conversation going. We rose from the table, I suppose, about nine. Mrs. Manderson went to the drawing-room, and Bunner went up to the hotel to see an acquaintance. Manderson asked me to come into the orchard behind the house, saying he wished to have a talk. We paced up and down the pathway there, out of earshot from the house, and Manderson, as he smoked his cigar, spoke to me in his cool, deliberate way. He had never seemed more sane, or more well-disposed to me. He said he wanted me to do him an important service. There was a big thing on. It was a secret affair. Bunner knew nothing of it, and the less I knew the better. He wanted me to do exactly as he directed, and not bother my head about reasons. "This, I may say, was quite characteristic of Manderson's method of going to work. If at times he required a man to be a mere tool in his hand, he would tell him so. He had used me in the same kind of way a dozen times. I assured him he could rely on me, and said I was ready. ‘Right now?' he asked. I said of course I was. "He nodded, and said—I tell you his words as well as I can recollect them—attend to this. ‘There is a man in England now who is in this thing with me. He was to have left tomorrow for Paris by the noon boat from Southampton to Havre. His name is George Harris—at least that's the name he is going by. Do you remember that name?' ‘Yes,' I said, ‘when I went up to London a week ago you asked me to book a cabin in that name on the boat that goes tomorrow. I gave you the ticket.' ‘Here it is,' he said, producing it from his pocket. "‘Now,' Manderson said to me, poking his cigar-butt at me with each sentence in a way he used to have, ‘George Harris cannot leave England tomorrow. I find I shall want him where he is. And I want Bunner where he is. But somebody has got to go by that boat and take certain papers to Paris. Or else my plan is going to fall to pieces. Will you go?' I said, ‘Certainly. I am here to obey orders.' "He bit his cigar, and said, ‘That's all right; but these are not just ordinary orders. Not the kind of thing one can ask of a man in the ordinary way of his duty to an employer. The point is this. The deal I am busy with is one in which neither myself nor any one known to be connected with me must appear as yet. That is vital. But these people I am up against know your face as well as they know mine. If my secretary is known in certain quarters to have crossed to Paris at this time and to have interviewed certain people—and that would be known as soon as it happened—then the game is up.' He threw away his cigar-end and looked at me questioningly. "I didn't like it much, but I liked failing Manderson at a pinch still less. I spoke lightly. I said I supposed I should have to conceal my identity, and I would do my best. I told him I used to be pretty good at make-up. "He nodded in approval. He said, ‘That's good. I judged you would not let me down.' Then he gave me my instructions. ‘You take the car right now,' he said, ‘and start for Southampton—there's no train that will fit in. You'll be driving all night. Barring accidents, you ought to get there by six in the morning. But whenever you arrive, drive straight to the Bedford Hotel and ask for George Harris. If he's there, tell him you are to go over instead of him, and ask him to telephone me here. It is very important he should know that at the earliest moment possible. But if he isn't there, that means he has got the instructions I wired today, and hasn't gone to Southampton. In that case you don't want to trouble about him any more, but just wait for the boat. You can leave the car at a garage under a fancy name—mine must not be given. See about changing your appearance—I don't care how, so you do it well. Travel by the boat as George Harris. Let on to be anything you like, but be careful, and don't talk much to anybody. When you arrive, take a room at the Hotel St Petersbourg. You will receive a note or message there, addressed to George Harris, telling you where to take the wallet I shall give you. The wallet is locked, and you want to take good care of it. Have you got that all clear?' "I repeated the instructions. I asked if I should return from Paris after handing over the wallet. ‘As soon as you like,' he said. ‘And mind this—whatever happens, don't communicate with me at any stage of the journey. If you don't get the message in Paris at once, just wait until you do—days, if necessary. But not a line of any sort to me. Understand? Now get ready as quick as you can. I'll go with you in the car a little way. Hurry.' "That is, as far as I can remember, the exact substance of what Manderson said to me that night. I went to my room, changed into day clothes, and hastily threw a few necessaries into a kit-bag. My mind was in a whirl, not so much at the nature of the business as at the suddenness of it. I think I remember telling you the last time we met"—he turned to Trent—"that Manderson shared the national fondness for doings things in a story-book style. Other things being equal, he delighted in a bit of mystification and melodrama, and I told myself that this was Manderson all over. I hurried downstairs with my bag and rejoined him in the library. He handed me a stout leather letter-case, about eight inches by six, fastened with a strap with a lock on it. I could just squeeze it into my side-pocket. Then I went to get the car from the garage behind the house. "As I was bringing it round to the front a disconcerting thought struck me. I remembered that I had only a few shillings in my pocket. "For some time past I had been keeping myself very short of cash, and for this reason—which I tell you because it is a vital point, as you shall see in a minute. I was living temporarily on borrowed money. I had always been careless about money while I was with Manderson, and being a gregarious animal I had made many friends, some of them belonging to a New York set that had little to do but get rid of the large incomes given them by their parents. Still, I was very well paid, and I was too busy even to attempt to go very far with them in that amusing occupation. I was still well on the right side of the ledger until I began, merely out of curiosity, to play at speculation. It's a very old story—particularly in Wall Street. I thought it was easy; I was lucky at first; I would always be prudent—and so on. Then came the day when I went out of my depth. In one week I was separated from my toll, as Bunner expressed it when I told him; and I owed money too. I had had my lesson. Now in this pass I went to Manderson and told him what I had done and how I stood. He heard me with a very grim smile, and then, with the nearest approach to sympathy I had ever found in him, he advanced me a sum on account of my salary that would clear me. ‘Don't play the markets any more,' was all he said. "Now on that Sunday night Manderson knew that I was practically without any money in the world. He knew that Bunner knew it too. He may have known that I had even borrowed a little more from Bunner for pocket-money until my next cheque was due, which, owing to my anticipation of my salary, would not have been a large one. Bear this knowledge of Manderson's in mind. "As soon as I had brought the car round I went into the library and stated the difficulty to Manderson. "What followed gave me, slight as it was, my first impression of something odd being afoot. As soon as I mentioned the word ‘expenses' his hand went mechanically to his left hip-pocket, where he always kept a little case containing notes to the value of about a hundred pounds in our money. This was such a rooted habit in him that I was astonished to see him check the movement suddenly. Then, to my greater amazement, he swore under his breath. I had never heard him do this before; but Bunner had told me that of late he had often shown irritation in this way when they were alone. ‘Has he mislaid his note-case?' was the question that flashed through my mind. But it seemed to me that it could not affect his plan at all, and I will tell you why. The week before, when I had gone up to London to carry out various commissions, including the booking of a berth for Mr. George Harris, I had drawn a thousand pounds for Manderson from his bankers, and all, at his request, in notes of small amounts. I did not know what this unusually large sum in cash was for, but I did know that the packets of notes were in his locked desk in the library, or had been earlier in the day, when I had seen him fingering them as he sat at the desk. "But instead of turning to the desk, Manderson stood looking at me. There was fury in his face, and it was a strange sight to see him gradually master it until his eyes grew cold again. ‘Wait in the car,' he said slowly. ‘I will get some money.' We both went out, and as I was getting into my overcoat in the hall I saw him enter the drawing-room, which, you remember, was on the other side of the entrance hall. "I stepped out on to the lawn before the house and smoked a cigarette, pacing up and down. I was asking myself again and again where that thousand pounds was; whether it was in the drawing-room, and if so, why. Presently, as I passed one of the drawing-room windows, I noticed Mrs Manderson's shadow on the thin silk curtain. She was standing at her escritoire. The window was open, and as I passed I heard her say, ‘I have not quite thirty pounds here. Will that be enough?' I did not hear the answer, but next moment Manderson's shadow was mingled with hers, and I heard the chink of money. Then, as he stood by the window, and as I was moving away, these words of his came to my ears—and these at least I can repeat exactly, for astonishment stamped them on my memory—‘I'm going out now. Marlowe has persuaded me to go for a moonlight run in the car. He is very urgent about it. He says it will help me to sleep, and I guess he is right.' I have told you that in the course of four years I had never once heard Manderson utter a direct lie about anything, great or small. I believed that I understood the man's queer, skin-deep morality, and I could have sworn that if he was firmly pressed with a question that could not be evaded he would either refuse to answer or tell the truth. But what had I just heard? No answer to any question. A voluntary statement, precise in terms, that was utterly false. The unimaginable had happened. It was almost as if some one I knew well, in a moment of closest sympathy, had suddenly struck me in the face. The blood rushed to my head, and I stood still on the grass. I stood there until I heard his step at the front door, and then I pulled myself together and stepped quickly to the car. He handed me a banker's paper bag with gold and notes in it. ‘There's more than you'll want there,' he said, and I pocketed it mechanically. "For a minute or so I stood discussing with Manderson—it was by one of those _tours de force_ of which one's mind is capable under great excitement—points about the route of the long drive before me. I had made the run several times by day, and I believe I spoke quite calmly and naturally about it. But while I spoke my mind was seething in a flood of suddenly born suspicion and fear. I did not know what I feared. I simply felt fear, somehow—I did not know how—connected with Manderson. My soul once opened to it, fear rushed in like an assaulting army. I felt—I knew—that something was altogether wrong and sinister, and I felt myself to be the object of it. Yet Manderson was surely no enemy of mine. Then my thoughts reached out wildly for an answer to the question why he had told that lie. And all the time the blood hammered in my ears, ‘Where is that money?' Reason struggled hard to set up the suggestion that the two things were not necessarily connected. The instinct of a man in danger would not listen to it. As we started, and the car took the curve into the road, it was merely the unconscious part of me that steered and controlled it, and that made occasional empty remarks as we slid along in the moonlight. Within me was a confusion and vague alarm that was far worse than any definite terror I ever felt. "About a mile from the house, you remember, one passed on one's left a gate, on the other side of which was the golf-course. There Manderson said he would get down, and I stopped the car. ‘You've got it all clear?' he asked. With a sort of wrench I forced myself to remember and repeat the directions given me. ‘That's OK,' he said. ‘Goodbye, then. Stay with that wallet.' Those were the last words I heard him speak, as the car moved gently away from him." Marlowe rose from his chair and pressed his hands to his eyes. He was flushed with the excitement of his own narrative, and there was in his look a horror of recollection that held both the listeners silent. He shook himself with a movement like a dog's, and then, his hands behind him, stood erect before the fire as he continued his tale. "I expect you both know what the back-reflector of a motor car is." Trent nodded quickly, his face alive with anticipation; but Mr. Cupples, who cherished a mild but obstinate prejudice against motor cars, readily confessed to ignorance. "It is a small round or more often rectangular mirror," Marlowe explained, "rigged out from the right side of the screen in front of the driver, and adjusted in such a way that he can see, without turning round, if anything is coming up behind to pass him. It is quite an ordinary appliance, and there was one on this car. As the car moved on, and Manderson ceased speaking behind me, I saw in that mirror a thing that I wish I could forget." Marlowe was silent for a moment, staring at the wall before him. "Manderson's face," he said in a low tone. "He was standing in the road, looking after me, only a few yards behind, and the moonlight was full on his face. The mirror happened to catch it for an instant. "Physical habit is a wonderful thing. I did not shift hand or foot on the controlling mechanism of the car. Indeed, I dare say it steadied me against the shock to have myself braced to the business of driving. You have read in books, no doubt, of hell looking out of a man's eyes, but perhaps you don't know what a good metaphor that is. If I had not known Manderson was there, I should not have recognized the face. It was that of a madman, distorted, hideous in the imbecility of hate, the teeth bared in a simian grin of ferocity and triumph; the eyes.... In the little mirror I had this glimpse of the face alone. I saw nothing of whatever gesture there may have been as that writhing white mask glared after me. And I saw it only for a flash. The car went on, gathering speed, and as it went, my brain, suddenly purged of the vapours of doubt and perplexity, was as busy as the throbbing engine before my feet. I knew. "You say something in that manuscript of yours, Mr. Trent, about the swift automatic way in which one's ideas arrange themselves about some new illuminating thought. It is quite true. The awful intensity of ill-will that had flamed after me from those straining eyeballs poured over my mind like a searchlight. I was thinking quite clearly now, and almost coldly, for I knew what—at least I knew whom—I had to fear, and instinct warned me that it was not a time to give room to the emotions that were fighting to possess me. The man hated me insanely. That incredible fact I suddenly knew. But the face had told me, it would have told anybody, more than that. It was a face of hatred gratified, it proclaimed some damnable triumph. It had gloated over me driving away to my fate. This too was plain to me. And to what fate? "I stopped the car. It had gone about two hundred and fifty yards, and a sharp bend of the road hid the spot where I had set Manderson down. I lay back in the seat and thought it out. Something was to happen to me. In Paris? Probably—why else should I be sent there, with money and a ticket? But why Paris? That puzzled me, for I had no melodramatic ideas about Paris. I put the point aside for a moment. I turned to the other things that had roused my attention that evening. The lie about my ‘persuading him to go for a moonlight run'. What was the intention of that? Manderson, I said to myself, will be returning without me while I am on my way to Southampton. What will he tell them about me? How account for his returning alone, and without the car? As I asked myself that sinister question there rushed into my mind the last of my difficulties: ‘Where are the thousand pounds?' And in the same instant came the answer: ‘The thousand pounds are in my pocket.' "I got up and stepped from the car. My knees trembled and I felt very sick. I saw the plot now, as I thought. The whole of the story about the papers and the necessity of their being taken to Paris was a blind. With Manderson's money about me, of which he would declare I had robbed him, I was, to all appearance, attempting to escape from England, with every precaution that guilt could suggest. He would communicate with the police at once, and would know how to put them on my track. I should be arrested in Paris, if I got so far, living under a false name, after having left the car under a false name, disguised myself, and travelled in a cabin which I had booked in advance, also under a false name. It would be plainly the crime of a man without money, and for some reason desperately in want of it. As for my account of the affair, it would be too preposterous. "As this ghastly array of incriminating circumstances rose up before me, I dragged the stout letter-case from my pocket. In the intensity of the moment, I never entertained the faintest doubt that I was right, and that the money was there. It would easily hold the packets of notes. But as I felt it and weighed it in my hands it seemed to me there must be more than this. It was too bulky. What more was to be laid to my charge? After all, a thousand pounds was not much to tempt a man like myself to run the risk of penal servitude. In this new agitation, scarcely knowing what I did, I caught the surrounding strap in my fingers just above the fastening and tore the staple out of the lock. Those locks, you know, are pretty flimsy as a rule." Here Marlowe paused and walked to the oaken desk before the window. Opening a drawer full of miscellaneous objects, he took out a box of odd keys, and selected a small one distinguished by a piece of pink tape. He handed it to Trent. "I keep that by me as a sort of morbid memento. It is the key to the lock I smashed. I might have saved myself the trouble, if I had known that this key was at that moment in the left-hand side-pocket of my overcoat. Manderson must have slipped it in, either while the coat was hanging in the hall or while he sat at my side in the car. I might not have found the tiny thing there for weeks: as a matter of fact I did find it two days after Manderson was dead, but a police search would have found it in five minutes. And then I—I with the case and its contents in my pocket, my false name and my sham spectacles and the rest of it—I should have had no explanation to offer but the highly convincing one that I didn't know the key was there." Trent dangled the key by its tape idly. Then: "How do you know this is the key of that case?" he asked quickly. "I tried it. As soon as I found it I went up and fitted it to the lock. I knew where I had left the thing. So do you, I think, Mr. Trent. Don't you?" There was a faint shade of mockery in Marlowe's voice. "_Touché_," Trent said, with a dry smile. "I found a large empty letter-case with a burst lock lying with other odds and ends on the dressing-table in Manderson's room. Your statement is that you put it there. I could make nothing of it." He closed his lips. "There was no reason for hiding it," said Marlowe. "But to get back to my story. I burst the lock of the strap. I opened the case before one of the lamps of the car. The first thing I found in it I ought to have expected, of course, but I hadn't." He paused and glanced at Trent. "It was—" began Trent mechanically, and then stopped himself. "Try not to bring me in any more, if you don't mind," he said, meeting the other's eye. "I have complimented you already in that document on your cleverness. You need not prove it by making the judge help you out with your evidence." "All right," agreed Marlowe. "I couldn't resist just that much. If _you_ had been in my place you would have known before I did that Manderson's little pocket-case was there. As soon as I saw it, of course, I remembered his not having had it about him when I asked for money, and his surprising anger. He had made a false step. He had already fastened his note-case up with the rest of what was to figure as my plunder, and placed it in my hands. I opened it. It contained a few notes as usual, I didn't count them. "Tucked into the flaps of the big case in packets were the other notes, just as I had brought them from London. And with them were two small wash-leather bags, the look of which I knew well. My heart jumped sickeningly again, for this, too, was utterly unexpected. In those bags Manderson kept the diamonds in which he had been investing for some time past. I didn't open them; I could feel the tiny stones shifting under the pressure of my fingers. How many thousands of pounds' worth there were there I have no idea. We had regarded Manderson's diamond-buying as merely a speculative fad. I believe now that it was the earliest movement in the scheme for my ruin. For any one like myself to be represented as having robbed him, there ought to be a strong inducement shown. That had been provided with a vengeance. "Now, I thought, I have the whole thing plain, and I must act. I saw instantly what I must do. I had left Manderson about a mile from the house. It would take him twenty minutes, fifteen if he walked fast, to get back to the house, where he would, of course, immediately tell his story of robbery, and probably telephone at once to the police in Bishopsbridge. I had left him only five or six minutes ago; for all that I have just told you was as quick thinking as I ever did. It would be easy to overtake him in the car before he neared the house. There would be an awkward interview. I set my teeth as I thought of it, and all my fears vanished as I began to savour the gratification of telling him my opinion of him. There are probably few people who ever positively looked forward to an awkward interview with Manderson; but I was mad with rage. My honour and my liberty had been plotted against with detestable treachery. I did not consider what would follow the interview. That would arrange itself. "I had started and turned the car, I was already going fast toward White Gables, when I heard the sound of a shot in front of me, to the right. "Instantly I stopped the car. My first wild thought was that Manderson was shooting at me. Then I realized that the noise had not been close at hand. I could see nobody on the road, though the moonlight flooded it. I had left Manderson at a spot just round the corner that was now about a hundred yards ahead of me. After half a minute or so, I started again, and turned the corner at a slow pace. Then I stopped again with a jar, and for a moment I sat perfectly still. "Manderson lay dead a few steps from me on the turf within the gate, clearly visible to me in the moonlight." Marlowe made another pause, and Trent, with a puckered brow, enquired, "On the golf-course?" "Obviously," remarked Mr. Cupples. "The eighth green is just there." He had grown more and more interested as Marlowe went on, and was now playing feverishly with his thin beard. "On the green, quite close to the flag," said Marlowe. "He lay on his back, his arms were stretched abroad, his jacket and heavy overcoat were open; the light shone hideously on his white face and his shirt-front; it glistened on his bared teeth and one of the eyes. The other... you saw it. The man was certainly dead. As I sat there stunned, unable for the moment to think at all, I could even see a thin dark line of blood running down from the shattered socket to the ear. Close by lay his soft black hat, and at his feet a pistol. "I suppose it was only a few seconds that I sat helplessly staring at the body. Then I rose and moved to it with dragging feet; for now the truth had come to me at last, and I realized the fullness of my appalling danger. It was not only my liberty or my honour that the maniac had undermined. It was death that he had planned for me; death with the degradation of the scaffold. To strike me down with certainty, he had not hesitated to end his life; a life which was, no doubt, already threatened by a melancholic impulse to self-destruction; and the last agony of the suicide had been turned, perhaps, to a devilish joy by the thought that he dragged down my life with his. For as far as I could see at the moment my situation was utterly hopeless. If it had been desperate on the assumption that Manderson meant to denounce me as a thief, what was it now that his corpse denounced me as a murderer? "I picked up the revolver and saw, almost without emotion, that it was my own. Manderson had taken it from my room, I suppose, while I was getting out the car. At the same moment I remembered that it was by Manderson's suggestion that I had had it engraved with my initials, to distinguish it from a precisely similar weapon which he had of his own. "I bent over the body and satisfied myself that there was no life left in it. I must tell you here that I did not notice, then or afterwards, the scratches and marks on the wrists, which were taken as evidence of a struggle with an assailant. But I have no doubt that Manderson deliberately injured himself in this way before firing the shot; it was a part of his plan. "Though I never perceived that detail, however, it was evident enough as I looked at the body that Manderson had not forgotten, in his last act on earth, to tie me tighter by putting out of court the question of suicide. He had clearly been at pains to hold the pistol at arm's length, and there was not a trace of smoke or of burning on the face. The wound was absolutely clean, and was already ceasing to bleed outwardly. I rose and paced the green, reckoning up the points in the crushing case against me. "I was the last to be seen with Manderson. I had persuaded him—so he had lied to his wife and, as I afterwards knew, to the butler—to go with me for the drive from which he never returned. My pistol had killed him. It was true that by discovering his plot I had saved myself from heaping up further incriminating facts—flight, concealment, the possession of the treasure. But what need of them, after all? As I stood, what hope was there? What could I do?" Marlowe came to the table and leaned forward with his hands upon it. "I want," he said very earnestly, "to try to make you understand what was in my mind when I decided to do what I did. I hope you won't be bored, because I must do it. You may both have thought I acted like a fool. But after all the police never suspected me. I walked that green for a quarter of an hour, I suppose, thinking the thing out like a game of chess. I had to think ahead and think coolly; for my safety depended on upsetting the plans of one of the longest-headed men who ever lived. And remember that, for all I knew, there were details of the scheme still hidden from me, waiting to crush me. "Two plain courses presented themselves at once. Either of them, I thought, would certainly prove fatal. I could, in the first place, do the completely straightforward thing: take back the dead man, tell my story, hand over the notes and diamonds, and trust to the saving power of truth and innocence. I could have laughed as I thought of it. I saw myself bringing home the corpse and giving an account of myself, boggling with sheer shame over the absurdity of my wholly unsupported tale, as I brought a charge of mad hatred and fiendish treachery against a man who had never, as far as I knew, had a word to say against me. At every turn the cunning of Manderson had forestalled me. His careful concealment of such a hatred was a characteristic feature of the stratagem; only a man of his iron self-restraint could have done it. You can see for yourselves how every fact in my statement would appear, in the shadow of Manderson's death, a clumsy lie. I tried to imagine myself telling such a story to the counsel for my defence. I could see the face with which he would listen to it; I could read in the lines of it his thought, that to put forward such an impudent farrago would mean merely the disappearance of any chance there might be of a commutation of the capital sentence. "True, I had not fled. I had brought back the body; I had handed over the property. But how did that help me? It would only suggest that I had yielded to a sudden funk after killing my man, and had no nerve left to clutch at the fruits of the crime; it would suggest, perhaps, that I had not set out to kill but only to threaten, and that when I found that I had done murder the heart went out of me. Turn it which way I would, I could see no hope of escape by this plan of action. "The second of the obvious things that I might do was to take the hint offered by the situation, and to fly at once. That too must prove fatal. There was the body. I had no time to hide it in such a way that it would not be found at the first systematic search. But whatever I should do with the body, Manderson's not returning to the house would cause uneasiness in two or three hours at most. Martin would suspect an accident to the car, and would telephone to the police. At daybreak the roads would be scoured and enquiries telegraphed in every direction. The police would act on the possibility of there being foul play. They would spread their nets with energy in such a big business as the disappearance of Manderson. Ports and railway termini would be watched. Within twenty-four hours the body would be found, and the whole country would be on the alert for me—all Europe, scarcely less; I did not believe there was a spot in Christendom where the man accused of Manderson's murder could pass unchallenged, with every newspaper crying the fact of his death into the ears of all the world. Every stranger would be suspect; every man, woman, and child would be a detective. The car, wherever I should abandon it, would put people on my track. If I had to choose between two utterly hopeless courses, I decided, I would take that of telling the preposterous truth. "But now I cast about desperately for some tale that would seem more plausible than the truth. Could I save my neck by a lie? One after another came into my mind; I need not trouble to remember them now. Each had its own futilities and perils; but every one split upon the fact—or what would be taken for fact—that I had induced Manderson to go out with me, and the fact that he had never returned alive. Notion after notion I swiftly rejected as I paced there by the dead man, and doom seemed to settle down upon me more heavily as the moments passed. Then a strange thought came to me. "Several times I had repeated to myself half-consciously, as a sort of refrain, the words in which I had heard Manderson tell his wife that I had induced him to go out. ‘Marlowe has persuaded me to go for a moonlight run in the car. He is very urgent about it.' All at once it struck me that, without meaning to do so, I was saying this in Manderson's voice. "As you found out for yourself, Mr. Trent, I have a natural gift of mimicry. I had imitated Manderson's voice many times so successfully as to deceive even Bunner, who had been much more in his company than his own wife. It was, you remember"—Marlowe turned to Mr. Cupples—"a strong, metallic voice, of great carrying power, so unusual as to make it a very fascinating voice to imitate, and at the same time very easy. I said the words carefully to myself again, like this—" he uttered them, and Mr. Cupples opened his eyes in amazement—"and then I struck my hand upon the low wall beside me. ‘Manderson never returned alive?' I said aloud. ‘But Manderson _shall_ return alive!'" "In thirty seconds the bare outline of the plan was complete in my mind. I did not wait to think over details. Every instant was precious now. I lifted the body and laid it on the floor of the car, covered with a rug. I took the hat and the revolver. Not one trace remained on the green, I believe, of that night's work. As I drove back to White Gables my design took shape before me with a rapidity and ease that filled me with a wild excitement. I should escape yet! It was all so easy if I kept my pluck. Putting aside the unusual and unlikely, I should not fail. I wanted to shout, to scream! "Nearing the house I slackened speed, and carefully reconnoitred the road. Nothing was moving. I turned the car into the open field on the other side of the road, about twenty paces short of the little door at the extreme corner of the grounds. I brought it to rest behind a stack. When, with Manderson's hat on my head and the pistol in my pocket, I had staggered with the body across the moonlit road and through that door, I left much of my apprehension behind me. With swift action and an unbroken nerve I thought I ought to succeed." With a long sigh Marlowe threw himself into one of the deep chairs at the fireside and passed his handkerchief over his damp forehead. Each of his hearers, too, drew a deep breath, but not audibly. "Everything else you know," he said. He took a cigarette from a box beside him and lighted it. Trent watched the very slight quiver of the hand that held the match, and privately noted that his own was at the moment not so steady. "The shoes that betrayed me to you," pursued Marlowe after a short silence, "were painful all the time I wore them, but I never dreamed that they had given anywhere. I knew that no footstep of mine must appear by any accident in the soft ground about the hut where I laid the body, or between the hut and the house, so I took the shoes off and crammed my feet into them as soon as I was inside the little door. I left my own shoes, with my own jacket and overcoat, near the body, ready to be resumed later. I made a clear footmark on the soft gravel outside the French window, and several on the drugget round the carpet. The stripping off of the outer clothing of the body, and the dressing of it afterwards in the brown suit and shoes, and putting the things into the pockets, was a horrible business; and getting the teeth out of the mouth was worse. The head—but you don't want to hear about it. I didn't feel it much at the time. I was wriggling my own head out of a noose, you see. I wish I had thought of pulling down the cuffs, and had tied the shoes more neatly. And putting the watch in the wrong pocket was a bad mistake. It had all to be done so hurriedly. "You were wrong, by the way, about the whisky. After one stiffish drink I had no more; but I filled up a flask that was in the cupboard, and pocketed it. I had a night of peculiar anxiety and effort in front of me and I didn't know how I should stand it. I had to take some once or twice during the drive. Speaking of that, you give rather a generous allowance of time in your document for doing that run by night. You say that to get to Southampton by half-past six in that car, under the conditions, a man must, even if he drove like a demon, have left Marlstone by twelve at latest. I had not got the body dressed in the other suit, with tie and watch-chain and so forth, until nearly ten minutes past; and then I had to get to the car and start it going. But then I don't suppose any other man would have taken the risks I did in that car at night, without a headlight. It turns me cold to think of it now. "There's nothing much to say about what I did in the house. I spent the time after Martin had left me in carefully thinking over the remaining steps in my plan, while I unloaded and thoroughly cleaned the revolver using my handkerchief and a penholder from the desk. I also placed the packets of notes, the note-case, and the diamonds in the roll-top desk, which I opened and relocked with Manderson's key. When I went upstairs it was a trying moment, for though I was safe from the eyes of Martin, as he sat in his pantry, there was a faint possibility of somebody being about on the bedroom floor. I had sometimes found the French maid wandering about there when the other servants were in bed. Bunner, I knew, was a deep sleeper. Mrs. Manderson, I had gathered from things I had heard her say, was usually asleep by eleven; I had thought it possible that her gift of sleep had helped her to retain all her beauty and vitality in spite of a marriage which we all knew was an unhappy one. Still it was uneasy work mounting the stairs, and holding myself ready to retreat to the library again at the least sound from above. But nothing happened. "The first thing I did on reaching the corridor was to enter my room and put the revolver and cartridges back in the case. Then I turned off the light and went quietly into Manderson's room. "What I had to do there you know. I had to take off the shoes and put them outside the door, leave Manderson's jacket, waistcoat, trousers, and black tie, after taking everything out of the pockets, select a suit and tie and shoes for the body, and place the dental plate in the bowl, which I moved from the washing-stand to the bedside, leaving those ruinous finger-marks as I did so. The marks on the drawer must have been made when I shut it after taking out the tie. Then I had to lie down in the bed and tumble it. You know all about it—all except my state of mind, which you couldn't imagine and I couldn't describe. "The worst came when I had hardly begun my operations: the moment when Mrs Manderson spoke from the room where I supposed her asleep. I was prepared for it happening; it was a possibility; but I nearly lost my nerve all the same. However.... "By the way, I may tell you this: in the extremely unlikely contingency of Mrs. Manderson remaining awake, and so putting out of the question my escape by way of her window, I had planned simply to remain where I was a few hours, and then, not speaking to her, to leave the house quickly and quietly by the ordinary way. Martin would have been in bed by that time. I might have been heard to leave, but not seen. I should have done just as I had planned with the body, and then made the best time I could in the car to Southampton. The difference would have been that I couldn't have furnished an unquestionable alibi by turning up at the hotel at 6.30. I should have made the best of it by driving straight to the docks, and making my ostentatious enquiries there. I could in any case have got there long before the boat left at noon. I couldn't see that anybody could suspect me of the supposed murder in any case; but if any one had, and if I hadn't arrived until ten o'clock, say, I shouldn't have been able to answer, ‘It is impossible for me to have got to Southampton so soon after shooting him.' I should simply have had to say I was delayed by a breakdown after leaving Manderson at half-past ten, and challenged any one to produce any fact connecting me with the crime. They couldn't have done it. The pistol, left openly in my room, might have been used by anybody, even if it could be proved that that particular pistol was used. Nobody could reasonably connect me with the shooting so long as it was believed that it was Manderson who had returned to the house. The suspicion could not, I was confident, enter any one's mind. All the same, I wanted to introduce the element of absolute physical impossibility; I knew I should feel ten times as safe with that. So when I knew from the sound of her breathing that Mrs. Manderson was asleep again, I walked quickly across her room in my stocking feet, and was on the grass with my bundle in ten seconds. I don't think I made the least noise. The curtain before the window was of soft, thick stuff and didn't rustle, and when I pushed the glass doors further open there was not a sound." "Tell me," said Trent, as the other stopped to light a new cigarette, "why you took the risk of going through Mrs. Manderson's room to escape from the house. I could see when I looked into the thing on the spot why it had to be on that side of the house; there was a danger of being seen by Martin, or by some servant at a bedroom window, if you got out by a window on one of the other sides. But there were three unoccupied rooms on that side; two spare bedrooms and Mrs. Manderson's sitting-room. I should have thought it would have been safer, after you had done what was necessary to your plan in Manderson's room, to leave it quietly and escape through one of those three rooms.... The fact that you went through her window, you know," he added coldly, "would have suggested, if it became known, various suspicions in regard to the lady herself. I think you understand me." Marlowe turned upon him with a glowing face. "And I think you will understand me, Mr. Trent," he said in a voice that shook a little, "when I say that if such a possibility had occurred to me then, I would have taken any risk rather than make my escape by that way.... Oh well!" he went on more coolly, "I suppose that to any one who didn't know her, the idea of her being privy to her husband's murder might not seem so indescribably fatuous. Forgive the expression." He looked attentively at the burning end of his cigarette, studiously unconscious of the red flag that flew in Trent's eyes for an instant at his words and the tone of them. That emotion, however, was conquered at once. "Your remark is perfectly just," Trent said with answering coolness. "I can quite believe, too, that at the time you didn't think of the possibility I mentioned. But surely, apart from that, it would have been safer to do as I said; go by the window of an unoccupied room." "Do you think so?" said Marlowe. "All I can say is, I hadn't the nerve to do it. I tell you, when I entered Manderson's room I shut the door of it on more than half my terrors. I had the problem confined before me in a closed space, with only one danger in it, and that a known danger: the danger of Mrs. Manderson. The thing was almost done; I had only to wait until she was certainly asleep after her few moments of waking up, for which, as I told you, I was prepared as a possibility. Barring accidents, the way was clear. But now suppose that I, carrying Manderson's clothes and shoes, had opened that door again and gone in my shirt-sleeves and socks to enter one of the empty rooms. The moonlight was flooding the corridor through the end window. Even if my face was concealed, nobody could mistake my standing figure for Manderson's. Martin might be going about the house in his silent way. Bunner might come out of his bedroom. One of the servants who were supposed to be in bed might come round the corner from the other passage—I had found Célestine prowling about quite as late as it was then. None of these things was very likely; but they were all too likely for me. They were uncertainties. Shut off from the household in Manderson's room I knew exactly what I had to face. As I lay in my clothes in Manderson's bed and listened for the almost inaudible breathing through the open door, I felt far more ease of mind, terrible as my anxiety was, than I had felt since I saw the dead body on the turf. I even congratulated myself that I had had the chance, through Mrs Manderson's speaking to me, of tightening one of the screws in my scheme by repeating the statement about my having been sent to Southampton." Marlowe looked at Trent, who nodded as who should say that his point was met. "As for Southampton," pursued Marlowe, "you know what I did when I got there, I have no doubt. I had decided to take Manderson's story about the mysterious Harris and act it out on my own lines. It was a carefully prepared lie, better than anything I could improvise. I even went so far as to get through a trunk call to the hotel at Southampton from the library before starting, and ask if Harris was there. As I expected, he wasn't." "Was that why you telephoned?" Trent enquired quickly. "The reason for telephoning was to get myself into an attitude in which Martin couldn't see my face or anything but the jacket and hat, yet which was a natural and familiar attitude. But while I was about it, it was obviously better to make a genuine call. If I had simply pretended to be telephoning, the people at the exchange could have told at once that there hadn't been a call from White Gables that night." "One of the first things I did was to make that enquiry," said Trent. "That telephone call, and the wire you sent from Southampton to the dead man to say Harris hadn't turned up, and you were returning—I particularly appreciated both those." A constrained smile lighted Marlowe's face for a moment. "I don't know that there's anything more to tell. I returned to Marlstone, and faced your friend the detective with such nerve as I had left. The worst was when I heard you had been put on the case—no, that wasn't the worst. The worst was when I saw you walk out of the shrubbery the next day, coming away from the shed where I had laid the body. For one ghastly moment I thought you were going to give me in charge on the spot. Now I've told you everything, you don't look so terrible." He closed his eyes, and there was a short silence. Then Trent got suddenly to his feet. "Cross-examination?" enquired Marlowe, looking at him gravely. "Not at all," said Trent, stretching his long limbs. "Only stiffness of the legs. I don't want to ask any questions. I believe what you have told us. I don't believe it simply because I always liked your face, or because it saves awkwardness, which are the most usual reasons for believing a person, but because my vanity will have it that no man could lie to me steadily for an hour without my perceiving it. Your story is an extraordinary one; but Manderson was an extraordinary man, and so are you. You acted like a lunatic in doing what you did; but I quite agree with you that if you had acted like a sane man you wouldn't have had the hundredth part of a dog's chance with a judge and jury. One thing is beyond dispute on any reading of the affair: you are a man of courage." The colour rushed into Marlowe's face, and he hesitated for words. Before he could speak Mr. Cupples arose with a dry cough. "For my part," he said, "I never supposed you guilty for a moment." Marlowe turned to him in grateful amazement, Trent with an incredulous stare. "But," pursued Mr. Cupples, holding up his hand, "there is one question which I should like to put." Marlowe bowed, saying nothing. "Suppose," said Mr. Cupples, "that some one else had been suspected of the crime and put upon trial. What would you have done?" "I think my duty was clear. I should have gone with my story to the lawyers for the defence, and put myself in their hands." Trent laughed aloud. Now that the thing was over, his spirits were rapidly becoming ungovernable. "I can see their faces!" he said. "As a matter of fact, though, nobody else was ever in danger. There wasn't a shred of evidence against any one. I looked up Murch at the Yard this morning, and he told me he had come round to Bunner's view, that it was a case of revenge on the part of some American black-hand gang. So there's the end of the Manderson case. Holy, suffering Moses! _What_ an ass a man can make of himself when he thinks he's being preternaturally clever!" He seized the bulky envelope from the table and stuffed it into the heart of the fire. "There's for you, old friend! For want of you the world's course will not fail. But look here! It's getting late—nearly seven, and Cupples and I have an appointment at half-past. We must go. Mr. Marlowe, goodbye." He looked into the other's eyes. "I am a man who has worked hard to put a rope round your neck. Considering the circumstances, I don't know whether you will blame me. Will you shake hands?" # Chapter XVI. The Last Straw "What was that you said about our having an appointment at half-past seven?" asked Mr. Cupples as the two came out of the great gateway of the pile of flats. "Have we such an appointment?" "Certainly we have," replied Trent. "You are dining with me. Only one thing can properly celebrate this occasion, and that is a dinner for which I pay. No, no! I asked you first. I have got right down to the bottom of a case that must be unique—a case that has troubled even my mind for over a year—and if that isn't a good reason for standing a dinner, I don't know what is. Cupples, we will not go to my club. This is to be a festival, and to be seen in a London club in a state of pleasurable emotion is more than enough to shatter any man's career. Besides that, the dinner there is always the same, or, at least, they always make it taste the same, I know not how. The eternal dinner at my club hath bored millions of members like me, and shall bore; but tonight let the feast be spread in vain, so far as we are concerned. We will not go where the satraps throng the hall. We will go to Sheppard's." "Who is Sheppard?" asked Mr. Cupples mildly, as they proceeded up Victoria Street. His companion went with an unnatural lightness, and a policeman, observing his face, smiled indulgently at a look of happiness which he could only attribute to alcohol. "Who is Sheppard?" echoed Trent with bitter emphasis. "That question, if you will pardon me for saying so, Cupples, is thoroughly characteristic of the spirit of aimless enquiry prevailing in this restless day. I suggest our dining at Sheppard's, and instantly you fold your arms and demand, in a frenzy of intellectual pride, to know who Sheppard is before you will cross the threshold of Sheppard's. I am not going to pander to the vices of the modern mind. Sheppard's is a place where one can dine. I do not know Sheppard. It never occurred to me that Sheppard existed. Probably he is a myth of totemistic origin. All I know is that you can get a bit of saddle of mutton at Sheppard's that has made many an American visitor curse the day that Christopher Columbus was born.... Taxi!" A cab rolled smoothly to the kerb, and the driver received his instructions with a majestic nod. "Another reason I have for suggesting Sheppard's," continued Trent, feverishly lighting a cigarette, "is that I am going to be married to the most wonderful woman in the world. I trust the connection of ideas is clear." "You are going to marry Mabel!" cried Mr. Cupples. "My dear friend, what good news this is! Shake hands, Trent; this is glorious! I congratulate you both from the bottom of my heart. And may I say—I don't want to interrupt your flow of high spirits, which is very natural indeed, and I remember being just the same in similar circumstances long ago—but may I say how earnestly I have hoped for this? Mabel has seen so much unhappiness, yet she is surely a woman formed in the great purpose of humanity to be the best influence in the life of a good man. But I did not know her mind as regarded yourself. _Your_ mind I have known for some time," Mr. Cupples went on, with a twinkle in his eye that would have done credit to the worldliest of creatures. "I saw it at once when you were both dining at my house, and you sat listening to Professor Peppmuller and looking at her. Some of us older fellows have our wits about us still, my dear boy." "Mabel says she knew it before that," replied Trent, with a slightly crestfallen air. "And I thought I was acting the part of a person who was not mad about her to the life. Well, I never was any good at dissembling. I shouldn't wonder if even old Peppmuller noticed something through his double convex lenses. But however crazy I may have been as an undeclared suitor," he went on with a return to vivacity, "I am going to be much worse now. As for your congratulations, thank you a thousand times, because I know you mean them. You are the sort of uncomfortable brute who would pull a face three feet long if you thought we were making a mistake. By the way, I can't help being an ass tonight; I'm obliged to go on blithering. You must try to bear it. Perhaps it would be easier if I sang you a song—one of your old favourites. What was that song you used always to be singing? Like this, wasn't it?" He accompanied the following stave with a dexterous clog-step on the floor of the cab: "There was an old nigger, and he had a wooden leg. He had no tobacco, no tobacco could he beg. Another old nigger was as cunning as a fox, And he always had tobacco in his old tobacco-box. Now for the chorus! Yes, he always had tobacco in his old tobacco-box. But you're not singing. I thought you would be making the welkin ring." "I never sang that song in my life," protested Mr. Cupples. "I never heard it before." "Are you sure?" enquired Trent doubtfully. "Well, I suppose I must take your word for it. It is a beautiful song, anyhow: not the whole warbling grove in concert heard can beat it. Somehow it seems to express my feelings at the present moment as nothing else could; it rises unbidden to the lips. Out of the fullness of the heart the mouth speaketh, as the Bishop of Bath and Wells said when listening to a speech of Mr. Balfour's." "When was that?" asked Mr. Cupples. "On the occasion," replied Trent, "of the introduction of the Compulsory Notification of Diseases of Poultry Bill, which ill-fated measure you of course remember. Hullo!" he broke off, as the cab rushed down a side street and swung round a corner into a broad and populous thoroughfare, "we're there already". The cab drew up. "Here we are," said Trent, as he paid the man, and led Mr. Cupples into a long, panelled room set with many tables and filled with a hum of talk. "This is the house of fulfilment of craving, this is the bower with the roses around it. I see there are three bookmakers eating pork at my favourite table. We will have that one in the opposite corner." He conferred earnestly with a waiter, while Mr. Cupples, in a pleasant meditation, warmed himself before the great fire. "The wine here," Trent resumed, as they seated themselves, "is almost certainly made out of grapes. What shall we drink?" Mr. Cupples came out of his reverie. "I think," he said, "I will have milk and soda water." "Speak lower!" urged Trent. "The head-waiter has a weak heart, and might hear you. Milk and soda water! Cupples, you may think you have a strong constitution, and I don't say you have not, but I warn you that this habit of mixing drinks has been the death of many a robuster man than you. Be wise in time. Fill high the bowl with Samian wine, leave soda to the Turkish hordes. Here comes our food." He gave another order to the waiter, who ranged the dishes before them and darted away. Trent was, it seemed, a respected customer. "I have sent," he said, "for wine that I know, and I hope you will try it. If you have taken a vow, then in the name of all the teetotal saints drink water, which stands at your elbow, but don't seek a cheap notoriety by demanding milk and soda." "I have never taken any pledge," said Mr. Cupples, examining his mutton with a favourable eye. "I simply don't care about wine. I bought a bottle once and drank it to see what it was like, and it made me ill. But very likely it was bad wine. I will taste some of yours, as it is your dinner, and I do assure you, my dear Trent, I should like to do something unusual to show how strongly I feel on the present occasion. I have not been so delighted for many years. To think," he reflected aloud as the waiter filled his glass, "of the Manderson mystery disposed of, the innocent exculpated, and your own and Mabel's happiness crowned—all coming upon me together! I drink to you, my dear friend." And Mr. Cupples took a very small sip of the wine. "You have a great nature," said Trent, much moved. "Your outward semblance doth belie your soul's immensity. I should have expected as soon to see an elephant conducting at the opera as you drinking my health. Dear Cupples! May his beak retain ever that delicate rose-stain!—No, curse it all!" he broke out, surprising a shade of discomfort that flitted over his companion's face as he tasted the wine again. "I have no business to meddle with your tastes. I apologize. You shall have what you want, even if it causes the head-waiter to perish in his pride." When Mr. Cupples had been supplied with his monastic drink, and the waiter had retired, Trent looked across the table with significance. "In this babble of many conversations," he said, "we can speak as freely as if we were on a bare hillside. The waiter is whispering soft nothings into the ear of the young woman at the pay-desk. We are alone. What do you think of that interview of this afternoon?" He began to dine with an appetite. Without pausing in the task of cutting his mutton into very small pieces Mr. Cupples replied: "The most curious feature of it, in my judgement, was the irony of the situation. We both held the clue to that mad hatred of Manderson's which Marlowe found so mysterious. We knew of his jealous obsession; which knowledge we withheld, as was very proper, if only in consideration of Mabel's feelings. Marlowe will never know of what he was suspected by that person. Strange! Nearly all of us, I venture to think, move unconsciously among a network of opinions, often quite erroneous, which other people entertain about us. I remember, for instance, discovering quite by accident some years ago that a number of people of my acquaintance believed me to have been secretly received into the Church of Rome. This absurd fiction was based upon the fact, which in the eyes of many appeared conclusive, that I had expressed myself in talk as favouring the plan of a weekly abstinence from meat. Manderson's belief in regard to his secretary probably rested upon a much slighter ground. It was Mr Bunner, I think you said, who told you of his rooted and apparently hereditary temper of suspicious jealousy.... With regard to Marlowe's story, it appeared to me entirely straightforward, and not, in its essential features, especially remarkable, once we have admitted, as we surely must, that in the case of Manderson we have to deal with a more or less disordered mind." Trent laughed loudly. "I confess," he said, "that the affair struck me as a little unusual. "Only in the development of the details," argued Mr. Cupples. "What is there abnormal in the essential facts? A madman conceives a crazy suspicion; he hatches a cunning plot against his fancied injurer; it involves his own destruction. Put thus, what is there that any man with the least knowledge of the ways of lunatics would call remarkable? Turn now to Marlowe's proceedings. He finds himself in a perilous position from which, though he is innocent, telling the truth will not save him. Is that an unheard-of situation? He escapes by means of a bold and ingenious piece of deception. That seems to me a thing that might happen every day, and probably does so." He attacked his now unrecognizable mutton. "I should like to know," said Trent, after an alimentary pause in the conversation, "whether there is anything that ever happened on the face of the earth that you could not represent as quite ordinary and commonplace by such a line of argument as that." A gentle smile illuminated Mr. Cupples's face. "You must not suspect me of empty paradox," he said. "My meaning will become clearer, perhaps, if I mention some things which do appear to me essentially remarkable. Let me see .... Well, I would call the life history of the liver-fluke, which we owe to the researches of Poulton, an essentially remarkable thing." "I am unable to argue the point," replied Trent. "Fair science may have smiled upon the liver-fluke's humble birth, but I never even heard it mentioned." "It is not, perhaps, an appetizing subject," said Mr. Cupples thoughtfully, "and I will not pursue it. All I mean is, my dear Trent, that there are really remarkable things going on all round us if we will only see them; and we do our perceptions no credit in regarding as remarkable only those affairs which are surrounded with an accumulation of sensational detail." Trent applauded heartily with his knife-handle on the table, as Mr. Cupples ceased and refreshed himself with milk and soda water. "I have not heard you go on like this for years," he said. "I believe you must be almost as much above yourself as I am. It is a bad case of the unrest which men miscall delight. But much as I enjoy it, I am not going to sit still and hear the Manderson affair dismissed as commonplace. You may say what you like, but the idea of impersonating Manderson in those circumstances was an extraordinarily ingenious idea." "Ingenious—certainly!" replied Mr. Cupples. "Extraordinarily so—no! In those circumstances (your own words) it was really not strange that it should occur to a clever man. It lay almost on the surface of the situation. Marlowe was famous for his imitation of Manderson's voice; he had a talent for acting; he had a chess-player's mind; he knew the ways of the establishment intimately. I grant you that the idea was brilliantly carried out; but everything favoured it. As for the essential idea, I do not place it, as regards ingenuity, in the same class with, for example, the idea of utilizing the force of recoil in a discharged firearm to actuate the mechanism of ejecting and reloading. I do, however, admit, as I did at the outset, that in respect of details the case had unusual features. It developed a high degree of complexity." "Did it really strike you in that way?" enquired Trent with desperate sarcasm. "The affair became complicated," went on Mr. Cupples unmoved, "because after Marlowe's suspicions were awakened, a second subtle mind came in to interfere with the plans of the first. That sort of duel often happens in business and politics, but less frequently, I imagine, in the world of crime." "I should say never," Trent replied; "and the reason is, that even the cleverest criminals seldom run to strategic subtlety. When they do, they don't get caught, since clever policemen have if possible less strategic subtlety than the ordinary clever criminal. But that rather deep quality seems very rarely to go with the criminal make-up. Look at Crippen. He was a very clever criminal as they go. He solved the central problem of every clandestine murder, the disposal of the body, with extreme neatness. But how far did he see through the game? The criminal and the policeman are often swift and bold tacticians, but neither of them is good for more than a quite simple plan. After all, it's a rare faculty in any walk of life." "One disturbing reflection was left on my mind," said Mr. Cupples, who seemed to have had enough of abstractions for the moment, "by what we learned today. If Marlowe had suspected nothing and walked into the trap, he would almost certainly have been hanged. Now how often may not a plan to throw the guilt of murder on an innocent person have been practised successfully? There are, I imagine, numbers of cases in which the accused, being found guilty on circumstantial evidence, have died protesting their innocence. I shall never approve again of a death-sentence imposed in a case decided upon such evidence." "I never have done so, for my part," said Trent. "To hang in such cases seems to me flying in the face of the perfectly obvious and sound principle expressed in the saying that ‘you never can tell'. I agree with the American jurist who lays it down that we should not hang a yellow dog for stealing jam on circumstantial evidence, not even if he has jam all over his nose. As for attempts being made by malevolent persons to fix crimes upon innocent men, of course it is constantly happening. It's a marked feature, for instance, of all systems of rule by coercion, whether in Ireland or Russia or India or Korea; if the police cannot get hold of a man they think dangerous by fair means, they do it by foul. But there's one case in the State Trials that is peculiarly to the point, because not only was it a case of fastening a murder on innocent people, but the plotter did in effect what Manderson did; he gave up his own life in order to secure the death of his victims. Probably you have heard of the Campden Case." Mr. Cupples confessed his ignorance and took another potato. "John Masefield has written a very remarkable play about it," said Trent, "and if it ever comes on again in London, you should go and see it, if you like having the fan-tods. I have often seen women weeping in an undemonstrative manner at some slab of oleo-margarine sentiment in the theatre. By George! what everlasting smelling-bottle hysterics they ought to have if they saw that play decently acted! Well, the facts were that John Perry accused his mother and brother of murdering a man, and swore he had helped them to do it. He told a story full of elaborate detail, and had an answer to everything, except the curious fact that the body couldn't be found; but the judge, who was probably drunk at the time—this was in Restoration days—made nothing of that. The mother and brother denied the accusation. All three prisoners were found guilty and hanged, purely on John's evidence. Two years after, the man whom they were hanged for murdering came back to Campden. He had been kidnapped by pirates and taken to sea. His disappearance had given John his idea. The point about John is, that his including himself in the accusation, which amounted to suicide, was the thing in his evidence which convinced everybody of its truth. It was so obvious that no man would do himself to death to get somebody else hanged. Now that is exactly the answer which the prosecution would have made if Marlowe had told the truth. Not one juryman in a million would have believed in the Manderson plot." Mr. Cupples mused upon this a few moments. "I have not your acquaintance with that branch of history," he said at length; "in fact, I have none at all. But certain recollections of my own childhood return to me in connection with this affair. We know from the things Mabel told you what may be termed the spiritual truth underlying this matter; the insane depth of jealous hatred which Manderson concealed. We can understand that he was capable of such a scheme. But as a rule it is in the task of penetrating to the spiritual truth that the administration of justice breaks down. Sometimes that truth is deliberately concealed, as in Manderson's case. Sometimes, I think, it is concealed because simple people are actually unable to express it, and nobody else divines it. When I was a lad in Edinburgh the whole country went mad about the Sandyford Place murder." Trent nodded. "Mrs. M'Lachlan's case. She was innocent right enough." "My parents thought so," said Mr. Cupples. "I thought so myself when I became old enough to read and understand that excessively sordid story. But the mystery of the affair was so dark, and the task of getting at the truth behind the lies told by everybody concerned proved so hopeless, that others were just as fully convinced of the innocence of old James Fleming. All Scotland took sides on the question. It was the subject of debates in Parliament. The press divided into two camps, and raged with a fury I have never seen equalled. Yet it is obvious, is it not? for I see you have read of the case—that if the spiritual truth about that old man could have been known there would have been very little room for doubt in the matter. If what some surmised about his disposition was true, he was quite capable of murdering Jessie M'Pherson and then casting the blame on the poor feeble-minded creature who came so near to suffering the last penalty of the law." "Even a commonplace old dotard like Fleming can be an unfathomable mystery to all the rest of the human race," said Trent, "and most of all in a court of justice. The law certainly does not shine when it comes to a case requiring much delicacy of perception. It goes wrong easily enough over the Flemings of this world. As for the people with temperaments who get mixed up in legal proceedings, they must feel as if they were in a forest of apes, whether they win or lose. Well, I dare say it's good for their sort to have their noses rubbed in reality now and again. But what would twelve red-faced realities in a jury-box have done to Marlowe? His story would, as he says, have been a great deal worse than no defence at all. It's not as if there were a single piece of evidence in support of his tale. Can't you imagine how the prosecution would tear it to rags? Can't you see the judge simply taking it in his stride when it came to the summing up? And the jury—you've served on juries, I expect—in their room, snorting with indignation over the feebleness of the lie, telling each other it was the clearest case they ever heard of, and that they'd have thought better of him if he hadn't lost his nerve at the crisis, and had cleared off with the swag as he intended. Imagine yourself on that jury, not knowing Marlowe, and trembling with indignation at the record unrolled before you—cupidity, murder, robbery, sudden cowardice, shameless, impenitent, desperate lying! Why, you and I believed him to be guilty until—" "I beg your pardon! I beg your pardon!" interjected Mr. Cupples, laying down his knife and fork. "I was most careful, when we talked it all over the other night, to say nothing indicating such a belief. _I_ was always certain that he was innocent." "You said something of the sort at Marlowe's just now. I wondered what on earth you could mean. Certain that he was innocent! How can you be certain? You are generally more careful about terms than that, Cupples." "I said ‘certain'," Mr. Cupples repeated firmly. Trent shrugged his shoulders. "If you really were, after reading my manuscript and discussing the whole thing as we did," he rejoined, "then I can only say that you must have totally renounced all trust in the operations of the human reason; an attitude which, while it is bad Christianity and also infernal nonsense, is oddly enough bad Positivism too, unless I misunderstand that system. Why, man—" "Let me say a word," Mr. Cupples interposed again, folding his hands above his plate. "I assure you I am far from abandoning reason. I am certain he is innocent, and I always was certain of it, because of something that I know, and knew from the very beginning. You asked me just now to imagine myself on the jury at Marlowe's trial. That would be an unprofitable exercise of the mental powers, because I know that I should be present in another capacity. I should be in the witness-box, giving evidence for the defence. You said just now, ‘If there were a single piece of evidence in support of his tale.' There is, and it is my evidence. And," he added quietly, "it is conclusive." He took up his knife and fork and went contentedly on with his dinner. The pallor of sudden excitement had turned Trent to marble while Mr Cupples led laboriously up to this statement. At the last word the blood rushed to his face again, and he struck the table with an unnatural laugh. "It can't be!" he exploded. "It's something you fancied, something you dreamed after one of those debauches of soda and milk. You can't really mean that all the time I was working on the case down there you knew Marlowe was innocent." Mr. Cupples, busy with his last mouthful, nodded brightly. He made an end of eating, wiped his sparse moustache, and then leaned forward over the table. "It's very simple," he said. "I shot Manderson myself." "I am afraid I startled you," Trent heard the voice of Mr. Cupples say. He forced himself out of his stupefaction like a diver striking upward for the surface, and with a rigid movement raised his glass. But half of the wine splashed upon the cloth, and he put it carefully down again untasted. He drew a deep breath, which was exhaled in a laugh wholly without merriment. "Go on," he said. "It was not murder," began Mr. Cupples, slowly measuring off inches with a fork on the edge of the table. "I will tell you the whole story. On that Sunday night I was taking my before-bedtime constitutional, having set out from the hotel about a quarter past ten. I went along the field path that runs behind White Gables, cutting off the great curve of the road, and came out on the road nearly opposite that gate that is just by the eighth hole on the golf-course. Then I turned in there, meaning to walk along the turf to the edge of the cliff, and go back that way. I had only gone a few steps when I heard the car coming, and then I heard it stop near the gate. I saw Manderson at once. Do you remember my telling you I had seen him once alive after our quarrel in front of the hotel? Well, this was the time. You asked me if I had, and I did not care to tell a falsehood." A slight groan came from Trent. He drank a little wine, and said stonily, "Go on, please." "It was, as you know," pursued Mr. Cupples, "a moonlight night, but I was in shadow under the trees by the stone wall, and anyhow they could not suppose there was any one near them. I heard all that passed just as Marlowe has narrated it to us, and I saw the car go off towards Bishopsbridge. I did not see Manderson's face as it went, because his back was to me, but he shook the back of his left hand at the car with extraordinary violence, greatly to my amazement. Then I waited for him to go back to White Gables, as I did not want to meet him again. But he did not go. He opened the gate through which I had just passed, and he stood there on the turf of the green, quite still. His head was bent, his arms hung at his sides, and he looked somehow—rigid. For a few moments he remained in this tense attitude, then all of a sudden his right arm moved swiftly, and his hand was at the pocket of his overcoat. I saw his face raised in the moonlight, the teeth bared, and the eyes glittering, and all at once I knew that the man was not sane. Almost as quickly as that flashed across my mind, something else flashed in the moonlight. He held the pistol before him, pointing at his breast. "Now I may say here I shall always be doubtful whether Manderson really meant to kill himself then. Marlowe naturally thinks so, knowing nothing of my intervention. But I think it quite likely he only meant to wound himself, and to charge Marlowe with attempted murder and robbery. "At that moment, however, I assumed it was suicide. Before I knew what I was doing I had leapt out of the shadows and seized his arm. He shook me off with a furious snarling noise, giving me a terrific blow in the chest, and presenting the revolver at my head. But I seized his wrists before he could fire, and clung with all my strength—you remember how bruised and scratched they were. I knew I was fighting for my own life now, for murder was in his eyes. We struggled like two beasts, without an articulate word, I holding his pistol-hand down and keeping a grip on the other. I never dreamed that I had the strength for such an encounter. Then, with a perfectly instinctive movement—I never knew I meant to do it—I flung away his free hand and clutched like lightning at the weapon, tearing it from his fingers. By a miracle it did not go off. I darted back a few steps, he sprang at my throat like a wild cat, and I fired blindly in his face. He would have been about a yard away, I suppose. His knees gave way instantly, and he fell in a heap on the turf. "I flung the pistol down and bent over him. The heart's action ceased under my hand. I knelt there staring, struck motionless; and I don't know how long it was before I heard the noise of the car returning. "Trent, all the time that Marlowe paced that green, with the moonlight on his white and working face, I was within a few yards of him, crouching in the shadow of the furze by the ninth tee. I dared not show myself. I was thinking. My public quarrel with Manderson the same morning was, I suspected, the talk of the hotel. I assure you that every horrible possibility of the situation for me had rushed across my mind the moment I saw Manderson fall. I became cunning. I knew what I must do. I must get back to the hotel as fast as I could, get in somehow unperceived, and play a part to save myself. I must never tell a word to any one. Of course I was assuming that Marlowe would tell every one how he had found the body. I knew he would suppose it was suicide; I thought every one would suppose so. "When Marlowe began at last to lift the body, I stole away down the wall and got out into the road by the clubhouse, where he could not see me. I felt perfectly cool and collected. I crossed the road, climbed the fence, and ran across the meadow to pick up the field path I had come by that runs to the hotel behind White Gables. I got back to the hotel very much out of breath." "Out of breath," repeated Trent mechanically, still staring at his companion as if hypnotized. "I had had a sharp run," Mr. Cupples reminded him. "Well, approaching the hotel from the back I could see into the writing-room through the open window. There was nobody in there, so I climbed over the sill, walked to the bell and rang it, and then sat down to write a letter I had meant to write the next day. I saw by the clock that it was a little past eleven. When the waiter answered the bell I asked for a glass of milk and a postage stamp. Soon afterwards I went up to bed. But I could not sleep." Mr. Cupples, having nothing more to say, ceased speaking. He looked in mild surprise at Trent, who now sat silent, supporting his bent head in his hands. "He could not sleep," murmured Trent at last in a hollow tone. "A frequent result of over-exertion during the day. Nothing to be alarmed about." He was silent again, then looked up with a pale face. "Cupples, I am cured. I will never touch a crime-mystery again. The Manderson affair shall be Philip Trent's last case. His high-blown pride at length breaks under him." Trent's smile suddenly returned. "I could have borne everything but that last revelation of the impotence of human reason. Cupples, I have absolutely nothing left to say, except this: you have beaten me. I drink your health in a spirit of self-abasement. And _you_ shall pay for the dinner." THE END
225	--- author: Nelson S. Bond tags: Science fiction, Short stories, Moon, Fiction, Human-alien encounters, Musicians title: Trouble on Tycho summary: " \"Trouble on Tycho\" by Nelson S. Bond is a science fiction novella originally published in the early 1940s. Set on Luna, specifically in the Experimental Dome, the story revolves around Isobar Jones, a meteorologist who, feeling trapped and homesick after several months of life in a sterile lunar environment, longs for adventure and experiences one that he never anticipated. The novella captures themes of isolation, resilience, and unexpected heroism against a backdrop of humor and the absurdity of living on a harsh moon where danger lurks in the form of bizarre lunar creatures known as Grannies. The plot follows Isobar's struggles through a mundane life while working at the Dome, where he secretly harbors a passion for playing the bagpipes. His yearning for a sense of freedom leads him to defy orders and play his music outside, resulting in an unexpected encounter with the fearsome Grannies. When two of his comrades, Roberts and Brown, find themselves in dire danger from these creatures, Isobar\u2019s unique musical instrument turns out to be their unlikely salvation. His bagpipe music inadvertently generates vibrations that incapacitate the Grannies, leading to their eventual demise. The story concludes with Isobar gaining notoriety as a weapon of sorts against the Grannies while being sentenced to teach bagpipe playing to the Dome staff, blending both humor and a deeper commentary on finding purpose and resilience in isolation. " word_count: 5092 blurb: Isobar and his squeeze-pipes were the bane of the Moon Station's existence. But there came the day when his comrades found that the worth of a man lies sometimes in his nuisance value. fiction_type: Short Story ... # I The audiophone buzzed thrice—one long, followed by two shorts—and Isobar Jones pressed the stud activating its glowing scanner-disc. "Hummm?" he said absent-mindedly. The selenoplate glowed faintly, and the image of the Dome Commander appeared. "Report ready, Jones?" "Almost," acknowledged Isobar gloomily. "It prob'ly ain't right, though. How anybody can be expected to get _anything_ right on this dagnabbed hunk o' green cheese—" "Send it up," interrupted Colonel Eagan, "as soon as you can. Sparks is making Terra contact now. That is all." "That ain't all!" declared Isobar indignantly. "How about my bag—?" It _was all_, so far as the D.C. was concerned. Isobar was talking to himself. The plate dulled. Isobar said, "Nuts!" and returned to his duties. He jotted neat ditto marks under the word "Clear" which, six months ago, he had placed beneath the column headed: _Cond. of Obs._ He noted the proper figures under the headings _Sun Spots_: _Max Freq._—_Min. Freq._; then he sketched careful curves in blue and red ink upon the Mercator projection of Earth which was his daily work sheet. This done, he drew a clean sheet of paper out of his desk drawer, frowned thoughtfully at the tabulated results of his observations, and began writing. "_Weather forecast for Terra_," he wrote, his pen making scratching sounds. The audiophone rasped again. Isobar jabbed the stud and answered without looking. "O.Q.," he said wearily. "O.Q. I told you it would be ready in a couple o' minutes. Keep your pants on!" "I—er—I beg your pardon, Isobar?" queried a mild voice. Isobar started. His sallow cheeks achieved a sickly salmon hue. He blinked nervously. "Oh, jumpin' jimminy!" he gulped. "_You_, Miss Sally! Golly—"scuse me! I didn't realize—" The Dome Commander's niece giggled. "That's all right, Isobar. I just called to ask you about the weather in Oceania Sector 4B next week. I've got a swimming date at Waikiki, but I won't make the shuttle unless the weather's going to be nice." "It is," promised Isobar. "It'll be swell all weekend, Miss Sally. Fine sunshiny weather. You can go." "That's wonderful. Thanks so much, Isobar." "Don't mention it, ma'am," said Isobar, and returned to his work. South America. Africa. Asia. Pan-Europa. Swiftly he outlined the meteorological prospects for each sector. He enjoyed this part of his job. As he wrote forecasts for each area, in his mind's eye he saw himself enjoying such pastimes as each geographical division's terrain rendered possible. ~ If home is where the heart is, Horatio Jones—known better as "Isobar" to his associates at the Experimental Dome on Luna—was a long, long way from home. His lean, gangling frame was immured, and had been for six tedious Earth months, beneath the _impervite_ hemisphere of Lunar III—that frontier outpost which served as a rocket refueling station, teleradio transmission point and meteorological base. "Six solid months! Six sad, dreary months!" thought Isobar, "Locked up in an airtight Dome like—like a goldfish in a glass bowl!" Sunlight? Oh, sure! But filtered through ultraviolet wave-traps so it could not burn, it left the skin pale and lustreless and clammy as the belly of a toad. Fresh air? Pooh! Nothing but that everlasting sickening, scented, reoxygenated stuff gushing from atmo-conditioning units. Excitement? Adventure? The romance he had been led to expect when he signed on for frontier service? Bah! Only a weary, monotonous, routine existence. "A pain!" declared Isobar Jones. "That's what it is; a pain in the stummick. Not even allowed to—Yeah?" It was Sparks, audioing from the Dome's transmission turret. He said, "Hyah, Jonesy! How comes with the report?" "Done," said Isobar. "I was just gettin' the sheets together for you." "O.Q. But just bring _it_. Nothing else." Isobar bridled. "I don't know what you're talkin' about." "Oh, no? Well, I'm talking about that squawk-filled doodlesack of yours, sonny boy. Don't bring that bag-full of noise up here with you." Isobar said defiantly, "It ain't a doodlesack. It's a bagpipe. And I guess I can play it if I want to—" "Not," said Sparks emphatically, "in _my_ cubby! I've got sensitive eardrums. Well, stir your stumps! I've got to get the report rolling quick today. Big doings up here." "Yeah? What?" "Well, it's Roberts and Brown—" "What about "em?" "They've gone Outside to make foundation repairs." "Lucky stiffs!" commented Isobar ruefully. "Lucky, no. Stiffs, maybe—if they should meet any Grannies. Well, scoot along. I'm on the ether in four point sixteen minutes." "Be right up," promised Isobar, and, sheets in hand, he ambled from his cloistered cell toward the central section of the Dome. He didn't leave Sparks' turret after the sheets were delivered. Instead, he hung around, fidgeting so obtrusively that Riley finally turned to him in sheer exasperation. "Sweet snakes of Saturn, Jonesy, what's the trouble? Bugs in your britches?" Isobar said, "H-huh? Oh, you mean—Oh, thanks, no! I just thought mebbe you wouldn't mind if I—well—er—" "I get it!" Sparks grinned. "Want to play peekaboo while the contact's open, eh? Well, O.Q. Watch the birdie!" He twisted dials, adjusted verniers, fingered a host of incomprehensible keys. Current hummed and howled. Then a plate before him cleared, and the voice of the Earth operator came in, enunciating with painstaking clarity: "Earth answering Luna. Earth answering Luna's call. Can you hear me, Luna? Can you hear—?" "I can not only hear you," snorted Riley, "I can see you and smell you, as well. Stop hamming it, stupid! You're lousing up the earth!" The now-visible face of the Earth radioman drew into a grimace of displeasure. "Oh, it's _you_? Funny man, eh? Funny man Riley?" "Sure," said Riley agreeably. "I'm a scream. Four-alarm Riley, the cosmic comedian—didn't you know? Flick on your dictacoder, oyster-puss; here's the weather report." He read it. "'_Weather forecast for Terra, week of May 15-21_—"" "Ask him," whispered Isobar eagerly. "Sparks, don't forget to ask him!" ~ Riley motioned for silence, but nodded. He finished the weather report, entered the Dome Commander's log upon the Home Office records, and dictated a short entry from the Luna Biological Commission. Then: "That is all," he concluded. "O.Q.," verified the other radioman. Isobar writhed anxiously, prodded Riley's shoulder. "Ask him, Sparks! Go on ask him!" "Oh, cut jets, will you?" snapped Sparks. The Terra operator looked startled. "How's that? I didn't say a word—" "Don't be a dope," said Sparks, "you dope! I wasn't talking to you. I'm entertaining a visitor, a refugee from a cuckoo clock. Look, do me a favor, chum? Can you twist your mike around so it's pointing out a window?" "What? Why—why, yes, but—" "Without buts," said Sparks grumpily. "Yours not to reason why; yours but to do or don't. Will you do it?" "Well, sure. But I don't understand—" The silver platter which had mirrored the radioman's face clouded as the Earth operator twirled the inconoscope. Walls and desks of an ordinary broadcasting office spun briefly into view; then the plate reflected a glimpse of an Earthly landscape. Soft blue sky warmed by an atmosphere-shielded sun ... green trees firmly rooted in still-greener grass ... flowers ... birds ... people.... "Enough?" asked Sparks. Isobar Jones awakened from his trance, eyes dulling. Reluctantly he nodded. Riley stared at him strangely, almost gently. To the other radioman, "O.Q., pal," he said. "Cut!" "Cut!" agreed the other. The plate blanked out. "Thanks, Sparks," said Isobar. "Nothing," shrugged Riley "_He twisted_ the mike; not me. But—how come you always want to take a squint at Earth when the circuit's open, Jonesy? Homesick?" "Sort of," admitted Isobar guiltily. "Well, hell, aren't we all? But we can't leave here for another six months at least. Not till our tricks are up. I should think it'd only make you feel worse to see Earth." "It ain't Earth I'm homesick for," explained Isobar. "It's—well, it's the things that go with it. I mean things like grass and flowers and trees." Sparks grinned; a mirthless, lopsided grin. "We've got _them_ right here on Luna. Go look out the tower window, Jonesy. The Dome's nestled smack in the middle of the prettiest, greenest little valley you ever saw." "I know," complained Isobar. "And that's what makes it even worse. All that pretty, soft, green stuff Outside—and we ain't allowed to go out in it. Sometimes I get so mad I'd like to—" "To," interrupted a crisp voice, "what?" Isobar spun, flushing; his eyes dropped before those of Dome Commander Eagan. He squirmed. "N-nothing, sir. I was only saying—" "I heard you, Jones. And please let me hear no more of such talk, sir! It is strictly forbidden for anyone to go Outside except in cases of absolute necessity. Such labor as caused Patrolmen Brown and Roberts to go, for example—" "Any word from them yet, sir?" asked Sparks eagerly. "Not yet. But we're expecting them to return at any minute now. Jones! Where are _you_ going?" "Why—why, just back to my quarters, sir." "That's what I thought. And what did you plan to do there?" Isobar said stubbornly, "Well, I sort of figured I'd amuse myself for a while—" "I thought that, too. And with _what_, pray, Jones?" "With the only dratted thing," said Isobar, suddenly petulant, "that gives me any fun around this dagnabbed place! With my bagpipe." ~ Commander Eagan said, "You'd better find some new way of amusing yourself, Jones. Have you read General Order 17?" Isobar said, "I seen it. But if you think—" "It says," stated Eagan deliberately, "'_In order that work or rest periods of the Dome's staff may not be disturbed, it is hereby ordered that the playing or practicing of all or any musical instruments must be discontinued immediately. By order of the Dome Commander_," That means you, Jones!" "But, dingbust it!" keened Isobar, "it don't disturb nobody for me to play my bagpipes! I know these lunks around here don't appreciate good music, so I always go in my office and lock the door after me—" "But the Dome," pointed out Commander Eagan, "has an air-conditioning system which can't be shut off. The ungodly moans of your—er—so-called musical instrument can be heard through the entire structure." He suddenly seemed to gain stature. "No, Jones, this order is final! You cannot disrupt our entire organization for your own—er—amusement." "But—" said Isobar. "No!" Isobar wriggled desperately. Life on Luna was sorry enough already. If now they took from him the last remaining solace he had, the last amusement which lightened his moments of freedom— "Look, Commander!" he pleaded, "I tell you what I'll do. I won't bother nobody. I'll go Outside and play it—" "Outside!" Eagan stared at him incredulously. "Are you mad? How about the Grannies?" Isobar knew all about the Grannies. The only mobile form of life found by space-questing man on Earth's satellite, their name was an abbreviation of the descriptive one applied to them by the first Lunar exployers: Granitebacks. This was no exaggeration; if anything, it was an understatement. For the Grannies, though possessed of certain low intelligence, had quickly proven themselves a deadly, unyielding and implacable foe. Worse yet, they were an enemy almost indestructible! No man had ever yet brought to Earth laboratories the carcass of a Grannie; science was completely baffled in its endeavors to explain the composition of Graniteback physiology—but it was known, from bitter experience, that the carapace or exoskeleton of the Grannies was formed of something harder than steel, diamond, or battleplate! This flesh could be penetrated by no weapon known to man; neither by steel nor flame, by electronic nor ionic wave, nor by the lethal, newly discovered atomo-needle dispenser. All this Isobar knew about the Grannies. Yet: "They ain't been any Grannies seen around the Dome," he said, "for a "coon's age. Anyhow, if I seen any comin', I could run right back inside—" "No!" said Commander Eagan flatly. "Absolutely, _no_! I have no time for such nonsense. You know the orders—obey them! And now, gentlemen, good afternoon!" He left. Sparks turned to Isobar, grinning. "Well," he said, "one man's fish—hey, Jonesy? Too bad you can't play your doodlesack any more, but frankly, I'm just as glad. Of all the awful screeching wails—" But Isobar Jones, generally mild and gentle, was now in a perfect fury. His pale eyes blazed, he stomped his foot on the floor, and from his lips poured a stream of such angry invective that Riley looked startled. Words that, to Isobar, were the utter dregs of violent profanity. "Oh, dagnab it!" fumed Isobar Jones. "Oh, tarnation and dingbust! Oh—_fiddlesticks_!" # II "And so," chuckled Riley, "he left, bubbling like a kettle on a red-hot oven. But, boy! was he ever mad! Just about ready to bust, he was." Some minutes had passed since Isobar had left; Riley was talking to Dr. Loesch, head of the Dome's Physics Research Division. The older man nodded commiseratingly. "It is funny, yes," he agreed, "but at the same time it is not altogether amusing. I feel sorry for him. He is a very unhappy man, our poor Isobar." "Yeah, I know," said Riley, "but, hell, we all get a little bit homesick now and then. He ought to learn to—" "Excuse me, my boy," interrupted the aged physicist, his voice gentle, "it is not mere homesickness that troubles our friend. It is something deeper, much more vital and serious. It is what my people call: _weltschmertz_. There is no accurate translation in English. It means "world sickness," or better, "world weariness'—something like that but intensified a thousandfold. "It is a deeply-rooted mental condition, sometimes a dangerous frame of mind. Under its grip, men do wild things. Hating the world on which they find themselves, they rebel in curious ways. Suicide ... mad acts of valor ... deeds of cunning or knavery...." "You mean," demanded Sparks anxiously, "Isobar ain't got all his buttons?" "Not that exactly. He is perfectly sane. But he is in a dark morass of despair. He may try _anything_ to retrieve his lost happiness, rid his soul of its dark oppression. His world-sickness is like a crying hunger—By the way, where is he now?" "Below, I guess. In his quarters." "Ah, good! Perhaps he is sleeping. Let us hope so. In slumber he will find peace and forgetfulness." But Dr. Loesch would have been far less sanguine had some power the "giftie gi'en" him of watching Isobar Jones at that moment. Isobar was not asleep. Far from it. Wide awake and very much astir, he was acting in a singularly sinister role: that of a slinking, furtive culprit. Returning to his private cubicle after his conversation with Dome Commander Eagan, he had stalked straightway to the cabinet wherein was encased his precious set of bagpipes. These he had taken from their pegs, gazed upon defiantly, and fondled with almost parental affection. "So I can't play you, huh?" he muttered darkly. "It disturbs the peace o' the dingfounded, dumblasted Dome staff, does it? Well, we'll _see_ about that!" And tucking the bag under his arm, he had cautiously slipped from the room, down little-used corridors, and now he stood before the huge _impervite_ gates which were the entrance to the Dome and the doorway to Outside. On all save those occasions when a spacecraft landed in the cradle adjacent the gateway, these portals were doubly locked and barred. But today they had been unbolted that the two maintenance men might venture out. And since it was quite possible that Brown and Roberts might have to get inside in a hurry, their bolts remained drawn. Sole guardian of the entrance was a very bored Junior Patrolman. Up to this worthy strode Isobar Jones, confident and assured, exuding an aura of propriety. "Very well, Wilkins," he said. "I'll take over now. You may go to the meeting." Wilkins looked at him bewilderedly. "Huh? Whuzzat, Mr. Jones?" Isobar's eyebrows arched. "You mean you haven't been notified?" "Notified of _what_?" "Why, the general council of all Patrolmen! Weren't you told that I would take your place here while you reported to G.H.Q.?" "I ain't," puzzled Wilkins, "heard nothing about it. Maybe I ought to call the office, maybe?" And he moved the wall-audio. But Isobar said swiftly. "That—er—won't be necessary, Wilkins. My orders were plain enough. Now, you just run along. I'll watch this entrance for you." "We-e-ell," said Wilkins, "if you say so. Orders is orders. But keep a sharp eye out, Mister Jones, in case Roberts and Brown should come back sudden-like." "I will," promised Isobar, "don't worry." ~ Wilkins moved away. Isobar waited until the Patrolman was completely out of sight. Then swiftly he pulled open the massive gate, slipped through, and closed it behind him. A flood of warmth, exhilarating after the constantly regulated temperature of the Dome, descended upon him. Fresh air, thin, but fragrant with the scent of growing things, made his pulses stir with joyous abandon. He was Outside! He was Outside, in good sunlight, at last! After six long and dreary months! Raptly, blissfully, all thought of caution tossed to the gentle breezes that ruffled his sparse hair, Isobar Jones stepped forward into the lunar valley.... How long he wandered thus, carefree and utterly content, he could not afterward say. It seemed like minutes; it must have been longer. He only knew that the grass was green beneath his feet, the trees were a lacy network through which warm sunlight filtered benevolently, the chirrupings of small insects and the rustling whisper of the breezes formed a tiny symphony of happiness through which he moved as one charmed. It did not occur to him that he had wandered too far from the Dome's entrance until, strolling through an enchanting flower-decked glade, he was startled to hear—off to his right—the sharp, explosive bark of a Haemholtz ray pistol. He whirled, staring about him wildly, and discovered that though his meandering had kept him near the Dome, he had unconsciously followed its hemispherical perimeter to a point nearly two miles from the Gateway. By the placement of ports and windows, Isobar was able to judge his location perfectly; he was opposite that portion of the structure which housed Sparks' radio turret. And the shooting? That could only be— He did not have to name its reason, even to himself. For at that moment, there came racing around the curve of the Dome a pair of figures, Patrolmen clad in fatigue drab. Roberts and Brown. Roberts was staggering, one foot dragged awkwardly as he ran; Brown's left arm, bloodstained from shoulder to elbow, hung limply at his side, but in his good right fist he held a spitting Haemholtz with which he tried to cover his comrade's sluggish retreat. And behind these two, grim, grey, gaunt figures that moved with astonishing speed despite their massive bulk, came three ... six ... a dozen of those lunarites whom all men feared. The Grannies! # III Simultaneously with his recognition of the pair, Joe Roberts saw him. A gasp of relief escaped the wounded man. "Jones! Thank the Lord! Then you picked up our cry for help? Quick, man—where is it? Theres not a moment to waste!" "W-where," faltered Isobar feebly, "is _what_?" "The tank, of course! Didn't you hear our telecast? We can't possibly make it back to the gate without an armored car. My foot's broken, and—" Roberts stopped suddenly, an abrupt horror in his eyes. "You don't have one! You're here _alone_! Then you didn't pick up our call? But, why—?" "Never mind that," snapped Isobar, "now!" Placid by nature, he could move when urgency drove. His quick mind saw the immediateness of their peril. Unarmed, he could not help the Patrolmen fight a delaying action against their foes, nor could he hasten their retreat. Anyway, weapons were useless, and time was of the essence. There was but one temporary way of staving off disaster. "Over here ... this tree! Quick! Up you go! Give him a lift, Brown—There! That's the stuff!" He was the last to scramble up the gnarled bole to a tentative leafy sanctuary. He had barely gained the security of the lowermost bough when a thundering crash resounded, the sturdy trunk trembled beneath his clutch. Stony claws gouged yellow parallels in the bark scant inches beneath one kicking foot, then the Granny fell back with a thud. The Graniteback was _not_ a climber. It was far too ungainly, much too weighty for that. Roberts said weakly, "Th-thanks, Jonesy! That was a close call." "That goes for me, too, Jonesy," added Brown from an upper bough. "But I'm afraid you just delayed matters. This tree's O.Q. as long as it lasts, but—" He stared down upon the gathering knot of Grannies unhappily—"it's not going to last long with that bunch of superdreadnaughts working out on it! Hold tight, fellows! Here they come!" For the Grannies, who had huddled for a moment as if in telepathic consultation, now joined forces, turned, and as one body charged headlong toward the tree. The unified force of their attack was like the shattering impact of a battering ram. Bark rasped and gritted beneath the besieged men's hands, dry leaves and twigs pelted about them in a tiny rain, tormented fibrous sinews groaned as the aged forest monarch shuddered in agony. Desperately they clung to their perches. Though the great tree bent, it did not break. But when it stopped trembling, it was canted drunkenly to one side, and the erstwhile solid earth about its base was broken and cracked—revealing fleshy tentacles uprooted from ancient moorings! ~ Brown stared at this evidence of the Grannies' power with terror-fascinated eyes. His voice was none too firm. "Lord! Piledrivers! A couple more like that—" Isobar nodded. He knew what falling into the clutch of the Grannies meant. He had once seen the grisly aftermath of a Graniteback feast. Even now their adversaries had drawn back for a second attack. A sudden idea struck him. A straw of hope at which he grasped feverishly. "You telecast a message to the Dome? Help should be on the way by now. If we can just hold out—" But Roberts shook his head. "We sent a message, Jonesy, but I don't think it got through. I've just been looking at my portable. It seems to be busted. Happened when they first attacked us, I guess. I tripped and fell on it." Isobar's last hope flickered out. "Then I—I guess it won't be long now," he mourned. "If we could have only got a message through, they would have sent out an armored car to pick us up. But as it is—" Brown's shrug displayed a bravado he did not feel. "Well, that's the way it goes. We knew what we were risking when we volunteered to come Outside. This damn moon! It'll never be worth a plugged credit until men find some way to fight those murderous stones-on-legs!" Roberts said, "That's right. But what are _you_ doing out here, Isobar? And why, for Pete's sake, the bagpipes?" "Oh—the pipes?" Isobar flushed painfully. He had almost forgotten his original reason for adventuring Outside, had quite forgotten his instrument, and was now rather amazed to discover that somehow throughout all the excitement he had held onto it. "Why, I just happened to—Oh! _the pipes!_" "Hold on!" roared Roberts. His warning came just in time. Once more, the three tree-sitters shook like dried peas in a pod as their leafy refuge trembled before the locomotive onslaught of the lunar beasts. This time the already-exposed roots strained and lifted, several snapped; when the Grannies again withdrew, complacently unaware that the "lethal ray" of Brown's Haemholtz was wasting itself upon their adamant hides in futile fury, the tree was bent at a precarious angle. Brown sobbed, not with fear but with impotent anger, and in a gesture of enraged desperation, hurled his now-empty weapon at the retreating Grannies. "No good! Not a damn bit of good! Oh, if there was only some way of fighting those filthy things—" But Isobar Jones had a one-track mind. "The pipes!" he cried again, excitedly. "That's the answer!" And he drew the instrument into playing position, bag cuddled beneath one arm-pit, drones stiffly erect over his shoulder, blow-pipe at his lips. His cheeks puffed, his breath expelled. The giant lung swelled, the chaunter emitted its distinctive, fearsome, "_Kaa-aa-o-o-o-oro-oong!_" Roberts moaned. "Oh, Lord! A guy can't even die in peace!" And Brown stared at him hopelessly. "It's no use, Isobar. You trying to scare them off? They have no sense of hearing. That's been proven—" Isobar took his lips from the reed to explain. "It's not that. I'm trying to rouse the boys in the Dome. We're right opposite the atmosphere-conditioning-unit. See that grilled duct over there? That's an inhalation-vent. The portable transmitter's out of order, and our voices ain't strong enough to carry into the Dome—but the sound of these pipes is! And Commander Eagan told me just a short while ago that the sound of the pipes carries all over the building! "If they hear this, they'll get mad because I'm disobeyin' orders. They'll start lookin' for me. If they can't find me inside, maybe they'll look Outside. See that window? That's Sparks' turret. If we can make him look out here—" "_Stop talking!_" roared Roberts. "Stop talking, guy, and start blowing! I think you've got something there. Anyhow, it's our last hope. _Blow!_" "And quick!" appended Brown. "For here they come!" He meant the Grannies. Again they were huddling for attack, once more, a solid phalanx of indestructible, granite flesh, they were smashing down upon the tree. "_Haa-a-roong!_" blew Isobar Jones. # IV And—even he could not have foreseen the astounding results of his piping! What happened next was as astonishing as it was incomprehensible. For as the pipes, filled now and primed to burst into whatever substitute for melody they were prodded into, wailed into action—the Grannies' rush came to an abrupt halt! As one, they stopped cold in their tracks and turned dull, colorless, questioning eyes upward into the tree whence came this weird and vibrant droning! So stunned with surprise was Isobar that his grip on the pipes relaxed, his lips almost slipped from the reed. But Brown's delighted bellow lifted his paralysis. "Sacred rings of Saturn-look! They _like_ it! Keep playing, Jonesy! Play, boy, like you never played before!" And Roberts roared, above the skirling of the _piobaireachd_ into which Isobar had instinctively swung, "Music hath charms to soothe the savage beast! Then we were wrong. They _can_ hear, after all! See that? They're lying down to listen—like so many lambs! Keep playing, Isobar! For once in my life I'm glad to hear that lovely, wonderful music!" Isobar needed no urging. He, too, had noted how the Grannies' attack had stopped, how every last one of the gaunt grey beasts had suddenly, quietly, almost happily, dropped to its haunches at the base of the tree. There was no doubt about it; the Grannies _liked_ this music. Eyes raptly fixed, unblinking, unwavering, they froze into postures of gentle beatitude. One stirred once, dangerously, as for a moment Isobar paused to catch his breath, but Isobar hastily lipped the blow-pipe with redoubled eagerness, and the Granny relapsed into quietude. Followed then what, under somewhat different circumstances, should have been a piper's dream. For Isobar had an audience which would not—and in two cases _dared_ not—allow him to stop playing. And to this audience he played over and over again his entire repertoire. Marches, flings, dances—the stirring _Rhoderik Dhu_ and the lilting _Lassies O'Skye_, the mournful _Coghiegh nha Shie_ whose keening is like the sound of a sobbing nation. _The Cock o' the North_, he played, and _Mironton_ ... _Wee Flow'r o' Dee_ and _MacArthur's March_ ... _La Cucuracha_ and— And his lungs were parched, his lips dry as swabs of cotton. Blood pounded through his temples, throbbing in time to the drone of the chaunter, and a dark mist gathered before his eyes. He tore the blow-pipe from his lips, gasped, "Keep playing!" came the dim, distant howl of Johnny Brown. "Just a few minutes longer, Jonesy! Relief is on the way. Sparks saw us from his turret window five minutes ago!" And Isobar played on. How, or what, he did not know. The memory of those next few minutes was never afterward clear in his mind. All he knew was that above the skirling drone of his pipes there came another sound, the metallic clanking of a man-made machine ... an armored tank, sent from the Dome to rescue the beleaguered trio. He was conscious, then, of a friendly voice shouting words of encouragement, of Joe Roberts calling a warning to those below. "Careful, boys! Drive the tank right up beneath us so we can hop in and get out of here! Watch the Grannies—they'll be after us the minute Isobar stops playing!" Then the answer from below. The fantastic answer in Sparks' familiar voice. The answer that caused the bagpipes to slip from Isobar's fingers as Isobar Jones passed out in a dead faint: "After you? Those Grannies? Hell's howling acres—_those Grannies are stone dead_!" ~ Afterward, Isobar Jones said weakly, "But—dead? I don't understand. Was it the sound-waves that killed them?" Commander Eagan said, "No! Grannies absolutely cannot hear. That is one thing we do know about them—though we will soon know a great deal more, now that our biologists have a dozen carcasses to dissect, thanks to you. But Grannies have no auditory apparatus." "But then—what?" puzzled Isobar. "It couldn't be vibration, because our Patrolmen tried shootin' "em with the vibro-ray pistol, and nothin' never happened—" "Nevertheless," said Dr. Loesch quietly, "it _was_ vibration which killed them, Isobar. That is, of course, only my conjecture, but I believe subsequent study will prove I am correct. "It was the effect of _dual_, or disharmonic vibration. You see, the vibro-ray pistol expels an ultrasonic wave which disrupts molecular construction sensitive to a single harmonic. The Grannies' composition is more complex. It required the impact of two different wave-lengths, impinging on their nerve centers at the same moment, to destroy them." "And the bagpipe—" said Isobar with slowly dawning comprehension—"emits two distinct tones at the same time!" The full meaning of his words flashed upon Isobar. He turned to Commander Eagan, sallow cheeks glowing with new color. "Then—then what means we've licked our problem!" he cried. "We've found a weapon that'll kill the Grannies, and it won't be necessary to live inside Domes no more! Now we can move out into the open and live like human beings!" "Absolutely true!" agreed the Commander. "But _you_ will not be living Outside, Jones. Not right away, anyway." "H-uh? W-hat do you mean, Commander?" "I mean," said Eagan sternly, "that regardless of results, you are still guilty of flagrant disobedience to orders! That, as Commander of this outpost, I cannot tolerate. You are hereby sentenced to thirty days confinement to quarters!" "But—" stammered Isobar—"but tarnation golly—" "In the course of which time," continued Commander Eagan imperturbably, "you will serve as Instructor for every man in the Dome—at double salary!" "You can't _do_ me like this!" wailed Isobar. "Jinky-wallopers, I won't—Huh? What's "at? Instructor? Instructor in _what_?" "In the—er—art," said Eagan, "of bagpipe playing. If we are to rid Luna of the Grannies, we must all learn how to perform on that—er—lethal weapon. And, Jones, I think I can truthfully say that this punishment hurts me more than it hurts you!" THE END
226	--- author: Carolyn Wells tags: Schools, Juvenile fiction, High school students, Best friends, Families, Jealousy, Aversion, Popularity title: Two Little Women and Treasure House summary: ' "Two Little Women and Treasure House" by Carolyn Wells is a children''s novel written in the early 20th century. The story centers around two girls, Dotty Rose and Dolly Fayre, who are excited about their new shared space, charmingly dubbed "Treasure House," which is designed to be their own little retreat for study and fun. The novel focuses on their adventures and interactions, highlighting themes of friendship, creativity, and growing up. At the start of the narrative, the two girls express their delight over the plans for their new house, which will provide them with a peaceful place to study away from the distractions of their bustling homes. Mr. Rose, Dotty''s father, is involved in the project and shares in the enthusiasm for this exciting venture. The girls'' excitement grows as they imagine the possibilities of decorating and enjoying their new space, setting the stage for their future adventures within its walls. The opening establishes a warm, whimsical atmosphere, inviting readers into the charming world of the Two D''s as they embark on this new chapter of their lives. ' word_count: 50699 fiction_type: Novel ... # CHAPTER I: ALL THEIR OWN! "OH, two rooms!" "Oh, a fireplace!" "Oh, a _window-seat_!" "_Two_ window-seats!" These exclamations fell swiftly and explosively from the lips of Dotty Rose and Dolly Fayre, as they leaned over the table at which Mr. Rose was drawing plans. And such plans! And for such a purpose! Why, the whole project was nothing more nor less than a house, a real little house for those two fortunate girls! All their own, with fireplaces and window-seats and goodness knows what all delightful contrivances. It had come about because of the fact that the girls had to study pretty hard, now that they were in High School, and both found difficulty in finding just the right place to study. Dolly declared that Trudy was always having company, and the laughter and chatter was so permeating, she couldn't find a place in the house to get out of hearing the noise. While Dotty said little Genie was always carrying on with her young playmates, or else Mother and Aunt Clara were having Sewing Society or something, and she never could be quiet in the library. The girls, of course, had their own bedrooms, but both mothers objected, on hygienic grounds, to using those for sitting-rooms. So Mr. Rose had cooked up a most fascinating scheme, and after a discussion with Mr. Fayre, he elucidated it to the girls. It seemed Mr. Fayre fully approved of it, and was quite willing to pay his share of the expense, but he was too busy to look after the details of building, and begged Mr. Rose to attend to all that. Mr. Rose, who was cashier of the Berwick Bank, had plenty of leisure time, and, moreover, had a taste for architecture, so the plans were in process of drafting. As the house was to be exceedingly simple, he felt he could plan it all himself, and thus save the expense of an architect. "You see," he said to his interested audience, "it is really nothing but a summer house, only it is enclosed, so as to be—" "A winter-house!" interrupted Dotty. "Oh, Daddy, it is too perfectly scrumptiousiferous! I don't see how I can live through such joy!" Dolly's blue eyes sparkled, but her pleasure was too deep for words, and she expressed it in long drawn sighs, and occasional Oh's! "Say twenty feet by fifteen for the whole house," Mr. Rose said, musingly. "Then divide that in halves. Thus we have a front room, a sort of living room, ten by fifteen. Quite big enough, for in addition we can have a deep window-seat at each end." "Where we can curl up in to study!" cried Dotty. "Oh, Dollyrinda, did you ever _dream_ anything so perfect?" "I never did! And what is in the other room, Mr. Rose?" "Well, a sort of dining-room, say ten by ten of it, and that will leave a neat little five by ten for a bit of a kitchenette." "Ooh—eeh—I can't take it all in! A kitchenette! Where we can make fudge and cook messes—oh, Dad-dy!" Dotty threw her arms around her father's neck, and in her great gratitude, Dolly did too. "Well, of course, the dining-room isn't exactly for an eating room exclusively, but I know you will enjoy having little teas there with your friends, or taffy pulls or whatever the fad is nowadays." "Oh, indeed we can," said Dolly; "we can all go there after skating and have hot chocolate and sandwiches! Maybe it won't be fun!" "But it is primarily for study," warned Mr. Rose. "I don't think though, you two bookworms will neglect your lessons." He was right, for both Dolly and Dotty were studious, and now, being in the High School, they were most anxious to make good records. They studied diligently every evening, and though Dotty learned her lessons more quickly, Dolly remembered hers better. But both were fond of fun and frolic, and they foresaw wonderful opportunities in the new house. "Oh, a piazza!" squealed Dotty, as under her father's clever fingers a wide piazza showed on the paper. "Yes, of course; this will be a summer house also, you know, and a piazza is a necessity. Perhaps in the winter it can be enclosed with glass. All such details must come later. First we must get the proportions and the main plan. And here it is, in a nutshell. Or, rather, in a rectangle. Just half is the living-room, and the other half is two-thirds dining-room and one-third kitchen. The kitchen includes kitchenette and pantry." "What is a kitchenette, exactly?" asked Dolly. "Only what its name implies," returned Mr. Rose, smiling. "Just a little kitchen. There will be a gas stove,—no, I think it would be better for you to have it all electric. Then you can have an electric oven and toaster and chafing-dish, and any such contraptions you want. How's that?" "Too good to be true!" and Dolly sighed in deep contentment. "How long will it take to build it?" "Not long, if I can get the workmen to go right at it, and I hope I can. Now, suppose we plan the living-room, which is, of course, the study." "Let's call it the Study," said Dolly. "Sounds sort of wise and grown-up." "Very well. Here then, in the Study, suppose we have the door right in the middle of the front wall, and opening on the front veranda. Then a small window each side of the door, and a big square bay, with cushioned seat, at each end of the room." "Glorious!" and Dolly danced about on one foot. "Then we can each have one of them to study in, every afternoon after school." "With a blazing wood fire—where's the fireplace, Daddy?" "Here, opposite the entrance door. Then you see, one chimney in the middle of the house, will provide for a fireplace in each room. I'm not sure this will give you heat enough. If not, you must depend on gas logs. We can't be bothered with a furnace of any sort. Perhaps in the very coldest weather you can't inhabit your castle." "Oh, that won't matter," and Dolly's good-natured face smiled brightly; "if we have it most of the time, we'll willingly study somewhere else on extra cold days. And at one side of the fireplace, the door through to the dining-room—oh, yes, I see." "Right, my child. And on the other side of the fireplace, in the Study, a set of built-in bookshelves, and in the dining-room, a built-in glass closet." "But we haven't any glass!" and Dotty looked amazed at the idea. "Well, I dare say the mothers of you will scout around and give you some old junk from the attics. I know of a gorgeous dish you can have." Mr. Rose's eyes twinkled, and Dotty broke into laughter: "I know! you mean ‘The Eyesore'!" This was a hideous affair that some one had sent Mrs. Rose as a Christmas Gift, and the family had long since relegated it to the oblivion of a dark cupboard. "No, thank you!" Dot went on, "I'd rather have things from the ten-cent store." "They have some awfully nice things there," suggested Dolly, "and I know Mother has a lot of odds and ends we can have. Oh, when the house is built, it will be lots of fun to furnish it. Trudy will make us lovely table-covers and things like that. And we can have paper napkins for our spreads." "And Aunt Clara says she will make all the curtains,—whatever sort we want." "That's lovely of her! I know we'll have lots of things given to us, and we'll find lots of things around our homes—and the rest we'll do ourselves." "Yes, and Thomas will bring wood for us, and take away the ashes. We must have enormous wood-baskets or wood-boxes. Oh, it's just like furnishing a real house! What loads of fun we'll have!" "Then, in the kitchen," Mr. Rose went on, drawing as he spoke, "we'll have a tiny sink, all nice white enamel, and a wall-cupboard for your dish-towels and soap and such things. Also a sort of a small—a very small—kitchen cabinet for your pepper and salt, with a place underneath for pans and kettles." "You think a lot about the kitchen, Daddy. I believe you expect to come there sometimes to join our feasts." "I certainly shall, if I'm invited. Then, you see, the dining-room can have a deep window, and if you don't care for a window-seat there, how about a window-box of bright flowers?" "I don't know about that, Mr. Rose," demurred Dolly. "If the house isn't always warm, the poor posies would freeze, wouldn't they?" "Right you are, Dollykins. Cut out the growing plants, then, and have now and then a vase or bowl of flowers on the table. Now, let me see. An electric light over the table in the dining-room, and perhaps a side light or two. Then in the Study, a reading light for each, and one or two pretty fixtures beside." "Why, will we use it so much at night, Mr. Rose?" "If you choose to. And anyway, in the winter time, you'll need lights by five o'clock, or on dark days, even earlier." "That's so; how thoughtful you are. I s'pose some days we won't go in the house at all, and others we'll be there all the afternoon and all the evening." "And all Saturdays," said Dotty; "we'll always spend Saturdays there, and we can make things for the house or make our Christmas presents, or make fudge and have the girls and boys come over—" "Or just sit by the fire and read," interrupted Dolly. "Oh, you old kitten! You'd rather lie by the fire and purr than do anything at all!" "Well, then I'll do that. We're to do whatever we please in our own house, aren't we, Mr. Rose?" "Yes, indeed, Dolly. But amicable always. No, I don't think you two are inclined to quarrel, but you do have little differences now and then, and I'd hate to have the charm of this little nest disturbed by foolish squabbles." "I'll promise, for one, _never_ to scrap," said Dolly, eagerly, and Dotty said with equal fervour, "Me, too!" "We'll have nice, plain, hard floors," continued Mr. Rose, "and I'm sure your mothers can find some discarded rugs." "Oh, we can make those," exclaimed Dolly. "Don't you know, Dot, that new way your Aunt Clara told us about? You take rags, you know, and sew them in pipings, and then crochet them,—oh, it's just lovely!" "Yes, I know. We'll each make one of those, it'll be fine!" "And we'll put them in the Study, one on each side of the room. Yours on my side, mine on yours." "All right. Which side do you want?" "I'll take the side next my house and you the side next yours. Then if our mothers call us, we can hear them." "Good idea," said Mr. Rose. "I think we'll put the house just on the dividing line between your father's ground and mine." "And Mother can hang a red flag out the window if she wants me in a hurry. Or if dinner is ready." "We might have a telephone," suggested Dotty. "We'll see about that later," said Mr. Rose. "You must remember that the expenses are counting up, and Mr. Fayre and I are not millionaires. But we want you to have a good substantial little nook for yourselves. Then, later, if we see fit to add a telephone or a wireless apparatus or an airship garage, we can do so." "All right," returned Dotty with a satisfied grin. "Say, Doll, shall we bring our desks from our bedrooms?" "No," Mr. Rose answered for her. "Those are too flimsy and dainty; and besides, you'll need them where they are. I shall ask the privilege of contributing two solid, sensible Mission desks of greenish tinge, with chairs to match. Then if you want to curl up on your window cushions to study you may, but there will be a place to write your compositions." "Lovely, Father! How good you are!" and Dotty fell on his neck, while Dolly possessed herself of his hand and patted it. The two girls were equally fond of their fathers, but Mr. Rose was more chummy in manner than Mr. Fayre. The latter was devoted to his children, but was less demonstrative of his affection. But Dolly well knew that her father would not be outdone in kindness or generosity and that he would give an equally welcome gift, as well as pay his share of the building expenses. "All right, Mr. Rose," she said, "if you do that, I'm sure father will furnish the dining-room with whatever we want." "There won't be much needed for that, just a table and chairs, which can doubtless be snared in our attics. But your father, Dotty, offered the whole kitchenette outfit, which, I can tell you, is a noble gift." "Indeed it is!" cried Dotty. "I'm crazy to get at that electricky-cooky business!" "So'm I," declared Dolly. "When will it be all done, Mr. Rose?" "Can't say exactly. If all goes well you ought to get in by the last of October." "About Hallowe'en, then," said Dolly. "We might have a kind of Hallowe'en party for a house-warming." "Gay!" cried Dotty. "We'll get all our treasures in it by that time." "Let's call it our Treasure House,—how's that for a name?" "Pretty good," said Mr. Rose. "I've been wondering what to call it. Treasure House isn't bad at all. Makes you think of Treasure Island." "Yes, so it does," and Dolly's blue eyes sparkled at the name of one of her best-loved books. "Oh, won't it be fun to arrange our bookshelves. I'm glad to move some of my books, my shelves at home are overrunning." "Then, you see, children," Mr. Rose was still adding to his drawings, "in the summer, you can have hammocks on the veranda, and piazza-boxes with flowers—" "Yes, Daddy, dear, you _shall_ get those flower-boxes set up as soon as the gentle Spring gets around." "Well, I do love flowers," and Mr. Rose smiled, for his family well knew his great fondness for gardening. "Now you girls won't have any too much time to get your flummerydiddles ready. For after the house is built and papered and painted, you ought to have your furnishings all ready. And to make curtains and cushions and lace whatd'y'callums—tidies? will be a few weeks' work,—won't it?" "Yes, indeedy. But all our beloved lady relatives will help us and among our sisters and our mothers and our aunts, I 'spect we'll accumulate about enough housekeeping stuff to stock a hotel." Dotty danced around the table as she talked, and catching Dolly in her arms, the two executed a sort of triumphal hoppity-skip that expressed their joy and relieved their feelings. "And now," sighed Dolly, suddenly looking thoughtful, "I've got to go right straight, smack home and do my Geometry for to-morrow." "Oh, my goodness! me too!" exclaimed Dotty. "Dear! how I wish Treasure House was done, and I could go there to study. It's an awful long time to wait." "But we can make things every chance we get. Oh, Dotty, I'm going to make a birch-bark scrapbasket. I've got a lot of that bark left that I brought down from Crosstrees. Won't it be fine?" "Great! Shall we have two?" "No, only one scrapbasket and such things. It's more cosy. But two of everything that we use separately. Like two desks, you know." "Only one set of bookshelves." "Well, there'll be nooks for books, beside the fireplace, and beside the window casings," said Mr. Rose, "in addition to the regular shelves. I haven't half fixed those things up yet." "Oh, it will be just heavenly!" sighed Dolly. "But I must scoot to my Geometry now. See you to-morrow, Dot. Good-bye." "All right. Good-bye." # CHAPTER II: A JOKE AT SCHOOL WHEN the two D's reached school next morning, they found a group of their friends giggling and whispering in a corner of the Recreation Room. "What's the joke?" asked Dotty as they drew near. "Hello, Two D's," cried Tod Brown. "How are you, Toodies? Just wait till you hear what's up! The greatest sell ever! The biggest joke of the season. Oh, me, oh, my!" "Tell us," begged Dolly. "Tell us, Tod, what is it?" She was taking off her hat and coat as she talked, and as she stepped into the coatroom to hang them up, Celia Ferris slipped in and whispered to her. "Now don't jump on the scheme, Dolly Fayre. You're such a goody-goody, I'm half afraid to let you in on it." "Why, is it mean?" and Dolly's blue eyes flashed, for she hated a mean joke. "No, it isn't mean, at least no meaner than she deserves. But I wish they wouldn't tell you; you're an old spoilsport, and I know you'll say you won't join in." "Join in what? Do tell me, or I can't say _what_ I'll do." "Come on out. Tod will tell you," and the two girls joined the others. "What is it, Tod?" asked Dolly, as she came up to the laughing boy. "Now, Dollykin, do be real nice and don't be a horrid old Miss Prim! You see, Miss Partland, the Geometry teacher, is so cross and horrid and unjust to us, we're going to pay her out. And we've thought up the greatest scheme! Just listen!" "No, let me tell her," said Joe Collins; "you'll make it seem worse'n it is. Why, Doll, it's only this. You see, Miss Partland isn't looking very well, and we are all going to tell her so. She ought to know the truth. And she keeps a lot of us in every afternoon, and we don't want her to. So we're each going to tell her, as we get the chance, that she looks sort of ill, and then, we think she'll want to go home early, herself, and she won't stay to keep us in. Isn't that all right?" "Why, that doesn't seem very bad," said Dolly, dimpling as she smiled. "How are you going to bring it in?" "Oh, just casually, you know. If you have a chance, you just say, ‘Aren't you feeling well, Miss Partland?' or something like that." "I'd just as lieve say that, if she looks ill; but I won't if she doesn't," returned Holly, very decidedly. "All right; you'll find she looks ill. Why, the poor lady is on the verge of nervous prostration, and so will we all be, if she is so hard on us." "Did she keep you in, yesterday?" "Yep; just 'cause I had a little mite of a mistake in one example! Oh, she's the limit, she is!" "And do you think she'll be any sweeter-natured if we sympathise with her for feeling bad?" "Well, maybe; you never can tell." "I think it's a grand scheme!" declared Dotty. "She's an old fuss anyway. She found fault with my examples because I didn't take a separate sheet of paper for each one. I'd just as lieve, only I didn't know she wanted me to." "How's your house comin' on, Dot?" sang out Lollie Henry. "Perfectly great! It'll be done by Hallowe'en, and maybe we won't have one rollicking good time!" "Won't we just! You want to look out, you know Hallowe'en is the time for tricks, and I dunno what the boys will get off." "Not in our new house! If anybody takes our doors off of their hinges or does anything mean, I won't stand it, that's all!" and Dotty shook her curly black head and her dark eyes sparkled with anger at the thought of such desecration. "Well, look out, that's all," said Lollie, teasingly, and then the bell called them to the schoolroom. Soon after they all trooped to a classroom for the Geometry lesson. As he passed the teacher's desk, Tod Brown tripped against her platform, and nearly fell over on it. "What a clumsy boy!" exclaimed Miss Partland, frowning, and indeed the stumble was an awkward one. Small wonder, as it was done entirely on purpose! Tod straightened himself up, made a nice, boyish bow, and said, "Please excuse me, Miss Partland. Oh, don't feel alarmed, I'm not hurt." "And I'm not alarmed, you silly boy! I am annoyed at you, not sorry for you." "Yes'm. But, Miss Partland, you're so white. Why, you look quite ill! Mayn't I get you a glass of water?" "Go to your seat!" Miss Partland turned scarlet, both from irritation at Tod's speech, and a sudden nervous fear for herself. Tod went to his place, and when it was Tad's turn to go to the blackboard, he paused a moment, and looked straight into the teacher's face. "Why, Miss Partland," he whispered to her, "don't you feel well? You look awful queer!" "Go to the board," she said, but she was evidently disturbed at his remark. Tad went obediently, and did his work well, then, as he returned to his seat, he gave Miss Partland a long, searching look, and gravely shook his head. The other pupils saw him, and saw, too, that the teacher looked worried. The joke was working. Surely, she would not stay to-night to keep anybody in. Next was Dotty's turn. She went toward the blackboard, but on the way, she stopped in front of Miss Partland, and looked at her. Then, with an anxious look on her face, she stepped up on the platform, and whispering in the teacher's ear, said: "If you're not feeling well, Miss Partland, why don't you go to the rest room for a while?" "I'm perfectly well, child, what's the matter with you?" "You don't look so," said Dotty, shaking her head, and looking back at her victim, as she moved slowly to the board. Several others did similarly; some not commenting on the teacher's looks, but merely staring at her, and then looking away quickly. Dolly Fayre had not noticed much of the whole performance, for she was behind with her lesson, and was struggling with a refractory problem, hoping to get it done before she had to go to the blackboard to demonstrate it. And so, when she rose from her seat, she was surprised and shocked to see how alarmed Miss Partland looked. Indeed the poor lady was all upset with bewilderment at the observations made by her pupils. She had begun to think there must be something serious and noticeable the matter with her. She was trembling with nervous apprehension, and was on the verge of tears. And so, Dolly, who had forgotten Tod's joke, said, most honestly, "Why, what _is_ the matter, Miss Partland? You look awfully ill!" The other pupils, hearing this, chuckled silently, thinking what a good little actress Dolly was. But to Miss Partland it was the last straw. "I am ill," she cried out; "very ill. Help me, Dolly, to the rest room." Leaning on the shoulder of Dolly, who was pretty well frightened, Miss Partland stumbled along to the rest room,—a place provided for any one suddenly indisposed. Dolly assisted her teacher to lie down on a couch, and dipping her handkerchief in cold water, held it to her forehead. "Let me call somebody," said Dolly. "I don't know what I ought to do." "No, I feel better now," said Miss Partland. "But I can't go back to the classroom. I think I must go home. You may go to Mr. Macintosh, Dolly, and tell him I went home, ill." "Yes, Miss Partland," replied Dolly, and then it suddenly came to her, that this was the result of Tod's joke! "Were you ill this morning?" she asked. "No, not in the slightest. It is a sudden attack of some sort. Perhaps I shall die!" "Oh, no. You'll be all right in an hour or so. What sort of pain do you feel, Miss Partland?" "Not any definite pain. But queer all over, as if some illness were impending." I do believe, thought Dolly to herself, that it's all the fault of those horrid boys, telling her she looked ill! And then she suddenly remembered that she herself had told Miss Partland so, too, and very emphatically. But she had told her in earnest, while the others had been carrying out their jest. However, her comment was just the same as theirs, and doubtless helped to produce this effect. She wondered what to do. At first, she thought she would tell the whole story, and let the boys and girls take the consequences of their ill-timed joke. Then, she feared it might so enrage Miss Partland to know of it, that it would make her worse. She decided not to tell at present, anyway, and she helped the teacher on with her hat and coat, and went with her to the door. "Tell Mr. Macintosh I am quite ill," she said as she went away. And Dolly went to the Principal's room to do her bidding. "Did Miss Partland say what the trouble was?" asked the surprised man. "Is she subject to these attacks?" "She didn't say, Mr. Macintosh, and I have never known her to be ill before. I think she will be all right, to-morrow." "You seem to know a great deal for a miss of your age! Have you had much experience with heart attacks?" "I didn't say it was a heart attack," said poor Dolly, torn by her knowledge of what had really caused the trouble. "It must have been, from what you say. That's what I mean, you are too young and inexperienced to attend alone on a suffering victim of heart disease. Why didn't you call some help?" "I did want to, sir, but Miss Partland wouldn't let me." "You may go. Return to the class and tell them they are dismissed. Let them all go to their next recitation at the proper time." "Yes, Mr. Macintosh." "Stop a minute." Dolly turned. "Do you know anything more about this affair than you have told me?" Dolly hesitated. What should she do? She did know more about it; she knew of the joke the boys had made up, and she felt almost sure that it was owing to this foolish jest that Miss Partland had imagined she felt ill so vividly, that at last she really did feel so. And yet, if Dolly "peached" on the boys, she well knew what they would think of her! It was a hard position. But, she thought quickly, it couldn't help Miss Partland to tell of the joke now, and then again the illness might not have been caused by the joke after all, Dolly had been so engrossed with her difficult problem that she had not seen the successive boys and girls look at Miss Partland with such evident sympathy, anxiety and even consternation. Her hesitation naturally made the Principal think she was withholding some information of importance, and he said so. "No, Mr. Macintosh," said Dolly, firmly; "I do not feel sure that I am. The only thing I know, is not positively connected with Miss Partland's illness, although it may be. But as I am not sure, I am not justified in even speaking of it to you." The Principal looked at her attentively. "You're a queer child," he said. "Yes, I am," replied Dolly, thoughtfully. "But I'm trying to see what is my duty, and I can't say anything till I find out." "At any rate, you're an honest little girl, and I don't believe you know anything that you really ought to tell, or you'd tell it." "Oh, thank you, sir. That's just it. I _don't_ think I ought to, or I _would_." Dismissed from the room, Dolly returned to the class and told them the lesson would not be resumed that day, as Miss Partland had gone home ill. She looked reproachfully at the boys who had been ring-leaders in the "joke" and at Celia Ferris, too, who had also been a party to it. But as there were many in the class who knew nothing about it, no word was said then and there, nor could there be until after school. Then Dolly told what had happened. "And to think," she concluded, "that Miss Partland was not ill at all, but so many remarks on her looking poorly, made her think she was,—and then—she was!" "Pooh, nonsense!" said Lollie Henry; "you can't make a lady ill by telling her she doesn't look quite up to the mark." "Yes, you can," declared Dolly. "It's what they call auto-suggestion, or something. Just the same way, if you tell anybody they look well, why, then they get well. I've heard Mother talk about it." "Well, then," said Tod Brown, "all we've got to do, is to go around to Miss Partland's house and tell her she's looking as blooming as a peach!" "Sure!" said Tad. "That's dead easy. Come on." "No," said Dolly, "you can't rush off like that! You'd probably make her worse." "Well, what does she want, then?" "Oh, Tad, you're so silly!" and Dolly couldn't help laughing at him. "I think you're silly, Dolly," said Celia. "I don't believe it was our joke that upset her, at all. I believe she'd been sick anyway." "No, she wouldn't. She said she was perfectly well this morning. You know, Celia, that it was your speeches, one after another, that scared her into thinking she was ill. And it was enough to, too! Why, I wasn't noticing at the time, I was studying, but Dot told me afterward, how you all told her she looked so terrible, and you pretended to be scared to death!" "Well, you said the same thing to her!" "Yes, but I meant it! By the time I went up to the board, you had all frightened her so, she was white and shaky-looking. I was sure she was going to faint." "Yes, Dolly was in earnest," said Dotty. "If we did any harm, Doll can't be included. When she said that to Miss Partland, it was true. When we said it, it wasn't." "Oh, I'm not sticking myself up," began Dolly. "And I'm not blaming the rest of you. I think it was a mean joke, but never mind that now. What I'm thinking of is what we ought to do. Seems if we ought to set matters right somehow." "I don't think so," said Celia. "It's always better to let well enough alone, my mother says. I bet that by to-morrow morning, Miss Partland will be all right and will have forgotten all about this foolishness." "I bet she will too," said Lollie. "Say, Dolly, don't worry over it. It wasn't your fault anyway. And I don't believe it will make old Party really ill. It couldn't. And it may make her more sweet-tempered if she thinks she's subject to—what d'y' call em?—heart attacks." "How do you know it was a heart attack?" demanded Dolly. "I heard Mr. Macintosh tell another teacher that Miss Party had gone home because she had a heart attack in the classroom." "I don't believe it was her heart at all," said Dolly slowly. "Why should any one think so? It was only nervousness, caused by your foolish trick. I'm sorry for Miss Partland. If she isn't all right to-morrow, I'm going to tell her the whole story." "Meany!" cried Celia; "it's awful mean to tell tales." "Not so mean as to play tricks!" retorted Dolly, and then she and Dotty had reached their homes, and went in, while the others went on their way. # CHAPTER III: AN AFTERNOON CALL DOLLY worried a good deal over her teacher's illness, and when Miss Partland was not at school the next day, she decided to go to see her, on the way home. The boys tried to dissuade her, but Dolly was firm. "No use trying to steer off Dolly Fayre, if she's made up her mind," said Lollie Henry. "If she has a bee in her bonnet, she sticks to it like a puppy to a root." They all laughed at this, but Dotty said, earnestly, "Don't go, Doll; you'll have to tell on the boys and girls, and that will be awful mean." "No, I won't. I've a plan of my own, and I won't say a word about your playing a joke, or anything about any of you. But I do think, Lollie, and you Tad and Tod too, that it's a mean, horrid thing to play practical jokes, and I think you _ought_ to be told on,—but I won't tell on you." "Ah, now, Dolly, Towhead Dolly, don't be hard on us," said Tad, in such a wheedlesome way that Dolly had to laugh. "We didn't mean any real harm, and she _has_ been awfully cross to us, and we're not such angels of goodness as you are—" "I'm not an angel of goodness, Tad Brown, and I'll thank you to stop making fun of me! But I do believe in being decent to a teacher, even if she is strict in her rules." "Come on, Dolly," said Dotty, as they neared the street where Miss Partland lived; "if you're going, I'll go with you." "Oh, ho!" jeered Lollie, "_two_ little angels of goodness, little white angels, with shiny wings! Well, fly into old Party's house, and see what's the matter with her,—mumps or measles!" The two girls went to the house, and were invited to go up to the teacher's room. They found Miss Partland, sitting in an easy chair, looking disconsolate indeed. "How do you do, girls?" she said, listlessly; "won't you sit down?" The two D's sat down, and Dolly said, at once, "Oh, I'm glad to see you looking so much better, Miss Partland! You're not really ill, are you?" "I don't know, Dolly," and the poor lady looked sadly distraught. She was not an interesting invalid in appearance. She had on an old grey flannel wrapper, and her hair was untidy. A bowl of broth, cold,—and one or two bottles were on her table, and the whole room had an unkempt, uncared-for air. "You see," she went on, "I didn't know I had heart trouble, and it worries me terribly." "Do you know it yet?" asked Dolly. "Have you had a doctor?" "I've sent for him, but he hasn't come yet. But several people have called or telephoned, and they all speak of my heart attack, so I think it must have been that." Dotty looked very serious, and blushed a little as she realised to what a pass their thoughtless joke had brought the teacher. "Miss Partland," Dolly went on. "I don't believe it was your heart, or you'd be sicker now. You don't feel bad, do you?" "N-no,—I guess not,—I can hardly tell." "Well, you look real well to me—" "Oh, do I? I'm glad to hear you say so. I thought myself, if it were anything serious, I'd feel worse than I do. I haven't any real pain, you know." "That's good; and I believe all you want is to brace up and forget it. Forget that little bother of yesterday, I mean." "Say, Miss Partland," broke in Dotty, "won't you let me do your hair in a new way that I've just tried on mother's? I often do her hair for her, and she says it rests her a lot. And this new way—" "Mercy, child, I never had anybody touch my hair in my life!" "Then you don't know how it helps. Just let me try. Where's your comb? and hairpins? Oh, here they are. No, don't face the mirror, I want you to be surprised." Dotty bustled around, and almost before Miss Partland knew it, she was having her hair dressed by the skilful little hands. The hair was not long or luxurious, but it was of fine texture, and when released from the tight little knob it was wound in, proved slightly wavy. Dot made the most of it, and drawing it up in a soft French twist, she puffed it out at the sides, and made a most becoming and transforming coiffure. "There!" she said, "you're real pretty now, and I'd like to see anybody say you look sick!" Miss Partland looked in the glass and was astounded. The unwonted performance had brought the colour to her cheeks, and interest to her eyes, and when she saw the whole effect in the mirror, she fairly beamed with delight. "Now, haven't you a nicer kimono, or dressing gown? This isn't very pretty for afternoon, and the doctor coming and all." Miss Partland looked amazed. "I never thought about it," she said; "I haven't any other,—or, that is—yes, I have one my sister sent me for Christmas, but I've never worn it. It's too nice." "Mayn't we see it?" Miss Partland went to the closet and brought out a big box. From it she took a beautiful Japanese kimono of pale blue silk, embroidered with pink chrysanthemums. "There," she said, "you see I couldn't wear that." "Why not?" cried Dolly. "It's lovely! And it just suits your blonde colouring." This was stretching the point a little, for Miss Partland's blondeness was of the type known as ash, and her faded complexion and dull light blue eyes hardly deserved the name of colouring. But Dolly was sincere, and she meant to make the most of what little natural vanity the lady possessed. "Yes, indeed," chimed in Dotty. "That's too pretty to be buried in an old dark closet! Put it on, quick, before the doctor gets here!" A little bewildered, Miss Partland hurried into the robe, and the girls were astounded at the becomingness of it. "Well, well!" cried Dotty. "Try our plans, and you will be surprised at the result! Why, Miss Partland, you're a hummer! A regular peach! Isn't she, Doll?" "Yes-sir-ee!" And Dolly patted the blue silk approvingly. Then they wound the blue sash, that belonged to the robe, round about her, and tucked the ends in in Chinese fashion. "You must put that on every day after school," said Dotty, "it's lovely on you." "But it's too nice. I never dreamed of wearing it—" "No matter, just you wear it, and when it's worn out I 'spect sister'll give you another." "Of course she would, she's awfully fond of me." "She'd be fonder, if she could see you now. Clothes make a heap of difference," and Dotty nodded her head sagely. "My goodness, here's the doctor! I hear his automobile stopping. Yes, it is," as she peeped from the window. "Shall we go home, Miss Partland?" "No, just go in the next room, and after he's gone, I'll tell you what he said." "Oh, thank you, I do want to know," said Dolly, and the two ran into the next room and shut the door. A little time later, Miss Partland opened the door and summoned them. She was smiling and so happy looking that she was almost pretty,—a word rarely used in connection with the Geometry teacher. "Come in, girls," she said. "The doctor says I have no heart trouble of any sort, and that I am as sound as a dollar!" "Did he say what ailed you yesterday?" "He said I was probably nervous over some trifle, but he said it had left no trace, for my nerves are all right now. And, what do you think? He said that as I had enough interest in life to take some pains with my toilette, I was in no danger of nervous prostration! And just think! Before you two came in, I was wondering whether I'd better go to a sanitarium!" "Oh, Miss Partland! Not really!" "Yes, really. I thought my whole nervous system was shattered. Everybody said I looked so ill, and they gave me such commiserating glances—" "Well, they won't any more," interrupted Dotty, who was cut to the soul by these remarks. Well she knew whose suggestions and whose glances had brought about the sad state of things. "And now," said practical Dolly, "I'm going to straighten up this room a little. You may have more callers." She whisked away the bowl and bottles into the bathroom. She straightened the shades, dusted a little, and with a few deft touches here and there, she made the room tidy and neat. She found a glass vase which she washed, and setting it on the table, said, "We must go now, Miss Partland, but I'm going to send you a few flowers, and I want you to put them in this vase, and set them right here on the table, will you?" "Indeed I will, you dear child. You're dear little girls, both, and I can't tell you how grateful I am to you for your pleasant call. I can't promise to wear this elaborate gown every day, but I will buy myself one that is more presentable than the one I had on when you came." "And have it pretty, Miss Partland," begged Dolly; "pretty things keep you from getting sick." "I wonder if they do, you little rascal; how do you know?" "Well, maybe they wouldn't keep you from getting chicken pox, they didn't me, but I'm just sure they're good for nervous prostration." "I shouldn't wonder a bit," and Miss Partland smiled brightly as she bade the girls good-bye. "Now I'm going to get her some flowers," said Dolly as they reached the street. "I haven't much left of my allowance, but I can get her half a dozen carnations or two roses. Which would you, Dot?" "Carnations, I guess. They last longer. I'm going to get her a couple of fruits. Say, a grapefruit and an orange, how's that?" "Fine! I'm glad you thought of it. It'll cheer her a lot. I say, Dot, we did do her some good." "I should say we did! But it was all your doing, I just went along." "Nonsense! You did as much as I did. Why, I don't know how you ever thought of fussing up her hair! It was just the thing, but it never would have occurred to me." "I dunno myself how I happened to think of it. But her old head looked so frowsy and untidy, I wanted to see if it would make a difference. And it did!" "I should say so! Here's the fruit store. Going in?" "Yes, come on." They went in, and Dotty made a judicious selection of two oranges and a bunch of white grapes, as they were not sure Miss Partland cared for grapefruit. "And if any one _doesn't_ like it," said Dotty, making a wry face, "they don't like it all over! _I_ can't abide it!" "I love it," returned Dolly, "but as you say, Dot, if people don't like it they don't. Grapes are much safer. Now, come on to the flower shop." A half dozen carnations of an exquisite shade were available for the money Dolly had, and it was with great satisfaction she saw them put in a box and sent off at once to Miss Partland. "I say, Dolly, you're an awful trump!" declared Dotty, as they walked along. "I never should have thought of going to fix things up with old Party. And now, I'm awful glad we did. Why is it, you always have these good thinks and I never do?" "I dunno. Sometimes it makes me mad though when the boys call me goody-goody. And Celia Ferris said I was a spoilsport. That isn't very nice to be called, Dot, is it?" "No; but you always come out all right. You see, I'm full of the dickens, and when the boys want me to cut up jinks, I go into it head over heels without thinking. You hesitate, and think it over and then you do the right thing." "Oh, I don't know. Sometimes I think maybe I _am_ an old Primmy, as Tad calls me. Hello, here's Tad now." Tad Brown met them as he came flying round a corner, closely followed by his twin brother Tod. "Hello, girls," Tad called out. "Been to old Party's? How is she?" "She's all right," and Dolly laughed gaily. "She's had the doctor and he says her heart's sound as a dollar. So you see your old joke didn't hurt her, after all." "But it would have," put in Dotty, "if Doll hadn't gone there and chirked her up, and told her she wasn't sick at all." "You went too," said Dolly, laughing. "Oh, 'course. Whithersoever thou goest, theresoever will I also went. And say, boys, you've got to be gooder'n pie to-morrow, and every day, to make up to old Party for your badness. She's a funny old thing, but she's nice, and since I've seen her at home, I feel different toward her, more intimate like and sorry for her." "All right," said Tad, heartily. "I'm ready to be good. I'm pretty well ashamed of that old joke business, since it turned out so badly." "Me, too," and Tod shook his head. "I thought it was funny at first, but it didn't pan out well. I'll never play another joke on anybody! any way, not till the next time. Going to the High School Dance, girls?" "Yes, indeedy!" and Dolly's eyes glistened. "Won't it be fun? It is the first time I've ever been to an evening party." "Go with me?" and Tod paused in the street, and swept his best dancing-school bow. "Gracious, I don't know," said Dolly, overcome at this sudden grown-upness. "I don't believe mother will let me go with a boy." "Oh, yes, she will," said Tad. "Just to a school dance. You go with Tod, Dolly; and, Dot, you go with me, and then we'll be all in the same boat." "I'd like to," said Dolly, "but I'm sure mother won't let me. What do you think, Dot?" "I think my mother will muchly object at first, but I think I can coax her into it." "Why, all the girls will go with the boys," said Tad eagerly. "They always do. You see our bunch has never been in High School before, and when we're in Rome we must do as the Turkeys do." "Who is going with who else, that you know of?" "Oh, Celia Ferris is going with Lollie Henry, and Joe Collins—" "Well, what about Joe Collins?" asked Dolly. "Oh, nothin'." "Yes, there is, too; what made you stop short?" "Well, if you must know, he said he was going to ask you." "Oh, do you boys talk it all over,—about who you'll take, I mean?" "Sure we do," said Tod, grinning. "I gave Joe my new knife if he'd let me ask you first." "You didn't!" and Dolly looked shocked. "No, of course he didn't!" said Tad. "Don't you let him fool you, Dolly." The quartette had walked along to the Fayres' house, and the boys wanted to go in and see how the house was coming on. But Dolly wouldn't allow this, as she said she must study her lessons. "And you must all go home and study," she said shaking her golden head at them. "I want you to have good lessons to-morrow, and cheer Miss Party up." "I'll tell her she's looking blooming," said Tad, laughing over his shoulder as he went away. "I'll tell her she's a perfect peach!" declared Tod, and then with gay good-byes they parted. # CHAPTER IV: THE HIGH SCHOOL DANCE "OH, I don't know," said Mrs. Fayre, doubtfully, when Dolly asked her about going to the dance with Tod. "You're not old enough to go to an evening party with an escort. Why, you're only fifteen." "But this is a school party, Mumsie, and it seems different." "I think so, too," said Trudy. "I went to High School parties with the boys when I was fifteen,—or sixteen, anyway." "But sixteen seems so much older. Why, Dolly's wearing hair-ribbons yet." "Well," and Trudy laughed, "they'll allow hair ribbons at a High School dance. Why, Mother, it's part of the course, in a way. It teaches the boys and girls how to behave in Society—" "Dolly can learn that at home." "Not unless she has lots of parties and dances, I mean party manners." "Well, I'm willing she should go, but I don't like her going with Tod Brown." "Why, he's an awfully nice boy. The Browns are among the best people of Berwick." "I know that, Trudy,—Tod's all right. But I think your father ought to take Dolly and go after her." "Oh, Mother, they don't do that nowadays. But Dolly can go in our car, and stop for Tod, that would be all right. And Thomas could go and bring them home." "That seems to me a very queer way to do. But we'll see what your father says about it." Mr. Fayre, appealed to, was helpless. "Why, bless my soul, Edith," he said to his wife, "I don't know about such things. When I was a boy, we went home with the girls, of course. But nowadays I suppose the ways are different. You women folks ought to be able to settle that question." "They are, Daddy," said Dolly, sidling up to him, and patting his hand. "But I'd just as lieve you'd take me, if you want the bother of it." "I don't mind the bother, Chickadee, if it's necessary. But when you _do_ get old enough to let the Brownies take you to parties, I shan't be sorry!" "Well, now, I'll settle the matter," said Mrs. Fayre, smiling at her younger daughter. "This time, let Daddy take you, and the next time we'll see about it. You _are_ growing up, I suppose, and, too, one has to do as other people do. But this first dance, I'd rather you went with father." "All right, Mumsie, I'm willing. I don't s'pose it'll be much of a party anyhow. Just the school girls and boys, you know." "Oh, I don't know," said Trudy. "When I went to High, dances were pretty nice affairs. What shall she wear?" "I don't know," replied Mrs. Fayre. "I'll have to ask the mothers of some of the other girls how much they dress. A white frock, I should think, with some flowers or ribbons." Dolly was satisfied with the outcome of the discussion, but quite another scene was being enacted next door. "I'm going to the High School Dance with Tad Brown," Dotty announced at the dinner table. "You'll do nothing of the sort," returned her mother. "A child of your age going out in the evening with a boy escort! Ridiculous!" "But I _am_," went on Dotty, decidedly. "Dolly's going with Tod, and I'm going with Tad." "Did Dolly's mother say she might?" "I dunno. But we're going. And I want a new red chiffon to wear." "Red chiffon! You'd look fine in red chiffon at your age! Now, be sensible, Dotty, if you go to that dance, you must let your father take you, and you must wear one of your white summer dresses." "But, Mother, all the girls are going to have new dresses. Celia Ferris is going to have a white satin—" "A white satin! for a High School girl! How absurd!" "Well, I don't want white satin, but I _do_ want a new dress. Can't I have it, Father?" "Now, now, Dotty, don't tease." "But, Father, can't I?" "Why, _I_ should think you might. You're a nice little girl. But, of course, it must be as mother says." "Say, yes, Mother, do say yes. Won't you, Mother? _Won't_ you? Aunt Clara, you _beg_ her to, won't you? _Won't_ you, Aunt Clara?" "Good gracious, child, stop teasing," and Mr. Rose glowered at Dotty so very fiercely, that she knew he was not in earnest. "Stop teasing, Dotty," said Genie, her little sister. "You know very well that teasing won't get what you want." Genie looked so comical, as she shook her fat little forefinger at Dotty, that they all laughed. "Cry, that's the bestest way," Genie went on. "If you cry hard enough, you're sure to get it." "That's all right for little kiddies like you, Gene, but big girls don't cry. They just say what they want, and then if their parents are nice, loving, affectionate, good-hearted people, I should think they would get their wishes." "Well put, Dottikins," cried her father. "I guess, Mother, the little girl will have to have her new furbelows. Of course, you'll get something suitable. Say, a nice blue gingham." Dotty smiled absently at this mild jest, and went on, her first point gained, to her second. "And I want to go with Tad. I don't want to go with father, like a baby. All the girls are going with the boys. Celia Ferris is going with Lollie Henry—" "That question must wait, Dorothy," and when Mrs. Rose used that name, Dotty knew she was very much in earnest. "I'm comparatively new in Berwick, and I must find out what the other mothers think about it before I decide. Now, stop teasing; after I confer with some of the ladies I'll decide. I don't think much of Celia Ferris as a model. And I'm by no means sure Dolly's mother will let her go with Tod. So you must wait and see." Dotty knew from her mother's manner there was no use teasing any more, so she turned her attention back to her frock. "Well, if it can't be red chiffon, Mother, can't it be red organdie?" "We'll see about it. If you're so bent on a red dress, perhaps we can hunt one up." Mrs. Fayre smiled at her impetuous daughter, and Dotty felt sure she had secured a red gown, at least. The two neighbouring mothers talked matters over, and it was finally decided that the girls should not be allowed to go to the party with the boys this time, but perhaps they might later in the season. For the dances were occasional, and sometimes there were three or four during the winter. It was arranged that Mr. Fayre should take the two D's and that Mr. Rose should go to bring them home, after the dance was over. But new dresses were allowed, and Dotty's of red organdie, and Dolly's of white organdie and blue ribbons, were both pretty and appropriate. They had new party cloaks, too, the first they had ever owned, and it made them feel exceedingly grown-up to have them flung round their shoulders. Dolly's was of light blue cashmere, edged with swansdown, and Dotty's was of scarlet cloth, bordered with a quilling of black satin. Hats were out of the question, and Mrs. Fayre presented each of the girls with a little lace scarf to wear on her head. Very pretty they looked, as, all equipped at last, they got into the Fayre car, and rolled away. Mr. Fayre gave them alternately, compliments on their appearance and advice as to how to behave. "Why, Dads," said Dolly, laughing, "any one would think we had never been out before." "Well, you haven't; that is, to a real evening party." "No, but we went to a dance down at Surfwood, it can't be so very different." "No, I suppose not," rejoined Mr. Fayre, and then they were at the School. The dance was held in the big Assembly Room, and the Committee had decorated it with flowers and palms, so that it had a gala air indeed. The girls went to the cloak room, and as they emerged, the Brown twins met them. Such dressy Brown twins! And indeed, everybody looked different from the schoolmates they were. "Hello," said Tad; "come on, you're late. The girls are getting their cards all filled up. Here are yours." The two D's took their Dance Programmes a little shyly. They had never had them before, for this was their first real Dance Party. "S'pose nobody asks me to dance!" said Dotty, in a sudden fit of shyness. "Oh, nonsense!" cried Dolly, "everybody'll ask you." "You should worry!" exclaimed Tad, looking at his pretty partner with an appreciative eye. "Here, give me both your cards. I want a lot of dances that I can manage. I'm not much on the fancy steps." He took the cards and began scribbling his initials. "Stop!" said Dotty, laughing; "you're taking too many, Tad." "Oh, ho! and you were so 'fraid nobody'd ask you! You're a sly-boots." "Well, I want a few left, if anybody _should_ ask," and even as she spoke, several of the boys came clustering round her and Dolly, and very soon their cards were well filled. Then the fun began. The two D's were both good dancers, and as nearly all the young people went to the Berwick Dancing School, they had plenty of good partners. After each dance they walked about the room or sat and chatted. To Dolly's surprise there were a great many strangers present. For, contrary to the ideas of the elder Fayres and Roses, nearly all the girls did come with boy escorts, and as many girls were not invited by the schoolboys, they asked friends from out of town. There were also girl guests from neighbouring cities, and altogether, the affair was quite large. Celia Ferris had her white satin, but it was veiled with soft white tulle, and made a very pretty, girlish dance-frock. Celia was chummy with the two D's, but she had begun to feel a little jealous of them, for they were exceedingly popular, and received a great deal of attention. However, she was pleasant-mannered, and spoke cordially with them whenever they met. After a time Dolly noticed a girl, who seemed to be a wall-flower. She was a nice-looking and well-dressed girl, but she danced very seldom, and most of the time sat discontentedly looking at the others. There were some other wall-flowers, as is always the case, but none were so frequently left partnerless as this particular girl. "Who is she?" asked Dolly of Lollie Henry, with whom she happened to be dancing. "Oh, that's Bernice Forbes. She's a muff." "Don't be rude, Lollie. What do you mean,—a muff?" "Nothing, only she hasn't any _go_ to her,—any life, any vim, you know." "But she might, if she were asked to dance oftener. Have you asked her?" "Not much! I don't dance with B. Forbes, when I can get anybody else." "That isn't very nice of you," and Dolly looked reproachfully at her partner. "Won't you ask her once, just to please me?" "I'd do a lot to please you, sister, but B. F. is a little too much. Hello, they're going to supper. Who'd you come with? Tad or Tod?" "I'm supposed to have come with Tod. But really my father brought me." "I know. It's all the same. The Brownies picked you up after you got there,—you and Dot. And here comes Tod after you, I must fly to seek my own special." Lollie went off, and Tod escorted Dolly to the supper room. The feast was not grand, as High School affairs are limited, but everybody enjoyed it. The D's and the Browns found a place in a pleasant alcove, and were joined by Celia Ferris and the Rawlins girls and a lot more of their particular friends. Dolly noticed Bernice Forbes, sitting apart from the rest. With her was a boy Dolly did not know. "Who is he?" she whispered to Joe Collins. "Dunno. Some chap the Forbes girl brought. Of course no Berwick boy would ask her." "Why not?" "Stick. Can't say boo to a goose!" "Is that the reason the Berwick boys don't want to talk to her?" asked Dolly mischievously, and Joe laughed. "Honest, Dolly, she's fearful. Just a lump, you know. But don't you know her?" "Never did till I went to High. She was at another Grammar School from the one I went to. She dresses well." "She ought to. Her father is the richest man in Berwick." "Oh, is she the daughter of Mr. Forbes, the railroad man?" "She sure is. Now do you know her better?" "I should say so! Why, my father is in one of the offices of Mr. Forbes' company." "That so? Well, steer clear of the fair Bernice, believe me!" And then the sandwiches and ice cream and cakes arrived, and the healthy young appetites did full justice to them. "Tell us all about your new house, Dotty," somebody was saying. "'Tisn't mine any more than Dolly Fayre's. It belongs to us jointly and severally, as my father says." "When will it be finished?" "In a couple of weeks now, I guess. We're going to have a Hallowe'en party to open it. I hope you'll all come." "Is this the invitation?" said Clayton Rawlins; "if so, I accept." "Oh, no, this isn't the regular invitation. That will come later." "You can't have a very big party," said Celia. "The house won't hold very many." "It's going to be a mixed-around party," explained Dolly. "Some of it will be in our two own houses and some in Treasure House." "Is that what you call it? How pretty," and Grace Rawlins smiled at Dolly. "Yes, Treasure House, because it's our treasure and because we're going to keep our treasures in it. Oh, it's going to be the greatest fun! You must all come over and see it. Don't wait for Hallowe'en. Come any time." After supper there were a few more dances before going home time. With some interest, Dolly watched the Forbes girl. She danced a few times with the boy with her and the rest of the time she sat alone. Reggie Stuart came to Dolly for a dance. "Say, Reg," she said, "won't you let me off of this, and go and dance it with Bernice Forbes?" "_Will_ I! Not! What's the matter, don't you want to dance with me?" "Yes, of course. It isn't that, but—but she looks lonely." "Good work! She ought to look lonely. It's her own fault, Dolly." "Her own fault, how?" "Oh, she doesn't try to be gay and perky and smiley and laughy,—like,—well, like you are. But if you don't want me for a partner—" "Oh, ridiculous, Reg! Of course I do. Come on." They danced away, and for that night at least, Dolly gave up trying to get the boys to dance with Bernice. Reginald was not the first one she had asked, nor the second; but one and all they had refused. # CHAPTER V: TREASURE HOUSE AT last the day came when Treasure House was finished. Painted, papered, furnished, it now lacked only the finishing touches that the eager hands of the Two D's were ready to give. A Saturday was to be devoted to this fascinating work, and bright and early, Dotty and Dolly were signalling each other from their bedroom windows that the time had arrived. Rather slim and very hurried were their breakfasts, and very abstracted and absentminded their conversation. "Dot," said Mr. Rose, "do have a little scrap more of this nice bacon." Dotty looked at her father, unseeing, and letting her gaze rove to her mother, she said, "Which centrepiece would you put on the table first, Aunt Clara's or the one Trudy made?" "Use mine first," spoke up Aunt Clara, "for Trudy's is much handsomer, and you'd better keep it for a party occasion." "That's so," and Dotty nodded her head. Meanwhile, Mr. Rose had sat patiently, serving fork and spoon held over the dish of curly, crisp bacon and golden eggs. "I asked you a question, Dotty," he said, in an injured tone. Again Dotty gave him that blank stare. "And, Mother," she went on, "if you'd just as lieve we'd have that blue Japanese table mat, for the Study table, I'll take it over with me. When I—" "Dorothy Rose," said her father, with mock severity, "_am_ I to hold this fork all day? Will you, or will you _not_, have some bacon?" "What? Have what? Oh, Daddy, _did_ you bring the screw hooks home last night? You didn't forget to get them, did you?" "Bacon! Bacon! _Bacon!_" shouted Mr. Rose. "I said bacon!" "And the doormat,—you promised to order the doormat, Father—" "Bacon!" "The fire sets came—" "_Bacon!_" "Oh, how you made me jump! No, I don't want any bacon, I had some—I think. Anyway, I'm through breakfast, aren't you, Dad? Do hurry up. I want you to go over with me—oh, there's Doll!" Dolly came in, her arms full of things for the house. "I didn't want to go in without you, Dot," she said. "Goodness, aren't you through breakfast yet? I couldn't eat a thing, hardly." "Sit down here, and have some bacon, Dolly," said Mr. Rose, hospitably. "Dad, if you say bacon again, I'll just perfectly fly! Dolly doesn't want any, do you, Doll?" "No, 'course not! I mean no, thank you, Mr. Rose. Oh, we can't wait another minute. Come on, Dot!" Dotty grabbed up some things she had ready to take, and the two flew out of the side door and over to Treasure House. It was a gorgeous morning in late October, and as the house faced the south, the sun was already flooding the front piazza of their new domain. Each girl had a key, and as they went up the steps, Dolly began hunting in her coat pocket for hers. "Old Slowy!" cried Dotty, and, her own key already in her hand, she snapped it into the lock, and threw open the door. "Will you walk into my parlour, said the flyder to the spy!" and with a flourish she stood aside for Dolly to enter. "No, we must go in together. Why, Dot, this first entrance ought to be a rite, a—a ceremonial, you know." "Ceremonial, your grandmother! Come on in!" and grabbing Dolly's arm, the two bounced in, spilling their parcels, and laughing so hard that there was small suggestion of ceremony. They fell breathless, in the two easy chairs that stood either side of the fireplace, and just grinned at each other. "The day's come!" exclaimed Dotty; "we're really here! Oh, Doll, can you believe it?" "No, I simpully _can't_! It's too good to be true! Now, shall we light a fire, or fix things up first?" "How far have you progressed?" asked a voice at the door, and Mr. Rose came in, smiling. "Want any help? I've half an hour to spare. Can I start a fire for you?" "Oh, do, Dad! And show us just how, and then we can do it ourselves after this." "Pooh," said Dolly, "I know how to make a fire,—I learned long ago. But it would be better to have Mr. Rose make the first one, and see if the chimney draws all right." Dolly looked up the flue with the air of a connoisseur on fireplaces, and Mr. Rose laughed good naturedly at her. "The secret of a successful fire is plenty of paper and kindling-wood," he said, as he twisted newspapers into hard rolls. Then he added light sticks and finally good-sized logs, and declared the fire was laid. "Now the lighting of this, your first hearth fire, should be a ceremony," he said. "There, Dotty, I told you we ought to have a ceremony! Which of us will light it?" "Both together, of course. Give us each a match, Dad." Mr. Rose gave each of the girls a match, and as they were about to strike them, he showed them where to touch the protruding ends of paper, which he had purposely arranged. "Now," he said, "One, Two, Three, _Go_! May joy attend all who surround the Hearthstone fires of Treasure House!" The matches blazed, caught the paper, ignited the kindling, and flames shot up with a glow and a crackle. It was an exciting moment for the two girls. They fell into each other's arms, and while Dotty was shouting "Hooray!" at the top of her lungs, the tears were rolling down Dolly's cheeks. "You Goosie!" cried Dotty. "What under the sun are you crying about?" "'Cause I'm so happy. And anyway, it's my own house, I've got a right to cry in it, if I want to." But she was smiling now, the tense moment had passed, and together they danced wildly round the room. "I'll have to be going," said Mr. Rose, looking at his watch, "you two Apache Indians had better calm down and get to work. There's a lot to be done, I'm thinking." "But we've got all our lives to do it in," said Dolly, laughing. "There's no hurry, and I must get my eyes used to it a little first." Mr. Rose went off, and the two girls stood looking about, as if they never could look enough. And this is what they saw. The Study, flooded with the Autumn sunlight, and bright with the blazing fire. Walls hung with plain paper of a lovely greyish green, with a bordering frieze of foliage in darker shades. Windows curtained with green silk over lace bordered scrim. Two wide window-seats, at opposite sides of the room, cushioned in green, and provided with many soft, ample-sized green cushions. The woodwork was white, the low bookshelves were white, and the furniture was Mission. The two desks had arrived, and were placed at the two ends of the room. Theoretically, the whole room was divided in halves, Dolly owning the side toward her home, and Dotty the side toward hers. Under the window seats were little cupboards for school books, and besides, there was a roomy coat-closet for each, with shelves and hooks. A big table in the middle of the room held an electrolier, and each girl was to fill her side of the table with such books or bric-à-brac as she saw fit. Altogether, it was the cosiest, homiest, dearest room a girl ever had to study or play in, and it thoroughly satisfied the Two D's. "Now let's gaze on the dining-room," said Dolly. "I haven't seen it since last night." Arms round each other, they went to the next room. That, of course, was a north room, and so it had been furnished in yellow. The yellow wallpaper, with a border of daffodils, was like sunshine, and the chairs and table were of yellow painted wood. The curtains were of thin yellow silk, and the glass door of the cupboard showed a set of yellow china. A big yellow bowl, of Chinese ware, had been Mrs. Fayre's especial gift; though the parents and relatives had all contributed generously to the furnishings. Bob and Bert had sent gifts; one a clock and one a picture. Their pictures were few, as yet, for the girls didn't want the discarded ones in their home attics, and preferred to wait till time should bring some good ones as Christmas or birthday gifts. "You see," said Dolly, as they talked this over, "we don't want to get it all finished at once, or we'll have nothing to look forward to. Let's do it slowly, by degrees, and get first, just what we have to have." "Yes," agreed Dotty, "only I'm so impatient, I can't wait to do things slowly. I wish I could just wave my hand, and everything would be finished!" "Goosie! Well, let's go to work, and do up what's to be done right now. Mother's coming over pretty soon, and I want her to see it looking nice. I'll make the dining-room fire,—or don't we need one?" "Not yet, Doll. We'll be flying round, working, and that will keep us warm. Let's not light it till afternoon." "All right. Come on and gaze at the kitchen." The kitchenette was a dream in shining nickel and white enamel. Mr. Fayre was a busy man, and hadn't the time to devote to the children that Mr. Rose could command, so he had insisted on making up by putting in the entire electrical outfit. There was provision for cooking, toasting, coffee-making, candy-making, and some contraptions of which the girls did not yet know the use. A small, but complete kitchen cabinet contained everything the most fastidious housekeeper could desire, and a wall cupboard held a supply of neatly hemmed dish towels, dusters and such matters. "Isn't it great!" exclaimed Dolly. "That white enamelled sink is dainty enough for a fairy's bath! And do observe this corn-popper!" "And this glass lemon-squeezer! Let's make some lemonade now!" "Oh, not now! It's just after breakfast." "Well, it's eleven o'clock, just the same." "It is! Whew! we must fly round. Don't talk about lemonade, Dot; let's put our books on their shelves, and fix the mantel and table." "All right, say we do." A basket of trinkets from each house stood waiting, and the two unpacked and placed their treasures. Such absorbing work as it was! No very valuable things had been brought, lest light-fingered gentry should prowl round some dark night, but lots of pretty things were available. "'Course we divide the mantel, same's everything else," observed Dolly, as she came, with a tiny ivory elephant and a larger teakwood one. "Let's put Bert's clock in the middle, and then each fix our own half. I've just got to have my two dearie efelunts here, and the brass candlestick Grandma gave me. There, I think that's enough for my end." "Looks awful skinny. I've a lot of stuff for my half. See; this pair of vases, and this plaster cast of Dante, and this big white china cat, and this inkstand—" "Oh, Dot, don't put an inkstand up there! Put that on your desk." "Oh, it isn't a using inkstand. It's just a show one. Aunt Clara gave it to me last Christmas. See, it's iridescent glass." "I know it is, but it looks like fury up there, and your end is too crowded, anyway." "Pooh, I think yours is too skimpy. Looks awful vacant, with nothing but two elephants and a candlestick!" "But it's right not to have such a lot of dinky doodaddles all over the place. Your end looks like a junk shop!" But, imperturbably, Dotty added a big, pink-lined conch shell and a fussy beribboned calendar. "I like what I like, Dolly Fayre, and I've as much right to fill up my space as you have to waste yours. You might rent out a few square feet to me." "'Deed I won't! Dot, that bunch of rubbish is fierce! All the girls will laugh at it." "Let 'em, I don't care. I've had that shell ever since I was a tiny mite. It's my oldest treasure." "Your old-fashionedest, you mean. Say, Dot, weed out half of those frights, and I'll give you one of my candlesticks. They'd look fine at each end." "No-sir-ee! I insist on my rights, my whole rights and nothing but my rights! E pluribus unum, Erin go bragh!" Dotty executed a species of war dance, and shook her fist defiantly at Dolly, who was standing off, admiring her end of the mantel and making wry faces at Dotty's. Suddenly Dolly broke into laughter. "We'll have these scraps all the time, Dot, so I s'pose we may as well make up our minds to let each other do as we please." "I like your grammar, and I agree to your dic—dic—what do you call it?" "Dictum?" "Yes, dictum. Only you needn't try to dictum _me_! We're joint monarchs of all we survey, and we must let each other survey in our own way. I think my mantel layout is pretty fine. If you don't I can't help it." "No," sighed Dolly, "and you can't help having awful taste in decoration, either." "Taste is a matter of opinion, and I opine that my mantel looks as good as yours, only different." Then both girls grinned at each other, and the peace was unbroken. But the mantel did look funny! "Now for our books. Thank goodness, we haven't got to share our bookshelves, and we can fix the things as we like." "We did on the mantel," said Dolly, laughing. "Well, my nonsense books go above, and my girls' books below. ‘Alice' first; then ‘Lear,' and then the ‘Just so Stories.'" "Well, of course, I'm doing mine different. I'm putting my highbrow books up top. Shakespeare first, and then—" "Don't say Milton! You know you'll _never_ read those things out here, or anywhere, except when you have to write themes on them!" "But amn't I going to write themes out here? What are our desks for, I'd like to know?" "Yes, I s'pose so. Oh, well, fix your books as you like; you will anyway." "'Course I will. And I hereby give you permission to do the same." "Thank you, oh, _thank_ you! It's tiresome work, isn't it?" "Jiminy! I should say it was! Come on, Doll, let's make some lemonade. I'm choked with dust and with some old dry lingo that leaked out of my wise books. Come on, Dollums." "All right. Got any lemons?" "Yep, brought some on purpose. Sugar too. And we can make it in that darling kitchenettio!" Away the girls went, and concocted lemonade that tasted like fairy nectar. To squeeze lemons by means of their own glass squeezer, to get sugar out of their own sugar-box (after they had put it in), to draw water from their own flashing, shining, silver-plated faucets,—this was joy indeed! "Seems to me I never tasted anything so good," said Dolly, gazing into her glass, as they sat at their golden dining-room table. "Nor I. But it makes me so fearfully hungry." "At one we must go home to lunch, I s'pose. Wish we could lunch here." "We will next Saturday, but of course, we've got to get a lot of things together to do that." "It's nearly one, now. We must finish up this lemonade and scoot. Will you come back right after your lunch is over?" "Yes, of course. Quick as I can hop here. But I'm so hungry I 'spect I'll eat a whole lot." "Me too." # CHAPTER VI: SUCH A LUNCHEON! THE lemonade finished, and the glasses washed and put away, the girls were about to start for home, when along came Trudy and Norah, the Fayres' cook, each with a tray covered with a big, white napkin. "Oh, goody, _goody_, GOODY!" shouted Dotty, catching sight of them first. "It's lunch to eat over here! It is! It _is_!" They flung open the front door and as they did so, there appeared from the house on the other side, Aunt Clara and Maria, the Roses' old coloured cook, one carrying a basket, and the other a strange-looking burden, muffled up in a piece of blanket. "Glory be! but dis yer am hot!" and Maria hurried in with the blanketed bundle, which proved to be a silver pot of cocoa, steaming and fragrant. Laughing with glee, the girls relieved the messengers of their loads and put them all on the dining-room table. The callers declined to stay, having a feeling that half the fun of Treasure House was in the Two D's having it to themselves. So away they went, and with shrieks of delight, the donations were opened. "Did you _ever_ see such a picture!" cried Dolly, as she brought to view a small platter of cold tongue, garnished round with asparagus tips and tiny pickles. "And gaze on this to go with it!" Dotty said, flourishing a plate of sandwiches, delicate and dainty, and of several varieties. "Let's eat 'em now, while the cocoa's hot, and anyway, I can't wait." Dotty seated herself at the table, while Dolly, in her methodical way, went on with the preparations. "I'll put the dessert on this side table," she said. "Don't begin, Dot, till it's all ready. _Will_ you look! Here's a Floating Island! Just enough for us two, in Trudy's best glass dish! And Maria's little raisin cakes! Say, Dot, they telephoned or something and arranged this lunch between the two houses." "'Course they did. _Do_ come on, Dolly. Don't stand admiring the things all day. Come on and eat." "All right, everything is all ready now, and we can eat in comfort. Here's a lovely basket of fruit, but we won't want that for lunch, let's keep it for this afternoon." "Keep it for Christmas! if you'll only come on! Dolly Fayre, you are so slow, you do exasperate me somethin' awful!" "Dotty Rose, you are so impatient, you drive me crazy!" but Dolly came, smiling and tranquil, and took her seat at the table. "Isn't it great!" she said, looking about at the pretty golden room, the tempting feast, daintily set forth, and at eager Dotty, her dark eyes sparkling, and her red lips pouting at Dolly's delay. "Simpully gorgeous!" and Dotty's pout disappeared as they began the first meal in Treasure House. "I say, Dollum, isn't it funny how we Roses came here and happened to live alongside of you Fayres, and you and I became such chums?" "Awful funny. And we're such good friends, even though we're so different in every way." "Not in every way, we like the same things often, but sometimes we're so very different, it makes us seem differenter than we really are." "Yes, I guess that's it, though I can't exactly follow your meaning. My, but these sandwiches are good! Let's have lunch here every Saturday, shall us? Of course, we'll fix the things ourselves. We couldn't expect Trudy and your Aunt Clara to do it,—only this first time. But Norah and Maria will make things for us, and we can do a lot ourselves. I mean to learn to cook,—not so much cook on the stove, you know,—as to make sandwiches and salads and desserts and deviled eggs and—" "And cocoa—and oh, Dollyrinda, some Saturday we'll ask somebody to lunch, and we'll make all the things ourselves!" "And, oh, Dotsie, when the boys come home for Thanksgiving, maybe we won't have fun! Brother Bert is crazy to see this house." "And Bob is, too. I expect those two brothers of ours will just take possession of it." "'Deed they won't! But of course they can come here all they want, and if they want to borrow it for a boy racket of their own, why of course we'll let 'em." "Well, isn't that pretty much taking possession, I'd like to know! Have some more cocoa?" "You mustn't say, ‘Have some _more_' anything. You ought to say, ‘Have some cocoa?'" "But you've already had some!" "I know it. But that's good manners. You must ignore the fact of my having had any." "Pooh! Well, Miss Fayre, as you haven't had any cocoa, to my knowledge, mayn't I beg you to try it?" "Since you put it so politely, I don't care if I do take another cup or two. You see, _I_ don't have to ignore it, I own right up." "You and your manners are too much for me!" "But, honestly, Dotty, it is right not to put in the ‘more.' And you mustn't do it." "All right, I won't. But it's simply impossible for me to ignore the dozens of sandwiches you've eaten. So I'll say, Have some cake?" "As the sandwiches are all gone, I believe I will begin on the cake. But, somehow, I don't feel as hungry as I did. Do you?" "Nixy. Say, Doll, here's an idea! S'pose we save these cakes,—there's a lot of them,—and that big basket of fruit till this afternoon and invite the two Rawlins girls over. How about it?" "All right, I'll go you. For, honest, I can't eat any of it now. But we'll eat up Trudy's Floating Island, she makes it lovely, and there isn't such a lot of that." "All right. If we're going to ask those girls, we must get a move on and do up these dishes. I hate to do dishes, don't you?" "Yes, at home. But it isn't so bad here. It's kind of fun!" "Not very much fun. But anyway, the dishes that belong over to our homes, we can pile in this basket, and Maria will come for them." "They've got to be washed first, though. It isn't nice to send them back unwashed." "Oh, what a prim old maid! You ought to live alone with a cat and a poll parrot!" "That isn't old-maidness, that's just plain, every-day tidiness. Now you get a dish towel, and I'll wash, and we'll have these things put to rights in a jiffy." The girls knew how, and they did their work well, but it did take some time, for such work cannot be done too swiftly. But on the whole, they enjoyed the task, and were gratified at the sight of the shining glass and china in their own glass-cupboard, and the neatly packed basket and tray full of dishes to be returned to their home pantries. Then they went and sat before their Study fire, to rest and talk. "Seems to me," said Dolly, "time does go awful fast. Here it's after three o'clock, and the afternoon is 'most gone." "And we must go home and dress," said Dotty, "if we're going to have Grace and Ethel. These ginghams won't do." "No, not in our pretty new house! Well, let's go home and dress, and then we can telephone them, from home. Shall I do it, or you?" "Oh, I'll do it. You'll have all you can do to get dressed in time to get back here before dark. You're so everlasting slow." "Slow and sure, as the molasses said to the quicksilver. All right, you telephone the Rawlinses, and if they can't come, what then? Shall we ask any one else?" "Might ask Maisie May. But we don't want a lot. It'll seem too much like a party, and besides, there won't be enough cakes to go round." "All right. If the Rawlinses can't come you call up Maisie, and if she can't, we'll flock by ourselves. Maybe Mother'll want me to go out with her somewhere, anyway. You never can tell." "Oh, don't do that! If you do, I'll get the girls to come just to see me. And it would be horrid not to be together this first day." "Well, I 'spect I can come back. Say, Dot, we ought to have a telephone connection here." "Wish we could, but, you know when we spoke of it, Dad said we couldn't have everything all at once. Let's strike for it for Christmas." "All right. But I s'pose we can just as well run over home to telephone. Now, you take your folkses' basket and I'll take our trays. Got your key?" "Yes. Have you? I'll lock the door. You go on. Good-bye." "Good-bye," and both girls ran away home. Mrs. Fayre had intended to have Dolly go on an errand with her, but, hearing of the projected plan, she let the child off. "Go over to Treasure House, dear, if you like," she said; "but some days I must claim you as my own little girl. I don't want to lose you entirely." "No, Mumsie," said Dolly, her arms around her mother's neck, "but Saturdays, you know,—can't I always have Saturdays for the House?" "I shouldn't wonder. Now go and dress. And be home by dinner time, Trudy expects company." "Yes'm," and Dolly scampered away to dress. She heard the telephone and went to answer, thinking it might be Dotty. And it was. "The Rawlins girls are coming," Dotty said, "and Maisie happened to be at their house so I had to ask her too. There'll be cakes enough if we go light ourselves." "All right. I'll be over pretty soon. Good-bye." Dolly made a leisurely toilette, as she always did. She rarely moved quickly, but on the other hand, she was not often late. She put on a pretty little voile frock, of bluet blue, with white pipings. A big white ribbon bow tied her hair back, and then it fell in a long braid, with curly ends. She threw a big cloak round her, one of Trudy's discarded party-cloaks, and ran across to Treasure House. Of course, Dotty was already there. She had on a dress of bright Scotch plaid, which suited her type. Scarlet ribbons on her hair, and a necklace of bright red beads made her look quite festive. "What a jolly cloak! Trude's?" "It was, but she gave it to me. Just the thing to wear to run over here. It's warm, but it's handy." "It's dandy, you mean. Wish I had one. I guess I can bamboozle Mother or Auntie into making me one. You look awfully nice this afternoon. Why didn't you wear your blue beads?" "They don't quite match this frock. They're too greenishly blue. Why did you wear those red ones?" "'Cause they _do_ match this dress." "No, they don't. They're crimson and the red in the plaid is scarlet." "Oh, what a fuss! Well, then, I wore 'em 'cause they're pretty and becoming and I like 'em,—so there now!" "All right, glad you do. Here come the girls." Further discussion of tints and shades was cut short by the entrance of Grace and Ethel Rawlins and Maisie May. "Well, if this isn't the greatest place! I never heard of such a thing before. Where did you get the idea?" "Oh, it's just heavenly! Such lovely furniture and things!" "And there's another room! Why, a dining-room! I _never_ did!" Exclamations drowned each other. The visitors went in each of the three rooms and each called forth new praises. It was indeed a novelty, and appealed to the girls' hearts as a most desirable and cosy place to read or study. "But _can_ you study here?" asked Maisie. "I should think you'd be all the time thinking what to do next to fix it up, and you couldn't put your mind on your lessons." "It may be that way," laughed Dolly. "We haven't really tried it yet. You see we only moved in this morning. Not everything is to rights yet. We don't mind you girls seeing it before it's all done, but I want it in apple-pie order before we have the Hallowe'en party." "Come on," said Dotty, "let's gather round the Study fire, and talk over the party. Hallowe'en isn't so very far away." The girls drew up chairs for some and cushions from the window-seats for some, and grouped themselves comfortably before the fire. Dolly put on a log from time to time, for she was one of those rare creatures who are born with a sense of fire-building, as others are born with a sense of colour or rhythm. She always knew just where to poke the dying logs, and where to lay the fresh ones. Dotty had promised not to touch it, for she had a fatal propensity for putting the fire out, or at least causing it to die down. "Oh, it's ideal!" exclaimed Grace; "I do envy you girls this place. I wish we could have one, but Father wouldn't hear of it. He'd think it cost too much." "It didn't cost such an awful lot, my father says," said Dolly. "But, you know it isn't always cost that counts. Lots of things are unusual, and that makes people think they are impossible. Your father could afford one, Grace, if he wanted to. You see, it could be built much cheaper than this one. You needn't really have but one room and then—my goodness! What's that?" For a regular hullabaloo was heard outside. Knocking at the door, tapping at the windows, even pounding on the house itself! Dotty looked out. "It's the boys!" she said, and her voice was as of one who announces a dire calamity. "Oh, fiddlesticks!" exclaimed Dolly. "What shall we do? I didn't want them this afternoon." "Tell 'em they can't come in," said Maisie. "It isn't fair." "Yes," agreed Grace. "Just open the door, and tell them they must wait till next week. I'll tell them, if you want me to. My brother Clayton is there, and I'll make him take the others away." "I'll go to the door," said Dotty. "I can make them go away. If Doll goes, she'll be so good-natured she'll let them in. And we haven't enough—well, that is,—we don't want them to-day." The noise continued, and the boys were now peeping in at the windows, and making signs of impatience. Dotty and Grace opened the door, intending to persuade the would-be visitors to depart in peace, but the boys entered in a sort of flying wedge. It would have taken far more than two girls to keep them out. They were by no means rude or boisterous, but they were so determined to come in,—that they just came. "Whew!" shouted Lollie Henry, "if this isn't a peach of a place! How do you do, Dolly and Dotty! I suppose you're hostesses. Yes, we _will_ come in, thank you! De-lighted." And all the other boys,—and there were half a dozen of them,—joined the acclamation. "Looky here at the dining-room! Well, maybe we aren't swell! Wowly-wow-wow! See the dinky little kitchen-place! What do you cook, girls? Oh, no, thank you, we _can't_ stay to supper. Oh, no, we _really_ can't. _So_ sorry! Still, of course, if you _insist_—" The Two D's gave in. The boys were so honestly interested and admiring, and they wanted to see everything so much that the hostesses couldn't bear to turn them out, and indeed, they couldn't turn them out if they had tried. So they let them stay, ungrudgingly, and after viewing the whole domain, the entire company surrounded the Study fire once more. The boys mostly sat on the floor, but that made it all the merrier. "I'll tell you the honest truth," said Dolly, a little later. "We've got enough cakes and fruit for one piece all round, if that will satisfy you, all right." "Ample!" declared Tod Brown. "I _never_ eat more than one piece of fruit. A small quarter of an apple, or a section of an orange is a great sufficiency for my delicate appetite." The others rejoined with similar nonsense, and the scant refreshments were brought out and divided fairly, amid much laughter, and generous attempts at self denial. And so the opening day at Treasure House passed off in great glee and merriment, and every guest was well pleased with the entertainment. # CHAPTER VII: FUNNY UNCLE JIM THROUGH the ensuing week the girls used Treasure House for study hours; and too, they finished up much in the way of furnishing. They were not both there every day, and sometimes neither was there, but the House was a great comfort, and soon they felt greatly at home in it. "It's getting fitted to us, like a shoe," declared Dotty after a few days. "At first, I didn't like the feel of this chair. Now, I love it." "Isn't it funny how you get used to things," said Dolly, musingly. "But you can't always. I'm trying to get used to Bernice Forbes, and yet somehow, I can't like her, and I don't know why." "Of course you can't, Dolly. She isn't our sort." And Dotty shook her head as if she had settled the question for all time. "Oh, pshaw! Our sort! What is our sort, I'd like to know. She's just as good as we are, just as rich, just as fashionable—" "Oh, I don't mean those things. She's richer than any of our set, and fashionabler, too. But that doesn't make her our sort." "Well, what does? if you know so much." "She's too stuck-up, for one thing. But that isn't the main thing. She's a—oh, I don't know how to express it. But she hasn't any gumption, or any,—oh, any sense. But she _thinks_ she has, and it's _that_ that makes her so disagreeable." "I don't think you're altogether right, but I'm going to find out. I don't see why nobody likes her." "But you ought to see that if nobody does like her, it's because she isn't likable, for some reason or other." "I do see that, and I'm going to find out that some reason or other." "Pitch in, and find out, then. Good luck to you! Oh, here comes Grace." "Thought I'd find you here," said Grace Rawlins, as Dotty opened the door to her. "Hello, Dolly, busy studying?" "Just about to begin to think about getting at it," returned Dolly, laughing. "But it can wait; sit down, Gracie." "Can't stay a minute. I just flew in to ask you two to go nutting to-morrow, up at Uncle Jim's woods." "Gorgeous! I'd love to go," cried Dotty and Dolly echoed, "So would I!" "Well, it's just only us and Ethel and Maisie. I can't ask any more, 'cause Uncle is going to send for us in his car, and he'll send us home again. Won't it be fun?" "Fine! I can do all my lessons to-night, can't you, Doll?" "I will, whether I can or not. What time do we start, Grace?" "One o'clock, sharp. Be ready, won't you? And don't wear too good clothes, it's a real country place." "All right, we'll wear our oldest." Grace went away, declaring she wouldn't longer interfere with their study, and the Two D's set to work in earnest. "Then we can't have lunch over here to-morrow," Dotty said, a bit regretfully. "No matter, there are lots of other Saturdays. I'd rather go nutting while we can." "So would I. Now keep still, I've got to attack these Geometry problems." "Thank goodness, I've done mine. But History still stares me in the face." Silence settled down upon them, broken occasionally by a murmur of this sort: "Ptolemy I was followed by a series of monarchs—by a series of monarchs—what are you going to wear, Dotsie?" "That old brown gingham—the cube root of xy—364/2—" Dolly burst into laughter. "X square plus seven X plus fifty-three equals eleven thirds!" she quoted. Dotty laughed back and quoted their favourite "Hunting of the Snark." "Taking three as the number to reason about— A convenient number to state— We add Seven and Ten and then multiply out By One Thousand diminished by Eight. The result we proceed to divide, as you see, By Nine Hundred and Ninety and Two: Then subtract Seventeen, and the answer must be—" "Must be what, Dolly?" "Exactly and perfectly true," said Dolly, who was only half listening, but who knew her Lewis Carroll by heart. Her eyes were turned up to the ceiling and she was gabbling over and over—"by a series of monarchs also called Ptolemies down to the time of Queen Cleopatra, the last of the line. By a series of Ptolemies—a series of Ptolemies also called monarchs,—h'm—also called Cleopatra—no, also called—also called—oh, what _were_ the old things called?" "You're nutty!" said Dotty. "No, my child, that isn't slang, I mean you're thinking of the nutting party and you can't get the series of mummies straight in your head." "They weren't mummies—" "They were after they stopped being monarchs, weren't they? All Egyptians were,—I mean, all fashionable Egyptians. Do keep still, dear, sweet Dollyrinda, _do_ keep still. The cube root of xy,—_Oh!_—I do abhor, detest, despise, abominate these cubed XY's!" But having thus exploded her wrath, Dotty set to work in earnest and finally conquered the refractory factors. "Done!" she announced, at the end of a half hour of hard work. "I've cubed everything in sight, and some roots that were hidden deeply and darkly in the earth." "You ought to be a Cubist, that we read so much about in the papers." "No, thank you. I'll cube what I have to, but I'll never go out cubing, for pleasure. How are your Ptolemies?" "Awfully mixed up. I'm going to let them simmer over night, and get up early and attack them with the dew on them. Perhaps I can lash 'em to the mast then." The next day turned out to be an ideal piece of weather. Clear, cold, the wind tossing white drifts of cloud about in the upper blue, and descending to whisk the nuts off the trees for those who desired them. The wind was aided and abetted by Uncle Jim's men, and when the crowd of girls arrived, there was a widespread area of nut-besprinkled ground awaiting them. "Well, this is some sort of a nutting party," said Dolly, as, each with a basket, they started to the fray. "All I've been on lately, meant hunting around half an hour for three small nuts,—one wormy." "Oh, Dolly, what a sad experience," Grace returned. "I'm so glad I brought you up here to Brazil, where the nuts come from." "It's sure some little old Brazil, all right," agreed Dotty, and then they all stooped to their task. Baskets were quickly filled, and the girls sat down to rest under a tree. "This must be the old original spreading Chestnut Tree," said Maisie. "I always wondered if it did really spread such a lot. I see it does." "Here comes the spread!" said Grace, as a maid appeared bearing a tray filled with glasses and plates. The contents were sweet cider and ginger cakes, and to the hungry girls they looked very good indeed. "But we must be getting home," said Ethel. "I promised Mother we'd be back by five or six, at latest." "We can't go till Uncle Jim sends us," said Grace. "I told him we wanted to leave at four, but he only said ‘Oh, shucks!'" "Where is he?" asked Dolly. "And isn't there any Aunt Jim?" "No, he's a bachelor. Lives here alone, except for the servants. The truth is, he's a little shy before a lot of strange girls. Guess I'll go and hunt him up." She ran away to the house, and Ethel explained further: "You see, he's Mother's uncle. Quite an old man. And old-fashioned in his ways, except that he has a motor-car and a telephone. But personally, he's as backwoodsy as Methuselah; but a dear old thing, and awfully kind-hearted." Grace came back in triumph, leading Uncle Jim. Pushing and pulling him, rather, for the old man was clearly unwilling to come. "Now, now, Pussy, whatyer want to drag an old man like me out here fur? These city young misses don't wanter see me!" "Yes, we do, Uncle Jim," called out Ethel, and they all echoed, "Yes, we do, Uncle Jim!" "Well, well, what a perty lot o' young misses. And have you all got all the nuts you want?" "Yes, indeedy!" cried Dolly. "All we can carry, and more too. And we're ever and ever so much obliged." "Not at all, not at all! Ye're welcome to all and more. It's a sight to see young things runnin' around the old place. Why don't ye bring 'em up oftener, Gracie?" "Only waiting for an invitation, sir," and Dotty's sparkling black eyes laughed into the old face. "Shucks, now! Well, I hereby invite ye, one and all, to come up here jest whenever ye like, and raise hob." "Good!" cried Maisie. "I just love to raise hob! Let's come next week, girls, when those other nuts are ripe." "Do, now jest _do_!" said the old man, delightedly. "This old place don't get sight of chick nor child very often. Must ye be goin' now? Well, mind now, ye're to come agin next week. Make a day of it, and bring more of yer young friends. I'll see to it that Sary makes ye some good old-fashioned doughnuts, and apple turnovers." "Look here, Uncle Jim, I've an idea," and Ethel ran to him and laid her hand impressively on his arm. "Fer the land's sake, Ethel, ye don't say so!" and Uncle Jim shook with laughter at his own wit. "A little gell like you with an idea! Sho, sho, now. Come, out with it! It might fester!" "Now don't you tease me. But it's just this. S'pose we come up here on Hallowe'en and have a witch party." "My patience! what an idea for a little gell to have! Now, lemme see,—lemme see." "No, that's too much trouble for you, Uncle Jim," said Grace. "You oughtn't to have proposed it, Ethel." "No, now, wait a minnit, Gracie. Don't you be too hasty. 'Tain't no trouble at all, I wasn't thinkin' of that. I was thinkin' if I could make things nice and perty fer you young misses. That's the trouble. I'm plain, you see, plain, and—" "Now, that's just what we want, Uncle Jim, just the plain house, and orchard. We'll do all the fixing up, ourselves." "Now, now, wait a minnit, I tell you. Don't go so everlastin' fast. I can't keep up with you. Here's the trick. You have your mother come up in the arternoon, and she can help me put things a leetle mite to rights. Then me and Sary and Etty can do the rest." "Oh, Mother'll be glad to come. How about it, girls?" "Why, we were going to have a Hallowe'en party, ourselves," said Dotty, smiling as she saw Dolly's look of consternation. "I know it; but don't you think this would be more fun, in the country, you know. Don't you, Dolly? We won't do it, if you say not," and Grace looked embarrassed, "but I thought your party was more like a house-warming for your new playhouse, and so—" "All right, I say," and Dotty, turned to Dolly. "Whatcha think, Dollops? Speak out in meetin'! If you don't want to come up here, say so." "I do," said Dolly, her face clearing. She couldn't think as rapidly as Dotty, and it took her a minute or two to readjust her plans. "It will be heaps of fun. Are you sure you want us,—Uncle Jim?" The blue eyes looked up into his own, and Uncle Jim said heartily, "You bet I do! Every one here, and a half a dozen more perty young misses, and then boys enough to go round, can you get that many?" "Oh, yes, we'll ask all our crowd, and fill up with some of the others. What fun! I'm sure Mother will be pleased, she loves to come up here." "All right, Gracie, girl, you talk it over with her, and I'll be down in a few days, and we'll see about it." "Can we go in the house, Uncle, and see how it is for a party?" "Sure and sartain! Go right along, the hull pack o' ye. Browse around, and see the hull shack, and by then, I'll be ready to send ye home. Go right in the kitchen door. Sary, she's the cook, 'll be glad to see you, and Etty, that's her darter, 'll show ye round." The girls went to the kitchen door, not quite so sure of Sary's warm welcome as their host was. But they found he was right. "Well, for the land's sake! What a delegation! Come in, Miss Grace and Miss Ethel, and bring your friends. Excuse my untidiness. I wasn't no-ways expecting company." The apology was wholly unnecessary, for everything in Sary's kitchen was spick and span and shining. She was a buxom woman of middle age, and had a broad, smiling face, overflowing with good nature. Her daughter, Etty, was the one who brought them their cakes and cider, and she was shy, but exceedingly curious to see the city ladies,—as the girls seemed to her. She conducted them all over the fine old farmhouse, and listened in surprise as they exclaimed in wonder and delight over the big open fireplaces, and old mahogany furniture, that seemed to her the most uninteresting and commonplace affairs. "Perfectly gorgeous!" cried Dotty. "Oh, Grace, I'd ever so much rather have the Hallowe'en party here. Wouldn't you, old Dollypops?" "Yes, of course. And we can just as well have any other sort of a party at Treasure House." "Course we can. And we will. After this affair is over. I say, girls, let's have it a masquerade!" "Oh, let's!" said Maisie. "I've a dress all ready to wear. It's a witch dress, all—" "I think we ought all to dress as witches," interrupted Grace. "Or spooks or hobgoblins or—" "That's all right," put in Dotty, "but the boys won't do it. They hate dressing up." "Let 'em stay away, then." "No, a Hallowe'en party without boys is no fun. They make up the tricks and jokes, you know." "That's so," said Dolly, "but if you tell the boys they can't come unless they wear spooky rigs, they'll do it fast enough. Why, a sheet and pillowcase ghost-rig is good enough, and that's no trouble at all! Don't you know Dot, we wore them up at Crosstrees last summer, and the boys didn't mind a bit." "Yep, that's so. Oh, the boys will come. You couldn't keep them away. What a fireplace to roast chestnuts or pop corn!" They were in the dining-room now, and its enormous stone fireplace was indeed ideal for a Hallowe'en frolic. And the kitchen, too, offered enchanting possibilities. Then there was the orchard, if any one dared try fortunes beneath the stars. Altogether it was a splendid chance and the Two D's were glad to lay aside their own half formed plans for these. On the way home, they talked it over, and as they drew near the Roses' house the D's asked the other girls to come in and talk some more. "I can't," said Grace, "I promised Mother, Ethel and I would get home early. It's a little after five now." "Then you come in, Maisie," said Dolly. "We'll make fudge. You can stay till six, can't you?" "Yes, indeed, and I'm simply starving for fudge." # CHAPTER VIII: A STRANGE INTRUDER "I _do_ think this is the dearest place," said Maisie, as they went in the door of Treasure House. "I never heard of such a thing before. Whose plan was it?" "Our two fatherses, mostly," replied Dotty. "Wait a minute, girls, till I switch on the light." In a moment a small side light pierced the gloom, but before she could turn on the larger light, Dotty gave a scream. "Oh," she fairly shrieked, "what is that? who is it?" "Who is what?" cried Dolly following her in, and Maisie came quickly after. Then they saw what she meant. Somebody or something lay on the floor. Something like a person, but still and unmoving. "It's a woman!" screamed Dotty, as she peered down into a veiled white face. "Oh, who can it be? How did she get here?" Always excitable, Dotty was now fairly beside herself with fear and alarm, and not daring to touch the prostrate figure, she shuddered and fell back against the wall. "_I_ can't look! What is it?" and Dolly clapped her hands over her eyes, and refused to take them down. "See what it is, Maisie, won't you?" "No. I don't see why I—I sh-should, when you and D-D-Dotty won't," and Maisie cowered in another corner. Dolly peeped out from between her fingers. Maisie had fallen in a heap on a window-seat, and was shaking with nervous fear. Dotty was staring at the woman on the floor, but was now showing more curiosity than terror. Dolly glanced at the still form lying there. "Is she—is she d-dead?" she faltered. "Ridiculous!" cried Dotty, "of course not. She—she just stepped in here, and—and f-fainted!" "Oh," and Dolly became hysterical. "That's like a f-funny story Father tells, ab-bout the man who called at a house and said, ‘P-please let me have a f-f-fit in your hall'!" "If he stuttered as much as you do, I guess he had a chill instead of a fit," giggled Dotty, and then Maisie roused herself. "Let's lift her up," she said; "I'm not afraid. Come and help me." She took a few steps nearer the woman, and then catching another look at the face she cried, "Oh, I can't! She looks so queer!" "Queer, how?" and Dotty's ever-ready curiosity overcame her repugnance, and she drew near to look in the half-hidden face. "If I dared lift her veil—" she bent over, and drew back instantly. "Oh, girls, her face is cold, stone cold!" "Then she's dead!" wailed Dotty. "I told you so! Dead in our pretty house!" "Well, if the poor lady is dead, she can't harm us. Let's lift her up," and Maisie, with returning courage, put her hand under the mop of grey hair, which was partly hidden beneath a dark felt hat. But again, the strange, eerie sensation of touching an inert form overcame her and pulling her hand away, she ran back to the window-seat. "I can't! I thought I could, but I can't. Oh, what shall we do?" "I s'pose we'll have to go and get somebody," said Dolly dolefully. "Shall I go, and you two stay here, or who—" "Don't you go and leave me here alone with Maisie!" screamed Dotty. "I won't let you, Dolly. Maisie, you go and get somebody, and Dolly and I will stay here." Maisie started, but on opening the door, and peering out, she flew back, slamming the door hard. "What is it?" cried both girls. "What did you see?" "Oh, oh!" and Maisie shivered and shook. "Tell us, what's out there? What did you see out there?" "Oh, n-n-othing. But it's so dark! I'm afraid to go out. There may be more of them—" "More people wanting to have a fit in our hall?" said Dotty, who never could fail to see the ridiculous side of anything. "Don't, Dot," implored Dolly. "_Don't_ talk like that! Maybe she is d-dead, you know." "Maybe? Why, of _course_ she is! She doesn't breathe or move at all. Of course she's dead, Dolly. We've got to go and get somebody. Suppose we all go. It's awful to leave her here alone, but what can we do?" "Oh, we oughtn't all to leave her. Maybe she'll come to." "She can't if she's dead, can she?" "Well, wait a minute. You always fly off so quick, Dotty. Let me think. Let's all sit down here and think a minute." Dolly pulled the two girls down beside her on a window-seat. They looked at the silent, motionless form. The woman lay on her side, her hands under her. Her feet in old buttoned shoes stuck out beneath a shabby skirt of dark cloth, frayed at the edges. She wore a big, dark coat of rough cloth. Her hat was held on by a thick veil through which they could quite plainly see her face. She had a very white complexion, but very red cheeks, and staring wide-open blue eyes. Her grey hair was frowsy and half tumbling down, and round her neck was an old black feather boa. Altogether she looked poorly dressed but her face gave promise of being pretty. "I've got to see her better," declared Dotty, as Dolly's cogitation had promised no suggestions. "I've just simply _got_ to! Maisie, will you help lift her head, if I'll help?" "Yes, I will," said Maisie, decidedly; "I won't flinch this time." Dotty went over and knelt at the woman's side. Maisie knelt at her head. "Now," said Dotty, "I'll put my hands under her shoulders and you put yours beneath her head, and we'll sit her up. Maybe—well,—maybe she isn't—you know." Gently Dotty put her hand under the old cloth coat, carefully Maisie passed her hand again under the grey hair. "Now!" said Dotty, and as they lifted, the grey hair came off in Maisie's hand, and—the head of the woman rolled away from the body! All three girls shrieked, and then Dotty began to scream with laughter. "Oh!" she cried. "Oh, that naughty little thing! Oh, how could she! Girls, girls, it isn't a woman, it's a dummy thing that horrid little Genie fixed up to tease us! She ought to be punished for this! But we _were_ well taken in!" The other two began to realise at last what Dotty meant. Sure enough, the grey hair was a wig, or rather, what is known as a "Transformation." The head was a plaster cast, nearly life size, and the body of the supposed woman was a small bolster dressed in old clothes. The shoes were merely tucked under the edge of the skirt. Dotty lifted up the head and pulled off the veil. "It's my old cast of the head of the Milo Venus," she said. "See, that little scamp has painted the cheeks and lips red, and the eyes blue, and left the rest white. No wonder she looked pale!" "And with that veil on, it sure did look like a person," said Maisie. "Well she had the joke on us, all right! I was scared out of my wits!" "So was I," whispered Dolly, who was still shaking; "and I can't get over it. It was awful!" "Oh, pooh!" said Dotty, "I was scared too. But I fully expect to get over it! I think we all will! Don't worry, Doll, a pan of fudge will calm your nerves." "Oh, it's too late to make fudge. I want to go home." "Stay right where you are, sister. A few more bright lights, and a fudge-fest will make a new Dolly of you." As she talked, Dotty was switching on lights all over the house, getting out chocolate and the chafing-dish, and, making signs to Maisie to perk up and be gay. Maisie took the hint, and in a short time, there was excellent fudge ready for three merrily laughing girls. Dotty felt the responsibility of the thing, for it was her sister who was the culprit. She recognised the cast and also the clothing and the wig, and she knew it could have been no one else but the mischievous Genie. So she did all she could to remove the shadow of unpleasantness that hung round the performance, and she succeeded admirably. Naturally, the talk turned to the Hallowe'en party. "I suppose Grace and Ethel will make out the list of invitations," said Dotty. "It won't take much making out," was Maisie's idea. "They'll just ask our crowd and that will be about enough. Us five who were there to-day, and Celia, and six boys, will be twelve. That's plenty." "I wish she'd ask Bernice Forbes," said Dolly, doubtfully, "but I s'pose she won't." "I s'pose she won't, too," said Dot. "Pooh, who wants Bernice Forbes?" "I don't, for one," asserted Maisie. "I can't bear the girl." "I don't see why," argued Dolly. "She would be all right if people would be nice to her." "All right? She _can't_ be all right," and Dotty shook her head. "She don't know _how_ to be all right." "That's so," and Maisie laughed. "Well, I must go home, girls. I've had a lovely fudge party, and I think Genie's joke was a great success. Tell her so, for me, Dotty." "All right, I will," and with laughing good-byes, Maisie went home and the Two D's stayed to put things straight. It was their rule never to leave Treasure House untidy over night. Dotty whistled and Dolly sang, as they flew around and soon had things ship-shape. "Now, Dot," said Dolly, as they poked out the dying embers of the fire, "I want to tell you something. I'm going to ask Grace to ask Bernice to that party." "No, you're not, Dollyrinda. You think so now, but you go home and think it over, and you'll see that you'll spoil the whole party if you do." "You mean spoil it for _you_! It won't for anybody else. Not everybody is as mean as you are to that girl!" "Nobody likes her, you've often said so yourself." "All the more reason, then, to have her there and let them learn to like her." "Oh, good gracious! you make me tired! Why are you so everlastingly gone on her? Just because she's rich?" "Dotty Rose, you take that back! That's a mean thing to say, and you _know_ it isn't true. _Don't_ you?" "Well, I never knew you to care for anybody for that reason before; but I can't think of any other." "Well, that _isn't_ the reason, and you know it perfectly well. Now, I'll tell you what the reason is, if you can understand it, and I don't know as you can. It's because I'm sorry for her. Everybody snubs her, and she'd just love to be liked and sought after." "Oh, she _would_, would she? Then why doesn't she make herself liked and sought after?" "How can she, if we don't give her a chance?" "Let her make her own chance." "But, she can't, Dotty. If no one invites her anywhere, how can she make herself agreeable and pleasant to them?" "Let her give a party herself, and invite us." "I've no doubt she'd be glad to, if she thought we'd go to it. But if we snub her right and left, she won't dare ask us." "Well, let her be more pleasant at school, then. She's stuck-up and proudy, and she thinks she's the whole world. Oh, let up, Dolly! what do you want to bother with her for? There are enough in our crowd already. And we just plain don't want her." "Dot, you're horrid. Can't you feel sorry for her? Put yourself in her place. How would you feel if everybody turned the cold shoulder to you?" "I'd be so gay and merry they'd _have_ to like me." "Oh, that's all very well, because everybody _does_ like you. But if they snubbed you, what then?" "Why, Dollops, if I deserved it, I'd have to grin and bear it, I 'spect. But facts is facts. You can't make Bernie Forbes over, and unless you can, you can't make people like her, and that's all there is about it. And another thing, Doll. I know and you know your high and noble aim in this matter, but the others don't, and wouldn't believe it if they did. You go on like this, and people will soon be saying that you're toadying to Bernice Forbes just because she's the richest girl in town. And you'll see what they'll think of that!" "Pooh, I don't care if they do. Bernice hasn't any mother, and her father is a stern, grumpy old thing, and I _am_ sorry for her, and I _am_ going to do anything I can to help her have a good time, and I _am_ going to coax Grace Rawlins to ask her to the Hallowe'en party! So there, now, Miss Dorothy Rose, you can put that in your pipe and smoke it!" When Dolly was in earnest, she was very much so, and Dotty well knew there was no use combating her in this mood. So she changed her tactics, and said, laughingly, "Well, don't let _us_ quarrel about it anyway. And it's time to go home now. Come on." "No, I won't come on, till you say you'll help me in my plan. If you and I both ask Grace to ask Bernie, she'll do it. But if I ask her, and then you go to her, and ask her _not_ to, she _won't_ do it. And I know that's _just_ what you'll do!" As a matter of fact, that was exactly what Dotty _had_ intended to do. In fact, she had already planned in her quick-working mind, to telephone the moment she got home, to Grace, and ask her _not_ to consent to Dolly's request. It wasn't that Dotty had such rooted objections to Bernice, but she _was_ unattractive and stiff, and, moreover, exceedingly critical. And too, Dotty didn't care so especially about the party, but she didn't want Bernice included in the six girls who made up "their crowd," and if Dolly took her up so desperately, first thing they knew, she would be in the "crowd" and she would be all the time coming to Treasure House, and—here was the rub,—Dotty feared, way down deep in her inmost heart, that Bernice might cut her out with Dolly, and that would be the crowning tragedy! It was scarcely possible, of course, but Dolly took strange notions sometimes, and Dotty was taking no chances on such a catastrophe. "All right, I'll promise not to say anything to Grace at all, about it. But I won't promise to coax her to ask Bernice, for I don't want her to. Aw, Dollyrinda, let up on that crazy scheme. It's only a whim. And don't you see, if you get her asked there, and she _doesn't_ have a good time, she'll wish she hadn't come after all. And so you'll be giving her a disappointment instead of a pleasure." "But she would have a good time. I'd see that she did." "_Yes_, you would! And how? Why, you'd ask the boys to be nice to her, and dance with her and everything. And—would they do it? They would _not_! _Did_ they do it, when you asked them at the High School Dance? They did _not_!" "How do you know?" "Lollie told me. He said it was ducky of you to try to be so nice to her, but it wouldn't go down. The boys just simply plain won't,—and you know it." "Isn't it mean of them, Dot? Don't you think it is?" "Oh, I don't know. I keep telling you, Dolly, if Bernice was nice to people, you wouldn't have to try to boost her. And if she isn't, boosting won't do any good. There's the whole thing in a nutshell. Now we _must_ go home, or they'll be sending over after us." "Yes, I s'pose we must. Well, Dot, I'll see about this thing. I've got to think it over." "All right, old slowpoke thinker! And say, Dollops, you aren't mad at what Genie did, are you?" "Oh, goodness no. You know I don't like practical jokes much; you know how I hated that one they played on Miss Partland, but I'm not mad at Genie, of course not." "Good for you. But I'll see that she isn't allowed to do such a thing again." # CHAPTER IX: FAIRIES AND SUCH DOLLY did think over the question of Bernice Forbes and the party. And the result of her cogitation led her straight to Grace's house. "I've come," she said, "to ask a favour, Grace. I want to know if you won't ask Bernice Forbes to your Hallowe'en party." "Why, Dolly, I would,—only,—well, you see the number is all made up." "What number?" "The number I planned to invite. Twelve, it is." "But couldn't you add two more? Bernice, and another boy to make it even?" "I suppose I could, but,—you know, Dolly, nobody likes Bernice. She's—" "Oh, don't tell me what she is! I know it! But, Grace, I think it's mean, the way we girls treat her. Now, never mind _what_ she is, won't you ask her, just for my sake?" Dolly's smile was very winning and her blue eyes very pleading and Grace was about to consent, when Ethel came in. They told her the subject under discussion. "Not much!" declared Ethel. "If that thing goes, _I_ don't!" "All right," Dolly blazed back, "if she _doesn't_ go, _I_ don't!" Probably neither girl meant what she said, but having said it, they both stuck to it. So spirited the argument became, that Mrs. Rawlins overheard the angry voices and came into the room. "What _is_ the matter, girlies? Why, Dolly Fayre, what are you crying about?" "I'm not crying, Mrs. Rawlins," and Dolly brushed a tear or two off her cheeks, "b-but I'm afraid,—maybe I m-might. I guess I'll go home now." "Not till you tell me the trouble, dear," and Mrs. Rawlins sat down beside the disturbed guest. "What is it, Grace?" "It's my fault, Mrs. Rawlins," Dolly spoke up. "I was trying to make the girls do something they don't want to. And I had no business to do it." Dolly was always just, even against herself. "But what is it? Tell me, Ethel." "Why, Mother, Dolly wants to ask Bernice Forbes to our party, and we don't want to, 'cause she'd spoil the whole thing." "Why?" and Mrs. Rawlins smiled. "Is Bernice such a spoilsport as all that?" "Yes, she is." "Do you think so, Dolly?" "Well, you see, Mrs. Rawlins, she _isn't_ awfully nice, but I'm sorry for her; and I thought if we invited her to things, and made her like us, she'd be nicer, and we'd like her." "Is this the only reason, Dolly?" and Mrs. Rawlins looked quizzically at her. Immediately it came into Dolly's mind how Dotty had said everybody would attribute Dolly's interest in Bernice to the fact that she was the daughter of the richest man in town, and really an heiress in her own right. Dolly blushed uncomfortably, but she looked straight at her questioner, and replied, "Yes, Mrs. Rawlins, it's only because I'm sorry for Bernice, and," she hesitated, and then added, honestly, "and a _little_, because everybody is so down on her, and I don't think it's fair!" "I don't either!" declared the lady, heartily; "you're just right, Dolly. And Bernice shall be invited." "But Ethel says she won't go, then," began Grace, as Ethel herself spoke up, "Oh, of course I will, if mother says we must ask Bernice. I don't care such a terrible lot, anyway, and I'm sorry I was snappy to you, Dolly." "I'm sorry I was snappy, too," and Dolly's pretty face showed real contrition. "Are you sure you won't mind too much, girls?" "Of course they won't," Mrs. Rawlins answered for them. She was a pretty, smiling little lady, and as a rule everybody who was with her liked to do as she said. "Now that is settled, Bernice shall be asked. Mustn't we then ask one more boy?" "Yes, Mother, and let's ask Clayton to get some one. He knows a lot of boys, and he'll know just which one to ask." "Good idea, Gracie. Is your dress ready, Dolly? What are you going to wear?" "Oh, I can't tell you that before the girls! You know it's a masquerade." "Oh, yes, so it is. Well, set your mind at rest, dear. I'll ask Bernice myself, and I'll tell her about the masquerade. Don't let any one know she's coming, and then they'll never suspect who she is, until you take off your masks." "Oh, what a lovely idea, Mrs. Rawlins," and Dolly's eyes shone with pleasure. "Don't tell, will you, girls?" "No," said Grace, "but everybody will know, when they see seven girls, who the other is." "They won't know for sure, and anyway, the boys won't know. You needn't even tell Clayton." So the matter was settled, and Dolly went off home happy at having gained her point. At last the night of the party arrived. The girls had planned not to let each other know what they would wear, and see if they could guess identities. Dolly and Dotty had no idea of each other's costume, and even Grace and Ethel Rawlins were in equal ignorance of theirs. The girls were to meet at the Rawlins house and the boys at the Browns' and go out to Uncle Jim's separately, in motor cars provided by the several families. Mrs. Rawlins would act as hostess, and Mr. Rawlins was a general manager, who seemed to look after everything at once. At the hour of meeting, Dolly found herself to be the first one to arrive. She had come from home by a roundabout way, and her father, who accompanied her to the corner, stepped aside and let her go up the steps alone, so that no one might suspect it was she. Dolly was attired as a Ghost. Her dress was lovely, being made of many layers of white tarlatan, one over the other, with long angel sleeves, and fluttering draperies, that wafted about as she walked. A scarf of the same material enveloped her head and neck, and trailed its long ends behind her. She wore white silk gloves, but her hands were hidden in the swirl of the misty material. She was a veritable ghost, and deep in the shadows of her swathing headgear, her face was concealed by a little white satin mask. Of course her hair was completely hidden, and she moved with slow, sinuous movements, waving her draped arms in true spectre fashion. "Come in, Ghost," said Mrs. Rawlins, as Dolly stepped into the reception room. "Well, you are a spirit, indeed! I never saw a real live ghost before!" Dolly swept long, ghostly curtseys, but said no word. Grace Rawlins came next. She had gone out and around several blocks so that she might enter her own house as a visitor. Grace was a Fairy. Her dress was full and frilly, of pale pink crêpe paper, and she had pink and gilt wings, and a long wand. Her hair, which might have been recognisable, was hidden in a dainty pink silk cap, with a long gilt feather, and a full ruche of frilled paper hid her neck and chin. A pink mask covered her face, and she wore long pink silk gloves. Dolly stared hard at her, but could not be sure who it was. She thought the Fairy looked a little like Maisie May, but never suspected Grace. Maisie came next, though nobody knew it. She was a Brownie. She had borrowed a suit from a cousin out of town. The costume had been made for a city party and was an exact Brownie rig. Of course it completely disguised Maisie, and the goggle-eyed mask was weird and quite appropriate to the occasion. Then Bernice came. She represented an Elf. Her costume was made entirely of overlapping green leaves, and a head-dress of the same. Green stockings and slippers, green gloves and a green mask made her entirely unrecognisable. Dolly thought it was Dotty, as the two were much the same height. Bernice moved about shyly, and sank into the first chair she came to, and then Dolly felt sure it was Dotty, trying to disguise her own brisk manner. When Dotty did come, Dolly had no idea who it was. Her costume was that of a witch. Long red cloak and high peaked cap, from which hung straggling grey locks. A red and black gown, red stockings and black slippers, and a mask like that of a little old lady with a hooked nose and apple-cheeks. She carried a broom, gilded and tied with red ribbons. It was a most picturesque garb, and Dolly decided it must be Bernice. But no one spoke to another. Occasionally one would nod knowingly, as if to say she recognised some one, or point a finger at her. But the other always shook her head vigorously, as if the guess were wrong. It was imperative that each should represent some idea connected with the occasion, so Celia Ferris came as Autumn. She wore yellow and brown with touches of red, and she carried a basket of fruit. Her head-dress was made of Autumn leaves, and she wore long necklaces of cranberries strung on a thread. Last to arrive was Ethel Rawlins. She had delayed late, thinking that then no one would suspect her identity. She was The Nut Brown Maid. All her robe was of brown, and it had fringes of nuts at the ends of bits of ribbon. Her head-dress was trimmed with chestnut burs, and she had necklace and armlets of strung nuts. Now the girls were all present, and though they guessed, none knew positively who any other was. Those who knew Bernice's invitation had not told, and those who did not know it, wondered greatly who the seventh girl could be, though some surmised correctly. Mrs. Rawlins laughingly collected her weird-looking charges and packed them into two big motor cars, and they set off for Uncle Jim's,—for, at his request, all the girls called him by that familiar title,—and as the cars were swift ones, the party soon reached the country house. Not a word was spoken on the way, for the girls found they were well disguised, and they determined to keep up the mystery. But there was much giggling and many expressive exclamations in deep guttural tones. Reaching their destination, a wonderful scene awaited them. Uncle Jim had begged Mrs. Rawlins to do anything she could to make the house attractive and appropriate for the occasion. So, with the help of the willing servants, she had transformed the great hall and the big, old parlour into a veritable Hallowe'en Revel. Branches of bright Autumn leaves decked the walls. Red and yellow cheesecloth made gay draperies, and streamers of red and yellow crêpe paper fluttered here and there. Hollowed-out pumpkins held masses of little late chrysanthemums, and sheaves of grain stood in corners. There were jack-o'-lanterns, too, made of yellow or of green pumpkins, and also of crook-neck squashes, whose candles within lit up their strange grotesque faces. The boys had already arrived, and round the room stood seven silent figures. They were dressed as Robin Hood, Peter Pan, or merely as spooks and goblins. Apparently the boys had been quite willing to "dress up," and their costumes were as picturesque as the girls'. Uncle Jim greeted the incoming crowd. "Wal, wal, what a visitation! My, but ye're a lot of perty spooks! Look at this white ghost now!" as Dolly swept him a long, low bow. "Ain't she the beauty? I ain't afeard of ghostes like that, now, you bet I ain't! And see the Fairy! My stars! Ye're all so fine, I dunno which way to look first!" Then the boys advanced and greeted the girls with bows, peering closely for some identifying sign, and getting laughed at for their pains. "Now, here's yer welcome," said Uncle Jim. "This is a writ welcome, fer the reason that I ain't much on expressin' my thoughts. But I'm right down glad to see ye all!" Then each received a pretty printed card, decorated with designs of black cats and owls and witches on broomsticks. It read: Spooks and Spirits we invite To our party Witches' night. And the black cat yowls, And howls and growls! And the gray owl hoots, And To-whits, To-whoots! And the moon is yellow and big and round As the pumpkins lying on the ground. So join our ranks, and come along To Uncle Jim's where the witches throng! This was read with nods of delight and the cards laid away to take home as souvenirs. Robin Hood stood near Dolly as she finished reading hers, and he politely offered her a pencil to write her name on it for safe-keeping. Then he eagerly leaned over to see what name she wrote. "O-o-o-o-h!" groaned Dolly in sepulchral tones, and then she wrote _Ghost_ on her card. But she printed it in straggling letters, for she was too canny to show her own penmanship. Many were the traps laid to learn who was who, but the secrets were, for the most part, well kept. Lollie Henry was discovered by his familiar laugh and his inability to suppress it. Maisie May was known, when a lock of her auburn hair escaped from the queer Brownie head-covering. Then, of course, these two being known, they tried to make the others speak. "Tell me who you are," Lollie wheedled of the Elf, Bernice. The only answer was a vigorous shake of the green-leaved head. "Ah, you needn't tell, I know!" he exclaimed triumphantly. "You're Dotty Rose! I know by the toss of your head. Aren't you, now?" The Elf nodded Yes with such insistence, that Lollie felt sure his guess was wrong. Dotty as a witch, was in her element. She darted about, tweaking people's ears, or tapping their arms with her broomstick. She had a funny little cackling laugh, that was so unlike her own voice, it was not recognised, though Dolly soon suspected her. She hovered about Uncle Jim, teasing him until the old man shook with laughter. "My! what a witch it is!" he exclaimed. "Right from old Salem Town, I'll be bound!" They played all the regulation Hallowe'en games. "Thread the Needle," "Blow the Candle," and all the well-known ones. Then Mrs. Rawlins brought in a plate, which she set on the table. "This," said she, "is a test to see who of you will be married this year. Now, who will try first?" The girls hung back, and the boys urged them forward. At last, the Fairy flitted up to make the first test. On the plate was a mound of flour, tightly pressed into shape. Mrs. Rawlins explained the test. "You see," she said, "the rule is, to fill a bowl with flour, and drop a ring into it. Then press the flour down so tightly, that it will keep its shape when turned out on a plate. Each of you must cut out a slice, and any one who finds the ring will be married this year." "Sure?" asked Lollie Henry, laughing. "Yes, sure," asserted Mrs. Rawlins, gravely. "Come, Fairy, after I read the charm, cut your slice. Cut it like a pie, and wherever you choose." Then Mrs. Rawlins read the charm: "Little ring within the flour, Waiting for this witching hour, Tell me where it is you hide— On _this_ side or on _this_ side. Now, with care the knife I bring— Do I get you, Little ring? Now I cut! Just at this spot! _Do_ I get you, Ring—or _not_?" The Fairy cut the slice, and all crowded round to learn the result. "You do _not_!" exclaimed Lollie, as there was no ring seen in the Fairy's slice. One after another, they each cut a slice, and even to the very last one, no one secured the ring. "Not strange," said Mrs. Rawlins, calmly, as she took away the plate, "there wasn't any ring in it! Of course none of you children will be married this year or for many years yet." Then a great laugh went up at the way they had been hoaxed, and Lollie said, comically, "Just my luck! I thought I might get a rich wife, who would promise to wait for me till I'm of age!" # CHAPTER X: FORTUNES FOR ALL IT would seem that it would be easy to discover who the spooks were, but the secrets were well kept. And though several suspected that Bernice Forbes was present, not one connected her with the green-robed Elf. And somehow, the Elf was exceedingly popular. She had merry little ways, and was among the foremost ones in any game or trick. She was often chosen as a partner in the Hallowe'en jokes, and when at last it was supper time, when they would all unmask, the Elf was watched with as much if not more interest than the others. The boys chose partners for the march out to the dining-room. "I'll take you," said Lollie Henry, linking his arm in that of the Elf. "I think you're Dot Rose, and yet, I think that red witch is Dotty, too. But I mostly think you are, so come along." The Elf shook her head, hard. "Does that mean you won't go with me?" Another negative shake. "Oh, it means you're not Dotty Rose." An affirmative nod to this. "Well, all right, I'll soon find out who you are. May I, fair Elf, escort you to the Spook Feast?" Lollie bowed low, and then Bernice accepted his escort and they joined the line of march. Dolly was with Reggie Stuart, though neither of them knew it, and Dotty was with Tod Brown, in equally blissful ignorance. They marched to the dining-room, and there awaited them a true Hallowe'en table. Decked with yellow paper and red ribbons, loaded with dainties of all sorts, and crowded with little gnomes, witches, black cats, owls and goblins for souvenirs, it was a welcome sight. They all took their seats, and at a given signal were bidden to remove their masks. Mr. Rawlins gave the signal. "Ready, everybody," he said. "When I count three, off with your face coverings. You've been hidden long enough, and I for one will be glad to see your happy smiles. One, two, three!" And, already loosened, off came every mask, and the flushed, smiling faces looked eagerly at each other. Dolly was stunned when her eyes lighted on Bernice, for she had concluded the Elf was really Dotty, and she thought the red witch was Grace. But more surprised even than Dolly was Lollie Henry. He caught sight of Bernice's smiling face, and he fairly jumped, as he involuntarily exclaimed, "By Gum!" Then suddenly his good manners came to his rescue, and though disappointed in his partner, he managed to look pleasant, and went on. "This is an unexpected pleasure! I didn't know you were to be here." "And you wish I wasn't!" Bernice flashed back, for she didn't misunderstand him. "Not a bit of it! Haven't I been chasing the Elf around all the evening?" "Because you didn't know it was me." Bernice's voice quivered a little. She had been so happy when people were nice to her, and now she caught sight of many surprised and not altogether pleased glances thrown her way. "But I didn't know anybody, except red-headed Maisie, when one of her rosy locks came out of her Brownie cap. So how could you expect I'd know you?" "I didn't expect it, and I'm glad you didn't know me, 'cause then you could be nice to me." "I can be a whole lot nicer now that I do know you, just you wait and see!" This speech, and the pleasant smile that accompanied it, were greatly to Lollie's credit, for he didn't like Bernice, but having "got into it," as he expressed it to himself, he was bound to put it through, as he further informed himself, "with a hurrah!" And so, Lollie laughed and chatted with Bernice as well as with the others near him, and the Elf felt a little better. But others were not so kind-hearted as Lollie, and, too, they hadn't his responsibility as a supper partner. So, on the whole, few spoke to Bernice, while all laughed and joked with the others. Dotty was not sitting near Dolly, but once, when she caught her eye she frowned a little. However, in the gay chatter that was general, no one had much chance to think of personal matters. Uncle Jim, himself, sat at the head of the table, and Mr. and Mrs. Rawlins at the other end of the wide board. "This is downright fine!" Uncle Jim said. "I'd like to have a party like this about once or twice a week. I declare I would!" "You'd get tired of us, sir," suggested Tod Brown. "We're not always on such good behaviour." "Ain't, hey? Well, I calk'late you're always perty good. Good enough, anyway. Don't want childrun _too_ good." "Small danger of that, Uncle Jim," cried Dolly, laughing. "We're none of us sprouting wings yet!" "Except Gracie, there!" and Uncle Jim laughed at his Fairy niece. "Sure enough, I forgot Grace's wings. But she'll moult 'em off to-morrow, and be no more angelic than the rest of us." "You're all good enough for me. I think you're as fine a lot of little misses and masters as ever I see. I'd like a picture of ye." "And you're going to have one, Uncle," said Mr. Rawlins, rising from the table. Soon, with the help of Uncle Jim's man he had put in position a camera, and bidding them pose, he took two or three flash-light pictures, which caused great exclamations and startled shrieks. "Those things scare me to death, don't they you?" said Bernice to Reggie Stuart, who sat at her other side. "No," he returned, rather uninterestedly. "I'm sort of used to 'em. I've been taken a lot of times that way." "Have you?" said Bernice. "How exciting! Where?" Now as a matter of fact, Reggie's experiences were not so numerous as he implied, and most of the times he had been "taken" were failures. So, he only shrugged his shoulders and said, "Oh, I can't remember. It made so little impression on me." Bernice felt snubbed, and showed it by looking cross. Reggie saw this, and saying to himself, "old sourface!" he turned back to Dolly, who sat on his other side. "Good for you, Reg," she said in a low tone. "What for?" "For being nice to Bernie Forbes. I saw you talking to her. She isn't so bad, now, is she?" "Dolly, she's the limit! and if you say B. F. to me again to-night I'll—I'll—" "You'll what?" and Dolly laughed at the irate youth. "I'll take you out to Berwick Lake and drown you all up!" "Goodness sake! How ferocious! Well, be sure to ask her for a couple of dances." Roguish Dolly knew Reg wouldn't do this, but it did no harm, she thought, to suggest it. Supper over, they returned to the big hall, and sat around the roaring log fire, while the next entertainment took place. Lollie escorted Bernice dutifully to a chair, and then, feeling his duty done, he left her, and went over to speak to Dotty. "You wished that on me," he said, accusingly. "I thought she was you!" "Why, Lollie Henry! I refuse to be mistaken for Bernice Forbes! How dare you?" Dotty's dark eyes flashed and she looked a pretty picture in her mock rage. "Needn't get huffy," returned Lollie, serenely. "B. F. is some looker, all right. To-night, anyway." Bernice was a pretty girl, and her green costume was exceedingly becoming, but the last few minutes had not been pleasant ones, for since Lollie's defection, no one had spoken to her, and she looked resentful. "Oh, I don't know," Dotty returned. "She might be pretty if she didn't look cross enough to bite a nail in two." "Guess she's made that way, and can't help it," said Lollie, and then they were called to attention. It was to be Fortune Telling, Mr. Rawlins informed them. "And," he said, "if you will all seat yourselves round the fire, I will tell each and every one of you just what will happen in the years to come. Aren't you anxious to know?" "Indeed we are!" cried several, as they took their places. Mr. Rawlins sat down at a table where were a great many papers. "These are Fortunes," he said, indicating some neatly folded sheets. "But it would never do to give them out hit or miss. We must see to it that they get where they belong. And this is the only way it can be done. We will invoke the assistance of the Fire Spirit. You know, Hallowe'en is the birthday of the Fire Spirit or Sun Spirit, or some such thing. My Mythology is a little rusty, but you can ask your teachers in school to-morrow. However, I've invoked for your aid to-night the Fire Spirit, and he will help us get the Fortunes right. Now, will some kind gentleman volunteer to help the Fire Spirit help me?" Nobody offered, as the boys felt a little shy about it, so Mr. Rawlins called on his son, Clayton. "You'll do, Son," he said. "You're not as handsome as some of those other chaps, and not as wise as some, but on the whole you're a good sort, so come on, and help your old dad." Clayton went up and stood by his father's side. "Now, you see," went on Mr. Rawlins, "all these are Fortunes, and all these are small slips of blank paper. I take a Fortune in my hand. I ask of thee, O Fire Spirit, to tell me for whom it is meant! Clayton, please hold a slip of blank paper to the blazing fire. The Fire Spirit will write upon it." Clayton picked up the top slip from the pile, and did as he was told. As he held it, writing began to appear. "Ah," said Mr. Rawlins, as everybody watched a name being written on the paper, by no means that they could see. "Has the Fire Spirit written, Son?" "Y-Yes, sir," stammered Clayton, a little frightened at what he saw. "Can you read it?" "Yes, sir; it says Dotty Rose." "Ah, this fortune is for Dotty, is it? I will read it: "You'll have a career More brilliant each year; But you'll climb a steep hill Ere you get what you will. Take it, Dotty, and keep it always. It may serve as a guidance to your feet in future years!" Dotty came and took the paper, a little bewildered. "May I have the name the Spirit wrote?" she asked. "Yes, oh, yes, indeed. Treasure it carefully. The Fire Spirit does not always respond to mortal's requests." Dotty returned to her seat, and with the rest sat breathlessly watching while Mr. Rawlins took up another fortune paper, and motioned for Clayton to hold out another blank paper for the Fire Spirit to write on. "You're sure it's blank, are you, Clay?" "Yes, Father," and the boy looked carefully on both sides. It was pure white. He held it out to the fire and soon it was written on, in a clear bold hand, just like Dotty's. "It says Grace Rawlins, Father." "Ah, my Gracie's fortune. I hope it will prove a good one." Mr. Rawlins then unfolded and read the fortune he was holding. "As you pass through future years Here are smiles and there are tears. But the passing days will show Far more happiness than woe. Good for you, Grace, that's a nice fortune." Grace stepped up and took her fortune and her name paper, and then the next one was tried. This time the Fire Spirit wrote Lorillard Henry, and the verse ran: For a few years, my boy, you may want for the pelf, But later in life you will earn it yourself. And as the years fly, you'll get richer and richer, For you're destined to be a professional pitcher. They all laughed at this, for Lollie's love of baseball was well known. "Another blank, Clayton, and hold it closer to the Fire Spirit. He is old and he can't see very well." "But I don't want to burn my fingers, Dad." "True that would be a pity. And you're already red-faced from the blaze. Well, try the tongs. It may be more comfortable." So Clayton took a slip of blank paper, and fastened it securely in the tongs' grip and held it out to the Fire Spirit in the flames. He began to write at once, and in a moment the name Bernice Forbes stood out clearly. Mr. Rawlins read the paper he was holding: "Fate holds joy in store for you, Loving friendships warm and true. As through life your way you wend, Happiness will crown the end. A very pretty fortune, Bernice, dear,—may it come true." Mr. Rawlins spoke so kindly, that Bernice's pale face glowed with pleasure as she took her two papers. "Let me hold _my_ name, mayn't I?" asked Maisie May. "I don't know when your name will come," returned Mr. Rawlins. "It's as the Fire Spirit decrees." "Well, let me hold the next name, anyway. I want to see how that Spirit holds his pen!" "Surely," said Mr. Rawlins. "Always glad to oblige. Let her take your place, Son." Clayton gave the tongs to Maisie. With careful scrutiny, she looked over the blank bit of paper before she clutched it tightly in the tongs. "Don't let it drop into the fire," cautioned Mr. Rawlins, "or somebody will be without a fortune." "No, sir," said Maisie, watching the paper carefully. And sure enough, as she held it, the name was slowly written thereon. "It's Todhunter Brown," she announced. "All right," said Mr. Rawlins, "here goes: "You will fly Fine and high, In an airship through the sky! Looking down With a frown On your friends in Berwick Town." "Hullo, Tod," said Lollie, "so you'll get your airship, then! Won't that be fine! Give me a ride?" "Yes, indeedy. I'm glad old Fire Spirit knows how much I want an airship, and maybe he'll give me one." "Well, fortune will, and it's all the same." "Let me hold a paper once," asked Dolly. "I want to see how it is done, really." "Now, Dolly Fayre, don't you seem to doubt the Fire Spirit, or he may run away home and not tell any more fortunes." "Oh, I won't hurt him. I just want to try it once. Come on, Dot, let's try it together." "No, I don't want to," and as Dolly looked at her in surprise, she added, "the fire burns my face so." "Pooh, never knew you to be afraid of your complexion before." "Well, I don't want to, anyhow. Let Bernice help you, if you need help." Oho, so that was it! Dolly thought to herself. Dotty was mad at Bernice's presence at the party, and took this means of showing it! # CHAPTER XI: THE FIRE SPIRIT DOLLY glanced round to see if any one else had noticed Dotty's speech. Apparently, no one had. So, deeming it best to ignore it, Dolly said, "Come on, Bernice," and laughingly drew the half-unwilling Elf along with her. "Here you are!" said Mr. Rawlins, gaily. "One nice clean blank paper for each of you. Who'll go first? You, Dolly?" "No; Bernice, you try it." So taking the paper carefully in the tongs, Bernice held it to the blaze of the logs. "Spirit of the Fire," said Mr. Rawlins, in a dramatic voice, "tell us, pray, whose is this Fortune I have here, folded in my hand." And then appeared on the paper, the name of Maisie May. "Ah, our Maisie," and Mr. Rawlins read: "Ere you are so very old, You will marry wealth untold. Now your Knight is far away, But he'll come to you some day. Congratulations, Maisie, dear. May you be very happy, in your future life, rolling in gold and living in palaces." "I can't feel positively sure it will come true," laughed Maisie; "is it guaranteed?" "Wait till ‘Some day' and see," returned Mr. Rawlins. "Now, Dolly." Dolly was most anxious to know how the writing appeared on the papers. She didn't for a moment believe in the Fire Spirit, but she was curious to know the trick. She scrutinised her paper, but saw only blank whiteness. Then she carefully put it in the tongs, and held it to the fire. Sure enough, there came the writing at once, and it said, Clayton Rawlins. "This is interesting," exclaimed Clayton's father. "I'm glad to know the future of my children. Listen, Clay: "In years to come, in some far distant land, You'll run a fine and prosperous peanut stand! Well, my boy, as you are assured of earning an honest living, I've no fault to find, have you?" "No," returned Clayton; "I love peanuts!" Dolly gave it up. She couldn't see how the trick was accomplished. Mr. Rawlins let her try again, and this time she read the name of Dolly Fayre, herself. "Read me my fortune," she cried. "What is my fate?" "You will visit distant scenes, You will meet with Kings and Queens. But the one who'll be your mate Lives already in this State." Mr. Rawlins handed her the fortune paper, saying, "You are to be envied indeed! Meeting with royalty! Oh, my!" "Oh, my! I should say so! Well, I'll like it all right. I love adventure, and this sounds fine. Only I wish I knew when the king and queen visits would begin." "That's the worst of fortunes," observed Mrs. Rawlins; "they leave so much to the imagination." Then others wanted to try holding the papers. But none could guess how a blank paper could be written on by the fire, whether a spirit did it or not. "Great, isn't it?" cried Tad Brown, as he watched the writing appear. "Joe Collins! Hullo, Joe, what you s'pose your fortune will be? Something desperate, 'll bet. Joe's a terror, you know!" "We'll see;" and Mr. Rawlins read: "Your wit is keen, your humour fine, To you they'll prove a real gold mine! For you will move from Berwick Town, And be a famous Circus Clown! Good, Joe! I'd go to the circus twice a day to see you perform." "I can do it!" and Joe capered around with the antics of a clown. "Here you are, ladies and gentlemen! The funniest living clown in captivity! Come one, come all! Pink lemonade free. Get your peanuts from Old Clay Rawlins! Hip! Hip! Hooray!" When Joe stopped prancing about and the others stopped laughing at him, Mr. Rawlins read next "Tadema Brown." "Hardly know myself by my Sunday name," and Tad listened for his fate. "You care but naught for this world's goods, You love the fields and flowers and woods; To you the note of singing birds Is sweeter far than human words." "Well, that's true, anyway," said Tad, heartily. He was a born naturalist, and often spent his Saturdays wandering alone through the woods and fields, looking for new wild flowers or birds' eggs to add to his collections. "Poky old fortune, I call it," declared Dotty. "Whose is next?" "Ethel's!" said her father. "Well, my child, here you are: "You shall travel many a land Seeing wonders great and grand. But for home your heart will yearn, Back to Berwick you'll return!" "Indeed I will," said Ethel; "I'm the homesickest thing ever, if I'm away from mother." "Ned Hillman," announced Dolly, who was holding the tongs again. "Read it, Mr. Rawlins." "Your Fate has not tarried, Your Future is bright; And you will be married Two years from to-night! Well, well, Ned, so your bachelor days are numbered. Make the most of your freedom before you settle down to housekeeping." "All right, Mr. Rawlins," said Ned. "But I'll have to hustle to get a house to keep, in two years! Couldn't old Fire Spirit give me a little more time?" "He might extend it, in case of good behaviour. What, Celia Ferris is next? Here you are, Celia: "Though you are a pretty creature, You are doomed to be a Teacher, For a year or two. And then, You will wed the best of men. H'm, seems to me Ned and Celia will step off at about the same time!" This caused great hilarity, for Ned's admiration for the pretty Celia was not altogether a secret. Celia blushed, but did not look at all offended. "Huh!" said Joe Collins, "no fun teasing those two! They like it!" "I _don't_!" cried Celia, blushing, and then they all laughed harder. "And beside," went on Joe, "it said Celia would wed the best of men. Now, though we all love our Neddie, we can't pedestal him as the _best_ of men, can we? Or, can we?" "We can! we can!" they all shouted in rollicking chorus. "And now for the last fortune; may it prove the best," said Mr. Rawlins, holding up the last paper. "Must be mine," said Reggie Stuart. "I haven't had any yet." It was his, and it said: You never will have wealth, You'll keep no powdered flunkey; But you'll travel, for your health, With a hand-organ and monkey! "Fine!" and Reggie laughed with the rest of them. "I'm awfully fond of music, and I couldn't have chosen a better fortune myself. Think of wandering about in the Spring—" "With a monkey on a string!" chimed in Joe. "Flowers a-bloom and birds a-wing," from Tad. "Catching coin like anything!" wound up Reggie. "Oh, it's a great life! I always envied the hand-organ man." The fortunes over, Dolly begged Mr. Rawlins to tell how the Fire Spirit was induced to write on the blank papers. "I have a contract with the Spirit," he declared, "and if I order him, he will write for me. No one else can command him." "Oh, now, I dunno 'bout that," drawled Uncle Jim, who had been an eager-eyed spectator of the fortune telling, though he had said little. "S'pose, now, Dolly, you hold up this here piece of blank paper an' see if the Sperrit won't write on it." Dolly took the sheet of paper offered her, and put it in the tongs. Slowly some writing appeared. It said: "Mr. Rawlins is fooling you. Make him tell, (signed, The Fire Spirit.)" "I thought so," cried Dolly, and going to him, she said, coaxingly: "Now, Mr. Rawlins, you must tell us. The Fire Spirit commands you." "Then I shall have to, of course," and Mr. Rawlins laughed good-naturedly. "Well, since you will have the veil torn from the mystery, I'll own up. The way to produce that writing is simply to write it on the papers beforehand, with milk—" "With milk!" "Yes, use a small paint brush dipped in milk. Write your message, let it dry, and then when it is held to the fire the heat turns the milk brown and the writing appears. But, when I let Uncle Jim into my secret, I didn't know he would turn it against myself." "You would have told us, anyway," and Dolly nodded her head at him. "But it's a good trick. Does it always work?" "Yes, if you do it properly. It's well to go over the milk letters a second time, while they are wet enough to see. Then the heat scorches them better. Also, have a care not to let the papers be handled or blurred before using." "Thank you, that's a fine thing to know," and Dolly tucked it away in her noddle for future use. She already saw herself mystifying Bert and Bob when they came home. "Great, isn't it, Dot?" she cried, her first thought, as always, to share every idea with Dotty. But again, Dotty gave her the cold shoulder. She heard, but, pretending not to, she turned to Celia and chattered quickly. Dolly gave her a hurt look, and then, as Dotty glanced at her without a responding smile, Dolly went deliberately across the room to where Bernice stood, alone and neglected. Dolly was in defiant mood. She was full of wrath at Dotty's attitude, and she was angry, too, at the boys, because they would not be nice to Bernice. "Hello, Bernie," she said. "How'd you like your fortune?" "I don't like anything," returned Bernice, her eyes stormy with discontent. "I want to go home." "We're all going," said Dolly, "after one dance. Uncle Jim wants to see us do a Virginia Reel, and Mrs. Rawlins is going to play for us. Come on." "Nobody will ask me to dance. I want to go home." Just then, Tad came up to Dolly and asked her to dance with him. "Not unless you find a partner for Bernice," said Dolly. She spoke in a low tone, and they turned away, so Bernice did not hear. But she imagined what they were saying, and it did not tend to make her happier. "Can't do it," said Tad, positively. "Nobody will dance with that lemon! Why, look at her, Doll! She's a human thunder-cloud. Who'd dance with that?" "Then I'll dance with her, myself. I'd rather do that, than have her left out." "Oh, fiddlesticks! Leave her alone, and let's get our places. You can't scare me, saying you'll dance with her! No, sir, not little Dolly Fayre. She's going to trip it with yours truly, and that's all there is about that!" Then Dolly had an inspiration. "Wait a minute," she said to Tad, and she ran over to where Uncle Jim was smiling at his guests. "Aren't you going to dance, Uncle Jim?" she said. "Well, now, I hadn't thought on't. But it's right down nice of you to ask me. I'd like to,—by gum, I'd like to! But which of all these perty young misses would dance with me? I ask you that?" "Why, any of them would be proud to dance with the host. I would myself, only I'm engaged for it. But how do you like the Elf?" "That perty one in green? I'd like her mighty well, if she'd honor me." "Let's go and ask her," and Dolly led the old man across to Bernice. "Say, Bernie, you're the belle of the ball! Uncle Jim wants you to dance the Reel with him." "That I do, if you would give me the honor," and Uncle Jim made an old-fashioned bow, of deference and respect. He had the grace of an old-time beau, and it appealed to Bernice's pride to be chosen by the host of the evening. "Thank you," she said, a little shyly, and took the arm of the old man, as they found places in the line. Dolly was beaming at her success. "It's all right, no thanks to you," she said to Tad, as she returned to him. "You're a hummer, Dolly, and no mistake! That was a first-rate scheme. You couldn't have made any of the boys take her." "I know it," and Dolly sighed. Then she changed the subject, for she had no wish to discuss Bernice further just then. As it turned out, Uncle Jim was a fine dancer, and he cut pigeon wings and made old-fashioned bows, with his hand on his heart. Bernice, also a good dancer, entered into the spirit of the quaint dance, and they were by far the most effective couple on the floor. As a grand finale, Uncle Jim balanced up and down the line with Bernice in gay whirls, and then fairly swung her off her feet, in a wild pirouette. "Good!" cried Mr. Rawlins, clapping his hands. "Didn't know you were such a gay young buck, Uncle Jim! You'll have to come to dancing class and teach the youngsters the real thing!" Flushed and smiling, Bernice said good-night to her host and partner, and ran away to the cloakroom. "You were splendid, Bernie," said Dolly, as she put on her wrap. "Wasn't she, Dot?" "Yes," said Dotty, coldly. "But I don't care for such boisterous dancing myself." "Oh, you don't!" said Dolly, mad clear through. "Well, keep your preferences and opinions to yourself!" She turned her back on Dotty, and adjusted her scarf before the mirror. Her pink cheeks were scarlet, and her blue eyes flashed with indignation. It was the injustice of Dotty's attitude that hurt her. She had only tried to give Bernice a good time, and she couldn't see why that should make Dot so horribly snippy. Then she heard exclamations and shouts out in the hall, and hurried out to see what it meant. At first she thought the house was on fire. A red glow showed through the windows and from the open door. Then she discovered that it was a glow of red fire in honour of the occasion. Uncle Jim had arranged it to give them a gay and pleasant send-off. There were fires burning in all directions, and the effect was a general red glow as bright as day. "How beautiful!" cried everybody, for the scene was like fairyland. And then they all thanked Uncle Jim over and over for the party, and for his kindness and thoughtfulness, and the motors came, and the young people were packed in and sent rolling homeward. Dolly was a little silent, for she was deeply hurt at Dotty's manner, and had to think things over before she decided what to do about it all. Dotty, on the other hand, was unusually gay. She proposed singing songs, and herself started the tunes. She laughed and chattered with everybody else, but said no word to Dolly. When they reached their respective homes, the girls went into their houses without a parting word of good-night to each other. # CHAPTER XII: MAD AND MEASLES THE next day was Saturday, and the Two D's had planned to spend the morning at Treasure House, studying first, and afterward arranging for a luncheon they were going to have there the next Saturday. They intended to ask four girls and have a lovely party, but now the very thought of it brought the tears to Dolly's eyes. She was in her room, wondering whether to go over to Treasure House or to wait for some word from Dotty. They had never had a real quarrel before and Dolly didn't know quite how to manage it. So she watched from her window to see if Dot would go over. And Dotty did. Soon Dolly saw her walking along the path, her head up, singing a little song, and then she unlocked the door of Treasure House and went in. So Dolly followed, and went in to find that Dotty had started a good fire, and was sitting at her desk, studying. Dolly looked at Dotty and Dotty looked at Dolly, but neither spoke. Dolly thought Dotty looked spiteful and Dotty thought Dolly looked stubborn. And they both did look so, and they felt so. Dolly threw off her coat, laid another log on the blazing fire, and sat down at her desk to study. Silence reigned and reigned with such absolute monarchy that each girl felt as if she should scream. Perhaps you know the tension of such a situation. Both sat still, until arms and legs felt rigid, faces were strained, and hearts beat as if they would burst. Yet, neither felt she could speak. That would be a humiliating admission of being in the wrong, which neither was willing to make. Turned slightly away from each other, they were not mutually visible, yet each felt that the other knew every move she made. Dolly was almost ready to cry, her neck felt so stiff and her arm so cramped. She moved a trifle, and the sensation was as if she had made a disturbance in church. She at once became motionless again, her burning face showing her embarrassed self-consciousness. Dotty of sterner stuff sat stiffly still, now and then turning a page of her book with utmost deliberation. Then her foot went to sleep, and she wanted to get up and dance on it. Of course, there was no reason why she shouldn't dance on it to her heart's content, but if you are acquainted with the peculiar etiquette of "getting mad," you know she would have endured torture before she would have done anything that could have been construed as sociable. So the two silly things sat there, each trying to study, pretending to study, and really wondering what the other was thinking. At last the burned out fire required mending. With a furtive glance at Dotty, Dolly got up, sauntered to the wood-box, selected a log with care, and laid it carefully on the embers of the expiring ones glowing among the ashes. Dotty jumped up, glad of a chance to step on her sleeping foot, and seizing the poker, jammed Dolly's log into place so fiercely that it fell down between the andirons. "I'll 'tend to the fire," said Dolly, coldly, for a speech of this sort was entirely permissible. "You think you know all about fire-making, don't you? Well, that big log will never burn without a stick of kindling-wood." "It would, if you'd let it alone. You always poke a fire till you put it out!" "I don't either! I had the fire all right, till you came over and bothered with it." "Well, then, fix it yourself, smarty, if you know so much!" Dolly flounced back to her chair and sat down. Usually gentle, and even-tempered, when Dolly did get stirred up, she was so miserable, all through, that she couldn't control herself. And now, she knew that if she staid there with Dotty, in those strained relations, she would very shortly burst into uncontrollable tears. Dotty slammed another log on top of the first one, took the hearth brush and flirted the ashes about a little, took the tongs, and fussed about with those, and then, adjusting the fender with meticulous care, went back to her seat, and again silence took up its sceptre. The very light-ticking clock could be plainly heard, indeed it sounded as loud as the click of a typewriter in the gloomy atmosphere. The girls turned farther away from each other until they were fairly back to back. Dolly was all the time growing more and more inclined to tears; not tears of sorrow, so much as of indignation, of weariness and of general nerve strain. Dotty, tearless, with no inclination to cry, became more and more ruffled with anger at Dolly, and a vague half-recognised jealousy of Bernice; as well as a sort of remorse at her own unkindness to her chum. But what could be done? Girls who are "mad at" each other can not violate the age-old canons of not speaking, and to speak first was the deepest humiliation. So the two little ninnies sat there. Dotty's feet went to sleep, one after the other. Dolly's arms stiffened and relaxed in turn. The minutes dragged by like hours. Lessons were not learned, for how can one put one's mind on the Ptolemies or their successors, when one is mad at one's friend? At last, somehow, the motionless hour-hand of the hammering clock managed to worm its way to twelve, a permissible, if not usual, hour to go home. Simultaneously, and with the same air of preoccupied intentness, both girls put away books and papers, and pulled on her coat sleeves. Dolly dawdled over her desk a moment, hoping Dotty would speak. Dotty looked at the back of Dolly's head, decided it still looked stubborn, and turned away. Together, yet miles apart, they went out of the door. Dotty locked it with her key, she was always the quicker one at that, and then, with an assumed lightness of step, the two silly young things ran across their respective lawns and into their respective homes. Merry and bright they were at their respective luncheon tables, for the unwritten law required that their parents must not know of the tragedy that had befallen. So, when Mrs. Fayre informed Dolly that her company was desired for a ride that afternoon, the consent was prompt and willing. And when Mrs. Rose asked Dotty to stay with Genie while she went out on some errands, there was no objection raised. But there were two sore and sorry hearts in the neighbouring houses, and two brains pondered over the question of what was best to do. Dolly was unwilling to give up her pet plan of helping Bernice. She couldn't explain entirely to her own satisfaction, just why she was so interested in this project, but she knew she had no unworthy motive. It was not,—of that she was sure,—because Bernie was rich and lived in the grandest house in Berwick. It was not because she wanted her for her own particular friend. But it seemed too bad that a nice girl like that should be out of everything for lack of a guiding hand. And, it must be admitted, Dolly liked to play the part of guiding hand. Dotty, for her part, was mad because Dolly had gone off and asked the girls to invite Bernice to their party, after she had practically agreed not to. This was Dolly's sole argument. The fact of her own jealousy of Dolly's interest in Bernice she ignored, for the present, at least. So the two foolish ones spent much of the golden Autumn afternoon ruffling the feathers of their souls, and persistently keeping them ruffled. ~ That evening, as the Fayres sat at dinner, the telephone rang, and Mrs. Fayre was asked for. After a time she returned to the table. "Here's a state of things," she said, smiling, yet looking serious too. "It was Mrs. Rose telephoning. Genie has the measles, or rather, they think she has, and so Mrs. Rose asks if we'll let Dotty come here to stay till they're over." "Well, well," said Mr. Fayre, "that's too bad for poor little Genie. But I rather think I can guess the names of Two D's who won't be sorry about the projected visit. Eh, Dollykins?" Dolly was stricken dumb. Dotty coming for a week, maybe more,—how long did measles last, anyway? Was it a month? Could they go without speaking all that time? "How—how long will she be here, Mother?" at last a small, scared voice said. "A couple of weeks, I daresay. Why,—aren't you glad? I thought you'd be overjoyed. Not at Genie's illness, but at Dotty's coming." "Did—did you tell her she could come, Mother?" "Surely, child. Won't you have the good times, though!" "She can have the pink guest room," said Trudy, kindly. "That's almost next to Doll's room, and they can chum all they like. Hasn't Dotty been exposed, Mother?" "Yes, but she has had measles, so she's immune. But she can't go to school if she remains in the house where the illness is. So she's to come here." "When?" asked Dolly, in a queer, far-away voice. "Now; right away," replied her mother. "We'll put aside that best lace bed-set, Trudy, and give her a plainer one." "Of course. I'll fix the room, Mother, you needn't give it a thought." "You're a great help, Trude," said Mrs. Fayre, smiling at her elder daughter. Meantime the younger daughter of the house of Fayre was struggling with her emotions. She didn't know whether to be sorry or glad. And before she had time to decide, Dotty arrived. "Isn't this great?" she exclaimed in a state of excitement. "It's awful kind of you, Mrs. Fayre, to take me in, but you see, I'd hate so to be out of school just now. It's near examinations, and I do want to pass." "We'll pass you," said Mr. Fayre. "We'll put you through, with bells on! But I expect you Two D's will chatter and giggle all the time instead of studying." "Oh, no, we won't," and from the cold smile Dotty flashed at her, Dolly understood the feud was as desperate as ever, but the elders were to be kept in ignorance of it. For a feud suspected by parents is as good as finished. No real feud can exist in the scathing beams of grown people's ridicule. So Dolly smiled coldly in return, and said, "No, indeed," in a tone that ought not to have deceived a feeble-minded jellyfish. Nor did it deceive Trudy. "Something's up," she thought, but wisely kept her thoughts to herself. Later, when the girls went to bed, they parted at their doorways in the hall. "Good night, Dollyrinda," said Dotty, heartily, in a voice loud enough to be heard down-stairs, if any one chanced to be listening. "I'm fearfully tired, so I'll go right to bed." "Good night, Dotsie," returned the other guileful one. "You must be tired, with the worry about Genie, and all. Good night." The door shut and there was silence as far as the Two D's were concerned. "What can it be?" thought Trudy, who had heard the high-pitched conversation. But she bided her time to find out. The next day was a trial. Being Sunday, the whole family was much together. The Two D's were at their wit's end to preserve an apparent friendliness, without showing each other any real diminution of their desperate hatred of one another. Trudy eyed them, when she could do so unobserved, and concluded that they were "mad at" each other. "Silly little geese!" she thought, well remembering her own not so far past schooldays. She determined to give them every chance. "Going over to Treasure House?" she inquired, soon after dinner. "Dunno. Do you want to go, Dot?" said Dolly, with studied carelessness. "Oh, I don't care, Dolly. Just as you like," and Dotty's politeness was faultless. "Of course you do," said Mr. Fayre, looking up from his paper. "What did I build that house for if you're not to use it?" "Shall we go, Dot?" "Yes, if you like." Dolly did not like, at all, but Mr. Fayre spoke up again. "Run along over, kiddies, and after a while, I'll saunter over myself. I haven't been there for a week, and I like to keep in touch with it." "All right, Dad. Come on, Dotty." The two girls went across the lawn, side by side. "Wonder how Genie is," said Dolly, with the laudable intention of "making talk." "She isn't sick, you know," returned Dotty, courteously. "The doctor isn't sure it really is measles. But he'll know in a day or two." They went into Treasure House. Something about the look of the place got on Dolly's nerves. The lovely house, the dear furniture, the beautiful treasures, and then—the two owners acting like a pair of silly idiots,—it was too much! But, whereas yesterday, she had felt sad and distressed, the long trying hours had made her irritable and angry, and as the door closed behind them, she burst out, "I think you're perfectly _horrid_, Dotty Rose!" "So do I think _you_ are, Dolly Fayre!" "The _idea_ of being mad at me, just because I want to do a deed of kindness for a friend!" "She _isn't_ your friend." "Why, of course she's my friend—" "You hardly know her!" "You don't have to know people such an awful lot to be friends with them,—not if they're nice people." "Huh! I s'pose I'm not nice people, then. You're not very friendly with me!" "Neither are you with me!" "You know why." "So do you know why." "I don't know why, and I don't care why. If you want old Bernice Forbes for your friend instead of me, you can have her, I don't care!" "I don't want her instead of you—" "You do so! You like her because she's—" "You stop that, Dotty Rose! Don't you dare say that! I'll like her if I want to,—so there now, and you can think whatever you please! I don't care _what_ you think!" A step on the porch sounded, and the angry combatants, ashamed to be caught quarrelling, ran back to the dining-room. "Where are you, ladies of the house?" called out Mr. Fayre, as he and Mrs. Fayre stepped into the study. "All right, be there in a minute," called Dotty in a cheery voice, as she mopped her heated brow with her handkerchief, and straightened her rumpled collar. And in a moment, two normally serene girls came in the room to receive their guests. "What were you talking about as we came up the steps?" asked Mrs. Fayre, in idle curiosity; "you were speaking so loudly and excitedly." "We were—" began Dolly, and stopped. She was a truthful child, and since she didn't want to state the facts, she preferred to say nothing. Dotty too, began to speak and stopped. "Never mind, Mother," said Mr. Fayre, laughing, "let the girls have their little secrets." # CHAPTER XIII: THE FEAST THAT FAILED THAT night the Two D's put off going to bed as long as possible, and when, at last, Mrs. Fayre sent them away, laughingly, they marched up-stairs like two deaf and dumb Drum Majors. "What's the matter with the kiddies?" asked Mr. Fayre, who couldn't help noticing their demeanour. "I don't know, I'm sure," returned his wife. But Trudy laughed outright, and said: "I do. They're mad." "Mad?" "Yes. A school girl ‘mad,' you know. Neither will speak first—it's beneath her dignity. They'll act like this a day or two longer, and then they'll make up. I know 'em!" "Better speak to them, Mother," suggested Mr. Fayre, "and clear up matters. Seems silly to me." "Oh, I don't believe I'd better interfere. They'll fix it up themselves, if that's what's the matter. Some foolish quarrel, I suppose." "It isn't like them. They rarely quarrel." Trudy looked thoughtful. "But I'm sure it is that. They never spoke to each other at supper, though each was gay and chatty with the rest of us." "Silly babies!" said Mr. Fayre, smiling. "Let them work it out themselves, then." Meanwhile the "silly babies" were tossing on restless pillows. In adjoining rooms, Dolly and Dotty were thinking hard, though in different moods. Dotty was tumbling about the bed, throwing her arms out and digging her face in her pillow, in the intensity of her warring emotions. Dolly was lying quiet and straight, her eyes turned toward the ceiling, her heart throbbing, as she "thought it out." Both rooms were flooded with moonlight, and the two girls stayed awake far into the night. At last, about one o'clock, Dolly finished her cogitations. Deliberately, she rose and put on her dressing-gown and slippers. She went to Dotty's room, opened the door softly and walked in. Then she closed the door behind her, and going to the bedside, said: "You awake, Dots?" "Yep," came the surprised voice from the rumpled coverlets. "Well, sit up here, then. I've come to talk." "Isn't—isn't it late?" and Dotty sat up, a little uncertain what attitude to assume. "Of course it's late. But I've got to have this thing out. I can't go on this way." "Nor I either, Doll!" and Dotty leaned forward and threw her arms around Dolly's neck in a convulsive hug that nearly strangled her. "Aren't we the silly geese to—" "Now, you wait, Dotty Rose. After I say what I've come to say, you may not want—" "Yes, I will, Dolly! I don't care _what_ you're going to say. You may jump on me all you like,—I _was_ a pig, but I'm sorry, and—" "I'm sorry, too! You shan't be sorry before I am!" "But I have to, Doll! You know I'm always _everything_ before you are. I'm quicker-jointed, or something. But never mind that, I've got you back, you dear old thing, and now you can go ahead and scold me, all you want to. Oh, Doll, hasn't it been horrid?" "_Hasn't_ it! Well, as we're all right again, let's have this Bernice business out once and for all. If you say so, Dotty, I'll give up trying to make her more popular. I've thought it all out, and it's this way. You're my best friend, and I want you to be, and if it bothers you so to have me friendly with her,—why, I won't be, that's all." "Oh, Dollyrinda, how sweet you are! You make me feel like an awful pig. But you see,—well, I s'pose I was jealous. I thought you'd like Bernice more and more, till you liked her better'n everybody and better'n me. And I just couldn't stand it!" "Why, Dorothy Rose! The idea of your thinking _that_!" and Dolly clasped the tousled black head to her breast and kissed the tear-wet cheeks. "We're special friends, nobody could come between _us_! They'd just better try it!" "Then that's all right!" and Dotty's quick-working mentality jumped to a happy conclusion of their troubles. "Now, look here, Doll, you don't have to throw Bernice over entirely." "I will, if you want me to." "But I don't want you to. Your idea of making her one of our set is all right, now that I know _we're_ all right. And I'll help you." "Will you? Oh, Dot, then we can do it. We'll have to plan it—" "Oh, of course! You'd have to plan, if it was only to eat your dinner!" and Dotty affectionately pulled the golden curls. "And say, old Dollypops, we haven't planned much for our luncheon next Saturday." "Couldn't very well, when we were mad. Oh, Dot, wasn't it horrid in the house yesterday morning?" "Horrid all the time. Hasn't to-day been awful?" "Yep. But it was funny you had to come over here to stay just now." "Awful funny. Now about Saturday—" "No, sir! Not _now_ about Saturday. Do you know what time it is?" "Nixy; and I don't care." "Well, I do. It's 'most two o'clock, and Mother will give us Jesse to-morrow if she hears us talking so long. So you go by-by, and I will too, and we'll plan by daylight. Good night, old girl." "Good night, Dollums, and I am sorry I was horrid." "So'm I, that I was." And peace being declared and ratified, the Two D's went to sleep so successfully that they were late to breakfast. ~ "The country's safe," remarked Trudy, after the pair had started for school. "How do you know?" asked her mother. "Signs. Lots of 'em. They talked _to_ each other, not _at_ each other. And they smiled and sang, and were generally in fine spirits." "Well, I'm glad of it. I hate to have them so childish and silly." "I 'spect all girls are. They'll outgrow it. And they are two such sensible, nice, little girl chums, that I don't believe it will happen often." Nor did it. In all their lives, Dotty and Dolly never again had one of those foolish "mads" that most school girls know so well. They had differences of opinion frequently, very frequently; and often they had hot, hasty words; but the quarrels were of short duration, and ended amicably and lovingly. The Saturday luncheon was duly planned. They invited Maisie, the two Rawlins girls and Celia. Dolly would have liked to ask Bernice and Dotty was more than willing, but they had only room for six,—and too, they knew all the girls would like it better without the stranger, and so for this time they decided against her, agreeing that they would invite her some time soon. It was to be a very festal occasion. More, the whole luncheon was to be the work of the two girls themselves. Not everything was to be made in Treasure House, but no one save the Two D's could have a hand in the preparations. And so, when Saturday morning came, they were up bright and early to begin their work. Dotty was still at the Fayres'; Genie, though better was still housed, and the time was not yet up when Dotty could return home. "It doesn't seem fair, Doll," said Dotty as, swathed in big aprons, they went into the Fayre kitchen, "for me to work over here. We've always divided the work before." "That doesn't matter. What do you want for the cake?" "A big bowl and a spoon. I'll measure out the things myself." "All right, and I'll make the salad dressing now." Two busy bees worked all the morning, barely having time to set the table in Treasure House and arrange some flowers there before their guests came. "Goodness, there they are!" cried Dotty, as she set a saucepan of lard on their kitchenette stove to heat. "I can't leave this, Doll, so you go in and do the polite, and I'll run in when I can. They won't mind." So Dolly, serene and smiling, met the girls, who all came together. "What a jolly lark!" exclaimed Maisie; "the idea of you two girls having a lunch party!" "And cooking everything ourselves," added Dolly. "Dot's in the kitchen yet, struggling with foods. Take off your things." The guests complied, keeping up a perfect stream of chatter as they looked about and admired everything in sight. All had been there before, but not to a regular invited feast, and the occasion was a great one. "If I had a house like this," declared Ethel Rawlins, "I wouldn't ask any more favours of Fate for twenty years!" "Nor I," agreed Celia. "Isn't it wonderful! Don't you just adore it, Dolly?" "Indeed we do—yes, all right!" This last in answer to a frantic call from Dotty, in the kitchenette. "Excuse me, girls, Dot's come to grief, somehow. Amuse yourselves till I come back." Dolly hurried to the rescue, and found Dotty throwing dish-towels into the croquette kettle. "The old thing caught fire somehow!" she exclaimed, dancing about, "and, I never thought of it before, but, Dolly, do you think the house is insured?" "Goodness, I don't know! But never mind that, now; it isn't going to burn down. Can we save the croquettes, or what shall we have for lunch?" Gingerly with a fork they picked up the towels, and found a number of black, dried-up cylinders that had once been Dotty's carefully shaped croquettes. "Nothing doing!" said Dolly, philosophically, as she gazed at the charred remains. "You got the lard too hot, Dotsie." "So I notice! Well, we'll have to cut out the croquette course." "No matter. I'll skip over home and get a platter of cold lamb, there was a lot left last night, I know. You chin with the girls, and I'll fly." Dolly scooted out at the back door of Treasure House, and across to her own home, and soon returned with a dainty dish of sliced lamb. Then she busied herself with her own allotment of the preparations, and began to heat the soup. "'Most ready?" said Dotty, flying in suddenly, and startling Dolly so she nearly dropped the pepper-box. "Yes, in a minute. Fill the water glasses, set the fruit thing-a-ma-jigs on the table, cut the bread,—oh, no, we have rolls,—well, get them fixed, and hunt up the butter and—oh, my gracious, the salad has upset!" "Not really!" "Not entirely; I can straighten it out, I guess. Oh, why did we ask them to come so early! I've heaps to do. You put the cocoa in the silver pot, won't you? and, oh Dot, the olives haven't been opened yet!" "I'll do it. Where's the opener-thing?" "I don't know. I guess there isn't any over here—" "I guess there is. Here it is, but it won't work. You give it a pull, Dolly." Both girls, together and in turn, pulled at the refractory cork of the olive bottle,—for without olives, no school girl lunch is complete! But it refused to budge. Now, the ways of corks are most mischievous. Just as they were about to give it up, a last strong pull brought the cork out with a jerk, and the two D's fell in a heap in the middle of the kitchenette, with such a clatter of accompanying dishes, that the guests came running out to see what was the matter. They found their hostesses scrambling up from the floor, laughing, but pretty much upset withal. "It was that old cork," explained Dotty. "It wouldn't come out, and then all of a sudden it couldn't get out quick enough! 'Scuse us girls, for such a racketty performance, but truly, everything is going screw-wampus to-day!" "Let us help," begged Grace; "oh, do let us, please." "Yes, do help," said Dolly, who was at the end of her rope. "You, Grace, see if everything is on the table that ought to be there. Ethel, please put some sugar in this bowl,—there's the box,—and Celia, won't you set these salad plates on the side table? Maisie May, you just stand around and look pretty,—I don't know of anything else for you to do. Now, I'll take up the soup, oh, no, I won't. We must eat the fruit thingumbob first. Come on, let's do that. I don't see how people _ever_ get the things ready at the right time. Everything here is either too ready or not enough so. Come on, friends. You sit here, Maisie, and Grace, here." Laughing gaily, the girls took their seats, and delightedly attacked the dainty first course. It was a combination of various fruits,—orange, pineapple and crimson cherries, served in delicate slender-stemmed glasses. "I just love this fruit muddle," said Maisie, "and this is the best ever! Who made it?" "I did," said Dolly, with pardonable pride. "It took most of the morning, though, that's why everything else fell behind. It isn't hard to make, but it takes forever." The Two D's were to take turns in changing the plates, so Dolly rose to bring in the soup. Very pretty it looked, in the bouillon cups, but after the first taste Celia hurriedly caught up her glass of water. "Look out!" she cautioned, but too late. Nearly every girl had taken a spoonful of soup, before she discovered it was burning hot with pepper! When Dotty had come upon Dolly in the act of seasoning the soup, she startled her so, that far more pepper went in than was meant, and the result was appalling. Eagerly the girls sipped the cold water, and with tears running down their cheeks from the pungent taste and odour, they protested that "they didn't mind it!" "I like peppery soup," said Grace, politely. "But you don't like soupy pepper, do you?" gasped Dotty, "and that's what this is!" Then Dolly, crestfallen and chagrined, but trying to be merry, took away the soup, and brought the cold lamb, and the salad. The lamb was all that it should be; but the salad dressing had separated itself into its original ingredients, after the manner of some ill-natured salad dressings. This was harrowing, but Dolly smiled bravely, and acknowledged it was her first attempt. "Don't you mind, Doll," said Grace, comfortingly; "not one of us could make a better one. And with the olives and all, you don't notice anything the matter." But the crowning blow came with the dessert. The girls had made lovely home-made ice cream, and had frozen it with the greatest care. This they felt sure would be right, for they had made it before many times. But, alas, by some oversight, the freezer had been left outdoors in the sun, the ice had been insufficient, and the result, instead of a finely moulded form, was a lot of thick creamy liquid. "Don't you care!" cried Ethel. "I just _love_ soft ice cream. Call it a pudding, and let it go at that. Come, Dot, brace up. Who cares for the occasional slips of young housekeepers? Cut the cake and pass it to us, and give us some of that delicious-looking ice cream custard!" The cake had turned out fairly decent, but not up to the mark. Dotty was a good cake maker but making it in a strange kitchen and baking it in a strange oven had made a difference, and the fluffy sponge cake she usually achieved, showed up a close, almost soggy, and very sticky compound. "I'm just ready to cry," said Dotty, as she looked at the dessert, from which they had hoped such great things. "Don't do anything so foolish," said Dolly. "We slipped up on 'most everything, but we tried hard enough, goodness knows! If you're hungry, girls, there are cookies in the cupboard, and there's plenty of cocoa." "I'll take some, please," said Maisie, so plaintively, that they all laughed. And then they all fell to on the previously despised cookies, and under the cheer and raillery of their guests, the two D's finally regained their poise, and laughed themselves at their chapter of accidents. "Call it ‘The Feast That Failed,' and let it go at that," said Dotty. "It wasn't a failure at all," protested Celia. "We've had heaps of fun." "Yes, it _was_ a failure," insisted Dotty; "and we'll have to learn to do better. Why, when the boys come home, they'll make all sorts of fun of us, if we can't do better than this." "We _will_ do better than this," declared Dolly. "We'll ask you again, girls, and show you how great an improvement second attempts are!" "Then I'm glad of this frolic," said Grace, "for it means we get two parties instead of one." "Just what you might have expected," said Trudy, laughing till the tears rolled down her cheeks at the D's' account of the feast. "You little geese, not to know that you couldn't do it! Now, I'll take you in hand, and give you a few practical lessons, and then when the boys come home, you can astonish them with your skill and dexterity." "All right," said Dolly. "I'll try to learn, won't you, Dots?" "Well, I rather just guess yes!" exclaimed the other D. # CHAPTER XIV: NEWS INDEED! "I have a piece of news for you," said Mr. Fayre, as the family sat at dinner one night. "What is it, Dads?" asked Dolly, as her father paused. He was still silent, and his face looked a little grave as his eyes rested in turn on his two daughters and on their guest, for Dotty was still there. After a moment, he said: "I'm afraid it will hit you hard, Trudy, and I know it will make Dolly miserable. So I hate to tell you. But it must be told. I've been ordered to Buffalo." For a moment the girls didn't take in just what he meant, then Trudy cried, "Go to Buffalo! To live? All of us?" "Well, Trude, I certainly couldn't leave any of my family behind me. Mother and I are going, and I guess you girls better come along too." Dolly sat looking at her father, her eyes very wide and very blue as she thought over what he was saying. "We can't do it," she said, finally, and as if she were disposing of the whole matter: "I can't go away from Berwick to live." "But, Dolly dear, where would you live, here alone? In Treasure House?" "She can live with me!" exclaimed Dotty, excitedly. "Why, she'll _have_ to. I won't let my Dollyrinda go away from Berwick. She's mine, and I've got to keep her!" "Is it really true, Father?" asked Trudy, looking very thoughtful. "Must we go?" "Yes, dear," answered Mr. Fayre. "The company has transferred me to the Buffalo office, and I must obey or leave the road. You know a freight superintendent is under orders from his superiors." "There isn't anybody superior to you, Daddy," said Dolly, who was looking blank and stunned at the news she had heard. "Can't you tell the president, or whoever is sending you, that you won't go?" "I might, Dolly; but that might mean my entire dismissal, and who'd buy your hair-ribbons then, my girl?" "But to Buffalo!" wailed Dolly. "We might as well go to Timbuctoo!" "It's awful," said Trudy, with a long-drawn sigh. "Did you know about it, Mother?" "Yes, some days ago. And I knew how sorry you girls would feel. But I know you'll brace up and meet the disappointment bravely, for Father's sake. He doesn't want to hurt his girls so, but he can't help it." "What will Bert say?" said Dolly; "won't he be mad!" "I don't think Bert will care as much as you girls," began Mr. Fayre, when Dotty interrupted: "My Dollyrinda _shan't_ go! I won't have it! I'll make my father buy her for me, and keep her here! That's what I'll do!" "Don't be silly, Dots," said Dolly, who was beginning to realise that this thing was a fact. Apparently her parents had already become used to the idea, and were regretting it principally on the girls' account. "Do you want to go, Father?" Dolly asked. "Would you just as lieve live in horrid old Buffalo as here in beautiful, lovely Berwick?" "No, Dolly, I wouldn't. But I must obey orders." "Whose orders?" "The general manager, child." "Why, that's Mr. Forbes, isn't it? Bernice Forbes' father?" "That's the man." "Is he sending you away?" "Not directly; that is, not personally. But he and the board of directors have combined to decree this thing. They consider it an honour, Dolly. It is a better position, financially, and I have earned it by my integrity and exemplary behaviour!" Mr. Fayre smiled at his younger daughter, and was so honestly sorry for her that he didn't know what to do. "Well, Daddy, I can't stand it," and Dolly shook her head. "I'll just die, that's all. I couldn't live anywhere except here. You couldn't get me another Treasure House, or another Dotty Rose, or all our crowd at school, or anything that I have here." "But Buffalo may be full of Dotty Roses and Treasure Houses and school crowds, that are heaps nicer than the Berwick variety!" Mr. Fayre tried to speak gaily, but at these words Dolly burst into tears and Dotty followed suit. The family left the table, and though they tried to have calm and general conversation the effort was vain, and very soon the Two D's went off up-stairs. They went to Dolly's pretty bedroom, and here their woe broke out afresh. "Oh," wailed Dolly, "I can't leave this room, this pretty, sweet, lovely room, and go to old Buffalo, to sleep in an attic with rats gnawing me!" "Why would you do that?" and Dotty stopped midway of a sob to understand this dire prognostication. "Well, it's as bad as that, whatever it is." "But if your father gets more money, more salary, you know, maybe you'll have a grand house, like the Forbeses." "I don't want a grand house. If it's in Buffalo at all, I'd just as lieve have the ratty attic as anything else!" and Dolly renewed her weeping. She rocked her plump body back and forth in paroxysms of woe, and wailed out new horrors as they came to her distorted imagination. "_I_ know the sort of girls they'll have there. All wearing shirtwaists and old ribbon bands round their foreheads! Oh, I know!" "How do you know?" and Dotty's admiration rose at these strange revelations. "Oh, I sort of see them, the horrid bunch! I hate to see girls of our age in shirtwaists, and I _know_ they'll all have them. And the boys will be horrid, too. Not nice, like our brothers and Tad and Tod, but all sort of outgrown!" "My! Buffalo must be an awful place!" "It isn't only Buffalo, it's _any_ place in the United States, except Berwick. Don't you see it, Dotty? Don't you _know_ it must be so? And if not just as I've described, it's something equally worse!" "Yes, I s'pose so," returned Dotty, awed by this instinctive knowledge of Dolly's. "But I've got to go, all the same. So I've got to make up my mind to it." "You shan't go, and you shan't make up your mind to it! I won't have it. Say, Doll, how about this? If you do go,—you visit me six months every year, and I'll visit you six months." "No; if I go, I shall give you up entirely, and get a new chum up there. I can't have my most intimate friend a million miles away. And you know our people wouldn't agree to that six months business." "You'll get a new chum! Dorinda Fayre, I think you're the most awful girl I ever saw! I believe you _want_ to go to your horrid old Buffalo, and have a girl with a shirtwaist on, for your intimate friend, and a band around her forehead!" "Oh, hush up, Dotty! I didn't mean that, and you know it! But I'm beside myself, I don't know what I'm saying!" And then the two girls gave way to such desperate and uncontrollable sobbing, that Trudy heard them and came to their room. "Dolly! Dolly!" she exclaimed. "Oh, you poor little girl! Don't cry so, darling. Try to stop,—you'll make yourself ill. Dotty, be quiet, dear." Trudy's soft voice calmed the turbulent ones a little, and she went on talking. "Listen, Dollykins. I don't want to leave Berwick, either. I have lots of friends here—" "And beaux," put in Dotty, suddenly realising Trudy's trials, too. "Yes," Trudy agreed, smiling, "and beaux. But probably beaux grow in Buffalo, and friends of other sorts too. Now, I don't in the least undervalue what it means to you two girls to part, but, Dolly, it can't be helped. Father has to go. Now, oughtn't we to help him, by unselfishly forgetting our wishes, and going cheerfully? That's the only way we can help Dad, and I think it's our duty to do it." "I know it is," sobbed Dolly, "but I always _did_ hate to do my duty!" "But you always do it," and Trudy smiled at her little sister. "I've never known you to shirk a duty because you hated to do it." "But I never had such a big, horrid, awful bad duty before." "No; and that's all the more reason why you must meet this one bravely. Now, don't think any more about the whole thing to-night. Go to bed and to sleep, and to-morrow things will look brighter." The girls both felt sure they would lie awake all night, but so exhausted were they by their strenuous grief, they fell asleep before they knew it. But Dolly woke early in the dawn of morning, and she lay there in her pretty green room, thinking it out. And somehow, her thinking cheered her, for at rising time, Dotty awoke to see a smiling Dolly bending over her. "Wake up, old sleepyhead! Get your eyes open, and rise to greet the morn!" Dotty rubbed her half-open black eyes, and strove to remember what was the matter after all. Then it all came back to her. "Buffalo!" she said, sitting up in bed. "Buff-a-lo!" "Never mind Buffalo," and Dolly kept on smiling. "You wake up, and get yourself up into Berwick. And if you'll be a good girl, some day I'll tell you something." "You've been thinking it out!" exclaimed Dotty. "I know you! Don't deny it!" "'Course I've been thinking it out. But don't you tell anybody that I have. You get dressed, instanter! Do you hear?" Dotty heard, and obeyed, and soon two calm, serene girls were on their way down to breakfast. The subject was not mentioned at the table. The elders purposely avoided it, and the Two D's had no desire to discuss it. It was only as she was starting for school, that Dolly said to her mother, with a quivering lip, "Mumsie—when—" "In about a month, dear," said Mrs. Fayre, kissing the trembling mouth. "Don't begin to think about it yet." The two D's started off in silence. After a block or so, Dotty said, "Shall you tell the girls?" "No," said Dolly, shortly. "Don't mention it, Dot. This afternoon in the house, I'll tell you something." Dotty could scarcely wait till afternoon, and then when that time arrived, Dolly decreed that they should learn their lessons first, before she told the "something." "You're getting terribly good!" grumbled Dotty. "I know it. I've _got_ to be. Perhaps _then_ I'll get something I want." So the two studied like everything, until they both declared they really knew all the next day's lessons. They even heard each other some of the very hardest ones, and then, they sat down together before the fire for the "something." "Here it is," said Dolly, soberly. "I'm going to get Father let off from that transfer to Buffalo." "You can't," said Dotty, with an air of calm conviction. "I know I can't, but I'm going to all the same. Father doesn't want to go, neither does Mother. Nor Trudy; nor me. So why should we go?" "'Cause your father is sent." "Yes, that's just it. But I'm going to get him unsent." "Amend the Constitution?" "Just about that. Now, look here, Dot: Who is sending Dad?" "Mr. Forbes." "Of course he is. He's Father's boss. Now, who is Mr. Forbes' boss?" "The president of the railroad, I s'pose." "Not at all. Mr. Forbes is bossed and ruled and absolutely commanded by—" "Bernice!" "Yes, of course. He worships and idolises his motherless girl. And, listen, now; through Bernice I'm going to get Father repealed,—or whatever you call it." "Can you?" "I will, whether I can or not." "Will your father like it?" "He won't know, till it's all over. And if I fail, which I won't, he need never know. I've thought it out, and it isn't wrong; there isn't a wrong thing about it. Bernice can make her father do anything in the world she wants to. I know that. So she can get him to change his mind about my father, if I can persuade her to do it. I mean, if I can persuade her to persuade her father." "It's a fine scheme, Dollops, but I can't seem to see it succeeding. Bernice can make her father do anything she wants for herself, but this is different. Why should she bother her father for your father's sake?" "I don't know," and Dolly looked uncertain; "but I'm going to try to make her do it, and sumpum tells me I shall conquer in the fight!" Dolly looked so jubilant, so already victorious, that Dotty hadn't the heart to express further doubt. And too, Dotty had great faith in Dolly's powers of success when she set to work in earnest. And she surely was very much in earnest now. "Aren't you going to tell Trudy or your mother?" "No; nobody at all but you. Maybe I'll tell Bert, when he comes home for Thanksgiving. He could help me." "_I_ can help you! I mean, I will, if you'll tell me what to do." "Indeed you can help me, Dot. I couldn't do it at all without your help. See here, you don't understand yet. If Bernice makes her father do this thing, it'll be because she herself wants me to stay in Berwick. And here's why. Because,—if Bernice does what I want her to, I'm going to make her the most popular girl in town!" # CHAPTER XV: DOLLY AND BERNICE DOLLY went alone to see Bernice. She had wanted Dotty with her for aid and sympathy, but on thinking it over, she decided it would be better to go alone first. The Forbes house was impressive, the man who opened the door to Dolly's ring was awe-inspiring, but of these things Dolly was not afraid. Her fear was that she would not be able to present in the most persuasive way, the strange matter on which she had come. When Bernice came into the reception room, she found Dolly so deep in thought she scarcely heard her. "Hello, Dolly Fayre," said the hostess, looking at her inquiringly. "What do you want?" "You never could guess," returned Dolly, not resenting this somewhat ungracious greeting. "Oh, yes, I can, you want to beg some money for some High School performance, or else you want me to be on some rubbishy old committee. You never came here just because you wanted to see me,—myself." This frightened Dolly, for it struck perilously near the truth. But she plunged boldly in. "You're not far out, Bernice, and yet it's nothing about school. Can any one hear us?" "No; but I'll shut this door. Now, what is it?" Bernice's curiosity was roused by Dolly's air of repressed excitement, and her very evident embarrassment. At least, something unusual was coming. "Bernice," she began, "you know my father is in the employ of your father's railroad. My father is in the freight department—" "Yes, I know it. What of it?" "Well, your father has ordered my father to be transferred to Buffalo." "Oh, Dolly, I don't want you to go to Buffalo. Why, you're the only friend I have in Berwick." "Well, this is the point, Bernice. You ought to have more friends in Berwick. With your home and everything, you ought to be the most popular girl in town." "I'm not!" and Bernice laughed grimly. "That's partly your own fault, and partly not. Now, if you'll persuade your father to retract that order and let my father stay in Berwick, I'll make you popular,—I will honest!" Dolly's eyes beamed with earnestness. Her plea was out, now it was to follow it up. "I know that sounds crazy," she went on, "but think a minute, Bernice. Your father and mine are splendid business men, so perhaps we inherit their business talent. So let's make a business deal. If I can make good, and put you in the front ranks of our crowd, will you try to coax your father to do what I want?" "Why, Dolly Fayre, what an idea!" "I know it. But I don't want to leave Berwick, none of us do, and yet, we'll have to go, unless your father changes the orders. I'd ask him myself, only I know he wouldn't listen to me, but he would to you." "Does your father know you're doing this?" "Mercy, no! I wouldn't have him know it for the world! It isn't wrong, Bernice, and it isn't underhanded or anything like that. You know yourself, how the railroad men are ordered here and there. Now it seems to me some one else might as well be sent to Buffalo, and my father left in the New York office, where he is now. Don't you think so? If only your father will agree." Dolly looked very pleading. Her little face looked up into Bernice's with a wistful, hopeful smile. Her hands were clasped in the intensity of her feeling, and her voice quivered as she made her plea. Bernice looked at her. "I don't know why I should do this for you, Dolly Fayre," she said, at last. "You're the most popular girl in Berwick, you and Dotty Rose. Now, if you go away, I'll stand a better chance of getting in your crowd, in your place, than if you stay here." Dolly hadn't thought of this. Nor did it strike her at the moment what a selfish and self-seeking spirit Bernice showed. She knit her brows as she thought deeply what to say next. "You see," Bernice went on, "I've always wanted to be in your set. It's the nicest set of all. And when I was in Grammar School of course I couldn't, but now we're all in High, I want to be one of you. And I'll do anything I can to get there. But I think I'd stand a better chance with you away. Then I'd be friends with Dotty Rose in your place, maybe." Dolly looked aghast. Such presumption! But the absurdity of the idea brought her to her senses. "Not much you wouldn't, Bernie!" she said. "Dot is willing to do a lot for you if I stay here. But she knows I'm saying all this to you, and if you don't help me about Father's position with the road, you can just bet Dotty Rose won't have anything to do with you, nor will any one else in our set!" "Look here, Dolly, isn't this what the boys call a ‘hold-up'?" Dolly laughed. "It did sound like that, but listen, Bernice. It's a straight proposition. You want to be in our set, really in it and of it. Well, I'll see to it that you get there, if you'll coax your father to let my father stay here. That's all, and I don't think it's mean or hold-uppish. I think it's a fair deal between us. I don't know what my father would say if he knew I asked you, but even though he might think it undignified or silly, he couldn't say it was really wrong. Now, could he?" "No," agreed Bernice, "there's nothing wrong about it. But can you do your part?" "Can you?" "Yes, I know I could. I can make Dad do anything. He spoils me,—and he'd move to Kamchatka if I wanted to, or send anybody else there if I said so." "Yes, I knew he was like that. It's a shame, Bernie, with all your lovely home and privileges and everything, that you're not top of the heap here." "Well, I'm not. And I'm not at all sure, Dolly Fayre, that you can help to put me anywhere near the top." "Oh, yes, I can." "How? By making the girls come to see me? Or by forcing the boys to dance with me? I know of your efforts in those directions, and don't you s'pose they make me feel cheap?" "Bernice, I don't wonder. And I'm glad you spoke like that. No, I don't mean to do it that way,—not entirely. But if we go into this bargain, you and I, it must be a real bargain, and you must help,—not hinder any part of it." "Oh, Dolly, I'd only be too glad to help. If I could be popular,—I don't mean actually top of the heap, but just liked by the crowd, I'd be so glad. And if you could help bring it about, I'd make father do what you want. I know I could, But, I won't do it unless you do what you say you will." "All right, Bernice," and Dolly looked thoughtful. "But, you see, if Dad's orders are changed, I suppose it ought to be done at once. And I can't do my part all in a jiffy, it will naturally take a little time." "Yes, I see that. When does your father expect to go?" "In about a month." "That'll be the middle of December. S'pose I get Father to postpone the date till, say, after Christmas. The first of the year they often make changes. That'll give you nearly two months, and if things are working all right by then, I can easily make Father let you stay here. Why, if I told him I wanted you here in Berwick, he'd make any arrangements to keep you here." "Then do it now!" and Dolly's eyes danced at this easy settlement of the whole matter. "Nixy! You haven't done a thing yet! I don't want to be mean about this, but—well, you know what I _do_ want and it's up to you." "All right, Bernice. Will you ask your father, to-night, to put off Dad's transfer till after the holidays?" "Yes, I will, and he'll do it. Now, what are you going to do first?" "First of all, I'm going to talk to you like a Dutch uncle!" Dolly's eyes were dancing now. Her aim was accomplished, at least, in part, and her well thought out campaign was about to be begun. "You see, Bernice, all I can do will not count at all unless _you_ do something to help along. And what you've got to do, is to change your way with 'em. Now, wait a minute. You're pretty and bright and you have lovely clothes and all that, but you go around with a chip on your shoulder! Yes, you do, and it upsets your whole apple-cart! Now, you've just simply _got_ to be sunny and sweet and if you think you see little slights or mean things, swallow them and keep on smiling. I know that sounds hard, even sounds silly, but that's all there is to it. You've got to break down that sort of barrier you've built up around you. Do you know what they say about you? They say you're stuck-up. That's an awful thing in our crowd. We don't like stuck-up people. You're so rich, you see, so much richer than any of the rest of us, that we feel sort of shy of you, unless you come down to our level. I mean our level as to grandeur and style and those things. We don't care if you have silk dresses when we have gingham, if you don't rub it in. Oh, _don't_ you see what I mean?" "I don't know as I do, Dolly," and Bernice looked very serious. "But I begin to, and I do believe I can learn. But it's so hard when everybody turns the cold shoulder, and nobody wants to speak to me." "But it's so much your own fault! Have you ever tried, real hard, to be nice to any of the girls? Real up and down _nice_?" "No, I've been too busy paying them back for the snubs they gave me." "That's just it! And they only snubbed you because they thought you were snubbing them. Oh, I know all about it, Bernice. Don't you s'pose I've heard them talk you over? And the boys. They say you're a pretty girl and a good dancer, but—well, I'm going to tell you right out, for I believe it will help you,—they call you a lemon!" "They do, do they? Then I don't want anything to do with them!" "Yes, you do! Now, hold on; they call you that, 'cause you _are_ lemony to them! You know yourself that you snip and snap the boys awfully. They won't stand it." "But, Dolly, I haven't the sweet sunny disposition that you have." "Then get it! You can, if you want to. Good gracious, Bernice, if you _want_ to be popular and have a good time, isn't it just too easy to quit being a sour old lemon and work up an amiable manner? Anybody would think I was asking you to do something hard! Why, it's easier to be pleasant than not, if you only think so! Now, that's _part_ of your part. Next, you must invite people here." "Give a party?" "Yes, if you like. I meant ask just a few at a time. But it would be a good scheme to start in with quite a party. Not too gorgeous,—but a nice, _right_ party." "It'll be my birthday week after next, I might have it then." "Just the thing! You do that, and let me help plan your party. You mustn't have a grand ball, you know." "I'll do just as you say, Dolly," replied Bernice, meekly. "All right," and Dolly laughed. "This is like planning a campaign, and I s'pose it's sort of foolish for girls of our age, but you're in wrong, and if I can set you right, I'm only too glad to. And I _can_, if you'll do as I say." "I'm jolly _glad_ to do as you say! But will the crowd come to my party?" "'Course they will. I'll make 'em. Now, wait, I know you don't like to have them come 'cause they're made to, but it's got to be that way at first, and then it's up to you to make it so pleasant they'll want to come again." "But seems to me _I'm_ doing most of this." "Oh, that's the way it seems to you, does it? _Does it!_ Well, I don't want to hurt your feelings, but you _try_ it without me, and see where you bring up!" Dolly was a little annoyed at Bernice's readiness to accept her advices and ignore the very real help that Dolly was able and willing to give. "I know, Dolly. I sort of forgot myself." "Well, you try to remember yourself! And remember too, that while I want you to be one of us, at the same time, I'm bothering about you for the reason I told you when I first came here. I'm not doing it for your sake, but for my own. And, another thing. I want to stay in Berwick mostly, because Dotty Rose is here, and she and I are intimate friends and always will be. She's ready and glad to help us in this scheme, but it's because she wants to keep me here in Berwick. So, Bernice Forbes, don't you try to come between Dot and me, for it won't do a bit of good and it will do you a lot of harm." "I won't, honest, Dolly. But does Dotty know all about your plan?" "Every bit. And I tell you, Bernie, if Dot and I set out to make you have a good time, you'll _have_ it, and that's all there is about that!" "I believe you, and I'm glad you're so outspoken, Dolly. Now, honest, I'm going to try, but you don't know how hard it is to be nice to those girls when they turn aside and whisper to each other about me and all things like that." "They won't do that, Bernice, if you act differently toward them. Now, look here. You talk over your party with your father and if he says you can have it, get your invitations out soon. My brother and Dot's will be home for Thanksgiving,—when is your birthday?" "The 30th of November." "Good! They'll be here then. Well, you ask your father about your party,—and—about that other matter, will you?" "Yes, I will, to-night. And he'll say yes to both." # CHAPTER XVI: BROTHERS AND FUDGE IT was a few days later that Mr. Fayre announced to his family the news that his transfer of locality had been postponed until after the Christmas holidays. "Perhaps you won't have to go at all, Father," said Trudy. "Perhaps not," agreed Mr. Fayre. "These matters are uncertain. I should be glad not to leave Berwick, for I like my New York business, and my suburban home; but what is to be will be, whether it ever comes to pass or not." This was one of Mr. Fayre's favourite nonsense speeches and always made the girls laugh. Dolly laughed now, perhaps a little more than the occasion demanded, for she knew a small joke of her own. Dotty, too, controlled her smiles discreetly and as the subject was lightly passed over, no one suspected that the postponement was due to Dolly's endeavours. "Bernice Forbes is going to have a party," Dolly said, after a time. "Is she?" said Mrs. Fayre, interestedly. "When?" "On the thirtieth. It's her birthday. I 'spect it will be a lovely party. Can I have a new frock, Mother?" "Why, I think so. You need one more new party dress this winter, and you may as well have it for that occasion." "I thought Bernice wasn't much liked by your crowd," said Trudy. "Well, she isn't a favourite," said Dolly, slowly, "but I think she's better liked than she used to be. Anyway, everybody'll be glad to go to her party." "Yes," said Trudy, "and then talk about her afterward! I think that's mean." "I do too," chimed in Dotty. "But Bernice is nicer than she used to be, more pleasant, you know. And maybe there won't be anything to say about her party, except nice things." "She'll probably have a brass band and supper from New York," laughed Trudy. "Well, I want you to be nice to her, Dolly," said Mr. Fayre. "Mr. Forbes has been exceedingly kind to me of late, and if you can do anything for his motherless girl, you do it." "Yes, Dad," said Dolly, meekly, though her heart was singing for joy that she was already carrying out her father's wishes. "Why I thought Mr. Forbes was an awful strict, stern man," said Trudy. "He is," returned her father. "And he's a just and particular man, in his business relations, as, of course, he ought to be." "Couldn't you ask him, Father, not to let us go away from Berwick?" suggested Dolly, timidly. "Gracious, no, child. I wouldn't dream of such a thing! If he says go, I must go. But he spoke to-day as if the matter were still in abeyance—" "In where?" "Never mind your geography, Dollums. You wouldn't find abeyance in any Christian country. I mean he spoke as if my going away is still uncertain." "Oh! Well, I'm glad of it. Every day here counts." Before Bernice's birthday party came off Dolly had much to do. And Dotty ably aided and abetted her plans. They lost no opportunity to hint to the girls and boys of Bernice's good traits. They even said to some, that she had been misunderstood and enlisted their sympathies for the new candidate for favours. Bernice herself tried hard to do her part. Naturally shy, hers was the disposition that takes quick offence at a seeming slight, and supersensitive to such, she often felt like returning a haughty stare. But she remembered Dolly's instructions, and managed fairly well to control her quick temper, and overlook many things. A few days before the party Bob Rose and Bert Fayre came home from their school for the Thanksgiving vacation. Great rejoicing was in the two families at this event. Dotty had returned home, Genie being all well again, and Treasure House was the daily meeting place of the quartette. "My stars! girls, but this is fine!" declared Bert, as the Two D's showed off their possessions. "You bet it is!" chimed in Bob, as he paraded round the House, taking in all its glories. It was the day of their return, they hadn't been in town ten minutes before they were rushed over to the wonderful Treasure House. "And catch onto the dinky kitchen business! Can you cook, oh, Treasure ladies?" "Some," said Dolly, smiling at the recollection of the feast that failed. "Pshaw! We'll show you how. Say we begin now. What you got on hand?" "Oh, wait, Bert! don't upset things!" cried Dolly, in dismay, for her brother was ruthlessly rummaging in the cupboard for goodies. "Unhand me, villain!" and Bert shook off Dolly's restraining hand. "I seek what I seek!" and with a flourish he brought out a package of chocolate and the sugar bowl. "Fee fi fo fum, I smell the scent of Fudgerum. Go to it, Dollops! See how quick you can turn out a panful!" Bert took out his watch as if to time her. "One, two three! Go!" Falling into the spirit of the thing, Dolly whisked out a sauce-pan and long-handled spoon, while twice as quickly, Dotty seized a knife and began to shave off the chocolate. Fudge was a thing they _could_ make, with no chance of failure, so the two worked smoothly together, and in an incredibly short time, the delectable compound was cooling, to be cut into squares. "You're the right sort of sisters for a chap to have," said Bob, looking admiringly at the two smiling, flushed faces before him. "You're two pretty good brothers," Dotty flashed back, and Bert remarked. "Cut out the taffy, and look after the fudge." So they marked it off in squares and diamonds, and the impatient boys began on it at once. "Guess we'll bring home some chaps for the Christmas Vake, hey, Bob?" and Bert nodded at his chum. "That's a go. But not many, for this house has all the modern improvements, except size, it seems to me." "Oh, it holds quite a good many," Dolly said; "we've had sixteen here at a time and it wasn't so awfully crowded." "All right. We'll bring Chalk and Cheese, eh, Bert?" "Yep. Give me another piece of fudge, Dollums." "You'll be very exceedingly ill," remarked Dolly, gravely, as she handed her brother the plate. "Now, see here, Bert, and you, too, Bob, I've got you sweetened up, I want to tell you something. To ask you something, rather." "Clever Dolly! First fudge, then demands. Well, go ahead. To the half of my kingdom!" "Now, listen, I'm serious. It's about Bernice Forbes." "No, you don't!" and Bert grinned. "I know the fair Bernie! None for this citizen, thank you! What you want? Me to take her to a party, I'll bet. Well, you lose! See?" "Now, Bert, be quiet," and Dolly gave him a pleading glance. "Don't jump at things so. Be still a minute." "All right," put in Bob. "My chum, at his sister's request, will now be mum. But I'll take the floor. I hereby assent that Us Two, being for the moment in a position to grace the fair town of Berwick by our gracious presence, utterly decline to spoil our all too short stay in these parts, by so much as an allusion to the impossible Forbes damsel." "But you _must_ listen," and Dolly looked so honestly distressed, that the boys woke up to the fact that she was serious. "Fire away, then," said Bert, "but cut it short. What's it all about?" "It's this," burst out Dotty, for Dolly couldn't seem to find the right words. "We're booming Bernice. And you two have got to help!" "Help! Help!" cried Bert, faintly. "Do I get you aright?" "You do!" and Dotty wagged her black head, vigorously. "You sure do! Now, the situation is this—" "Let me tell," said Dolly, who had recovered her nerve. "For reasons of my own, which I will not explain at present, but which affect you, Bert, as much as me, it is necessary that we make Bernice popular—" "What!" exploded Bob. "Bernice popular! Oh, Jiminy Crickets! that's a good one!" "Yes, popular," repeated Dolly, severely. "And if it seems so difficult to you, then there will be all the more glory in accomplishing it. Now, don't stop to argue; just realise that we're going to do it. Look on it as a stunt, to be wrastled somehow, and—and chip in and help us. Are you wid us or agin us?" Dolly was standing now, and flung out her arms like an importunate orator, pleading for the sympathies of his audience. A determined fire shone in her deep blue eyes, a determined smile curved her red lips, and as she paused for a reply, Bob shouted, "To the last ditch!" "Good for you!" and Dolly thanked him with a beaming smile. "Now, Bert, of course you're in it, too. So here's the game. We four are to do all we can, in a clever and quiet way, to make Bernice Forbes' party a howling success, and—" "Told you it was a party!" growled Bert. "Hate parties!" "No, you don't hate parties. You love 'em. And this party is next Tuesday, and if you two boys don't go in and win,—for me—you're no good!" "What's it to you, Doll?" asked her brother, detecting the earnest note in Dolly's voice. "It means a lot, Bert," and Dolly's voice shook a little. "But never mind that now. You two just do as we girls—" "Ours not to reason why," exclaimed Bob; "ours but to do or die! and we'll do anything or anybody you say. Now, as to details, what is our special rôle at this party racket?" "Just this," said Dotty. "To push up Bernice's stock! Be awfully nice to her yourselves. Make the other boys be nice to her, too. See that she has a partner for every dance and a good time at every game,—or whatever they have. Hover round her at supper time, and in general make her think she's It!" "Well, Sweet Sister, what you say, goes! But you've given us a pretty large order! You know the lady, I take it?" "Yes, but you don't. At least, you don't know that she's a heap nicer than she used to be. Also, you don't know what a great big whopping reason there is for all this. If you did, you'd—why, you'd fly over there at once, there'd be no holding you!" "And can't we know?" "Not just now," said Dolly, looking mysterious. "Some day, if you're good, I may tell you. Till then, you must work in the dark. Oh, you _are_ good boys! I knew I could depend on you! Have some more fudge." "Oh thank you _so_ much! Say, if we promise to do all and more than mortal can ask to further that crazy project of yours, can we drop the subject for now?" "Yes, but remember you've promised," and Dotty shook her finger at the two jolly boys, who were willing to please their sisters, but who took little interest in Bernice Forbes and her success. "Seems to me," observed Bob, as they returned to discussion of Treasure House, "that this is too good a piece of property for two simple girls! Why, it's worthy of boy occupants. Want to rent it?" "No-sir-ee, Bob!" laughed Dolly. "We've been weeks getting it into shape, and fixed just exactly as we want it, and we don't propose to have a lot of boys rampoosing all over it. You are invited to inspect it,—and then I don't know as you'll be asked again." "Well, I like that! Why, we supposed you'd give us the freedom of it while we're at home, at least." "Oh, we won't lock you out, except when we're studying," said Dotty. "But there won't be much studying while you're home, for it's our vacation too." Just then a rap sounded on the brass knocker of Treasure House, and Bob flung open the door to admit the three Rawlins and two Browns. "Hullo," cried Tad and Tod together; "when did you fellows get home?" "Just to-day," answered Bert, as they all said hullo to each other and then found seats for themselves on chairs, window-boxes or floor. And then a general chattering broke loose. Everybody talked at once, and Bob and Bert were welcomed back like long lost brothers. But soon the boys all had their heads together, telling of Clayton's wonderful new football, and the girls had grouped themselves on the other side of the room and were eagerly discussing Bernice's party. "We're going, now, Doll," shouted Bert. "Going over to Clayt's. All us fellows. Don't weep, ladies, but we _must_ leave you now." "All right," said Dotty. "We can spare you. Of course, we just hate to have you go, but if you must—" "Oh, we'll come back. But it's too great a day to stay inside. You girls had better go out for a run yourselves." "Maybe we will," said Dolly. "But wait a minute, boys. I want to ask you something. Won't you each promise to dance twice with Bernice at her party?" "Goodness, gracious! Bernice again!" and Tod Brown pretended to fall in a faint. "Yes, again and yet and all the time!" declared Dolly, laughing at Tod's ridiculous antics. "Now, own up, you know you can't go to her party and not dance with her—" "Why go?" demanded Clayton. "Of course you'll go! Wild horses couldn't keep you away! But as you're going, why not be decent about it, and do the really nice thing? If each of you will dance twice, and a few others once, she will have all the partners she wants." "Are you her press agent, Dolly? What has come over you?" asked Tad. "Never you mind about that. You just do as I say." Now Tad was pretty apt to do as Dolly said, and so he bowed and scraped, saying, "What you say goes. Two is _my_ number. Hey, fellows?" "Two it is!" sung out Tod, and the rest voiced agreement. "Now can we go, mum?" begged Tad. "Yes," said Dolly, "you're good boys, and you may run and play." "What _are_ you up to, Dolly?" asked Grace, as the boys ran off, laughing and jumping about. "Gracie, you know how much I want to make Bernice more popular. Well, this is my chance, and I want all you girls to help me. If we take her up and are nice to her, the boys will do as we tell them, and the other girls will fall in line, and it will be all right. But if we fall down on it, the whole plan will drop through. _Do_ be on my side, won't you, Grace?" Wily Dolly knew that Ethel would do whatever Grace did, and also that Maisie May would agree to whatever the Rawlinses agreed to. "Yes, I will," declared Grace. "I think we haven't been very nice to Bernice, and I'm ready to try to be friends with her, if she'll have it. But, Dolly, you know she isn't very easy to be nice to." "I know, Grace, but I think we'll find her better natured nowadays. Any way, let's be awful nice to her at her own party, and try to make it a grand success." "All right," said Grace, "I'll do all _I_ can." "_Me_ too," said Ethel, and then Dolly was satisfied. # CHAPTER XVII: BOOMING BERNICE DOLLY hesitated about telling Bert of her plans. She wanted him to know the importance of the matter, and yet, she feared he would disapprove of the whole idea. So she put off telling him, and now the very day had arrived, and she had a feeling that he must know before he went to the party. Dolly was dressed early. She had on her new frock, and a dainty, pretty affair it was. Made of white net, it was frilled with many little outstanding ruffles, edged with blue silk. Tiny garlands of blue forget-me-nots headed the flounces, and edged the round neck of the bodice. Her golden curls were caught back by a pearl barrette and a delicate wreath of forget-me-nots encircled her head. Dotty's dress was just like Dolly's, with pink rosebuds in place of the blue flowers. Of course the quartette were to go together, but there was yet nearly half an hour before time to start. Dolly sat in her room, thinking it out, and at last decided to tell Bert. She went to his room, and found him deeply absorbed in tying his necktie. She sat down and waited, silently, being too wise to interrupt the engrossing performance. At last the bow was completed to the young man's satisfaction. "Hello, Dolls," he said, to her reflection in his mirror. "Here for criticism or commendation?" and he looked leniently on the pretty new frock. "Neither. And we've only a few minutes, so, listen, Bert, I want to tell you something." "Fire away," and the preoccupied boy looked over a pile of handkerchiefs. Dolly spoke quickly and to the point. She told him of her bargain with Bernice and all she hoped from it. "You see, I couldn't,—I just _couldn't_ leave Berwick and Dot, so I tried this plan, and I hope,—oh,—I most _know_ it will succeed!" "Dorinda Fayre, you're a hummer!" was Bert's comment, and he sat down on the edge of his bed, and looked at his sister. "What _do_ you s'pose dad would say if he knew?" "He _mustn't_ know. But, it isn't wrong, is it?" "Why, no, I don't say it's wrong, exactly, but it's—why, Doll, it's crazy! That's what it is, crazy!" "I don't care how crazy it is, if it works. Why, Bert, anybody can go to Buffalo as well as for us to go. And probably the other man wants to go, and father doesn't. And I don't, and Trudy doesn't—" "Does Trudy know of your stroke of state?" "No, indeed. She'd tell, and dad and mother might put a stop to it. Now, Bert, _you'll_ help me, _won't_ you?" Dolly had the whip hand, and she knew it. Bert was very proud of his pretty sister, and as she smiled winsomely, in all the bravery of her party array, he hadn't the heart to refuse her. Moreover, though he was amazed at her daring project, it seemed to him possible, owing to Mr. Forbes' indulgence of his daughter's whims. "Why, of course, Dollops, I'll do whatever I can—" "Oh, you _dear_ old Bert! I was _so_ afraid you wouldn't! You can do such heaps, you know! Now, let's start, and you must just remember every minute at the party, that you're booming Bernice. Get the boys to show her attentions, but _don't_ for goodness' sake, let them know what you're up to!" "Dollydoodle! Do you think I'm a ninny! Don't tell _me_ how to conduct this publicity campaign! Give me credit for a grain of sense,—and leave all to me!" Bert waved his hand with a lordly air, and Dolly felt a great weight lifted from her shoulders. If Bert took the initiative like that, he was sure to succeed. "Does Bob know?" he asked. "No, I don't want to tell Bob, if we can help it. Dotty promised not to tell anybody. Can't we manage without letting any more know, than do know?" "I 'spect so, Kiddy. Run along, and get your bonnet and shawl and let's get at this world-beating game." Dolly ran away for her wraps with a light heart. What a _dear_ Bert was, to be sure! Trudy helped her on with her pretty party cape, and adjusted a chiffon scarf over the curly head. Then she kissed her good-bye, and the brother and sister started forth. They stopped next door for the Roses, and all went to the Forbes house together. They were the first arrivals, which suited Dolly's plans. The house looked very beautiful, decorated as it was with flowers and palms. In the music room they could hear a harp and violin being tuned, and then Bernice herself came smiling, to greet them, arrayed in a stunning gown of gold-coloured crêpe, embroidered with poppies. It was over elaborate for so young a girl, but it suited Bernice's dark hair and clear, olive skin. Mr. Forbes stood by, pleasant and amiable, but with a natural stiffness of manner, which he found it hard to overcome. Mrs. Forbes had been dead for many years, and Bernice had had little, if any company, so that Mr. Forbes had drawn more and more into himself, and had become a sort of hermit. But this evening, he tried to be sociable, even jovial, and he succeeded fairly well. The two lived alone, save for a small army of servants. It was Mr. Forbes' theory that an American girl is capable of looking after herself, and he desired no governess or companion for his daughter. So Bernice had grown up, with no other mentor than her own sweet will, for her father never interfered or advised in household matters. There was a housekeeper, but she merely ordered the kitchen department, and had no supervision over Bernice. The party would have been far more elaborate, had Bernice had her own way. But Dolly, not wanting her protégée to be criticised by the mothers of the Berwick young people, had persuaded her to keep it simpler in details than she wanted to. "What's the use of having plenty of money if you don't spend it?" Bernice had demanded. And Dolly had not attempted to answer her, but had merely reminded her that she had promised to do her part to reach their mutual goal, and that to abide by Dolly's decisions would favour their cause. So there were only three pieces of music instead of a full orchestra. Only a simple, though fine and bountiful supper, instead of the gorgeous repast Bernice would have preferred. And only a proper amount of floral decoration, instead of a city florist's extreme effort. But the house looked lovely, and the dining-room, as Dolly flew out to snatch a glance at it, was tastefully arranged. "Awfully good of you, Mr. Forbes," said Dolly, smiling at the rather bewildered-looking man, "to let us have this pleasure." "Not at all, not at all," said the railroad magnate, rubbing his hands. "Might just as well have had more. More music, more people, more fal-lals. I said to Bernie, ‘If you're doing it, why not do it up brown?' But she said—" "She said, ‘This _is_ brown,'" said Dolly, laughing. "And it is, Mr. Forbes. You know yourself, Bernie is too young for a real live ball, and that's what it would be, if she had it much more grand than this. How beautiful your house is," and Dolly looked around admiringly. "Glad you think so. Hasn't been re-decorated or fixed up since my wife died. Guess I'll have to furbish it up a little if Bernie is going to be in gay society." "She surely is. You can't keep such a pretty girl all to yourself always, Mr. Forbes." "No, I s'pose not—I s'pose not. Well, I want her to enjoy herself. She's like her mother. Her mother was a great one for gaiety. Run along, now, Miss Dolly, and join your young friends. You mustn't be wasting time on an old man like me." Dolly smiled at him, and then went over to the group already forming around Bernice. But she had a new bee in her bonnet. Nothing more nor less than to make friends with Mr. Forbes himself, and if need be, plead with him for her father's stay in Berwick. Dolly's was a single-minded nature. She had set her heart and mind to this plan of hers and she bent everything toward her aim. Buoyed up with hope, she came laughingly toward the young people. "Ah, there, Dolly Fayre," sang out Tad Brown, "thought you had deserted us." "No, indeed! I'm helping Bernice receive,—that's why I spend my time talking to her father," and Dolly laughed whimsically. Gay as a butterfly, she smiled and chatted with everybody, but also kept a strict watch over her helpers in the game. Nor was she disappointed. In a moment, she heard Bert and Bob both pleading with Bernice for the first dance. "You _must_ give it to me," said Bert, "'cause I'm Dolly's pet brother." "But I'm Dotty's ditto," urged Bob. "And besides, I'm a much better dancer than Bert Fayre." "Then give it to me out of charity," said Bert. "Have pity on a poor hobble-de-hoy!" Unaccustomed to this flattering style of conversation, Bernice blushed with pleasure, and grew coquettish. "Maybe I won't give it to either of you," she smiled. "Maybe it's already engaged." "Oh, say not so!" and Bert assumed a tragic pose. "But if it be, tell me the miscreant who dares aspire, and let me at him!" "Me too," chimed in Bob. "Oh, surely, certainly me, too! Let us _both_ at him!" The boys were so ridiculous that Bernice burst into laughter, and Mr. Forbes drew nearer to see what it was all about. Others did too, and the result was that Bernice was the centre of a jolly group. She finally settled the matter by dividing the first dance and giving half to each of her suppliants. And each claimed two more dances later on; and others flocked around asking Bernice for her dance card, until very shortly, her card was filled, with several down for extras. Bernice was supremely happy. Only a girl who has been a wall-flower frequently, can appreciate the pleasure she felt in being besought for dances. Dolly was satisfied with the behaviour of her colleagues. Not only the boys were doing their part nobly, but the girls were now and then chatting cordially with Bernice, and acting as if she were one of them. "All serene, Dolly?" asked Bob, as he came up to claim one of his dances with her. "Yes, indeed," and Dolly's eyes shone. "You're a trump, Bob! I thank you a thousand bushels." "Oh, it isn't so hard. Bernie has improved a lot since last we met. She isn't nearly so pettish and stickery as she used to be. And she's mighty pretty, beside." "Yes, isn't she! And that dress is stunning on her." "Rather grown-uppish, isn't it? I like yours and Dot's better. But I'm not much on parties, anyhow. These dance affairs bore me stiff." "Why, I thought you liked them. A college boy ought to be crazy about dances." "Oh, I s'pose they're good enough, but I like better a rollicking picnic, or something outdoorsy." "Silly! You can't have picnics in winter!" "Well, you can have outdoor sports. There ought to be skating to-morrow, I think. It's getting awfully cold." "I wish there would be, I love to skate." "So do I. If there is any to-morrow, will you go?" "Will I! Well, I just guess I will!" "But hold on. Say, Dolly, if we go skating, have we got to lug the Bernice person along?" "Bob, I'm ashamed of you! Just when I think I've got you well trained, you act up like that! Why, of _course_ we have. She's my chum; and what you do for her, you do for me." "Oh, jiminetty! I do hate outsiders. You and Dot and Bert and Yours Truly make such a jolly four. Why drag in others?" "Got to be done. Now, don't whine over it, just make up your mind to it. Let's make a skating party for to-morrow afternoon, of about eight, and then afterward go back to Treasure House and make fudge or something like that." "All right on the fudge. But instead of eight, say four." "No, sir! Eight it is, and _I'll_ do the inviting!" Dolly had found out that Bob's bark was worse than his bite. He might growl at the things she asked him to do, but he did them and did them well. As for Bert, he was putting things through with a dash. He not only danced with Bernice, but he sought her out between dances, and joked and laughed as he passed her on the dancing floor, and many times brought her to the attention of others in a way to win admiration for her. At supper time the "crowd" got together in a corner of the big dining-room. "_What_ a table!" exclaimed Tod Brown. "Oh, what a feast for the gods!" "Make believe we're little tin gods, and get us some of it," suggested Bert, who was seated by Bernice. "I daren't leave my seat. It might be snatched by a less worthy occupant. You do the foraging act, Tad,—and get some little helpers." There were waiters, but the "crowd" often thought it preferable to have some of their "own boys" secure viands for them. So Tad and Clayton Rawlins and Lollie and Joe started, and soon returned with what Joe called "the pick of the lot." "What gorgeous foods!" cried Dolly. "And I'm starving with hunger." "So'm I," declared Grace. "May I have a tiny sandwich?" "A tiny sandwich doesn't seem to match Grace Rawlins!" chaffed Joe. "Here's a plateful, my girl!" "None too many," said Grace, good-naturedly. "Have some of mine, Bernice?" Almost beside herself with joy at being really in the crowd, Bernice smiled and joked with the rest, and in their hearts most of them decided she "wasn't half-bad after all." Celia Ferris was not so willing as the others to accept Bernice as one of them, and she stood a little aloof. "I must go for Celia," thought Dolly, as she looked the group over, and found most of them acting in accordance with her orders. So finding opportunity, she said to Celia, "Bernice makes a good hostess, doesn't she?" "Good nothing!" exclaimed Celia, in a whisper. "What's the matter with everybody to rave over her, all of a sudden?" "Well, I think she's worth raving over," Dolly defended. "Don't you?" "'Deed I don't! And I, for one, won't toady to her just 'cause she's rich and lives in a big house—" "Oh, Celia," and Dolly laughed outright; "how ridiculous! _Do_ you s'pose, for a minute, that Bert and Bob are nice to Bernice for any such reasons? You know better!" "I don't know as they are,—but you and Dotty Rose are." "No, we're not. I like Bernice for far other reasons than that. And you'd better, too, unless you want to be in the minority." And with this, Dolly turned on her heel and left the astonished Celia with something to think about. # CHAPTER XVIII: BERT AND THE BARGAIN THE day after Bernice's party everybody went skating. A lake on the outskirts of Berwick obligingly froze itself over with a sufficient thickness of ice to be entirely safe. So the whole of the younger population put itself on runners. The Fayres and Roses arrived early in the afternoon. Encased in warm sweaters and knit caps, they braved the cold, and were soon swaying along the glassy surface. Dolly and Dotty had decided not to call it a skating party, but after they tired of the ice, to ask half a dozen or so to go back with them to Treasure House. Later Bernice came, alone. She wore a new skating suit of green cloth, fur-trimmed, and a jaunty green cap with a red feather. "There's Bernice," said Dolly quickly to Bert. "You must go and skate with her." "Won't do it. I did my duty last night, and I'm tired of the game. Get somebody else." Bert laughed good-naturedly, and skated off with Maisie May, who had not heard the colloquy of the brother and sister. Now Bernice, by reason of her good time the night before, seemed to take it for granted that her star was in the ascendant. "Here I am!" she cried, gaily. "Who bids for the honour of the first skate with me?" She couldn't have chosen a worse speech. It was full of arrogance, and her condescending smile as she swung her skates in her hand, did not attract the boys who were present. "Come on, Dotty," said Joe Collins, "let's skate off. I don't want any Forbes in mine this afternoon." Dotty hesitated, for she had promised Dolly to help her, but Joe urged her away and the two skated off. Dolly went straight to Bernice, and said in a low tone: "Don't talk that way, Bernie! You scare them all off. They won't stand your putting on airs." "Airs, nothing!" cried Bernice. "Don't tell _me_ how to behave, Dolly Fayre! Hello, there, Tad Brown. Put on my skates for me, won't you?" Thus summoned, Tad had to obey, and after the skates were adjusted, Bernice said, "Now, for a glide," and perforce Tad skated with her. But he made a grimace over his shoulder at Dolly, and Bernice saw it. "I won't go with you, you rude thing!" she exclaimed. "I saw you wink at Dolly Fayre!" "Well," Tad exclaimed, "haven't I a right to wink if I want to?" "But I know what you meant, you meant you didn't want to skate with me. Come, now, didn't you?" "If I did, I wouldn't tell you so," said Tad, half-laughing at Bernice's angry face. And this so enraged her, that she turned and left him, and skated off alone. Dolly was in despair. Was all her plan to fall through because Bernice herself couldn't make good? "What matter, Dollsie?" said Lollie Henry, just arriving, and seeing the woebegone face. "Oh, Lollie, you're my friend! _Do_ help me out! _Please_ go and skate with Bernice, and be awfully nice to her, no matter _what_ she says. Won't you, Lollie, please?" "Sure!" said Lollie, looking into the pleading blue eyes. "What you say, goes. Me to the Bernie!" He skated after Bernice, overtook her, and holding out his hands said, "You're a dandy skater, catch on!" Gladly Bernice joined hands, and in a moment they were gaily skating among the others. Dolly, delighted at the sight, looked about for somebody to skate with, herself. A laughing face peeped from behind a tree, and Reggie Stuart came cautiously forth. "Hid from the other one," he explained. "Thought you'd never get her fixed up. Why are _you_ in charge of her goings and comings, Dolly?" "'Cause I want to be. Now, you be good, Reg. If you're my friend, you've got to be Bernice's, too. Come on, let's skate. I'm bothered in my head and perhaps it will tangle up my feet, but we'll try." It didn't; on the contrary, the delightful exercise soothed Dolly's wrought-up nerves, and with every stroke she became more her own gay, merry self. "Look out for yourself!" she cried, as Reggie nearly tripped over a chunk of ice. "Yes, I _am_ a tangle-footed jay! Always getting in the way!" "Nonsense! You're a fine skater! Let's catch up to Dot and Joe." As the afternoon wore on, Dolly saw several times that Bernice was standing alone and neglected. Several of the boys, at Dolly's insistence, or at Dotty's request, had skated with her, but only for short excursions, and somehow all the popularity that Bernice had enjoyed the night before seemed to be fading away. "Oh, dear," Dolly sighed to herself, "I'm going to fail, after all. Last night, it was at her house, so the boys and girls _had_ to be decent, but they won't keep it up, and it's all Bernie's fault. I've done all I can. But I _won't_ give up! I _can't_! I must succeed!" In desperation she flew over to Bob Rose. "Bob, please, for my sake, _do_ go and skate with Bernice!" "Good gracious, Dolly! Why this heart-rending plea? I'll do it, if I must, but I'd a lot rather skate with you. She's so—so—dressy, you see." "Never mind, just _go_! And _stay_, and keep on skating with her till somebody else asks her." "Whew! That'll be till—well, off I go!" Off Bob went, and was so pleasantly polite and courteous that Bernice had no suspicion that he had been asked to come. "Hello," he said, cordially. "May I have the honour of a glide with the girl in green?" Bernice smiled, and consented gladly. She was a good skater, and they glided evenly along. "Great little old lake, isn't it?" said Bob, as they flew on. "We haven't such a good skating place at school. Only a skinny little river, that hardly ever freezes solid." But before Bernice could respond, they heard Bob's name called by a loud voice on shore, and looking hack, they saw Mr. Rose in his motor-car, beckoning to Bob. "'Scuse me just a minute," said the boy and ran to see what his father wanted. "Awfully sorry," he said as he returned, "but I've got to go off with Dad. It's a special matter, or I wouldn't leave you. We must have another skate together, before I go back." With a wave of his cap, Bob ran off to join his father, and Bernice was alone again. Again Dolly came to the rescue. This time she went for Bert, who was skating with Dotty. "Bert Fayre," she began, "you go straight and skate with Bernie, and you make her have a good time, and don't let her know I sent you. Go right off, and don't muff it! Do it up _right_. I'm about all in, and this game is going to be too much for me, unless _somebody_ helps me and helps me right. Go on, now,—and Dot and I will skate together." Impressed by Dolly's tense voice and harassed face, Bert obeyed. "All right, little sister," he said. "Trust big buddie to do it up to the queen's taste. Tra-la-la!" with a flourishing bow. Bert left the two girls and skated over to where Bernice stood, looking pettish and sulky. "Ah, there, Diana," greeted Bert; "been waiting for a chance at you. What did you do with Bob?" "His father came, and he had to go away." "Good boy to obey his daddy, and thereby let me have his place. Come for a whirl?" "Do you want me to?" and Bernice looked coquettish. "Sure! Been living all my life for this moment! Wow! You're a peach of a skater! All crosspatch girls are." "What!" and Bernice stopped short, thinking she could not have heard aright. "You heard me," said Bert, carelessly. "Why? Didn't you know you're crosspatch? It's written in every line of your expressive face." Bert was laughing so pleasantly, that Bernice was bewildered. Did he mean what he was saying? Was it a joke? Or what was the explanation? "Needn't get huffy," Bert went on. "I s'pose you can't help it. Pity, too, such a nice girl spoiled by bad temper! Well, I don't mind; I like crosspatches myself." "I think you're very rude!" and Bernice tried to draw her hand from his. "I don't want to skate with you." "Oh, yes, you do, too. I'm one of the nicest boys here. And you've no reason to get mad. I'm only telling you the truth. And of course you want to be cross, or you wouldn't be so." "I'm _not_ cross!" "Oh, _no_! No! You're our little ray o' sunshine! Oh, _yes_!" As a matter of fact, Bernice was in a towering rage. She had never before been spoken to like this, and she didn't know what to make of it. But it was difficult to be angry at a boy who grinned in a most friendly manner, even while he said such impertinent things. "Now, look here, Bernice Forbes," Bert went on, as they skated smoothly along, "I know all about your bargain with my sister. I think it's a crazy idea, but all the same, I think it's a fair deal. And I want to help. But Dolly doesn't need help, _she_ can do all she has set out to do. So, I want to help you. Mayn't I?" Bert's frank, boyish face was very wheedlesome, and as he smiled at Bernice, she saw he was in earnest and in a kindly, whole-souled way meant just what he said. "I think you're the strangest boy I ever saw!" she exclaimed. "All right, let it go at that. But let's have this thing out. Are you willing to let me help you?" "Help me what?" "Don't let's pretend. You know what I mean, or,—if you want it in plain English,—help you to be one of the most popular girls in Berwick, which is what you _ought_ to be, and _can_ be as well as not." "No, I can't. I've tried—" "Excuse me, you haven't tried. At least, not in the right way." "What is the right way?" "Ah, you ask that. Then, you are willing to let me help you?" "Of course I am, if you can do it." "Then, first of all, you must remove that chip from your shoulder." Bert spoke so earnestly, that Bernice involuntarily glanced at her shoulder. "Yes, it's there," said Bert gravely. "You see, Bernie, you think the world owes you a living, and the world is not sure that it does. So you've got to earn that living." "Earn my own living! Why, my father—" "Oh, can't you understand parables? I mean, you think Berwick owes you a liking, then, and really, you've got to _make_ Berwick like you. Berwick, in this case, meaning the dozen or so boys and girls of our set." "Well, then, if you know so much, how am I to make them?" "First, as I said, dislodge that very large and elegant chip that adorns your shoulder,—meaning, don't feel grouchy toward people because they don't run and fall on your neck as you approach." "Why, Bert Fayre, you're awful!" "'Course I'm awful, but I've simply got to put it to you straight. I know what Dolly's after, and I know you can give it to her, and yet, it will all be of no use if you don't play up yourself. You will, Bernice, won't you?" "Yes, I will. But I don't know how." "Yes, you _do_ know how, only you find it hard. All you have to do to make people like you and want to be with you, is to like them and be nice to them. You can't just sit around accepting,—you must give." "Give what?" "Smiles, kindliness, gaiety, fun, nonsense, real true understanding, and all the things that go to make a tiptop girl." "Like Dolly?" "Yes, like my sister, and Dot Rose and Maisie May, and the Rawlins girls—" "Everybody except me!" "Well, if you see it that way, then act so you'll put yourself in the bunch." "I'm going to try, Bert. You've given me a new idea." "I know; you thought Dolly could do it all, and you just sit back and take favours as they drop in your lap. Well, probably you can do that some day, but first, you've got to make good. See?" Bernice had only a chance for an answering smile, when Dolly called to them to come on, as they were going home. Bert and Bernice turned back, and joined the others, took off their skates and started homeward. The crowd separated to take their various ways, and the two D's asked a few to go to Treasure House with them for a fudge feast. "Better come," said Bert to Bernice. "The girls make ripping fudge." And very gladly Bernice went along. Dolly had not meant to ask her, for she was wearied with her afternoon's efforts and a little discouraged. But she seconded Bert's invitation, and with the two Browns and Lollie, they all went to Treasure House. The boys built up a roaring log fire while the girls went to the kitchenette to make the cherished fudge. "Let me help," said Bernice in such a gay, sunshiny voice that Dotty looked up in surprise. "All right, Bernie," she said, meeting her half way. "You shave off this chocolate, and Doll and I will fix the other ingrejunts." All three worked with a will, and in the shortest possible time consistent with good fudge, the candy was ready. "Sim-pul-ly delicious!" exclaimed Lollie, rolling his eyes up. "Who made it?" "All of us," said Bernice, "but mostly Dolly and Dotty. I only helped." "It's the help part that tastes so good, then," and Bert smiled at her, with a knowing nod. This delighted Bernice, and expanding under the warmth of Bert's approval, she tried her best to be entertaining, and in gayest mood she chaffed and joked until she was really the centre of attraction. "Must go home now," she said, at last. "I just hate to leave, but Dad gets home at six, and he always wants to see his little girl there waiting for him." "Good-bye, Bernie, if you must go," said Dotty, and then all were surprised to hear Bert say, "I'll walk around with you,—it's sort of dusk." "Thank you," said Bernice in the nicest kind of way, and they started off. "Well," said Dolly, as the other boys had gone too, "Bert _is_ an old trump, after all. Bob was, too, only he was called off just at the wrong time." "He'll do his part yet," and Dotty wagged her head assuredly; "I'll make him!" "Do, Dot," said Dolly. # CHAPTER XIX: THE ELECTION IT cannot be denied that Dolly had a hard task before her in what she had undertaken. When Bert and Bob went back to school, she lost two very efficient helpers, and her own efforts seemed to be unavailing. Dotty was willing enough to help, but she was so quick-tempered herself, she could do little for or with Bernice. And Bernice, herself, was most aggravating. Just as Dolly would get the girls and boys ready to do something nice for her, Bernice would break out in a pettish mood, or pick some silly quarrel, that interfered with all plans. "There's just this about it," Dolly said to Dotty, one afternoon, as they sat in Treasure House, talking it over, "we've got to do something desperate to boom Bernie, or I've got to give it all up, and then she won't ask her father to let us stay, and we'll have to go away from Berwick." The tears flooded her blue eyes, and rolled down her cheeks. Dotty, overcome by the thought, burst into violent weeping. "You shan't go, Dollyrinda! I won't let you! I can't spare you!" "But that's nonsense, Dot. We've got to go, if my plan falls through. And it has about fallen." "You said you'd speak to Mr. Forbes, himself." "I know, but I can't do that. I've thought it out, and I believe that would be wrong, because I know Dad wouldn't like me to do it. But to bargain with Bernice is different. Just two girls, you know." "Well, let's try some new plan. I'll tell you, Doll, let's make her Class President. We vote next week, you know. We'll electioneer,—or whatever you call it,—and make the whole class vote for her." "Yes! Make the whole class vote for her! I think I see them doing that!" "Well, we can get a majority, anyway. You and I can coax or bribe lots of the girls, and Tod and Tad will help round up the boys on our side." "Well," and Dolly brightened a little, "maybe we could do that. Bernie is so uncertain, lately. One day she's as sweet as pie, and then she's queer as a spidereen! Celia won't vote for her, I know that." "I bet I can make Celia vote for her. I know a way!" and Dotty wagged her head wisely. Dolly was too busy thinking to ask what the way was. "You see," she went on, "we mustn't let Bernice know we're getting votes for her, or she'll get mad." "No, she needn't know it, but we ought to get right at it, Doll." "Yes; let's go to see the Rawlins now." ~ It was uphill work from the beginning. The two D's canvassed the whole class, and found the tide of prejudice strongly against Bernice for President. This was no more than they had expected, and they set bravely to work to induce individual members to change their minds. Moreover the Brown boys declined to help. They were good chums of the two D's, and they rather liked Bernice, at times, but they didn't want her for Class President. They were nice about it, but very decided. So Lollie Henry was the only boy whom they could depend on for assistance. But he was willing to do anything, and expressed an intention of punching the heads of the fellows who refused to do as he advised them. "Oh, don't do that, Lollie," said Dolly, laughing to think what means were being proposed to aid her to gain her point. "Never mind using such strong measures,—just persuade them by argument." "You don't know the fellows as I do, Dolly. They won't listen to argument, and you just _have_ to punch them. But I'll do it gently, if you say so." "Bribe them," advised Dotty. "I got Minnie Dorlon over by giving her my fountain pen." "Bribery and corruption!" exclaimed Lollie. "That is much worse then punching heads!" "Oh, all ways are all right, if they work," Dolly declared. "The little bribes we offer won't hurt anybody. I'm going to get Celia Ferris's vote by means of my portfolio." "Dotty!" cried Dolly, "your new leather portfolio?" "Yep. Celia is just daffy over it, and says she'll vote for Bernice if I give her that, and on no other condition. Oh, I don't mind. And it's no harm to bribe in a little election like this. If the girls want these things, they might as well have 'em, and then we get their votes." "Not a bad idea," said Lollie, musingly. "I bet Jim Lee would vote for anybody, if I gave him my last year's skates. And I don't want them." "That's it," said Dotty. "Try every means, Lollie, and then we _must_ get the election." Bernice knew that she was a candidate for the Presidency, but she did not know how Dolly and Dotty were working for her election. She remarked to Dolly, that if she should be made President of the class she should consider it a mark of popularity more than almost anything else. "And you'll remember our bargain," said Dolly, eagerly. "Yes, I will. If I'm President, it'll be because the class likes me, of course, and I'm quite ready to admit that I owe that liking in great part to you." "And you'll do what you promised?" "Of course I will. I can easily make father arrange for your father to stay here. I sounded him, and I found out he'll do it if I say so." "Oh, Bernice, then I think you might do it, whether you get elected or not! For I've done everything I could for you, and I can't help the result." "No," and Bernice shut her lips tightly together; "I won't speak to father about it at all, if I'm not made President. A bargain is a bargain." ~ So Dolly redoubled her efforts. But the trouble was, the opposing candidate was a favourite of all, Molly Mooney, a girl who lived over on the other side of town, was not in the Two D's set, but she was a merry, good-natured girl, whom everybody liked. And so, many of the class declared their intention of voting for Molly Mooney, and couldn't be persuaded to alter their decision. It was a very trying situation, for Dolly couldn't explain _why_ she was so desperately anxious to have Bernice elected; and many of her best friends laughingly refused to listen when she urged them to vote on her side. The contest promised to be a close one. Up to the very day of the election, Dolly and Dotty never ceased trying to turn the tide in their favour. The two girls felt sure they would win, but Lollie said he was doubtful. He had persuaded Joe Collins to help him in his electioneering, and Joe was doing it for the fun of the thing. "I don't care a red cent," Joe said, "who is President. It's only a figurehead position anyway, when a girl holds it. The Committee decides everything. But if you two girls want Bernice so terribly, why I'll help all I can. She is in our set, and Molly Mooney isn't. Though Molly is an awful nice girl." So Joe hustled around, and announced the day of the election, that he had secured two more votes that morning. "But some are backing out," he added. "The fellows promise, and they go back on their word. Awful mean, but they do, all the same. Now, Hy Landon, he told me yesterday he'd vote for Bernice, and to-day he told Lollie he didn't intend to at all! So you can't tell." The election was to take place directly after school was out in the afternoon. All day, Dolly and Dotty were in a state of nervous excitement. Usually most exemplary of conduct in school hours, this day found them writing notes and whispering in the class rooms, and so preoccupied were they with the one idea, that each missed a lesson. "But," poor Dolly thought to herself, "it doesn't matter if I do miss my lessons, if I've got to move away from Berwick!" and then the tears would force themselves to her eyes, and she had to dab furtively with her handkerchief. After school, the two candidates went home. It was not the custom for them to stay to the election. Molly Mooney went off, laughing, and calling back to her friends to stand by her, and elect her. Bernice, on the other hand, walked off without a word; her head tossing haughtily, as if she had no concern in the matter. "The worst thing she could do!" fumed Dotty. "The ones ‘on the fence' will be put out at her manner, and will vote for Molly!" Some other business was transacted and then the election began. Even at the last minute a note was thrust into Dotty's hand. It was from Tod Brown and it said: "If I vote for Bernice, will you give me all the dances at the High School Christmas Dance?" "How perfectly ridiculous!" exclaimed Dotty to herself. And looking over at Tod, she said a noiseless but unmistakable "No!" "All right," Tod signalled back, "then I vote for Molly." "Oh, goodness!" thought the distracted Dotty, "what shall I do? It would be idiotic to dance every dance with him, and yet—if it means the casting vote—" She hastily scribbled a note which said, "I'll give you half." "Honest?" asked Tod, from across the room. "Cross your heart?" Hastily Dotty "crossed her heart" and Tod signified assent to voting for her candidate. "For," Dotty reasoned, "if Bernice isn't elected and Dolly goes away, I shan't go to the dance. And if Dolly stays, I'll be so glad I won't care _who_ I dance with!" The votes were taken and the tellers went into another room to count up. Breathlessly the Two D's awaited the result. It seemed as if the word would never come. At last, the door opened and the tellers came back. As soon as she saw their jubilant faces, Dolly knew her doom. They all wanted Molly, and it must be that Molly was elected judging from their smiling looks. And sure enough, the result, as stated, was that Molly Mooney was elected Class President by a majority of three. "How awfully close!" said everybody, and there was general rejoicing, for many of those who had promised to vote for Bernice and who did vote for her, really preferred Molly. Dolly said no word, but went to the cloakroom for her wraps. Dotty followed and two more gloomy, sad little countenances you never saw. They started homeward, alone, for they had hastened out before the others who went their way. "Where you going?" said Dotty, as Dolly turned a corner. "To see Bernice. I told her I'd come and tell her the result." "Want me to go with you?" "Yes, of course. Oh, Dot, she'll be awful mad." "I know it, but we did our best." "That doesn't matter. She'll be mad at me, all the same." And Bernice was. When the girls told her that Molly was Class President, she turned on Dolly like a little termagant. "I knew you couldn't run that thing, Dolly Fayre! You think yourself so smart, bossing everybody around, but you couldn't do just that one little thing!" "Don't you talk like that, Bernice," said Dotty, herself quite as angry. "Dolly worked like everything, and so did I. If you aren't the most popular girl in the class, we can't help it!" "I know you can't," said Bernice, dully, "but Dolly _said_ she could. That's what makes me mad; she said she'd accomplish something and she didn't do it." "No, I didn't, Bernice," admitted Dolly, "and I'm sorry. I suppose now you won't ask your father—" "Of course I won't! A bargain is a bargain. I said if I won the election, didn't I?" "Yes, you did." "Well, I didn't win it, did I?" "No." "Then that's all there is about it, _I_ think." "And you're not going to ask your father—" "I'm not going to ask my father anything. You haven't done what you said you would, for me, and I'm not bound to do anything for you!" "All right, Bernice, good-bye," and Dolly got up and left the room and went out of the house. She was so blinded by her irrepressible tears, that she didn't notice that Dotty wasn't with her. She stumbled home, and going to her room, she flung herself on her bed and had her cry out. Then she got up, bathed her eyes, and sat down to think it over. But there seemed to be nothing more to think of. She had tried her best and had failed. There was no other way to try, and no hope for remaining in Berwick now. To be sure she had said she would appeal to Mr. Forbes for her father's retention in his present position, but that plan didn't seem right, and she abandoned it. ~ Meantime, Dotty had stayed behind with Bernice. "You can do anything you please," Dotty said, her eyes blazing with anger, "but I'm going to tell you what I think of you! The idea of letting Dolly Fayre do all she has done for you and then refusing to use your influence with your father for her just because you lost the election! You ought to be ashamed of yourself!" "It isn't only that, but Dolly said she would make me one of the most popular girls in town and she hasn't done it. A bargain is a—" "Don't say that over again! You make me so mad. I _know_ a bargain is a bargain, but of course all Dolly could do, was to _try_ to make you popular, and she has done that. If she couldn't succeed, it's your fault, not hers!" "But I've tried too, Dotty." At this speech muttered in an humble voice, Dotty looked up in astonishment. Had she struck a right chord at last? "Have you, Bernie?" she said gently. "Perhaps if we _all_ tried again, we might yet win out. Not the presidency, that's settled, but there are other sorts of popularity." "I know. I don't care so much about the election, but it shows that nobody likes me." "No, it doesn't. It shows that you're very nearly as popular as Molly Mooney. For there was only a majority of three." "Only three! Why, you didn't tell me that! Why, Dotty, if that's all the difference there was in the count, it's almost as good as being elected! Only _three_!" "Yes, that's all. I didn't know you'd care what the count was, if you didn't win." "Why, of course I care! Don't you see that to come as close as that, shows that lots of them did want me?" Dotty knew it didn't show quite this, but still it was an indication of willingness to have Bernice, no matter for what reason. She followed up the advantage. "Then Bernice, if you realise that, don't you see that next time it might be a winning vote for you?" "Yes, it encourages me to keep on trying. Oh, Dotty, I have tried,—tried, I mean, to be so nice and gay and pleasant that they would like me." "I believe you have, Bernice. And I want you to promise me to keep on trying. Now, see here, give Dolly and me another chance. You bargained with her that she should have till the first of January to keep her part of the bargain. Now, here you're turning her down in the middle of December!" "That's so. That isn't fair." "No, it isn't. And you're always fair. Will you stick to your own bargain, and give her till the first of the New Year?" "Of course I will. You tell her so. And, say, Dotty, I do want to do this thing right, you know. I want to be liked for myself, not because Dolly's booming me. Don't you think I can?" "Of course you can, Bernie. You've only to be your own self,—your nicest self, you know,—and not give way to those stuck-up airs you used to show so much. Just be affable and willing to chum, and people will like you fast enough. Now, I must run. I want to tell Dolly what you've said, before she cries her eyes out. Good-bye, and thank you lots for this little talk,—we'll have another some day soon." # CHAPTER XX: THE CARNIVAL QUEEN "FATHER," said Bernice Forbes as the two sat at dinner that night, "are you a popular man?" "Bless my soul, Bernie! What do you mean?" "Just that, Dad. Are you popular among your friends and business associates?" "Well, that's a leading question, my girl; and I'm not sure I want to answer it. For, to tell the truth, Daughter, I'm not so very popular,—as popularity goes." "Why aren't you?" and Bernice looked serious. "Why are you asking?" "For a good reason, Daddy. Please tell me." "Well, then, Bernie, I'm not popular because I'm not willing to forget myself. To be honest, I'm a man of decided opinions,—among others, a pretty good opinion of myself,—and that sort of a nature doesn't command admiration from the crowd." "Don't you care, Father?" "Not much. I feel sometimes as if I'd like to be more chummy with my men friends; then I'm apt to say something to provoke them, and they rather evade me." "Dad, that's just my case. But I _do_ want to be popular. In school I mean,—and with the boys and girls. I've never been a favourite." "No? Well, you can be, easily enough, if you choose." "How?" "Simply by being agreeable always. And by agreeable, I don't mean plausibly polite, I mean actually to _agree_ with people. With what they say and what they do." "Whether I mean it, or not!" "Pshaw! I don't want you to tell falsehoods, of course. But if some one says, ‘I just adore sunflowers, don't you?' and you hate them, you needn't say, ‘No, I detest the horrid things!' but you can say, ‘They're such a brilliant yellow,' or ‘They do grow very tall,' or something generally acquiescent, instead of flatly disagreeing. Do you see?" "Some. And if anybody raves over a girl that I dislike, I suppose I can keep my mouth shut." "More than that. You can surely find something nice to say about the girl, even if you dislike other traits she has." "Yes, I s'pose I could. And if the girls do things that I can't abide, I 'spect I can at least refrain from criticism." "But that isn't enough, Bernie. You must seem to _like_ them, unless, of course, it's something really wrong. But if it's only a habit or a mannerism or a fashion, smile at it, and agree, even if your own private opinion is just the opposite. This is simple tact,—and will win popularity for you sooner than anything else." "There's something in what you say, Father. I've always held out for my own opinions and tastes in the most unimportant matters, and I see now, that's one reason why they call me ‘stuck-up' and ‘proudy.'" Mr. Forbes smiled. "I remember from my own schooldays, those are the most awful faults a child can have. I advise you, Honey, to quit such an attitude, and acquire the habit of agreeing. If Maisie May likes blue hair-ribbons and you like pink, say the blue are pretty. That can't hurt your conscience, for they _are_ pretty. And it will make Maisie feel far more friendly, than if you deride the blue." "Of course, Dad, your hair-ribbon example is a silly one, but it does express the idea. I've been too dictatorial, and self-sufficient. Now, I'm going to turn over a new leaf. I'm going to agree with everybody—" "In trifles, Bernie. Don't go so far as to misrepresent yourself in any matter of importance or any question of right or wrong. If any one tells you it's a fine day you needn't say _you_ think it raw and disagreeable. But if any one says it's a fine day, and it's pouring buckets,—then say it's raining and stick to it." "I see, Dad," and Bernice laughed. "I've got sense enough to understand what you mean. And I'm going to profit by it. Is this the sort of thing you don't do?" "I'm afraid it is, girlie. I have a naturally contrary disposition, and if any one says anything, it's my first impulse to contradict him. I've tried to correct this, but I'm too old a dog to learn new tricks. But you're young, and you ought to mend your ways, where mending is needed. Myself,—I think you're perfect, just as you are," and Mr. Forbes smiled fondly at his pretty daughter. "Dear old Dad! But I might be a better girl if you taught me more about behaviour and such things, than if you just approve of me." "Can't do it, Honey. To me you're a piece of perfection,—the apple of my eye. And all I ask is that you shall be happy and have everything you want. Is there anything I can give you, Dearie, that you don't possess?" "No, you dear old Father. But some day, soon, perhaps, I may ask a favour of you, a strange one, too." "All right, it's granted in advance. To the half of my kingdom,—and then, the other half!" Bernice was right. It would have been far better if Mr. Forbes had exercised a kind supervision over his daughter and her ways, instead of giving her this unquestioning approbation. But such was his nature, and the motherless girl suffered in consequence. However, Bernice took to heart her father's talk about being agreeable, and began at once to put it in practice. She was astonished to find how easy it was. Often she stifled an impulse to contradict, and discovered that she could honestly agree just as well. But it was slow work. Nobody seemed ready to meet her half-way. Even the Two D's had become disheartened, for the girls and boys tired of showing Bernice attention just because Dolly and Dotty asked them to. And about a week before the Christmas holidays, Mr. Fayre told his family that they might as well begin to pack up. "Nothing more will be said until after January first," he remarked, "but there seems no hope of a change of plans. You know what Forbes is. I'd rather not speak to him on the subject, and get snubbed for my pains." "But you might just ask him, Father," said Trudy. "I hate to resign from my club and give up my place on the Concert Committee, unless we're surely going away." "You may as well give them up, Trudy," answered her father, "for we're sure to go." "When?" asked Dolly, with a quivering lip. "About the middle of January, dear. I'm very sorry for you, Dolly, girlie, but you can have Dotty to visit you a lot, and you can visit her." "And Treasure House?" said Dolly, in a broken voice. "That we'll turn over to Dotty. We can't very well take it with us." "Oh, Daddy, it will _kill_ me!" and Dolly flung herself into her father's arms in a paroxysm of weeping. "There, there, dear little girl, it _is_ terribly hard, I know. But try to bear it, my darling little daughter. I'll do anything I can for you, to make up. Perhaps you can have another Treasure House in Buffalo. But not unless we're fairly sure of staying there permanently." "Oh, I don't _want_ another Treasure House! Nor another Dotty! I just want _this_ House and _this_ Dotty! Oh, I can't _stand_ it!" It was a long time before they could quiet the nervous and heartbroken child. At last, quite worn out, she went to bed, but not to sleep. She lay there, "thinking it out." "I must manage it somehow," she kept saying to herself. "There's Bernice, she could keep us here by a single word to her father, and she won't do it. I've done all I possibly can to make her popular, what more could I do? It seems so silly to have my whole life's happiness hang on the word of that girl! But if it does hang there, why _can't_ I pick it off? Why, oh, _why_?" Tossing and tumbling in her little white bed, Dolly put in an awful night. At last one little forlorn hope came to her. "If I can do that," she thought, seeing a tiny ray of hope, "Bernice will surely agree that I have kept my part of the bargain." She thought and thought. She planned and planned. At last, though it was two o'clock in the morning, she jumped out of bed and throwing on her dressing-gown, sat at her desk and wrote a long letter to Bert and another to Bob Rose. Then she went back to bed, and after a short time sleep came to ease the poor little worried mind. The days flew by. The cold weather continued, and skating was the delight of all the young people. Bernice was a fine skater, and close watch on the part of Dolly and Dotty showed that she had partners for the skating parties far oftener than she used to. This favoured Dolly's new plan, the same being nothing more nor less than to have Bernice chosen Queen of the Carnival, which on Christmas Eve was to be the great celebration of the holiday season. A skating carnival had not been possible for many years, but the exceptionally cold winter had made it feasible this season, and all the young people of Berwick were wildly enthusiastic over it. Tad and Tod Brown were willing this time to consent to the request of the Two D's to vote for Bernice as Carnival Queen. "She's a bang-up skater," said Tad; "the best in Berwick, I think. And, another thing, Bernie is a heap nicer than she used to be. She's come down off her high horse, and almost never rubs in her wealth and grandeur." "She _is_ nicer," agreed Tod. "She doesn't snap a fellow up, everything he says, and she smiles more, somehow." All this was as balm to Dolly's soul. She rejoiced to hear the boys speak thus of Bernice. Then she had cold chills, lest, since Bernice was winning praise by her own improvement, she might conclude that Dolly had no hand in it, and therefore had not won her promised reward. But the two indefatigable workers kept on. They were more wary than they had been when trying to get Bernice made class President, for in this instance, many were concerned beside their class in High School. So they worked quietly, even secretly, but they urged many to vote for Bernice as Queen of the Carnival, and partly owing to the position and influence of Mr. Forbes, many expressed themselves as more than willing to consent. The hopes of the Two D's ran high. Dolly's letters to the two boys had resulted in their influencing a number of boys in Berwick whom the girls did not know well enough to speak to about it. And so, when the question came up before the committee, public spirit was so much in favour of Bernice that she was chosen Queen by a large majority. "Oh!" sighed Dolly in absolute content, when she heard of it. "I _am_ so glad! Is it really true? Dotty, we've won something, anyway! I don't know whether Bernie will feel that _I_ did anything to help, but I did!" "You bet you did!" cried Dotty, "and I'll see to it that Bernice knows." "Be careful,—you know she hates to owe it to my efforts—" "But that was her bargain." "I know, but still, she squirms when she thinks I just plain coax people to be nice to her." "I should think she would! Isn't it horrid, Doll, to win favour that way?" "Of course, it seems so to us; but you know how Bernie is. I suppose, Dot, if she had a mother like the rest of us have, she'd be different." "I s'pose so." The night of the carnival came. A perfect night, clear, cold, and illuminated by a kindly moon, which was somewhat eclipsed by the lights that surrounded and glorified the little Berwick lake. The decorations were elaborate, and the committee in charge were justly proud of their display. Bob and Bert were home for their holiday, and were eager to know the result of the campaign. "Fine," declared Dolly. "Bernie was chosen by a big majority and she'll be a stunning Queen. She's going to wear white velvet and ermine,—real ermine! Won't she be beautiful?" She was beautiful. The costume, though magnificent, was none too grand for a carnival queen; and better than that, the face, under the crown of gold filigree, tipped with white ostrich feathers, was sweet and smiling, and showed only kindly and merry impulses. Dolly, as she herself dressed for the carnival, was distinctly nervous and apprehensive. Bernice had been so busy getting ready for the event and attending to its details, that Dolly hadn't seen her alone for weeks. She couldn't say exactly that Bernice had avoided her, but they had not been thrown together, and Dolly had no idea whether Bernice intended to carry out her part of the contract or not. She feared _not_; and it was with a heavy heart that she donned her pretty skating costume. It was of light blue cloth, banded with silver fox. A cap to match sat jauntily on the golden curls, and it was a lovely reflection that looked back at her from her mirror. But Dolly cared little for her own appearance, so unnerved was she over the uncertainty that still hung over her. Meantime Dotty, next door, was also dressing for the carnival. Her costume was of red broadcloth, with dark fur trimmings. It was of Russian effect, and suited well the rosy beauty of the girl. She, too, was thoughtful. At last she exclaimed, "I can't _stand_ it!" and throwing aside the cap she was about to don, she flew down to the library and snatched up the telephone. "Bernice," she said, after she got the connection, "I _must_ ask you. Are you going to ask your father,—you know what?" "What?" asked Bernice, so full of her own affairs, she really didn't think what Dotty had in mind. "You _do_ know. About—somebody's staying in Berwick, instead of going away." "Oh, that. Well, I can't bother about it now. Yes, I'll do it,—some time or other. But I don't know as—somebody—had such a lot to do with this carnival business—" "Well, somebody _did_! Now, you just catch on to this! If somebody _hadn't_, you wouldn't be—what you are to-night!" "Don't talk so plain—over the telephone! I'll see you later—". "No, you won't! You'll settle this here and now, or—you'll be sorry! I tell you she did her part and more than her part. You said, yourself, a bargain's a bargain. Now you've got to keep your word, or—I'll make you sorry that she kept hers!" "What do you mean?" "Just this. If you don't do what you promised—right now,—I'll tell everybody how you happened to be Queen—" "Hush! Dotty, don't talk so plain!" "Well, will you do it?" "Do what?" "Ask your father—you know what." "Yes,—I'll ask him." "Right now?" "No, of course not _now_. To-morrow." "No, sir, _now_! You go straight to him, and fix it up, or I'll do what I said." "Goodness, what an impatient—" and just then it struck Bernice that she was to agree with people! "All right, Dotsie," she said with such a sudden change of intonation that Dotty nearly fell off her chair. "I'll go right now. You hang up, and I'll call you in a few minutes." "Honest?" "Yes, honest and truly." Dotty waited. In a short time the telephone hell rang, and Bernice said, "It's all right. Dad says he can arrange it as easy as pie. He didn't know they wanted to stay here so much. Shall I tell Dolly?" "No, let me tell her." "All right. Rather you would. I'm fearfully busy. Good-bye." Bernice was evidently preoccupied with her preparations, but Dotty didn't care now. They had won! Mr. Forbes had given his word, and all was well. Flinging on her cap, that was part of her costume, Dotty flew over to Dolly's like a small but very energetic whirlwind. Up the stairs she bounded, and into Dolly's room. She grabbed her round the neck and kissed her frantically, while she cried, "It's all right! We've won! Mr. Forbes says you can stay!" "What!" and Dolly's blue eyes opened wide in glad surprise. Bert and Trudy heard the commotion, and came from their rooms. "Yes," Dotty whispered, still holding Dolly tight. "It's all right, I tell you!" "What's all right?" asked Trudy, looking at the two beaming girls. "Never mind, Trude," said Bert, catching on. "Leave the kiddies alone,—they've got a secret." Bert led Trudy away, and laughingly put her back in her own room. Then he went to Dolly's door. "All right, Dot? Honestly?" "Yes, _yes_, YES! Oh, isn't it grand!" And then Dotty told of her telephone talk with Bernice, and how Mr. Forbes had willingly agreed to let Mr. Fayre stay in the New York office, and continue to live in Berwick. "Hooray!" cried Bert, grabbing off the two girls' caps and flinging them to the ceiling. "Hadn't a cap on, so had to take yours! I say, you two are bricks! How ever _did_ you do it?" "Tell you all about it to-morrow," said Dotty smiling. "We must get off to the carnival now, if we're going at all." "Hold on," said Dolly, still a little bewildered with delight. "I must tell Dad and Mumsie!" "Of course," said Dotty, "and Trudy, too." The joyful news was spread abroad, and great rejoicing was in the house of Fayre. Dolly made a clean breast of the whole matter, and though Mr. Fayre was dumfounded, he couldn't suppress his laughter at the way his daughter had manœuvred. "You're a case, Dollygirl!" he exclaimed. "I'll see Mr. Forbes about this to-morrow." "But you'll stay in Berwick, Father?" "Oh, yes, we'll stay in Berwick. I think Berwick has earned the honour of your citizenship as long as you live. Dolly, you have surprised me,—you certainly have!" "Where _are_ you people?" called Bob Rose from the hall. "It's time to start!" Dolly was just then smothered in her mother's embrace. She lifted her beaming face, and called out, "All right, Bob. Coming!" And with gay laughter, the Rose-Fayre quartette started off, secure in the knowledge that they were all four, permanent citizens of the town of Berwick! THE END
227	--- author: Nicholas Carter tags: Detective and mystery stories, Gamblers, Fiction, Murder, Investigation, Dime novels, Embezzlement title: Under the Tiger's Claws; Or, A Struggle for the Right summary: " \"Under the Tiger's Claws; Or, A Struggle for the Right\" by Nicholas Carter is a detective fiction novel written in the early 20th century. The story revolves around the renowned detective Nick Carter, who is called in to investigate the mysterious disappearance of Cecil Kendall, a trusted bank clerk, after his employer suspects a substantial cash deficit at the bank. As the plot unfolds, themes of gambling, embezzlement, and unrequited love surface, intertwining the fates of several characters within this high-stakes drama. The opening of the narrative introduces us to Nick Carter meeting with banker Raymond Gilsey, who expresses his growing concern over Kendall's unexplained absence and the financial discrepancies that coincide with it. As Nick delves into the investigation, he uncovers details about Kendall\u2019s dubious associations and gambling habits, while also introducing several key players in the story, including the banker\u2019s attractive stenographer Belle Braddon and influential gambler Moses Flood. These character interactions set the stage for a gripping exploration of moral choices, betrayals, and the consequent fallout, weaving together a web of intrigue that promises to keep readers engaged in Carter's quest for the truth. " word_count: 41269 fiction_type: Novel ... # CHAPTER I. THE MAN AND THE MONEY. "Well, my dear Gilsey, I rather think I can land him for you," declared Nick Carter, with an odd smile lurking in the corners of his keen, gray eyes. "But that will not do, Nick," protested Mr. Raymond Gilsey, with an immediate display of apprehension. "Not do, sir?" "It may not be what I want." "Not what you want?" "Not exactly, Nick," and Mr. Raymond Gilsey decisively shook his head. He was a venerable banker, with a remarkably gentle and benevolent countenance. He was the president of the Milmore Trust Company, a banking-institution located in Forty-second Street, the patrons of which consisted chiefly of business firms in the immediate neighborhood, and of wealthy women, to whom the up-town location of the bank was a convenience. It was in Mr. Gilsey's handsome private office that Nick Carter was seated, one afternoon early in May, in response to a telephone request from the banker about an hour before. Between the two there existed a friendship of long standing, and the celebrated detective had hastened to respond. As yet, however, he had received but a hint at the business for which he had been called, and he wondered a little at the banker's obvious misgivings, as appeared in his remarks noted above. "Please explain, Mr. Gilsey," said Nick. "Certainly, if there is a deficit in your cash, and you suspect—— Ah, but stop a moment. Perhaps it will be just as well, my dear Gilsey, if our interview——" The last, spoken with lowered voice, was considered with a significant glance in the direction of Gilsey's private stenographer, who sat busily engaged near one of the office windows, and Nick's glance was equivalent to a suggestion that the presence of a third party might wisely be dispensed with. This third party was a young woman named Belle Braddon, apparently about twenty-five years of age. Certain features about her, however, which Nick's keen eyes were quick to notice, indicated that Miss Braddon was in divers ways experienced beyond her years. She was that type of girl quite properly termed dashing. Her figure was striking, her face handsome, with mobile red lips, alluring blue eyes, and cheeks with a soft tinge of color not entirely their own. She had, too, an unusual abundance of wavy auburn hair, which was then arranged in picturesque disorder. Regarded from top to toe, she was decidedly noticeable, and the style of girl to which most men are quick to respond. Nick Carter, however, did not quite fancy the general appearance of Miss Braddon, and he abruptly decided that her absence was desirable. In response to the cue so quietly given him, the banker glanced at the girl, and asked: "What are you now at work on, Belle?" Miss Braddon started slightly, much as if her ears had been deaf to any preceding remarks, then turned with a gracious smile to her employer. "On the quarterly reports which you dictated this morning," she replied, with a peculiarly clear and penetrating voice. "You may drop that for the present, Belle, as I may change some of the concluding pages," said Mr. Gilsey. "Very well, sir." "Are my letters ready for signing?" "Yes, sir." "You may leave them on your table. As I shall be engaged with this gentleman for some time, and will not require you later, I will excuse you for the rest of the day." "Ah, thank you very much, Mr. Gilsey," cried Miss Braddon, beaming gratefully as she arose from her table. "That will be very nice, sir. I can do a little shopping." The banker nodded and smiled, then reverted to Nick, and conversed with him upon casual matters while the girl prepared to go. Apparently, Nick did not notice her, but he nevertheless saw all that was worth noting. As Miss Braddon put on a broad picture hat and her light wrap, her expression became more grave and her cheeks lost some of their color. Twice she glanced furtively at the detective, with a certain resentful gleam in her pretty eyes. That it did not entirely please her, despite her effusive thanks, was evinced in the slight curl of her red lips; yet she presently bowed politely and departed, gently closing the office door. "An attractive girl, Gilsey, your stenographer," remarked Nick carelessly. "Miss Braddon?" queried the banker, smiling complacently. "So she is, Nick, and as capable and charming as she is showy." "I did not say showy," laughed Nick dryly. "I said attractive." "Much the same, Nick, when applied to a woman." "Has she been long in your employ?" "About four months." "Of course, she came well recommended?" "Decidedly so," bowed Gilsey; then he added, with a smile and headshake: "You professional detectives are habitually suspicious of everybody, I really believe. That girl is all right, Nick, take my word for it. Her uncle, with whom she lives, is one of our largest depositors." "Ah, I see," smiled Nick, a bit oddly. "Now, my dear Gilsey, why have you sent for me? What can I do for you?" The banker became grave in an instant. "There are two reasons, Nick, why I have appealed to you," said he. "First, because we are old friends, and I know that you will do just what I require upon this case, and no more than I require." "And your second reason?" "Because I know I can safely trust you, Nick, and that you will give no publicity to the case after having dropped it, providing your investigations warrant dropping it. That is more than I could expect or hope for from men of the central office, and so I have appealed to you, relying upon our long friendship to influence you to aid me." Nick nodded gravely for a moment, noting the profound anxiety now reflected in the banker's venerable face. "I certainly will do what I can for you, Gilsey, and you may depend upon me to be discreet," said he warmly. "Now, what is the trouble here? You intimated that a deficit exists in your cash." "So I did, Nick, yet I am not sure of it." "Not sure of it?" "That seems strange to you," replied Gilsey. "I can explain in a few words." "Well?" "Mr. Cecil Kendall, one of my most trusty clerks, has been absent on a vacation for several days. During the illness of our cashier, Mr. Knights, for nearly three months, Kendall has been doing double his share of work. He has handled the cashier's end of our business, as well as his own." "I follow you," said Nick attentively. "My own duties here are very arduous," continued Gilsey, "yet, as far as possible, I always keep an eye upon the work of all of my clerks. Kendall, however, is a man of unusual ability, an expert accountant, and a man in whom I have had the greatest confidence. His work on the books has always been satisfactory, yet in doing double his ordinary duties it would not be strange if some of his work had fallen a little behind." "That is true," admitted Nick. "Do you find that the books are not in proper shape up to date?" "Unfortunately, I cannot tell," was the reply. "Kendall went to Boston to attend the wedding of his brother last Tuesday. He was to have returned this morning, but has not yet appeared, nor sent me any word explaining his absence. I am unable to tell in just what condition he left his accounts. I know, however, that several large amounts were received here during Monday, and also that considerable was used for the payment of notes which came due that day." "I see, sir." "It was an exceedingly busy day for Mr. Kendall," continued the banker, "and he worked here Monday until compelled to leave to catch a late train to Boston. I went home at my usual hour, about four o'clock, so did not see him after he wound up his Monday work. Whether he has left part of his work undone, depending upon memoranda of which I am ignorant, I cannot say. All I know, Nick, is that he has not returned to-day, as expected, and that there appears to be a serious deficit in the cash accounts." "How serious?" "Nearly ninety thousand dollars." "Whew! Serious, indeed!" exclaimed the detective. "Have you no way of getting at the exact truth?" "Oh, yes, it can be done," replied Gilsey quickly. "But it would require time, and occasion a publicity which I wish to prevent, for a day or two, at least, in the hope that Kendall will return, or can be found, and show that matters here are all right. In fact, Nick, I am inclined to think they are, and that I am needlessly alarmed; yet, for the protection of our depositors, I feel that I must take some step at this time." "Quite properly, too." "I wish to locate Kendall as quickly as possible. I want him here, that an explanation may be made. In case I am entirely wrong, however, and no deficit really exists, I do not wish Kendall to learn of my misgivings, and that I have employed a detective, the injustice of which would seriously and needlessly wound him." "That is very true," admitted Nick thoughtfully. "I now see about what you want of me, Gilsey. You wish me to locate Kendall as quickly as possible, and send or bring him here without disclosing your doubts and apprehensions." "Exactly." "If he is perfectly honest, as you are still inclined to think, it should be an easy matter to locate him before to-morrow." "Easy for one of your experience, Nick; and that is precisely why I have called upon you." "Do you know Kendall's Boston address?" "I have already wired to his Boston friends." "With what result?" "A message in reply states that Kendall left for New York last night." "Does it state by what route?" "It does not." "Ordinarily, he should have arrived here this morning," remarked Nick, more gravely. "There is a bare possibility, Gilsey, that he is a victim of foul play." "I have thought of that, Nick, which also deters me from acting too hastily, or making any immediate charges." "Do you know whether Kendall had much money with him?" "I do not." "If he had what you fear may be missing, Mr. Gilsey, he had a good, round sum," observed Nick dryly. The banker shook his head. "I cannot yet believe it," said he gravely. "There are, too, other parties whom I would spare the pain of knowing that I have unjustly suspected Kendall of embezzlement, and gone so far as to call in a detective." "What other parties, Gilsey?" inquired Nick, with brows lifting slightly. "I refer to Doctor Leonard Royal, of Fordham, the Episcopal rector, and to his family," explained the banker. "I infer from what I see of the couple that Kendall is engaged to marry the rector's daughter, Medora Royal. He is, too, an intimate friend of young Harry Royal, the rector's only son, who went to Boston with him. It happens, Nick, that Doctor Royal and I have been lifelong friends. I regard him as fondly as a brother. In case I am wrong, Nick, I would not for the world have them know that I suspect Kendall." "I see, my dear Gilsey." "In a nutshell, Nick, I wish you to locate him for me as quickly as possible." "But not arrest him?" For an instant the banker hesitated, then said huskily: "No, Nick, not that. Not—not unless——" "Ah, well, if any ‘unless' creeps in, I shall know what to do without instructions," Nick bluntly interposed. "Now, Mr. Gilsey, give me Kendall's city address." "He occupies bachelor's apartments in Fifty-ninth Street. Here is the number. He has not been there to-day, however." "How long since you sent to inquire?" "Less than an hour." "Is he a clubman?" "I think not." Nick Carter replaced his note-book in his pocket, then arose and took his hat from the banker's table. # CHAPTER II. WHERE TIDES MEET. Before making his departure, Nick again turned to the banker and said: "One more question occurs to me, Gilsey. How did you happen to discover that a deficit possibly exists in your cash, and under the circumstances stated?" "Well, it—it was a perfectly natural discovery in the course of to-day's business," Mr. Gilsey faltered. A subtle gleam showed for a moment in Nick's keen eyes. "Do you know of anything, or have you ever heard anything, which at once led you to examine Kendall's accounts when he failed to appear at his desk this morning?" he demanded. The banker hesitated for barely a second, and Nick cried curtly: "Come, come, Gilsey, there is something more. Let me have the whole business, all you know, or up go my hands and I drop the case. I thought you knew I was a man to be safely trusted, dear fellow. Come, come, what sent you to Kendall's books so hurriedly?" The banker colored slightly, and now hastened to reply. "Well, Nick, to be perfectly frank with you, despite that I give no credit to the statement, it was said to me about two weeks ago that Kendall was given to gambling." "Oh, ho! Gambling, eh? Who said so?" "A brother banker, Nick, whose name certainly is not material at this time." "Well? Anything more?" "I asked Kendall about it that very day, and he denied the report and laughed it to scorn. I could not believe it of him, Nick, and did not." "What did your brother banker say, Mr. Gilsey?" "Merely that he had seen both Kendall and young Harry Royal one evening coming out of a gambling-house said to be owned and run by one Moses Flood." "Ha! Moses Flood, eh?" muttered Nick, with a curious smile. "It must have been a mistake," continued Gilsey, with augmented feeling. "Kendall is not a man of evil inclinations. It is not in his nature to have formed any relations whatever with a scoundrel who gambles for a living, and who runs a resort where——" "Stop just a moment, Gilsey," interrupted Nick, with an odd little laugh. "A man of your limited experience is very prone to misjudge men out of his own circle in life." "What do you mean, Nick?" "Just this, my dear Gilsey," said Nick, more seriously. "I know Moses Flood even better than I know you. Understand me, now, I do not advocate gambling, nor do I defend him as a gambler, for such he certainly is, and in that respect he is an outlaw and a man to be shunned. I am opposed to gambling of all kinds, whether done with cards, or in a pool-room, or on a race-track, or in the stock exchange." "Why, certainly, Nick, I already know that," exclaimed Gilsey, with a surprised expression in his gentle, blue eyes. "But what do you imply of this rascal?" "Merely this," smiled Nick. "Aside from his vocation, which in every way I despise, Moses Flood is not a rascal. I know what I am talking about, Gilsey. Flood is a man whose word is as good as any man's bond. He is as square a man as ever stood in leather. If he wanted to borrow half my fortune till to-morrow, with no better security than his word alone, he could have it, and I should sleep soundly to-night, knowing that he had it." "You surprise me, Nick. I should not have formed that opinion of him." "Oh, I am but incidentally setting you right as to the man," added Nick. "He is not a ruffian, nor is he a rascal, save in one way. He is well educated, a student of the sciences, and an admirer of the fine arts. His bachelor quarters are filled with superb treasures and paintings well worth seeing, a veritable art gallery in fact. I know that he gives most liberally to charity, moreover, and I am informed that no man was ever enticed into or intentionally cheated in his gaming-place, which is open only to the very wealthy and most exclusive of our men about town." "Still, if he——" "But that's enough for Flood, my dear Gilsey. If your man Kendall has been one of his patrons, I shall know it before midnight. At nine o'clock to-morrow morning I will meet you here, or communicate with you by telephone." "And you expect——" "That I shall then have located Kendall? Most decidedly I do, Gilsey. Trust me to be discreet, however, and to have your wishes well in mind." "A thousand thanks, Nick. I knew you would help me out." "Surely, old friend," said Nick, as they shook hands. "Let the case rest until morning. The few hours will make no great difference one way or the other. Be here at nine to-morrow morning, and you shall know the—well, let's hope it will be, not the worst, but the best." "Amen to that!" said Gilsey fervently. It was three o'clock when Nick Carter left the Trust Company building and emerged into Forty-second Street. As a matter of fact, the case did not appeal very strongly to the famous detective. His regard for Gilsey, much more than any feeling of interest in the affair, had led Nick to undertake the task imposed. As to the case itself, it then presented no unusual nor especially interesting features. If Kendall had been gambling, as Nick was then inclined to suspect, it was very possible that he was an embezzler, and had already fled from the country. Yet Nick decided that he would be governed by Gilsey's wishes until the following morning. Contrary to his anticipations, however, despite that Nick Carter was quick to see all the possibilities of a case, that into which he had now entered was destined to prove one of the most curious and absorbing, as well as most intensely exciting, that he had ever known. Nick's first move for locating Kendall that afternoon was characteristic of him. He turned to none of the avenues of information to which the ordinary detective usually turns. Instead, he hastened to the Grand Central Station and boarded the first train for Fordham, his destination being the rectory occupied by the learned divine, Doctor Leonard Royal. Nick reasoned that if Harry Royal had visited Boston with Kendall, and Dora Royal was in love with him, either the clergyman or his daughter could give him the information he desired. As he approached the rectory, however, Nick met with a startling surprise. It was a fine old place, somewhat isolated, and was surrounded with no end of great shade trees, clusters of shrubbery, and high hedges. The dwelling itself, occupying the middle of the large estate, was a commodious wooden house, with deep verandas and innumerable gables, and with a huge glass conservatory on the south side. Peering through the high hedge adjoining the side street as he approached, Nick halted, with a muttered exclamation of surprise. Two men, one of them the elderly rector, were just entering the outer door of the conservatory. The rector's companion was none other than—Moses Flood, the gamester! "He here!" murmured Nick. "What the dickens does this signify? He is the last man I would expect to see visiting this clergyman. If Gilsey's brother banker was right, there may be much more in this case than I anticipated. The way looks easy, and I guess I'd better learn what brings Moses Flood out here." Having worked his way through the hedge, Nick crossed the grounds, carefully avoiding observation from the house, and presently darted under a cluster of lilacs close to the side wall of the great glass conservatory. There he could plainly view the scene within, and he presently found a break in one of the glass panes which enabled him to overhear all that was said—an interview that caused him to open his eyes still a little wider. The elderly rector was seated in a rustic chair, and his benignant countenance evinced considerable perturbation and distress. Moses Flood, however, was standing beside a small wooden table near-by, and as the story progresses he is to figure so strongly and strangely that he deserves a careful description. He was about forty-five, tall and well built, inclining somewhat to stoutness. His wavy hair was tinged with gray, his head finely poised, and his smoothly shaven face strikingly strong and attractive. His features were clean cut and pale, his brow broad, his nose straight, and his lips noticeably thin and firm. His eyes were gray, as sharp and cold as steel, yet capable of remarkable expression. Obviously, it was the face of a man of superhuman will, and one rather inclined to quiet reserve and studious habits. He was scrupulously dressed. His black Prince Albert fitted like a glove and came nearly to the knees of his pearl-gray trousers. His shoes were small and carefully polished, and his silk hat, on the table beside him, was of the latest style. His only jewelry was a small, piercingly brilliant solitaire in his black satin tie. From head to foot he was without a sign of dust or blemish. This was the man whom Nick Carter had declared to be a rascal in only one way, and Nick fully appreciated that gaming was not confined to cards alone, and for many of his estimable qualities Nick rather admired Moses Flood. The drift of the interview between the two men almost immediately gave Nick Carter his cue. "You must hear me patiently," Doctor Royal was tremulously saying. "I do not forget the past few months, Mr. Flood. I recall with profound feeling your many personal attentions to me, your liberality for charity, your almost princely generosity for the poor of my parish, and it is painful to me beyond expression when I realize how terribly I have been deceived." Flood stood as motionless as a man of marble, and nearly as pale; yet his grave, strong face never once changed in a way to betray his secret feelings. "You feel, then, that you have been deceived?" said he inquiringly, with a peculiarly deep yet penetrating voice, then imbued with kindliness. "Dreadfully deceived," replied the rector sadly. "Of my daughter, and the love for her you have just expressed, I cannot now speak." "Good God!" muttered Nick, under his breath. "Flood is in love with the girl here." "Of my son Harry," continued the rector, "who of late has been much absent from me while in college—ah, it breaks my heart, as it would that of his loving sister, to know that he places among his friends a man of your calling." "This is the deception to which you refer, Doctor Royal?" "To what else, sir? I cannot forget that it was my dear boy who brought you here, and only to-day, when I had begun to regard you with almost brotherly affection, have you voluntarily told me the truth. You were represented to me to be in the ivory business. Alas! I now can see the significance of that. But I had all faith in my son, and looked for no such duplicity." "Naturally not," said Flood simply. "You have been a frequent visitor here, and have won the esteem of all my house, and God only knows how pained I am to learn the truth that must forever sever our friendship." There were tears in the rector's aged eyes, but Flood never moved nor changed. "May not a gamester be a true friend?" he asked gravely. "Not a worthy one—never!" "You feel sure of that?" "Absolutely." "Then you consider me a knave?" "Your vocation brands you as one." "I will not undertake, Doctor Royal, to defend my vocation," said Flood, with indescribable gentleness. "It would be vain for me to try to show one of your cloth that but very little moral difference exists between my methods and those of numberless institutions countenanced complacently both by law and society——" "There can be no extenuation——" "Hear me, please! I came here at your son's solicitation, rather against my own will, and I believed my first visit would be my last. Fate decided otherwise. I met your only daughter—— Nay, sir, do not shudder! I have never yet spoken to her one word of love." "God forbid!" "If her love were to have been given to me, it was my plan to relinquish my present business and turn to one honorable in the eyes of all. I first came to you, Doctor Royal, and told the whole truth. Believe me, despite your censure, even a gamester may love nobly. But no more need be said. I shall respect and be governed by a father's will and wishes. Your manner and words show me that under no consideration can you deem me worthy." "No longer worthy of my roof—much less my daughter!" answered the rector, trembling, and in tears. Despite that Flood's pale face remained as calm as stone, Nick, with his keen discernment, saw that the man was suffering beyond description, and, in a way, the kind-hearted detective pitied him. "Not of your roof? Ah, well, let it be so," replied Flood, taking his hat from the table. Doctor Royal rose, trembling, to his feet. "Under the circumstances I cannot permit you to come here again," said he brokenly. "I shall send for my son, and I hope soon to know the whole truth. God help me, sir, my two children are all I have in this life; and my daughter—I do not speak in judgment—a man like you can have no place in her pure, young heart." Flood bowed with indescribable composure. "Yet a man like me, Doctor Royal, may be capable of a great love, and possibly capable of great self-sacrifice. No more, sir. I bid you good day." "Stay!" pleaded the rector, deeply agitated. "There is still another reason why my daughter could not consider any proposal from you." "Another reason?" "She is already engaged." "Engaged!" Flood echoed, starting slightly. "It is not yet announced," faltered the clergyman. "Had I known the nature and depth of your feelings, however, I would have told you earlier. But Mr. Kendall desired it kept quiet for a time, and——" "Kendall?" "Cecil Kendall—you have met him here once, I believe. He is an exemplary young man. In all ways worthy of my Dora." For the first time the features of Moses Flood appeared to get the better of his iron will. His hand stole over his heart, his lips contracted and twitched convulsively for a moment, and his voice choked in his throat. "Does she, your daughter, love Cecil Kendall?" he asked. "Devotedly." "Are you—are you—sure of that?" "Positively, sir. It would break Medora's heart if any ill befell Mr. Kendall, or if——" "Please, sir," interposed Flood, with cheeks utterly void of color. "You mean well, sir, and have not spoken unkindly. I shall not forget it, nor that you are the father of one more dear to me than life. I bid you adieu." He bowed, put on his hat, then passed out of the conservatory by the door they had entered, and strode across the broad grounds and into the quiet and secluded street. The rector tottered toward a door leading into the side of the house. He had barely reached it when, from behind a mass of shrubbery near-by, Nick Carter heard a mingled moan and sob that caused his heart to swell with sudden apprehension. He darted to the spot, and beheld a girl reeling, half fainting, with her face buried in her hands, and her pretty figure shaken through and through with welling sobs. One glance told Nick it was the rector's daughter. With a bound he reached her side, taking her by the arm, while his own kindly face revealed a mingled solicitude and apprehension. "Hush, hush, my dear girl!" he cried softly. "You, too, have overheard, and you have met with a grievous trouble. Turn to me in this hour, and—hush! don't let your father hear you. There may be a silver lining to the blackest cloud, my child. Let me be your friend in this hour of your grief." The startled girl stared at him through her flooded eyes, and by the dropping of her hands revealed a face as sweet and innocent as that of an angel. Meantime, Moses Flood was hastening to the city, where, later in the day, as he was approaching his famous gambling resort, he encountered on the street a woman who unceremoniously accosted him. The woman was Belle Braddon, arrayed in elaborate street attire. "Hello, Mose!" she exclaimed familiarly, with an arch glance and smile. Flood was not in a mood to be pleased with her familiarity, nor even to resent it. "Hello, Belle," he replied, bowing gravely. "Oh, I say!" she quickly added, drawing nearer, with voice lowered. "You'd best look out for a bolt from the blue. One of your players is in hot water." Flood's cold, steel-gray eyes took on a look of interest. "What player, Belle?" he slowly demanded. "Confidentially, mind you, dear fellow!" "Surely." "I refer to Cecil Kendall," whispered the girl. "What of him?" "Gone lame. Short in his accounts." "What?" Flood's teeth had met with a snap, and his eyes were beginning to blaze. "Oh, I know what I'm saying," Belle Braddon pointedly continued. "I'm in the same office with him, you know. When it's up to me to get wise to all that's going on, I come mighty near doing it." Moses Flood was calm again—strangely, preternaturally calm. "Do you know how much he is short?" "Only ninety thousand dollars!" exclaimed the girl, with a leer. "What is being done about it?" "Not much as yet, Mose." "Tell me what." "Oh, Gilsey wants to locate Kendall as quickly as possible, and has called in Nick Carter to do it for him." "The dickens! Nick Carter, eh?" "Gilsey evidently thinks that Kendall believes he has left his tracks covered during his absence, and means to try to carry the deficit a while longer undetected. Gilsey is wise to it, though, but I reckon nothing will be done for a day or so." "Is that all you know about it?" "That's all now, Mose," laughed the girl, with a wink. "Isn't that enough?" Flood nodded. "Quite enough," said he oddly. "Belle, dear, keep this to yourself till I give you permission to open your lips about it, will you?" The girl colored deeply when thus addressed, and slipped her hand into his. "Sure thing," she answered fondly. "You know I'd do anything for you, Mose." "Do this, then, will you?" "Trust me." "Not one word about it." "I'm as dumb as an oyster—for your sake, mind you!" "I'll not forget that part of it, Belle," said Flood pointedly. Then he turned and moved on—and his face was a study for an artist. # CHAPTER III. THE TIGER'S CLAWS. "Last turn! Four for one if you call it right!" The monotonous voice of the cuekeeper, announcing with hackneyed phrase the alluring possibility, broke the strained silence of an elaborately furnished room. It was a room on the second floor of the famous gambling resort owned and conducted by Moses Flood. It was that particular room in the house in which King Faro held sole sway. The house was in a fashionable street, and had an attractive exterior. No layman would have dreamed that it masked a lair of vice. It was a wolf in sheep's clothing. It was one of a superb block of brown sandstone residences within a stone's throw of Fifth Avenue, with a broad flight of carved steps leading to the front door. The elegant stained windows of this front door, as well as those of the lower rooms, were protected with strong, iron gratings, that thieves might not break through and steal. Incidentally, the police also were thus excluded—unless they came with a warrant. In that case, even, which a wardman was liberally paid to prevent, they would have "found nothing." It takes time to read a search-warrant—all the time that would be required to effect a transformation scene within. Such are the precautions taken by vice. Entrance could be had only with the sanction of a burly attendant constantly at the front door, and by means of the magic talisman of previous acquaintance, or the voucher of a known and reliable friend. One entering from the street would have seen only a superbly furnished hall, with sumptuous parlors adjoining, and a library and smoking-room beyond. To see more, one must go higher. The tiger lurks on the floors above. To one only of the upper rooms is attention here invited—the room already mentioned. It was large and richly furnished. A heavy Wilton carpet covered the floor. Massive walnut chairs stood a little away from the beautifully frescoed walls, and the ceiling, done in exquisite colors, and so as to produce the effect of height, revealed a lavish expenditure of money. It might have been a room in a king's palace. Rare paintings adorned the walls. A large sideboard, rich with silver and cut glass, stood at the back of the room. Costly ornaments occupied shelves and niches here and there. The door leading to the main hall of the house was closed and heavily barred. It had in one panel a "peek," so called, with a moving slide, through which an attendant could look into the hall. This was another precaution taken by vice. At the front of the room was a long, baize-covered table, on which was a faro layout, the various suits painted in natural colors on enameled cloth. It was the tiger, courted while feared. It should have been called the snake, for it fascinated before it killed, rendering powerless the victims it lured to destruction. Back of the table sat the dealer, who played his luck against all opponents. His duties were arduous. He sold the stacks of ivory chips, handled all the money, shuffled and dealt the cards from the silver deal box before him, and took or paid all bets. He seldom spoke unless addressed. His brain was active, his eyes alert, his hands busy; but his face, whether he won or lost, evinced no emotion. In a chair to his right, and somewhat above the table, sat the lookout. His duty was to see that the dealer made no mistakes. The lookout thus protects the house. The players have no protection. They who "buck the tiger" must look out for themselves. At one end of the table sat the cuekeeper. In front of him on the table lay the cue-rack, a small wooden frame, pierced with wires, on which movable buttons indicate the cards already dealt and those still remaining in the deal box. The cuekeeper in a faro-bank is every man's menial. The losers curse him; the winners sometimes tip him. The cuekeeper in this place was a humpback, named John Green. He more frequently was called Humpty. All cuekeepers are malformations; the longer they live, the worse they become. On a couch at one side of the room a young man lay sleeping. It was the deep, dead sleep of intoxication. Yet he was well clad, and his boyish features indicated culture and refinement. His name was—Harry Royal. The companion with whom he had entered this place some hours earlier was seated at the gaming-table, in a chair directly opposite the dealer and amid several other players. He was a tall, fair man, and his knit brows, his pressed lips, his glowing eyes, and tremulous hands, indicated his intense interest in the game then in progress. He appeared quite collected, however, and placed his bets promptly, like one playing a system. He was setting a rapid pace, too, if one might judge from the stacks of chips in front of him. Yet he plainly was not a winner. The ugly light in his frowning eyes was convincing evidence of that. Such was the place, and the employment of its several occupants, which Moses Flood was at that hour approaching. The May day was drawing to a close, and the dusk of early evening had begun to fall. The cuekeeper repeated his announcement: "Last turn! Four for one if you call it!" The man last described glanced at the cuekeeper: "What's in, Humpty?" he demanded. "A cat-hop, Mr. Kendall—two kings and a seven. He's got to show a king first, hasn't he?" replied the humpback, with a weird smile stealing over his broad, unpleasant-looking face. "It's two to one he does," growled Kendall, as the dealer briefly paused before making the turn. Kendall placed a hundred to win on the seven, coppered the king for a like amount, and called the turn for fifty. Several other players, most of whom were wealthy bloods about town, men who would have given thousands rather than have been caught in Flood's gaming-house—these men also had placed their bets. "All ready?" queried the dealer indifferently. "Let her come, Mr. Bruce," said one impatiently. Tom Bruce, a dealer who had been in Flood's employ for several years, deftly pushed the cards from the box. He showed a seven, and then two kings. Cecil Kendall had lost two hundred and fifty dollars on the turn. For the bare fraction of a second he shrank, shuddered visibly, and his drawn features took on a deathly pallor and the haggard look of secret despair. "Curse the infernal luck!" he growled audibly. "Will it never change?" The lookout, a man named Nathan Godard, also in Flood's employ, smiled faintly. "What's the trouble, Kendall?" he asked, in bantering fashion. "Can't you get 'em down right?" "I didn't get those bets down right, that's evident," snarled Kendall bitterly. "So I see." "What you don't see, Godard, isn't worth seeing." "Oh, is that so? You must be a loser, Kendall." "About eighteen hundred." "Ah, well, don't let it bother you," laughed Godard, a bit maliciously. "You're not playing for your life." Kendall evidently did not like the interference, nor the tone in which the last remarks were made. He glanced sharply up at the rather unprepossessing face of the speaker, and retorted curtly: "No, not for my life, Nate Godard! But I'm playing for something as dear to me as life." "A fortune, eh?" grinned Godard, not in the least disturbed. "No, not a fortune," snapped Kendall. The dealer glanced across the table at him, still shuffling the cards for the next deal, but he said nothing. Godard, however, could not resist voicing the thought that arose in his mind. "Well, if you're playing for something more dear than either life or fortune, Kendall, you're taking infernally long chances," said he pointedly. "Honor is something not wisely staked upon a faro layout, and if——" In an instant Kendall was upon his feet, ghastly with passion. "Who spoke of honor?" he cried furiously. "Do you dare imply that I——" Clang! The bell on the hall door had rung sharply. It rang an immediate knell to the brief disturbance. It brought a moment of absolute silence, in which every eye was turned swiftly toward the door. Humpty Green, the malformation, leaped up from his chair and ran to the peek. One glance was sufficient. He closed the slide, then threw both hands above his head with a grotesque gesture of warning. The eyes of all were upon him. His lips moved, but his voice, was silent, yet all received the mute message he conveyed. "Hush! It's the boss! It's Moses Flood!" Then he removed the heavy bar and opened the door. Moses Flood, with face as calm as a sea of ice, gravely entered the room. He was followed closely by two men, both of whom were in disguise. One was the famous New York detective's chief assistant, Chick Carter. The other was Nick Carter, the great detective himself. The humpback closed the heavy door and replaced the bar. # CHAPTER IV. A FRIEND IN NEED. Before depicting the thrilling episodes that followed the entrance of Nick Carter and Chick into Moses Flood's gambling-house, it is necessary, in order that Nick's conduct may be better appreciated, to revert to his meeting with Dora Royal near the rectory conservatory, and present the remainder of the interview. That the girl had overheard all that had passed between Flood and her father, and that her discovery of the gamester's vocation came upon her with a shock that overwhelmed and crushed her, were at once painfully apparent to Nick, who quickly interpreted the true significance of her touching grief. It awakened a feeling of sympathy in the kind-hearted detective, moreover, together with a desire to befriend the girl, if possible, with which aim in view he gently drew her back of the conservatory and out of sight from the windows of the house. Having made sure that they were safe from the eyes and ears of others, Nick brought all his kind influence to bear, and soon succeeded in getting Miss Royal into a more composed state. She was barely twenty, an innocent and artless girl, obviously unused to the ways of the world, and that her secret heart had been won by the strong and magnetic nature of Moses Flood, while she was entirely ignorant of his vocation, did not in the least surprise the detective. How he could now serve her best, however, was Nick's immediate and chief consideration. "Now come, Miss Royal, I want you to confide in me," said he, in a kindly and impressive way. "You are in trouble, and need a good friend, one who knows all the ways of the world, and just what is of true value in it. I shall have only your happiness and welfare at heart, I assure you, and very possibly I can do more for you than you imagine. Come, now, and confide in me." The girl heard him like one in a dream at first, but Nick had an influence at such times that was quite irresistible, and Dora Royal soon began drying her pretty eyes. "But you are a stranger to me, sir," she protested, in charming uncertainty. "I never saw you before——" "Well, well, so I am, and I hope you'll excuse me," laughed Nick, in a way to further reassure her. "I felt so moved by your grief that I really forgot to be conventional. Here is my card, Miss Royal. Perhaps you know me by name." "Are—are you the famous detective?" faltered Dora, with glistening eyes, raised from the card to seek his. Nick laughed again, and his smile proved to be contagious this time, for the drawn lips of the girl began to relax a little. "I am Nick Carter, the detective," he replied. "How great I am I leave others to say. I certainly should feel that I had done something worthy, Miss Royal, were I to succeed in restoring all you now feel to be lost to you. Who knows but I may, eh?" "Oh, Detective Carter, do you think so?" "Possibly." "But how? If——" "Nay, let's get at this in proper order, that there may be no misunderstanding," interposed Nick, smiling. "First, let me know that you desire me for a friend, and that you feel you can trust me." "Indeed I do, sir. Your name alone is sufficient." "Will you rely blindly upon my judgment, and consent to follow my advice?" "Willingly, sir," bowed Dora. "I am sure it will be good advice." "Never anything else," declared Nick heartily. "Will you also confide in me?" "I think so, sir, if you require it." "Oh, I shall not ask you to tell me very much that I do not already know," said Nick, with a sort of paternal fondness. "How did you happen to overhear the interview yonder? I'm sure you did not deliberately play the eavesdropper." "Indeed, no; I would not have done that." "You were——" "I was reading in the shade of the shrubbery near-by, and when they began speaking——" "You literally could not move, eh?" Nick again interposed. "Ah, well, I saw that the disclosure quite overwhelmed you, and perhaps it was all for the best." "Best, sir? Oh, how can that be? If Mr. Flood is as bad as—as——" "As your worthy father really implied, he would be a very bad man, indeed," laughed Nick quietly. "But your good father is both right and wrong, Miss Royal. There are far worse men than Moses Flood, my dear girl; and if he were to throw up his miserable vocation, which he intimated he intended doing for your sake, he would be a man whose hand I would grasp as a friend and brother." "Oh, Detective Carter, do you say so?" "And who knows, Miss Royal, but that we yet may lead him to do so, and your father into regarding the matter in a rather different light." "Oh, if we only could!" "But do not enthuse too quickly, my dear," laughed Nick. "The job is yet to be done, as we detectives say, and the task must be yours and mine alone. No third party must be admitted to our secret, mind you." "Trust me, I will do whatever you advise," declared Dora, now quite aglow with reawakened hopes. "I am sure you mean to be my friend, Detective Carter, and I will trust you blindly." "I think you will never regret it," bowed Nick, gently pressing the hand she impulsively had given him. "You need not tell me that you love Mr. Flood, for I already know it." "Ah, sir, he has been so kind and generous; so attentive to us all, and so gentle and dignified——" "Well, well, never mind that," smiled Nick. "All that is like Mr. Flood. Tell me, however, if any one else suspects your affection." "Oh, no, sir. Indeed, no!" "So I inferred." "I have kept it all to myself." "But what of Mr. Kendall? I think your father told Flood you were engaged to him." Dora blushed a little, and appeared confused for a moment. "Really, sir. I have no deeper feeling than that of esteem for Mr. Kendall," she presently replied. "I greatly fear that my father drew upon his imagination somewhat, and merely aimed to insure the end of Mr. Flood's visits." "Oh, very likely," nodded Nick. "Yet you would have let Flood go without disabusing him?" The girl turned and pointed toward the house. "My father is an aged man, sir, and I have been taught to be dutiful and obedient," said she, with charming simplicity. "I saw him in tears when he dismissed the man, who, without knowing it, has won my love. I could do no less than remain silent, sir, and abide my own time." "You're a good girl," said Nick gravely. "I shall do all I can, Miss Royal, to turn matters in your favor. Meantime, however, should anything happen and you need advice, I want you to come to me, or send for me, and I will come to you. It may be greatly to your advantage to do so, rather than to go to another." "Then, sir, I surely will do so." "Without fail?" "Without fail, Detective Carter. I will appeal to you only." "Very good," bowed Nick. "Now, one thing more, and I then must leave you for the present. When was Mr. Kendall last here?" "Nearly a week ago, sir." "He is away?" "He is in Boston, sir; and my brother is with him," said Dora. "But we expected Harry to return this morning." "Possibly he has been unavoidably delayed," said Nick, now convinced that none at the rectory could give him the information he wanted. "I imagine that is so, Mr. Carter," replied the girl. Nick deferred his departure only to add a few words of advice and instruction, then made his way out of the grounds and returned to the city. He left Dora Royal, if not the happier because of his visit, at least encouraged by his kindly assurances. There was nothing new or strange in this interest thus exhibited by Nick. It was second nature to him to try to serve those he found in distress, particularly in such a case as this. On arriving in town Nick hastened to his residence and there had a talk with Chick, his chief assistant, to whom he imparted the whole story. "I wish to locate Kendall this evening, if possible," said he, in conclusion. "There's a bare chance that we may find him at Flood's gambling-house, or there get a line on his whereabouts." "Just as likely as not," nodded Chick, in genial assent. "Why not go up there, Nick?" "That is my intention." "Want me?" "You may as well come along. There may be something doing." "Good enough! What disguise, Nick?" "The usual one, Chick, and I'll slip into my make-up as Joe Badger." "I'll be ready as soon as you are, Nick." In their pursuit of criminals it frequently became necessary for the Carters to visit the gambling-houses about town, both high and low. The presence of a detective, however, if known as such, is always objectionable to the proprietors of these places. For which reason both Nick and Chick had each a disguise in which, at such places, they were supposed to be men addicted to gaming, and were freely given admission. With the opening of any new house of this character, both at once cultivated the acquaintance of the managers, and thereafter visited the place only often enough to keep up appearances, or when in search of some crook. Nick frequently had been in Flood's sumptuously furnished house, where he was known as Badger, and none dreamed of his being a detective, not even Flood himself. It was about seven o'clock that evening when Nick and Chick approached the gambling-house, and as luck would have it, they encountered Flood just as he was entering. "Good evening, Mr. Badger," the gamester said politely, as the three men mounted the steps. "How are you, Flood?" rejoined Nick. "You remember my friend here, Tom Cory? He was here with me about a month ago." "I do not recall his face," smiled Flood gravely. "Possibly I was absent at the time. Glad to meet you, Mr. Cory. Any gentleman recommended by Mr. Badger is always welcome here. Come in, please." And Flood shook Nick by the hand, while the attendant at the street door closed the heavy portal behind them. Thirty seconds later the clang of the bell silenced the disturbance at the faro table, as previously described, and the three men entered the tiger's lair. # CHAPTER V. A TURN OF LUCK. The effect of Moses Flood's entrance into his gambling place was magical. It was as if a king had come into the presence of half-a-dozen squabbling courtiers. Godard shrank back in his lookout chair and relapsed into silence. The several players who had risen in the brief excitement resumed their seats with an air of unconcern, and the dealer continued his shuffling of the cards. "What's the trouble?" Flood quietly demanded. He halted for a moment, erect and motionless, with his piercing eyes bent darkly on the scene. "Nothing much, sir," rejoined the humpback, as he dropped the bar across the closed door. "A bit of backcap, that's all. It's over now." "It had better be," was the significant response. Flood's keen eyes had taken in the situation, yet his coldly dispassionate countenance masked his feelings as with a veil of ice. He passed back of the table, gravely greeting the several players, then paused to gaze down at the sleeping youth on the couch. "Did he come in with you?" he asked, turning soberly to Cecil Kendall. "Yes," replied the latter, with a faint smile crossing his pale face. "We have been over to Boston. Only returned this noon." "He has been drinking heavily, hasn't he?" "Rather." "Wayward fool!" "I tried to dissuade him," muttered Kendall. "He's in no shape to go home, so we dropped in here." Flood's face was clouded with a censorious frown as he turned away to place his hat on a rack near-by. Godard had made no further remarks, but sat staring oddly at Kendall, who now appeared to ignore him. The humpback had resumed his position at the end of the table, with his legs curled under him in his chair, with his ungainly head drawn down between his shoulders, and his attention directed upon the movements of the dealer, who had thrust the cards into the box and was about to start a new deal. Just then, however, Moses Flood approached him from behind and detained him with a significant touch on the shoulder. Bruce did not commence to deal. "How are they coming, Kendall?" Flood quietly asked, with a glance at the former's chips. "Rocky," said Kendall, with a sickly smile. "That so?" "Win these, Mose, and you have my pile. I shall be down and out, in more senses than one." Flood knew too well what he meant, yet his countenance did not change by so much as a shadow. He addressed the dealer, saying gravely: "Go and get your supper, Tom, and I will deal while you are out," said he. "I shall wish to be away for an hour or two after you return." "All right, sir." "You, Godard, may rearrange that sideboard, if you will. It looks as if it had been struck by lightning. The cues can declare it if I overpay." "Not much danger of that, Mr. Flood," smiled Godard, as the two men at once complied. Flood made no reply. He wheeled the lookout's chair a little to one side, as if it was in his way. In fact, however, he wanted no one in it during the next half-hour. Then he took the dealer's seat at the table, that which Tom Bruce had vacated. "You may draw the curtains back of me, John, and close the window. I feel a draft," said he, addressing the cuekeeper. He never called him by his nickname. In his sight the deformed man's affliction was great enough as it was. This showed of what the nature of Moses Flood was capable. He had removed his coat and opened his vest. He was rather slow in his movements, and not without an object. He had been on fire within. He now was cooling down. He was setting his nerves to the extraordinary task he saw before him. As the humpback left the window, Flood turned as if to see that it was closed. For the moment his face was averted from the several players. Only Humpty Green could see it, and he caught from Flood's eyes a flash that thrilled him through and through. It was a magnetic telegram, an unuttered command. It was understood, and the cuekeeper was startled; but even the cuekeeper in a faro-bank commands his emotions. Without a change of countenance he resumed his seat. Meantime, Nick Carter and Chick had sauntered over to the sideboard, then dropped into two chairs near the wall, where they sat, quietly talking and pretending to be sizing up the game. "There's your man, all right," murmured Chick, when Kendall's name was mentioned. "Yes," nodded Nick. "That is about what I expected." "Are you going to arrest him?" "Not at present. I'm not sure that he is guilty of embezzlement, and Gilsey wished to give him till to-morrow to report at the bank." "You'll keep an eye on him, eh?" "Rather." "Yet——" "Wait a bit," muttered Nick. "By Jove! there's something out of the ordinary going to come off here." "Think so?" "Look at Flood's face. It's as colorless as marble." "So 'tis, Nick." "There is something in the wind. He has got rid of his dealer and sent his lookout from the chair. By all that's good and great, Chick, I believe he's up to some extraordinary move." "You'll wait to see?" "I should say so." None of this was overheard by others, and the two detectives gave no sign of observing anything unusual. It took Nick's keen eyes and broad experience, moreover, to detect in Moses Flood the slightest indication of what he had in mind. Flood had reverted to the table, and the light again fell full on his face. It was pale, yet composed; stern, yet not evil; expressive, yet changeless. He was thinking of the girl to whose hand he had aspired, of the rector whose censorious words still were ringing in his ears; and he was thinking, too, of the wretched man seated opposite, a man who had fallen lower and sinned deeper than he had ever done. He was about to do what only one man in millions would have done. He believed what the rector had told him, that Dora Royal loved this man, who, were his sin to be brought home to him, would become a criminal at law and an outcast of society. For the sake of the girl, and to preserve her happiness, Moses Flood, looking for no return, not so much even as a smile of gratitude, was about to secretly sacrifice a goodly part of his fortune upon the altar of his own hopeless affection. He had spoken the truth, this man, when he said, "Even a gamester may love nobly, and be capable of great self-sacrifice." Yet his face was a mask, hiding the emotions within. One man only among all his observers could read it aright—Nick Carter. Flood laid aside the deal box lately used, and took another from a lower drawer of the table, of which he alone had the key. The box appeared to be precisely like the other—but it was not. With slight manipulation, the dealer could lower an invisible plate within, thus widening the slot through which the cards were dealt, allowing the passage of two cards instead of one. The mechanism could not be discovered, except with close examination, and even then a novice would not detect it. "What's the matter with the other box?" demanded a player, at once betraying a gambler's suspicions. "Nothing that I know of," said Flood coldly. "Why do you ask?" "Well, for no reason. I wondered why you shifted, that's all." "Because I wanted to," said Flood. "I prefer to work with my own tools. Are you suspicious? If so, you are not invited to play." "That's true enough." "If my word is of weight with you, however, you may be sure that a false card was never dealt in this place, to my knowledge." And he spoke the truth. "The game is strong enough without it," smiled Kendall, over whom, as over all, Moses Flood seemed to exercise a strangely magnetic influence. The latter made no reply, but took from the same drawer a deck of cards bound with a rubber, which he deliberately removed and threw to the floor. They were well seasoned, and of a rare and expensive quality, and unique design. They were of the kind known as "crazy backs." Nick Carter recognized them the moment his gaze lighted on them. He leaned nearer to Chick and whispered quietly: "I begin to suspect what's coming off here, Chick. That's a brace box, for a hundred." "The dickens! Do you think so?" "I do, indeed. And that deck of cards he has just brought up, Chick, is a deck of strippers." "What are strippers, Nick?" "Cards used for dealing one kind of a brace game," whispered Nick. "They are cut just the least bit wider at one end than the other. The narrow ends of the cards forming the middle of the layout are turned one way in shuffling, and those comprising the ends of the layout are turned the other." "What's the idea of that?" "Simple as two and two," replied Nick softly. "After shuffling the deck, the dealer takes the wide end of the cards between his thumbs and middle fingers, and with a movement so rapid as to defy detection, he strips them apart. Then he holds in one hand the cards corresponding to the ends of the layout, and in the other those comprising the middle. After putting them together, and placing them in the box, he knows almost to a certainty which cards are to win and which to lose throughout the deal." "The devil you say!" muttered Chick. "Then there must, indeed, be something coming off here." "Wait and see." Now, a word concerning the brace game Nick had partly described. Suppose that a player bets heavily upon an end card of the layout to win. The dealer sees that the bet is placed correctly, and for him to win the amount wagered it is necessary for him to reverse the combination of the cards. What does he do? He presses down on the secret plate in the box, and in making the turn, instead of dealing two cards, a winner and a loser, he deals three, and so adroitly that the deception is not observed. This reverses the combination, and the player referred to must lose. It is called "taking a card." But it is necessary, also, that the cues should show correctly at the end of the deal. The cuekeeper watches the dealer attentively. The latter, after taking a card, signs by prearranged signals to the former, who raps once with a chip against the side of the cue-rack, which signifies that the card taken is recorded, and at the end of the deal the cues are right. Sometimes the cards are marked also, that the dealer may know each turn before making it. This is called "dealing at sight." What is all this that has been described? It is one way by which men thrust their hands into their brother's pocket and rob him. It is more ignoble than stopping one in the darkness, and commanding him, at the point of a weapon, "Stand and deliver!" It is one of the methods by which is dealt the perfidious "brace faro!" Such was the box and such the cards which Moses Flood had placed on the table before him. The goggle eyes of Humpty Green began to open wider, his ungainly face to grow pale and grave. He had never known of such in the place, but the master had commanded and the menial would obey. He drew his chair closer to the table. Amid that momentous silence which invariably marks the opening of a new deal, Moses Flood, his pale features fixed like marble, his eyes steadfastly intense, his white hands nerved to their performance, began to shuffle the cards. His movements were rapid and graceful. In the flash of an eye he had stripped the deck asunder, cut it, and placed it in the box. A six showed at the top; the ends of the layout were winners, the middle losers. Flood sat back in his chair and waited the placing of bets. With an experienced eye he sized Kendall's remaining chips; there were about six hundred dollars' worth. The other players were wagering small amounts, and he gave them no attention. His mind was upon the man directly opposite. Kendall's hand trembled when it placed his first bet. He went on to the six to lose. He believed that he alone of all the world knew his dire need of winning. This bet was wrongly placed, and Flood knew it, yet made a turn. There was no decision, but a king had showed winner, and Kendall coppered the next. In a spirit of antagonism he was bucking the cards. Moses Flood leaned forward and glanced down upon the box. He could see the edges of the three top cards. They were marked by small, red dots, invisible to the players. Suddenly he made the turn. It was done like a flash. His forefinger touched for an instant the left lower corner of the box, and the silence was broken by the quick, responsive rap of the cuekeeper. He had taken a five. The cue was marked up, and the combination was reversed. Cecil Kendall had won his first bet—and the face of the humpback was a study; for, by taking the card, the dealer, contrary to all precedent, had forced himself to lose! Humpty Green decided that Moses Flood had made a mistake. The good luck seemed to encourage Kendall. He placed another bet—and won. He doubled the amount, and won again. He moved bet and payment to the corner of a card, and said in tones tremulous despite him: "That goes both ways." He whispered the turn—it was followed by a rap from the cuekeeper. The latter's face was now livid from uprising excitement, and his eyes like glowing coals. There could be but one meaning to what he saw—Moses Flood was indeed dealing a "brace game," but he was dealing it against himself, and forcing Cecil Kendall to win! With form quivering in his chair, the menial looked at the master. He might as well have looked at the ceiling. To Kendall it seemed like the interposition of fate. The spirit of fortune inspired him. He observed that his last bet topped the limit, yet he had not been stopped. "How high can I go?" he asked suddenly, looking up at the dealer. "Till I call you down," answered Flood, with unmoved countenance. "Look out, or I'll break you," laughed Kendall nervously, his face flushed, his eyes glowing. "You cannot break me," replied Flood, with calm gravity. "How much can I win?" The question came with strangely abrupt eagerness. "Ninety thousand dollars," was the nonchalant rejoinder. A momentary pallor swept over Kendall's face at the mention of the sum, and his glittering eyes flashed for an instant on Flood; but the latter's countenance, void of insinuation, was as cold and calm as a sea of ice. The player's brow darkened slightly, and his lips became drawn in the intensity of his mental action. Had he known what the humpback, shaking in his chair, knew at that moment, he would have won the sum in half-a-dozen turns. "God!" he cried to himself. "What would that be to me! it would place me on my feet again! It would make me a man again—a man worthy of life and of her! God above, is it possible to win it?" He saw a possibility, one chance in a hundred, and took it. He was well worthy his reputation of a high-roller. Down he went upon the layout with his chips; now betting one, now two, now three hundred dollars on a card. The chips before him gathered like Arctic snow. One, two, three thousand dollars was passed—and yet he won. His face burned as from fever. He was on fire within. He could scarcely comprehend what was taking place, but that it was was sufficient; and a fervent hope, banishing sober contemplation, urged him on. He pressed his bets from two to three, and from three to five hundred, yet Moses Flood never spoke. He was glad to see him do so, for the other players, astounded by the seeming run of luck, were beginning to follow Kendall. The silence, oppressive in its intensity, was broken only by the occasional rap of the cuekeeper and the labored breathing of the sleeping youth upon the sofa. "Last turn," said the humpback suddenly, his voice deep and husky in his throat. "An ace, five, and seven in." Then, for the first time during the deal, did Moses Flood glance at the cue-rack, and raising his eyes, like stars in his stoical face, he gave its keeper a look of such intensity that the fellow fairly shuddered in his chair. It was a command of silence which he dared not disobey. Cecil Kendall placed his bets, and Flood made the turn. The cues were right, despite the fact that six cards had been taken, and the humpback breathed a sigh of relief. Something like an exclamation of triumph, half suppressed, broke from Kendall's lips. He had called the turn and emptied the check-rack. The recreant cashier of the Milmore Trust Company had won twenty thousand dollars on the deal. He had experienced a wonderful turn of luck. # CHAPTER VI. A STARTLING SEQUENCE. As the deal ended, a deep sigh of relief rose from the several players at the table, as from men long submerged in water. Their suppressed excitement had been intense, fairly painful at times, and this halt between the deals was a welcome respite. Except Moses Flood and the deformed cuekeeper, only one man in the room saw what Moses Flood was doing. Before the deal was half out, Nick Carter detected the gamester's design, as well as the marvelous dexterity with which it was executed. And Nick readily guessed, too, the true occasion for it. Once more he leaned nearer to Chick and said softly: "Do you see what Flood is doing?" "I see that Kendall is winning," whispered Chick. "Like a race-horse. You are witnessing a bit of unselfish work that places Flood in a class all his own," murmured Nick, with some feeling. "What do you mean?" "He is dealing so as to insure himself a loser, and forcing Kendall to win." "The deuce you say!" "Mark me, Chick," added Nick. "He will make Kendall win a sum sufficient to square him at the bank—ninety thousand dollars." "Good God!" muttered Chick. "Do you think so?" "Wait and see." "What will you do about Kendall in that case?" "I shall be governed by what I observe," whispered Nick. "Be careful to give no sign that we are wise to anything. This is one of the most extraordinary episodes I ever witnessed." "But what object can Flood have in——" "Hush! I can guess what it is, and for all the world I would not get in his way. I will explain it to you later. No more now, Chick. They're off again." Flood again had shuffled and stripped the cards, then placed them in the deal box. Looking at his coldly stoical face, one would have said that he was utterly unconscious of his losses. "You have emptied the chip-rack, Kendall," said he deliberately. "Count me back twenty thousand dollars' worth of your chips. I will note the sum, and pay you at the end of your play." He had no fear that the player would quit on the strength of such a proposition. He knew him too well—and his dire need to win more. "Suppose my good luck continues?" said Kendall doubtfully. "Ah, that is not likely," said Flood calmly. "But you shall have all that you can win. I think you know me to be a man of my word." Kendall would have preferred to have the money, but he offered no further objection. He returned the chips desired, and Flood made a memorandum of the amount. Then the next deal began. It was a repetition of the former, save that now and then, in order to keep the other players in check, Flood was compelled to let Kendall lose. But the latter won heavily on the deal as a whole, his bets being pressed to four figures, and when the final turn was made he had forty-five thousand dollars due him from the bank. The intense strain to which Moses Flood was subjecting himself was beginning to tell on him. His teeth were hard set. The muscles of his jaw were rigid, and the veins about his temples were purple and swollen. The pupils of his dilated eyes were like points of electric light. Despite his efforts to the contrary, other players were beginning to win by his manipulation of the cards, and Flood felt that the play must be brought to an end. As he dealt the cards and put them in the box for the third deal, he decided upon the surest and speediest method. He sized the chips in front of Kendall, then made a rapid turn. One double was in the box. Kendall staked a thousand. He won his bet fairly, and Flood lost six hundred to the other players. He bit his lip as he paid the bets. Then he glanced down at the next turn to come, and saw that Kendall was destined to lose. The outsiders also were upon the card to win, following fortune's favorite. Moses Flood could have won all the bet by making an honest turn. Instead, he took a card—and lost all. He paid the bets without a change of countenance—then sat back in his chair. "With this memorandum and the chips in front of you," said he, looking across at Kendall, "I owe you forty-five thousand dollars. You may bet the entire amount on a case card." "What's the objection to continuing as we're going?" cried Kendall, aghast at the offer. "I'm doing well enough as it is." Flood's cold features underwent no change. "You may make the bet suggested, Kendall, or come down to the limit," he said firmly. "You cannot get even by that," growled Kendall sullenly. "Nor can you win so rapidly." "Your proposition goes, does it?" "What I say in this place always goes." Kendall sat silent for several moments. He already had won half of the sum he so direfully needed, but he could not believe that fortune would favor him much longer. He was a ruined man when he entered the place, and with only half the desired sum he still was ruined. To win the bet suggested meant to him—redemption. There was no alternative but to accept the offer. Flood knew absolutely how Kendall would size up the situation, that he would take this one chance to square himself. He was not surprised, therefore, when the latter cried hoarsely: "I'll make the bet!" "Give me all of your chips," said Flood calmly. Kendall stacked them upon the layout. Flood transferred them to the chip-rack, then tossed a marker, a small, square piece of ivory, across the table. "That goes for forty-five thousand, Kendall," said he. "Bet it on any card you please." A hush like that of a death chamber fell over the room. A fortune was to hang on the turn of a single card. Not another man placed a bet. The color of the marker, white, seemed to give nerve to Cecil Kendall. If it had been a black one, he would have shrunk and hesitated. As it was, he played a three-time loser to win, tossing the marker upon the card, and then sat back in his chair, half fainting, and waited the turn that was to decide his fate. The excitement was intense, utterly indescribable, yet not a sound broke the deathly stillness. Moses Flood alone appeared to be calm—but the condition was external only. He leaned a little forward, that he might look down on the box on which every eye was focused, and anticipated each coming turn. He made one turn and there was no decision of the enormous bet. He then made another, a third, a fourth, and still there was no decision. Then he hesitated. Kendall was breathless. His eyes were fixed, staring wildly at the deal box, and his teeth were chattering. He was like a man yearning for pardon even under the muzzles of guns that hung upon the command to fire. Could he endure the suspense? Would reason sustain the strain? Or would he suddenly reach forward and withdraw the bet? Looking down upon the deal box, Moses Flood saw the coming turn. He saw that Kendall was fated to lose his bet. Despite his iron will, Flood began to tremble. To accomplish his sublime object, he was obliged to take a false card. Could he do it in his present state and under the glance of every eye? He ground his teeth, knit his heavy brows, and the blood in the arteries of his neck seemed as if to burst its confines. Still he hesitated—then the gong on the door broke the awful silence. Every eye turned involuntarily toward the bell. Flood's hands moved with lightning like rapidity. They took the false card undetected. The turn was made—and Cecil Kendall had won! He leaped to his feet, caught blindly at his chair, then cried wildly: "No more! Not another bet! Not for life itself will I make another bet!" Flood rose, with face fairly transfigured, and pointed to the sleeping man on the couch. "Peace!" he sternly commanded, with a voice that silenced all. "Do not wake young Royal. He is in no shape to go home to his father and sister!" Nick Carter leaned over and gripped Chick hard by the wrist. "By all the gods, Chick," he muttered huskily, "from this hour my money goes on Moses Flood!" It was not strange, this feeling on the part of the great detective, for he, at least, knew what Moses Flood had done, and why he had done it. "Let there be no disturbance here," said Flood, now quite calmly. "John, go and answer the bell. And you, Mr. Kendall, come into my private room, and I will pay your winnings." Kendall tried to speak, but his voice died in his swelling throat. The man who had rung the bell was the returning dealer, Tom Bruce. Flood beckoned him to the table. "Continue the game, Mr. Bruce," said he gravely. "Gentlemen, I do not wish the episode of this evening to be noised abroad, and those of you who are my friends will govern yourselves accordingly." "Oh, we'll keep mum about it, Mose!" cried several promptly. As Flood passed the humpback, who was replacing the bar on the door, he laid his hand on the man's shoulder and said softly: "Not a word of this, John, for your life!" "Trust me, sir!" Moses Flood knew that he could trust him, and he believed that no other man on earth knew what he had done there that night. He locked the brace deal box in the drawer from which he had taken it, but kept the deck of strippers in his hand when he led Cecil Kendall into his private room. As the door closed upon the two men, Nathan Godard sauntered nearer to Bruce and said carelessly: "I'm going out to supper, Tom. I have one or two errands to do, and may be out a bit longer than usual." "All right, Nate," nodded Bruce, who had taken his seat at the table. "Do not hurry back, as the boss said that he was going away." "I'll return in about an hour," added Godard. Then he took his hat and departed. Neither Nick Carter nor Chick observed him. The eyes of both were fixed upon the closed door of Flood's private room. # CHAPTER VII. THE WAGES OF SIN. In the private room to which he had led him, Moses Flood paid Kendall his winnings. As he took a portion of the funds from a huge safe in one corner, he said coldly: "I must give you part of the amount in government bonds, Mr. Kendall." "Anything—anything easily convertible," faltered Kendall, half choked with emotion. He could hardly realize what had befallen him, that he really had won all that he required to rectify his deficit at the bank, and that he then and there was to receive the money that would save him from flight, a defaulter's last resort, or the shame of a convict's cell. He feared each moment that he would awake, that he would find it all a dream, and behold again the soul-sickening image of his dreadful crime leering at him with mocking eyes. "The package will be quite bulky, and I will loan you a small portmanteau," said Flood, placing the satchel mentioned and several bundles of bank-notes and bonds upon the table. Kendall tottered nearer, then suddenly gave way to sobs and covered his face with his hands. "Oh, God! God above!" he cried brokenly. "Flood, you do not know, you cannot know, what this means to me!" Moses Flood drew himself up and laid his hand on the speaker's shoulder. "Kendall," said he, with grave austerity, "you are not rightly tempered to be a gamester. Take the advice of a gamester, however, and for the sake of those who love you, if not for your own, never again face a faro layout or play a card for money." "Never, never, so help me God!" cried Kendall, with uplifted hands. "If you adhere to that vow, I shall not feel to-night that I have suffered any loss," said Flood, with a strange light upon his white, forceful face. Then he tossed into the satchel the deck of cards with which he had dealt the game. "I shall give you those cards also, Kendall," said he oddly. "They are the ones I have been using. Keep them until I come and demand them of you. Some day you may know why I ask you to do this. Some day I may wish to recall to your mind what I to-night have—— Ah, but it does not matter." "I will keep them," declared Kendall fervently. "God hearing me, I will keep them." Flood had already closed and tightly strapped the satchel, which he now hastened to place in Kendall's hand. "I pledge my word that the amount is right," he said, with some feeling. "Now go as quickly as you can, and remember your promise! Go—go—and remember!" Still profoundly agitated, Kendall hurried from the room, ignoring all observers, forgetful even of his sleeping friend upon the couch, and thus hastened alone from the house and sought the cool air of the early evening. Nick Carter saw him emerge from the room, and Chick leaned nearer, saying softly: "Shall I shadow him, Nick?" The famous detective shook his head. "No, Chick," said he quietly. "There is no need of it." "Do you think so?" "I feel assured. The man's face tells the story. He is, indeed, short at the bank, but he will use this money to make good the deficit and conceal his crime. I am as sure of it as if I saw it done." Nick was entirely correct as to Kendall's intentions, and, recalling Gilsey's instructions, he saw no occasion to go beyond them. He was thinking, too, of Dora Royal, of the promise he had made her, and of what Flood that night had done, believing it to be for her sake. Now, feeling sure of his man, Nick would not for the world have perverted the design and desires of Moses Flood. The latter again appeared upon the scene while Nick was speaking, and at the same moment the sound of a heavy fall started all hearers. It was almost immediately followed by a maudlin laugh, and the man who had been so long sleeping on the couch was seen rising unsteadily from the floor beside it. "Ha, ha! I reckon I fell out of bed," he cried, in half-drunken tones, as he gained his feet and stared with dazed eyes toward the group of players at the table. Though nearly twenty-three Harry Royal looked to be little more than a youth. When sober, he was a handsome fellow, yet his features indicated a weak and yielding nature, and he was no sooner loosed from the restrictions of his home life to attend college than he proved an easy victim to the temptations which had brought him to his present condition. "How are they coming, Kendall?" he continued, swaying unsteadily and failing to observe that his friend had departed. "Are you winning our expenses? Have you——" Then he caught sight of Flood approaching, and he reeled toward him with extended hand, crying boisterously: "Hello, Mose, old man! Glad to see you, on my word I am." "And I am sorry to see you, Royal, in this condition," Flood gravely rejoined. "Faugh! Cut that out, Mose," cried Royal, flushing slightly and shaking his head to clear it of the cobwebs. "It's only now and then, old man. We are just back from Beantown, Kendall and I, and winding up a devil's own racket." "So it appears." "We painted Boston crimson, Mose, on my word. I say, Kendall, how are the cards winning? I'm in with this play, old chap, win or lose. Partners——" "What!" The words broke involuntarily from Flood, with a look of sudden dismay, but the humpback hastened to cry: "No, no, Mr. Royal, you're not! Kendall went broke on your mutual play, I give you my word. You were not in with the last—you were asleep when he——" "You lie! I am in with him!" Royal angrily interrupted. "Where has he gone? The devil take him, he treats me like a schoolboy. I say I was in with his play. Did he win? Tell me, did he win?" Before Flood could respond, one of the players cried a bit derisively: "No, I guess not, Harry! Only a cool ninety thousand!" The face of Harry Royal grew dark as a thunder-cloud. He at once suspected that Kendall had proven false, and was bent upon cheating him of a part of the winnings, an idea somewhat warranted by the latter's apparently secret departure. The possibility of thus being wronged seemed to arouse the very worst passions of which the intoxicated young man was capable. With a scream of rage, he darted to the couch and seized his hat. "Ninety thousand—and I've heard him say he meant to jump the country!" he cried wildly. "I'll have my share of it, Mose. Do you hear me—I was in with his play! He means to do me—curse him; but I know where to find him! I'll have my half, or I'll have his life!" "Peace!" thundered Flood, with terrible sternness. "Do you know where you are and what you are saying?" "Let go—let go my arm!" frothed the frenzied youth, struggling furiously in the other's grasp. "You don't know him as I do. I know where to find him—he has an appointment to-night with my—— Let go, I say! If he is not at the rectory, he means to swindle me. Let go, Mose; or I'll strike you! I will have what's coming to me, or I'll have his life!" With the infuriated words ringing from his lips he wrenched himself free, and before he could be prevented he had thrown down the bar from across the door and fled like a madman down the hall stairs. "Wayward fool!" exclaimed Flood, thoroughly disgusted, yet anticipating no serious results from the passionate threats. "He is a crazy ass when in liquor." "I should say so." "Bruce, I am going out for about an hour. If he returns before I come in, ask him to wait for me. I have a few words of advice for his foolish ears." "Very well, sir." A strange place is a faro-bank. The excitement had passed, and the game was again in progress. Not a man had moved from his seat at the table. With features in no way betraying his feelings, Moses Flood put on his coat and hat, took a heavy, ironwood cane from a stand in one corner, and signed for Green to accompany him to the door. On the threshold he paused for a moment, fixing his piercing eyes upon those of the humpback, and said, barely above his breath, yet with indescribable intensity: "Remember, John! Not one word!" "Never, sir; so help me God!" Then Flood was gone, and the door closed with a bang. Five minutes later Nick Carter, who had not deemed it worth his while to interfere, which step might have suggested his identity, signed for Chick to accompany him, and they left the place together. "There was nothing more for us there," remarked Nick, as they headed for home. "If ever a man in a bad corner made a lucky play, Kendall has made one this night." "I'm blessed if I can see through it!" said Chick, perplexedly. "What has come over Flood that he should do such a thing as that?" "The sentiment which quite often brings out the very best part of a man," replied Nick gravely. "Love?" "Precisely." "But——" "Wait till we get home, Chick, and I will then explain." "Good enough," laughed Chick. "I reckon I can wait." Seated together in the library of Nick's residence, half-an-hour later, the latter took up the subject where he had dropped it on the street. "Love, that's it," said Nick, lighting a cigar. "And it's just what I would have expected of Mose Flood. He's as odd a man as stands in leather. As grand a man, too, barring his one deplorable vice." "He has a legion of friends, Nick, there's no doubt of that," observed Chick. "You say that he is in love with Doctor Royal's daughter, eh? Was that what led to his move of to-night?" "Exactly," nodded Nick. "There's a curious side to the affair, however. Flood has never told the girl of his love, and he has no idea that she cares for him. He took the rector's word for it this afternoon that she loves Kendall and is engaged to marry him." "Well?" "In some way, Chick, he must have learned that Kendall is short in his accounts to the tune of ninety thousand dollars." "So he forced Kendall to win that amount, knowing that he would use it to square himself? Was that it?" "No doubt of it." "But why did he not give Kendall the money openly, without compelling him to make a play for it?" "For several reasons, all characteristic of Moses Flood. First, he aimed to insure that Dora Royal should never learn of Kendall's crime, or that he had saved him in this way for her sake. He does not want the girl to feel under obligations to him. Possibly he feared that she might object to her lover's accepting money from a gambler, even to keep him out of jail. Second, he aimed to spare Kendall the shame of knowing that his crime had been discovered, or was at least suspected. So he forced him to win the money, instead of giving it to him openly." "By Jove! that was good of him." "It was just like him, Chick. He has saved this man for love of that girl, and it cost him ninety thousand dollars to do it, with never a possibility that his magnanimity would be discovered, or that a word of gratitude would ever be given him. Chick, such a man as that is worthy of any girl, whether she's a clergyman's daughter or not." "And I hope he gets her," cried Chick bluntly. "We shall see," smiled Nick significantly. "I reckon I yet may have a finger in this pie." "I now see why you did not wish to arrest Kendall." "Surely not, Chick. I am convinced that Kendall will use that money to adjust his affairs at the bank. Feeling sure of that, I determined not to pervert Flood's lofty design, on which he had plainly set his heart." "His cuekeeper must have known what came off?" "The humpback?" "Yes." "That is true," admitted Nick, "but Flood evidently knows that he can trust him to say nothing about it. Furthermore, Chick, the cuekeeper is probably entirely ignorant of Flood's motive." "No doubt of it." "There is one feature of the case," added Nick, rather more grimly, "concerning which I am very much in the dark." "What is that, Nick?" "How the dickens did Flood learn that Kendall was short at the bank?" "By Jove! that's strange." "I reckon we have not heard the last of the case, Chick, and that something serious may yet result from it. There is no evading one fact, however. Flood has a heart as big as that of an ox, since he would thus save a man for the sake of a girl he himself loves, instead of jealously knocking his pins from under him. In days to come I'll not forget this in Moses Flood." The very next morning, which was sooner than Nick expected, his prediction concerning the outcome of the case was startlingly verified. He was seated with Chick in his office, about eight o'clock, when a district telegraph boy brought in a message. Nick tore it open and read it, then leaped involuntarily to his feet. "What is it, Nick?" demanded Chick impulsively. "The wages of sin is death!" cried Nick, with thrilling accents. "This message is from Dora Royal, asking me to come at once." "For what?" "Cecil Kendall was found murdered in the rectory grounds this morning!" # CHAPTER VIII. BY WHOSE HAND? Recalling the promise given Medora Royal, and now feeling a decided interest in the case itself, Nick Carter at once hastened to Fordham, and approached the rectory just before nine o'clock. The news of the crime had spread, and at one of the side gates a curious crowd had gathered, restrained from entering the grounds by one of the local police. Near the house, and at some distance from the street, was a group of men, including several officers and a physician, also the rector himself, all apparently interested in the doctor's examination of a body lying upon the ground at their feet. That Doctor Royal was among them, rather than in the house, suited Nick to the letter. Slipping into a disguise, that he might not thus early be identified with the case, Nick hastened to the adjoining cross-street on which the dwelling fronted. There he encountered none to oppose his entrance, and he strode quickly up the long gravel walk and rang the door-bell. The summons brought Dora Royal to the door, and Nick, observing her shrink with surprise, quickly made himself known. "I come in response to your telegram, Miss Royal." "But you are not Mr.——" "Oh, yes, I am," interposed Nick significantly. "I do not wish to be recognized by others, however. I want a word with you alone, that I may add to the instructions I gave you yesterday." Now convinced of his identity, Medora Royal hastened to admit him to a reception-room, the door of which Nick quietly closed. "Our interview must be very brief, Miss Royal, for I wish to have a look at the evidence out yonder before it is seriously disturbed," said he, declining a chair. "First, however, state anything that you know of the affair." "I know but very little, sir, save that it is most dreadful," said the girl, pale and agitated. "That is true, Miss Royal, but I wish to get at the superficial facts as quickly as possible." "If you will question me, sir, perhaps I more readily can——" "I will do so," interposed Nick, appreciating her nervous excitement. "Tell me when and by whom the body was discovered?" "About eight o'clock, sir, and by a young man who is employed here as a gardener." "It is that of Cecil Kendall?" "Alas, yes." "Dead?" "For many hours, surely. He appears to have been killed with a——" "Wait for my questions, please," said Nick. "Was Kendall here in the house last evening?" "He was not." "Who was here?" "Only my father, myself, and two servants," replied Dora. "We all retired soon after nine o'clock." "What of your brother?" "He has not yet returned from Boston. That is, sir, unless—unless——" "Unless what, Miss Royal?" "Unless he arrived in New York yesterday, and remained at his room in the city." "Very probably that is what he did," nodded Nick, both to relieve the girl and conceal his own misgivings. "Where is his room in town, Miss Royal?" "At the Carleton Chambers. He prefers to keep a room there, rather than come out each night from college." "I see," bowed Nick. "Now tell me, has your father said anything to you about his interview with Moses Flood?" "Not one word, sir." "And you have had no callers here since yesterday afternoon?" "None, Detective Carter." "Kindly do not mention my name, Miss Royal," smiled Nick. "Even the walls may have ears." "I will be more guarded, sir." "And if you are still willing to follow my advice, I wish to add to my instructions," said Nick, now having learned the important facts which she could impart to him. "I am more than anxious to do so," Dora answered feelingly. "Your immediate response to my telegram convinces me that you have my welfare at heart, and I will be rigidly governed by your instructions." "It will ultimately prove to your advantage," said Nick earnestly. "I shall leave no stone unturned to bring about that which is dearest to you. This murder, however, if such it is, threatens to create serious complications, and it will very possibly circumstantially incriminate innocent parties." "Oh, oh, is it possible?" "Let come what may, Miss Royal, I want you to trust the case entirely to me, and do exactly what I advise." "Indeed, sir, I will." "Under no circumstances are you to mention me in connection with the case, nor disclose our relations." "I will not." "Furthermore, whatever happens, or whoever appears to be involved, you must volunteer no opinion of the case. If you are questioned, however, answer precisely the same as if you had not overheard your father's interview with Moses Flood, and as if you and I had never met. Will you do this?" "I certainly will." "Then you may safely leave all the rest to me," declared Nick warmly. "By whom did you send the telegram this morning?" "By our chambermaid." "Does she know to whom it was addressed, or of what it consisted?" "Neither, sir. I sent it to the telegraph office under seal." "Very good," said Nick approvingly. "Be equally guarded in the future, or till I further advise you. This must be all for the present, Miss Royal, as I wish to make a few investigations outside. I will leave by the front door and pass around the house, that our interview here may not be suspected." "But how am I to repay you, or thank you for——" "By following my instructions to the letter," Nick gently interposed, as he led the troubled girl into the hall. "Keep them constantly in mind and trust me to be constantly alert to your interests. No more now, Miss Royal. You shall hear from me later." The last was said at the open door, and with the final word Nick nodded and smiled encouragingly, then left the veranda and quickly made his way around the house. The interview had occupied but a very few minutes, and as Nick approached the group of men gathered near Kendall's body, the physician was just about concluding his examination of the remains. With a few rapid glances Nick took in the superficial evidence bearing upon the crime. The body lay upon the greensward to the right of a gravel walk leading around the house, and nearly midway between the walk and the library windows. The plot of grass between the walk and the house was about ten feet wide, and Nick promptly deduced one important point. "There is no door on this side of the house, nor any direct approach to one from either gate," he quickly reasoned. "Evidently Kendall came around here to peer through the library window before entering the house, and was struck down as he approached, or while quietly withdrawing. For some reason he must have aimed to learn who was within." A glance at the gravel walk and the greensward near-by, however, gave Nick no clue. If Kendall's assailant had left any telltale footprints behind him, both his own and those that might have revealed the movements of his victim had been obliterated by the heavy tread of the several men gathered about the murdered man. The body evidently lay where it had fallen, with arms outstretched and face upturned, gory and ghastly in the morning sunlight. The skull had been fractured by several blows with a heavy weapon, obviously a bludgeon of some kind, and from the shocking wounds the blood had oozed over the brow and hair of the stricken man, forming a sickening pool in the matted grass on which his head rested. "Clad just as he was when he left Flood's gambling-house," thought Nick. "He must have come directly out here. There's no sign of the satchel, however, in which he had brought away his winnings. It looks as if the motive was robbery." And Nick recalled the frenzied threats of young Harry Royal, but decided it was too early in the game to draw any reliable conclusions. Nick reverted almost immediately to the physician, who had risen while wiping his soiled hands, and now addressed his several companions. Three of these were officers of the local police, among them Captain Talbot, of the precinct station, and one was a plain-clothes man from the central office, Detective Joe Gerry. Nick knew all of them very well, and they him, yet for the present he preferred to hide his identity. "A case of murder, Detective Gerry, that's what it is," declared the physician, turning to the central office man. "The question is, By whose hand was the crime committed?" "How long has he been dead?" demanded Gerry bluntly. "About twelve hours." "That would be since nine o'clock last evening?" "That hits very near to it," replied the physician. "You are sure of this man's identity, Doctor Royal?" "Positively," cried the rector, obviously much agitated. "He has been a frequent visitor here. I cannot comprehend how such a fate could have befallen him." "I'll admit that the motive appears to be obscure," replied Gerry, staring down at the body. "It cannot have been robbery, for neither his jewelry nor his pocketbook has been taken. No, no, the motive cannot have been robbery." "You'll change your mind, Gerry, when you learn that this man won ninety thousand dollars just before coming out here," said Nick to himself. "Are some of your men searching the grounds for evidence, Talbot?" inquired Gerry, turning to the captain of police. "Yes, several of them," nodded Captain Talbot. The detective reverted to Doctor Royal. "Were you at home last evening?" he demanded. "I was," bowed the rector. "Both my daughter and myself." "Did you have any callers?" "None, sir. We were alone all the evening." "In what part of the house?" "In the library, sir, from dinner until after nine o'clock." "Where is the library located?" "These are the windows, sir, right here." "Oh, ho!" exclaimed Gerry. "Is that so? It looks as if this man had designed to peer into them, and had been caught in the act, if not done up for it. Possibly we may find a motive for the crime by looking a little deeper. You say that this man Kendall was a friend of your family?" Nick Carter saw what was coming, yet he made no move to head it off. His immediate design was only to observe the trend of the case, and then shape his own course accordingly. Doctor Royal grew even more pale upon hearing the remarks of the central office man, and he fell to wringing his hands with a sort of nervous apprehension. He was thinking of his son, who for several days had been absent with Kendall, and had not yet returned. Yet there lay Cecil Kendall, slain by the hand of an assassin, and the unaccountable absence of Harry Royal still remained to be explained. The mystery of it all dismayed the worthy clergyman, yet, despite his desperate misgivings, he nerved himself to answer quite firmly: "Yes, sir, Mr. Kendall has been a friend of my family for several years." "Were you expecting a visit from him last evening?" asked Gerry, with a keen eye to the rector's perturbation. "I cannot say that I was." "Has he called here frequently?" "Quite so." "Come, come, Doctor Royal, what were his precise relations here?" demanded Gerry suspiciously. "You appear averse to letting go of something. If you know of any facts that may shed a ray of light upon this case, let's have them at once. I'm sure that you personally can have no reason for hiding anything." "By no means," cried Doctor Royal, with extreme nervousness. "I would give the world to know the truth of this dreadful affair." "What of Kendall, then, and his relations here?" "Well—really—as a matter of fact, he was in love with my daughter," faltered the rector, trembling visibly. "In a word, Detective Gerry, he was about the same as engaged to her." "Oh, ho! Then it's barely possible that jealousy led some party to kill him," cried Gerry, quickly snapping up the clue. "Has your daughter any other admirer who might be guilty of this?" "I—I—really I can name no one who——" "Stop a bit!" cried Captain Talbot abruptly. "Here comes Kelly on the run. By thunder, I believe he has the weapon with which the crime was committed!" Every eye was quickly turned in the direction indicated. Along a path leading around the stable and to a gate at the rear of the extensive grounds a policeman was hurriedly approaching, holding above his head what appeared to be a stout stick. As he drew near, however, it was seen to be a heavy cane, highly polished, and with a round silver head. "What have you there, Kelly?" cried Detective Gerry sharply. "See for yourself, sir," replied the officer. "I found it thrust beneath a lot of brushwood under the wall at the rear of the grounds." The detective uttered a cry as he seized it. "Good God! it's covered with blood," said he. "And see! here are bits of scalp and hair dried on the side and head of it." "His hair!" cried Talbot, pointing to the lifeless man near-by. "No doubt of it—not a shadow of doubt!" exclaimed Gerry. "It's the weapon with which the deed was done." Even Nick Carter was a little startled, as well as a good deal puzzled. For Nick had almost instantly recognized the cane. It was the same that Nick had seen Moses Flood take from a rack just before leaving his gambling-house at half-past eight the previous evening. Over the face of Doctor Leonard Royal there had come an expression not easily described. It was that of sudden and overwhelming relief, mingled with convictions and a bitterness that scarce had bounds. He no longer was restrained by apprehensions concerning his son, and the latter's unaccountable absence, for he now believed that he read aright the appalling evidence before him. With a cry of bitter condemnation he sprang forward and laid his hand on Detective Gerry's arm. "Oh, the knave! the knave!" he exclaimed, in tones that startled all hearers. "I now see it all. I should have known it—I should have known it!" "Good heavens, Doctor Royal, what are you saying?" demanded Gerry, involuntarily drawing back. "That cane—it belongs to Moses Flood," cried the rector, pointing wildly at the gory stick. "To Moses Flood!" "I have seen him carry it countless times," cried the excited clergyman. "You are right—you are right! Jealousy was the motive for this crime. The cane belongs to Moses Flood, and only yesterday——" "Do you mean Moses Flood, the gambler?" interrupted Gerry, in tones that began to ring with exultant convictions. "The same—the same!" cried Doctor Royal. "Only yesterday I scornfully refused him the hand of my daughter, and told him she was already engaged to Cecil Kendall. Jealousy must have been the motive. Flood must be the guilty party. Only yesterday I——" "By heavens, then, Flood is the man we want!" exclaimed Gerry, again interrupting the pale and excited rector. Nick Carter could see only too plainly the result of the discoveries made there that morning, and he did not wait to hear more. "Flood, eh?" he said to himself. "Not by a long chalk. Cane or no cane, Moses Flood never killed this man. It's plainly time for me to get in a bit of lively work, and head off this man Gerry. He'll now go at the case like a bull at a gate." As he turned from the scene, bent upon hastening away, Nick caught sight of a white, frightened face at one of the library windows—the face of the girl from whom he had recently parted, and who plainly had seen and heard all. Darting around a corner of the house, Nick rapped smartly on one of the side windows. The sound quickly brought Dora Royal to him, and he signed for her to raise the sash. "Do not be alarmed," he then cried softly. "Your face will betray you unless you conceal your feelings. Did you hear all that was said out there?" "Yes, yes, every word," moaned the girl breathlessly. "Oh, oh, it cannot be possible! He never did it—he could not have done it!" "Take my word for that, Miss Royal, and suppress your fears," Nick hurriedly answered. "Let the evidence be what it may, never believe that Flood committed that crime. I have no time for more. Be guarded, constantly guarded, and follow my every instruction to the letter." "I surely will, sir. And you?" "I'm off to queer the move against Moses Flood." # CHAPTER IX. UNDER OATH. "That's what I propose to do, Chick." "Go to the bottom of it, Nick?" "Plumb to the bottom," declared the famous detective. "I am now in the case in dead earnest, Chick, and I'm going to know who killed that man Kendall or lose a leg in the attempt." "I'll wager you'll retain both legs," laughed Chick. "I gave my word to that Royal girl when I believed there appeared nothing very serious in the way of making good my promise, and now that I find myself confronted with the most serious of all problems, I'm blessed if I'll throw up the sponge. I'll ferret out the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. You hear me!" Chick laughed again, and he was by no means blind to the grim determination reflected in Nick's face, nor to the feelings with which his words were imbued. It was less than an hour since Nick left the scene of the murder committed the previous night, and he had hurried home to rejoin Chick and inform him of all he had seen and heard. With Nick Carter to think was to act, yet despite his hurried return from Fordham, and the fact that he was now very definitely actuated, Nick was not a little puzzled by the conflicting evidence of the case. It was this evidence that he was discussing with Chick, which had led to the foregoing digression, while Nick was rapidly putting on the same disguise that he had worn in Flood's place the previous evening. "It appears plain enough that Flood went out there last night after leaving his faro-bank," Nick grimly continued. "You saw him take that cane just as he departed, and I can swear it to be the same that was found this morning." "It cannot have gone out there of itself," remarked Chick. "But why Flood went out there again, after having been turned down by the rector, and making that big losing to Kendall, is more than I can conjecture." "You heard young Royal's threats in the faro-bank," said Chick. "Certainly I heard them." "Possibly Flood feared that the drunken scamp meant to execute them, and he may have gone out there to prevent him." Nick quickly shook his head. "Well enough reasoned, Chick," said he, "but your theory hasn't feet to stand on." "Why not?" "In the first place," replied Nick, "Flood attached no serious importance to Royal's threats, and barely gave them a second thought. His face showed that; also that his mind was intent upon some other matter." "I'll admit that he appeared so." "Furthermore," added Nick, "he had only Royal's maudlin intimation as to where Kendall might be found, and he would not have banked so heavily on them as to have traveled post-haste to Fordham." "Possibly not, Nick." "He must have gone directly out there, however, for it was after eight o'clock when he left the faro-bank, and we have the physician's word for it that the murder was committed about nine o'clock." "That's true." "No, no, Chick, some other motive took Flood out to Fordham last night, and only the devil himself could guess just what occurred there." "You don't believe that he killed Kendall?" "Not by a long chalk!" "I'd wager all I possess against that." "But what about young Royal?" "He's an open question." "Do you think he did it?" "It's barely possible, yet it is too early in the game to think profitably," replied Nick. "There's something I want you to do." "Name it." "Royal keeps a room at the Carleton Chambers. Do you know where they are located?" "Yes." "Then into a disguise, in order that we may not appear in the case as yet, and go up there," continued Nick. "If you can find Royal, question him as to where he went last night after leaving Flood's place, and see what you can gather from his answers and his bearing." "Trust me for that, Nick. But suppose he is away?" "Then quietly ascertain, if possible, whether he occupied his room there last night, and at precisely what time he came in." "Is that all?" "All for the present, Chick, as far as he is concerned. That central office sleuth, Gerry, will get after him soon enough, as well as after Flood, and I wish at present to keep a bit in the background." "Gerry will soon learn all about Kendall's winning that money." "No doubt, Chick, but he'll not discover that Flood lost it voluntarily. You and I and that cuekeeper are all that know about it, and the humpback will keep his mouth closed. I'll wager that Flood has insured that." "But the evidence against Flood is decidedly incriminating," declared Chick. "Gerry will probably land him this very morning." "I don't think so," smiled Nick oddly. "I'm going to get in the way of Mr. Detective Gerry." "Oh, ho, that's your game, is it?" "That's the beginning of it," replied Nick, more gravely. "I'm convinced, despite the evidence against him, that Flood had no hand in this crime. Before I can proceed to an intelligent investigation of it, however, I must learn just where Moses Flood stands, and what attitude he will take when informed of the murder." "I see," nodded Chick. "He may deny any knowledge of it, or claim that he was not——Ah, but what's the use of trying to anticipate Flood's conduct?" Nick bluntly demanded. "A man who would do what he did last evening, Chick, would hesitate at nothing that served his purpose. He's as difficult to read as—as——" "As yourself," supplemented Chick, with a laugh. "Possibly even more difficult," smiled Nick, as he completed his disguise. "At all events, Chick, I'm not quite sure that I want Flood arrested, and so I'm going to get in Gerry's way until I can learn how the land lies." "Do you think Flood will inform you?" "I don't think that he will, but I believe I can gather something from an interview with him," explained Nick. "I see." "He'll not suspect me, in this disguise, of being other than a fellow gamester, and I have already shaped my course with him. Meantime you investigate young Harry Royal, and meet me here at noon." "Leave that youngster to me," nodded Chick, as they prepared to depart, in company. "By the way, Nick, have you communicated with Gilsey, of the Trust Company?" "I have telephoned him only that Kendall was in Flood's place last evening," replied Nick. "I could not well inform him of the murder without disclosing that I had been out there. He'll get the news of that soon enough, however. As the case now looks," added the detective, as they were about parting at the street corner, "I think we may have some warm work before we see the end of it." "Let it come, Nick. I reckon we can take care of it." "We'll give it a try, at all events. See me again at noon, Chick." "Sure thing." It happened that morning that Moses Flood arrived at his gambling-house less than ten minutes in advance of Nick Carter. It was an hour, moreover, when there was rarely any business, and Flood found the house deserted by all except the attendant at the street door and the deformed cuekeeper on the floor above. Both were engaged in putting the place in order after the night game. Flood at once mounted the stairs and entered the chamber previously described. At that hour, however, the room presented a vivid contrast. It was like looking at the bare stage of a theater seen by daylight. There was no game going, no excited players, no glare of electric lights, no clicking of ivory chips, no signs of apprehension, no precautionary measures. For the door of the room stood open, and John Green, the humpback, was engaged in wiping the glassware on the sideboard. Flood appeared pale and haggard, like one who has passed a sleepless night; yet he was neatly dressed, as was always the case, and carried himself with habitual dignity and composure. "Good morning, John!" said he, with a sharp glance about the room. The face of the humpback lighted perceptibly, yet a certain anxious look in his tired eye betrayed his secret misgivings. "Good morning, Mr. Flood!" he replied, a bit huskily. "You're down early, sir." "Somewhat. Who has been here this morning?" "Only Nate Godard, sir. He looked in for a minute, then said he had an errand down-town." "No one else has called?" "Not a soul, sir." Flood suppressed a sigh of relief; yet, despite the assurance given him, his eyes again swept sharply about the room. "What time did the game stop last night?" he asked. "Just about midnight, sir. There weren't many around after—after——" "After I made my big losing?" queried the gambler, with a faint smile crossing his pale face. "Aye, sir; that's what I had in mind," replied Green, with grave humility. "Did young Royal show up again?" "No, sir." "You saw what I did, John?" "How could I help seeing it, Mr. Flood? I had to mark up the cues when you signed a card taken." "Did I do the job well, John?" "Sure, sir—well's no name for it!" cried the humpback. "On my word, sir, I was the most surprised man that ever sat shaking in a chair." "There was nothing for you to fear." "Mebbe 'twasn't all fear, sir." "Be not surprised at anything I may do," added Flood moodily. "Was any person wise to the play?" "Never a one, sir," declared Green, with emphasis. "All hands thought the losing was on the level. Not a man save us knows what you did, Mr. Flood. I'd stake my life on that." "For your life, then, John, keep the secret!" cried Flood, laying a heavy hand on his startled hearer's shoulder. "Give me your word, your oath, man, that you'll keep it, let come what may!" "My oath 'tis, sir, then!" cried the humpback, with his hand impressively raised. "So help me God, sir, I'll keep the secret!" "Nor reveal it under any circumstances?" "Never, sir, until you say the word." "For reasons of my own, John, I wish——" "Oh, dash your reasons, sir!" came the impulsive interruption. "Your wish is enough for me. I've not forgot 'twas you who took me out of the streets and put me in the way of a decent living. I told you last night you could trust me. And I tell you now, sir, I'll let go my life if need be to hide what you did last night." Flood dropped his hand from the man's shoulder and took that of the speaker. "I know that I can trust you, John," said he slowly. "My only fear was that you might disclose the truth for my sake, should serious circumstances involve me." "Not I, sir, if you say not." "Understand me, John," and Flood's resonant voice grew strangely hard and grim. "I am now playing against a tough and hard game, the hardest a man ever has to face, and one that may bring me between life and death." "Good God, sir!" "Nay, don't start and grow pale. I know what I'm about and what I am saying. Mark well my words, and remember your vow. Under no circumstances, not even to save my neck from a hangman's noose, are you by word or sign to betray my secret." The face of the humpback was the color of dead ashes, and its expression one never to be forgotten. Yet he again raised his hand and fervently answered: "Never, sir, God hearing me!" "If I ever wish the truth disclosed, I will inform you. Till then, let come what may, be silent—always silent!" "Trust me, sir, my lips are sealed." "And if the gratitude of a man of my calling is worth anything," added Flood, with a strange light sweeping over his hueless face, "if a gambler's appreciation, a gamester's thanks——Hush! Not a word! See who rang——" A single note from the bell on the street door had sounded through the quiet house. It caused Flood to start as if stung. His countenance changed like a flash. His features became hard as flint, and his eyes, in which were reflected the sad memories evoking his grateful words, took on a light like that cast from a blade of polished steel. The humpback darted into the hall and peered down the stairs. The attendant was just opening the street door. Nick Carter, in the disguise of Joe Badger, stood on the steps. "Hello, Peters!" he exclaimed familiarly, "is Moses Flood about?" The goggle eyes of the humpback swept round to meet those of the gamester, standing as rigid as stone in the adjoining room. "It's only Joe Badger, sir," he whispered hoarsely. Again that fleeting expression of relief swept over Flood's white face. "Badger—at this hour!" he muttered darkly. "What does he want?" "He says he must see you, sir." "Must?" "That was the word, sir." "Must! Ha! What matters? Let him come up." The humpback called down the stairs: "All right, Peters! Let him come up!" And Nick Carter quickly mounted the stairs. # CHAPTER X. A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE. Though not particularly elated over having located Flood so promptly, Nick Carter felt considerable satisfaction in that he had accomplished it before Detective Gerry, who, he expected, might arrive upon the scene at any moment. That Flood's arrest would immediately follow, unless Nick saw fit to prevent it, the detective had not a doubt. The settled paleness of Flood's clean-cut, forceful features when Nick entered the room was the only outward sign of his recent brief excitement. He greeted the disguised detective with a careless nod, saying indifferently: "Good morning, Badger. What brings you here at this hour? There's seldom anything doing before noon." "I know it, Mose," replied Nick, with a glance about the room to learn who was there. "I did not come to make a play." "For what, then?" asked Flood, smiling curiously. "Merely to make a social call?" "Not exactly that, either," returned Nick. "I want a few words with you, Mose." "With me, eh? Well, Badger, here I am; so you may out with them." "If it's all the same to you, Mose, I'd prefer to see you alone." Flood began to suspect that his caller wished to borrow some money, an experience to which he was by no means a stranger, and a look of less concern rose to his face. "You may come to my private room, Badger," said he, leading the way, and closing the door after they had entered. "Sit down if you like. Now, what can I do for you? Are you strapped, or running low?" It was the same room in which Flood had paid Kendall his ninety thousand dollars, and, incidentally, included the deck of strippers with which he had dealt himself a loser. Nick glanced about the finely furnished room, then took a chair near the table. "No, Mose, I am not here to ask a loan of you," said he, smiling. "I suppose I could have it, however, if I wished one." "I think it likely, Joe," said Flood, sitting carelessly on a corner of the table. "That's like you, Mose," remarked Nick, ready to note any change in the face of his hearer. "Well, I'm not here for that. I call with another object." "What object?" "I have just come down from Fordham. I live out that way, you know." Flood started slightly and his dark brows drooped ominously. "From Fordham?" said he, with eyes searching Nick's. "Exactly," nodded Nick. "You've not heard the news, I take it?" Yet Nick was already convinced that he was right in his suspicions, and that Flood already knew of the murder. To learn what attitude he next would take was Nick's immediate motive, on which his own course necessarily would depend. "To what news do you refer, Joe?" Flood coolly inquired. "It's about that chap who made a big winning here last night. I was present at the time, you remember." "Yes, I remember. But what about him?" "Dead!" said Nick tersely. "Dead!" echoed Flood, with well-feigned amazement. "Murdered," added Nick. "Murdered! Impossible!" "It's a fact, Mose." "When and where?" Though he now saw that Flood had already resolved upon some fixed line of conduct, Nick was determined to drive him to the wall. "He was killed about nine o'clock last night, Mose, near the house of Doctor Royal, the Fordham rector." "You amaze me! Cecil Kendall dead! Are you sure of this, Badger?" "Rather," nodded Nick. "I saw the body myself. He was found near the library windows, stiff as a poker, with his head crushed in with a club." "Dreadful! Horrible!" "So 'tis, Mose, but there's no doubt about it," continued Nick, watching him as a cat watches a mouse. "They are dead sure it is a case of murder." "Whom do you mean by they?" "Detective Gerry and the police. They are out there looking for evidence." "Gerry, of the central office?" "The same." "God above!" exclaimed Flood, playing his part to perfection. "I can hardly believe this, Badger." "You'll find it's true, all right," declared Nick. "The poor devil's winnings didn't do him much good, Mose. I reckon robbery was the motive, for the satchel is missing which you loaned him to take away the stuff." "How do you know I loaned him the satchel for that purpose?" Flood now demanded, with a harsh ring creeping into his heavy voice. "Oh, I merely guessed at that, Mose; and it looks likely enough. You heard young Royal's threats, too. Mebbe he was the chap who did it." Flood sprang down with an oath. "Not on your life, Badger!" he cried vehemently. "Royal's threats were the ravings of a drunken boy. He cannot have done it. It isn't in him to have done it. For your life, Badger, if you're a friend of mine, don't ever hint again that Harry Royal committed this crime." A curious gleam showed for an instant in Nick's keen eyes, but he gave no expression to the thoughts that occasioned it. "You've got no better friend than I am, Mose, you can gamble on that," he declared significantly. "Possibly not." "It's only because I wish to do you a good turn that I am here." "Do me a good turn!" echoed Flood, with eyes now glowing suspiciously. "What do you mean by that, Joe Badger?" "Can't you guess what I mean, Mose?" "By no means." "You ought to." "Well, I can't," cried Flood, with rising resentment. "Speak plainly. What do you mean?" Nick now drew forward in his chair and replied with lowered voice and more impressively. "I'll tell you what I mean, Mose," said he. "I was on the spot when this trick was turned and I heard all that was said. Gerry has found the weapon with which Kendall was killed. There's no doubt about it!" "Well, what of it?" demanded Flood, in perplexity too genuine to be doubted. "Suppose they have found it? What's that to me?" "Much!" "Why so?" "The weapon, Mose, was a heavy ironwood cane, the same which you carried when you left this house at eight o'clock last evening. The murder was committed one hour later." Despite the rigid control he was imposing upon himself, which was plainly obvious to Nick's keen discernment, Flood now started slightly upon hearing the detective's disclosures. Nick saw at once that he had brought the gamester at least one item of news, and that Flood, whatever he knew of the crime, was ignorant of the means employed. In an instant, however, though his face grew even more pale, Flood again had his feelings under rigid control. "Are you sure of what you are saying, Badger?" he slowly demanded, with voice grown strangely hard. "Dead sure of it, Mose." "That Kendall was killed with the cane you describe?" "The evidence is conclusive. It is an ironwood cane with a large silver head." "That's like mine." "It was found hidden under some brushwood near the rear wall of the grounds," continued Nick. "It was covered with blood; and bits of scalp and hair, plainly those of the murdered man, had cleaved to it." Flood heard him without moving from his seat on the edge of the table, and with never a change in his set, white face. "This is strange, Badger, on my word," he said firmly. "There is another bad feature, Mose." "Still another, eh? And what is that?" "The cane was identified by Doctor Royal as belonging to you," said Nick pointedly. "That so?" "He declared that he had seen you carrying it many times, and that gave Gerry the clue for which he was seeking. He said that you must be landed without delay. He may arrive here at any moment to arrest you." Still Flood neither moved nor changed. "Let him come," said he, with icy indifference. "You'll stand for it?" "Yes." "You'll not attempt to escape?" "No." "Why not?" "Because I prefer to face the music. Don't ask me why. That's my business." Nick began to see his way more clearly. Had Flood imagined for a moment that his visitor was Nick Carter, he would have appreciated the difficulty of hiding his true feelings and designs, and quite possibly have proceeded differently. As it was, Nick was steadily getting at the truth; yet he still had much to learn, and he saw that Flood had resolved upon some fixed design which he by no means would voluntarily disclose. Nick was equally determined to discover of what the design consisted, as well as the motive for it, and he now pressed home the weapon he knew would wound deepest, and possibly evoke a self-betrayal. With a grave shake of his head, he slowly answered: "True, Mose, it is your business. But I told you just now I was as good a friend as you have, and when Gerry spoke of arresting you I hastened here to head him off and warn you of your danger." Flood relaxed a little, as if he appreciated the service mentioned, and gravely answered: "That was very good of you, Badger, and you meant well. But I am not a man to run when danger threatens. I've been up against it too many years." "You'll let them arrest you, eh?" "I shall make no move to prevent it." Nick's grave voice took on a subtle ring. "On the contrary, Mose, I think you will." "You think I will!" exclaimed Flood, with a dark frown. "Precisely." "Why do you say that?" "Because it does not suit me, Mose, that you shall be arrested for Kendall's murder." "Not suit you! Why so?" "For a very good reason. If robbery was the motive for the crime, I happen to know that you did not commit it." "What do you mean?" Flood hoarsely gasped. "How do you know it?" "Because no man would kill another for money voluntarily lost to him within an hour," cried Nick sharply. "I was wise to your play last night. I saw you deal a very clever brace game, and yet you made yourself a loser. With a deck of strippers you forced Kendall to win the money for which he afterward was slain—but not by you, Moses Flood! I'll stake my life upon that, let the evidence be what it may. You——" "Your life! God above, Badger, if you value that life, listen to me!" Nick's rapid verbal thrusts had accomplished just what he had expected. Yet the change that had come over the gambler was one to have startled and alarmed most men. As he heard the words that told him his secret was known to another, Flood became ghastly white, sat silent for a moment, then suddenly sprang down from the table, gave utterance to the interruption noted, and seized Nick by the throat. "You are mad—mad!" he fiercely continued, with eyes blazing and his voice choked with rage. "I did nothing of the kind. My loss was on the level. If you ever breathe another word of this, Joe Badger, I'll throttle your life from your body. I tell you——" "Let go, Mose, or you'll have done it here and now!" cried Nick, struggling to his feet and throwing off the impassioned man. "I know what I saw last night——" "You lie! You lie!" "And I'm out to learn the truth, Mose, the whole truth——" "Stop! Hark you!" interrupted Flood, livid with passion. "I say you are wrong—wrong—wrong! If you ever again assert that I dealt a false card last night, so help me Heaven, I will——" Clang! Again the street door-bell rang loudly through the house. Flood instantly dropped his hand from Nick's collar, abruptly terminated the threat he was about to utter, then turned like one electrified and sprang to open the door of the outer room. The humpback, with eyes starting from his head, appeared on the threshold. "God in Heaven!" he cried hoarsely, with his uncouth face convulsed with alarm. "It's Detective Gerry, of the central office." Nick saw and heard, and his bearded features took on a look of sudden passionate resolution. With a bound he reached the gambler's side and threw him back toward the table, at the same time crying, with terrible sternness: "Hark you, Flood! Not a word! You must escape! Your arrest must be prevented! Leave this detective to me!" Nick Carter's influence at such a critical moment was irresistible. Moses Flood, scarce knowing why, recoiled from the terrible look on the detective's face, and Nick instantly strode into the outer room, closing the door behind him. The humpback was already darting to secure the heavy door leading into the hall, with a view to preventing Gerry's entrance. Before this could be accomplished, however, the central office man, who had bounded up the stairs, and saw the swinging door, hurled himself forcibly against it and came nearly headlong into the room. "Oh, I say, Gerry!" cried Nick coolly, "what's the meaning of this?" Gerry glared at him, as he recovered his equilibrium, but failed to recognize him. Whipping out a document from his pocket, he cried sharply: "It means that I have a warrant here for the arrest of Moses Flood. Where is he?" "Arrest of Flood, eh?" rejoined Nick, with a derisive laugh. "Why the devil didn't you come in on horseback to serve it?" Gerry, who was an impulsive fellow, though a very capable officer, resented the remark with an ugly snarl. "None of your durned business!" he cried angrily. "I'd have come in an automobile if I'd wanted to." "You might have come in a balloon, Gerry, for all I should have cared," retorted Nick. "Oh, is that so?" "Flood's not here, as you may see for yourself. It's a bit early for him to show up. Come down at this hour of the night, Gerry, and you'll find him. There are but few of us owls out in the sunlight." "Evidently you're looking for trouble, mister," snapped Gerry, with a threatening nod at Nick. "I happen to know that Flood is here, for Peters said so at the street door. He's not so far away but that——" "Stop a bit!" "Not I!" thundered Gerry, drawing a revolver. "If you interfere with me, my man. I'll let daylight into you." And before Nick could prevent him the central office man sprang aside, bounded to the door of Flood's private room, and violently threw it open. One glance into the room was sufficient. Even Nick Carter was startled and momentarily amazed. For the private room, despite that the windows were thirty feet above the ground, and only one door visible, was found to be vacant. Moses Flood had vanished as mysteriously as if the walls of the room, or the floor itself, had opened and swallowed him. # CHAPTER XI. NEW CLUES. As Gerry drew back, amazed at not finding Flood in his private room, Nick caught one swift, significant glance from John Green, the humpback, whose face had lighted like that of nature after a summer shower. The glance spoke even louder than words, and it told Nick what he already had begun to suspect—that a secret door existed, concealed in one of the walls of the room, by which Flood had easily made his escape. That he had decided to do so, moreover, suited Nick to the very letter; and, with a cautionary wink at the humpback, he observed derisively: "You're down on a dead card, Gerry, that's plain enough. I told you that Flood was not here, and as you now may see for yourself." "But Peters informed me——" "What Peters told you is of no consequence," interrupted Nick. "It is half-an-hour since Peters admitted him, and Flood has gone out meantime." Much to his own satisfaction, Nick now felt tolerably sure that he spoke the truth, and that Flood had for some reason changed his mind and resolved to evade arrest. With a keen insight that was eminently characteristic of him, moreover, when measuring men's motives from their conduct, Nick already suspected the occasion of the gambler's change of mind. Nick did not defer his departure, therefore, merely to have further words with Gerry. Leaving the latter to take what action he pleased, he bestowed upon the humpback a wink that plainly advised a discreet silence, then coolly marched down the stairs and out of the house. He had accomplished more than superficially appears, as will soon become obvious, and had paved the way for another curiously artful move. It was nearly noon when he left the gaming-house, and having removed his disguise at an opportune moment Nick next headed for the Milmore Trust Company, to have a word with President Gilsey. Just as he was approaching the bank building, however, he saw a flashily clad young lady emerge, none other than Gilsey's stenographer, then about going to her lunch. The instant Nick saw her he was struck with an idea, and, as previously remarked of Nick, to think was to act. He quickly intercepted the girl, to whom he said a bit curtly: "You are Miss Belle Braddon, aren't you?" Belle arched her brows, stared at him for a moment, then pursed her red lips, and replied: "Yes, that's my name. But, really, I don't recall you, neither your face nor your name." "Oh, yes, you do," said Nick, with a rather impressive nod. "You just think a bit, and you'll presently speak it." "Dear me, is that so?" queried the girl, in tones of insolence. "Ah, now that I look again, I believe I do. You are Detective Carter, are you not?" "Right!" "I saw you in Mr. Gilsey's office yesterday, did I not?" "Right again, Miss Braddon. And there's a question I wish you to answer." "Indeed?" "Why did you tell Moses Flood that Kendall was short in his accounts?" Nick asked the question in a way that sent the color from the girl's cheeks, and her eyes betrayed that he had hit the nail on the head. Yet Miss Braddon flushed hotly after a moment and curtly said, with a resentful frown: "I did nothing of the kind." "Yes, you did." "I did not! Why do you say so?" "Because I know that Flood learned of it, and you're the only person, except Mr. Gilsey, who could have told him. Now, why did you tell him?" Belle Braddon shrugged her shoulders, hesitated for a moment, and then indulged in a low, mocking laugh. "Your assertion is really too absurd, Detective Carter," she glibly replied. "To begin with, I did not know that Kendall was short in his accounts; and to end with, I have not seen Moses Flood for a week. You think I'm lying, eh?" "Well——" "Oh, I see that you do, so don't deny it. Come round and call on me some evening, Detective Carter, and we'll talk it over—or have a game of ping-pong, if you prefer. I mustn't be seen talking too long with a man on the street. It's not good form, you know; so I'll bid you good-by." With which Miss Braddon gathered up her skirts, gave Nick a nod and smile of the chip-on-my-shoulder type, then tripped away without a look behind her. Nick knew that she had lied, but it served his purpose to let her go. Yet he grimly said to himself as he entered the Trust Building: "Don't be too sure that it's not au revoir, young lady, instead of good-by. I now suspect you of cutting in this affair a figure bigger than a cipher." Nick found Mr. Gilsey in his private office, dismayed by the news he had received, not only of Cecil Kendall's murder, but also of the latter's recent career, plainly indicating that the deficit at the bank was a deplorable probability. "I now have experts at work on the books, Detective Carter, and we shall soon know the worst," said he, after their greeting and a brief discussion of the crime discovered that morning. "I am like a man in a nightmare," he added. "I can scarcely realize what has occurred, and hardly know where I stand." "That's not to be wondered at," said Nick. "The situation is serious enough surely, but I shall continue my work on the case and do the best I can with it." "You have said that Kendall won a large sum of money last night, of which he was robbed. Do you think there is any possibility of recovering that money?" "I certainly shall try to do so, Mr. Gilsey." "I hope you may succeed." "I shall make every effort, sir. There are several questions I wish you to answer, and I must then hasten away upon other work bearing on the case. To begin with, Gilsey, has Kendall been observably friendly with your private stenographer, Miss Braddon?" Gilsey looked surprised for a moment, then answered: "Why, yes, I think that he has been. They have frequently lunched in company, and I have heard of them at the theaters together. I cannot, of course, say to what extent their intimacy has gone." "It does not matter particularly," replied Nick. "You stated yesterday that she lives with her uncle." "Yes." "Who is he?" "He is one of our depositors. His name is Godard—Nathan Godard." "Oh, ho! Flood's lookout at the faro-bank!" Nick exclaimed to himself. "By Jove! this affair is shaping itself up in a new light. I begin to scent a rat." With no betrayal of his momentary surprise, however, Nick presently said aloud: "How large a deposit does Godard carry here?" "Several thousand dollars at times." "Flood's money," thought Nick promptly. "Deposited in Godard's name." "It is comparatively small now, however, amounting to only a few hundred dollars," added Gilsey. "Surely, Carter, you do not suspect my stenographer or her uncle of having any part in these crimes?" Nick did not tell him what he suspected. Instead, he said gravely, as he took his hat to depart: "I am not prepared to make any statement, Mr. Gilsey. I have, however, a bit of advice to give you, which I wish you to promptly follow." "And what is your advice?" "Get rid of your stenographer with the least possible delay, Mr. Gilsey." "Good heavens!" "When she returns from lunch, sir, discharge her immediately, and without a recommendation," added Nick. "If she asks you why you do so, inform her that Nick Carter advises it! Nay, even more than that, tell her that I command it." "But——" "There are no buts, Gilsey," protested Nick emphatically. "Either do this, and do it this very day, or up go my hands and I drop the whole case. I do not give such instructions as these without an object. When the time comes, Gilsey, you shall know why I insist upon this." Gilsey did not fancy the expression on Nick's face, and he wisely pulled in his horns. "Why, certainly, Carter, if you put it in that way," said he. "I will discharge Miss Braddon the moment she returns." "Very good." "But I fail to see——" "You will see at the proper time, Gilsey, take my word for that," interrupted Nick. "Now, there is one more thing." "Well?" "Write Nathan Godard at once, and instruct him to withdraw his deposit. Give him no reason, mind you, but insist upon his closing his account here." "Well, well, this is a curious proceeding——" "He'll not think so, Gilsey," Nick again interrupted significantly. "He'll comply without an objection, take my word for that. Look to it, Gilsey, and leave all the rest to me. I'll turn a trick for you of some importance, old chap, before this case ends. But no more on that subject just now. I must be off at once." Leaving the banker to stare and wonder, Nick hastened from the building and headed for home. "Nathan Godard, eh?" he grimly soliloquized, as he walked briskly away. "Uncle to Belle Braddon, eh? And she has been hand and glove with Kendall, eh? "Why, it's as simple as two times two. The girl is queer from her feet up, a clever crook, secretly a capper for the game at Moses Flood's. As likely as not, Mose does not know of it, but I'd go my pile that Godard has been using the girl for a decoy. "It's a hundred to one that she started Kendall on the down grade and lured him into Godard's clutches. When a girl of her stamp works at a respectable vocation, it is invariably with an evil design. From the day she sought employment in that bank, the jade had Kendall marked for her secret prey; and Godard opened an account there only to give things a better look to the poor devil. "Well, well, he has danced his dance and has now paid the price. His blood is on some man's hands, and I must learn whose. Luckily, I now know some hands that are still clean, despite the mass of evidence to the contrary. Unless I am greatly mistaken, I shall give that central office sleuth, Gerry, a queer feeling before this case goes upon record." Thus musing, Nick hastened home, where he found Chick just returned from the Carleton Chambers and a call upon young Harry Royal. "Well, what did he have to say for himself?" asked Nick, the moment he entered. "He spoke fairly enough," replied Chick, laying aside his cigar. "He says he did not go to Fordham last evening, but went directly from the faro-bank to his room in the Carleton Chambers." "He's a liar!" exclaimed Nick, frowning. "Ah, you've struck a clue, eh?" "A thread, Chick—merely a thread. Yet I'll wager I know to what it leads. I'll not delay to explain, for I want a crack at that young man myself. Did you leave him at his lodgings?" "Yes, less than half-an-hour ago," nodded Chick. "I think you'll find him there, for he appeared badly knocked out, and said he was as sick as a dog." "The result of a week's debauch," growled Nick censoriously. "It serves him right. Did you inform him of Kendall's murder?" "He had already heard of it, Nick, and that Flood is suspected of the crime." "H'm! So the news has spread, eh? Well, I'll soon settle that chap's breakfast. I want a bout with him before others can get in a blow. Just wait a bit, Chick; I want your opinion of a disguise." Nick hurried from the room and Chick resumed his cigar. At the end of ten minutes the former returned, yet one would never have known him. His figure was slightly padded, his brows darkened, his lower features heavily bearded, and he was tastefully clad in a suit of black, with a generous display of immaculate shirt-front and a piercing solitaire stud. Barring the heavy beard, Nick at that moment was a counterfeit presentment of—Moses Flood. # CHAPTER XII. DRIVEN TO THE WALL. To strike while the iron is hot, to seize upon every clue while it was fresh, to be alert for the least sign, the slightest word, the fleetest glance, that might even remotely suggest the key to a mystery, and then to quickly follow every thread, however finely spun, and discover whither it led—all this was characteristic of Nick Carter, and to it he owed much of his success. Few detectives, however, though of the shrewdest, would have discerned the spider-web clues which Nick had that morning detected, or have been able to turn them to the best advantage. It required a man of Nick Carter's superior art to execute the delicate and superlatively crafty move that took him to the Carleton Chambers. The room occupied by Harry Royal was on the third floor front, and the occupant was alone when Nick, disguised as described, rapped sharply on the door. For fully a minute there was no response from within. "Fear!" said Nick to himself. "The terror born of conscious guilt is upon him. He dreads every sound, fears every visitor, yet dares not leave his chamber. Solitude and secret dread are preferable to the voice and eyes of an accuser." Nick rapped again, louder. Then a step within echoed the sound, and the door was finally opened. Harry Royal, sober enough now, and as white and haggard as if from a long illness, appeared on the threshold, his boyish figure clad in a long, loose house robe. Nick fell as cleverly as an actor into the part he designed to play. "Hush!" he instantly whispered, with startling intensity. "I see that you're alone! Not a word till I am under cover! Let me come in." "Who the devil——" "First let me come in," persisted Nick, fairly forcing his way into the room. "I may be seen here, recognized, arrested on the spot. It's for your sake I am here, Harry Royal, as well as my own. Now close the door and lock it. I am taking long chances for these few words with you." The terrible fear of arrest expressed and displayed by Nick, even more than his feigned voice of the gamester and the latter's almost habitual attire, suddenly suggested to Royal the possible identity of his disguised visitor. "Good heavens!" he exclaimed under his breath. "Is it you, Mose Flood?" "You'd not ask that question were I to doff this disguise," replied Nick, with bitter asperity. "Have you locked the door? Don't open it, then, for man or devil, without first giving me time to hide. I am wanted for murder! Do you hear? I am wanted for murder!" With a mighty effort Royal had pulled himself together, yet his hueless cheeks and dilated eyes, burning as if with fever, betrayed his consternation and dismay. He tottered to a chair near the table and sank into it as if his limbs refused longer to support him. "Good God, Mose, what brings you here?" he hoarsely demanded. "I'll soon tell you, have no doubt of that," rejoined Nick, with threatening significance. While he spoke he drew a chair to the opposite side of the table, so placing it that the light from the window should not fall upon his face and possibly reveal his deception. Then he sat down, fixed his frowning eyes upon the face of the cringing young man opposite, and said sternly, still cleverly imitating Flood's resonant voice: "Well, what have you done with it?" Royal caught his breath, gripped hard at the arms of his chair for a moment, then answered, in tones of intense amazement: "Done with what, Mose?" "The money." "What money?" "A fine question!" sneered Nick, with a terrible display of suppressed passion. "What money, indeed! The money of which you robbed Cecil Kendall, after beating out his brains under the windows of your own home." Royal was as white as a corpse, yet by a mighty effort of will he governed his agitation, and found voice with which to reply. "You are mad, Mose—stark mad!" he cried hoarsely. "I did nothing of the kind." "You lie!" hissed Nick ferociously. "I saw you out there. I saw you do it—or just after you had done it. Don't lie to me, Royal. You may blind others with a lie, perhaps, but you can't blind me. I say I saw you do it, or at least saw you just after you did it." A look of utter despair had settled on Royal's bloodless face, and he was trembling from head to foot. Yet in his staring eyes there was a look of misery and mute appeal that words could not describe. "On my word you are wrong, Mose, utterly wrong!" he cried piteously. "I did not do it. I have not got the money." "You have! I say I saw you!" "You did not see me do it. You did not see me kill him, for I did not do it." "I saw you out there," reiterated Nick, with augmented vehemence. "If you deny the truth to me, that I saw you out there last night, I'll throttle you where you sit." Royal breathed hard and heavy, as if he already felt a hand at his throat. His staring eyes appeared held by Nick's intense gaze, and the latter's stern and threatening face awed and terrified him. For thirty seconds he hesitated, then faltered brokenly, like a man whose abject fear drove him to admit the truth. "Well—God help me, Mose, what shall I do? I—I confess that I was out there, Mose; but, on my oath, I did not kill Kendall. I swear to Heaven, Mose, I did not." Nick felt a thrill of satisfaction. He had scored one important point and verified one of his suspicions—that Royal had gone to Fordham after leaving the faro-bank, despite having denied it to Chick. Nick now let up a little on his terror-filled victim. Yet, without betraying his secret satisfaction, he sternly replied: "You say you did not kill him, but I have only your word for it." "My oath, Mose!" "Silence! Silence, and hear me!" "I am listening, Mose. For God's sake, don't be so harsh. I have trouble enough, Heaven knows. I am a wreck of myself and know not where to turn. I am listening, Mose." Nick rather pitied the misguided fellow, yet his pity did not deter him from playing his shrewd game to a finish. He leaned nearer over the table, saying with unabated severity: "Hark you, then! You've not forgotten your threats made in my place last night. I heard them, and knew of what a drunken fool is capable. So I hastened out to Fordham to head you off from any crime. God forgive me, I arrived too late. I arrived only to see you——" "You did not see me do it, Mose, so help me Heaven!" Royal hoarsely interrupted. "I saw enough," cried Nick, with terrible significance. "Miserable young man that you are, you have left me but one course. Don't you see what I am doing? Don't you see where I stand?" "Where you stand?" echoed Royal, white and staring. "Have you no brains?" continued Nick, with augmented feeling. "You know that I revere your father, that I love your sister. Don't you see, misguided boy, that, for their sake, to spare them the awful shame and sorrow of beholding you a criminal, I have taken your guilt on my own shoulders? Don't you see it, blind man, that for the sake of their peace and happiness, not for yours, I am inviting suspicion and taking even the hazard of the electric chair?" Nick Carter, incomparably shrewd in his discernment and deductions, was indeed impersonating Moses Flood to the very letter. That the motives just expressed were the real motives actuating Moses Flood in his recent conduct, Nick had not a doubt. For a moment Royal stared at him like one who could not speak. Then the meaning of what he had heard, and the overwhelming self-sacrifice so vividly pictured, seemed to dawn upon him with full force. It did even more, just as Nick had expected. It brought to the lips of the unhappy young man the words of gratitude and the much more important disclosure of the whole truth, which Nick Carter from the first had but aimed to evoke. With countenance changing, with eyes lighting perceptibly, Royal presently said, more calmly: "Can I believe my ears? Do you mean, Moses Flood, that you had no hand in that crime, and that your present conduct is inspired by the sentiments you have expressed?" "I never speak idly, boy," cried Nick impressively. "Then, God hearing me, my father and sister owe you a debt of gratitude that words cannot repay," declared Royal fervently. "I will not speak of my own feelings, save to repeat that you are wrong, absolutely wrong; for I am ignorant as you concerning who killed Cecil Kendall." Nick believed him, yet he grimly shook his head. "You still doubt me," cried Royal quickly, now eager to explain and set himself right. "Wait a moment, Mose. I don't deny that you have grounds for suspicion, after the threats I made and what you may have seen at the rectory. But let me explain." "I am listening." "My threats were but foolish ravings, Mose, on my word, I had no intention of executing them, but I determined to have what I thought was my part of Kendall's winnings." "Well, what did you do about it?" "After leaving your place, Mose, I did go to Fordham," said Royal, with nervous haste. "I knew that Kendall had an appointment with my sister, and I expected to find him at the rectory. The journey out there in the fresh night air, however, served to cool my blood and bring me to my senses. On entering the rectory grounds I realized that I was in no condition to meet my father, from whom I have concealed the wild and foolish habits into which I have lately fallen. As true as Heaven, Mose, I am done with them from this hour." "What did you do out there?" demanded Nick, with feigned incredulity. "Come to that." "Instead of entering the house," Royal hastened to reply, with increased earnestness, "I went to look through the library windows, to see if Kendall was in the house." "And then?" "Then," echoed Royal, with a gasp and shudder, "then I stumbled on Kendall's dead body, not ten feet away from the library window. My God, Mose, you cannot imagine my horror and my dreadful alarm. The desperate threats I had made in your place suddenly recurred to me. I saw myself under arrest for the crime. I was like a man in a hideous nightmare, and I did only what men do in such a frenzy of terror and dismay." "What was that?" "I fled like a madman from the spot and returned to the city. Avoiding observation, Mose, and stealing into this house by one of the side doors, I came here to my room. I have not since been out of it. I have not dared to go out. I have been waiting here, in abject fear and trembling, for the worst that may come. I know I am a coward Mose—a cur and a coward; but, so help me God, I have told you the whole truth!" "I believe you, Royal," said Nick. "But you have overlooked one very important fact." Royal started at the change of tone, and again grew deathly pale. "What fact, Mose?" he faintly gasped. "You have confessed yourself, not to Moses Flood, but to Nick Carter, the detective." And Nick grimly removed his heavy beard while he spoke, and rose abruptly to his feet. For the bare fraction of a second Harry Royal hung fire under his sudden stress of alarm and excitement. He sat like a man momentarily dazed, with his hueless features drawn and twitching convulsively, and his wild eyes half starting from his head. Then with a half-smothered scream of dismay he ripped open the table drawer at which he sat and snatched out a revolver. Before Nick fairly realized it, so rapid and quick was the move, he found himself with the weapon leveled pointblank at his head. # CHAPTER XIII. NICK CALLS THE TURN. "You throw up your hands, Carter, and listen to me!" This was the command that came from Harry Royal as he leveled his revolver at the detective's head. Nick promptly obeyed. The shrewd detective, however, was laughing in his sleeve. He had learned from long experience that there is little to be feared from a man who pulls a gun and does not instantly fire. In nine cases out of ten the act is only a bluff. "I'll not be arrested, Carter, I've made up my mind to that," Royal hoarsely cried. "Death is preferable to the disgrace and horror of a prison cell. I don't intend to harm you, but I swear I'll shoot myself if you attempt to arrest me." Nick was smiling now. "You evidently take me for a foe, Royal," said he genially. "Instead, my boy, I am as good a friend as you have in the world. Put up that toy, Royal, and prepare to go with me." "Not——" "Oh, no, not to the Tombs," interrupted Nick heartily. "I know that you are innocent of any crime, and I am here only to serve you to the best advantage, as well as others who are dear to you. I want you to go to my residence with me, and for the present remain concealed there." "For what reason?" demanded Royal, struck with surprise and gradually dropping his weapon. "Oh, I cannot delay to explain," laughed Nick, in friendly fashion. "I'll do so later, however. What I most fear, just now, Royal, is that Detective Gerry, of the central office, may show up here at any moment. Take my word for it, my boy, he'll land you in the Tombs in short order, and that's what I wish to prevent." "Do you mean this, Carter, that you are really my friend?" "Try me and see," laughed Nick. "They who know me well will tell you that I never lie like this." Royal sprang to his feet and held out his hand. "I'll take your word for it," he impulsively cried, with his boyish countenance fairly transfigured. "Good for you," nodded Nick, shaking him warmly by the hand. "You'll never regret it." "I will go with you when and where you please." "Good again." "Yet I'm infernally mystified——" "Oh, I'll explain all a little later, my boy." "Then we'll dust from here at once, sir, for Gerry——" "Stop a bit," said Nick. "Not too fast. I wish it to appear that you have fled, as you very likely would have done if you were guilty of Kendall's murder. No, no, don't stop to question me. I'll make it clear enough to you by and by." "Very well, sir," cried Royal, now glad enough to comply. "You just tell me what to do, Detective Carter, and I'll do it." "First put things in shape here, as if you had hurriedly departed," said Nick. "It will be very easy for Gerry and the police to assume that you had some hand in the crime, and that you have now jumped the country. I'll loan you this disguise, that you may not be recognized as we go out, and then we'll make a bee-line for my residence. Once there, my boy, we may discuss the situation without fear of intruders. Come, come, look lively. The sooner we are away, lad, the better." Not much time was required for preparing the indications of hurried flight which Nick wished the room to present, and at the end of a quarter of an hour the two men left the Carleton Chambers building, Royal in the disguise with which Nick had provided him, and together they at once proceeded to the detective's residence. Upon entering his office with Royal, Nick met with a slight surprise, not entirely unexpected, yet not anticipated quite so soon. With a significant wink, Chick received him with the remark: "There's a man in the library, Nick, waiting to see you." Nick took the cue given him, saying inquiringly: "Not——" "Exactly!" With a smile of genuine satisfaction, Nick turned to Royal and said: "Take off that disguise, my boy, and conceal yourself back of yonder door." "For what, sir?" asked Royal, perplexed and surprised. "I expect something to be said here that I wish you to overhear." "Very well, then." "Not a word, mind you, nor a move of any kind, until I give you permission." "Trust me, sir, I'll be silent." "Conceal yourself at once, then," said Nick. "Now, Chick, bring in the caller." Chick departed to the library, returning at the end of a minute. He was accompanied by—Moses Flood. Nick had discarded his black coat, having put on an office jacket, and he was found seated at his desk. "Ah, Moses, how are you?" said he, looking up with an innocent smile when the noted gambler entered. Flood was as carefully dressed as usual, and appeared remarkably dignified and composed. Yet his face was very pale and his mouth noticeably firm. "Fairly well, Nick," he gravely replied, accepting the chair to which Nick graciously waved him. "I am glad you have returned. I have been waiting to see you." "Waiting long, Mose?" "About ten minutes. No, don't go, Chick. My business is not private. I prefer, in fact, that you also should hear what I have to say." "All right, Mose," laughed Chick, taking a chair. "Just as you wish." "What can I do for you, Flood?" inquired Nick. The gambler cleared his throat before he replied, then said, with grave feeling: "To begin with, Nick, despite that our vocations in life have been decidedly opposed, and mine not one to be proud of, we have never had any conflict that I can recall, and I feel rather justified in saying that we are fairly good friends." "Quite so, I'm sure," said Nick simply. "Well, I wish to state, Nick, that I have played my last card. Whatever the morrow has in store for me, whether good or ill, fortune or misfortune, I never again will gamble in any way as long as I live. I am done with it forever." Nick promptly extended his hand and took that of the speaker, giving it a grip that made Flood wince. "I'm a thousand times more than glad to hear you say this, Mose," he cried; "and I know that your word, when you give it thus, is as good as any government bond. I'm rejoiced to be the first to take your hand upon it; and, as far as friendship goes, Mose, you have no better friend in the world than Nick Carter." Flood's outward composure, which was absolutely marvelous at times, remained as marked as when he sat dealing cards which made him nearly a hundred thousand dollars loser, for the sake of a girl's happiness whose hand had been denied him, and to whose love he believed he had no earthly hope. "I believe you, Nick," said he gravely. "And I thank you." "Such a man as you, Mose, can make his mark in any path in life, and a brilliant mark, too," added Nick. "I see a grand future for you now, and I say heartily, God speed it." Flood shrugged his broad shoulders and smiled faintly. "Don't be too sure of the future, Nick," said he. "At all events, however, free me from one thought." "Namely?" "That I am led to this renunciation of my business by any fear or thought of the future," said Flood, with profound feeling. "Now, Nick, having declared my better resolutions, I will come to the chief point and tell you why I am here." "I am all attention." "I presume you have heard the news, Nick?" "You refer to that murder out in Fordham?" "Precisely." "Yes, Mose, I have heard of it." "Well, Nick, I have come here to give myself into custody," said Flood, with unaltered quietude. "You being a good friend, and a man I have always admired, I preferred to have you take me in rather than one of those infernally meddlesome sleuths of the central office. Nick, I yield myself your prisoner." To say that Chick Carter was startled and surprised is putting it tamely. Nick, however, was not in the least surprised. He had, with extraordinary shrewdness, and for reasons presently to appear, expected nothing less. "My prisoner, eh?" said he, smiling, with a curious twinkle in his eye. "For what, Mose?" "For the murder of Cecil Kendall," said Flood quietly. "I confess to having committed the crime, Nick, and you may run me in as soon as you please. The sooner the better." Nick sat back in his chair, elevated his heels to the edge of his desk, then said complacently, still oddly smiling: "I'm sorry to disappoint you, Flood, but I really cannot accept your magnanimous offer." "Not accept it!" "No, Mose." "Why not?" "Because, Mose," laughed Nick, "my reputation as a detective is involved. When I run a man in for committing a crime I always make it a point to run in—the right man!" Flood half started from his chair, then controlled himself with a violent mental effort. "What do you mean by that, Nick?" he demanded, frowning darkly. "Just what I say, Mose." "You think I am not the right man?" "I know you are not." "But my confession——" "Your confession has no weight with me, Mose," interrupted Nick decidedly. "No weight! Why not?" "Because you are making it to shield another." "Another?" "Harry Royal." "Why do you say this?" "Because you are in love with his sister, Mose, and you went to Fordham last evening to see her," cried Nick. "Instead, you saw Harry Royal near Kendall's dead body, and you now believe that he committed the murder. So you are taking his supposed crime upon your own shoulders, for the sake of Medora Royal and her father, with even greater sacrifice than when you purposely dealt cards which made you a loser to the amount of ninety thousand dollars, to set Kendall on his feet, merely because you thought Dora Royal loved him." Before this was half uttered Moses Flood was upon his feet, as white as the collar at his pulsing throat and with eyes burning like living fire. "Are you man or devil, Nick Carter, that you know these things?" he cried, with lips convulsively twitching. Nick laughed aloud. "Man, Mose," he replied; "and I'm sometimes known by the name of—Badger." Flood drew back with a start. "Badger—you're not Joe Badger!" "Rather!" "Whom I saw this morning?" "None other." "Who was at my place last night?" "Precisely." "Oh, my God, I see it all now!" "Steady, Mose!" cried Nick. "Not too fast. Not quite all. You fail to see what you yourself have once declared—that it was not in young Royal to have killed his friend." Flood caught his breath as he comprehended the significance of the last remark, and he sprang toward Nick like a man electrified. "You don't mean—you don't mean, Nick, that he is guiltless?" he cried, as if in a frenzy of suspense. "Exactly." "Can you prove it? Can you prove it? I'll give you my fortune, Nick, if you can prove that." "We shall see." "But——" "Come forth there, from behind the door," shouted Nick. And Harry Royal, deeply moved by what he had heard, with tears in his eyes and sobs shaking him, strode out from his concealment. Flood reeled a little, staring, gasping for breath, then raised his hands and pointed to the young man he had so unselfishly served. "But I saw him—I saw him above the body!" he cried wildly. "I discovered it only by chance, Mose, on my word." "But the satchel—you had in your hand the satchel with the money——" "No, no, on my life, no!" screamed Royal. "It was my own, the satchel I had brought from Boston. I had it when I left your house. I know no more than you of the killing of Cecil Kendall." Flood threw back his head with a cry of relief too great for words, and Nick Carter laughed deeply and sprang up to grasp him by the hand. "You are one man in ten million, Mose, who would thus lay down his life for the love of another," he cried warmly. "Calm yourself, old chap. I told you I was a friend on whom you could rely." Flood gazed at him with glistening eyes. "Before Heaven, Nick, I owe you a debt I can never repay," said he, with much emotion. "Pshaw," laughed Nick heartily. "As you men say who writhe under the tiger's claws, as you lately have been writhing, Mose, I have merely called the turn for you. Run you in, eh? No, no, my man, not I. When I make a move of that kind I want the right man. To get the bracelets on him—that's the work that still lies before me. It may prove to be the most difficult and dangerous of all. The relations of you two men—humph! the adjustment of them was easy." Even thus indifferently could the great detective regard the clever work by which he had verified many of his suspicions through bringing these two men together. The explanations that presently followed served to greatly clear the situation, despite that they offered no clue to Kendall's assassin. Harry Royal's story, as previously told to Nick, was entirely true. As regarded Flood, it appeared that he had driven to Fordham in a buggy, in the body of which he had placed his cane. Wishing to secretly have a last interview with Dora Royal, he had hitched his team at the rear gate, then crossed the rectory grounds to try to see her. As he approached the house, however, he saw Royal by the light from the library windows, crouching above the body of Kendall, who must have been slain but a brief time before. Before Flood could accost him, Royal leaped up and fled at the top of his speed. After the threats the latter had made, Flood felt sure he had committed the murder. Overwhelmed by the discovery, he had at once driven back to town and put up his team, entirely forgetting the cane which he had when starting out. During the night he resolved upon the magnanimous course he would adopt, just as Nick had suspected. Next morning, however, when confronted by Badger, he discovered that the latter knew far too much and must be silenced. Hence the interruption of Gerry during their interview led Flood to escape by a secret door, with the intention of afterward seeking Badger, to buy his silence. Not knowing where to find him, however, Flood finally decided to clinch matters by giving himself up to Nick Carter and flatly asserting that he had committed the crime. While simple enough in a way, Nick's deductions from the conflicting circumstances were exceedingly clever. The passionate indignation of Flood, when Nick intimated that Royal might be the guilty party, at once convinced the detective that that was Flood's own opinion. Nick instantly decided, therefore, that Flood must have been at Fordham that night, and very likely had seen Royal in some incriminating situation. Believing that Royal would lie about the matter if questioned by a detective, Nick decided that he could learn the exact truth by personating Flood for that purpose. Hence the curious and effective ruse he had adopted. Such, in brief, were the explanations which greatly cleared matters, and the gratitude of Royal for the heroic part assumed by Moses Flood may be easily imagined. Added to this, moreover, when Nick quietly disclosed to Flood the true sentiments of Medora Royal, and the misleading statement made by her father, along with the probability that the past would be forgiven and Flood's suit favorably considered, the situation, at least in so far as Flood was concerned, became changed indeed. "But," Nick emphatically declared a little later, "there is one fact not to be ignored. The murderer of Kendall still is at large, and he must be found." "I should say so," cried Chick. "By Jove! I don't see that we are any nearer that than at the outset." "Possibly not," admitted Nick, smiling oddly. "But I have an idea that we shall finally land him." "Have you any suspicion, Carter, or formed any plans?" inquired Flood, with countenance evincing the happiness Nick had brought him. Nick looked a bit grim and threatening when he replied. "Suspicions, no," said he. "Plans, yes." "Namely?" inquired Chick. "This work is for you and me alone, Chick," said Nick decidedly. "For the present, both Flood and Harry Royal must remain concealed here." "What's that for?" "I wish to have it appear that they have fled, as if both of them were parties to the murder. This will serve us in two ways." "How so?" "First, it will set Gerry and the police on a wild-goose chase, and leave the way open to our work and investigations." "That's true, Nick," nodded Chick. "A good scheme, too." "Second," added Nick, "it will tend to relieve the real criminal of immediate apprehensions, and convince him that he is not suspected. That will make his detection all the easier for us." "No doubt of it, Nick." "Now draw up your chairs, all of you, and I will outline my plans. The most important work, and undoubtedly the most hazardous, still remains to be done." # CHAPTER XIV. TWO BAD EGGS. Nearly a month passed before the scheme devised by Nick Carter, by which to run down Cecil Kendall's murderer, was productive of any startling results. Yet the month was not without incidents worthy of note. The chief mystery was the disappearance of Moses Flood and Harry Royal. The wiseacres of the central office promptly declared them the murderers, also that they had fled to escape arrest, but neither detectives nor police were able to locate them. Nick had, however, quietly relieved the minds of Royal's father and sister, confiding to them his secret, and insuring their silence and discretion. Flood's gambling-house, when his prolonged absence seemed probable, was at once taken possession of by his former lookout, Nathan Godard, by whom it was run as usual for a fortnight. During that time Nick quietly learned several facts. He discovered that Godard had long occupied the adjoining house, where he dwelt with his niece, Belle Braddon, and a housekeeper. He learned, moreover, that Godard was a greedy and unprincipled fellow, a ruffian when in liquor, and a man generally disliked and distrusted. Added to this Nick learned one very pertinent fact—that Godard had left the faro-bank immediately after Kendall had made his big winnings, and that he did not return for more than an hour. This was a very important point, for Nick had reasoned that the crime must have been committed by some person who knew that Kendall had won the money. As the crime was committed within an hour afterward, moreover, it obviously appeared to be the work of some person who had seen the money won. Nick put two and two together, and decided that Nate Godard was the man he wanted. To fix the murder upon him, however, was not an easy task. Keeping his suspicions and movements well concealed, however, Nick went at it by beginning secretly to persecute Godard, worrying him as a cat worries a mouse. At the end of two weeks he had the gambling-house raided by the police, the furniture seized and removed, and the house closed up. Five days later he learned that Godard was secretly dealing a faro-game in his own house, to which only a few of his intimate and trusty friends were admitted. Nick gave the police a tip, and the place was successfully raided the next night, and all the paraphernalia seized and confiscated. Godard's feelings over these several episodes, as well as those of his niece, Belle Braddon, appeared in their talk at breakfast the following morning. "I'm cursed if I can understand it," snarled Godard, across the table. "Twice in two weeks I have been raided, involving the loss of several hundreds of dollars. Worse even than that, the devil take it, my game has been going behind at an alarming rate. Bad luck of the worst kind appears to have struck me." Godard's face was flushed, grim, and ugly, and his voice by no means clear. That he had been drinking was obvious, as had been more than usually noticeable for nearly a month. He had the look of a man with a mental burden not easily carried, and secret apprehensions not pleasant to endure. The girl across the table, far more attractive, yet not less evil than he, shrugged her shapely shoulders and indulged in a low ripple of laughter. "You're only getting what's coming to you, Nate," she glibly replied. "What do you mean by that, Belle?" "You'd no business to turn such a trick as you turned. It was too long a chance." "Silence! Silence, I say!" Godard quickly snarled, with an uglier frown. "What need to speak of that?" "Bah! there's none here to be feared." "Mebbe not, but I'll not have it talked about," declared Godard. "You've got your share of the blunt, all you deserve, and the least you can do is to keep your mouth closed." "It's closed all right, Nate, when there's any danger about," retorted Belle pointedly. "Have no fear of me. I'll never give you away. But such tricks as that always bring bad luck, Nate." "Not always," growled Godard, less sullenly. "What I can't understand is why the police have made such a mark of me." "That so?" "To raid me twice within a week—that's pressing things over the limit. It's not usual with the infernal bluebottles, and I'm cursed if I can fathom it." "Can't you guess who has tipped them to do it?" inquired Belle. "Of course I can't," cried Godard. "If I could I would put an end to these persecutions, even if I had to turn him down to end them." "Put out his light, eh?" "Yes, I would!" "And you can't guess who?" "No! I wish I could." "Well, I can, Nate," declared Belle, with an unpleasant smile. "Who?" demanded Godard, with interest. "The same man who had me fired out of my job." "Not Nick Carter?" cried Godard, with a start. "That's who, Nate." "I don't believe it." "I do." "For what reason?" "Because, Nate, he either has some personal grudge against you and me, or else he suspects——" The girl stopped, yet stared significantly at her hearer. Godard dropped his spoon and began to grow pale. Yet the frown of his beetling brows became darker, and the light uglier in his evil eyes. He muttered an oath after a moment, then added, through his teeth: "If I thought that——" "What would you do?" queried Belle, with sinister significance. "What wouldn't I do," snarled Godard, with sullen ferocity. "I'd do anything that would insure wiping him out of my path." The girl laughed, a coldly, cruel laugh that contrasted vividly with the man's harsh voice. "Nick Carter is not an easy man to wipe out," she replied. "I know that as well as you, Belle." "You'd do anything to accomplish it, eh?" "That's what I would," cried Godard decisively. "The play would be limited to two persons, Belle, if what you think is true. It would be him or me, and I'm cursed if I'd have it me if I could help it. Why do you think of him?" The girl dried her lips and tossed aside her napkin. "Because I don't fancy the way things are going any better than you do, Nate," she replied bitterly. "It was Carter who threw me out of my job at the bank, for which he could have had no earthly reason, barring that he suspected me of having worked Kendall for a fish and lured him where you could shove him into a corner. Carter doesn't like me for a cent, and maybe he likes you none the less for being my uncle. Possibly he suspects you because of it." "But he can have no evidence——" "Bah! No man ever knows what evidence Nick Carter possesses," Belle curtly interrupted. "When he gets after a covey, about the first the poor devil knows of it, Nate, he is down and out for keeps, with bangles on his wrists or a hemp tie in place of a silk one. Don't bank on what Nick Carter doesn't know. If you are up against him, and any reason exists for his being after you, there's but one safe course—and even that is a long chance against such a man as he is." "What course is that?" "Take the bull by the horns, Nate, and either put the detective to sleep or go under yourself in the attempt. That's the only way to deal with Nick Carter." Godard sat silent for several moments, weighing in his own mind the desperate possibility suggested. He could not believe that he was suspected of the crime for which the detectives and the police were searching the country after Moses Flood and Harry Royal, yet the words of his niece had alarmed him, and opened his eyes to the bare possibility of a frightful peril. Presently he roused himself, and stared across at the girl. "What would you do about it?" he sullenly asked. "Just what I have said," replied Belle bluntly. "Try to turn him down?" "Yes." "If I was sure that he had any designs against me——" "Faugh!" interrupted the girl. "There are facts you shouldn't lose sight of, Nate. In the beginning he was on this case in Gilsey's employ. Do you imagine Gilsey has let him drop it? Not by a long chalk." "Well, what of that?" "This is it," cried Belle, who was rather a clever logician. "Is Carter making any attempt to round up Flood or that fool of a Royal? Not one, my word for it. He's letting the central office screws scurry their legs off on that scent. None of that for Nick Carter, mind you. What's the natural conclusion, eh? Merely this—Carter doesn't suspect Flood, despite the evidence. Yet if he is still on the case, he must suspect somebody, and that somebody may be—the right man!" Godard's evil face grew darker with every word that had fallen from the girl's lips. "The devil!" he snarled, as she pointedly concluded. "I hadn't thought of it in that way. By Heaven, it may be true, as you say." "I should proceed as if it was, Nate, if I were you." "Try to land him?" "Precisely." "How can it be done?" "That's for you to determine." "I don't fancy the job." "Not as well as knocking out a half drunken fellow with ninety thousand dollars in his kit, eh?" laughed Belle Braddon. "I say, Nate, what would there be in it for me if I could do the job for you?" "Turn Carter down?" "Yes." "You mean—put out his light?" "Exactly." "Your own price," cried Godard eagerly. "Five thousand?" "Yes." "In cold cash?" "The very day it is done." "That's good enough for me," returned Belle, with a gleeful shrug of her shoulders. "I can use the dust all right, Nate, and I've thought of a way by which I can do the job." "Or get done yourself in attempting it." "Oh, you let me alone to look out for myself," sneered Belle, with a series of significant nods. "I cut my eye-teeth a long time ago, and it's a cold day when I cannot hoodwink a man." "That's no pipe-dream," growled Godard. "And I'll do the job for the price mentioned, Nate—cash on delivery," added the unprincipled jade. "I must do it at my own time and in my own way." "I care not when or how, Belle, so long as it's done." "Trust me to do it, then." "Do you require any help?" "I should say not!" exclaimed the girl quickly. "When I tackle anything of this kind, I play a lone hand. I want no partner who some day may squeal. It'll be all or nothing for me." Nothing could have suited Godard better, for he was essentially a coward, and the simple thought of meeting Nick Carter in a life or death encounter sent chills up and down his spine. "I shall require one thing, however," said Belle. "What is that?" "This house must be vacated and all the stuff removed. Then I must have the key of this house, also of the one next door." "Flood's old place?" "Yes." "What sort of a job are you cooking up?" growled Godard suspiciously. "That's my business, Nate," returned the girl. "I shall do it in my own way, or not at all." Godard saw that she meant it, and he had no idea of letting her offer slip by. "I'll vacate the house this very day," said he promptly. "I'll move our stuff down to the shore house, and open a game there on the quiet. That will throw the cops off my track for a time." "Very good." "When will you do the job?" "As soon as I can arrange to have it come right," replied Belle thoughtfully. "Not this week, however. I have engagements for two evenings with that yellow-haired Dakota chap, whom I caught on to at the Waldorf last week. He has money to burn, barrels of it, and I must get my little bit." "Why the deuce haven't you run him up against my game?" demanded Godard. "He never plays, Nate," said Belle quickly. "I tried it, on my word I did. But he doesn't know one card from another. He says he has an uncle out West, however, a big cattle ranchman, who is a fiend at faro." "H'm! I wish he'd wire his uncle to come on here. I reckon we could trim him." "I don't think he'd consent to do that, Nate," laughed the girl, upon whose spirits the murderous project she had in mind seemed to cast no cloud. "You vacate here to-day and give me the keys to both houses. Then leave Nick Carter to me. Within a week I will turn him down, or my name is not Belle Braddon." "You shall have the keys not later than Friday, Belle." "That's soon enough," nodded the girl, rising. "Meantime, Nate, I must devote myself to bleeding that yellow-haired baby from Dakota. He's as loose as ashes with his dust, Nate, and I'll give him credit for that." "Then I guess you'll bleed him all right." "If I don't, Nate, there'll be something wrong with the cards," said Belle, with a ringing laugh. "So long, old chap! I have an appointment with him at noon. A hot bird and a cool bottle, you know, and then a ride in the park. But you go ahead, Nate, with the moving. I'll have my little job on old Nick all framed up in time, never doubt that." # CHAPTER XV. SECRET WORK. "Well, sir, I'm here, as I agreed!" "That's right, my good man, and I'm glad to see you. Take a chair." The last speaker was Nick Carter. The first was the whilom cuekeeper in the gambling-house of Moses Flood—the latter's humpback friend, John Green. The scene was Nick Carter's office, on the Monday afternoon following the interview between Godard and Belle Braddon, in which the latter had contracted to turn Nick Carter's toes up. The interval was five days. In compliance with Nick's genial invitation, the humpback took a seat near the detective's desk. "Well," said Nick, "what has become of Godard since he closed his up-town house?" Green laughed. "He's down at a shore house which he owns. Here's the address, sir, and the direction for getting there. I wrote it down, thinking you might want it." Nick glanced at the scrawl on the slip of paper tendered him, and bowed approvingly. "Is he dealing a game down there?" he asked. "Yes, sir. A small one, though, only for a few friends." "Are you still keeping cues for him?" "I am." "And who is his assistant dealer?" "Tom Bruce, sir." "Flood's former man?" "The same, sir," nodded Green. Then he added, sadly: "'Fore Heaven, sir, I'd give all my life is worth to know that Mr. Flood is all right, safe, and sound!" "I have already told you, John, that I will insure that, providing you follow my instructions to the letter." "Oh, I'll do that, Detective Carter, never doubt it!" cried Green eagerly. "I'd cut off both these hands for Mr. Flood!" "Now tell me," said Nick, "what is the game doing?" "Losing, sir; losing to beat the band. Godard has dropped nearly a hundred thousand in the past month." "Can he stand the pace long?" inquired Nick carelessly. "Sure, sir, I'd not have believed he could stand it till now!" Nick already knew where Godard had probably obtained the money mentioned. "Is he still drinking deeply?" "Like a fish, sir," grinned the humpback; "and, holy smoke! he's uglier than ten devils." Nick laughed and nodded, evidently much pleased by the report. "Is he dealing a square game?" he next inquired. "Sure, sir!" cried Green. "I don't believe Godard has got the tools for dealing a brace game." "You think he would do it, John, if he had the tools and saw a good thing?" "Well, sir," and Green grimly shook his ungainly head, "I reckon Nate Godard would do anything for money." "I guess that's right," said Nick. "Now, John, there's one thing I wish you to do for me." "Count on me, sir, for sure!" "If Godard was to deal a brace game he would have to tell you about it, wouldn't he?" "Yes, sir; so I could keep the cues right. I'd have to mark up the cards he took crooked, you see, or there'd be a holler from the players at the end of the deal, when the cues showed wrong." "I know all about it, John." "Yes, sir." "Now, hark you, my man! If Godard contemplates dealing a brace game he will first prepare the way by giving you his instructions and secret signs." "No doubt of it, sir." "Well, John, if he does that I want you to drop me a letter by the very next mail saying that the trick is to be turned. Do you understand?" "Sure I do!" exclaimed the humpback; "and I'll send the letter the minute I know of it." "Very good," bowed Nick. "That's all to-day, John. In leaving here be as cautious as usual. You must not be seen, you know!" "Trust me, sir," smiled Green, with a shrug. "I will slip out and away like a shadow. You're sure, sir, about poor Mr. Flood?" he added, as he lingered for a moment at the door. "Trust me for that, John, as I trust you," replied Nick. And the detective bowed and smiled pleasantly, with a genuine appreciation of the warm and loyal heart that beat in the crooked breast of the departing man. This interview with the humpback plainly indicates the shrewd line of work which Nick was secretly doing in his attempt to verify the suspicious by which he was actuated. Green had been gone but a few minutes, moreover, when a second man familiarly entered. He was a stylishly clad, yellow-haired chap, with a sandy beard, parted down the middle. He carried a cane, sported a bright-red tie, and looked for all the world as if he had just stepped off a fashion-plate. It was the yellow-haired chap whom Belle Braddon had boasted of having caught on to at the Waldorf. Nick looked up and smiled when he entered. "Well, Chick," said he, "what's now in the wind?" Chick laughed and dropped into a chair. "Nothing special, Nick," said he. "All is working well." "She has no suspicions of you?" "Not the slightest, Nick." "What do you make of her?" "Well," replied Chick, with a grin, "she's a royal spender, I'll give her credit for that. She makes bank-notes fly like dead leaves in a September gale." "Never mind," laughed Nick. "Let 'em go. We'll get them back from Gilsey. Besides, Chick, the situation will not last much longer. We are closing in on them." "You have learned something?" "Green has just been here and reported," nodded Nick. "Godard is located at his shore house. I know the place and how to get there. He is dealing a game there on the quiet, and I have several reasons for thinking that he is nearly on his last legs, financially." "In which case, Nick, he will take any desperate chances to recover, eh?" "That's the idea, Chick, and it's what I have been working for. Have you said anything to his niece about the cattle-dealer?" "Sure thing," nodded Chick. "I have laid that wire all right, you may wager. I showed her a telegram yesterday, which I claimed to have received from my Dakota uncle, stating that he would join me here Tuesday." "That's to-morrow." "I told her that he is coming on merely for pleasure, and have impressed her with the idea that he is the highest kind of a high-roller. She wanted to know if he ever played faro, and I told her he was a regular fiend at it, and that I had seen him sit to lose a hundred thousand at a crack." "Very good," laughed Nick. "That certainly ought to be strong enough. What did she say to that?" "She said she knew a house where he could make a play," grinned Chick. "Oh, ho! that looks promising enough," laughed Nick. "I told her that would suit him to the letter, and that he would be glad to give any square faro-game a play," added Chick. "She said she would fix it for us after he arrived." "And we will fix them, in return, I'm thinking," said Nick grimly. "Green is going to notify me if a brace game is to be attempted. I'm dead sure it will be, too, with Godard so nearly on his uppers." "No doubt of it." "In which case, Chick, it's a hundred to one that he will use Flood's brace deal box, and resort to the same deck of strippers that Flood gave Kendall with the money he had won. If we can catch Godard with that deck of strippers in his possession, Chick, it will prove conclusively that he murdered Kendall." "Absolutely." "He necessarily must take Green into his confidence about the brace game," added Nick; "and he will get rid of Tom Bruce when attempting to turn the trick. We shall probably meet nobody there but Green and Godard, except that jade of a niece." "She will probably take us out there, Nick." "We'll go with her, all right," laughed Nick. "You had better fix it with her for to-morrow night, in order that we may wind up the case as soon as possible." "That will be easy," nodded Chick. "I shall find her ready." "I will show up at the Waldorf to-morrow noon and join you there," added Nick. "I will have a roll of money with me fit to choke a horse. Trust Godard to venture a most desperate chance to get it. I think, Chick, we now have the game well in hand." "So do I, Nick," replied Chick, rising. "I'm going to slip up-stairs and have a bath, then I must go back to the Waldorf. I promised to dine with my friend with the red-brown hair at six." Nick laughed, nodding approvingly, and Chick hastened from the office. It was then about three o'clock. At four Nick had business up-town, and he presently put on his street attire and left the house. A quarter of an hour later, as he was crossing Forty-second Street and Fifth Avenue, he was observed by a young woman on the opposite corner. The moment she saw him, moreover, a gleam of malicious satisfaction flashed in her evil eyes. She tripped quickly over the opposite crossing and intercepted Nick as he reached the Fifth Avenue sidewalk. The young woman was Belle Braddon, out for the great detective's scalp. # CHAPTER XVI. TRAPPED. Nick Carter suppressed any show of surprise upon beholding Belle Braddon approaching. He halted, politely raising his hat, upon observing that the girl intended to speak to him, and they met on the Fifth Avenue corner. Belle greeted him with a smile and a pretty toss of her well-poised head, saying glibly: "How-dy do, Mr. Carter? You haven't been round to call on me, sir, and play that game of ping-pong." "True; I haven't," replied Nick, rather inclined to laugh at her piquant audacity. "How many invitations do you require?" "Well, I can hardly say." "I generally have to ask a man but once," pouted Belle, with a playful shrug of her shoulders. "I guess you don't enjoy the game." "Well, to tell the truth, Miss Braddon, ping-pong is not my long suit," laughed Nick. The girl joined in his laugh, saying dryly: "Dear me, you really can be amusing, can't you?" "Yes, when I try." "Try often, Detective Carter. It's awfully becoming. By the way, sir, there's a question I'd like to ask you." "Certainly," bowed Nick; "understand, however, that I may not feel called upon to answer it." "Oh, you wouldn't refuse a lady. I'm sure you wouldn't." "Well, since you feel so sure, Miss Braddon, go ahead with your question." Belle drew nearer to him, and said, with a rather sinister gleam in her lifted eyes: "Why did you take such pains to have me fired out of my job at the Milmore Trust?" Nick already began to suspect her of having some design that had not yet appeared on the surface, and he decided to learn of what it consisted by leading her on a little. "It strikes me, my dear girl," said he, smiling, "that that is a needless question." "Why needless, my dear Mr. Carter?" queried Belle, in bantering tones. "Because you already know why I did it." "I do?" "Yes," nodded Nick. "Think it all over and it will probably come to you." "Oh, you did it because I told Flood about Kendall's shortage, did you?" "Precisely." "Well, I rather suspected it was that, Mr. Carter." "Why, then, did you ask?" "Only to make sure, sir," laughed Belle. "A woman's usual reason, eh? Ah, well! have no fear, Mr. Carter; I bear you no ill will for having done so. Really, I rather like you for it, for it's awfully pleasant to be out of a job," and the smiling jade playfully beat Nick's arm with one of her gloves. Then she quickly added pointedly: "But I've got it in for Mr. Flood, sir, just the same." "That so?" queried Nick. "For what?" "Because he betrayed that I told you. Oh, you wouldn't deny it, Mr. Carter. I know well enough that he did!" "I never attempt to disabuse a woman who already knows," laughed Nick, wondering when she would come to the point. Belle Braddon came to it, all right, in less than a minute. "Yes, sir; I've got in for him, Mr. Carter, and some day I'll get even with him. By the way, sir, the central office sleuths are having a fine hunt after him, aren't they?" "A vain one, certainly," replied Nick. "If they hadn't been so hot after my Uncle Nate of late, I'd get even with Flood by making them wise as to his hiding place," declared the girl, with affected bitterness. Then, before Nick could reply, she quickly added, as if struck with a clever idea: "Oh, I say, Mr. Carter! Just to show you that I bear you no ill will, and, in fact, rather fancy you, I'll throw Flood into your hands, if you'd like to get them on him for that murder out in Fordham." Nick heard her without a change of countenance. He knew that she was absolutely ignorant of Flood's whereabouts, who at that moment was in Nick's residence; also, that she could have no knowledge of the latter's relations with Flood. Yet no man could have wanted better evidence that the girl had some design which she was craftily plotting to execute. It was characteristic of Nick at any sign of danger to go after it, until he discovered of what it consisted. In this case, therefore, he decided to give Belle Braddon all the rope she wanted, or until he could learn at what she was driving. Nick was too shrewd, however, to take the bait too greedily. Pretending to be entirely ignorant of Flood's movements, he said curiously: "Why do you think that I wish to lay hands on him?" "You are still in Gilsey's employ, aren't you?" "Well, yes; I'll admit that I am." "Then, of course, you want Flood," cried Belle bluntly. "What's the use of denying it?" Nick no longer did so, it now being very obvious that the girl had some object in view and cared not how she accomplished it. "I did not deny it. In fact, I really would like to land him," said he, with sinister eagerness. "Do you mean to tell me that you know where he is located?" Belle winked and nodded. "On the level?" demanded Nick. "Sure." "Where is he?" "Hiding in a house that I know all about." "What price will you take for the information?" "What will you give?" "Five hundred." "Done!" said Belle promptly. "When can we turn the trick?" "At once." "That suits me," said Nick. "There are two conditions on which I shall insist, however," added Belle. "Namely?" "You must be governed by my directions." "I will." "And let me be present when you arrest him." "You shall be there." "I merely want him to know that I have got even with him," Belle bitterly declared, in explanation. "It's dead lucky that she doesn't know what I know of Flood," thought Nick, a little puzzled as to her game. "Come on, then," she said. "I'll take you into the room now occupied by Moses Flood within a quarter of an hour." Nick accompanied her, and they started up Fifth Avenue. Belle Braddon was as bold as she was crafty, and she felt sure of landing her man single-handed. The trick she was about to turn, moreover, was well worthy of her. She took Nick to Godard's vacant house, of which she had the key, and they entered together. Then Nick became more watchful. The empty rooms and bare floors did not surprise him, for he knew that Godard had moved; but there was a possibility of being assailed by hidden foes, and Nick slipped his revolver into his side pocket, unobserved. He was, too, more than ever mystified. Knowing that Belle Braddon could not possibly give him any clue to Flood, he could not imagine what design existed under her pretensions. He was resolved to learn, however—let come what might. "Come up-stairs," said Belle, after locking the street door. "This is a roundabout way, but it wouldn't have done to enter Flood's house direct." "Are you going in there?" "Yes," nodded Belle. "That's where we shall find him. He has a secret hiding-place in there. Tread lightly on these bare floors lest the sound reaches and alarms him. Both houses are vacant, and he should be alone there at this hour." "Good enough," growled Nick quietly; "I'm with you." "Into this room, Detective Carter!" Nick followed her into one of the side chambers, and the girl turned briefly to face him. "Now be very quiet," she said softly, without the slightest sign of nervousness or apprehension. "I'm going to let you into one of the secrets of these two houses. As a matter of fact, Detective Carter, both of them are owned by Moses Flood. But my uncle, who was employed by him, has been occupying this one." Nick smiled and nodded. "In this room," continued Belle, "there is a concealed door, operated by pressing one of the figures in the wall decoration. It opens into a passage leading through another door into Flood's private room." Nick instantly recalled Flood's escape from Detective Gerry, and again he nodded understandingly. "The passage was constructed," added Belle, "for the purpose of quickly getting the gambling implements out of Flood's house and into this one in case of an unexpected raid by the police." "I see." "The door is very cleverly constructed, you observe, so that the police could not discover it and light upon the trick." "I can see no indications of a door," said Nick truthfully. "I'll show you," whispered Belle. "But be quiet after the passage is opened, for Flood might then overhear us. He has a hiding-place in the other house and there we shall find him." "Good for you!" "Are you ready?" "Yes!" Belle Braddon turned and pressed her hand on the wall. Instantly a heavy iron door, decorated like the wall to which it was most cleverly matched, swung quickly open. A four-foot passage was revealed, brick walled on two sides. At the farther end of it, some five feet away, a similar iron door had swung open, and beyond it was Flood's private room, which Nick immediately recalled. Belle Braddon raised her finger warningly, and led the way into the passage. Nick followed her, wondering what he might expect in the adjoining house. When both were in the passage Belle turned back and paused, whispering softly: "Draw that door after you, please! Close it quietly." Nick turned to lay his hand on the door. Like a flash Belle Braddon sprang into Flood's private room and dashed her hand against the side wall. In an instant, before Nick could raise a finger, both doors closed, with a loud, metallic clang and with a rapidity indicating that they were operated by powerful springs, which opened and closed both doors at once. With a momentary thrill of dismay, Nick found himself alone in the walled passage, and in darkness so profound that it could almost be felt. # CHAPTER XVII. THE GIRL AND THE CRIME. It was with a feeling of some chagrin that Nick Carter realized his desperate situation the moment the heavy iron doors of the walled passage closed upon him, leaving him alone in the Egyptian darkness of the tomblike place. Yet the trick by which he had been caught was one to have deceived any man. Only a clairvoyant could have seen that the doors worked jointly and under the motive of powerful springs. Though alert and watchful from the moment he had entered the house with Belle Braddon, he had not looked for such a trap as this. Keenly suspicious, knowing in fact that the girl was up to some knavish game, Nick had suspected that he was being led into Flood's house with a design to throw him into the hands of several assailants, a situation which would have given him no concern whatever, and which he really had been inviting in order to identify the parties to it and learn their motives. Before Nick had fairly recovered from his surprise, however, he heard the voice of Belle Braddon from Flood's private room. It sounded dead and muffled, much as if Nick was locked in a bank vault, yet he could readily distinguish her words and the triumphant intonation with which they were uttered. "I say, Carter," she cried, crouching to place her lips near the crack of the closed door, "are you there?" Nick instantly resumed his usual composure. "Yes, I'm here," he coolly answered. "Throw me out of a job, will you?" screamed the girl, with a ringing laugh. "I'll do more than that for you one of these days, young lady," Nick cried back. "Yes, you will!" returned Belle derisively. "It won't be many days before there'll be singing and flowers at your house, and you'll ride at the head of a procession." "Think so?" "You'll not hear any of the music, either." "Don't bank too heavily on that," replied Nick. "I have been in worse places than this." "And got out alone?" "And got out alone." "Well, if you get out of this one, Carter, you'll be a bird," cried Belle tauntingly. "You'll find that this is no gilded cage. How do you like it?" "Oh, it's snug and cozy all right." "You'll have plenty of time to enjoy it. I'm going to leave you there." "The sooner the better," retorted Nick. "Your room is preferable to your company." "Thanks," laughed Belle. "The sentiment is mutual. By the way, sir!" "Well?" "You may make all the noise you wish. It won't disturb anybody, for there's nobody to hear it." "I'm glad to know that," cried Nick, undaunted. "Both houses are vacant and you are midway between them," cried Belle, with a cruel laugh. "You may yell your lungs out and you'll not be heard." "I shall keep my lungs where they belong," cried Nick, a bit impatiently. "I shall require my voice a little later, to testify against you." "I'll risk that, my man," retorted the girl. "In that trap you'll not live more than a day or two. If you don't suffocate you'll starve, for nobody will show up here for many a day. I'll insure that." "Thanks. It's very kind of you." "You're entirely welcome," answered Belle. "And when your body is finally discovered here, it will be assumed that you came here alone in search of Flood and accidentally got caught between the iron doors." "Quite reasonable, I am sure." "Very clever, isn't it? You see, Carter, no one will ever be suspected of having lured you here and lodged you in there. You are reputed to be too clever to be caught in a trap in that fashion. It's dead open and shut that your death will be attributed to an accident." "Providing I die here," supplemented Nick. "If you don't, there'll be something wrong with the deck," cried Belle, with derisive assurance. "I'll come to your funeral, Carter, and send a broken column." "Good enough. I'd prefer gates ajar, however." "Doors ajar, you mean," cried Belle, with a scream of laughter. "Good-by, Carter. I'm going to leave you now. I have a date at the Waldorf at six. I'm going to dine with a yellow-haired chappie from Dakota." "Good-by—and good riddance," cried Nick. The last brought no answer. Belle Braddon had glided silently out of Flood's private room and was hurrying down the hall stairs. Despite her derisive laughter and the taunting remarks with which she had mocked her helpless victim, her cheeks were as white as the knot of lace on her heaving breast. The awful horror of the crime she had committed was upon her. She fully believed that she had left Nick Carter to suffocate in the foul atmosphere of the walled passage; or, if spared that fate, that thirst and starvation would overcome him. The very hideousness of the crime shook even her callous nature and filled her quaking soul with nameless horror. The nervous tremor of her feet on the uncarpeted stairs as she hurriedly descended thrilled her with alarm, and her knees were knocking together when she reached the lower hall. There she paused and caught her breath, steadying herself, then went into one of the silent parlors, as silent as death itself, to peer through the closed blinds into the sunlit street. The brighter light outside restored her nerve, and a smile of vengeful exultation relaxed her drawn gray lips. "He's as good as done for, as good as done for," she muttered through her teeth. "It serves him right. It was his life or that of my uncle, and all is fair when life hangs in the balance. He would have turned Nate down as indifferently as he did me, and he has invited only what he has got. Let him take his medicine, then! It's what he deserves!" With such reasoning as this she put the horrid crime out of her mind, and resolved to think no more about it. With calmness came greater cunning. She reasoned that she might be seen leaving Flood's house, if she departed by the front door. Instead, she descended to the basement. There she broke a window and opened the catch, to indicate that Nick Carter, when his lifeless remains should be discovered, had entered the house, presumably in search of Moses Flood. That he had accidentally been caught in the walled passage she also felt sure would be assumed. That the crime should never be brought home to her, she was taking every precaution. In the semidarkness of the basement, she next tied a thick veil over her hat, and drew it carefully about her face. Then she let herself out the back door, locking it after her, and stole quickly through a narrow alley, and thus gained the nearest side street. Now she breathed freely again, and triumphantly hastened away. "Five thousand easily earned—easily earned!" she said to herself, weighing in mind the price Nathan Godard had agreed to pay for Nick Carter's life. Belle Braddon dined that evening with her yellow-haired chance acquaintance from Dakota, so alleged. Had she dreamed for an instant that she was dining with Chick Carter, she would have fallen out of her chair in a fit. It was midnight when she reached home at the shore house of Nathan Godard, and she found the large wooden dwelling enveloped in darkness. There was no game in progress that night. Belle went straight to bed—as straight as her unsteady steps would take her, and slept soundly until morning, the heavy sleep of semi-intoxication. At breakfast with Nate Godard that morning she gave him the key to the situation—but not the situation itself. "You keep away from those two town houses, Nate," she said grimly to him, over her coffee. "What's that for?" inquired Godard curiously. "Never mind what it's for," replied the girl, with threatening significance. "You do just as I say; that was the agreement when I undertook to accomplish this Carter job for you." Godard started slightly. "Is it done?" he quickly asked. "It's as good as done, make no mistake about that." "On the level?" cried Godard, with knavish eagerness. "Yes, on the level," declared Belle. "But, mark what I say, Nate, and this goes." "Well?" "You keep away from those two town houses for the next ten days. If you don't do so, Nate Godard, you later may be run down to police headquarters, in Mulberry Street, to answer to the worst charge in the calendar. So do what I command, or bitter trouble may be yours." In his mind's eye, so pointed were the girl's remarks, Nate Godard fairly could see the lifeless body of Nick Carter stretched upon the cellar floor of one of the two houses. How Belle Braddon had accomplished it Godard neither knew nor cared. He felt it would be a safe gamble to follow her instructions to the letter. "By thunder! Belle, I believe you have brought a shift of luck," he exclaimed, after a moment, with a grim mingling of satisfaction and approval. "On my word, Belle, you are one girl in a million!" She shrugged her shoulders, then drained her cup of coffee to its dregs. "Let's hope so," she replied. "I have another bit of news for you, too, Nate!" "What is that?" "My Dakota chap's uncle is coming on here to join his nephew." "The devil you say!" cried Godard, half rising from his chair. "It's no joke, Nate." "When is he coming?" "I'm to meet the two of them at the Waldorf to-morrow afternoon." "You mean the wealthy cattle-dealer?" "The same, Nate." "Can't he be induced to go up against my game here?" Belle Braddon's crafty eyes took on a quizzical look at the man opposite. "Suppose he can, Nate?" she answered slowly: "could you make a sure thing of him?" "How much can be won?" demanded Godard ominously. "A hundred thousand, at the least, if you get him on the down track." "Are you sure?" "Dead sure!" "And he comes from Dakota?" "There's no doubt of it, Nate, not a shadow of doubt." cried Belle. "I've seen the telegram he sent to his nephew, and that simple guy hasn't art enough to deceive an old woman. Yes, Nate, it's dead open and shut that the uncle comes from Dakota." Godard dropped back into his chair and fell to thinking. He was thinking of Moses Flood's brace deal box, then in his own possession. He was thinking, too, of a deck of strippers, also in his possession, with which he could vary to his own advantage the turn of every card. In the lives of those who pursue fickle fortune through the medium of games of chance there is no experience which so arouses a spirit of utter recklessness as that of protracted losing. Sooner or later it drives discretion from its seat and opens the door for hot-headed desperation. Say why the moth flies madly into the flame that consumes him! Say why the screaming sea-gull dashes out his brains against the dazzling windows of the towering lighthouse! Say why the undetected murderer haunts the neighborhood of his bloody crime! Give answer to these questions—and then you may say what frenzy of human nature led Nathan Godard to dare self-destruction in the passionate greed of an evil hour. Presently he looked up, fixing his inflamed eyes upon Belle Braddon's face. "A sure thing?" said he hoarsely. "Yes, I can make it a sure thing, Belle, that we win his money!" "No slip-up, eh?" "Not on your life!" "Good!" cried Belle approvingly. "Get rid of all but your cuekeeper, Nate, and notify the gang that there'll be no game here to-morrow night." "And you, Belle?" "I will have the Dakota couple here at precisely nine o'clock." # CHAPTER XVIII. CLOSING IN. Nick Carter did not long remain idle after Belle Braddon left him alone in the trap she had sprung on him and made her departure from Flood's vacant house. Nick kept quiet only until he felt sure she had gone, and then he began to take the precise measure of his situation. With both houses vacant, and the walled passage midway between them, there was, as Belle Braddon had said, no possibility that he could make himself heard by persons in the adjoining dwellings or upon the street. Nick gave up that idea almost at the outset. That help would come to him seemed equally improbable. Nick knew that Flood would not visit his house and that Belle Braddon would insure that no person entered the one adjoining. That any accidental intruder would put in an appearance was next to absurd. Nick quickly dropped all hope of relief of that character; in fact, nearly as quickly as he had dropped the other. This left him but one resource—himself. "I'm in here, and I must get out," he grimly said to himself. "I was fool enough to be caught in the trap, but I'll try to be clever enough to get out of it. First of all, to investigate it, for which we'll have a little light." Nick never went without the ordinary requirements of his vocation, and he quickly fished out of his pocket a small electric lamp, the current of which he turned on, and immediately a flood of light dispelled the intense darkness of his narrow quarters. "There, that is more like it," he muttered. "Now to look about a bit." A careful examination of the place required but a little time. On two sides were the bare brick walls of the passage, reaching from the floor to the ceiling. At each end was the inner surface of a heavy iron door, which was as tightly closed as that of a steel safe. Under all the pressure Nick possibly could bring to bear upon them they were not even jarred. "Um! There's no opening them by force, that's sure!" he presently decided. "Sheet-iron, too, over stout wood, no doubt, and securely riveted. To break through them is also out of the question. "Whew! It's getting close in here already. I shall need fresh air before long." The ceiling was two feet above his head, and brief study convinced Nick that nothing could be done in that direction. Next he sounded the walls and doors with the butt of his revolver. Each appeared to be solid, infernally solid, and Nick then fell to his knees upon the bare floor. "It's the only way," he muttered decisively. "I must get through this floor in some way. It must be done quickly, too, or I may become weak for want of better air." Upon his hands and knees Nick carefully examined the floor. It consisted of spruce boards, six inches wide, in most of which there was no break. Presently, however, he discovered a crack where the ends of two of the boards met. "Aha! this is better!" he muttered. With his knife he dug out the wood around the nails securing the longer of the two boards, and succeeded in slightly prying up the end of it. There was another board beneath it. With countenance grown more grim and determined, Nick rose to his feet and drew his revolver. "It's a long chance," he growled, under his breath. "The smoke will make it closer than ever in here, but I must know what's under these boards." He aimed down at a spot a few inches from the end of the one he had started, then fired. The report almost deafened him, and a cloud of smoke immediately filled the place. The bullet tore through the floor, splitting the end of the upper board, then plowed its way down through the frescoed ceiling of the room below. Nick dropped to his knees again, and peered down through the hole left by the chunk of lead. As he did so a breath of fresh air filled his nostrils, and he could discern daylight below. "Eureka! I'm over one of the rooms!" he cried to himself. "I'll fool that sly jade yet—and that isn't all I will do for her!" Nick now went to work with a will. With his knife he pried up the splintered end of the board until he could get his fingers under it. Then he ripped up a section of it, as if it had been so much cardboard. To remove the remaining pieces of the upper board required about five minutes, and Nick then tackled the one below it. First, he fired a second bullet, making a hole a few inches from the former. With his knife he then hacked out the wood between the two holes, thus enabling him to get a good grip upon the board. With his boot heel, and at times with the butt of his revolver, he split the plank in several places, and at the end of fifteen minutes he had the lower board ripped out. Though reeking from every pore, Nick at once thrust his leg through the aperture and down between the beams, and with his heel broke through the laths and plastering of the ceiling below. That he could now effect his escape he had not the least doubt; yet it required time. Nearly two hours of hard labor followed before he could hack a hole in the floor sufficiently large for him to pass through, and it was six o'clock before the work was done. Then Nick pocketed his knife and lamp, wormed himself through the opening, and dropped into the room below. He found himself in the house lately occupied by Nathan Godard. Before leaving, Nick went to the basement and found an old broom, and with it removed all of the rubbish that had fallen to the floor. "In case that jade comes here before to-morrow night, to learn if I have survived, I'll have this stuff out of her way, and chance that she does not observe the ceiling," he said to himself. "Even if she gets no sound from that trap up there, she'll not dare open the door. To make sure of her movements, however, and that the trick for to-morrow night is by no means queered, I will have Patsy shadow these two houses all day to-morrow." It was nearly dark when Nick arrived home, and he sat up until midnight waiting for Chick to return. The latter had left Belle Braddon less than an hour before, and she had been with Chick since six o'clock that evening, so Nick knew that she had not returned to Flood's house. Chick, moreover, had craftily planned with Belle to visit Godard's shore house the following night, taking with them the alleged uncle who was to arrive from Dakota. Naturally, the uncle was Nick Carter, and the two detectives were to meet Belle Braddon at the Waldorf the following afternoon. At ten o'clock next morning Nick received a telegram from Green. It contained only two words: "Brace on!" Nick laughed exultingly when he read it, and passed it to Chick, the two being seated in Nick's office. "That does settle it," declared the latter. "Godard is expecting us, and has given the humpback instructions about the cues." "Sure thing!" cried Chick. "Belle Braddon has fallen into the net I have spread for her, and Godard expects to find an easy mark in my cattle-raising uncle from Dakota." "It is Godard who will be the easy mark!" Nick grimly rejoined. "One thing is sure!" "What's that?" "Belle Braddon will never dream that your uncle is Nick Carter." "Well, hardly," laughed Chick. "She is probably dead sure that you are down and out by this time." "I have Patsy shadowing both houses, in case she goes there. That is not likely, however." "Not at all," replied Chick. "Women don't fancy dead bodies, and shrink from going where they are. Yet she's about as bad a trickster in petticoats as I ever met." "I'll go and tell the encouraging news to Flood and Harry Royal," said Nick. "Then we will get ourselves in shape for the round-up." At noon that day the yellow-haired chap, who had been at the Waldorf for nearly ten days, appeared at the famous hotel with a companion—his uncle. No man, however suspicious, would have recognized Nick in the disguise he then wore. His face was stained to a hue acquired only by long exposure to the burning sun of the plains. His hair was coarse and black, and a heavy beard concealed the lower portion of his face. Two of his teeth had been "stopped out," which, when he laughed, gave his mouth a peculiarly repulsive look. His hands gave evidence of much labor, and his figure was rounded at the shoulders and several inches below its normal height. He was clad in a suit characteristic of the part he had assumed, and presented, indeed, a most striking picture. Precisely at six o'clock, Belle Braddon, arrayed in the height of fashion, arrived in a carriage at the hotel, where Chick received her and took her to his suite of rooms. He had already cautioned her against appearing to be greatly amused by the oddities and roughness of the Western ranchman; yet when Belle Braddon met Nick and was introduced to him she scarcely could contain herself. She thought for sure that she was up against a genuine Western "Rube." A sonorous bass laugh came from Nick when they were introduced, to which was boisterously added, with a familiarity that tickled the girl immensely: "So you're the gal my Archie's run up agin', are you?" "I guess I am, sir," Belle admitted, blushing with affected demureness. "Waal, to tell the hull truth, Miss Braddon, I'm durned if I don't ruther envy him," declared Nick, with blunt heartiness. The girl laughed, shrugging her shoulders, and appearing greatly flattered, then laid off her wrap to wait for dinner. It was six o'clock before the meal was served, and Nick dined and wined the party liberally. During the progress of the dinner, which was served in one of the elaborate private dining-rooms, the project of going out to Godard's shore house was brought up, and Nick expressed his readiness to give the game a good, handsome play. "I've got money enough—barrels of it," he declared to Belle, much to her delight. "And it's meat and drink fur me, lass, to get up agin' a layout." "Then you shall be accommodated," laughed Belle. "And I'll not forget, gal, 'twas you who put us wise to the fun," added Nick pointedly. This looked to Belle Braddon like the promise of a reward, and she slyly pressed Nick's hand under the table. She received the reward all right—or, at least, what was coming to her. # CHAPTER XIX. THE RIGHT MAN. It was precisely nine o'clock when Nick Carter, Chick, and Belle Braddon arrived at Godard's shore house, to which they were admitted by the humpback and conducted into the dining-room. Nate Godard appeared pale and somewhat intoxicated when he received them, but his nerve quickly returned after the introductions and the hearty responses of his visitors, and he promptly invited them to the sideboard to have a drink. "Here's your very good health, Mr. Hedge," said he, addressing Nick by the name he had assumed. "Yours, too, sir," cried Nick. "So you are fond of bucking the tiger, are you, and have come out here to give my game a little play?" "Fond of it's no name for it, neighbor," declared Nick, as he drained his glass. "I'm a bit off color just now, though, for I haven't set down before a stack o' checks for nigh a year. All the more saved up for you to win, eh?" he added, with a boisterous display of good humor. "That ere's one way o' looking at it, Mr. Godard." Godard joined in Nick's loud laugh, and Belle Braddon, who was now making up to Nick with an eye to the future, playfully twined his arm with her hand and cried gleefully: "Oh, you're really too funny, Mr. Hedge." "Thet so, lass?" "You make me laugh nearly every time you speak." "Waal, as long as I don't make you cry, my dear gal, there's no sleep to be lost, eh?" "No, not a wink, sir," Belle rejoined, with a seductive glance and smile. A very little of such banter as this went a long way with Nick when more serious business was pressing, and he presently asked roundly: "Where's your game, Mr. Godard? Let's have a look at it." "We can talk and play at the same time, you know," put in Chick agreeably. "You don't do any playing, my boy," roared Nick good-naturedly. "It's bad enough fur one o' the Hedge family to be up agin' the tiger. You don't set down a chip—mind that, my boy." "Well, I can look on, can't I?" grumbled Chick. "There's no harm in that!" "Sure you can look on, lad. There's no chance to lose in looking on." "Come up-stairs, Mr. Hedge," said Godard. "I'm coming, too," declared Belle, as he led the way. "I want to see how you Westerners go at the game, Mr. Hedge." "We go at it, gal, like a bull at a gate," Nick loudly laughed, slipping his arm around her as they mounted the stairs. Green already had the room brightly lighted, yet he gave no sign of ever having seen the visitors. The faro-room was, barring the elaborate furnishings at Flood's, not unlike that previously described, and a sonorous laugh broke from Nick Carter when he beheld the layout on the table and saw the preparations which had been made for the game. "Waal, she does have a durned natural look, Godard," he cried, in stentorian tones. "How much can I sit to win?" "Your expenses, at least," Godard significantly replied, joining in the other's laugh. Nick's expressive eyes evinced just the least bit of disappointment when he perceived the pack of cards laid carelessly on a chair at one side of the table, but when Nathan Godard took his seat back of the layout, and then produced a pack from behind the check-rack, a momentary blaze fired their somber depths, only to wane again to a steady glow like that of burning coals through the darkness. Nick recognized the deck of cards at a glance. It was the same deck of strippers with which Moses Flood had dealt himself a loser and afterward strapped in the satchel with the money he had paid to Cecil Kendall, less than one hour before the latter was murdered in the rectory grounds. They were very positive evidence of Nathan Godard's guilt, yet Nick knew that there were other cards like them, and foresaw that even further proof was desirable. A profound reader of human nature, as well as a man of tremendous mental force, Nick was planning to drive the wretch opposite to a frenzy of excitement when, at the proper time, he could evoke from him an involuntary yet absolute self-betrayal. "My expenses, eh?" he boisterously replied, turning to wink at Belle, then at the humpback cuekeeper, who had taken his seat at the end of the table. "Sure thing, sir, if you get 'em down right," laughed Godard, a bit nervously. "Waal, my expenses will be suthing," roared Nick, "if we blow in the stuff as we did at the Waldorf. Gee whiz! but it costs suthing to eat and liquor up in that 'ere tavern. Eh, Archie?" "Right you are, old man," nodded Chick, who was seated near-by. "Are you in with my play, lass, or with Godard's?" cried Nick, turning to Belle with a great display of joviality. "I'm always in with the winner," replied the girl, with a ringing laugh. "Oh, ho, that's it, eh? Cunning as a kitten, aren't you?" "I'm always looking out for my own interest," grinned Belle, patting Nick's cheek from behind his chair. "Good for you, gal," cried Nick approvingly. "Waal, Mr. Godard, across the crick thar, give me a stack o' chips. I'll show you how we play the bank on the t'other side o' the Mississip. I dropped seven thousand in hides in Chicago, on my way here, the which I'm out to get back. Ha, ha! in with the winner, lass, are you?" While boisterously voicing the above, Nick drew from the side pocket of his coat a huge roll of bank-notes, from which he quickly stripped off two of five hundred dollars each, and carelessly tossed them across the layout. "Gimme a stack o' chips!" he cried noisily. "One stack?" queried Godard, startled by the prospect of so big a game. "One stack—sartin!" cried Nick. "Fifty dollars a chip, that's good enough fur me. Same as plug ante, what we used to play in '49 under the wagon-trains. What's the limit, by the way?" Godard began to tremble under this show of utter recklessness. "You may stack them up until I call you down," said he, speaking calmly with an effort. Yet he did not feel easy. It is no small undertaking to deal brace faro, even under ordinary conditions; and to Godard these appeared without precedent. His evil heart was beating like a trip-hammer. His blood was rushing like fire through his veins. Yet the sight of the pretended cattle-dealer's money served to nerve him for a time, and with jaws fixed he began to shuffle the deck of strippers. "Till you call me down, eh?" roared Nick, as if in great enjoyment. "That ought to be good enough, and it's what I like to hear. No piking around fur me, a chip a rip. They say it's good luck to stake a cuss afore beginning, so take that, my bucko, and put it in your kit." "Thankee, sir!" cried the humpback, as Nick tossed him a chip valued at fifty dollars. Nick nodded and laughed. "You're sort of a cross atween a man and monkey, ain't ye?" he jokingly demanded. "Well, sir, I'll not take any blue ribbons for my beauty," rejoined Green, laughing. "Ha, ha, ha!" roared Nick. "That's the stuff, my lad! All ready, eh? What's to the top o' the box—an eight?" Despite his show of carelessness, Nick had seen the cards shuffled, stripped, and butted. He knew to a certainty how to place his money. He divided his stack of chips and coppered two winners for the entire lot. Godard felt a thrill of exultation. Nick had set his money down to lose. The miscreant opposite was not forced to take a false card in order to win, and he felt relieved. The first turn from the box brought a decision—the pretended dealer in cattle had lost. "Oh, ho!" he cried, with a quick flash of his eyes. "Can you do thet, ag'in? Let's see you do thet ag'in!" Godard's only reply was to send out another turn from the deal box. But Nick's question was answered—he had lost again, just as he had planned. Now he did not laugh. He jerked his chair quickly nearer the table, and ferociously yanked out his roll of money. "Gimme two stacks this time!" he cried aggressively. "Two goes, mister," nodded Godard. He raked in the bank-notes cast upon the layout, and set forth their equivalent in chips. Yet he did not speak again, to add to his husky remark. He dared not trust his voice. It was nothing short of robbery, this that he was doing, and he felt that he could see his finish if he got caught cheating. Nick looked and acted like a man who would fairly eat another, under such a provocation. Then Nick went down upon the layout with every chip that he had bought. This time he bet to win, thus forcing Godard to take a false card. Nick's object was to drive the man to a frenzy of excitement, when discretion would be overwhelmed, and then bring a climax that would evoke self-betrayal. Godard took the false card, made a secret sign, and a quick responsive rap sounded from his cuekeeper. Yet he was ghastly to the lips when he glanced at Nick to see if the deception had been detected. Nick saw it all right, but his countenance did not change. He saw, too, that Godard was beginning to work under the highest kind of pressure. The latter raked in a thousand dollars on the turn, and the magnitude of the possibility before him alone enabled him to maintain his nerve. "Can't I win a bet?" Nick hoarsely cried, after buying for the third time and losing. "Curse the infernal luck—can't I win a bet?" "You are really getting them down a bit unlucky, uncle," observed Chick, with pretended sympathy. "So he is, dear man," said Belle, in persuasive tones. They now appeared to be wasted upon the irate cattle-dealer, however. "Gimme some more chips, Godard," he fiercely growled, slinging a fifth thousand dollars over the layout. "Gimme some more chips, I say! What sort of a dealer hev I been steered up agin', eh?" "The deal is all right, sir," stammered Godard. "Who said 'twasn't? I said dealer!" snarled Nick ferociously. Godard's hand shook visibly as he shoved the desired stacks of chips toward Nick. The strain upon him was something frightful, and his brain felt as if seared with a terrible heat. The gravity of the situation seemed to steadily increase, and fear of what might occur was taking ugly hold upon him. He ground his teeth together, and nerved himself to finish the deal. From the top of the box to the bottom Nick did not win a bet. He started the second deal ten thousand dollars loser, and Godard was trembling in his chair. The second deal was about like the first. Nick played to lose. He coppered the winning cards, and played the losers to win. Time and time again he forced himself to call for more chips, and each time noticed that Godard was becoming more and more beside himself. The perspiration stood in great drops on the latter's face, and the arteries of his neck and brow were pulsing violently. Nick saw that he had him nearly where he wanted him. Even Belle Braddon was gazing with affrighted eyes upon the dreadful scene, hushed and pale now, with her hands pressed above her heart. Chick saw by the look in Nick's eyes that the climax was approaching, and he quietly made ready for it. Half-a-minute later Nick drove the knife deeper into his victim. The deal had come down to two turns only, and Nick knew the cues were wrong and that Godard must take a card to right them. Nick forced Godard to win by stealing, and the latter's hand shook as if with palsy as he did it. A rap from the cuekeeper followed, and then the announcement: "Last turn!" Nick resolved it should be the very last. He placed his bet—and purposely lost! Then he uttered a terrible cry, as if thrilled with sudden suspicion. "Be the cues right? Be the cues right?" he roared, glaring fiercely at the startled humpback. "Aye, sir——" "Then lemme see them cards!" yelled Nick, with his swarthy face awfully distorted and his eyes blazing like fire. "Lemme see the cards. I say! —— you, Godard, there's suthing wrong with them cards!" The humpback leaped to his feet with a hoarse remonstrance, and while Nathan Godard, ghastly as a corpse, covered the cards with his left hand, his right went to his hip pocket. It was the very move Nick wanted to see him make. "Lemme see 'em!" he roared furiously, half rising from his chair. "I tell you there's suthing wrong with them cards!" "I think not——" "Lemme see 'em! Lemme see 'em, or I'll——" "Let him see them, Nate!" shrieked Belle Braddon, wild lest Godard's frightful agitation should betray him. Nick reached across the layout with a terrible imprecation, and snatched the pack of cards from under Godard's quivering hand. "There's blood on them!" he roared fiercely, with his eyes fixed on those of the shaking man opposite. "There's blood on them! The blood of a man killed for money—killed for gain, and by you who now——" Nick got no further. The thrilling accusation was more than Nate Godard, in his unnerved condition, could sustain. He saw the scheme by which he was being duped—and he saw again the staring corpse that he had left behind him in the rectory grounds in Fordham. With a single wild cry, most like a shriek, he leaped to his feet. "Curse you!" he yelled; "I know you now! You're Moses Flood!" "You lie!" thundered Nick, tearing off his disguise. "I am Nick Carter, the detective!" Belle Braddon uttered a scream that pierced the very walls of the house, and from somewhere under her skirts snatched out a revolver. Chick Carter, with eyes alert to see where he was most needed, was upon her as a leopard leaps upon a hare. "Not on your life, miss!" he cried, wrenching away the weapon and forcing her into a chair. Nate Godard, too, had drawn his revolver, but he never again discharged it. Nick swept across the table like a whirlwind, and in an instant had the desperate man by the throat. Then he drew back, startled. Godard's grip on his revolver had relaxed, and the weapon fell clattering to the floor. He threw both hands above his head, like one stricken a fatal blow, then brought both palms violently to his skull, as if within were the seat of a dreadful pain. His distorted face suddenly grew ghastly, with lips drawn and eyes rolling, and but for Nick Carter's supporting arm he would have fallen headlong to the floor. "He's done for!" cried Nick to Chick, over his shoulder. Nick was right: one glance at the man's death-swept face was enough. In the awful stress of his horror, terror, and excitement, Nathan Godard had ruptured an artery of his brain. The rest, involving the subsequent fortunes of those who have figured in these pages, may be briefly and simply told. Godard died within an hour, without regaining consciousness, and thus cheated human justice, only to meet at a divine tribunal the punishment he deserved. From Belle Braddon, however, whom fear of punishment now drove to a confession, the facts were obtained that fully established Godard's guilt. He had left the faro-bank just after seeing Kendall win the ninety thousand dollars, and when the latter emerged Godard shadowed him to Fordham. As Nick Carter had shrewdly reasoned, Kendall went to peer through the library window before entering the rectory. Godard, meantime, had seen Flood arrive and hitch his team at the rear gate, putting his heavy cane in the body of the buggy. Flood, however, wishing to see Dora Royal alone, had not gone directly to that side of the house on which the crime was committed, but had passed slowly around it, in the hope of attracting her attention from one of the windows. Godard, meantime, secured Flood's cane, waylaid and killed Kendall, then made off with the satchel of money, afterward concealing the cane in the brushwood, that the crime might be charged to Flood. The latter, upon coming around the house, had seen only Harry Royal, with the results already set forth. Belle Braddon did not for her confession, however, escape punishment for her evil doings. Nick promptly placed her under arrest, as an accessory after the crime, as well as for the attempt upon his life, and she ultimately received her just deserts. When the heroic part that Moses Flood had played in behalf of the Royals was fully made known to the rector, he did precisely what Nick Carter anticipated. Upon Flood's renunciation of his business, which had been entirely voluntary, Doctor Royal forgave the past and accepted him as his daughter's suitor. Flood went abroad for six months, returning as the American representative of one of the largest silk concerns in France, and he and Dora Royal were married that year, establishing themselves in a fine West End Avenue residence. The two houses, which were sad reminders of his past, Flood sold to the best advantage, and gave the entire proceeds to charity. The love and gratitude of the happy couple for Nick Carter may be easily imagined, and both were numbered among Nick's dearest friends. The great detective frequently said of Flood in after years, when recalling the incidents here depicted: "He certainly was the prince of gamesters!" And certainly it seems to be a good safe wager that Nick Carter, as usual, was entirely right. THE END
228	--- author: Stanley G. (Stanley Grauman) Weinbaum tags: Science fiction, Mars (Planet), Fiction title: Valley of Dreams summary: " \"Valley of Dreams\" by Stanley G. Weinbaum is a science fiction novella written in the early 20th century. The narrative revolves around the character Captain Harrison and his crew during the first successful Martian expedition, exploring themes of alien life and the mysterious landscape of Mars. The book delves into the complexities of interaction between humans and Martians, as well as the existential dilemmas posed by the exploration of an alien world. The story follows Captain Harrison and his team as they embark on a mission to explore Mars, encountering various bizarre life forms, including a curious Martian named Tweel. Throughout their adventure, they discover a grand, abandoned Martian city filled with mysterious architecture and artifacts, raising questions about the Martians' past and their once-thriving civilization. However, they also face the threat of 'dream-beasts'\u2014creatures that manifest captivating but dangerous illusions based on personal desires. As they navigate these challenges, the crew grapples with philosophical discussions about life, society, and the very nature of existence, ultimately leading to a dramatic resolution that highlights their deepening connection with the alien race and the implications of sharing powerful technology. " word_count: 9117 fiction_type: Short Story ... # Valley of Dreams Captain Harrison of the _Ares_ expedition turned away from the little telescope in the bow of the rocket. "Two weeks more, at the most," he remarked. "Mars only retrogrades for seventy days in all, relative to the earth, and we've got to be homeward bound during that period, or wait a year and a half for old Mother Earth to go around the sun and catch up with us again. How'd you like to spend a winter here?" Dick Jarvis, chemist of the party, shivered as he looked up from his notebook. "I'd just as soon spend it in a liquid air tank!" he averred. "These eighty-below zero summer nights are plenty for me." "Well," mused the captain, "the first successful Martian expedition ought to be home long before then." "Successful if we get home," corrected Jarvis. "I don't trust these cranky rockets—not since the auxiliary dumped me in the middle of Thyle last week. Walking back from a rocket ride is a new sensation to me." "Which reminds me," returned Harrison, "that we've got to recover your films. They're important if we're to pull this trip out of the red. Remember how the public mobbed the first moon pictures? Our shots ought to pack "em to the doors. And the broadcast rights, too; we might show a profit for the Academy." "What interests me," countered Jarvis, "is a personal profit. A book, for instance; exploration books are always popular. _Martian Deserts_—how's that for a title?" "Lousy!" grunted the captain. "Sounds like a cook-book for desserts. You'd have to call it "Love Life of a Martian," or something like that." Jarvis chuckled. "Anyway," he said, "if we once get back home, I'm going to grab what profit there is, and never, never, get any farther from the earth than a good stratosphere plane'll take me. I've learned to appreciate the planet after plowing over this dried-up pill we're on now." "I'll lay you odds you'll be back here year after next," grinned the Captain. "You'll want to visit your pal—that trick ostrich." "Tweel?" The other's tone sobered. "I wish I hadn't lost him, at that. He was a good scout. I'd never have survived the dream-beast but for him. And that battle with the push-cart things—I never even had a chance to thank him." "A pair of lunatics, you two," observed Harrison. He squinted through the port at the gray gloom of the Mare Cimmerium. "There comes the sun." He paused. "Listen, Dick—you and Leroy take the other auxiliary rocket and go out and salvage those films." Jarvis stared. "Me and Leroy?" he echoed ungrammatically. "Why not me and Putz? An engineer would have some chance of getting us there and back if the rocket goes bad on us." The captain nodded toward the stern, whence issued at that moment a medley of blows and guttural expletives. "Putz is going over the insides of the _Ares_," he announced. "He'll have his hands full until we leave, because I want every bolt inspected. It's too late for repairs once we cast off." "And if Leroy and I crack up? That's our last auxiliary." "Pick up another ostrich and walk back," suggested Harrison gruffly. Then he smiled. "If you have trouble, we'll hunt you out in the _Ares_," he finished. "Those films are important." He turned. "Leroy!" The dapper little biologist appeared, his face questioning. "You and Jarvis are off to salvage the auxiliary," the Captain said. "Everything's ready and you'd better start now. Call back at half-hour intervals; I'll be listening." Leroy's eyes glistened. "Perhaps we land for specimens—no?" he queried. "Land if you want to. This golf ball seems safe enough." "Except for the dream-beast," muttered Jarvis with a faint shudder. He frowned suddenly. "Say, as long as we're going that way, suppose I have a look for Tweel's home! He must live off there somewhere, and he's the most important thing we've seen on Mars." Harrison hesitated. "If I thought you could keep out of trouble," he muttered. "All right," he decided. "Have a look. There's food and water aboard the auxiliary; you can take a couple of days. But keep in touch with me, you saps!" Jarvis and Leroy went through the airlock out to the grey plain. The thin air, still scarcely warmed by the rising sun, bit flesh and lung like needles, and they gasped with a sense of suffocation. They dropped to a sitting posture, waiting for their bodies, trained by months in acclimatization chambers back on earth, to accommodate themselves to the tenuous air. Leroy's face, as always, turned a smothered blue, and Jarvis heard his own breath rasping and rattling in his throat. But in five minutes, the discomfort passed; they rose and entered the little auxiliary rocket that rested beside the black hull of the _Ares_. The under-jets roared out their fiery atomic blast; dirt and bits of shattered biopods spun away in a cloud as the rocket rose. Harrison watched the projectile trail its flaming way into the south, then turned back to his work. It was four days before he saw the rocket again. Just at evening, as the sun dropped behind the horizon with the suddenness of a candle falling into the sea, the auxiliary flashed out of the southern heavens, easing gently down on the flaming wings of the under-jets. Jarvis and Leroy emerged, passed through the swiftly gathering dusk, and faced him in the light of the _Ares_. He surveyed the two; Jarvis was tattered and scratched, but apparently in better condition than Leroy, whose dapperness was completely lost. The little biologist was pale as the nearer moon that glowed outside; one arm was bandaged in thermo-skin and his clothes hung in veritable rags. But it was his eyes that struck Harrison most strangely; to one who lived these many weary days with the diminutive Frenchman, there was something queer about them. They were frightened, plainly enough, and that was odd, since Leroy was no coward or he'd never have been one of the four chosen by the Academy for the first Martian expedition. But the fear in his eyes was more understandable than that other expression, that queer fixity of gaze like one in a trance, or like a person in an ecstasy. "Like a chap who's seen Heaven and Hell together," Harrison expressed it to himself. He was yet to discover how right he was. He assumed a gruffness as the weary pair sat down. "You're a fine looking couple!" he growled. "I should've known better than to let you wander off alone." He paused. "Is your arm all right, Leroy? Need any treatment?" Jarvis answered. "It's all right—just gashed. No danger of infection here, I guess; Leroy says there aren't any microbes on Mars." "Well," exploded the Captain, "Let's hear it, then! Your radio reports sounded screwy. "Escaped from Paradise!" Huh!" "I didn't want to give details on the radio," said Jarvis soberly. "You'd have thought we'd gone loony." "I think so, anyway." "_Moi aussi!_" muttered Leroy. "I too!" "Shall I begin at the beginning?" queried the chemist. "Our early reports were pretty nearly complete." He stared at Putz, who had come in silently, his face and hands blackened with carbon, and seated himself beside Harrison. "At the beginning," the Captain decided. "Well," began Jarvis, "we got started all right, and flew due south along the meridian of the _Ares_, same course I'd followed last week. I was getting used to this narrow horizon, so I didn't feel so much like being cooped under a big bowl, but one does keep overestimating distances. Something four miles away looks eight when you're used to terrestrial curvature, and that makes you guess its size just four times too large. A little hill looks like a mountain until you're almost over it." "I know that," grunted Harrison. "Yes, but Leroy didn't, and I spent our first couple of hours trying to explain it to him. By the time he understood (if he does yet) we were past Cimmerium and over that Xanthus desert, and then we crossed the canal with the mud city and the barrel-shaped citizens and the place where Tweel had shot the dream-beast. And nothing would do for Pierre here but that we put down so he could practice his biology on the remains. So we did. "The thing was still there. No sign of decay; couldn't be, of course, without bacterial forms of life, and Leroy says that Mars is as sterile as an operating table." "_Comme le coeur d'une fileuse_," corrected the little biologist, who was beginning to regain a trace of his usual energy. "Like an old maid's heart!" "However," resumed Jarvis, "about a hundred of the little grey-green biopods had fastened onto the thing and were growing and branching. Leroy found a stick and knocked "em off, and each branch broke away and became a biopod crawling around with the others. So he poked around at the creature, while I looked away from it; even dead, that rope-armed devil gave me the creeps. And then came the surprise; the thing was part plant!" "_C'est vrai!_" confirmed the biologist. "It's true!" "It was a big cousin of the biopods," continued Jarvis. "Leroy was quite excited; he figures that all Martian life is of that sort—neither plant nor animal. Life here never differentiated, he says; everything has both natures in it, even the barrel-creatures—even Tweel! I think he's right, especially when I recall how Tweel rested, sticking his beak in the ground and staying that way all night. I never saw him eat or drink, either; perhaps his beak was more in the nature of a root, and he got his nourishment that way." "Sounds nutty to me," observed Harrison. "Well," continued Jarvis, "we broke up a few of the other growths and they acted the same way—the pieces crawled around, only much slower than the biopods, and then stuck themselves in the ground. Then Leroy had to catch a sample of the walking grass, and we were ready to leave when a parade of the barrel-creatures rushed by with their push-carts. They hadn't forgotten me, either; they all drummed out, "We are v-r-r-iends—ouch!" just as they had before. Leroy wanted to shoot one and cut it up, but I remembered the battle Tweel and I had had with them, and vetoed the idea. But he did hit on a possible explanation as to what they did with all the rubbish they gathered." "Made mud-pies, I guess," grunted the captain. "More or less," agreed Jarvis. "They use it for food, Leroy thinks. If they're part vegetable, you see, that's what they'd want—soil with organic remains in it to make it fertile. That's why they ground up sand and biopods and other growths all together. See?" "Dimly," countered Harrison. "How about the suicides?" "Leroy had a hunch there, too. The suicides jump into the grinder when the mixture has too much sand and gravel; they throw themselves in to adjust the proportions." "Rats!" said Harrison disgustedly. "Why couldn't they bring in some extra branches from outside?" "Because suicide is easier. You've got to remember that these creatures can't be judged by earthly standards; they probably don't feel pain, and they haven't got what we'd call individuality. Any intelligence they have is the property of the whole community—like an ant-heap. That's it! Ants are willing to die for their ant-hill; so are these creatures." "So are men," observed the captain, "if it comes to that." "Yes, but men aren't exactly eager. It takes some emotion like patriotism to work "em to the point of dying for their country; these things do it all in the day's work." He paused. "Well, we took some pictures of the dream-beast and the barrel-creatures, and then we started along. We sailed over Xanthus, keeping as close to the meridian of the _Ares_ as we could, and pretty soon we crossed the trail of the pyramid-builder. So we circled back to let Leroy take a look at it, and when we found it, we landed. The thing had completed just two rows of bricks since Tweel and I left it, and there it was, breathing in silicon and breathing out bricks as if it had eternity to do it in—which it has. Leroy wanted to dissect it with a Boland explosive bullet, but I thought that anything that had lived for ten million years was entitled to the respect due old age, so I talked him out of it. He peeped into the hole on top of it and nearly got beaned by the arm coming up with a brick, and then he chipped off a few pieces of it, which didn't disturb the creature a bit. He found the place I'd chipped, tried to see if there was any sign of healing, and decided he could tell better in two or three thousand years. So we took a few shots of it and sailed on. "Mid afternoon we located the wreck of my rocket. Not a thing disturbed; we picked up my films and tried to decide what next. I wanted to find Tweel if possible; I figured from the fact of his pointing south that he lived somewhere near Thyle. We plotted our route and judged that the desert we were in now was Thyle II; Thyle I should be east of us. So, on a hunch, we decided to have a look at Thyle I, and away we buzzed." "_Der_ motors?" queried Putz, breaking his long silence. "For a wonder, we had no trouble, Karl. Your blast worked perfectly. So we hummed along, pretty high to get a wider view, I'd say about fifty thousand feet. Thyle II spread out like an orange carpet, and after a while we came to the grey branch of the Mare Chronium that bounded it. That was narrow; we crossed it in half an hour, and there was Thyle I—same orange-hued desert as its mate. We veered south, toward the Mare Australe, and followed the edge of the desert. And toward sunset we spotted it." "Shpotted?" echoed Putz. "Vot vas shpotted?" "The desert was spotted—with buildings! Not one of the mud cities of the canals, although a canal went through it. From the map we figured the canal was a continuation of the one Schiaparelli called Ascanius. "We were probably too high to be visible to any inhabitants of the city, but also too high for a good look at it, even with the glasses. However, it was nearly sunset, anyway, so we didn't plan on dropping in. We circled the place; the canal went out into the Mare Australe, and there, glittering in the south, was the melting polar ice-cap! The canal drained it; we could distinguish the sparkle of water in it. Off to the southeast, just at the edge of the Mare Australe, was a valley—the first irregularity I'd seen on Mars except the cliffs that bounded Xanthus and Thyle II. We flew over the valley—" Jarvis paused suddenly and shuddered; Leroy, whose color had begun to return, seemed to pale. The chemist resumed, "Well, the valley looked all right—then! Just a gray waste, probably full of crawlers like the others. "We circled back over the city; say, I want to tell you that place was—well, gigantic! It was colossal; at first I thought the size was due to that illusion I spoke of—you know, the nearness of the horizon—but it wasn't that. We sailed right over it, and you've never seen anything like it! "But the sun dropped out of sight right then. I knew we were pretty far south—latitude 60—but I didn't know just how much night we'd have." Harrison glanced at a Schiaparelli chart. "About 60—eh?" he said. "Close to what corresponds to the Antarctic circle. You'd have about four hours of night at this season. Three months from now you'd have none at all." "Three months!" echoed Jarvis, surprised. Then he grinned. "Right! I forget the seasons here are twice as long as ours. Well, we sailed out into the desert about twenty miles, which put the city below the horizon in case we overslept, and there we spent the night. "You're right about the length of it. We had about four hours of darkness which left us fairly rested. We ate breakfast, called our location to you, and started over to have a look at the city. "We sailed toward it from the east and it loomed up ahead of us like a range of mountains. Lord, what a city! Not that New York mightn't have higher buildings, or Chicago cover more ground, but for sheer mass, those structures were in a class by themselves. Gargantuan! "There was a queer look about the place, though. You know how a terrestrial city sprawls out, a nimbus of suburbs, a ring of residential sections, factory districts, parks, highways. There was none of that here; the city rose out of the desert as abruptly as a cliff. Only a few little sand mounds marked the division, and then the walls of those gigantic structures. "The architecture was strange, too. There were lots of devices that are impossible back home, such as set-backs in reverse, so that a building with a small base could spread out as it rose. That would be a valuable trick in New York, where land is almost priceless, but to do it, you'd have to transfer Martian gravitation there! "Well, since you can't very well land a rocket in a city street, we put down right next to the canal side of the city, took our small cameras and revolvers, and started for a gap in the wall of masonry. We weren't ten feet from the rocket when we both saw the explanation for a lot of the queerness. "The city was in ruin! Abandoned, deserted, dead as Babylon! Or at least, so it looked to us then, with its empty streets which, if they had been paved, were now deep under sand." "A ruin, eh?" commented Harrison. "How old?" "How could we tell?" countered Jarvis. "The next expedition to this golf ball ought to carry an archeologist—and a philologist, too, as we found out later. But it's a devil of a job to estimate the age of anything here; things weather so slowly that most of the buildings might have been put up yesterday. No rainfall, no earthquakes, no vegetation is here to spread cracks with its roots—nothing. The only aging factors here are the erosion of the wind—and that's negligible in this atmosphere—and the cracks caused by changing temperature. And one other agent—meteorites. They must crash down occasionally on the city, judging from the thinness of the air, and the fact that we've seen four strike ground right here near the _Ares_." "Seven," corrected the captain. "Three dropped while you were gone." "Well, damage by meteorites must be slow, anyway. Big ones would be as rare here as on earth, because big ones get through in spite of the atmosphere, and those buildings could sustain a lot of little ones. My guess at the city's age—and it may be wrong by a big percentage—would be fifteen thousand years. Even that's thousands of years older than any human civilization; fifteen thousand years ago was the Late Stone Age in the history of mankind. "So Leroy and I crept up to those tremendous buildings feeling like pygmies, sort of awe-struck, and talking in whispers. I tell you, it was ghostly walking down that dead and deserted street, and every time we passed through a shadow, we shivered, and not just because shadows are cold on Mars. We felt like intruders, as if the great race that had built the place might resent our presence even across a hundred and fifty centuries. The place was as quiet as a grave, but we kept imagining things and peeping down the dark lanes between buildings and looking over our shoulders. Most of the structures were windowless, but when we did see an opening in those vast walls, we couldn't look away, expecting to see some horror peering out of it. "Then we passed an edifice with an open arch; the doors were there, but blocked open by sand. I got up nerve enough to take a look inside, and then, of course, we discovered we'd forgotten to take our flashes. But we eased a few feet into the darkness and the passage debouched into a colossal hall. Far above us a little crack let in a pallid ray of daylight, not nearly enough to light the place; I couldn't even see if the hall rose clear to the distant roof. But I know the place was enormous; I said something to Leroy and a million thin echoes came slipping back to us out of the darkness. And after that, we began to hear other sounds—slithering rustling noises, and whispers, and sounds like suppressed breathing—and something black and silent passed between us and that far-away crevice of light. "Then we saw three little greenish spots of luminosity in the dusk to our left. We stood staring at them, and suddenly they all shifted at once. Leroy yelled "_Ce sont des yeux!_' and they were! They were eyes! "Well, we stood frozen for a moment, while Leroy's yell reverberated back and forth between the distant walls, and the echoes repeated the words in queer, thin voices. There were mumblings and mutterings and whisperings and sounds like strange soft laughter, and then the three-eyed thing moved again. Then we broke for the door! "We felt better out in the sunlight; we looked at each other sheepishly, but neither of us suggested another look at the buildings inside—though we _did_ see the place later, and that was queer, too—but you'll hear about it when I come to it. We just loosened our revolvers and crept on along that ghostly street. "The street curved and twisted and subdivided. I kept careful note of our directions, since we couldn't risk getting lost in that gigantic maze. Without our thermo-skin bags, night would finish us, even if what lurked in the ruins didn't. By and by, I noticed that we were veering back toward the canal, the buildings ended and there were only a few dozen ragged stone huts which looked as though they might have been built of debris from the city. I was just beginning to feel a bit disappointed at finding no trace of Tweel's people here when we rounded a corner and there he was! "I yelled "Tweel!" but he just stared, and then I realized that he wasn't Tweel, but another Martian of his sort. Tweel's feathery appendages were more orange hued and he stood several inches taller than this one. Leroy was sputtering in excitement, and the Martian kept his vicious beak directed at us, so I stepped forward as peace-maker. I said "Tweel?" very questioningly, but there was no result. I tried it a dozen times, and we finally had to give it up; we couldn't connect. "Leroy and I walked toward the huts, and the Martian followed us. Twice he was joined by others, and each time I tried yelling "Tweel' at them but they just stared at us. So we ambled on with the three trailing us, and then it suddenly occurred to me that my Martian accent might be at fault. I faced the group and tried trilling it out the way Tweel himself did: "T-r-r-rwee-r-rl!" Like that. "And that worked! One of them spun his head around a full ninety degrees, and screeched "T-r-r-rweee-r-rl!" and a moment later, like an arrow from a bow, Tweel came sailing over the nearer huts to land on his beak in front of me! "Man, we were glad to see each other! Tweel set up a twittering and chirping like a farm in summer and went sailing up and coming down on his beak, and I would have grabbed his hands, only he wouldn't keep still long enough. "The other Martians and Leroy just stared, and after a while, Tweel stopped bouncing, and there we were. We couldn't talk to each other any more than we could before, so after I'd said "Tweel' a couple of times and he'd said "Tick," we were more or less helpless. However, it was only mid-morning, and it seemed important to learn all we could about Tweel and the city, so I suggested that he guide us around the place if he weren't busy. I put over the idea by pointing back at the buildings and then at him and us. "Well, apparently he wasn't too busy, for he set off with us, leading the way with one of his hundred and fifty-foot nosedives that set Leroy gasping. When we caught up, he said something like "one, one, two—two, two, four—no, no—yes, yes—rock—no breet!" That didn't seem to mean anything; perhaps he was just letting Leroy know that he could speak English, or perhaps he was merely running over his vocabulary to refresh his memory. "Anyway, he showed us around. He had a light of sorts in his black pouch, good enough for small rooms, but simply lost in some of the colossal caverns we went through. Nine out of ten buildings meant absolutely nothing to us—just vast empty chambers, full of shadows and rustlings and echoes. I couldn't imagine their use; they didn't seem suitable for living quarters, or even for commercial purposes—trade and so forth; they might have been all right as power-houses, but what could have been the purpose of a whole city full? And where were the remains of the machinery? "The place was a mystery. Sometimes Tweel would show us through a hall that would have housed an ocean-liner, and he'd seem to swell with pride—and we couldn't make a damn thing of it! As a display of architectural power, the city was colossal; as anything else it was just nutty! "But we did see one thing that registered. We came to that same building Leroy and I had entered earlier—the one with the three eyes in it. Well, we were a little shaky about going in there, but Tweel twittered and trilled and kept saying, "Yes, yes, yes!" so we followed him, staring nervously about for the thing that had watched us. However, that hall was just like the others, full of murmurs and slithering noises and shadowy things slipping away into corners. If the three-eyed creature were still there, it must have slunk away with the others. "Tweel led us along the wall; his light showed a series of little alcoves, and in the first of these we ran into a puzzling thing—a very weird thing. As the light flashed into the alcove, I saw first just an empty space, and then, squatting on the floor, I saw—it! A little creature about as big as a large rat, it was, gray and huddled and evidently startled by our appearance. It had the queerest, most devilish little face!—pointed ears or horns and satanic eyes that seemed to sparkle with a sort of fiendish intelligence. "Tweel saw it, too, and let out a screech of anger, and the creature rose on two pencil-thin legs and scuttled off with a half-terrified, half defiant squeak. It darted past us into the darkness too quickly even for Tweel, and as it ran, something waved on its body like the fluttering of a cape. Tweel screeched angrily at it and set up a shrill hullabaloo that sounded like genuine rage. "But the thing was gone, and then I noticed the weirdest of imaginable details. Where it had squatted on the floor was—a book! It had been hunched over a book! "I took a step forward; sure enough, there was some sort of inscription on the pages—wavy white lines like a seismograph record on black sheets like the material of Tweel's pouch. Tweel fumed and whistled in wrath, picked up the volume and slammed it into place on a shelf full of others. Leroy and I stared dumbfounded at each other. "Had the little thing with the fiendish face been reading? Or was it simply eating the pages, getting physical nourishment rather than mental? Or had the whole thing been accidental? "If the creature were some rat-like pest that destroyed books, Tweel's rage was understandable, but why should he try to prevent an intelligent being, even though of an alien race, from _reading_—if it _was_ reading? I don't know; I did notice that the book was entirely undamaged, nor did I see a damaged book among any that we handled. But I have an odd hunch that if we knew the secret of the little cape-clothed imp, we'd know the mystery of the vast abandoned city and of the decay of Martian culture. "Well, Tweel quieted down after a while and led us completely around that tremendous hall. It had been a library, I think; at least, there were thousands upon thousands of those queer black-paged volumes printed in wavy lines of white. There were pictures, too, in some; and some of these showed Tweel's people. That's a point, of course; it indicated that his race built the city and printed the books. I don't think the greatest philologist on earth will ever translate one line of those records; they were made by minds too different from ours. "Tweel could read them, naturally. He twittered off a few lines, and then I took a few of the books, with his permission; he said "no, no!" to some and "yes, yes!" to others. Perhaps he kept back the ones his people needed, or perhaps he let me take the ones he thought we'd understand most easily. I don't know; the books are outside there in the rocket. "Then he held that dim torch of his toward the walls, and they were pictured. Lord, what pictures! They stretched up and up into the blackness of the roof, mysterious and gigantic. I couldn't make much of the first wall; it seemed to be a portrayal of a great assembly of Tweel's people. Perhaps it was meant to symbolize Society or Government. But the next wall was more obvious; it showed creatures at work on a colossal machine of some sort, and that would be Industry or Science. The back wall had corroded away in part, from what we could see, I suspected the scene was meant to portray Art, but it was on the fourth wall that we got a shock that nearly dazed us. "I think the symbol was Exploration or Discovery. This wall was a little plainer, because the moving beam of daylight from that crack lit up the higher surface and Tweel's torch illuminated the lower. We made out a giant seated figure, one of the beaked Martians like Tweel, but with every limb suggesting heaviness, weariness. The arms dropped inertly on the chair, the thin neck bent and the beak rested on the body, as if the creature could scarcely bear its own weight. And before it was a queer kneeling figure, and at sight of it, Leroy and I almost reeled against each other. It was, apparently, a man!" "A man!" bellowed Harrison. "A man you say?" "I said apparently," retorted Jarvis. "The artist had exaggerated the nose almost to the length of Tweel's beak, but the figure had black shoulder-length hair, and instead of the Martian four, there were _five_ fingers on its outstretched hand! It was kneeling as if in worship of the Martian, and on the ground was what looked like a pottery bowl full of some food as an offering. Well! Leroy and I thought we'd gone screwy!" "And Putz and I think so, too!" roared the captain. "Maybe we all have," replied Jarvis, with a faint grin at the pale face of the little Frenchman, who returned it in silence. "Anyway," he continued, "Tweel was squeaking and pointing at the figure, and saying "Tick! Tick!" so he recognized the resemblance—and never mind any cracks about my nose!" he warned the captain. "It was Leroy who made the important comment; he looked at the Martian and said "Thoth! The god Thoth!"" "_Oui!_" confirmed the biologist. "_Comme l'Egypte!_" "Yeah," said Jarvis. "Like the Egyptian ibis-headed god—the one with the beak. Well, no sooner did Tweel hear the name Thoth than he set up a clamor of twittering and squeaking. He pointed at himself and said "Thoth! Thoth!" and then waved his arm all around and repeated it. Of course he often did queer things, but we both thought we understood what he meant. He was trying to tell us that his race called themselves Thoth. Do you see what I'm getting at?" "I see, all right," said Harrison. "You think the Martians paid a visit to the earth, and the Egyptians remembered it in their mythology. Well, you're off, then; there wasn't any Egyptian civilization fifteen thousand years ago." "Wrong!" grinned Jarvis. "It's too bad we _haven't_ an archeologist with us, but Leroy tells me that there was a stone-age culture in Egypt then, the pre-dynastic civilization." "Well, even so, what of it?" "Plenty! Everything in that picture proves my point. The attitude of the Martian, heavy and weary—that's the unnatural strain of terrestrial gravitation. The name Thoth; Leroy tells me Thoth was the Egyptian god of philosophy and the inventor of _writing_! Get that? They must have picked up the idea from watching the Martian take notes. It's too much for coincidence that Thoth should be beaked and ibis-headed, and that the beaked Martians call themselves Thoth." "Well, I'll be hanged! But what about the nose on the Egyptian? Do you mean to tell me that stone-age Egyptians had longer noses than ordinary men?" "Of course not! It's just that the Martians very naturally cast their paintings in Martianized form. Don't human beings tend to relate everything to themselves? That's why dugongs and manatees started the mermaid myths—sailors thought they saw human features on the beasts. So the Martian artist, drawing either from descriptions or imperfect photographs, naturally exaggerated the size of the human nose to a degree that looked normal to him. Or anyway, that's my theory." "Well, it'll do as a theory," grunted Harrison. "What I want to hear is why you two got back here looking like a couple of year-before-last bird's nests." Jarvis shuddered again, and cast another glance at Leroy. The little biologist was recovering some of his accustomed poise, but he returned the glance with an echo of the chemist's shudder. "We'll get to that," resumed the latter. "Meanwhile I'll stick to Tweel and his people. We spent the better part of three days with them, as you know. I can't give every detail, but I'll summarize the important facts and give our conclusions, which may not be worth an inflated franc. It's hard to judge this dried-up world by earthly standards. "We took pictures of everything possible; I even tried to photograph that gigantic mural in the library, but unless Tweel's lamp was unusually rich in actinic rays, I don't suppose it'll show. And that's a pity, since it's undoubtedly the most interesting object we've found on Mars, at least from a human viewpoint. "Tweel was a very courteous host. He took us to all the points of interest—even the new water-works." Putz's eyes brightened at the word. "Vater-vorks?" he echoed. "For vot?" "For the canal, naturally. They have to build up a head of water to drive it through; that's obvious." He looked at the captain. "You told me yourself that to drive water from the polar caps of Mars to the equator was equivalent to forcing it up a twenty-mile hill, because Mars is flattened at the poles and bulges at the equator just like the earth." "That's true," agreed Harrison. "Well," resumed Jarvis, "this city was one of the relay stations to boost the flow. Their power plant was the only one of the giant buildings that seemed to serve any useful purpose, and that was worth seeing. I wish you'd seen it, Karl; you'll have to make what you can from our pictures. It's a sun-power plant!" Harrison and Putz stared. "Sun-power!" grunted the captain. "That's primitive!" And the engineer added an emphatic "_Ja!_" of agreement. "Not as primitive as all that," corrected Jarvis. "The sunlight focused on a queer cylinder in the center of a big concave mirror, and they drew an electric current from it. The juice worked the pumps." "A t'ermocouple!" ejaculated Putz. "That sounds reasonable; you can judge by the pictures. But the power-plant had some queer things about it. The queerest was that the machinery was tended, not by Tweel's people, but by some of the barrel-shaped creatures like the ones in Xanthus!" He gazed around at the faces of his auditors; there was no comment. "Get it?" he resumed. At their silence, he proceeded, "I see you don't. Leroy figured it out, but whether rightly or wrongly, I don't know. He thinks that the barrels and Tweel's race have a reciprocal arrangement like—well, like bees and flowers on earth. The flowers give honey for the bees; the bees carry the pollen for the flowers. See? The barrels tend the works and Tweel's people build the canal system. The Xanthus city must have been a boosting station; that explains the mysterious machines I saw. And Leroy believes further that it isn't an intelligent arrangement—not on the part of the barrels, at least—but that it's been done for so many thousands of generations that it's become instinctive—a tropism—just like the actions of ants and bees. The creatures have been bred to it!" "Nuts!" observed Harrison. "Let's hear you explain the reason for that big empty city, then." "Sure. Tweel's civilization is decadent, that's the reason. It's a dying race, and out of all the millions that must once have lived there, Tweel's couple of hundred companions are the remnant. They're an outpost, left to tend the source of the water at the polar cap; probably there are still a few respectable cities left somewhere on the canal system, most likely near the tropics. It's the last gasp of a race—and a race that reached a higher peak of culture than Man!" "Huh?" said Harrison. "Then why are they dying? Lack of water?" "I don't think so," responded the chemist. "If my guess at the city's age is right, fifteen thousand years wouldn't make enough difference in the water supply—nor a hundred thousand, for that matter. It's something else, though the water's doubtless a factor." "_Das wasser_," cut in Putz. "Vere goes dot?" "Even a chemist knows that!" scoffed Jarvis. "At least on earth. Here I'm not so sure, but on earth, every time there's a lightning flash, it electrolyzes some water vapor into hydrogen and oxygen, and then the hydrogen escapes into space, because terrestrial gravitation won't hold it permanently. And every time there's an earthquake, some water is lost to the interior. Slow—but damned certain." He turned to Harrison. "Right, Cap?" "Right," conceded the captain. "But here, of course—no earthquakes, no thunderstorms—the loss must be very slow. Then why is the race dying?" "The sun-power plant answers that," countered Jarvis. "Lack of fuel! Lack of power! No oil left, no coal left—if Mars ever had a Carboniferous Age—and no water-power—just the driblets of energy they can get from the sun. That's why they're dying." "With the limitless energy of the atom?" exploded Harrison. "They don't know about atomic energy. Probably never did. Must have used some other principle in their space-ship." "Then," snapped the captain, "what makes you rate their intelligence above the human? We've finally cracked open the atom!" "Sure we have. We had a clue, didn't we? Radium and uranium. Do you think we'd ever have learned how without those elements? We'd never even have suspected that atomic energy existed!" "Well? Haven't they—?" "No, they haven't. You've told me yourself that Mars has only 73 percent of the earth's density. Even a chemist can see that that means a lack of heavy metals—no osmium, no uranium, no radium. They didn't have the clue." "Even so, that doesn't prove they're more advanced than we are. If they were _more_ advanced, they'd have discovered it anyway." "Maybe," conceded Jarvis. "I'm not claiming that we don't surpass them in some ways. But in others, they're far ahead of us." "In what, for instance?" "Well—socially, for one thing." "Huh? How do you mean?" Jarvis glanced in turn at each of the three that faced him. He hesitated. "I wonder how you chaps will take this," he muttered. "Naturally, everybody likes his own system best." He frowned. "Look here—on the earth we have three types of society, haven't we? And there's a member of each type right here. Putz lives under a dictatorship—an autocracy. Leroy's a citizen of the Sixth Commune in France. Harrison and I are Americans, members of a democracy. There you are—autocracy, democracy, communism—the three types of terrestrial societies. Tweel's people have a different system from any of us." "Different? What is it?" "The one no earthly nation has tried. Anarchy!" "Anarchy!" the captain and Putz burst out together. "That's right." "But—" Harrison was sputtering. "What do you mean—they're ahead of us? Anarchy! Bah!" "All right—bah!" retorted Jarvis. "I'm not saying it would work for us, or for any race of men. But it works for them." "But—anarchy!" The captain was indignant. "Well, when you come right down to it," argued Jarvis defensively, "anarchy is the ideal form of government, if it works. Emerson said that the best government was that which governs least, and so did Wendell Phillips, and I think George Washington. And you can't have any form of government which governs less than anarchy, which is no government at all!" The captain was sputtering. "But—it's unnatural! Even savage tribes have their chiefs! Even a pack of wolves has its leader!" "Well," retorted Jarvis defiantly, "that only proves that government is a primitive device, doesn't it? With a perfect race you wouldn't need it at all; government is a confession of weakness, isn't it? It's a confession that part of the people won't cooperate with the rest and that you need laws to restrain those individuals which a psychologist calls anti-social. If there were no anti-social persons—criminals and such—you wouldn't need laws or police, would you?" "But government! You'd need government! How about public works—wars—taxes?" "No wars on Mars, in spite of being named after the War God. No point in wars here; the population is too thin and too scattered, and besides, it takes the help of every single community to keep the canal system functioning. No taxes because, apparently, all individuals cooperate in building public works. No competition to cause trouble, because anybody can help himself to anything. As I said, with a perfect race government is entirely unnecessary." "And do you consider the Martians a perfect race?" asked the captain grimly. "Not at all! But they've existed so much longer than man that they're evolved, socially at least, to the point where they don't need government. They work together, that's all." Jarvis paused. "Queer, isn't it—as if Mother Nature were carrying on two experiments, one at home and one on Mars. On earth it's trial of an emotional, highly competitive race in a world of plenty; here it's the trial of a quiet, friendly race on a desert, unproductive, and inhospitable world. Everything here makes for cooperation. Why, there isn't even the factor that causes so much trouble at home—sex!" "Huh?" "Yeah: Tweel's people reproduce just like the barrels in the mud cities; two individuals grow a third one between them. Another proof of Leroy's theory that Martian life is neither animal nor vegetable. Besides, Tweel was a good enough host to let him poke down his beak and twiddle his feathers, and the examination convinced Leroy." "_Oui_," confirmed the biologist. "It is true." "But anarchy!" grumbled Harrison disgustedly. "It would show up on a dizzy, half-dead pill like Mars!" "It'll be a good many centuries before you'll have to worry about it on earth," grinned Jarvis. He resumed his narrative. "Well, we wandered through that sepulchral city, taking pictures of everything. And then—" Jarvis paused and shuddered—"then I took a notion to have a look at that valley we'd spotted from the rocket. I don't know why. But when we tried to steer Tweel in that direction, he set up such a squawking and screeching that I thought he'd gone batty." "If possible!" jeered Harrison. "So we started over there without him; he kept wailing and screaming, "No-no-no! Tick!" but that made us the more curious. He sailed over our heads and stuck on his beak, and went through a dozen other antics, but we ploughed on, and finally he gave up and trudged disconsolately along with us. "The valley wasn't more than a mile southeast of the city. Tweel could have covered the distance in twenty jumps, but he lagged and loitered and kept pointing back at the city and wailing "No—no—no!" Then he'd sail up into the air and zip down on his beak directly in front of us, and we'd have to walk around him. I'd seen him do lots of crazy things before, of course; I was used to them, but it was as plain as print that he didn't want us to see that valley." "Why?" queried Harrison. "You asked why we came back like tramps," said Jarvis with a faint shudder. "You'll learn. We plugged along up a low rocky hill that bounded it, and as we neared the top, Tweel said, "No breet', Tick! No breet'!" Well, those were the words he used to describe the silicon monster; they were also the words he had used to tell me that the image of Fancy Long, the one that had almost lured me to the dream-beast, wasn't real. I remembered that, but it meant nothing to me—then! "Right after that, Tweel said, "You one-one-two, he one-one-two," and then I began to see. That was the phrase he had used to explain the dream-beast to tell me that what I thought, the creature thought—to tell me how the thing lured its victims by their own desires. So I warned Leroy; it seemed to me that even the dream-beast couldn't be dangerous if we were warned and expecting it. Well, I was wrong! "As we reached the crest, Tweel spun his head completely around, so his feet were forward but his eyes looked backward, as if he feared to gaze into the valley. Leroy and I stared out over it, just a gray waste like this around us, with the gleam of the south polar cap far beyond its southern rim. That's what it was one second; the next it was—Paradise!" "What?" exclaimed the captain. Jarvis turned to Leroy. "Can you describe it?" he asked. The biologist waved helpless hands, "_C'est impossible!_" he whispered. "_Il me rend muet!_" "It strikes me dumb, too," muttered Jarvis. "I don't know how to tell it; I'm a chemist, not a poet. Paradise is as good a word as I can think of, and that's not at all right. It was Paradise and Hell in one!" "Will you talk sense?" growled Harrison. "As much of it as makes sense. I tell you, one moment we were looking at a grey valley covered with blobby plants, and the next—Lord! You can't imagine that next moment! How would you like to see all your dreams made real? Every desire you'd ever had gratified? Everything you'd ever wanted there for the taking?" "I'd like it fine!" said the captain. "You're welcome, then!—not only your noble desires, remember! Every good impulse, yes—but also every nasty little wish, every vicious thought, everything you'd ever desired, good or bad! The dream-beasts are marvelous salesmen, but they lack the moral sense!" "The dream-beasts?" "Yes. It was a valley of them. Hundreds, I suppose, maybe thousands. Enough, at any rate, to spread out a complete picture of your desires, even all the forgotten ones that must have been drawn out of the subconscious. A Paradise—of sorts! I saw a dozen Fancy Longs, in every costume I'd ever admired on her, and some I must have imagined. I saw every beautiful woman I've ever known, and all of them pleading for my attention. I saw every lovely place I'd ever wanted to be, all packed queerly into that little valley. And I saw—other things." He shook his head soberly. "It wasn't all exactly pretty. Lord! How much of the beast is left in us! I suppose if every man alive could have one look at that weird valley, and could see just once what nastiness is hidden in him—well, the world might gain by it. I thanked heaven afterwards that Leroy—and even Tweel—saw their own pictures and not mine!" Jarvis paused again, then resumed, "I turned dizzy with a sort of ecstasy. I closed my eyes—and with eyes closed, I still saw the whole thing! That beautiful, evil, devilish panorama was in my mind, not my eyes. That's how those fiends work—through the mind. I knew it was the dream-beasts; I didn't need Tweel's wail of "No breet'! No breet'!" But—_I couldn't keep away!_ I knew it was death beckoning, but it was worth it for one moment with the vision." "Which particular vision?" asked Harrison dryly. Jarvis flushed. "No matter," he said. "But beside me I heard Leroy's cry of "Yvonne! Yvonne!" and I knew he was trapped like myself. I fought for sanity; I kept telling myself to stop, and all the time I was rushing headlong into the snare! "Then something tripped me. Tweel! He had come leaping from behind; as I crashed down I saw him flash over me straight toward—toward what I'd been running to, with his vicious beak pointed right at her heart!" "Oh!" nodded the captain. "_Her_ heart!" "Never mind that. When I scrambled up, that particular image was gone, and Tweel was in a twist of black ropey arms, just as when I first saw him. He'd missed a vital point in the beast's anatomy, but was jabbing away desperately with his beak. "Somehow, the spell had lifted, or partially lifted. I wasn't five feet from Tweel, and it took a terrific struggle, but I managed to raise my revolver and put a Boland shell into the beast. Out came a spurt of horrible black corruption, drenching Tweel and me—and I guess the sickening smell of it helped to destroy the illusion of that valley of beauty. Anyway, we managed to get Leroy away from the devil that had him, and the three of us staggered to the ridge and over. I had presence of mind enough to raise my camera over the crest and take a shot of the valley, but I'll bet it shows nothing but gray waste and writhing horrors. What we saw was with our minds, not our eyes." Jarvis paused and shuddered. "The brute half poisoned Leroy," he continued. "We dragged ourselves back to the auxiliary, called you, and did what we could to treat ourselves. Leroy took a long dose of the cognac that we had with us; we didn't dare try anything of Tweel's because his metabolism is so different from ours that what cured him might kill us. But the cognac seemed to work, and so, after I'd done one other thing I wanted to do, we came back here—and that's all." "All, is it?" queried Harrison. "So you've solved all the mysteries of Mars, eh?" "Not by a damned sight!" retorted Jarvis. "Plenty of unanswered questions are left." "_Ja!_" snapped Putz. "Der evaporation—dot iss shtopped how?" "In the canals? I wondered about that, too; in those thousands of miles, and against this low air-pressure, you'd think they'd lose a lot. But the answer's simple; they float a skin of oil on the water." Putz nodded, but Harrison cut in. "Here's a puzzler. With only coal and oil—just combustion or electric power—where'd they get the energy to build a planet-wide canal system, thousands and thousands of miles of "em? Think of the job we had cutting the Panama Canal to sea level, and then answer that!" "Easy!" grinned Jarvis. "Martian gravity and Martian air—that's the answer. Figure it out: First, the dirt they dug only weighed a third its earth-weight. Second, a steam engine here expands against ten pounds per square inch less air pressure than on earth. Third, they could build the engine three times as large here with no greater internal weight. And fourth, the whole planet's nearly level. Right, Putz?" The engineer nodded. "_Ja!_ Der shteam—engine—it iss _sieben-und zwanzig_—twenty-seven times so effective here." "Well, there _does_ go the last mystery then," mused Harrison. "Yeah?" queried Jarvis sardonically. "You answer these, then. What was the nature of that vast empty city? Why do the Martians _need_ canals, since we never saw them eat or drink? Did they really visit the earth before the dawn of history, and, if not atomic energy, what powered their ship? Since Tweel's race seems to need little or no water, are they merely operating the canals for some higher creature that does? _Are_ there other intelligences on Mars? If not, what was the demon-faced imp we saw with the book? There are a few mysteries for you!" "I know one or two more!" growled Harrison, glaring suddenly at little Leroy. "You and your visions! "Yvonne!" eh? Your wife's name is Marie, isn't it?" The little biologist turned crimson. "_Oui_," he admitted unhappily. He turned pleading eyes on the captain. "Please," he said. "In Paris _tout le monde_—everybody he think differently of those things—no?" He twisted uncomfortably. "Please, you will not tell Marie, _n'est-ce pas_?" Harrison chuckled. "None of my business," he said. "One more question, Jarvis. What was the one other thing you did before returning here?" Jarvis looked diffident. "Oh—that." He hesitated. "Well I sort of felt we owed Tweel a lot, so after some trouble, we coaxed him into the rocket and sailed him out to the wreck of the first one, over on Thyle II. Then," he finished apologetically, "I showed him the atomic blast, got it working—and gave it to him!" "You _what_?" roared the Captain. "You turned something as powerful as that over to an alien race—maybe some day as an enemy race?" "Yes, I did," said Jarvis. "Look here," he argued defensively. "This lousy, dried-up pill of a desert called Mars'll never support much human population. The Sahara desert is just as good a field for imperialism, and a lot closer to home. So we'll never find Tweel's race enemies. The only value we'll find here is commercial trade with the Martians. Then why shouldn't I give Tweel a chance for survival? With atomic energy, they can run their canal system a hundred per cent instead of only one out of five, as Putz's observations showed. They can repopulate those ghostly cities; they can resume their arts and industries; they can trade with the nations of the earth—and I'll bet they can teach us a few things," he paused, "if they can figure out the atomic blast, and I'll lay odds they can. They're no fools, Tweel and his ostrich-faced Martians!" THE END
229	--- title: Vikings of the Gloves author: Robert E. Howard tags: Fiction, Short Story, Boxing, Slang, Fight Stories, Action word count: 6870 ... # Vikings of the Glove NO SOONER HAD the Sea Girl docked in Yokohama than Mushy Hansen beat it down the waterfront to see if he couldst match me at some good fight club. Purty soon he come back and said: "No chance, Steve. You'd have to be a Scandinavian to get a scrap right now." "What you mean by them remarks?" I asked, suspiciously. "Well," said Mushy, "the sealin' fleet's in, and so likewise is the whalers, and the port's swarmin' with squareheads." "Well, what's that got to do—?" "They ain't but one fight club on the waterfront," said Mushy, "and it's run by a Dutchman named Neimann. He's been puttin' on a series of elimination contests, and, from what I hear, he's been cleanin' up. He matches Swedes against Danes, see? Well, they's hundreds of squareheads in port, and naturally each race turns out to support its countryman. So far, the Danes is ahead. You ever hear of Hakon Torkilsen?" "You bet," I said. "I ain't never seen him perform, but they say he's the real goods. Sails on the Viking, outa Copenhagen, don't he?" "Yeah. And the Viking's in port. Night before last, Hakon flattened Sven Tortvigssen, the Terrible Swede, in three rounds, and tonight he takes on Dirck Jacobsen, the Gotland Giant. The Swedes and the Danes is fightin' all over the waterfront," said Mushy, "and they're bettin' their socks. I sunk a few bucks on Hakon myself. But that's the way she stands, Steve. Nobody but Scandinavians need apply." "Well, heck," I complained, "how come I got to be the victim of race prejerdice? I need dough. I'm flat broke. Wouldn't this mug Neimann gimme a preliminary scrap? For ten dollars I'll fight any three squareheads in port—all in the same ring." "Naw," said Mushy, "they ain't goin' to be no preliminaries. Neimann says the crowd'll be too impatient to set through "em. Boy, oh boy, will they be excitement! Whichever way it goes, they's bound to be a rough-house." "A purty lookout," I said bitterly, "when the Sea Girl, the fightenest ship on the seven seas, ain't represented in the melee. I gotta good mind to blow in and bust up the whole show—" At this moment Bill O'Brien hove in sight, looking excited. "Hot dawg!" he yelled. "Here's a chance for us to clean up some dough!" "Stand by to come about," I advised, "and give us the lay." "Well," Bill said, "I just been down along the waterfront listening to them squareheads argy—and, boy, is the money changin' hands! I seen six fights already. Well, just now they come word that Dirck Jacobsen had broke his wrist, swinging for a sparrin' partner and hittin' the wall instead. So I run down to Neimann's arena to find out if it was so, and the Dutchman was walkin' the floor and tearin' his hair. He said he'd pay a hundred bucks extra, win or lose, to a man good enough to go in with Torkilsen. He says if he calls the show off, these squareheads will hang him. So I see where we can run a Sea Girl man in and cop the jack!" "And who you think we can use?" I asked skeptically. "Well, there's Mushy," began Bill. "He was raised in America, of course, but—" "Yeah, there's Mushy!" snapped Mushy, bitterly. "You know as well as I do that I ain't no Swede. I'm a Dane myself. Far from wantin' to fight Hakon, I hope he knocks the block offa whatever fool Swede they finds to go against him." "That's gratitude," said Bill, scathingly. "How can a brainy man like me work up anything big when I gets opposition from all quarters? I lays awake nights studyin' up plans for the betterment of my mates, and what do I get? Argyments! Wisecracks! Opposition! I tellya—" "Aw, pipe down," I said. "There's Sven Larson—he's a Swede." "That big ox would last about fifteen seconds against Hakon," said Mushy, with gloomy satisfaction. "Besides, Sven's in jail. He hadn't been in port more'n a half hour when he got jugged for beatin' up a cop." Bill fixed a gloomy gaze on me, and his eyes lighted. "Hot dawg!" he whooped. "I got it! Steve, you're a Swede!" "Listen here, you flat-headed dogfish," I began, in ire, "me and you ain't had a fight in years, but by golly—" "Aw, try to have some sense," said Bill. "This is the idee: You ain't never fought in Yokohama before. Neimann don't know you, nor anybody else. We'll pass you off for Swede—" "Pass him off for a Swede?" gawped Mushy. "Well," said Bill, "I'll admit he don't look much like a Swede—" "Much like a Swede!" I gnashed, my indignation mounting. "Why, you son of a—" "Well, you don't look nothin' like a Swede then!" snapped Bill, disgustedly, "but we can pass you off for one. I reckon if we tell "em you're a Swede, they can't prove you ain't. If they dispute it, we'll knock the daylights outa "em." I thought it over. "Not so bad," I finally decided. "We'll get that hundred extra—and, for a chance to fight somebody, I'd purtend I was a Eskimo. We'll do it." "Good!" said Bill. "Can you talk Swedish?" "Sure," I said. "Listen: Yimmy Yackson yumped off the Yacob-ladder with his monkey-yacket on. Yimminy, what a yump!" "Purty good," said Bill. "Come on, we'll go down to Neimann's and sign up. Hey, ain't you goin', Mushy?" "No, I ain't," said Mushy sourly. "I see right now I ain't goin' to enjoy this scrap none. Steve's my shipmate but Hakon's my countryman. Whichever loses, I won't rejoice none. I hope it's a draw. I ain't even goin' to see it." Well, he went off by hisself, and I said to Bill, "I gotta good mind not to go on with this, since Mushy feels that way about it." "Aw, he'll get over it," said Bill. "My gosh, Steve, this here's a matter of business. Ain't we all busted? Mushy'll feel all right after we split your purse three ways and he has a few shots of hard licker." "Well, all right," I said. "Let's get down to Neimann's." ~ SO ME AND Bill and my white bulldog, Mike, went down to Neimann's, and, as we walked in, Bill hissed, "Don't forget to talk Swedish." A short, fat man, which I reckoned was Neimann, was setting and looking over a list of names, and now and then he'd take a long pull out of a bottle, and then he'd cuss fit to curl your toes, and pull his hair. "Well, Neimann," said Bill, cheerfully, "what you doin'?" "I got a list of all the Swedes in port which think they can fight," said Neimann, bitterly. "They ain't one of "em would last five seconds against Torkilsen. I'll have to call it off." "No you won't," said Bill. "Right here I got the fightin'est Swede in the Asiatics!" Neimann faced around quick to look at me, and his eyes flared, and he jumped up like he'd been stung. "Get outa here!" he yelped. "You should come around here and mock me in my misery! A sweet time for practical jokes—" "Aw, cool off," said Bill. "I tell you this Swede can lick Hakon Torkilsen with his right thumb in his mouth." "Swede!" snorted Neimann. "You must think I'm a prize sucker, bringin' this black-headed mick around here and tellin' me—" "Mick, baloney!" said Bill. "Lookit them blue eyes—" "I'm lookin' at "em," snarled Neimann, "and thinkin' of the lakes of Killarney all the time. Swede? Ha! Then so was Jawn L. Sullivan. So you're a Swede, are you?" "Sure," I said. "Aye bane Swedish, Mister." "What part of Sweden?" he barked. "Gotland," I said, and simultaneous Bill said, "Stockholm," and we glared at each other in mutual irritation. "Cork, you'd better say," sneered Neimann. "Aye am a Swede," I said, annoyed. "Aye want dass fight." "Get outa here and quit wastin' my valuable time," snarled Neimann. "If you're a Swede, then I'm a Hindoo Princess!" At this insulting insinuation I lost my temper. I despises a man that's so suspicious he don't trust his feller men. Grabbing Neimann by the neck with a viselike grip, and waggling a huge fist under his nose, I roared, "You insultin' monkey! Am I a Swede or ain't I?" He turned pale and shook like an aspirin-leaf. "You're a Swede," he agreed, weakly. "And I get the fight?" I rumbled. "You get it," he agreed, wiping his brow with a bandanner. "The squareheads may stretch my neck for this, but maybe, if you keep your mouth shut, we'll get by. What's your name?" "Steve—" I began, thoughtlessly, when Bill kicked me on the shin and said, "Lars Ivarson." "All right," said Neimann, pessimistically, "I'll announce it that I got a man to fight Torkilsen." "How much do I—how much Aye bane get?" I asked. "I guaranteed a thousand bucks to the fighters," he said, "to be split seven hundred to the winner and three hundred to the loser." "Give me das loser's end now," I demanded. "Aye bane go out and bet him, you betcha life." So he did, and said, "You better keep offa the street; some of your countrymen might ask you about the folks back home in dear old Stockholm." And, with that, he give a bitter screech of raucous and irritating laughter, and slammed the door; and as we left, we heered him moaning like he had the bellyache. "I don't believe he thinks I'm a Swede," I said, resentfully. "Who cares?" said Bill. "We got the match. But he's right. I'll go place the bets. You keep outa sight. Long's you don't say much, we're safe. But, if you go wanderin' around, some squarehead'll start talkin' Swedish to you and we'll be sunk." "All right," I said. "I'll get me a room at the sailor's boardin' house we seen down Manchu Road. I'll stay there till it's time for the scrap." ~ SO BILL WENT off to lay the bets, and me and Mike went down the back alleys toward the place I mentioned. As we turned out of a side street into Manchu Road, somebody come around the corner moving fast, and fell over Mike, who didn't have time to get outa the way. The feller scrambled up with a wrathful roar. A big blond bezark he was, and he didn't look like a sailor. He drawed back his foot to kick Mike, as if it was the dog's fault. But I circumvented him by the simple process of kicking him severely on the shin. "Drop it, cull," I growled, as he begun hopping around, howling wordlessly and holding his shin. "It wasn't Mike's fault, and you hadn't no cause to kick him. Anyhow, he'd of ripped yore laig off if you'd landed—" Instead of being pacified, he gave a bloodthirsty yell and socked me on the jaw. Seeing he was one of them bull-headed mugs you can't reason with, I banged him once with my right, and left him setting dizzily in the gutter picking imaginary violets. Proceeding on my way to the seamen's boardin's house, I forgot all about the incident. Such trifles is too common for me to spend much time thinking about. But, as it come out, I had cause to remember it. I got me a room and stayed there with the door shut till Bill come in, jubilant, and said the crew of the Sea Girl hadst sunk all the money it could borrow at heavy odds. "If you lose," said he, "most of us will go back to the ship wearin' barrels." "Me lose?" I snorted disgustedly. "Don't be absurd. Where's the Old Man?" "Aw, I seen him down at that dive of antiquity, the Purple Cat Bar, a while ago," said Bill. "He was purty well lit and havin' some kind of a argyment with old Cap'n Gid Jessup. He'll be at the fight all right. I didn't say nothin' to him; but he'll be there." "He'll more likely land in jail for fightin' old Gid," I ruminated. "They hate each other like snakes. Well, that's his own lookout. But I'd like him to see me lick Torkilsen. I heered him braggin' about the squarehead the other day. Seems like he seen him fight once some place." "Well," said Bill, "it's nearly time for the fight. Let's get goin'. We'll go down back alleys and sneak into the arena from the rear, so none of them admirin' Swedes can get ahold of you and find out you're really a American mick. Come on!" So we done so, accompanied by three Swedes of the Sea Girl's crew who was loyal to their ship and their shipmates. We snuck along alleys and slunk into the back rooms of the arena, where Neimann come in to us, perspiring freely, and told us he was having a heck of a time keeping Swedes outa the dressing-room. He said numbers of "em wanted to come in and shake hands with Lars Ivarson before he went out to uphold the fair name of Sweden. He said Hakon was getting in the ring, and for us to hustle. So we went up the aisle hurriedly, and the crowd was so busy cheering for Hakon that they didn't notice us till we was in the ring. I looked out over the house, which was packed, setting and standing, and squareheads fighting to get in when they wasn't room for no more. I never knowed they was that many Scandinavians in Eastern waters. It looked like every man in the house was a Dane, a Norwegian, or a Swede—big, blond fellers, all roaring like bulls in their excitement. It looked like a stormy night. ~ NEIMANN WAS WALKING around the ring, bowing and grinning, and every now and then his gaze wouldst fall on me as I set in my corner and he wouldst shudder viserbly and wipe his forehead with his bandanner. Meanwhile, a big Swedish sea captain was acting the part of the announcer, and was making quite a ceremony out of it. He wouldst boom out jovially, and the crowd wouldst roar in various alien tongues, and I told one of the Swedes from the Sea Girl to translate for me, which he done so in a whisper, while pertending to tie on my gloves. This is what the announcer was saying: "Tonight all Scandinavia is represented here in this glorious forthcoming struggle for supremacy. In my mind it brings back days of the Vikings. This is a Scandinavian spectacle for Scandinavian sailors. Every man involved in this contest is Scandinavian. You all know Hakon Torkilsen, the pride of Denmark!" Whereupon, all the Danes in the crowd bellered. "I haven't met Lars Ivarson, but the very fact that he is a son of Sweden assures us that he will prove no mean opponent for Denmark's favored son." It was the Swedes' turn to roar. "I now present the referee, Jon Yarssen, of Norway! This is a family affair. Remember, whichever way the fight goes, it will lend glory to Scandinavia!" Then he turned and pointed toward the opposite corner and roared, "Hakon Torkilsen, of Denmark!" Again the Danes thundered to the skies, and Bill O'Brien hissed in my ear. "Don't forget when you're interjuiced say "Dis bane happiest moment of my life!" The accent will convince "em you're a Swede." The announcer turned toward me and, as his eyes fell on me for the first time, he started violently and blinked. Then he kind of mechanically pulled hisself together and stammered, "Lars Ivarson—of—of—Sweden!" I riz, shedding my bathrobe, and a gasp went up from the crowd like they was thunderstruck or something. For a moment a sickening silence reigned, and then my Swedish shipmates started applauding, and some of the Swedes and Norwegians took it up, and, like people always do, got louder and louder till they was lifting the roof. Three times I started to make my speech, and three times they drowned me out, till I run outa my short stock of patience. "Shut up, you lubbers!" I roared, and they lapsed into sudden silence, gaping at me in amazement. With a menacing scowl, I said, "Dis bane happiest moment of my life, by thunder!" They clapped kind of feebly and dazedly, and the referee motioned us to the center of the ring. And, as we faced each other, I gaped, and he barked, "Aha!" like a hyena which sees some critter caught in a trap. The referee was the big cheese I'd socked in the alley! I didn't pay much attention to Hakon, but stared morbidly at the referee, which reeled off the instructions in some Scandinavian tongue. Hakon nodded and responded in kind, and the referee glared at me and snapped something and I nodded and grunted, "Ja!" just as if I understood him, and turned back toward my corner. He stepped after me, and caught hold of my gloves. Under cover of examining "em he hissed, so low my handlers didn't even hear him, "You are no Swede! I know you. You called your dog "Mike." There is only one white bulldog in the Asiatics by that name! You are Steve Costigan, of the Sea Girl." "Keep it quiet," I muttered nervously. "Ha!" he snarled. "I will have my revenge. Go ahead—fight your fight. After the bout is over, I will expose you as the imposter you are. These men will hang you to the rafters." "Gee whiz," I mumbled, "what you wanta do that for? Keep my secret and I'll slip you fifty bucks after the scrap." He merely snorted, "Ha!" in disdain, pointing meaningly at the black eye which I had give him, and stalked back to the center of the ring. "What did that Norwegian say to you?" Bill O'Brien asked. I didn't reply. I was kinda wool-gathering. Looking out over the mob, I admit I didn't like the prospects. I hadst no doubt that them infuriated squareheads would be maddened at the knowledge that a alien had passed hisself off as one of "em—and they's a limit to the numbers that even Steve Costigan can vanquish in mortal combat! But about that time the gong sounded, and I forgot everything except the battle before me. ~ FOR THE FIRST time I noticed Hakon Torkilsen, and I realized why he had such a reputation. He was a regular panther of a man—a tall, rangy, beautifully built young slugger with a mane of yellow hair and cold, steely eyes. He was six feet one to my six feet, and weighed 185 to my 190. He was trained to the ounce, and his long, smooth muscles rippled under his white skin as he moved. My black mane musta contrasted strongly with his golden hair. He come in fast and ripped a left hook to my head, whilst I come back with a right to the body which brung him up standing. But his body muscles was like iron ridges, and I knowed it wouldst take plenty of pounding to soften him there, even though it was me doing the pounding. Hakon was a sharpshooter, and he begunst to shoot his left straight and fast. All my opponents does, at first, thinking I'm a sucker for a left jab. But they soon abandons that form of attack. I ignores left jabs. I now walked through a perfect hail of "em and crashed a thundering right under Hakon's heart which brung a astonished grunt outa him. Discarding his jabbing offensive, he started flailing away with both hands, and I wanta tell you he wasn't throwing no powder-puffs! It was the kind of scrapping I like. He was standing up to me, giving and taking, and I wasn't called on to run him around the ring like I gotta do with so many of my foes. He was belting me plenty, but that's my style, and, with a wide grin, I slugged merrily at his body and head, and the gong found us in the center of the ring, banging away. The crowd give us a roaring cheer as we went back to our corners, but suddenly my grin was wiped off by the sight of Yarssen, the referee, cryptically indicating his black eye as he glared morbidly at me. I determined to finish Torkilsen as quick as possible, make a bold break through the crowd, and try to get away before Yarssen had time to tell "em my fatal secret. Just as I started to tell Bill, I felt a hand jerking at my ankle. I looked down into the bewhiskered, bewildered and bleary-eyed face of the Old Man. "Steve!" he squawked. "I'm in a terrible jam!" Bill O'Brien jumped like he was stabbed. "Don't yell "Steve' thataway!" he hissed. "You wanta get us all mobbed?" "I'm in a terrible jam!" wailed the Old Man, wringing his hands. "If you don't help me, I'm a rooined man!" "What's the lay?" I asked in amazement, leaning through the ropes. "It's Gid Jessup's fault," he moaned. "The serpent got me into a argyment and got me drunk. He knows I ain't got no sense when I'm soused. He hornswoggled me into laying a bet on Torkilsen. I didn't know you was goin' to fight—" "Well," I said, "that's tough, but you'll just have to lose the bet." "I can't!" he howled. Bong! went the gong, and I shot outa my corner as Hakon ripped outa his. "I can't lose!" the Old Man howled above the crowd. "I bet the Sea Girl!" "What!" I roared, momentarily forgetting where I was, and half-turning toward the ropes. Bang! Hakon nearly tore my head off with a free-swinging right. Bellering angrily, I come back with a smash to the mush that started the claret, and we went into a slug-fest, flailing free and generous with both hands. That Dane was tough! Smacks that would of staggered most men didn't make him wince. He come ploughing in for more. But, just before the gong, I caught him off balance with a blazing left hook that knocked him into the ropes, and the Swedes arose, whooping like lions. ~ BACK ON MY stool I peered through the ropes. The Old Man was dancing a hornpipe. "What's this about bettin' the Sea Girl?" I demanded. "When I come to myself a while ago, I found I'd wagered the ship," he wept, "against Jessup's lousy tub, the Nigger King, which I find is been condemned by the shippin' board and wouldn't clear the bay without goin' to the bottom. He took a unfair advantage of me! I wasn't responsible when I made that bet!" "Don't pay it," I growled, "Jessup's a rat!" "He showed me a paper I signed while stewed," he groaned. "It's a contrack upholdin' the bet. If it weren't for that, I wouldn't pay. But if I don't, he'll rooin my reputation in every port of the seven seas. He'll show that contrack and gimme the name of a welsher. You got to lose!" "Gee whiz!" I said, badgered beyond endurance. "This is a purty mess—" Bong! went the gong, and I paced out into the ring, all upset and with my mind elsewhere. Hakon swarmed all over me, and drove me into the ropes, where I woke up and beat him off, but, with the Old Man's howls echoing in my ears, I failed to follow up my advantage, and Hakon come back strong. The Danes raised the roof as he battered me about the ring, but he wasn't hurting me none, because I covered up, and again, just before the gong, I snapped outa my crouch and sent him back on his heels with a wicked left hook to the head. The referee gimme a gloating look, and pointed at his black eye, and I had to grit my teeth to keep from socking him stiff. I set down on my stool and listened gloomily to the shrieks of the Old Man, which was getting more unbearable every minute. "You got to lose!" he howled. "If Torkilsen don't win this fight, I'm rooined! If the bet'd been on the level, I'd pay—you know that. But, I been swindled, and now I'm goin' to get robbed! Lookit the rat over there, wavin' that devilish paper at me! It's more'n human flesh and blood can stand! It's enough to drive a man to drink! You got to lose!" "But the boys has bet their shirts on me," I snarled, fit to be tied with worry and bewilderment. "I can't lay down! I never throwed a fight. I don't know how—" "That's gratitood!" he screamed, busting into tears. "After all I've did for you! Little did I know I was warmin' a serpent in my bosom! The poorhouse is starin' me in the face, and you—" "Aw, shut up, you old sea horse!" said Bill. "Steve—I mean Lars—has got enough to contend with without you howlin' and yellin' like a maneyack. Them squareheads is gonna get suspicious if you and him keep talkin' in English. Don't pay no attention to him, Steve—I mean Lars. Get that Dane!" Well, the gong sounded, and I went out all tore up in my mind and having just about lost heart in the fight. That's a most dangerous thing to have happen, especially against a man-killing slugger like Hakon Torkilsen. Before I knowed what was goin' on, the Swedes rose with a scream of warning and about a million stars bust in my head. I realized faintly that I was on the canvas, and I listened for the count to know how long I had to rest. I heered a voice droning above the roar of the fans, but it was plumb meaningless to me. I shook my head, and my sight cleared. Jon Yarssen was standing over me, his arm going up and down, but I didn't understand a word he said! He was counting in Swedish! Not daring to risk a moment, I heaved up before my head had really quit singing an' Hakon come storming in like a typhoon to finish me. But I was mad clean through and had plumb forgot about the Old Man and his fool bet. I met Hakon with a left hook which nearly tore his head off, and the Swedes yelped with joy. I bored in, ripping both hands to the wind and heart, and, in a fast mix-up at close quarters, Hakon went down—more from a slip than a punch. But he was wise and took a count, resting on one knee. I watched the referee's arm so as to familiarize myself with the sound of the numerals—but he wasn't counting in the same langwidge as he had over me! I got it, then; he counted over me in Swedish and over Hakon in Danish. The langwidges is alike in many ways, but different enough to get me all mixed up, which didn't know a word in either tongue, anyhow. I seen then that I was going to have a enjoyable evening. Hakon was up at nine—I counted the waves of the referee's arm—and he come up at me like a house afire. I fought him off half-heartedly, whilst the Swedes shouted with amazement at the change which had come over me since that blazing first round. Well, I've said repeatedly that a man can't fight his best when he's got his mind on something else. Here was a nice mess for me to worry about. If I quit, l'd be a yeller dog and despize myself for the rest of my life, and my shipmates would lose their money, and so would all the Swedes which had bet on me and was now yelling and cheering for me just like I was their brother. I couldn't throw "em down. Yet if I won, the Old Man would lose his ship, which was all he had and like a daughter to him. It wouldst beggar him and break his heart. And, as a minor thought, whether I won or lost, that scut Yarssen was going to tell the crowd I wasn't no Swede, and get me mobbed. Every time I looked at him over Hakon's shoulder in a clinch, Yarssen wouldst touch his black eye meaningly. I was bogged down in gloom, and I wished I could evaporate or something. Back on my stool, between rounds, the Old Man wept and begged me to lay down, and Bill and my handlers implored me to wake up and kill Torkilsen, and I thought I'd go nuts. ~ I WENT OUT for the fourth round slowly, and Hakon, evidently thinking I'd lost my fighting heart, if any, come with his usual tigerish rush and biffed me three times in the face without a return. I dragged him into a grizzly-like clinch which he couldn't break, and as we rassled and strained, he spat something at me which I couldn't understand, but I understood the tone of it. He was calling me yellow! Me, Steve Costigan, the terror of the high seas! With a maddened roar, I jerked away from him and crashed a murderous right to his jaw that nearly floored him. Before he couldst recover his balance, I tore into him like a wild man, forgetting everything except that I was Steve Costigan, the bully of the toughest ship afloat. Slugging right and left, I rushed him into the ropes, where I pinned him, while the crowd went crazy. He crouched and covered up, taking most of my punches on the gloves and elbows, but I reckoned it looked to the mob like I was beating him to death. All at once, above the roar, I heered the Old Man screaming, "Steve, for cats' sake, let up! I'll go on the beach, and it'll be your fault!" That unnerved me. I involuntarily dropped my hands and recoiled, and Hakon, with fire in his eyes, lunged outa his crouch like a tiger and crashed his right to my jaw. Bang! I was on the canvas again, and the referee was droning Swedish numerals over me. Not daring to take a count, and maybe get counted out unknowingly, I staggered up, and Hakon come lashing in. I throwed my arms around him in a grizzly hug, and it took him and the referee both to break my hold. Hakon drove me staggering into the ropes with a wild-man attack, but I'm always dangerous on the ropes, as many a good man has found out on coming to in his dressing room. As I felt the rough strands against my back, I caught him with a slung-shot right uppercut which snapped his head right back betwixt his shoulders, and this time it was him which fell into a clinch and hung on. Looking over his shoulder at that sea of bristling blond heads and yelling faces, I seen various familiar figgers. On one side of the ring—near my corner—the Old Man was dancing around like he was on a red-hot hatch, shedding maudlin tears and pulling his whiskers; and, on the other side, a skinny, shifty-eyed old seaman was whooping with glee and waving a folded paper. Cap'n Gid Jessup, the old cuss! He knowed the Old Man would bet anything when he was drunk—even bet the Sea Girl, as sweet a ship as ever rounded the Horn, against that rotten old hulk of a Nigger King, which wasn't worth a cent a ton. And, near at hand, the referee, Yarssen, was whispering tenderly in my ear, as he broke our clinch, "Better let Hakon knock you stiff—then you won't feel so much what the crowd does to you when I tell them who you are!" Back on my stool again, I put my face on Mike's neck and refused to listen either to the pleas of the Old Man or to the profane shrieks of Bill O'Brien. By golly, that fight was like a nightmare! I almost hoped Hakon would knock my brains out and end all my troubles. I went out for the fifth like a man going to his own hanging. Hakon was evidently puzzled. Who wouldn't of been? Here was a fighter—me—who was performing in spurts, exploding in bursts of ferocious battling just when he appeared nearly out, and sagging half heartedly when he looked like a winner. He come in, lashed a vicious left to my mid-section, and dashed me to the canvas with a thundering overhand right. Maddened, I arose and dropped him with a wild round-house swing he wasn't expecting. Again the crowd surged to its feet, and the referee got flustered and started counting over Hakon in what sounded like Swedish. Hakon bounded up and slugged me into the ropes, offa which I floundered, only to slip in a smear of my own blood on the canvas, and again, to the disgust of the Swedes, I found myself among the resin. I looked about, heard the Old Man yelling for me to stay down, and saw Old Cap'n Jessup waving his blame-fool contrack. I arose, only half aware of what I was doing, and bang! Hakon caught me on the ear with a hurricane swing, and I sprawled on the floor, half under the ropes. Goggling dizzily at the crowd from this position, I found myself staring into the distended eyes of Cap'n Gid Jessup, which was standing up, almost touching the ring. Evidently froze at the thought of losing his bet—with me on the canvas—he was standing there gaping, his arm still lifted with the contrack which he'd been waving at the Old Man. With me, thinking is acting. One swoop of my gloved paw swept that contrack outa his hand. He yawped with suprise and come lunging half through the ropes. I rolled away from him, sticking the contrack in my mouth and chawing as fast as I could. Cap'n Jessup grabbed me by the hair with one hand and tried to jerk the contrack outa my jaws with the other'n, but all he got was a severely bit finger. At this, he let go of me and begun to scream and yell. "Gimme back that paper, you cannibal! He's eatin' my contrack! I'll sue you—!" ~ MEANWHILE, THE DUMBFOUNDED referee, overcome with amazement, had stopped counting, and the crowd, not understanding this by-play, was roaring with astonishment. Jessup begun to crawl through the ropes, and Yarssen yelled something and shoved him back with his foot. He started through again, yelling blue murder, and a big Swede, evidently thinking he was trying to attack me, swung once with a fist the size of a caulking mallet, and Cap'n Jessup bit the dust. I arose with my mouth full of paper, and Hakon promptly banged me on the chin with a right he started from his heels. Ow, Jerusha! Wait'll somebody hits you on the jaw when you're chawing something! I thought for a second every tooth in my head was shattered, along with my jaw-bone. But I reeled groggily back into the ropes and begun to swaller hurriedly. Bang! Hakon whanged me on the ear. "Gulp!" I said. Wham! He socked me in the eye. "Gullup!" I said. Blop! He pasted me in the stummick. "Oof—glup!" I said. Whang! He took me on the side of the head. "Gulp!" I swallered the last of the contrack, and went for that Dane with fire in my eyes. I banged Hakon with a left that sunk outa sight in his belly, and nearly tore his head off with a paralyzing right before he realized that, instead of being ready for the cleaners, I was stronger'n ever and ra'ring for action. Nothing loath, he rallied, and we went into a whirlwind of hooks and swings till the world spun like a merry-go-round. Neither of us heered the gong, and our seconds had to drag us apart and lead us to our corners. "Steve," the Old Man was jerking at my leg and weeping with gratitude, "I seen it all! That old pole-cat's got no hold on me now. He can't prove I ever made that fool bet. You're a scholar and a gent—one of nature's own noblemen! You've saved the Sea Girl!" "Let that be a lesson to you," I said, spitting out a fragment of the contrack along with a mouthful of blood. "Gamblin' is sinful. Bill, I got a watch in my pants pocket. Get it and bet it that I lay this squarehead within three more rounds." And I come out for the sixth like a typhoon. "I'm going to get mobbed by the fans as soon as the fight's over and Yarssen spills the beans," I thought, "but I'll have my fun now." For once I'd met a man which was willing and able to stand up and slug it out with me. Hakon was as lithe as a panther and as tough as spring-steel. He was quicker'n me, and hit nearly as hard. We crashed together in the center of the ring, throwing all we had into the storm of battle. Through a red mist I seen Hakon's eyes blazing with a unearthly light. He was plumb berserk, like them old Vikings which was his ancestors. And all the Irish fighting madness took hold of me, and we ripped and tore like tigers. We was the center of a frenzied whirlwind of gloves, ripping smashes to each other's bodies which you could hear all over the house, and socks to each other's heads that spattered blood all over the ring. Every blow packed dynamite and had the killer's lust behind it. It was a test of endurance. At the gong, we had to be tore apart and dragged to our corners by force, and, at the beginning of the next round, we started in where we'd left off. We reeled in a blinding hurricane of gloves. We slipped in smears of blood, or was knocked to the canvas by each other's thundering blows. The crowd was limp and idiotic, drooling wordless screeches. And the referee was bewildered and muddled. He counted over us in Swedish, Danish and Norwegian alike. Then I was on the canvas, and Hakon was staggering on the ropes, gasping, and the befuddled Yarssen was counting over me. And, in the dizzy maze, I recognized the langwidge. He was counting in Spanish! "You ain't no Norwegian!" I said, glaring groggily up at him. "Four!" he said, shifting into English. "—As much as you're a Swede! Five! A man's got to eat. Six! They wouldn't have given me this job—seven!—if I hadn't pretended to be a Norwegian. Eight! I'm John Jones, a vaudeville linguist from Frisco. Nine! Keep my secret and I'll keep yours." ~ THE GONG! OUR handlers dragged us off to our corners and worked over us. I looked over at Hakon. I was marked plenty—a split ear, smashed lips, both eyes half closed, nose broken—but them's my usual adornments. Hakon wasn't marked up so much in the face—outside of a closed eye and a few gashes—but his body was raw beef from my continuous body hammering. I drawed a deep breath and grinned gargoylishly. With the Old Man and that fake referee offa my mind, I couldst give all my thoughts to the battle. The gong banged again, and I charged like a enraged bull. Hakon met me as usual, and rocked me with thundering lefts and rights. But I bored in, driving him steadily before me with ripping, bone-shattering hooks to the body and head. I felt him slowing up. The man don't live which can slug with me! Like a tiger scenting the kill, I redoubled the fury of my onslaught, and the crowd arose, roaring, as they foresaw the end. Nearly on the ropes, Hakon rallied with a dying burst of ferocity, and momentarily had me reeling under a fusillade of desperate swings. But I shook my head doggedly and plowed in under his barrage, ripping my terrible right under his heart again and again, and tearing at his head with mallet-like left hooks. Flesh and blood couldn't stand it. Hakon crumpled in a neutral corner under a blasting fire of left and right hooks. He tried to get his legs under him, but a child couldst see he was done. The referee hesitated, then raised my right glove, and the Swedes and Norwegians came roaring into the ring and swept me offa my feet. A glance showed Hakon's Danes carrying him to his corner, and I tried to get to him to shake his hand, and tell him he was as brave and fine a fighter as I ever met—which was the truth and nothing else—but my delirious followers hadst boosted both me and Mike on their shoulders and were carrying us toward the dressing-room like a king or something. A tall form come surging through the crowd, and Mushy Hansen grabbed my gloved hand and yelled, "Boy, you done us proud! I'm sorry the Danes had to lose, but, after a battle like that, I can't hold no grudge. I couldn't stay away from the scrap. Hooray for the old Sea Girl, the fightin'est ship on the seven seas!" And the Swedish captain, which had acted as announcer, barged in front of me and yelled in English, "You may be a Swede, but if you are, you're the most unusual looking Swede I ever saw. But I don't give a whoop! I've just seen the greatest battle since Gustavus Adolphus licked the Dutch! Skoal, Lars lvarson!" And all the Swedes and Norwegians thundered, "Skoal, Lars lverson!" "They want you to make a speech," said Mushy. "All right," I said. "Dis bane happiest moment of my life!" "Louder," said Mushy. "They're makin' so much noise they can't understand you, anyhow. Say somethin' in a foreign langwidge." "All right," I said, and yelled the only foreign words I couldst think of, "Parleyvoo Francais! Vive le Stockholm! Erin go bragh!" And they bellered louder'n ever. A fighting man is a fighting man in any langwidge! THE END
230	--- author: Mildred A. (Mildred Augustine) Wirt tags: Adventure and adventurers, Juvenile fiction, Mystery and detective stories, Parker, Penny (Fictitious character), Women detectives title: Voice from the Cave summary: ' "Voice from the Cave" by Mildred A. Wirt is a mystery novel written in the mid-20th century. The story focuses on Penny Parker, an adventurous and inquisitive teenager, who is on a vacation camping trip with her father. The narrative kicks off with Penny''s growing frustration over her father''s delays and the unexpected presence of a woman named Mrs. Deline, who seems to be intriguing her father and threatening to ruin their plans. The opening of the novel introduces Penny as she anxiously awaits her father''s arrival to start their long-planned trip to Sunset Beach. Tension builds with the arrival of Mrs. Deline, a widow who has charmed Mr. Parker and has now joined them for the trip. Penny''s suspicions about Mrs. Deline''s intentions grow when she accidentally tunes in to a mysterious radio broadcast indicating a potential outlaw operation. As Penny grapples with her feelings of jealousy and suspicion regarding her father''s new acquaintance, she unknowingly steps into a web of intrigue that promises adventure and danger ahead. The stage is set for a thrilling summer filled with mystery and personal conflict amidst the companionship of friends and the uncertainty of Mrs. Deline''s influence. ' word_count: 36313 fiction_type: Novella ... # CHAPTER 1 _AN UNINVITED GUEST_ "Mrs. Weems, what can be delaying Dad? He promised faithfully to be home by three o'clock and it's nearly five now. Unless we start soon we'll never get to Sunset Beach tonight." Penny Parker, in blue slacks and a slightly mussed polo shirt, gazed disconsolately at the over-loaded automobile standing on the gravel driveway of the Parker home. Aided by Mrs. Weems, the family housekeeper, she had spent hours packing the sedan with luggage and camping equipment. Though the task long had been finished, Mr. Parker failed to arrive. "Your father is a very busy man," Mrs. Weems responded to the girl's question. "No doubt he's been held up at the office." "Then why doesn't he telephone? It's driving me crazy to wait and wonder." Penny's freckled little face twisted into a grimace of worry. For weeks she and her father, editor-owner of the _Riverview Star_, had planned a vacation camping trip to the nearby seashore resort, Sunset Beach. Twice the excursion had been postponed. Penny, who knew well her father's habit of changing his mind, was fearful that even now something would cause another vexing delay. "I'm going to call the _Star_ office this minute!" she declared, starting for the house. Mrs. Weems busied herself gathering up loose odds and ends that had blown about the yard. She was cramming waste paper into a box when Penny banged out the door, her eyes tragic. "I couldn't reach Dad!" she announced. "He left the office more than an hour ago." "Then he should have been home before this," Mrs. Weems agreed. "Something's happened. Maybe he's been run down by a car—" "Now Penny, stop such wild talk," the housekeeper interrupted sternly. "You know better." "But Dad was struck by an automobile last winter. What else could delay him?" "A dozen things," Mrs. Weems replied. "Probably a business engagement." "In that case, wouldn't he have telephoned me?" "Perhaps not. Now do stop fretting, Penny. Your father will be here before long." "He'd better be," Penny said darkly. Sitting down on the stone step by the door, she scuffed the toe of her tennis shoe back and forth in the gravel. Mrs. Weems who had cared for the girl ever since the death of Mrs. Parker, gazed at her sternly. "Now do stop grieving!" she chided. "That's no way to act just because you're impatient and disappointed." "But I've been disappointed three times now," Penny complained. "We planned on starting early and having a picnic lunch on the road. Dad promised faithfully—" A car drove up to the curb at the front of the house. Penny sprang hopefully to her feet. However, it was not her father who had arrived. Instead, her chum, Louise Sidell, alighted and came running across the yard. "Oh, I'm glad I'm not too late to say goodbye to you, Penny!" she cried. "How soon are you starting?" "I'd like to know the answer to that one myself. Dad hasn't put in an appearance. He was due here at three o'clock." "Why, I saw him about twenty minutes ago," Louise replied, turning to inspect the over-loaded sedan. "My, how did you accumulate so much luggage?" Penny ignored the question to ask one of her own. "Where did you see Dad, Lou?" "Why, riding in a car." Louise's dark eyes sparkled mischievously as she added: "With a beautiful brunette too." "You're joking." "I am not. Your father was riding with Mrs. Deline. She's a widow, you know, and has lived in Riverview less than a month." Mrs. Weems, who had overheard the conversation, came over to the steps. "Mrs. Deline, did you say?" she inquired, slightly disturbed. "I've heard of her." "And so have I!" declared Penny with biting emphasis. "Why, that woman would make the Merry Widow look like a dead number! She'd better not try to sink her hooks into Dad!" "Penelope!" the housekeeper reproved sternly. "Well, you know what everyone says—" "Please don't repeat idle gossip," Mrs. Weems requested. "I'm sure Mrs. Deline is a very fine woman." "She's the slickest serpent that ever free-wheeled into Riverview!" Penny said heatedly. "I saw her in action last week-end at the Country Club. Why, she simply went out of her way to cultivate any man who had an income of more than twenty-five thousand a year." "Penny, your father is a sensible man," the housekeeper reproved. "Unfortunately, it's a quality I'm afraid you didn't inherit." Louise, unhappy to have stirred up such a hornet's nest, said hastily: "Maybe it wasn't Mrs. Deline I saw. The car went by so fast." "Oh, I'm not worried. Dad can handle a bigger package of dynamite than Mrs. Deline. It just makes me irritated because he doesn't get here." Tossing her head, Penny crossed to the loaded automobile where she switched on the radio. She tuned it carelessly. After a moment a blurred voice blared forth: "Attention Comrades!" Penny turned quickly to glance at the dial, for she realized that she did not have the local station WZAM. "Attention Comrades!" the announcer commanded again. "This is the Voice from the Cave." There followed a strange jibberish of words which were in no language that Penny ever before had heard. "Mrs. Weems! Louise!" she called excitedly. "I think I've tuned in an outlaw short wave station! Just listen!" Louise and the housekeeper hastened over to the car. Penny tried desperately to tune the station in more clearly. Instead she lost it completely. "Did you hear what that announcer said?" she asked eagerly. "Most of it I couldn't understand. I'm sure it was in code!" "Code!" Mrs. Weems exclaimed in amazement. "I'm sure I didn't have one of the regular stations! It must have been a short wave broadcast beamed at a particular group of persons. The announcer began: "Attention Comrades!"" "Can't you tune in again?" Louise demanded. Penny twisted the dial without success. She was still trying when a taxi cab drew up at the front door. "There's your father now!" Louise declared. "And see who's with him!" Penny added, craning her neck. "It _is_ Mrs. Deline." Mrs. Weems, decidedly flustered, hurriedly removed her apron. In an undertone she warned Penny to be polite to the unexpected visitor. Mr. Parker, a tall, lean man with hair only touched by gray, stepped from the taxi. The woman he assisted was attractively slender, and dressed in an expensive tailored suit. Her face was cold and serene, but so striking that it commanded instant interest. Penny's spirits sagged as she observed that the widow came equipped with luggage. "Now what?" she muttered. Mr. Parker escorted Mrs. Deline across the yard, introducing her first to Mrs. Weems and then to the girls. "Mrs. Deline is riding with us to Sunset Beach," he explained to Penny. "She intended to go by train but failed to get a reservation." "Coaches are so unbearable," Mrs. Deline said in an affected drawl. "It was so nice of Mr. Parker to invite me to share your car." "I'm afraid it may not be so pleasant for you," Penny replied. She tried to speak cordially but the words came in stiff little jerks. "There's not much room." "Nonsense!" said Mr. Parker. "Mrs. Deline will ride up front. Penny, you'll have to battle it out with the luggage." By the time Mrs. Deline's suitcase and hat boxes were stowed away, there was indeed little room left in the rear seat for a passenger. Penny's face was very long. For weeks she had planned on a vacation trip with her father, and now all her plans had been shattered. "Will you be staying long at Sunset Beach?" she asked the widow politely. "Probably a week," Mrs. Deline replied. "I've engaged a suite at the Crystal Inn. I'm sure I couldn't endure a camping trip. Mosquitoes—hard beds—cooking over a camp fire—it all seems rather difficult to me." "Oh, it will be fun to camp!" "I'm not so certain of it myself." Mr. Parker assisted the widow into the front seat. "Penny, why don't we ditch this camp stuff and try a hotel ourselves?" "No!" answered Penny fiercely. "It would be a far more sensible arrangement." "But I don't want to be sensible," Penny argued. "We've planned on this trip for weeks, Dad." "Oh, all right, if that's the way you feel about it," he gave in willingly enough. "Only I never did care much for the rough and tumble life myself. Are we ready to start?" "Just a minute," Penny requested. "I have to get my pocketbook from the house." She went indoors, her face as dark as a summer rain cloud. Mrs. Weems and Louise followed her in, corraling her in the kitchen. "Now Penny, just a word of advice," the housekeeper cautioned. "Mrs. Deline seems like a very nice woman. I trust that you'll be pleasant to her." "I don't see why Dad had to invite her! It's ruined everything!" "Aren't you being selfish?" "Maybe I am," said Penny. "But why should I be crammed back with the pots and pans and luggage while she sits up front with Dad?" "Mrs. Deline is your guest." "She's Dad's guest," Penny corrected. "Furthermore, I suspect she invited herself." "Whatever you think, I hope you'll keep your thoughts to yourself," Mrs. Weems said severely. "I'm really ashamed of you." The deep scowl disappeared from Penny's face and she laughed. Wrapping her arms about the housekeeper's ample waist she squeezed until it hurt. "I know I'm a spoiled brat," she admitted. "But don't worry. I'll pretend to like Mrs. Deline if it kills me." "That's much better, Penny. At any rate, you'll not be troubled with her company long. You'll reach Sunset Beach by nightfall." Penny made no reply. She turned to say goodbye to Louise. "Wish you were going along," she said wistfully. "A vacation won't seem fun without you." A staccato toot of the auto horn reminded Penny that her father and Mrs. Deline were waiting. Hurriedly she gathered up her purse. "Have a nice time," Louise said, kissing her goodbye. "And don't let Mrs. Deline get in your hair." Penny turned to make certain that Mrs. Weems was beyond hearing. "Don't worry about that, Lou," she whispered. "Mrs. Deline's already in my hair. What I'm really worried about is keeping her from building a nest in it!" # CHAPTER 2 _STORMY WEATHER_ For an hour the Parker car had rolled smoothly along the paved road enroute to Sunset Beach. In the back seat, firmly wedged between boxes and suitcases, Penny squirmed and suffered. "How much farther, Dad?" she inquired, interrupting an animated conversation he was having with Mrs. Deline. "Oh, about fifty miles," Mr. Parker tossed over his shoulder. "We can't make much time at thirty-five an hour." "How about lunch somewhere along the road?" "Well, should we take the time?" the publisher asked. He turned toward his companion. "What do you think, Mrs. Deline?" "Picnics always seemed stupid to me," she replied in a bored manner. "Perhaps we'll find a nice tea house along the way." "But Mrs. Weems prepared such a good lunch," Penny argued. "I thought—" "We can use the food after we make camp," Mr. Parker decided briskly. "A warm meal will be much better." Penny subsided into hurt silence. Since the party had left Riverview she felt that she had been pushed far into the background. Mrs. Deline had made no attempt to talk to her. On the other hand, the widow fairly hypnotized Mr. Parker with her dazzling smile and conversation. "Dad," Penny began, determined to get in a word, "just before you came home this afternoon, something queer happened." "That so?" he inquired carelessly. "Yes, I turned on the radio, and a station I'd never heard before came in. The announcer said: "Attention Comrades, this is the Voice from the Cave."" "Sounds like a juvenile radio serial." "Oh, but it wasn't, Dad! I'm sure it was an outlaw station. Then the announcer spoke very rapidly in a language I'd never heard before. It really sounded like code." "Sure you didn't imagine it? You know you do get ideas, Penny. Especially when you're on the prowl for a mystery to solve." "Aren't children quaint?" Mrs. Deline laughed. Penny's lips tightened, but by great effort of will she kept silent. A child indeed! She knew now that Mrs. Deline disliked her and that they had launched an undeclared war. "I heard the broadcast all right," she said. "For that matter, so did Mrs. Weems and Louise. But probably it's of no consequence." The subject was dropped. It was stuffy in the closed car and Penny presently rolled down a window. Immediately Mrs. Deline protested that the wind was blowing her hair helter-skelter. At a stern glance from her father, Penny closed the window again, leaving only a tiny crack for air. "All the way, please," requested Mrs. Deline. "Penny, you're being very, very difficult," Mr. Parker added. Penny rolled the window shut, but her blue eyes cast off little sparks of fire. As a rule, she was a very pleasant person, not in the least spoiled. In Riverview where she had lived for fifteen happy, eventful years, her friends were beyond count. Penny liked people and nearly everyone liked her. But for some reason, she and Mrs. Deline had taken an instant dislike to each other. "Maybe I'm jealous," Penny thought ruefully. "I shouldn't be, but Dad's all I have." Between Mr. Parker and his daughter there existed a deep bond of affection. Penny's mother was dead and the noted publisher had devoted himself to filling the great void in the girl's life. He had given her companionship and taught her to think straight. Knowing that she was dependable, he allowed her more freedom than most girls her age were permitted. Penny adored her father and seemingly had inherited his love of newspaper work. Upon various occasions she had helped him at the _Riverview Star_, writing and obtaining some of the paper's most spectacular front page stories. Only the past winter, following her father's severe illness, she had acted as editor of the _Star_, managing the paper entirely herself. "And now Dad and Mrs. Deline treat me as if I were a child!" she reflected resentfully. Though very much upset, Penny kept her thoughts to herself. Curling up with her head on a pile of blankets, she pretended to sleep. The car went over a hard bump. Penny bounced and opened her eyes. She was surprised to see that it had grown quite dark. The automobile was moving in a wide curve between long rows of pine trees. "What time is it?" she asked, pressing her face to the window. "Not so late," replied her father. "We're running into a rain storm. Just our luck." Dark clouds had entirely blotted out the late afternoon sun. Even as Mr. Parker spoke, several big raindrops splashed against the windshield. Soon the rain came down in such a thick sheet that the road ahead was obscured. Stopping suddenly for a crossroads traffic light, the car went into a slight skid. Mrs. Deline screamed in terror, and clutched Mr. Parker's arm. "Oh, can't we stop somewhere?" she pleaded. "I'm so afraid we'll have an accident." "Yes, we'll stop," Mr. Parker agreed. "The storm is certainly getting worse." A short distance ahead the party glimpsed a group of buildings. One was a filling station and beside it stood a small three-story hotel and tea room. "Doesn't look too bad," Mr. Parker commented, pulling up close to the door. "We'll have dinner and by that time the storm may be over." While Penny and Mrs. Deline went into the tea room, the publisher took the car next door to the filling station to have the tank refueled. He rejoined them soon, shaking the raindrops from his coat. "It's coming down harder than ever," he reported. "And we still have a long drive ahead of us." "Do you think we'll reach our camp site tonight, Dad?" Penny inquired anxiously. "We'll be lucky to get to Sunset Beach. As for making camp, that's out of the question." "Maybe it will stop raining soon," Penny ventured hopefully. Mr. Parker ordered dinner for the party and an hour was consumed in dining. The rain, however, showed no signs of slackening. "We could go on—" Mr. Parker said thoughtfully. "Of course, the roads are slippery." "Oh, please let's not venture out in this," Mrs. Deline pleaded before Penny could speak. "I know I am being silly, but I'm so afraid of an accident. Once I was in a car that overturned and I've never forgotten it." "There's no great hurry," Mr. Parker replied. "If we can't reach Sunset Beach tonight, I suppose we could stay here." Mrs. Deline did not comment upon the suggestion, but from the way she smiled, Penny was sure that the idea appealed to her. Taking her father aside, the girl urged him to try to drive on to Sunset Beach that night. "Our vacation is so short, Dad. Even now we'll lose almost a day in setting up camp." "We'll certainly push on if we can," he promised. "This storm complicates everything." For two hours the rain fell steadily. With the prospects anything but improved, Mr. Parker made inquiry as to lodging for the night. From the hotel keeper he learned that rooms already were at a premium. "We'll have to make up our minds soon," he reported to Penny and Mrs. Deline. "If we wait much longer we'll probably find ourselves sleeping in the lobby." "Then let's stay," the widow urged. "Please engage a room and a bath for me. Preferably one at the rear of the building away from the highway." "I'm afraid you'll have no choice," Mr. Parker told her regretfully. "We'll have to take what we can get." The publisher consulted with the hotel clerk, and returned to report that only two rooms remained available. "You and Penny will have to share one together," he explained. "I hope you won't mind." It was evident by the expression of Mrs. Deline's face that she minded a great deal. However, she consented to the arrangement and the luggage was taken upstairs. The door closed behind the bellboy. For the first time Penny and Mrs. Deline were left alone. "Such a cheap, dirty hotel!" the widow exclaimed petulantly. "And I do hate to share a room with anyone." Penny busied herself unpacking her over-night bag. Crossing to the window, she raised it half way. "Do put that down!" Mrs. Deline ordered. "I detest air blowing directly on me." Penny lowered the window. Mrs. Deline smoked a cigarette, carelessly allowing the ashes to fall on the bed. Getting up, she moved nervously about the room. "This place is so small it seems like a prison," she complained. "Why do you sit there and stare at me?" "I didn't realize I was staring," Penny apologized. "If you'll excuse me, I'll go to bed." Undressing quickly, she crawled beneath the covers. Mrs. Deline smoked still another cigarette and then began to prepare for bed. As she removed the jacket of her suit, Penny noticed that the woman wore a beautiful jade elephant pin. "Why, what an attractive ornament!" she exclaimed. "Is it a locket or just a pin?" "I bought it in China," the widow answered without replying to the question. "In China! Have you been there?" "Of course!" Mrs. Deline gave Penny an amused glance. Without removing the pin or offering to show it to the girl, she completed her preparations for bed. Just at that moment there came a light tap on the door. "Oh, Penny!" Mr. Parker called. "Yes, Dad, what is it?" Penny leaped out of bed. "I'm worried about the car keys," he called through the transom. "You didn't by chance see them after we left the dining room?" "Why, yes," Penny reassured him. "You left them lying on the table. I picked them up and forgot to tell you. They're here on the dresser. I'll hand them out." "No, never mind. Keep them. I was just afraid they were lost. Goodnight." Mrs. Deline glanced curiously at the key ring on the dresser. She remarked that she had not seen Penny pick it up. "You were talking to Dad at the time," the girl replied. Leaving the keys on the dresser, she leaped into bed again and settled herself for a comfortable sleep. Mrs. Deline presently turned out the light and took the other bed. For a time Penny was annoyed by voices from the hallway, then all became quiet. She slept. Much later Penny awoke. She stirred and rolled over. The rain had ceased and moonlight was flooding into the room. A beam fell directly across Mrs. Deline's bed, revealing a mass of crumpled sheets and covers. Penny stared, scarcely believing her eyes. The bed was empty. # CHAPTER 3 _A JADE GREEN CHARM_ Sitting up in bed, Penny gazed about the room. Mrs. Deline was not there and her clothes were gone from the chair where they had been placed earlier that night. "Queer," mused the girl. Jumping out of bed, she darted to the door. Though it had been carefully locked a few hours before, the latch now was off. Thoroughly puzzled, Penny switched on a light and glanced carefully about. Mrs. Deline's suitcase remained in the closet, but coat and hat were missing. And then Penny made an even more disturbing discovery. The car keys were gone from the dresser! "Why, I know I put those keys on the bureau just before I went to bed!" she told herself in dismay. "Now I wonder if that woman—" Ashamed of her thoughts, she muttered: "Guess I _am_ a suspicious brat!" Deeply mystified, she moved quickly to the window overlooking the parking lot and filling station. It was reassuring to see the Parker automobile standing where her father had left it earlier that night. But as she stood staring down into the dark, deserted yard, she was startled to observe a shadowy figure rounding a corner of the hotel. "Mrs. Deline!" she recognized the woman. Penny waited only long enough to see that the widow was walking straight toward the Parker sedan. "She intends to steal it!" thought the girl. "Why else would she take the keys?" Snatching dress and coat from a chair, Penny scrambled into them without taking time to remove her pajamas. She tucked up the unsightly legs of the garment and put on her shoes. Thus clad she ran downstairs through the semi-dark lobby to the side exit of the hotel. As she reached the outside door, she heard the blast of an automobile engine. "That's our car!" Penny thought, recognizing the sound of the running motor. "She'll get away before I can stop her!" The engine, evidently cold, sputtered a moment, then died. Hopeful that she might still get there in time, Penny raced across the parking lot. Reaching the car just as it started to move backwards, she jerked open the door. "Mrs. Deline!" she cried. Startled, the woman released the clutch so suddenly that the motor died again. "Where are you taking our car?" Penny demanded, sliding into the seat beside the widow. The girl's unexpected arrival seemed to completely unnerve Mrs. Deline. She lost composure, but only for an instant. Lighting a cigarette, she gazed at Penny with cold disdain. "I had intended to go for a little ride," she replied. "Any objections?" The question placed Penny on the defensive. "You shouldn't have taken the car without asking Dad," she said stiffly. "We barely have enough gasoline to reach Sunset Beach." "Oh, I had no thought of going far. I'll just drive a few miles and come back." "At this time of night? It must be nearly two o'clock." "I always enjoy night driving. Particularly if I am nervous and unable to sleep. Now run back to bed like a good child." Penny did not like the widow's tone of voice. She liked it less that Mrs. Deline ignored her hint that the car was not to be used. More than ever she was convinced that the woman had intended to steal the automobile. "I'm sorry," she said firmly. "I must ask you not to take the car without Dad's permission." "Well!" Mrs. Deline exclaimed indignantly. "You expect me to rap on your father's door at this time of night to ask if I may use the car!" "I don't see why you need to use the car at all." "Oh, you don't?" Mrs. Deline's tone was scornful. "Well, let me tell you this! I've already given you as much of an explanation as I intend to! I need the car." "I thought you said you only intended to go for a little drive—to quiet your nerves," Penny reminded her. "That's what I meant." Mrs. Deline tossed her cigarette through the open window and stepped on the car starter. "I intend to go too." Penny, equally determined, switched off the ignition. "Why, how dare you!" Mrs. Deline turned furiously upon the girl. "In all my life I never met such a spoiled child." "I don't mean to be rude, but I can't allow you to take the car." Mrs. Deline swung open the door on Penny's side of the seat. She reached as if to push the girl out of the car. Just then a man stepped from one of the hotel garages. Obviously he had been listening to the conversation, for he deliberately approached the car. "Anything wrong here?" he inquired. Penny recognized one of the night hotel clerks. She began to tell him of the disagreement between herself and Mrs. Deline. "This child doesn't know what she's talking about!" the widow declared irritably. "Mr. Parker doesn't mind if I use the car." "Then please ask him!" Penny challenged. "Why not allow me to do it for you," the hotel clerk offered. "Wait here and I'll call Mr. Parker. He can settle the entire matter." "No, don't bother him," Mrs. Deline decided suddenly. "I've changed my mind anyhow. After such a commotion I wouldn't enjoy a ride." "In any case, I'd prefer to call Mr. Parker," said the hotel man. "Do," urged Penny in deep satisfaction. "We'll wait here." "I'm going back to bed," Mrs. Deline announced, getting out of the car. She followed the hotel clerk into the building. Left in possession of the car, Penny reparked it and locked the doors. Then, feeling a trifle uneasy, she sauntered into the hotel. The lobby was deserted. Penny climbed the stairs, and in the hallway leading to her room, met her father and the hotel clerk. Summoned from bed, Mr. Parker garbed in dressing gown and slippers, looked more annoyed than alarmed. "Penny, what is this I hear?" he inquired. "I can't get the straight of the story." Penny drew a deep breath. "Well, it was this way, Dad. I awakened and discovered that Mrs. Deline had disappeared with the car keys." "Mrs. Deline!" "Yes, I think she meant to steal the car. But she explained that she only intended to borrow it for a night ride." "Anything wrong about that?" Penny regarded her father in blank amazement. "Why, Dad, would you borrow another person's car without asking?" "No, but Mrs. Deline probably didn't stop to consider the matter. No doubt she was too thoughtful to awaken you." "Thoughtful, my left eye! Dad, I'm sure Mrs. Deline meant to steal the car. Either that or she had a very important appointment—a meeting with someone she wasn't willing to tell us about." "Nonsense!" Mr. Parker exclaimed impatiently. "Penny, you made a serious mistake in refusing to allow Mrs. Deline to use the car. She is our guest and I'm afraid you were rude." "But Dad—" "You must apologize to her at once." Penny did not answer for a moment. She bent to tie her flapping shoe strings and took her time at the task. When she straightened, she said quietly: "All right, Dad. If you say so, I'll apologize. But I don't think I was wrong." "We'll not discuss it now, Penny. Suppose you turn the car keys over to me and go to your room." Penny gave up the keys and without another word went down the hall. Tears stung her eyes, but she brushed them away. She knew she had been unpleasant to Mrs. Deline. Nevertheless, she felt that her father had not been entirely just in his attitude. Entering the bedroom, she hesitated before turning on the light. Mrs. Deline had undressed and was in bed. She ignored the girl. "I—I guess I made a bad mistake," Penny began awkwardly. "I shouldn't have been so rude." Mrs. Deline rolled over in bed. Her dark eyes flashed and she made no effort to hide her dislike. "So you admit it?" she asked. "Well, we will forget the matter. Do not speak of it to me again." In silence Penny undressed and hung up her coat and dress. As she prepared to snap out the light, she noticed that Mrs. Deline still wore the jade elephant charm about her neck. "Aren't you afraid you'll break the chain?" she asked before she thought. "You forgot to take it off." Mrs. Deline raised herself on an elbow, fairly glaring at Penny. "Will you kindly worry about your own affairs?" she asked insolently. "I've had about all I can take from you in one night." "But I didn't mean anything personal." "Good night!" said Mrs. Deline with emphasis. Penny turned out the light and crept into her own bed. She felt beaten and hurt. It was easy to understand why Mrs. Deline disliked her, but her own attitude was bewildering. "I distrusted the woman the instant I met her," she reflected. "Perhaps I had no reason for it at first. Now I'm not so sure." Penny rolled over to face the window. Moonlight was flooding into the room. In the diffused light the girl could see Mrs. Deline plainly. The woman had propped herself up in bed and was fingering the jade green elephant charm which hung on its slender chain. Though Penny could not be certain, she thought the lid of the figure lay open and that Mrs. Deline quickly snapped it shut. "Good night, Mrs. Deline," she ventured, still trying to make amends. The widow did not answer. Instead she turned her back and pretended to sleep. # CHAPTER 4 _NO CAMPING ALLOWED_ Breakfast the next morning was a trying ordeal for Penny. Over the coffee cups Mr. Parker apologized to Mrs. Deline for what he termed his daughter's "inexcusable behavior." The widow responded graciously, quite in contrast to her attitude of the previous night. Without saying much, she conveyed the impression that Penny had been completely in the wrong, and was in fact, a spoiled child who must be humored. The journey on to Sunset Beach was equally unpleasant. Mr. Parker and Mrs. Deline seemed so absorbed in animated conversation, that they scarcely spoke or noticed Penny. Wedged between the luggage and the camping equipment, she indulged in self pity. "At least we'll get rid of Mrs. Deline when we reach Sunset Beach," she cheered herself. Presently the car rounded a wide curve in the road, and Penny caught her first glimpse of the seashore. Big waves were rolling in, washing an endless stretch of white sand. "Oh, isn't it beautiful!" she exclaimed, brightening. "I wish we were camping right on the beach instead of in the State Forest." "I fear the authorities wouldn't permit that," Mr. Parker laughed. "By the way, Penny, is your heart really set on this camping trip?" Penny gave him a quick look. "Yes, it is, Dad," she said briefly. "Why do you ask?" "Well, I was thinking that we'd be a lot more comfortable at one of the big hotels. We'd be right on the beach and—" "Oh, I was just talking when I said I'd like to camp on the beach," Penny cut in. "I'd like the State Forest much better." "Then we'll go there just as we planned," Mr. Parker said, sighing. "But you know I never was cut out for a rough and tumble life, Penny. I'm far from sure I'll make a good camper." The car rolled on along the ocean road, presently entering the little village of Sunset Beach. Normally a tourist center, the town now was practically deserted, and the Parkers had chosen it because it was within easy driving distance of Riverview. Nearly all of the fine hotels along the water front were closed. However, the Crystal Inn remained in operation, and it was there that Mrs. Deline had engaged a suite. The car swung into the driveway and halted in front of the hotel. An attendant did not come immediately so Mr. Parker himself unloaded the widow's luggage. Mrs. Deline gave him a dazzling smile as she bade him goodbye. "Oh, we'll not say goodbye just yet," Mr. Parker corrected. "Penny and I will camp only a short distance away. We'll run down to the beach often." "Do," urged Mrs. Deline. "I have no friends here and I'll be happy to see you." Mr. Parker carried the widow's luggage into the hotel. While he was absent, Penny moved up to the front seat. She tuned in a radio program, listening to it with growing impatience. Finally her father sauntered out of the hotel. "I nearly gave you up," Penny remarked pointedly. Mr. Parker slid behind the steering wheel and started the car. When they were driving along the ocean front road he said quietly: "Penny, I can't imagine what has come over you lately. You're not in the least like the little girl who was my pal and companion. Why have you been so unkind to Mrs. Deline?" "I just don't like her," Penny said flatly. "Furthermore, I distrust her." "You've acted very stupid and silly." "I'm sorry if you're ashamed of me," Penny replied glaring at her own reflection in the car mirror. "At any rate, I saved the car for you." "That accusation was ridiculous, Penny. Mrs. Deline is a wealthy woman who could buy herself a dozen cars in ordinary times. She merely gave in to a sudden whim." "Just what do you know about Mrs. Deline, Dad?" "Not a great deal," Mr. Parker admitted. "I met her at the club. She served as a special War correspondent in China, I believe. She has traveled all over the world and speaks a half dozen languages." "I never heard of her until she came to Riverview," Penny said with a sniff. "Nor did I ever see any of her writing in print. If you ask me, she's a phony." "Let's not discuss the subject further," Mr. Parker replied, losing patience. "When you're older, I hope you'll learn to be more gracious and charitable." Penny subsided into hurt silence. In all her life she could recall only a few occasions when her father had spoken so sternly to her. Close to tears, she studied the tumbling surface of the ocean with concentrated interest. In silence the Parkers drove through the village, stopping at a filling station to inquire the way to Rhett State Forest. Supplies were purchased at one of the stores, and by that time it was noon. At Mr. Parker's suggestion they stopped at a roadside inn for lunch. After that they drove on a half mile beyond the outskirts of Sunset Beach, past a tall lighthouse to the end of the pavement. "We follow a dirt road for a quarter of a mile to Bradley Knoll," Mr. Parker said, consulting directions he had jotted down on an envelope. "A mud road, you mean," Penny corrected, peering ahead at the narrow, twisting highway. "It really rained here last night." The car had no chains. Not without misgiving, Mr. Parker drove off the pavement onto the slippery road. The car wallowed about and at times skidded dangerously. "Once we reach the State park we'll have gravel roads," Penny said, studying a map. "_If_ we get there," Mr. Parker corrected. Barely had he spoken than the car went out of control. It took a long skid, turned crosswise in the road, and then the rear wheels slipped into a deep ditch. Opening the car door, Penny saw that the car was bogged down to the hub caps. Mr. Parker tried without success to pull out of the ditch. Alighting, he inspected the rear wheels which had spun deeper and deeper into the mud. "Not a chance to get out of here without help," he said crossly. "I'll have to find someone to give us a hand." Farther down the road stood a weatherbeaten farmhouse. Penny offered to go there to summon help, but her father insisted upon doing it himself. He presently returned with a farmer and a small tractor. After considerable difficulty the car was pulled out of the ditch. "How much do I owe you?" Mr. Parker asked the man. "Ten dollars." The amount seemed far too high for the service rendered, but Mr. Parker paid it without comment. His shoes were caked with mud, and so were the trouser legs of his suit. Only by an effort of will did he keep his temper under control. "Figurin' on camping in the Rhett Forest?" the farmer asked Mr. Parker. "That's right. Is it much farther?" "Only a little piece down the road. You'll strike gravel at the next corner. You can make it if you're careful. I don't calculate you'll have much fun camping in the Park though." "Why not?" asked Penny. "We've had a lot o' rain lately. The mosquitoes are bitin' something fierce. And the ground's mighty damp." "We have a floor to our tent," Penny said optimistically. "I think camping will be fun. I've always wanted to try it." The farmer started the tractor. "Then don't let me discourage you," he shrugged. "So long." Mr. Parker rejoined Penny in the car. "Why not call this whole thing off?" he suggested. "We could go to the hotel and—" "No, Dad! You promised me!" "All right, Penny, if that's the way you feel, but I know we're asking for punishment." By careful driving the Parkers reached the gravel road without mishap. At the entrance to the Rhett Park area they were stopped by a pleasant, middle-aged forest ranger who took down the license number of the car. "Be careful about your camp fire," he instructed. "Only last week several acres of timber were destroyed at Alton. We're not certain whether it was started by a camper or was a case of sabotage. In any case, one can't be too careful." "We will be," promised Mr. Parker. "Camp only in the designated sites," the ranger added. "I'll be around later on to see how you're getting along." Once beyond the gateway arch, Penny's sagging spirits began to revive. The road curled lazily between dense masses of timber fringed by artistic old-fashioned rail fences. Numerous signs pointed to trails that invited exploration. "Oh, Dad, it's really nice here!" she cried. "We'll have a wonderful time!" Presently the car came to an open space with picnic tables. There was a picturesque spot beside a rocky brook which looked just right for a camp site. "Let's pitch our tent here!" pleaded Penny. "You set it up while I cook supper." Mr. Parker unloaded the car and went to work with a will hammering the metal stakes of the umbrella tent. Penny busied herself sorting pots and pans and trying to get the gasoline stove started. Despite her best efforts she could not induce it to burn. In the meantime, Mr. Parker was having his own set of troubles. Three of the tent stakes were missing. Twice he put up the umbrella framework, only to have the entire structure collapse upon his head. "Penny, come here and help me!" he called. "I've had about enough of this!" Penny ran to her father's rescue, pulling the canvas from his head and shoulders. By working together they finally got the tent set up. Another half hour was required to put up the cots and make them. "Well, that job is done," Mr. Parker sighed, collapsing on one of the beds. "Such a life!" "Dad, I hate to bother you," Penny apologized, "but I can't start the stove. Do you mind looking at it?" Grumbling a bit, Mr. Parker went to tinker with the stove. Three-quarters of an hour slipped away before he succeeded in coaxing a bright flame. "All this work has given me a big appetite for supper," he announced. "What are we having, Penny?" "Steaks." "Sounds fine." "I forgot the salt though," Penny confessed, slapping the meat into a frying pan. The burner was too hot. While Penny had her back turned and was opening a can of beans, the steaks began to scorch. Mr. Parker tried to rescue them. In his haste he seized the hot skillet handle and burned his hands. "Oh, Dad, I'm so sorry!" Penny sympathized. "I guess the steaks are practically ruined too." "Anything else to eat?" the publisher asked, nursing his blistered hand. "Beans." "Beans!" Mr. Parker repeated with bitter emphasis. "Oh, well—dish them up." Penny was serving the food on tin plates when a car drove up and stopped. A ranger climbed out and walked over to the tent. "What's the idea, camping here?" he demanded. "Can't you read signs?" "We didn't see any sign," said Penny. The ranger pointed to one in plain sight tacked on the trunk of a tree. It read: "Restricted Area. No Camping Permitted." "You can't stay here," the ranger added. "You'll have to move on." Penny and her father gazed at each other in despair. After all the work they had done, it didn't seem as though they could break camp. "Any objections if we stay here until morning?" Mr. Parker requested. "We've had a pretty hard time of it getting established." The ranger looked sympathetic but unmoved. "Sorry," he said curtly. "Regulations are regulations. You may finish your supper if you like, then you must move on. The regular camp site is a quarter of a mile farther up the road." # CHAPTER 5 _OVER THE AIR_ The ranger's order so discouraged Penny and her father that they lost all zest for supper. Too weary for conversation, they tore up the beds, repacked the dishes, and pulled the tent stakes. "I've not worked so hard in years," Mr. Parker sighed. "What a mistake to call this a vacation!" "Perhaps it won't be so hard once we get settled," Penny said hopefully. "After all, we've had more than our share of bad luck." Bad luck, however, continued to follow the campers. In the gathering darkness, Penny and her father had trouble finding the specified camp ground. It was impossible to drive a car into the cleared space, so they were forced to carry all of the heavy luggage and equipment from the automobile to the camp site. By that time it was quite dark. Mr. Parker misplaced one of the tent stakes and could not find it without a lengthy search. As he finally drove it in, he hammered his thumb instead of the metal pin. "Drat it all! I've had enough of this!" he muttered irritably. "Penny, why not give it up—" "Oh, no, Dad!" Penny cut in quickly. "Once we get the tent up again, we'll be all right. Here, I'll hold the flashlight so you can see better." Finally the tent was successfully staked down, though Mr. Parker temporarily abandoned the idea of putting up the front porch. Penny set up the cots again and made the beds. "Hope you packed plenty of woolen blankets," Mr. Parker commented, shivering. "It will be cold tonight." Penny admitted that she had brought only two thin ones for each bed. "I didn't suppose it could get so cold on a summer night," she confessed ruefully. Worn by his strenuous labors, Mr. Parker climbed into the closed car to smoke a cigar. Penny, finding the dark tent lonesome, soon joined him there. She switched on the car radio, tuning in an orchestra. Presently it went off the air so she dialed another station. A strange jargon of words which could not be understood, accosted her ears. "Hold that, Penny!" exclaimed Mr. Parker. "What station can it be?" Penny speculated, peering at the luminous dial. "It sounds like a short wave broadcast. Must be a station off its wave band." She and her father listened intently to the speaker who had a resonant, baritone voice. Not a word of the broadcast could they understand. Obviously a message was being sent in code. "Dad, that sounds like the same station I heard yesterday!" Penny broke in. "Where can it be located?" "I'd like to know myself." Penny glanced quickly at her father. His remark, she thought, had definite significance. Before she could question him, the strange jargon ceased. The deep baritone voice concluded in plain, slightly accented English: "This is the Voice from the Cave, signing off until tomorrow night. Stand by, Comrades!" "That was no regular station," Penny declared, puzzled. "But what was it?" Mr. Parker reached over to turn off the panel switch. "It was an outlaw station," he said quietly. "The authorities have been after it for weeks." "How did you learn about it?" "Through various channels. Most outlaw radio stations can be traced quite easily by the use of modern radio-detecting devices. The enemy agent who operates this station is a particularly elusive fellow. Just when the police are sure they have him, he moves to another locality." Penny was silent a moment and then she said: "You seem to know quite a bit about this mysterious Voice, Dad." "Naturally I've been interested in the case. If the police catch the fellow it will make a good story for the _Star_." "Where is the station thought to be located, Dad?" "Oh, it moves nightly. The fellow obviously has a portable broadcasting outfit." "But isn't the general locality known?" Mr. Parker smiled as he knocked ashes from his cigar. "Authorities seem to think that it may be somewhere near here. Sunset Beach has countless caves, you know." "Really?" The information excited Penny. "You never told me that before, Dad. And I suspect that you're keeping a lot of other secrets from me too!" "Sunset Beach's caves are no secret. They're part of the tourist attraction." "All the same you never mentioned them, Dad. I thought it was odd that you chose this place for a vacation. Now I'm beginning to catch on." Mr. Parker pretended not to understand. "Isn't it true that you came here to do a bit of investigation work?" Penny pursued the subject relentlessly. "Now don't try to pin me down," Mr. Parker laughed. "Suppose we just say we came here for a vacation." Penny eyed her father quizzically. From the way he sidestepped her questions she was certain that he had more than a casual interest in the outlaw radio station. "Dad, will you let me help you?" she pleaded eagerly. "Help me?" Mr. Parker joked. "Why, you seem to think that I'm a Government investigator in disguise!" "You don't deny that you came here largely because of your interest in that station?" "Well, I may be a tiny bit interested. But don't jump to conclusions, young lady! It doesn't necessarily follow that I have set out to track down any enemy agent single handed." Mr. Parker brought the discussion to an end by opening the car door. "I'm dead tired, Penny. If you'll excuse me, I'll turn in." After her father had gone to the tent, Penny remained for a while in the car. Soberly she stared at the stars and thought over what she had learned. "I don't care what Dad says," she reflected, "he came here to find that radio station! But maybe, just maybe, I'll beat him to it!" # CHAPTER 6 _BREAKFAST BLUES_ Penny awoke next morning to find the tent cold and damp. She rolled over on the hard cot and moaned with pain. Every muscle in her battered body felt as if it had been twisted into a knot. Swinging her feet to the canvas floor, she pulled away the curtain to peer at her father's cot. It was empty. "Guess I've overslept," she thought. "Hope Dad's started breakfast." Penny dressed quickly, cringing as she pulled on damp shirt and shorts. Dew lay heavy upon the tent and the grass outside was saturated. She walked gingerly as she picked her way toward the parked car. Mr. Parker had set up a portable table nearby and was tinkering with the gasoline stove. He was unshaven and looked very much out of sorts. "Hi, Dad!" Penny greeted him with as much cheer as she could muster. "What are we having for breakfast?" "Nothing, so far as I can see! This stove is on strike again. I've tried for half an hour to get it started." Penny climbed into the car to use the mirror. The sight of her face horrified her. One cheek was blotched with ugly red mosquito bites, there were dark circles under her eyes, and her hair hung in strings. "If anyone ever gets me on another camping trip I'll be surprised!" Mr. Parker exclaimed. He slammed the stove down on the table. "I'm through monkeying with this contrary beast!" "Oh, Dad, such a temper," Penny chided, giggling despite her own discouragement. "Suppose you suggest how we're to eat." "Well, there's cold breakfast food with canned milk." Penny burrowed deep in a box of supplies stored in the car. "Two soft bananas. No coffee, I'm afraid." "Wonderful!" Mr. Parker said grimly. "Well, bring on the bird food." Penny set the table and dished up the dry breakfast cereal. "At least we have beautiful scenery," she remarked as she sat down to the dismal repast with her father. "Just look at those grand old trees." "The place is all right. It's camping that has me tied in a knot. Now at the Crystal Inn we could be comfortable—right on the beach too." "No," Penny said, though not very firmly. "We'll like it here after we get adjusted." "Need any supplies today?" Mr. Parker asked abruptly. "Yes, we'll have to have fresh meat and milk. I forgot salt too and bread." "I'll drive down to Sunset Beach and get the things. May as well take the stove along too and try to have it repaired." "That might be a good idea," Penny admitted, though with reluctance. "Don't be gone long, will you? I thought we might explore some of the trails." "Oh, there's plenty of time for that." Mr. Parker was noticeably cheerful as he stowed the portable stove in the car and drove away. Not without misgiving Penny watched him go. She remained somewhat troubled as she washed the breakfast dishes at the brook and struggled with the beds. The camping trip hadn't worked out as she had hoped and expected. So far it had been all work and no fun. "Dad was up to something when he skipped out of here so fast," she mused. "Wonder why he doesn't come back?" The sun rose high above the trees, drying the grass and tent. Penny went for a short hike in the woods. She returned to find that her father still had not returned. Just then a car rattled up the twisting road. Recognizing the same ranger who had caused so much trouble the previous night, Penny prepared herself for further blows. However, the government man was all smiles as he pulled up not far from the umbrella tent. "Just dropped by to see if you're getting along all right," he greeted her in a friendly way. "Everything Okay?" "I wouldn't venture such a rash statement as that," Penny answered, her face downcast. Because the ranger, whose name was Bill Atkins, seemed to have a genuine interest, she found herself telling him all about her troubles. "Why, you've not had a decent meal since you came here!" he exclaimed, climbing out of the car. "Maybe I can help you." "Can you wave a magic wand and produce hot food?" "We'll see," laughed the ranger. "Gasoline stoves are more bother than they're worth in my opinion." As Penny watched in amazed admiration he built a good fire which soon made a bed of glowing cherry red coals. "How about a nice pan of fish fried to a crisp brown?" the ranger tempted her. "I caught a string of them this morning. Beauties!" From the car he brought a basket of fat trout, already dressed and ready for cooking. Without asking Penny for anything, he wrapped them in corn meal, salted each fish and let it sizzle in hot butter. "Do you always travel with your car equipped like a kitchen cabinet?" Penny joked. Crouching beside the fire, she barely could take her eyes from the food. "Not always," the ranger laughed. "I've been on an overnight trip. Usually have the fixings of a meal with me though." While the fish slowly sizzled, Bill put on a pot of coffee and fried potatoes. He accomplished everything with such ease that Penny could only watch dumbfounded. "Guess you and your father considered me an old crab last night," he remarked. "Sometimes we hate to enforce the rules, but we have to treat everyone alike. If we allowed folks to camp wherever they pleased the danger of forest fire would be greatly increased." "You're right, of course. Have you had any fires this season?" "Not here." Deftly the ranger dished up the potatoes and crisply browned fish. "Plenty of them farther South. Not all caused by carelessness of campers either." Penny was quick to seize upon the remark. "Sabotage?" she questioned. "That's what we think," the ranger nodded. He poured two cups of steaming, black coffee. "Fact is, enemy agents have made quite a few attempts to set fire to our forests. Nearly always they're caught, but that doesn't mean we dare let up our vigilance." Penny ate every morsel of the food, praising the ranger highly for his cooking ability. "I wish Dad could have had some of this fish," she added. "He went down to Sunset Beach for supplies and for some reason hasn't returned." "I'll have to be on the road myself," the ranger declared, getting up from the ground. "I'm due in town at twelve o'clock and it's nearly that now." "You're driving to Sunset Beach?" "Yes, want to ride along?" Penny debated briefly. "Wait until I get my coat," she requested. "It's lonesome here alone. Anyway, I want to learn what's keeping Dad." The park road had dried considerably, but even so the car skidded from side to side until it reached the paved highway. At Sunset Beach, the ranger dropped Penny off at the postoffice. Rather at a loss to know what to do with herself, she wandered about the half-deserted streets in search of her father. He was not at any of the stores, nor did inquiry reveal his whereabouts. "Perhaps he's sunning himself on the beach," she thought. A boardwalk led over the dunes to the water front. The tide was at ebb, revealing a long, wide stretch of white sand strewn with shells and seaweed. Penny paused to gaze meditatively upon the wind-swept sea. For a time she watched the waves break and spill their foam on the sandy shore. Then she walked slowly on toward the imposing Crystal Inn. Approaching the private beach area, Penny met only a few persons, mostly soldiers on furlough with their girls. There were no bathers for a sharp, cool wind blew off the water. "Sunset Beach is nice," thought Penny, "but it's lonesome." At the Crystal Inn there was more activity. Tennis courts were in use and so was the swimming pool. Penny circled the well-kept grounds, not intending to enter the building. However, as she drew near, her attention was drawn to the flagstone terrace overlooking the formal garden. Though it was set with tables there were not many diners. Suddenly Penny stopped short, scarcely believing her eyes. At one of the tables near the stone railing sat her father with Mrs. Deline. # CHAPTER 7 _THE BEARDED STRANGER_ Penny's first thought upon seeing her father and Mrs. Deline was to steal quietly away. Then amazement and injury gave way to a feeling of indignation. Perhaps her father had a perfect right to lunch with Mrs. Deline, but it was inconsiderate of him to so completely forget his own daughter. "I might just as well be an orphan!" Penny sighed. "Well, we'll see!" Stiffly she marched across the lawn to the railed-in hotel veranda. Her father saw her coming. His look of surprise changed to one of guarded welcome. "Come up and have lunch with us," he invited. "The food here is quite an improvement on what we've been having at camp." Penny could find no outside entranceway to the terrace. To Mrs. Deline's horror and her father's amusement, she climbed over the stone railing. "Dad," Penny began, ignoring the widow except for a curt nod, "I was just about ready to get out a search warrant for you." Mr. Parker drew another chair to the table for his daughter. Her hair was none too well combed, she wore no stockings, and the coat did not entirely cover her camp costume. By contrast Mrs. Deline was perfectly turned out in tailored tweed suit with a smart little hat of feathers. Though the woman said nothing, her gaze was scornful as she appraised Penny. "What shall I order for you?" Mr. Parker asked, signaling a waiter. "Nothing, thank you." Penny was coldly polite. "I had a very fine lunch at camp, thanks to one of the rangers." "I'm sorry I didn't get back," Mr. Parker apologized. "It took a long while to have the stove repaired. Then I met Mrs. Deline and—" "Oh, I understand," Penny broke in. "The point is, when, if ever, are you coming back to camp?" "Why, right now I suppose. We've finished our luncheon." The waiter had come to the table. Mr. Parker asked for the bill, paid it, and arose. As he bade Mrs. Deline goodbye, he remarked that he probably would see her again soon. Walking to the hotel parking lot where Mr. Parker had left the car, neither he nor Penny had much to say. Not until they were driving through the village was the subject of Mrs. Deline mentioned. "I don't see why you can't be a bit nicer to her," Mr. Parker commented. "You scarcely spoke a word to her." "Did she say anything to me?" "Well, I don't recall." "I've treated Mrs. Deline just as well as she treats me!" Penny defended herself. "I'll admit I don't like her." "And you show it too." "Maybe I do, but she has no business taking so much of your time." "So that's where the shoe pinches," chuckled Mr. Parker. "My little girl is jealous." "The very idea!" "Mrs. Deline is brilliant—a highly educated woman and I enjoy talking to her," Mr. Parker said thoughtfully. "I assure you it's no more serious than that." Penny moved close to her father and squeezed his arm. "We've been pals for such a long while," she said wistfully. "If anything ever should come between us—" "Penny, you're positively morbid!" her father interrupted. "Of course nothing ever will come between us! Now let's talk of more cheerful subjects." "Such as?" "I've been thinking, Penny. You need a friend, someone to pal around with." "You're the only friend I need, Dad." "I mean someone your own age, Penny. Why not send for Louise Sidell? I'll gladly pay her train fare." "It would be fun having Lou here." "Then it's settled. We'll send a wire now." Mr. Parker turned the car around and drove to the local telegraph office. Before Penny could change her mind, the message was sent. Not until long after she and her father had returned to the park did it occur to her that unwittingly she might have fashioned her own undoing. Though camping would be far more interesting with Louise to share her experiences, it also would give her father added opportunity to see Mrs. Deline. "Maybe he didn't think of that angle," Penny reflected uneasily. "I'll keep it to myself." The following day Mr. Parker spent the entire day in camp. With the gasoline stove in working order, hot meals were prepared though not without endless effort. There were dishes to wash, beds to make, and by the time the tasks were done, neither Penny nor her father had any energy left for hiking. The second day was much easier. However, with more free time, Mr. Parker became increasingly restless. He missed his morning paper and was dissatisfied with the skimpy news reports that came in over the radio. Penny was not surprised when he mentioned that he would walk down to Sunset Beach. "Mind if I go with you?" Penny asked quickly. "Of course not," her father answered. "Why should I?" At Sunset Beach a call at the local telegraph office disclosed a message for Penny which had been held for lack of an address. The wire was from Louise and read: "ARRIVING AT SUNSET BEACH THURSDAY ON THE 12:30 PLANE. HOLD EVERYTHING." "Thursday!" Penny cried, offering the telegram to her father. "That's tomorrow! My, will I be glad to see Lou! This place has been like a morgue without her." "I imagine the town will brighten up quite a bit within the next few days," Mr. Parker said, a twinkle in his eye. "In fact, Louise may not be the only new arrival." "Is someone else coming to see us?" Mr. Parker would not answer her many questions. "Wait and see," he teased. Since arriving at Sunset Beach Penny had been eager to visit the lighthouse located on Crag Point. Noticing that the tide was low, she suggested to her father that they go there together. "Too long a walk," he complained. "You run along by yourself. I'll sun myself on the beach." Leaving her father, Penny started off alone. The sun was warm and there were a number of bathers splashing about in the surf. A long row of picturesque cottages lined the water front. They thinned out as she went farther up the beach, and presently there were no habitations, only desolate, wind-blown sand. Midway to the lighthouse, Penny met a man of early middle age who carried fishing rod and creel. He stared at her, hesitated, then paused to speak. "I notice you're going toward Crag Point," he remarked pleasantly. "Are you a stranger to this locality?" Penny admitted that she was. "Then perhaps you haven't been told that the Point is a dangerous place to be at high tide." "No, I hadn't heard." "The Point is very nearly covered at that time," the stranger explained. "There's no danger at the present moment, of course." "How long will I have here?" "Oh, several hours," the stranger replied. "There's no cause for alarm if you just keep watch of the tide." Penny thanked the stranger and walked on toward the lighthouse. The structure rose to a height of seventy-five feet above the beach and was reached by means of a narrow little iron stairway. No one was about the premises as Penny approached. However, as she started up the iron steps, a door far above her head opened. A burly, stout man whose face was browned by wind and sun, peered down at her. "You can't come up here!" he shouted. "No visitors are allowed!" "Oh," Penny murmured, retreating a step. "I didn't know. I only wanted to see the tower." "No visitors," the keeper of the light repeated. "War regulations." The rule seemed a reasonable one, but after such a long hike, Penny was disappointed. Walking back to the main section of the beach, she looked about for her father. He had disappeared. "I'll bet a cookie he's at the Crystal Inn!" she thought indignantly. But Penny could not find her father there nor at any other place along the water front. After an hour's search she decided that he must have returned to camp. Returning there, she approached the tent, noticing that the flap was closed, though not buttoned as she had left it. "Dad must be here," she thought. Drawing nearer she could see movement within the tent as someone brushed against the canvas walls. "Oh, Dad!" she called. There was no answer. But the next instant a man in rough garments and straw hat rushed out of the tent. Penny never before had set eyes upon him. She was so astonished that she gained only a fleeting impression of the bearded stranger. Seeing her, he thrust some object beneath his coat and fled into the woods. # CHAPTER 8 _KEEPER OF THE LIGHT_ Recovering from astonishment, Penny darted to the tent and jerked open the flap. The beds had been torn apart. Her purse, hidden beneath the pillow, was gone. Suitcases lay open on the canvas floor. "That man was a thief!" she thought angrily. Too late, she tried to determine which direction he had taken. She could hear no sound of crackling leaves or running feet. "He's lying low," she told herself. "No use chasing him. I never could find him among the trees." Thoroughly incensed, she went back to the disordered tent. A preliminary check revealed that besides the pocketbook, a pair of her father's shoes and a sweater had been taken. "Lucky I didn't have much money in my purse," Penny congratulated herself. "It was a good leather pocketbook though, and I hate to lose it." Going outside, she discovered other losses. The supply of groceries had been ransacked. Bread was gone, several oranges and a tin of cold meat. "That fellow was hungry," Penny reflected. "Probably some shiftless person who isn't willing to work for a living." Entering the tent again, she busied herself making the beds and repacking the suitcases. As she finished the task, she heard footsteps outside. Fearful that the thief had returned, she jerked open the canvas flap. It was her father who had arrived. "Oh, Dad, I'm glad you're back!" she exclaimed, rushing out to meet him. "We've been robbed!" "What?" Penny told him how she had frightened away the bearded stranger. "That's bad," Mr. Parker said, frowning. "I didn't suppose there was another camper within miles of us." "This man didn't look like a camper, Dad. He wore dirty, mussed clothing and a beard of at least a week's growth." "How old a fellow?" "Why, he looked young to me. And he ran like a young person." "We'll report it to the ranger," Mr. Parker said, entering the tent to check over his belongings. "Probably never will get any of our things back though." "The ranger may know who the fellow is, Dad." "That's possible," Mr. Parker admitted. "Penny, I'm glad Louise is coming tomorrow. I certainly don't like the idea of your remaining here in camp alone." "Then why don't you stay with me?" Penny countered instantly. "Well, I'm planning on being rather busy." "With Mrs. Deline." "Penny, you're impossible!" "Weren't you with her today? I looked everywhere for you." "Mrs. Deline and I did go for a little walk. No harm in that, is there?" "It all depends upon your viewpoint," Penny said loftily. "Personally, I consider her about as harmless as a Grade A rattler!" "Penny, enough of such talk!" "Okay," she returned grimly, "but never say I didn't warn you." "I was about to tell you," Mr. Parker resumed, "that I expect to be busy the next few days helping local authorities trace that outlaw radio station we heard on the air." "Oh!" "In fact, Army experts are being sent here to aid in the work. My days will be pretty well tied up." "I'm sorry, Dad," Penny said contritely. "Naturally I thought—" "I'm afraid your trouble is that you don't stop to think," Mr. Parker lectured. "Please, will you forget Mrs. Deline?" "I promise not to bother you about her again, Dad." "Good!" Mr. Parker awkwardly patted his daughter's hand. "I realize you've had an unpleasant time of it so far, Penny. But things should pick up after Louise arrives." "And that other surprise you hinted about?" "Oh, you'll have to wait and see," Mr. Parker smiled. "However, I promise you that what's coming really will prove a pleasant surprise." Though Penny kept up a running fire of questions, her father would tell her no more. From a few hints he dropped, she gathered that he was expecting a visitor within a day or so. That rather disappointed her, for with the exception of Louise, she could think of no one she particularly wanted to see at Sunset Beach. Later that day when a forest ranger stopped at camp for a few minutes, Mr. Parker reported the theft of food and clothing to him. "So the thief was a young man with a beard?" the ranger pondered. "Don't know of anyone in the area answering such a description. We'll certainly be on the watch for him." Penny and her father expected to hear no more from the matter. Toward sundown, however, the same ranger returned to camp, bringing the missing pocketbook. It was stripped of money but still contained a compact and various toilet articles. "Where did you find the purse?" Penny inquired eagerly. "On the Beech Trail not far from here." "Then it was dropped on purpose?" "Apparently it was. I followed the trail for a quarter of mile, then lost the fellow when he took to the brook." "Rather a smart fellow to think of that," commented Mr. Parker thoughtfully. "Perhaps he wasn't an ordinary snatch-thief after all." The ranger offered no comment. As he turned to go, he did assure Penny again that every effort would be made to capture the culprit. "If the fellow still is in the park we'll get him," he declared. "Don't you worry about that." With the coming of dusk a penetrating chill settled over the camp. Even the hot supper of steak and potatoes that Penny prepared failed to sufficiently warm the two tenters. They did the dishes and then, not wishing to go to bed, sought the enclosed car for heat. "It's starting to rain," Mr. Parker observed as a few drops splashed against the windshield. "Looks as if we're in for another siege of it." "And Louise is due tomorrow," Penny sighed. "Unless the weather improves I'd not blame her one bit if she turns right around and starts back to Riverview." The rain came down steadily with a promise of continuing throughout the night. Mr. Parker read a day-old newspaper by the light in the car, grumbling because the news was so old. Presently he switched on the radio, trying without success to tune in the outlaw station which had been heard previously at the same hour. "No luck," he commented. "Reception must be poor tonight, or the station has changed to another time. Probably it's shifted to a different locality too." "Dad, isn't it true that the operator of that secret station is an enemy agent?" Penny asked curiously. "It's a possibility." "Why not tell me all about it?" "Nothing to tell yet, Penny. Confidentially I'll admit I came here hoping to help State authorities find the station. So far I've accomplished nothing." "What clues have you gained?" "Now Penny, don't quiz me," Mr. Parker laughed. "I'll tell you everything as soon as I'm free to do so." "In the meantime, maybe I'll find out for myself!" Penny hinted. Abruptly swinging open the car door, she bolted through the rain to the tent. Breakfast the next morning was a more cheerful meal than had been expected. During the night the rain had ceased and a hot morning sun soon dried out the drenched canvas. Mr. Parker prepared coffee, eggs and bacon, an unbelievable example of perfect cooking. "Dad, I didn't think you had it in you!" Penny praised as she sat down on a camp stool beside him. "Maybe you'll develop into a real camper after all." "Not if I have anything to say about it." Grinning, Mr. Parker dropped two plump fried eggs on his daughter's plate and took the remaining four for himself. "This life could be worse though." "Dad, what time shall we start for the airport?" Mr. Parker poured himself a cup of coffee and then answered: "Afraid I won't be able to go with you, Penny." "But Dad! Louise will be expecting you." "It's not me she wants to see," Mr. Parker corrected. "I have an important engagement I can't break." Penny glanced quickly up. She was tempted to ask her father if he intended to see Mrs. Deline. Recalling that she had made her father a promise, she wisely withheld comment. Instead she asked if she might use the car. "By all means," he consented. "Just go easy on the gasoline." Breakfast over, dishes were dispatched and the camp put in order. By eleven o'clock Penny and her father were in Sunset Beach. "Drop me anywhere," Mr. Parker instructed vaguely. Leaving her father on a street corner, Penny drove slowly toward the airport a mile and a quarter away. There was little travel on the winding highway which curled along the beach. A government jeep whizzed past and two soldiers shouted and waved. Penny waved back. There was no need to hurry for Louise's plane was not yet due. Penny took her time and enjoyed the ocean scenery. The tide was coming in and gulls free-wheeled over the waves, dipping down at intervals in search of food. Gazing along the deserted beach, Penny was startled to see a familiar feminine figure hastening toward the lighthouse on Crag Point. The woman wore a white scarf that half obscured her face, yet the girl easily recognized her. "Mrs. Deline!" she thought, idling the car. "She's certainly going to the lighthouse! I wonder if that gruff old keeper will drive her away as he did me?" Curious to learn what would happen, the girl drew up at the side of the road. Mrs. Deline was too far away to observe the automobile. Intent only upon her own affairs, she walked swiftly along the beach until she reached the base of the lighthouse. "Now to see the fun!" chuckled Penny. The keeper had appeared on the platform and was gazing down upon the visitor. He called something to the woman that Penny could not hear. But to her amazement, Mrs. Deline started up the iron stairway. Penny waited expectantly. She was certain that the keeper of the light would order Mrs. Deline away. Instead, he greeted her with a hearty handshake as if they were old friends. They entered the lighthouse tower room together, and the heavy door closed behind them. # CHAPTER 9 _A SURPRISE FROM THE SKY_ "Well, if that isn't strange!" Penny muttered. "I wasn't permitted to set foot inside the lighthouse, but in goes Mrs. Deline without a single question asked!" Her curiosity aroused, the girl decided to wait and watch. Twenty minutes elapsed. During that time Mrs. Deline did not reappear. Penny grew tired of her vigil. "Mrs. Deline evidently intends to stay there a long while," she thought as she drove on. "For all I know, she and the lighthouse keeper may be old friends. They did greet each other as if they were acquainted." At the airport Penny parked on the crowded lot. She dropped into the lunch room for a sandwich and then wandered out on the cement runway. The noon passenger plane presently was announced through the loudspeaker system. A moment later Penny glimpsed the big silver twin-motor transport gliding down over the tree tops. As it taxied up to unload passengers, she held her breath. Knowing that there had been several last-minute cancellation of tickets, she was afraid that Louise might not be aboard. But as the door of the big transport swung back, her chum was the second passenger to alight. Fresh and trim in a yellow wool suit, she flung herself into Penny's arms. "Have a nice trip, Lou?" "Oh, heavenly! Only it didn't last long enough. We were here almost before I knew we'd started. I nearly lost my ticket to an Army Major too!" "I was afraid you might not get here," Penny laughed, picking up Louise's light over-night case. "What happened to the Major?" "Oh, at the last minute he changed his mind, so the company decided I could have my ticket back. And here I am! How's camping?" "Not much fun so far," Penny confessed truthfully. "But I can feel things starting to pick up." "We'll have a wonderful time together." "You just bet we will!" Penny declared with emphasis. "Had anything to eat?" "Oh, yes, lunch was served on the plane." "Then we may as well start for camp. I have oodles to tell you, Lou." Midway to the parking lot, Louise paused, calling attention to a Flying Fortress that was coming in against the wind. "Let's watch it land," she pleaded. "Did you ever see such a beautiful ship?" The huge Fortress came in fast for a perfect landing. Crew members began to tumble out through the door. One of the young men in captain's uniform evidently was a passenger for he carried a suitcase. "Lou!" Penny grasped her chum's arm. "That flier looks like Jerry Livingston!" "Oh, it couldn't be!" "All the same, I think it is!" Penny was so excited that she barely could control her voice. Jerry Livingston was one of her very best friends, a former reporter on the _Riverview Star_. In the days before he had joined the Army Air Force, she and Jerry had shared many an exciting adventure. However, since he had gone away there had been only a few letters and those brief communications had contained no real news. "It _is_ Jerry!" Penny cried an instant later. "Oh, Lou, this must have been the surprise that Dad knew about! How could he keep it from me?" Breaking away from her chum, Penny darted across the runway. As she called Jerry's name, the young man turned toward her. His handsome, wind-tanned face became a brilliant smile. A dozen long strides carried him to her side. "Penny!" he cried. He didn't hesitate. He just swept her into his arms and kissed her. "Sorry, Penny," Jerry apologized, his eyes twinkling. "Guess I shouldn't have done that. But when you've not seen your one and only girl for going on a year—" "Your which?" Penny stammered, too confused to blush. "You are my one and only, you know," Jerry grinned. "Always were for that matter. Even in the days when we tracked down news stories together." Louise came hurrying up. Jerry turned to greet her and the conversation became less personal. But from the way Louise smiled, Penny knew she had seen the kiss and would demand lengthy explanations later on. "Jerry!" she cried, noticing the decorations on his trim uniform. "They've given you the Distinguished Flying Cross! And the Purple Heart! You didn't write a word about that." "Nothing to write." Indignantly, the girls pried the story from Jerry. He had piloted a Flying Fortress in a highly successful raid over the Romanian oil fields. To reach its target, the Fortress had flown through flaming refineries, so low to the ground that fire actually had leaped up through the bomb bay of the plane. Swarms of enemy fighter ships had been fought off. Jerry's plane was one of the few to get back to its base safely. "I was luckier than some of the other fellows," Jerry said modestly. "That was all. Now they've sent me home to rest up for a while." "Oh, that's marvelous!" Penny said, guiding him toward the waiting car. "You can spend all of your spare time with us!" Jerry grinned down at her. "I'd like nothing better. But I'm not exactly on furlough." "I thought you just said—" "I'm doing a special mission here at Sunset Beach for the Army." "Anything you dare tell about?" Jerry helped the girls into the car, stowed the suitcases away, and then slid in beside Penny. "I can't tell you very much," he replied quietly. "But I can give you a general idea of why I'm here. There's a certain outlaw radio station that has been causing the government considerable annoyance. I've been sent here to try to trace its location." "And that's why Dad's here too!" Penny cried. "So you two schemers intended to join forces all along! A pity no one could let me know!" "I didn't want your father to tell you, because until the last minute I wasn't sure I was coming," Jerry explained. "The radio station assignment is only part of the reason why I'm here." "What's the other?" Penny asked as she started the car. "I'm on the lookout for an escaped German flier. The fellow escaped from a Canadian prison camp and was traced to this locality." "And you're supposed to be taking a rest from flying!" "This assignment will be a vacation." "I'd call it anything but one," Penny said indignantly. Her face suddenly became grave. "Jerry!" "Yes?" "What does that escaped prisoner look like?" "Oh, I can't describe him. I have a photograph in my brief case. Why do you ask?" "Maybe I've seen him." "Where?" Jerry could not hide a smile. "Why at our camp in the woods!" Excitedly Penny told of the bearded stranger who had robbed the Parker stores of food and clothing. Her description of the man was so vague that Jerry could make little of it. "I'm afraid your thief isn't the man we're after," he said kindly. "After I get to a hotel and open my luggage, I'll show you his picture." "And will you let me help you trail him?" "Oh, sure," Jerry answered, only half meaning it. "By the way, drive me to the Crystal Inn. I have a reservation there." Penny's face fell. "Anything wrong with the place?" Jerry inquired, observing her change of expression. Penny shook her head. "The place is all right. It's the people who stay there. Jerry—" "Yes?" "Are you susceptible to brunettes?" "Never noticed it." "You'll likely meet a Mrs. Deline at the hotel," Penny warned. "Don't have a thing to do with her." "Why should I?" Jerry was amused. "She's already made a jelly fish of Dad," Penny went on. "Jerry, stop grinning! This is serious." "Sorry, I didn't know I was smiling." "I need your help, Jerry. The truth is, I'm terribly worried about Dad." "If I know your father, there's no need to worry about him." "But you don't understand this Mrs. Deline," Penny said desperately. "She's a very clever, scheming woman. Jerry, will you promise to help me try to save Dad from her clutches?" Jerry managed to keep his face straight. "I'll do my best," he promised. Penny drew a deep sigh. "Oh, I'm so glad you're here," she murmured gratefully. "With you fighting on my side, the war's as good as won!" # CHAPTER 10 _HELP FROM MR. EMORY_ With Jerry at Sunset Beach, the vacation already promised to take on a rosy hue. Penny was so thrilled to be with her friends again that she paid scant heed to her driving. Several times, enroute to the Crystal Inn, Louise had to warn her to steer more carefully. "Oh, Jerry, now that you're here the fun will start!" Penny declared happily. "You've no idea how dull things have been without you." "And that goes double," Jerry said with emphasis. "How's your father?" "Oh, fine!" Penny laughed. "Camping has made him cross though. By the way, did he know you were coming?" "Yes, I sent him a wire." "I thought so! Dad's been keeping it from me. Why all the secrecy, I wonder?" "Well, my trip here isn't exactly a pleasure jaunt. And if I have luck, I'll be gone again in a few days." "I certainly hope you have no luck then," Penny said with a laugh. The car drew up at the Crystal Inn and Jerry unloaded his suitcase. He was taller, Penny thought, or at least more filled out. The trim uniform set off his broad shoulders. As he bent to pick up his luggage, a group of women on the hotel veranda turned to stare at him. "I'll check in and clean up a bit," Jerry said. "Then where can I meet you girls?" "Oh, we'll be somewhere on the beach," Penny replied carelessly. "Do hurry, Jerry. We have a million things to talk over." The girls parked the car not far from the hotel. As they walked along, scuffing their shoes in the loose sand, they saw Mrs. Deline coming toward them from the direction of Crag Point. "She's evidently been at the lighthouse all this time!" Penny commented in an undertone. "Now how did she get in there for a visit when I couldn't?" Mrs. Deline saw that she would meet the girls. Frowning, she glanced quickly toward the boardwalk as if seeking an avenue of escape. However, she could not avoid meeting them without appearing to do so deliberately. "How do you do," she greeted Penny coldly. Penny paused to introduce Louise. Mrs. Deline acknowledged the girl with an indifferent nod. Somewhat confused, Louise nervously twisted a silver ring she wore. It slipped from her finger and fell into the loose sand. "Oh, how awkward of me!" she exclaimed, and stooped to retrieve it. The ring buried itself deeper in the sand. "You'll lose it entirely if you're not careful!" Penny warned. "Here, let me help you." Getting down on their knees, the girls sifted the sand with their hands. Mrs. Deline seemed amused by their difficulties and did not offer to help. "Well, I must be getting on to the hotel," she said casually. "I took a long walk this afternoon and I'm tired." "To the lighthouse?" Penny commented, before she stopped to think. Mrs. Deline glanced at her sharply. "No, not to the lighthouse," she replied in a tone meant to put the girl in her place. "I shouldn't think of walking that far." "But I thought I saw you there." "You saw me?" Mrs. Deline laughed. "Well, my dear, you certainly were mistaken. I walked to the 12th Street bridge. No farther." Penny started to reply, then thought better of it. There was no point in arguing with Mrs. Deline. However, she was certain she had seen the widow at the lighthouse. Why the woman should deny it she could not imagine. After Mrs. Deline had gone, Penny and Louise searched in vain for the missing ring. They knew it could not be many inches away, yet it kept eluding them. "Oh, I can't afford to lose the ring!" Louise wailed. "How valuable is it?" "It's not worth much from a money standpoint. I drew it as a prize in a piece of wedding cake and I've always kept it as a good luck piece." "We'll find it," Penny said confidently. "That is, if the tide doesn't catch us first." Just as she spoke, a wave came rippling up the beach. It broke only a few feet away, showering the girls with spray and wetting their shoes. "If the tide flows over this spot, I never will find the ring," Louise cried in vexation. "Such wretched luck!" "Having trouble?" inquired a deep masculine voice. Penny and Louise raised their heads. Unnoticed by them, a stranger had approached. The man wore a wet bathing suit plastered with sand. He had on glasses and a moment elapsed before Penny recognized him as the same fisherman who had warned her about the tide at Crag Point. "I'm George Emory," he introduced himself. "Have you lost something?" "My ring," Louise explained. The man helped the girls search for the missing trinket. By now waves were creeping higher and higher on the beach. A particularly big one sent Penny and Louise scurrying for safety. "It's no use looking any longer for the ring," Louise gave up. "Perhaps I can find it after the tide turns." "By then it will be washed away," replied Mr. Emory. "Ah! What's this?" He stooped to pick a shiny object from the sand. "It's my ring!" Louise cried in delight. "Oh, thank you for finding it!" The three retreated to higher ground. As Penny and Louise were about to start for the hotel, Mr. Emory suggested that they might like to share a picnic lunch with him. Neither of the girls was hungry, but to offend the man after he had found Louise's ring was unthinkable. Accordingly, they accompanied him to one of the gaily painted wooden umbrellas along the beach. Beneath its shade Mr. Emory spread a paper tablecloth and produced ample supplies of sandwiches, fruit and lemonade. "Were you expecting to eat all this food yourself?" Penny asked in amazement. "No, I was hoping to find a companion who would share it," replied Mr. Emory. "The truth is, I'm a pretty lonely old fellow." Penny and Louise stole a quick look at the stranger. By no stretch of the imagination could they call him old. Judging from appearances, he was not yet forty years old. "My wife died a few years ago," Mr. Emory explained sadly. "Since then I've been like a ship without a rudder. I have plenty of money, but I don't get much enjoyment out of life. I go wherever it suits my fancy, stay until I weary of it, then move on." "Oh, I see," Penny murmured with a show of sympathy. She felt ashamed of herself that the story did not move her more deeply. Mr. Emory evidently was a lonely fellow, deserving of companionship. Yet for some reason, he failed to interest her. "Have you been at Sunset Beach long?" she inquired politely. "Oh, about a month. I know every nook and cranny along the shore." "You do?" Penny asked, and her interest revived. "Are there many caves near Sunset Beach?" "Plenty of them, though none very close. There are several near the lighthouse, back among the rocks. Crystal Cave probably is the most interesting. Then there are half a dozen scattered on up the shore. Interested in caves?" "Oh, in a general way," Penny replied carelessly. "Penny is interested in anything that suggests mystery," Louise volunteered with a grin. "Mystery?" "Lou's joking," Penny said quickly. She gave her chum a hard look which was not lost upon Mr. Emory. "Why, Penny!" Louise refused to be silenced. "Only a few minutes ago you were telling me about a radio broadcast said to come from a cave!" "That was just my idea," Penny said, confused. She jumped hastily to her feet. "We really should be going, Lou." "Oh, don't hurry away." Mr. Emory offered Louise another sandwich. "Speaking of mysterious radio stations, I've heard of one that is said to be located in a cave somewhere along these shores. Fact is, I've searched for it." "You have?" Penny asked, sinking back into the sand. "Any luck?" "None. But I did manage to kill quite a few afternoons. I take it that your father came to Sunset Beach to help the authorities search for the station. Right?" "Why, whatever made you think that?" Penny asked, instantly on guard. "Do you know my father?" "I regret I haven't the honor. I chanced to overhear a conversation at the hotel." "Oh," Penny murmured. She was certain that the information could have leaked out in only one way. Her father had told Mrs. Deline, who in turn had spread the news about the hotel. "I trust I'm not inquiring into secrets," Mr. Emory went on cheerfully. "Fact of the matter is, I might be able to help your father." "I'm sure Dad will want to talk with you." "I'll look forward to meeting your father. Think you can arrange it?" "Why, I suppose so," Penny said, though with no great enthusiasm. Again she experienced a queer, uneasy feeling. She did not entirely trust Mr. Emory. The man smiled and seemed to relax. As the girls arose to leave he tried once more to detain them. "See that old fellow down the beach?" he inquired, pointing to an aged man who was picking up objects from the sand with a sharp-pointed stick. "Yes, what about him?" Penny asked, turning to stare. "Just an ordinary beachcomber, isn't he?" "I'd not call Old Jake Skagway ordinary," Mr. Emory corrected. "If you're really interested in solving the radio station mystery, I'd advise you to keep watch of that rascal." "But why him?" Penny asked. "I can't explain," Mr. Emory said with finality. "It's just a tip. Take it or leave it." Yawning, he stretched himself full length on the sand and turned his back to the girls. # CHAPTER 11 _A MAN OF MYSTERY_ The following day when Penny told her father of Mr. Emory's desire to meet him, Mr. Parker showed little interest. "I've no time to waste getting acquainted with strangers," he said. "Why is the man so eager to know me?" "He thinks he may be able to help you locate that hidden radio station." Mr. Parker's annoyance visibly increased. "Penny," he said severely, "you've evidently been talking out of turn." "I didn't mean to let him know why you're at Sunset Beach, Dad. It sort of slipped out." Louise, who was washing the breakfast dishes, spoke quickly. "It was my fault," she insisted. "Penny tried to stop me, but I gave the information before I thought." "Well, it doesn't matter," Mr. Parker assured her kindly. "I came here mostly for a vacation. If I should be lucky enough to dig up a few facts about the radio station, well and good. If not, no harm will have been done." "You sent for Jerry to help you?" Penny inquired curiously. Mr. Parker shook his head. "No, I knew he was coming, but I didn't send for him. If I had, I'm afraid the Army wouldn't have been obliging enough to have filled my order." Penny helped Louise put away the camp dishes and pick up loose papers. It was only eight-thirty but already most of the work had been done. With Louise to help, camping no longer was a burden. Even Mr. Parker seemed to have moments of enjoying the outdoor life. "Anyone riding to Sunset Beach with me?" he inquired cheerfully. "I have a date with Jerry this morning." Penny and Louise both wanted to go. They washed at the brook, changed into becoming "town" dresses, and soon were ready. At the Crystal Inn, Jerry was not to be found. A clerk explained that the young man had left the hotel a half hour earlier but was expected to return soon. "He probably went somewhere for breakfast or a walk," Mr. Parker remarked, sinking into a comfortable chair. "I'll wait for him." Penny and Louise loitered in the lobby. Presently Mrs. Deline came from the dining room and Mr. Parker politely arose to greet her. The widow took a chair beside him and they began to chat in an animated way. "Let's get away from here!" Penny muttered to Louise. "I don't like the scenery." The girls went outside into the warm sunshine. Because the Parker automobile was at the curb they climbed into it and sat watching the sea. "Why do you dislike Mrs. Deline so intensely?" Louise presently asked her chum. "Because she's aiming to be my stepmother, that's why!" "Oh, Penny!" Louise laughed outright. "I'm sure you have a mistaken idea about the entire situation. Your father isn't serious in liking her." "Then he's certainly developed remarkable talents for acting," Penny retorted with a sniff. "I wish we'd never come to Sunset Beach." "You'd be willing to forego the mystery?" "Who cares about a radio station?" Penny asked crossly. "Dad won't tell me anything about the case, and probably Jerry won't either. It seems to be one of those affairs for the experts only." "If I know you, Penny, you'll manage to get in on the affair," Louise said, her eyes twinkling. Penny turned on the ignition and started the car. "I'm just not interested," she announced flatly. "Mrs. Deline has taken all the fun out of me. Want to go for a ride?" "Where?" "Oh, just up the beach." "Isn't it dangerous to drive on the sand?" "Everyone does it at low tide. The sand is hard and firm along this stretch of beach." Louise offered no further objection, so Penny drove slowly away from the hotel. The car rode on silken tires, making only a soft swishing sound as it rolled smoothly over the sand. "Oh, this is fun!" Louise cried in delight. "We might drive to the lighthouse," Penny proposed, steering to avoid two bathers who crossed in front of the car. Following the curve of the beach, the girls kept on until the sand became so soft that they were afraid to drive farther. The lighthouse was close by. Penny, curious to learn what sort of reception the keeper would accord her on the second visit, proposed to Louise that they call there. "If he let Mrs. Deline visit the tower why can't we?" she argued. "Come along, let's try to get in!" Abandoning the car on the beach, they waded through the dunes, climbed a fence, and ultimately reached the base of the tower. No one seemed to be in evidence. Penny started boldly up the iron steps. However, before she had gone very far, the keeper, Jim McCoy, came out on the platform. "Didn't I tell you no visitors are allowed here?" he called down angrily. "I saw a lady come here yesterday!" Penny returned. "You must have dreamed it," retorted the lighthouse keeper. "No visitors allowed. Don't make me tell you again!" Penny retreated, decidedly crushed. "You asked for it, kitten," Louise teased as they walked toward the car. "I don't blame the keeper for not wanting visitors." "Mrs. Deline was there," Penny insisted stubbornly. "Why should he deny it?" Half way to the car, the girls paused to pick up a few large shells lying in the deep sand. The task became an absorbing one. Before they realized it, the sun was high overhead and their faces were being burned by the direct rays. "Let's go," Louise urged. "The tide turned a long while ago. We should be returning to the hotel." "Okay," Penny agreed. She stooped to pick up another shell. As she straightened, she observed an old man in ragged clothing coming down the beach. "Lou," she said in a low tone, "there's that same man Mr. Emory was telling us about!" "The beachcomber?" Louise turned to stare. "Yes, and he's coming this way. Perhaps it might be worth while to watch him." "He's not seen us yet." Penny glanced about for a hiding place. The only one that offered was a huge sand dune. Pulling Louise along with her, she crouched down out of sight. In a moment the old beachcomber came along. He was whistling and seemed to have not a care in the world. His face, viewed at close range, was weather-beaten, his hair uncombed, and his clothing had not been washed in many a day. "What's so mysterious about him?" Louise whispered. "Why did Mr. Emory say he'd bear watching?" "Maybe he's not really a beachcomber," Penny returned, low. "He may be an Enemy Agent in disguise." "You have Enemy Agents on the brain!" Louise chuckled. "Likewise, man-snatching widows." The beachcomber passed within a few feet of the girls. He crossed the courtyard of the lighthouse and was seen to take a trail which led amid the rocks. "Lou, perhaps he's going to one of the caves!" Penny cried. "You know Mr. Emory said this locality is honeycombed with them." "Let him go," Louise answered indifferently. "It's lunch time and I'm hungry." "Your appetite will have to wait. I'm going to follow that man!" "Oh, Penny." "But this may be important." "And it may be just another of your so-called bright ideas," Louise retorted. "Well, lead on, and let's get it over with." The beachcomber already had disappeared amid the mass of piled-up rock farther back from shore. Penny had marked the locality well with her eye. She was able to lead Louise to the place where he had vanished. "See, there's a well-worn trail," she indicated triumphantly. "He must have taken it." They followed the path, and a moment later caught a fleeting glimpse of the beachcomber. At times the trail was so narrow that the girls barely could squeeze between the rocks. Wind whistled around the cliffs, whipping hair and blowing skirts. Unexpectedly, Penny, who was in the lead, came to the low entranceway of a cave. "He must have gone in there!" she declared excitedly. "Listen!" From deep within the cave the girls could hear a strange sound. "Rushing water!" Louise said in awe. "The Cave must have a waterfall or an underground river." "We'll soon know." Penny started into the cave only to have Louise clutch at her hand. "Don't be silly, Penny. We have no flashlight." "But we can't let that beachcomber get away. We want to learn what he does." "I can bear up without knowing." "Well, I can't," Penny announced with equal firmness. "But it may be dangerous. Let's go back to the hotel and get Jerry or your father." Penny hesitated, then shook her head. "You stay here if you like, Lou," she replied. "I'm going inside." Before her chum could detain her, she stooped low and crawled into the narrow, dark tunnel. # CHAPTER 12 _CAUGHT BY THE TIDE_ Unwilling to be left behind, Louise followed her chum into the dark cavern. Once she and Penny were well beyond the yawning mouth of the cave, they could not see a foot ahead of them. Guided by the sound of rushing water, they groped their way along a damp wall. "This is awful!" Louise whispered nervously. "Let's turn back." Penny might have yielded to her chum's coaxing but at that moment the tunnel broadened out and became lighter. Directly ahead a series of steps led down to a lower room of the cave. "This place must be safe enough or steps wouldn't have been built here," she whispered. "Don't be nervous, Lou. We may discover something important." Louise muttered that they were more likely to break their necks. However, she cautiously followed Penny down the rock-hewn steps. Half way down, they both paused. From below came a weird sound. "What was that?" Louise whispered. "It sounded for all the world like the note of a pipe organ!" Penny observed. "There it is again—a different tone this time." Noiselessly the girls moved on down the steps. Ahead of them they now could see a moving light which undoubtedly was a flash lantern carried by the beachcomber. Drawing closer, they saw the man himself. In the great cavern his shadow appeared grotesque and huge. "What is he doing?" Louise whispered in awe. The man was unaware that he had been followed. He stood in the center of the great chamber, gazing with wrapt expression at the stalagmites which rose in strange formations from the cave floor. The girls could hear him muttering to himself. At the risk of being seen they moved closer. "Music! Music!" the old man mumbled. "Talk about your pipe organs! They ain't in it with _this_!" He held a long stick in his hand and with it began to explore the row of stalagmites, striking them one by one, at first with a slow tempo and then faster and faster. The weird sounds echoed and reached through the galleries of the cavern. "Pretty!" the old man prattled. "It's the music o' Heaven. There ain't no music to equal it." Again the beachcomber struck the stalagmites, listening raptly while the sounds died slowly away. "Come on, Penny," Louise urged, tugging at her hand. "Let's get out of here. That old goof has lost his buttons." Decidedly crestfallen, Penny permitted herself to be pulled along the passage and up the steps. As the girls groped their way to the cave's mouth, they still could hear the weird echoing tones. "That was a good joke on you!" Louise teased. "You thought you were going to find a hidden radio station!" "Well, we did find a cave," Penny said defensively. "We didn't exactly discover it," Louise amended. "This must be Crystal Cave. Seemingly that old beachcomber regards it as his own personal property." "Mr. Emory certainly gave us a wrong steer. A mysterious character, my eye!" "You'll admit that the old fellow is interesting," Louise laughed. "However, I doubt he'll warrant much attention from the FBI." "All right, laugh," Penny retorted grimly. "You think my detective efforts are a joke anyway." "No, I don't, Penny. But I will say I doubt you'll have success tracing a hidden radio station. After all, it's a problem that has the State authorities baffled. Not to mention Uncle Sam's Army." The girls stepped from the cave out into the brilliant sunshine. Gazing toward the sea, they were amazed to see how high the tide had risen. Giant waves were washing very close to the Parker automobile left on the beach. "Ye fishes!" Penny exclaimed in horror. "I forgot all about the car!" "And the tide's coming in fast!" "The Point will be cut off in a few more minutes!" Penny added, recalling Mr. Emory's warning. "We'll have to travel, and travel fast!" Scrambling down from the rocks, the girls plunged through the dunes to the beach. A wind was blowing and the sea had an angry look. "If just one wave strikes the car, the wheels will sink in the sand, and then we'll be in it!" Penny cried. With increasing alarm she noted that sand was damp within a foot of the rear wheels. And as she jerked open the car door, a greedy wave nipped again at the rubber. "We'll soon be out of here," Louise said encouragingly. Penny stepped on the starter and to her relief the motor caught instantly. In great haste she turned the car around, circling away from the inrushing sea. "Careful!" Louise warned. "The sand is dreadfully soft this far up shore." Too late Penny realized the same thing. She could feel the car starting to bog down. The motor began to labor. Then the car stalled completely. "We're stuck!" she gasped. Both girls sprang out to look at the wheels. Their spirits sank. On one side, front and rear tires were bogged deep in sand. "Start the engine again!" Louise urged desperately. "I'll try to push." Penny obeyed, but her chum's puny strength made not the slightest impression upon the car. It could not be moved a foot. The spinning wheels only drove deeper and deeper into the sand. "What shall we do?" Louise asked helplessly. She turned to stare at the incoming sea. Each wave was breaking a little closer to the car. "This place will be under in another twenty minutes," Penny calculated. "Even if the car isn't washed away, the salt water will ruin it. How did we ever get into such a mess?" "Just by being careless. If only we weren't so far from the hotel!" "I'll run to the lighthouse," Penny decided desperately. "Maybe the keeper will help us." Both girls were badly frightened, not for their own safety, but because they feared that the car would be damaged beyond repair. Once the waves began to strike it, it would sink deeper and deeper into the sand. Salt water would corrode all of the bright chromium. "We've no time to waste!" Penny cried, darting away. The girls plunged through the sand drifts to the lighthouse. Evidently the keeper already had observed their plight, for he was standing on the upper platform peering down into the courtyard. "Our car is stuck in the sand!" Penny shouted. "Can you help us get it out?" "No, I can't," the keeper answered gruffly. "You should have watched the tide." "There's no one else to help us," Penny pleaded. "Just a little push—" "I'm forbidden to leave my post." "Then will you telephone to the Inn? Or to a garage?" "I could "phone but it wouldn't do any good," the keeper said reluctantly. "Your car will be under water before a tow-car could get here." Exasperated by the man's unwillingness to help, Louise and Penny ran back to the car. Already waves were lapping against the rear wheels. The situation seemed hopeless. "Shall I try to push again?" Louise asked. "It wouldn't do any good. We're not strong enough." In desperation, Penny's gaze wandered down the deserted shore. Suddenly she saw a lone fisherman who was wading through the surf. She recognized him as George Emory. "He'll help us!" she cried confidently. The girls shouted Mr. Emory's name. Apparently he heard, for he turned his head quickly. Their plight, they thought, must be instantly evident, but Mr. Emory did not seem to comprehend. He waved his hand as if in friendly greeting, and then, reeling in his fish line, turned and walked away from them. # CHAPTER 13 _A HIDDEN PACKAGE_ "Why, Mr. Emory doesn't understand!" Penny cried, aghast. "Can't he see that we're stuck here with the tide rolling in?" The girls shouted again and again. If the man heard, he gave no sign. "I don't believe he wanted to help us!" Penny declared furiously. "Probably he's afraid he'll over-strain himself pushing!" Unwilling to give up without a last try, she sprang into the car and once more started the engine. It roared and labored but could not pull the vehicle. Sick with despair, Penny allowed the motor to idle. She slumped behind the steering wheel, only to straighten suddenly as she thought she heard her name called. Louise too heard the cry for she turned quickly toward the main road some yards back from the beach. A young man in uniform was running across the dunes toward the girls. "It's Jerry!" Penny cried jubilantly. "He'll help us!" "He will if he can," Louise corrected. "The tide's coming in so fast now. I doubt anyone can get us out of here now." Jerry did not waste time asking questions. Taking in the situation at a glance, he instructed Penny to remain at the wheel. With the motor racing, he and Louise pushed with all their strength. At first the rear wheels kept spinning in the sand. A great wave slapped the rear end of the car, spraying Louise from head to foot. "It's no use!" she gasped. "We can't do it." "Yes, we can!" Jerry insisted. "Try once more, Louise." Again they pushed and this time the car actually moved a few feet before it bogged down. Encouraged, Jerry and Louise tried harder than before. The wheels suddenly struck firm sand, dug in, and the car began to creep forward. Penny kept it moving until she was sure the footing beneath the tires was solid. Then she pulled up so that Jerry and Louise might leap aboard. "Drive as fast as you can for the hotel!" Jerry instructed crisply. "We'll be lucky to make it." Where an hour before the roadway along the beach had been wide and ample, there now was only a fringe of white sand. To avoid the incoming waves, Penny had to drive dangerously close to the dunes. And midway to the hotel, they came to a flooded stretch of beach. "We'll have to risk it," Jerry advised as Penny hesitated to drive on. The water was not deep but the sand was wet and treacherous. Choosing a moment between breakers, Penny braved it, and to her intense relief the car rolled through without sinking down. "It's clear sailing now," Jerry said as a wider strip of beach opened before them. "We're well beyond the Point." Mr. Emory was walking along the shore and as the car went past, he waved his hand in a friendly way. Penny did not bother to return the salute, pretending she did not see him. "I'm sure he knew we were in trouble and didn't want to help," she told Jerry. "The more I see of that man the less I like him." "Who is he anyhow?" "Just a vacationer. He got Lou and me all excited yesterday with his talk about that hidden radio station." "How do you mean?" Jerry asked with interest. Penny repeated the conversation, and mentioned how Mr. Emory had suggested that the old beachcomber was a mysterious character that would bear watching. "Not old Jake Skagway?" Jerry asked, amused. "I believe that was his name." "Jake's the only beachcomber I know hereabouts. He makes his living picking up things on the beach and selling them. Folks say he buries some of his loot in the caves." "How do you know so much about him, Jerry?" "Oh, I used to run down to Sunset Beach real often years ago. I know this locality like a book. Guess that's why the Army sent me here to do a little scouting around." Penny waited expectantly, but Jerry offered no more information as to the reason for his visit to Sunset Beach. "Probably Lou and I were taken in by Jake Skagway," she admitted after a moment. "If we hadn't followed him into the cave, we certainly wouldn't have involved ourselves in such difficulties." Upon reaching the Crystal Inn a few minutes later, the girls searched for Mr. Parker. He was nowhere to be found. After waiting for a time, they left the car with Jerry and hiked to the forest camp. There the early afternoon was devoted to camp tasks. When Mr. Parker still did not come, Penny proposed that they return to Sunset Beach for a plunge in the surf. "Too cold," Louise shivered. "Well, let's go down to Sunset Beach anyhow," Penny urged. "I get restless just sitting here in camp." "You know you want to see Jerry again," Louise teased. "'Fess up." "All right, I do want to see him," Penny admitted unabashed. "Jerry's my very best friend. I've not been with him in months and I suppose in a few days he'll be shot off to goodness-knows-where." "He's not told you very much about why he came here." "No," Penny said briefly. The subject was a sore one with her. She felt that both her father and Jerry were keeping secrets. The tide was still high when the girls reached the beach, but the flow was outward. Sprawling in the warm sand, they watched the gulls. "Wonder what became of Jerry and Dad?" Penny speculated. "They're probably together somewhere." "Or with Mrs. Deline," Louise suggested wickedly. She was sorry that she had spoken for Penny's face immediately became as black as a thundercloud. "Sorry," Louise apologized. "I was only joking." Penny continued to scowl for at that moment she glimpsed Mrs. Deline walking rapidly down the beach. The widow came from the direction of the lighthouse and was alone. To avoid the incoming waves she waded ankle deep through the great sand ridges along the drift fence. "That's queer," Penny muttered, sitting up. "What is?" "Why, Mrs. Deline apparently has been at the lighthouse again. What's she doing now?" The widow had paused. Carefully she gazed up and down the deserted shore, but she did not see Penny and Louise who were hidden from view by a sand dune. However, by raising up slightly, they could see her plainly. Mrs. Deline carried a package of considerable size under her arm. Seemingly satisfied that no one was at hand to observe her actions, she moved swiftly to one of the sand dunes near the drift fence. As the girls watched in amazement, she dug a deep hole and buried the package. Her work completed, she carefully brushed sand over the spot and obliterated her own footprints one by one. "What was the idea of that?" Louise asked in bewilderment. "That's what I want to know!" Penny muttered. "We'll wait until she leaves and then find out the contents of that package!" But Mrs. Deline did not immediately go away. Instead she sat down in the sand close by. The girls could not see very well but they thought she was writing something on the skirt of her white suit. "Why is she doing that?" Louise asked in bewilderment. "I'll bet a cookie she's writing down the location of what she hid in the sand dune!" Penny speculated. "That's so she can find it again!" "But why write it on her skirt? And why should she hide anything here on the beach?" "Because she's a spy!" Penny declared triumphantly. "I've been suspicious of her from the first!" "Yes, you have, darling," agreed Louise. "But would a spy necessarily hide a package? If Mrs. Deline had information to communicate wouldn't she send it to her superiors? Besides, Sunset Beach isn't even an important manufacturing town." "That's true. But I've heard Dad say that the Coast Guards watch this place closely. Because of its isolation and jagged coastline it's considered a likely spot for surprise night landings by the Enemy." "Only this morning you thought old Jake Skagway was a rascal," Louise chuckled. "You don't catch me falling for your theories this time." "Then you have no interest in that hidden package?" "Of course I have! I merely don't agree that Mrs. Deline is a spy." "Quiet!" Penny warned. "Here she comes!" Mrs. Deline had arisen from the sand and came rapidly down the beach. She did not see the girls until she was very close to them. Involuntarily, she paused, and looked somewhat disconcerted. Recovering, she spoke coldly. "Hello," Penny responded, her gaze on the woman's white flannel skirt. It bore not a single tell-tale mark. Mrs. Deline went on down the beach. "You see," Louise whispered when the woman was beyond hearing, "she didn't write anything on her dress." "But we saw her do it!" "We only thought we did." "Maybe she wrote it in invisible ink." "Oh, Penny, you certainly have an imagination," Louise sighed. "I suppose I imagined about the package too?" "No, she really did bury something in the sand." "Then what are we waiting for?" Penny demanded, leaping to her feet. "Let's dig it up, and then maybe we'll have the answer to a few of our questions." # CHAPTER 14 _VOICE FROM THE CAVE_ From a distance Penny and Louise had marked well the spot where Mrs. Deline had buried the package. But as they approached the drift fence all of the dunes seemed strikingly similar in appearance. They could not agree as to the exact mound which contained the hidden package. "It was buried in this one, I think," Penny said, starting to dig. "Mrs. Deline certainly did a good job of covering her tracks." "You're wasting time working on that dune," Louise insisted. "I'll get busy over here and turn up the package in nothing flat." Selecting a mound of sand several feet from Penny, she began to dig with a will. The mysterious package proved elusive. Scarcely had the girls started work than a few raindrops splattered down. "Oh, it's going to storm!" Louise exclaimed, turning startled eyes toward the dark sea. The rain came down faster and faster. Faced with a choice of abandoning the search or being drenched, the girls decided to make a dash for the hotel. As they darted up the steps at the Crystal Inn, they were surprised to see Mrs. Deline sitting on the veranda. A spyglass lay in her lap. Whether she had been watching the sea or their own antics they had no way of knowing. "Have you seen my father, Mrs. Deline?" Penny asked, shaking the raindrops from her flying hair. "Indeed, I don't keep track of his whereabouts," Mrs. Deline replied coldly. "By the way, did you find what you were searching for in the sand?" The question caught Penny off guard. She stammered a few words which only caused the widow to smile in a knowing, amused way. "I don't mind telling you what I buried in the sand," she resumed. "It may save you a little trouble. The package contained nothing but fish bones." "Fish bones!" "Yes, I had just visited my friend, Jim McCoy, at the lighthouse. It's most difficult to bury anything there because of so many rocks. He asked me to dispose of the scraps for him." "Oh," Penny murmured, completely deflated. "I've been watching you girls through the spyglass," Mrs. Deline went on. "It really was amusing." "I can imagine," Penny agreed grimly. "Oh, well, I'm glad to provide a little amusement for this dead place." She and Louise retreated until they were screened from the widow by a potted palm. "I guess she scored on you that time, Penny," Louise commented. "So we wasted our strength digging for garbage!" "You needn't rub it in." "But it's all so silly. Why don't we try to like Mrs. Deline, Penny?" "I'll leave that job up to you. Furthermore, how do I know she was telling the truth? Maybe she just handed us that story so we wouldn't go on digging in the dunes!" "That's so!" Louise acknowledged. "Mrs. Deline isn't the type to be doing gracious little jobs for anyone." "If Jim McCoy asked her to bury a package of garbage, she would have disposed of it long before she did," Penny reasoned. "Instead, she walked quite a distance down shore. Then she seemed to select a particular dune, as if by pre-arrangement." "You think she may have hidden something there expecting another person to pick it up?" "That's my theory, Lou. Oh, I wish this rain would let up." Restlessly Penny walked to a window. The rain showed signs of slackening. And as she watched, a taxi drew up in front of the hotel. Jerry Livingston leaped out. "Wait for me!" he instructed the driver. "I'll be right back." Penny and Louise managed to block Jerry's path as he came hurrying into the hotel. "Hello, girls," he greeted them offhanded. "Want to go for a drive into the country?" "We certainly do," Penny accepted for both. "What's our destination?" "Tell you on the way," Jerry answered. He disappeared into an elevator, but was back in the lobby within a few minutes. Taking Penny and Louise each by an elbow, he escorted them to the waiting cab. "In a way, this is a secret trip," he said after he had given directions to the driver. "Ever see a radio monitoring truck?" "Never even heard of one," Penny replied. "What is it?" "Well, we have a truck equipped so that our instruments pick up the direction from which any short wave broadcast is sent. It's not generally known that the Army's at work here, so whatever you girls see you must keep under your sunbonnets." The taxi sped along the country road, following a route that was unfamiliar to the girls. By the time it drew up several miles from Sunset Beach the rain had ceased. "Tumble out," Jerry said, opening the cab door. "This is the end of the line." He went ahead, breaking a hole in the tall hedge at one side of the road. Eagerly the girls followed him through the gap. In a clearing just beyond a clump of saplings stood what appeared to be an ordinary covered Army truck. An enlisted man came toward Jerry and the girls, saluting smartly. "Are you picking up any signals?" Jerry asked him. "Nothing yet, sir. The weather hasn't been very favorable." "You've had your equipment set up here two days now?" "Right, sir." "It's not likely we'll get anything today or tonight," Jerry replied. "Oh, well, we'll have to have patience. Sooner or later the station will go on the air again, and then we'll learn its location." Louise and Penny were curious to learn more about the monitoring truck. Jerry took them inside, introduced them to the officers, and showed them the radio apparatus. "Our truck is equipped with rotating antennae," he explained. "Whenever the unknown station starts to broadcast we'll be able to swing our loops toward the signals. Then we chart the signals and where the lines intercept, the station is located." "As you explain it, Jerry, finding any radio station is a simple matter." "It is, providing the station doesn't move in the meantime. Unfortunately, Mr. Voice from the Cave is an elusive fellow." "You have no idea who the man may be?" "No, he's known to FBI agents only as B4 which is a code number." "What is the purpose behind the broadcasts?" Louise inquired. "Enemy propaganda?" "We know that the station is enemy owned and operated," Jerry replied. "So far that's about all we do know, for we've been unable to break the code. We suspect that persons connected with the station may be aiding German prisoners to escape from the country." "Prisoners originally held in Canada?" Penny inquired. "Yes, they've been aided by a ring of very clever spies." Penny was silent as she thought over the information. There were many questions she longed to ask. "Jerry—" she began, but just then there came an interruption. In the Army truck an officer had adjusted his earphones. His attitude as he listened was one of tense expectancy. "Picking up any signals?" Jerry demanded. The other man nodded. "Something's coming in! Yes, it's our friend, the Voice. In just a minute we should know exactly where the station is located." Jerry and the girls remained in the truck, eagerly awaiting a report from the efficient men who manned the radio direction finders. "Okay, we've got it charted!" came the terse announcement a moment later. "Where's the station located?" Jerry demanded eagerly. "Let's see the chart." It was thrust into his hand. Jerry stared at the intercepting lines and then at a map of the district. "Why, the station seems to be located along the shore!" he exclaimed. "Apparently in one of the caves—Crystal Cave I'd judge." "That's the cave where Louise and I were!" Penny exclaimed. "But we saw no shortwave radio apparatus. Only crazy old Skagway who was playing a tune on the stalagmites." "All the same, direction finders don't lie. The broadcast came from Crystal Cave! But that doesn't mean the station will be there fifteen minutes from now." "What's to be done?" Penny asked. "Can't the Voice be caught before he has a chance to move his portable outfit?" "A message already has been sent to Headquarters. Army men should be on their way to the cave now." "Jerry, we're not far from Crystal Cave ourselves!" Penny exclaimed, her eyes dancing with excitement. "Can't we go there too?" "We can and will!" Jerry laughed. "But if we expect to catch our friend, the Voice, there's no time to lose. Come along, girls, if you're traveling with me." # CHAPTER 15 _AFTERGLOW_ Penny sprawled on the grass beside the dying embers of the camp fire. Listlessly, and with very bad aim, she hurled acorns at a brown squirrel chattering overhead. "You've been in a bad mood ever since we got back from Crystal Cave," Louise observed, coming out of the tent. "But why take it out on that poor creature?" Penny raised herself on an elbow. She scowled and did not reply. Louise moved over to the fire, seating herself on a log beside her chum. "Oh, brace up," she said, slipping an arm about Penny's shoulders. "In all my life I've never seen you act so discouraged." "I feel lower than the worms. Nothing's gone right since we came to Sunset Beach." "On the contrary, I can't see that anything has gone so very wrong." "Wasn't our trip to the Crystal Cave a bust?" Penny demanded. "Well, it wasn't a success." Louise smiled wryly at the recollection. With Jerry and the Army men, she and Penny had spent the afternoon searching various caves along the water front. Not a trace had been found of the mysterious radio station which so plagued local authorities. The search had been a long and exhausting one. In the end, though the others kept on, she and Penny had been compelled to give up. "My feet hurt yet from scrambling over the rocks," Penny declared. "I suppose Jerry and those Army officers will keep searching half the night." "And I'll warrant they never do find the station," Louise contributed. "This is one mystery I wish you had never stumbled into, Penny." "I'm beginning to feel the same way, Lou. This is supposed to be a vacation. I'd like to see Dad and Jerry once in awhile." "So that's what's bothering you!" "Well, you know Jerry will be here only a few days at most," Penny said defensively. "I've barely had a chance to say "hello' to him. Dad's always down at the hotel too." "What you crave seems to be male companionship." Penny tossed a stick of wood on the fire, making the sparks fly. "I could do with a little," she admitted. "Life is too dull here." "Dull?" Louise gazed at her chum suspiciously. "It's no use being surrounded by mystery if one can't get into the thick of it. So far all the adventure has by-passed us." "We might stir up a little excitement by looking for that package Mrs. Deline buried in the sand." "Not today," Penny said with a sigh. "Too tired. Besides, I told Jerry about it and he wasn't much impressed." "So that's the reason for your gloom," Louise remarked wisely. "As a detective you don't rate." "Something like that. Jerry met Mrs. Deline at the hotel today and he thought her a very charming lady." "Oh!" Louise laughed. "No wonder you're all smashed to bits!" Penny got up from the grass and began preparations for supper. She peeled a pan of potatoes and opened a can of corn. "We need a bucket of water from the spring," she said suggestively. "Want to help me carry it?" "I will," Louise agreed without enthusiasm. The trail led up a steep path to a rocky ledge from which cool spring water gushed out of a steel pipe. Penny drank deeply and then hung her tin bucket over the outlet to fill. "It's starting to get dark," she observed, noticing how shadowy the woods had grown. "I hope Dad returns to camp soon." "Someone's coming now," Louise remarked as her keen ears detected the sound of footsteps on the trail below. "Probably one of the rangers." Penny unhooked the water bucket from the pipe, and the girls started down the trail, carrying it between them. Emerging from among the trees, they glimpsed a figure below them. A woman in a dark cloak who carried a picnic hamper, was walking rapidly up the winding trail. Penny stopped so suddenly that she spilled water on her sandals. "Lou, that's Mrs. Deline!" she whispered. "What of it, pet? She's evidently going on a picnic." "At this time of day? And alone?" "Well, that part of it does seem a bit odd." Penny pulled her chum into the bushes beside the path. Crouching low beside their water bucket, they allowed the woman to pass. Looking neither to the right nor left, she hastened on up the trail. "She seems to be in a big hurry," Penny commented, coming out of hiding. "Now where do you suppose she's going?" "Probably to the cabin. One of your ranger friends told me about a rustic place farther up the trail. It was built especially for the enjoyment of the public." "But why would Mrs. Deline go there alone?" "Maybe she intends to meet someone." "Lou, that's probably what she is going to do!" Penny exclaimed. "Let's follow her and find out." "What about supper?" "Who cares for food?" Penny demanded. "If Dad comes home he can rustle a little for himself. It's more important that we follow Mrs. Deline." "Okay," Louise agreed, "only I'm in no mood to walk very far. Remember, we've had one wild chase today." Leaving the water bucket behind the bushes, the girls set out in pursuit of Mrs. Deline. Not without admiration they acknowledged that the widow was a better trail climber than they. Though the hamper she carried evidently was heavy, she fairly skimmed up the rough trail. Penny and Louise fell farther and farther behind. "She's heading for the cabin all right," Penny puffed. "Of course she intends to meet someone. Otherwise, she'd have had her picnic on the beach or some place closer to the hotel." A clearing opened up through a gap in the trees. Mrs. Deline paused as she came within view of the rustic log cabin and gazed carefully about. The girls saw her look at her wrist watch. "She has an appointment with someone," Penny declared. Mrs. Deline walked to the door of the cabin and tested it to make certain that it was unlocked. She did not go inside. Instead, she set down the hamper and gazed slowly about the clearing. Louise and Penny, at the fringe of woods, saw her start as she looked directly toward them. "She's seen us!" Louise gasped. "We'll have to go out and meet her," Penny decided instantly. "Let's pretend we just happened to be coming this way. But we'll stick around and see who she's meeting." Mrs. Deline stiffened visibly as the girls sauntered out of the woods toward her. "Well, this is a surprise meeting you," she said in a tone none too friendly. "Is your camp located near here?" "Down the trail a short distance," Penny replied, thoroughly enjoying the widow's discomfiture. "Having a picnic?" "Why, yes. I love the outdoors and thought I'd take a hike this afternoon." "It's rather late for a picnic," Penny said pointedly. "It took me longer to get here than I expected." In an effort to discourage her young annoyers, Mrs. Deline pushed open the door of the cabin. Before she could pick up the hamper, Penny seized it. "Let me," she said quickly. "My how heavy! All this food for one person?" "Certainly," Mrs. Deline answered. "Who else?" Penny set the hamper on the table. Deliberately she raised the lid. The basket was filled with food, enough for a dozen persons, and in the bottom she saw a folded wool blanket. Beneath the blanket were several bulky garments which she took to be men's clothing. Before she could see plainly, Mrs. Deline jerked the lid of the hamper into place. "Please!" she said with emphasis. "I was only trying to be helpful," Penny said, pretending to look injured. "Don't you want Lou and me to dust off the table and spread out the picnic things?" "I do not. If you'll excuse me for saying so, I came on this picnic to be alone. I enjoy solitude." "But it's getting dark," Penny argued. "We wouldn't think of deserting you. The cabin has no light." "I don't mind the dark. Anyway, I brought candles. I really prefer to be alone." Thus dismissed, Louise started to leave. Penny lingered, trying to think of some excuse. Just then, from somewhere in the woods, she heard a shrill whistle unlike any bird call. "What was that?" she asked alertly. "I heard nothing," said Mrs. Deline. Nevertheless, a moment later the woman sauntered to an open cabin window. Deliberately she turned her back to the girls, trying to block their view. Quickly she raised and lowered her handkerchief. The movement was deftly executed, but swift though it was, Penny saw and understood. Mrs. Deline had signaled to an unseen person beyond the fringe of trees! # CHAPTER 16 _SUSPICION_ Penny moved swiftly to the open cabin door, gazing toward the darkening woods. No one was visible amid the shadows. Yet she was certain that Mrs. Deline had signaled to someone lurking among the trees. The widow had turned from the window to unfasten the lid of the picnic hamper. "Since you girls are here you may as well stay and share my supper," she said without warmth. "There's enough food for all." Louise's chin tilted proudly. The invitation was grudgingly given, and she meant to decline. Penny forestalled her by saying: "How nice of you, Mrs. Deline! Of course we'll be delighted to remain." Mrs. Deline made no reply, though obviously she had not expected an acceptance. Irritably she laid out the picnic dishes—sandwiches, a salad, cake, cookies, and fruit—all carefully prepared and cooked at the hotel kitchen. "You certainly did bring plenty of food for one person," Penny commented, helping herself to a chicken sandwich. "Isn't that clothing in the bottom of the basket?" "Only a blanket." Mrs. Deline closed the lid firmly. "I thought I might need it if I should sit on the damp ground." Hungry as bears, Penny and Louise did not try to curb their healthy, young appetites. Mrs. Deline, on the other hand, scarcely nibbled at the food. Several times she arose and paced nervously to the window. "It's growing dark and I should return to the hotel," she said the instant the girls had finished eating. "I'll not bother to repack the lunch basket." "Oh, we'll help you pick up everything," Penny offered. "Please don't bother. I'll merely pay the hotel for the basket." Penny was convinced that Mrs. Deline deliberately intended to leave the hamper behind. Despite the deep inroads she and Louise had made, considerable food remained. It occurred to her that the widow hoped to leave what remained so that the person hiding in the woods might come to the cabin for it after the party had gone. "I can't be bothered with a heavy basket," Mrs. Deline said impatiently. "We'll just leave it on the table." "Oh, the rangers wouldn't like to have us leave food here," Penny protested. "It will only take a minute to clean up everything." Disregarding Mrs. Deline's order, she began to repack the remains of the lunch. "But I don't wish to carry the basket all the way to the hotel!" "Louise and I will help you." Tossing her head, Mrs. Deline walked out of the cabin, allowing the door to slam behind her. Louise and Penny finished packing the lunch and hastened down the trail in pursuit. "Maybe we shouldn't cross her so," Louise whispered uneasily. "I think she intended to meet someone here!" "I'm sure of it," agreed Penny. "We spiked her little plan. I have an idea who she intended to meet too!" "Who?" Penny could not answer, for by this time she and Louise were practically at Mrs. Deline's heels. The widow was walking as fast as she could. "You'll have to keep the basket," she told the girls irritably. "I'm sure I'll never carry it back to the hotel." All the way to the Parker camp Mrs. Deline ignored Penny and Louise. And as they bade her goodbye, she barely responded. "Can't we drive you down to the hotel in the car?" Penny offered, feeling slightly ashamed of her actions. "Thank you, no," the widow answered icily. "You've done quite enough for one day." She vanished down the darkening road. After Mrs. Deline was beyond view, the girls retraced their way to the spring for the water bucket. As they approached, they thought for a moment that they heard retreating footsteps. The realization that they were alone in the woods, made them a bit nervous. Hurriedly they recovered the bucket and carried it to camp. "Now tell me what you think, Penny!" Louise commanded when they were inside the tent. "Why, it's clear as crystal." Penny struck a match to the wick of the gasoline lantern and hung it on a hook of the tent pole. "Mrs. Deline went to the cabin intending to meet someone. She carried extra food, a blanket, and if I'm not mistaken, clothing for a man." "You thought she signaled from the window?" "I'm sure she did, Lou. She warned the person, whoever he was, not to approach. She hoped by leaving the basket behind to get it into his hands after we'd gone." "You thwarted her in that." "We did together," Penny chuckled. Her face suddenly became sober. "Lou—" "Yes?" "It just occurred to me! Maybe the man she intended to meet was the same fellow who stole food from our camp." "That's possible. But why should Mrs. Deline be interested in a common tramp?" "How do we know that fellow was a tramp?" Penny speculated. "Jerry told us about a young soldier that had escaped from a Canadian prison camp. Mrs. Deline may be trying to help him by supplying food and heavy clothing!" "As usual, Penny, aren't you leaping to hasty conclusions?" "Maybe I am, but everything fits in beautifully. I've thought from the first that Mrs. Deline was nothing less than a spy or an international crook." "You've aired that theory before," Louise said, stretching out on the cot. "Wonder when your father will get here?" "I wish he would come," Penny replied, glancing anxiously toward the road. "At least I have one consolation." "What's that?" "I know he's not with Mrs. Deline. Oh, Lou, think how horrible it would be to have a spy for a stepmother!" "It would be something different anyhow," Louise chuckled. "Want to listen to the radio awhile?" "Okay," Penny agreed, "maybe we can tune in that outlaw station. It's about time for the regular nightly broadcast." Closing themselves into the car, the girls tried without success to get the outlaw shortwave station. Tuning instead to a dance orchestra, they discussed the day's happenings and made elaborate plans for the morrow. "I'm really going to work," Penny announced grimly. "No Mrs. Deline ever will outwit me! Our first job must be to find that package she buried in the sand." "And what of the person hiding in the woods?" "The rangers ought to take over that part." Penny peered out through the car window at the dark woods which hemmed in the camp. "Somehow," she admitted, "I don't like the idea of being here at night. I'm not exactly afraid, but—" "Listen!" Louise ordered sharply, "Someone's coming!" Penny snapped off the radio. Tensely, the girls watched the road. The next instant they relaxed, for it was Mr. Parker who trudged wearily up the slope. Seeing Penny and Louise in the car, he came over to apologize for being so late. "I've been with Jerry for the past two hours," he explained. "Time went faster than I realized." "Any news?" Penny asked eagerly. "Not about the radio station if that's what you mean. The fellow got away with his portable outfit slick as a whistle." "The authorities have no idea who the man is, Dad?" "Not the slightest. So far they've not been able to break the code he uses either. But in time they'll get him." Having gleaned what information they could from Mr. Parker, the girls related their own adventure. As they fully expected, he made light of the episode at the cabin. "Why should Mrs. Deline expect to meet anyone there?" he argued. "Penny, I'm afraid you don't understand her and misinterpret her actions." "I don't understand her, that's certain." "As to a man loitering about the camp," Mr. Parker resumed, "I've been worried about that ever since food was stolen. As I must be gone so much of the time, why wouldn't it be better for us to move to the hotel?" Penny stiffened for an argument, and then suddenly changed her mind. "All right, Dad," she astonished him by saying, "as far as I'm concerned, we can move tomorrow. I've had enough of the lonesome life." "Why, that's fine!" Mr. Parker said heartily. "Splendid!" After he had moved on, to sit for awhile by the dying embers of the fire, Louise remarked to Penny that explanations were in order. "How come you're ready to desert the rough and rugged life?" she demanded. "At first you were dead set against moving into the hotel." Penny carefully raised the car window so that her father would not overhear. "I believe in fighting the Enemy on his own territory," she explained elaborately. "Mrs. Deline will bear watching. I intend to devote all my waking hours to the cause." "So Jerry has nothing to do with it?" "Jerry?" "You wouldn't want to move to the hotel so you'd see more of him?" "What an idea!" Penny scoffed. "Whoever thought of such a thing!" "You did or I'm no mind reader." "Well, it may have crossed my mind," Penny acknowledged with a giggle. "In fact, I can see quite a few advantages to hotel life. With luck we'll yet make something of this vacation!" # CHAPTER 17 _VISITORS NOT PERMITTED_ Penny stood before the mirror in the hotel room and struggled to coax a little curl into her damp hair. She and Louise had spent two hours splashing in the surf that morning. The salt water had tightened their skins and produced discouraging results with their tresses. "This place does have it over a forest camp," Penny said, gazing about the comfortably furnished room she shared with Louise. Her father's room was three doors down the hall. "A shower bath, no meals to cook, no dishes to wash, and the sea at one's elbow." "I like it better," replied Louise. She had curled up kitten fashion on the bed and was making deep inroads into a box of chocolates. "So far though, we've not done much fancy sleuthing." "We've only been here a few hours. Where do you suppose Mrs. Deline keeps herself?" "In her room no doubt. Why do you worry about her so much, Penny?" Penny twisted a few ringlets over her finger and abandoned the project as hopeless. "Lou, you know all the prize answers without asking me," she said. "I've told you a dozen times why I distrust that woman." "Doesn't it all simmer down to one thing? You're jealous as a green-eyed cat!" "Maybe I do dislike her," Penny grinned. "On second thought, I'm sure of it! But facts are facts and have nothing to do with my personal feelings. In the first place, didn't she get Dad to bring her with us to Sunset Beach?" "But what does that prove? She has no car of her own and the trains are so crowded." "I think she knew that Dad was coming here to try to dig up a story about the outlaw radio station," Penny went on, unruffled. "She's probably pumped him of information." "Your father knows how to look after himself." "That's what _he_ thinks!" Penny muttered. "I wouldn't place any wagers on it myself. Why, he's been as blind as a bat." "I'm afraid you see enough for two or three people," Louise chuckled. "I told you, didn't I, how that vampire tried to steal our car while we were on our way here?" "Two or three times, darling." "Well, it would bear repeating. I think she intended to meet someone that night—perhaps the same person who was hiding in the woods!" Louise, methodically eating chocolates, mulled over the possibility. "Jerry told us that an escaped flier from a Canadian prison camp may be hiding somewhere near here," Penny resumed, wandering to the window. "Perhaps Mrs. Deline is trying to help him!" "You have a new theory every minute," Louise yawned. "Why not think up one and stick to it?" Penny did not answer for at that moment she observed Jerry Livingston leaving the veranda of the hotel. "Come on, Lou!" she cried, jerking her chum off the bed. "I want to see Jerry before he escapes!" "Talk about Mrs. Deline pursuing your defenseless father!" Louise protested as she was pulled down the hall to the elevator. "Her tactics at least are more subtle than yours!" "This is different," Penny retorted shamelessly. "Jerry and I are old friends." Swinging through the revolving doors of the hotel, the girls raced after Jerry. Breathless from running, they finally overtook him far down the boardwalk. "Why, hello," he greeted them with a broad smile. "I hear you've moved into the hotel." "Lock, stock and barrel," Penny laughed. "We want to be in the thick of things. Any news about the radio station?" "Nothing I can report, I'm on my way now to Intercept Headquarters." "Did you see Dad this morning?" "Only for a few minutes. He's doing a little special work for me." "At least I'm glad it's for you and not Mrs. Deline," Penny said stiffly. "Jerry, there are some things you should know about that woman." "Suppose you unburden your heart," Jerry invited, seating himself on a sand dune. "I have about ten minutes to listen." "Don't encourage her," sighed Louise. "She's slightly cracked on the subject, you know." "Nevertheless, Penny has ideas at times," Jerry paid her tribute. "Shoot!" Talking like a whirlwind, Penny delved deeply into the subject of Mrs. Deline. She repeated how the widow had buried a package in the sand, but it was not until the episode of the cabin was described that Jerry really seemed interested. "Penny, at first I didn't take your Mrs. Deline talk very seriously," he admitted. "Perhaps you have something after all!" "I'm sure of it, Jerry!" "Have you reported to the park rangers?" "Dad may have seen them, I'm not sure. We left camp in a big rush." "Then I'll take care of that, Penny. We'll have the park searched again and try to find that fellow!" "Then you do believe he's the escaped flier!" Penny exclaimed. "Probably not," was Jerry's discouraging reply. "Nevertheless, we can't afford to overlook any possibility." "What about the package in the sand?" "You remember where it was buried?" "Approximately." "I'll not have time to go with you now," Jerry said, looking at his wrist watch. "Louise and I haven't much to do this morning. We'll be glad to search." "Go ahead," Jerry urged. "If you fail then I can take over. The important thing is not to tip off your hand. Don't let anyone suspect what you're about." Penny and Louise nodded soberly. They felt rather important to have been assigned a definite task. "Report to me as soon as you find that package," Jerry urged as he started on. "It may contain something of vital importance. It may not. We'll withhold judgment until we have the facts." Left to themselves, the girls lost not a moment in hastening to the section of beach where Mrs. Deline had been seen to bury the package. "Now just where was it?" Penny asked, gazing about the deserted dunes. "What became of our marker?" "We left a stick to show the exact spot." "Not a sign of it now. What wretched luck!" Though the girls knew the general locality where the package had been buried, all of the dunes looked discouragingly alike. Not a footprint remained to guide them. "I'll bet a cent Mrs. Deline came back here and removed that stick!" Penny declared. "Maybe she dug up the package too!" "Anyone could have taken the stick. Why do you think she did it?" "Because she watched us digging for the package. Well, let's look for it anyhow." With none too much enthusiasm, the girls set to work. The tide was much lower than upon their last visit and the shoreline did not look the same. Nor could they agree within forty feet of the right place to dig. "You try one dune, and I'll work on another," Penny offered as a compromise. An hour of unavailing work found the pair too discouraged to keep on digging. "If this is the right place, Mrs. Deline or someone has removed the package," Penny declared, sinking back on her heels. "We may as well give up," Louise added wearily. Penny slid down the dune and emptied sand from her shoes. "There should be an easy way to beat Mrs. Deline at her own little game," she remarked thoughtfully. "For instance, why does she always wear that jade green charm?" "Because she likes it I'd imagine." "But wouldn't you think she'd take it off at night?" "Perhaps she does, Penny." "Not the night I was with her. I distinctly gained the impression that there was something about it she was afraid I'd see." "A message contained inside?" "That's been my theory from the first, Lou. Now if only we could lay our hands on the charm—" "Finding the package would be a lot easier. We can't waylay the woman and take the jade elephant by force. Or can we?" "No," Penny agreed reluctantly, "I don't think Dad would like that. And there's always the possibility I might be wrong." "The probability, you mean," corrected Louise. Penny retied her shoes and glanced toward the hotel. Far up the beach she saw Mrs. Deline, and the widow was walking slowly toward the sand dunes. "Duck!" Penny ordered, rolling over one of the high ridges. "We don't want her to see us here. She'll suspect what we've been up to." Louise crouched behind the dune with her chum, though she complained that she felt silly doing it. Apparently, Mrs. Deline had not seen the girls. She came steadily on. Drawing close, she peered directly at the dune where the girls had taken refuge. For a second they feared that she had seen them. But she passed on without another glance. "It looks to me as though she's on her way to the lighthouse again," Penny remarked after Mrs. Deline was far down the beach. "Wonder why she goes there so often?" "I thought visitors weren't allowed." "According to the rules they're not." From behind the dune, the girls kept watch of the widow. Presently they saw her climb the steps of the lighthouse and disappear into the interior. "Well, that settles it!" Penny exclaimed indignantly. "Settles what?" Louise straightened up, brushing sand from her skirt. "If Mrs. Deline can get into that lighthouse, so can I. We'll make an issue of it!" "Not today," said Louise dubiously. "Right now!" Penny corrected, starting down the beach. "That lighthouse is government property, and as citizens we have certain rights. Let's assert them and see what happens!" # CHAPTER 18 _INSIDE THE LIGHTHOUSE_ Unchallenged, Penny and Louise reached the base of the lighthouse. But as they slowly climbed the iron stairs, their courage fast slipped away. "What will we say to the keeper?" Louise faltered. "I've even forgotten his name." "I haven't," said Penny. "It's Jim McCoy. If Mrs. Deline is allowed inside the tower, shouldn't we have the same privileges?" "She's a personal friend." "That should make no difference," Penny argued. "This is government property." "Let's not do it," Louise pleaded, holding back. Having proceeded so far. Penny was in no mood to retreat. Quickly, lest she too lose her courage, she rapped hard on the tower door. Minutes elapsed. Then the heavy oak door swung back and Jim McCoy, the burly keeper, peered out at the girls. His bushy brows drew together in an angry scowl. "You here again!" he exclaimed. "Yes," said Penny, making the word crisp and firm. "I'll have to report you if you keep pestering me," the keeper scolded. "How many times have I told you no visitors are allowed?" "But you don't treat everyone the same!" Penny remonstrated. "Mrs. Deline just came here." "Mrs. Deline? Who's she?" "Why, a woman who stays at the hotel. She came through this door not five minutes ago!" "You must have imagined it. I've had no visitors." Penny's silence said more plainly than words that she did not believe the keeper. "So you think I'm lying, eh?" he demanded unpleasantly. "Okay, come in and see for yourselves. I'm breaking a rule to invite you into the tower, but maybe then you'll be satisfied and quite bothering me. We have work to do here, you know." The keeper stepped aside so that the girls might enter. "My living quarters," he said curtly. "You see, I have no visitors." Decidedly ill at ease, the girls gazed about the little circular room. The walls were lined with built-in cupboards. Nearly all of the furniture had been made with a view to conserving space. As Mr. McCoy had said, there were no visitors—no evidence that Mrs. Deline ever had been there. "Are you satisfied?" the keeper demanded unpleasantly. "But we were sure Mrs. Deline came here," Penny stammered. "There's been no one today except early this morning when a government inspector paid me a visit." Penny did not believe the man but she deemed it wise to appear to do so. "I'm sorry," she apologized. "I guess we have made nuisances of ourselves." "That's all right," the keeper said in a less unfriendly tone. "Kids are kids. Now that you're here, look around a bit." "Oh, thank you," Louise replied gratefully. "I've always wanted to see the inside of a lighthouse." "I have some work to do," Mr. McCoy announced. "The light's not been operating right and I'm trying to get the mechanism adjusted. I'll be back." He went out, allowing the door to slam hard. The girls surveyed their surroundings with keen interest. On a table near the window there was a shortwave radio. A circular couch occupied another curving corner of the room. "What became of Mrs. Deline?" Penny whispered. "She certainly came here." "Of course she did! We saw her plain as day!" "She must be somewhere in the tower. Probably there's a room above this one." Penny tiptoed to the door and tried to open it. To her surprise and chagrin, it would not budge. "My Great Aunt!" she whispered. "We're locked in!" "Maybe the door's just stuck." Louise strode across the room to help Penny. Both of them tried without success to open it. "Let's shout and pound!" Louise suggested. "No, wait! I think we've been locked in here on purpose." "Oh, Penny!" "Now don't get nervous. The keeper's no fool. He'll have to let us out." "But why would he lock us in?" "Because he's provoked at us for one reason, Lou. Another, something's going on here that he doesn't want us to know about. He and Mrs. Deline may be having a tête-à-tête in the room above." "Then let's listen. Maybe we can overhear their conversation." Penny nodded and fell silent. Though the girls listened for a long while, no sound reached their ears. "This is a nice situation!" Louise fumed. "I think the door locked itself. We ought to shout for help." "Goose, a door doesn't lock itself." "This one might have a trick catch." "It was Mr. Jim McCoy who accomplished the trick," Penny said. "Listen! Someone's coming now." Plainly the girls could hear footsteps on the iron balcony outside the door. A moment later they were able to distinguish a murmur of men's voices. The footsteps moved on and a moment later they heard a door close overhead. "Another visitor!" Penny announced. "Did you hear what was said, Lou?" "Couldn't make out a word." "Nor could I. But that voice sounded familiar. I'm sure I've heard it somewhere." "I had the same feeling, Penny." The girls listened intently, hoping to overhear conversation on the floor above. However, the walls of the lighthouse were so thick that not a word reached them. Now and then they thought they heard Mrs. Deline's high pitched voice. "Louise, it's just come to me!" Penny whispered a moment later. "I believe Mr. McCoy's visitor may be George Emory!" "The voice did sound a little like his. But why would he come here?" "Maybe we've under-rated George Emory. Why, all this time he may have been trying to get information from us." "He did ask us quite a few questions, particularly about your father." "And he seemed to know a lot about that outlaw radio station, Lou. Maybe he tried to throw us off the track by suggesting that we watch old Jake Skagway." "We certainly fell for it, Penny." "We did, if you assume that George Emory is upstairs having a conference with Mrs. Deline and the lighthouse keeper. But we're not sure." "No, we're not, Penny. One easily can be mistaken in voices." Determined to hear more, Penny cautiously climbed up on the radio table, so that her head and ear were close to the ceiling. "Can you make out anything?" Louise whispered. Penny shook her head in disgust. After a few minutes she dropped lightly down from the table. "Walls are too thick," she announced. "I could hear three voices though. Two were men and the other, a woman." "Then Mrs. Deline must be here. The keeper lied about that part." Presently the girls heard footsteps again on the iron stairway. They moved to the window, hoping to see whomever was descending from the room above. However, the little round aperture was so situated that it gave a view of only one side of the Point. They could not see the stairway nor the stretch of beach leading to the hotel. "We're certainly learning a lot!" Louise said crossly. "I've had enough of this. Let's shout for help." "All right," Penny agreed. "We may as well find out whether or not we're prisoners." Crossing to the heavy oak door, she pounded hard on the panels. Almost at once the girls heard someone coming. "Don't let on what we suspect," Penny warned her companion. The next moment the door swung open to admit the keeper of the light. # CHAPTER 19 _A LOCKED DOOR_ "I was gone a little longer than I meant to be," Jim McCoy apologized as he came into the room. "Did I keep you waiting?" "We probably wouldn't have waited if you hadn't locked the door!" Louise said sharply. The keeper's eyebrows lifted and he looked slightly amused. "Locked in?" he echoed. "Yes, we couldn't get the door open." "Oh, it sticks sometimes. Been intending to fix it for several days. If you had pushed hard it would have opened." "We certainly pushed hard enough," Penny said dryly. She was more than ever certain that the lighthouse keeper had unlocked the door only a moment before entering. Clearly, he had meant to prevent Louise and her from seeing and hearing what went on in the room above. "Come along," the keeper invited. "I'll show you the tower." "No thank you," Penny replied coldly. "We've spent so much time here that we'll have to be getting back to the hotel." "As you like." The keeper shrugged, and looked relieved by the decision. Jim McCoy stepped away from the door, and the girls hastened down the iron stairway. No one was in sight on the beach. Whoever had visited the lighthouse during the time they were imprisoned, had disappeared. When they were well down the beach, Louise and Penny slackened their pace. Glancing back they saw that the keeper of the light still stood on the tiny iron balcony watching them. "That man gives me the creeps," Louise remarked. "Did you believe what he said about the door sticking?" "I did not," Penny returned with emphasis. "I think he locked us in on purpose, probably because he was expecting visitors and didn't want us to see too much." "As it turned out we didn't learn a thing." "We have no proof of anything," Penny admitted slowly. "Nevertheless, we're pretty sure Mrs. Deline visited the tower." "George Emory too." "That part is pure guess," Penny said, "so we don't dare consider it too seriously. Did you ever see Mrs. Deline with George Emory?" "Why, no. But then, we've not been at the hotel long." "Let's find Jerry or Dad," Penny said abruptly. "We ought to report to them." Returning to the hotel, the girls looked in vain for Mr. Parker. The publisher was not in his room nor anywhere in the lobby. Jerry apparently had not returned from Intercept Headquarters. "There's Mrs. Deline," Louise whispered, jerking her head toward a high-backed chair not far from the elevator. The widow was reading a newspaper. If she saw the girls she paid no attention to them. "Let's talk to her and see what we can learn," Louise suggested. Penny had another thought. "No," she vetoed the suggestion. "Mrs. Deline would be more likely to learn things from us. That woman is clever." Just then Mrs. Deline arose, picked up her purse, and went out the front door of the hotel. On their way to the elevator. Penny and Louise noticed that the woman carelessly had left a handkerchief and her room key lying on the chair. "I'll turn them in at the desk," Louise said, picking up the articles. "Wait, Lou!" Louise glanced at her chum in surprise. "I have an idea!" Penny revealed, lowering her voice. "Are you game to try something risky?" "Well, I don't know." "This chance is tailor-made for us!" Penny went on. "Mrs. Deline simply handed her room key over to us. Let's use our opportunity." "Enter her room?" Louise asked, shocked. "Why not? FBI agents think nothing of examining the belongings of a suspected person." "But we're not FBI agents, Penny. I don't want to do it without asking Jerry." "By that time it will be too late. It's now or never." "Mrs. Deline might catch us in the act." "That's a chance we'll have to take." Penny, in possession of the room key, walked to the front door of the hotel. She was reassured to see that Mrs. Deline had seated herself on a bench some distance from the veranda. "The coast's clear," Penny reported, coming back to Louise. "What do you say?" "Well, I suppose so," Louise consented nervously. An elevator shot the girls up to the fourth floor. To locate Mrs. Deline's room required but a moment, and the halls fortunately were deserted. Penny fitted the key into the lock and pushed open the door. "We'll have to work fast," she said, closing it behind them again. The room was in perfect order. Only a few toilet articles had been set out on the dresser. Mrs. Deline's suitcase was only half unpacked. "It looks to me as if the widow is holding herself ready to fly at a moment's notice," Penny commented. "Otherwise, why didn't she unpack everything?" "What do you expect to find here?" Louise asked nervously. "Let's get it over with fast, Penny." "Start with the bureau drawers," Penny instructed. "Search for any papers, letters or the sort. I'll go through the suitcase." Carefully the girls began examining Mrs. Deline's personal belongings. Almost at once Louise reported that the bureau contained nothing of interest. Penny, however, had more luck. She came upon a pearl-handled revolver buried beneath a pile of silk underclothing. "Jeepers!" she whispered, touching the weapon gingerly. "Now will you believe me when I say that the widow isn't the sweet little girl she'd have us believe!" Louise's eyes had opened wide at sight of the revolver. "And here's that white suit she wore!" Penny cried, lifting out a folded garment from the suitcase. "Look, Lou!" From the skirt of the suit had been cut a neat, square hole. "Well, of all things!" Louise exclaimed. "What's the meaning of that?" "Mrs. Deline wrote something on the skirt—don't you remember? Probably she used a pen with invisible ink." "But why on her skirt, Penny?" "She'd just been to the lighthouse. Perhaps she learned something there and she wanted to write it down before she forgot. Possibly she didn't have any paper. Then when she got back here, she either destroyed the message, or sent it to someone." "Well, I don't know," Louise said doubtfully. "It's all so fantastic. I wouldn't believe a bit of it except for this revolver. Having it doesn't look so good." "And don't forget the green elephant charm," Penny reminded her. "I wish we could find it here." "Not a chance. Mrs. Deline always wears it around her neck. She had it on today. I noticed." Time fast was elapsing and the girls were worried lest someone discover them in the room. Hastily they replaced everything as they had found it, and relocking the door, stepped out into the hall. "What's our next move?" Louise asked as they buzzed for a down-going elevator. "To tell Jerry and Dad, of course. But before that, there's one thing I wish we could do, Lou. It would give everything we have to report a more substantial basis." "What's that, Penny?" "Why don't we get our hands on the jade green elephant? I've a hunch that it contains something important—perhaps evidence that would crack the case wide open." "And just how do you propose that we acquire the charm?" Louise asked sarcastically. "Are we to waylay Mrs. Deline and take it by force?" "Afraid that wouldn't do." "There's no other way to get it. Mrs. Deline wears that charm as if it were her skin. I've never seen her without it." The elevator was coming down so Penny spoke hurriedly. "There is a way," she said softly, "if only it will work. Think we could get Mrs. Deline to go bathing in the surf with us?" "And ruin that lovely hair-do? Don't be silly." "All the same, it's worth trying," Penny urged. "Let's go to our room now and get our bathing suits." "I don't see any point in it." "You will," Penny laughed, entering the elevator. "If my little plan works we'll have keen sport and maybe do our country a good turn!" # CHAPTER 20 _NYMPHS OF THE SEA_ "How you expect to get Mrs. Deline to go swimming with us is beyond me!" Louise opined as she and Penny left the hotel, their bathing suits swinging over their arms. "It's none too warm today. She dislikes us both intensely. Furthermore, she never swims." "Any other reasons?" Penny asked cheerfully. "That should be enough." "Just wait and watch," Penny chuckled. "I just hope she doesn't suspect we've been prowling in her room. If she got wise to that she'd report us to the hotel management." Before leaving the hotel the girls had taken care to drop the room key in the chair where Mrs. Deline had left it. They were confident that no one had seen them take the key or enter the room. The widow remained as the girls last had seen her. She was sitting on a bench facing the sea, her gaze fixed on the deep blue line of the horizon. As the girls passed beside her, she looked up, frowning slightly. "We're on our way to the bath house," said Penny, her tone implying that the matter was one of great importance. "Really?" Mrs. Deline's voice barely was polite. "Wouldn't you like to come with us?" Louise invited cordially. The invitation took Mrs. Deline by surprise. "No, thank you," she declined. "I can't swim." "We'll teach you," offered Penny. "You're too kind. I don't care for the water. I particularly detest cold water." "The air is warming up," Penny tried to encourage her. "Why not try it with us?" "Nothing could induce me." Louise nodded grimly, as much as to say that she had known how it would be. Penny would not give up. She decided to adopt drastic measures. "No, I didn't suppose you would go into the water," she said. "You're probably afraid you'll get salt water on that lovely skin of yours, or muss up your hair." "Oh!" gasped Mrs. Deline. "The very idea!" "Isn't that the reason?" Penny pursued ruthlessly. "You have to protect your beauty?" "No, it's not the reason!" Mrs. Deline snapped. "If I had a bathing suit, I'd show you!" "You can use mine," Penny said promptly. "Louise has an extra one she'll let me have." Mrs. Deline looked trapped and angry. She sprang to her feet. "All right, I'll go swimming!" she announced. "If I catch pneumonia I suppose you'll be satisfied!" "Oh, you'll love the water once you're in," Penny said sweetly. "The bath house is this way." Mrs. Deline spent so long getting into the borrowed suit that the girls began to fear she had outwitted them. But just as they were ready to give up, the woman came out of the dressing room. Penny's suit was a size too small for her so that she looked as if she had been poured into it. Her legs were skinny, her hips bulged. She still wore the elephant charm. "Don't I wish Dad could see her now!" Penny muttered. "What a disillusionment!" Ignoring the girls, Mrs. Deline walked stiffly toward the surf. A wave rolled in, wetting her to the knees. Mrs. Deline shrieked and backed away. "It's freezing!" she complained. "You have to get wet all at once," Penny instructed kindly. "This way." She seized Mrs. Deline's hand and pulled her toward the deeper water. "Let me go!" Mrs. Deline protested, trying to shake free. "Stop it!" Penny held fast to her hand. A big roller broke over their heads. Mrs. Deline sputtered and choked and struggled. "Oh, this is dreadful!" she whimpered. "You have to watch for the waves and jump just as they strike you," Penny laughed. "Now!" She leaped, but the widow mistimed the roller. It struck her a resounding whack on her shoulders and head. "Oh! Oh!" she moaned. "Here comes another!" warned Louise. "A big one too!" Mrs. Deline broke away from Penny. She started to run for shore. The big roller overtook her, sweeping her from her feet. This was the opportunity that Penny awaited. Pretending that she too had lost her balance, she allowed the tide to carry her straight into Mrs. Deline. For an instant they both were beneath the surface of the water. Penny worked fast. Clutching Mrs. Deline as if in terror, she yanked hard at the slender chain that held the green elephant charm. It snapped and the jade piece came off into her hands. Deftly she thrust the charm into the front of her bathing suit. Then she popped up above the water, winking at Louise. Mrs. Deline scrambled to her feet, clutching at the broken chain. "See what you've done!" she accused Penny. "You pulled it apart. My beautiful charm has fallen into the water!" "Let me help you look for it," Louise offered, darting forward. As the pair were groping about on the sandy floor, another wave rolled in. Penny neglected to warn Mrs. Deline. It struck her from behind, toppling her over on her face. Her cap slipped awry and she swallowed salt water. "Oh, I can't stand any more of this!" she spluttered. "It was cruel of you to get me to come into the surf! Now I've lost my charm, and it was all your fault, Penny Parker." "I'll buy you another ornament," the girl offered. Seeing Mrs. Deline's distress she felt a bit ashamed of herself. "Another ornament!" the widow mocked. "I don't want another! I want the one I've lost. It's of vital importance to me to keep it." Mrs. Deline made another futile search for the charm. "It's been washed away," she cried. "I'll never find it now!" Glaring furiously at Penny, she turned and fled to the bath house. "Did she really lose the charm?" Louise demanded the moment the girls were alone. "Or did you get it, Penny?" Penny answered by producing the green elephant charm from the front of her bathing suit where she had hidden it. "Easy as taking candy from a babe," she chuckled. "My, but was she hopping mad!" "You may not be laughing if your father hears about this," Louise warned. "He's apt to look at matters from a different angle than we do." Penny skipped through the shallow water and sat down on the beach well beyond the reach of the waves. Louise flopped beside her. Eagerly they examined the jade green trinket. "Looks like any ordinary charm to me," Louise remarked. "No special carving." "It should open," Penny said. "The first night when Mrs. Deline and I shared a room, I was sure I saw her close it." Louise turned the charm over and pried at it with a hairpin. "It does have a back lid!" she exclaimed excitedly. "Penny, I think it's going to open!" "I'll say magic words while you work," Penny laughed. "Furthermore, I'll keep watch of the bath house. We don't want Mrs. Deline to pop out here and see us." Louise pried again at the lid of the charm. It gave suddenly. Inside the tiny cavity was a folded piece of paper. While Louise stared in delighted awe, Penny gained possession. With nervous haste she unfolded the paper. She gazed at it a moment and her face fell. "Why, I can't make anything of the writing!" she declared in disappointment. "The words don't make sense." "Just a mess of letters," Louise agreed, peering over her shoulder. The girls were decidedly let-down for they had gone to much trouble and risk to obtain the jade ornament. But Penny's disappointment did not last long. As she stared at the paper, its significance dawned upon her. "Why, this is important, Lou!" she cried. "Maybe we've stumbled into something big!" "How do you mean?" "Don't you see?" Penny demanded triumphantly. "The letters, of this message must comprise a secret code! If only we can break it down we may learn all we need to know about Mrs. Deline and her strange friends!" # CHAPTER 21 _THE CARDBOARD BOX_ While Penny and Louise were puzzling over the strange writing found inside the jade charm, Mrs. Deline appeared in the doorway of the bath house. Barely in time to escape detection, the girls hid the tiny elephant and the paper in the sand. Mrs. Deline crossed the beach to speak to the girls. Her hair was damp and stringy, her face pinched and blue from cold. "Here's your suit!" she snapped, slapping the wet garment into the sand at Penny's feet. "I hope you enjoyed the swim! I'm sure I didn't." Turning her back, the widow marched to the hotel. The moment Mrs. Deline had disappeared into the white brick building, Penny dug the jade elephant and paper from the sand. "Let's get dressed," she urged Louise. "We've no time to waste." So thrilled were the girls over what they had accomplished that they could talk of nothing else. Penny felt that by obtaining the jade elephant she had proven her case. "You thought I was only jealous of Mrs. Deline," she told Louise triumphantly as they dressed in adjoining booths. "Now what do you say?" "That you're a genius!" Louise praised. "Mrs. Deline certainly is mixed up in some shady business." Once dressed, the girls wrapped the jade elephant in a handkerchief and carried it to the hotel. Jerry was nowhere to be found, and a bellboy told Penny that her father had gone for a walk. "Perhaps we can work the message out ourselves," Penny suggested hopefully. "Let's try." In their hotel room, the girls spent an hour attempting to decipher the strange jargon of letters appearing on the paper. At the end of that time. Penny tossed aside her pencil in disgust. "This is a job for an expert," she declared. "I certainly don't classify as one." The telephone jingled. Penny answered it and was delighted to hear Jerry's familiar voice. He was down in the lobby and had been told that the girls wished to see him. "We certainly do!" Penny answered gaily. "Hold everything! We'll be with you in a jiffy." The elevator being entirely too slow, the girls raced down the stairs. Breathlessly they started to tell Jerry what they had learned. "Not here!" he said quickly. "Let's go outside where we won't be overheard." Once out in the open with no one close by, Jerry lent an attentive ear to Penny's tale of their afternoon adventure. He did not have much to say in return, but he studied the jade green elephant and the paper with deep interest. "You don't think it's anything?" Penny asked in disappointment. "On the contrary, it may be something of very great importance," he returned soberly. "I'll take this to Headquarters. We have an expert on codes who should be able to break it in a short while." The girls hoped that Jerry would invite them to accompany him, but he did not do so. Instead he said: "Penny, you were telling me that Mrs. Deline had buried a package in the sand. Any luck in finding it?" "Not a bit." "You don't think that she went back there and dug it up herself?" "We didn't see any footprints." "How did you mark the place?" "By a stick that someone removed." "Not a very reliable way to take observations," Jerry remarked. "Ever try the clock system?" The girls looked blank. "For example," Jerry illustrated, "imagine that the landscape is like the face of a clock. Now what do you see on the hour of two?" "I don't get it," Louise complained. "Oh, I do!" laughed Penny. "A big tree!" "That's right," agreed Jerry. "And at the hour of six?" "Why, a signboard!" chuckled Penny. "At the hour of seven there's a big sand dune!" "If you picture things in your mind as if they're on the face of a clock it's much easier to remember and keep them in proper proportion. Now, using that same system can you recall anything more about the place where Mrs. Deline buried the package?" "Not very much," Penny admitted. "I didn't take notations at the time." "Speaking of signboards, I remember one," Louise said thoughtfully. "It was a long distance back from the beach, slightly to the right. A cigarette advertisement." "That's right!" agreed Penny. "Perhaps that will help some," Jerry said. "We'll have to find the package." "Then you believe Mrs. Deline is an Enemy Agent?" Penny asked eagerly. "I've thought so for quite a while now," Jerry admitted. "I didn't say it for fear of building up your hopes. Anyhow, we've got to work quietly in this business." "Poor Dad," Penny murmured, "I'm afraid it will break him up to learn the truth. Do you say I should tell him right away, Jerry?" "Why not?" Jerry demanded, his eyes amused. "Your father may have a few things to break to you too, Penny." "Meaning what?" "I'll let your father do his own talking," Jerry said, getting up from the hotel bench. "Have to go now." "Wait!" Penny pleaded. "You've not told us anything. Do you think Mrs. Deline has been aiding that flier who escaped from a Canadian prison camp?" Jerry deliberately let the question pass. "Listen!" he said urgently. "I may not see you girls again until after dinner. Want to help me tonight?" "Doing what?" Penny asked. "I want you to lead me to the place where Mrs. Deline buried that package." "We'll do our best." "Then if I don't see you earlier, meet me here at nine o'clock. It should be dark by that time." "We'll be here," Penny promised, her eyes glowing. At dinner that night the girls told Mr. Parker of their appointment to meet Jerry. Penny would have explained about the package, but before she could do so, Mrs. Deline joined the group. Mr. Parker immediately invited her to dine with them. To the annoyance of Penny and Louise she accepted with alacrity. The girls fully expected that Mrs. Deline would make some reference to the incident of the afternoon. Instead she avoided the subject, talking of her experiences in China and the Orient. Despite their prejudice, Penny and Louise were compelled in all honesty to acknowledge to themselves that the widow was a brilliant, entertaining conversationalist. Over the coffee cups Mrs. Deline spoke casually of a play which was showing at the local theatre. Before Penny could say a word, Mr. Parker had suggested that he buy tickets for the night's performance. "I'd love to go," Mrs. Deline accepted instantly. "Good!" Mr. Parker, approved. "I'll get four tickets." "Two," Penny corrected grimly. "Louise and I already have an appointment." "That's so," Mr. Parker recalled belatedly. Mrs. Deline looked so pleased that Penny was sorely tempted to abandon the meeting with Jerry. Only the realization that the task ahead was vitally important, kept her silent. At eight o'clock Mr. Parker and Mrs. Deline left the hotel for the theatre. With an hour to kill, Penny and Louise were very restless. They read the evening paper and watched the clock. "Here's an interesting news item," Penny remarked, indicating a brief story on an inner page of the paper. "It says an enemy submarine was sighted not many miles from here—just off the coast." "Did they get it?" Louise inquired absently. "I guess not. The story doesn't say, except that the air patrol dropped bombs." "Wonder what a single sub was doing so close here?" Louise speculated. "Oh, well, we've nothing to fear." A clock chimed the hour of nine. On the first stroke, the girls arose and hastened to keep their appointment with Jerry. The night was closing in dark. Along the shore no lights were showing for the dim-out was rigidly enforced at Sunset Beach. "Where's Jerry?" Penny asked as they reached the bench where they had promised to meet him. "Hope he didn't forget." Ten minutes elapsed. Penny was examining the luminous dial of her wrist watch when someone came striding down the gravel path. "Hello," Jerry greeted the girls. "Sorry to have kept you waiting. All set for adventure?" "Lead on!" Penny laughed. Taking each of them by an elbow, Jerry guided the girls down the deserted beach. Twice they passed guards who merely stared and allowed them to pass unchallenged. "Any news about that code?" Penny questioned as they walked along. "It's a tough one to break," Jerry replied briefly. "Experts have been trying to take it apart ever since I left you girls this afternoon." "Then it really is something?" Penny asked, scarcely daring to hope. "It certainly is," Jerry replied heartily. "We're pretty sure now that Mrs. Deline is mixed up in a bad business. But we can't act until we know absolutely." "This will be a horrible shock to Dad," Penny remarked. "He's at the theatre with Mrs. Deline now." "At least she's out of the way, so there's no chance she'll see us at work," Jerry commented. "Think you can find the place to dig?" Penny had marked it well in her mind, but at night everything looked different. After some uncertainty, the girls agreed upon the dune where the package had been buried. "With the tide low we'll have plenty of time," Jerry said. "Well, let's go! Was the package buried deep?" "Not more than a foot," Penny supplied. "Then if it's here, we'll find it. Let's block this area off and cover it systematically." For an hour the trio toiled. Twice one of the beach guards passed by and Penny was surprised that he paid no heed to what they were doing. "Orders!" Jerry chuckled. "You didn't think we could come out here and prowl around without questions being asked? The guard was tipped off. He'll help us by whistling if anyone comes this way." Louise, who had been industriously digging, gave a low cry. "Find something?" Jerry demanded. "I'm not sure. I think so." The next instant Louise lifted a small package from its sand tomb. Before Jerry could warn her, she had torn apart the pasteboard cover. "Why, it contains pencils!" she exclaimed in disgust. "Pencils!" Jerry leaped to her side. One glance and he took the box from her. "Those objects may look like pencils," he drawled. "But take it from me, they're a bit more deadly." Penny had moved close. She and Louise stared in awe at the collection. "Bombs," Jerry explained briefly. "One of these little pencils contains enough explosive to blow us all to Kingdom Come!" # CHAPTER 22 _UNFINISHED BUSINESS_ The cardboard box contained in addition to the pencil bombs a shiny knife and several grooved, pear-shaped objects. "What are those?" Louise asked curiously. "They look like hand grenades." "That's what they are," said Jerry, lifting one from the box. "It's a mighty useful weapon for close fighting. A strong man can throw a grenade twenty-five to thirty-five yards and it does damage over a large area." Penny gingerly inspected one of the grenades. "It won't bite you," Jerry laughed. "Nor will it explode in your hand. When you're ready to throw a grenade you hold it with the lever under your fingers. Just before you toss it, pull the pin." "Isn't it apt to explode while you're holding it?" Penny asked dubiously. "Not while the lever is held. When the grenade leaves the hand, the lever flies off. Then the fuse ignites and in about seven seconds you have your explosion." "Nice little gadgets," Penny said. She replaced the grenade in its box and ran a finger over the sharp edge of the steel-bladed knife. "Mrs. Deline evidently planted these weapons here for someone else to use," Jerry remarked. "We'll put them back just as they were." "Put them back!" Penny echoed. "Why, Jerry, wouldn't that be playing right into their hands? Shouldn't we destroy these things?" "No, it's much wiser to have the place watched." Light dawned upon Penny. "Oh, I see!" she exclaimed. "In that way you hope to learn Mrs. Deline's accomplices!" "Exactly." Jerry replaced everything in the box which he carefully buried in the sand. Then he obliterated all freshly made footmarks. "It may be necessary to watch this place for days," he said thoughtfully. "And what of Mrs. Deline?" Penny asked. "Will she be allowed complete freedom?" "That's for my superiors to decide. It seems to me, though, that more is to be gained by allowing her to remain at liberty than by arresting her." "I'm all for jail myself," said Penny. "Just be patient," Jerry smiled. "And whatever you do, don't drop a hint to Mrs. Deline of what we suspect." "She knows I dislike her." "That's all right, but don't let her guess that you consider her guilty of anything more serious than making a play for your father." "What about Dad? Shouldn't I warn him?" "Let me take care of that part," Jerry smiled. "All right," Penny agreed reluctantly. "Just be sure that you don't muff it. Remember, you're playing with my future!" Jerry finished smoothing out the footprints in the sand and then escorted the girls to the hotel. "I must report to Headquarters without delay," he said, pausing at the hotel entrance. "Don't worry about the package. We'll have the place watched every minute." After Jerry had gone, Penny and Louise entered the hotel. "Is my father here yet?" Penny asked the desk clerk. "No, Miss. And there's a message for him. As soon as he comes in he's to call Major Gregg." Penny repeated the name thoughtfully. "That's a new one on me," she remarked. "Dad seems to have friends I know nothing about." "Oh, the Major comes to the hotel frequently," the clerk returned, smiling. "He and your father are well acquainted." As the girls crossed the lobby to a drinking fountain, Louise said teasingly: "I'm afraid you've lost track of your father lately, Penny. You've been so upset about Mrs. Deline that you've scarcely noticed anything or anyone else." "Dad's been holding out on me, that's evident. Wonder what he's to call Major Gregg about?" "Why not wait up and see?" "Not a bad idea," Penny approved instantly. "He and Mrs. Deline should be getting in anytime now." "I'm not waiting up," announced Louise with a sleepy yawn. "In fact, I'm on my way to bed this minute." To prove her words she started for the elevator. Penny debated whether or not to follow and finally decided to remain in the lobby. An hour elapsed. Penny was half asleep by the time Mrs. Deline and Mr. Parker entered the hotel together. They were chatting animatedly and would not have seen her had she not scrambled from the wing chair. Seeing Penny, Mrs. Deline quickly bade Mr. Parker good night and vanished into an elevator. "You shouldn't have waited up," Mr. Parker chided his daughter. "Why, it's nearly midnight." "There's an important message for you, Dad. You're to call Major Gregg." Mr. Parker looked disconcerted. "How long ago did that call come, Penny?" "About an hour ago. Or that's when I learned of it." Mr. Parker went quickly to a telephone booth and was gone for some time. When he returned his face was animated. "Good news?" Penny asked eagerly. "Not exactly," Mr. Parker replied, sliding into a chair beside her and dropping his voice. "A message from Interceptor Headquarters. Monitoring machines have traced the outlaw radio station again. The broadcast finished about an hour ago." "And where was the station located this time, Dad?" "Seemingly at or near the lighthouse." "The lighthouse!" Penny exclaimed. She was so startled that her voice rose to a high pitch, attracting the attention of a passing bellboy. "Not so loud, Penny," her father warned. "The strange thing was that the broadcast seemed to come from a cave, the same as before, although the monitoring machines charted it as being close to the lighthouse." "The only one I know about near the Point is Crystal Cave," Penny said thoughtfully. "Dad, maybe the broadcast did come from the lighthouse!" "That's government property. Penny, and the man in charge is beyond suspicion. Furthermore, the deep, echo effect couldn't come from anywhere except a cave." "Unless it were a sound effect, Dad." "What's that?" Mr. Parker asked, startled. "I don't get you, Penny." "I mean, maybe the cave set-up is just a sound effect and nothing more. Only the other night I heard one in a radio play and it sounded as if the actors really were in a cave. Isn't it done by an echo chamber or something of the sort?" "That would be possible," Mr. Parker agreed. "At Interceptor Headquarters it was assumed that a mistake had been made in charting the location of the station." "Then the lighthouse hasn't been investigated?" "Not to my knowledge." "Well, it should be!" Penny exclaimed. "Louise and I were there today and we saw—" "Yes?" Mr. Parker questioned as she suddenly broke off. "We saw a lot that didn't look right," Penny finished, deciding not to bring Mrs. Deline's name into the discussion. "Mr. McCoy had visitors and while they were there he kept us locked up." "My word! Why didn't you report to the police?" "Well, we weren't entirely sure," Penny said lamely. "The door just closed and locked, and Mr. McCoy let on that it had a trick latch. Then he released us, but not until after the visitors had gone." "Did you see the persons?" "No, we only heard their voices. We weren't able to overhear any of the conversation." Without explaining what he intended to do, Mr. Parker again closed himself into a telephone booth. Not until he returned did he tell Penny that he had called Interceptor Headquarters and that Army men had been sent to the lighthouse to make a thorough check-up. "Now it's late," he said briskly, "and you're overdue for bed, Penny. Better fly up." "Aren't you coming?" "Not just now. I have a little unfinished business." Penny hesitated, unwilling to go to bed when she sensed adventure in the offing. As she groped in her mind for an excuse to remain, the doors at the front entrance to the hotel began to spin. Jerry came hurrying into the lobby. Seeing Penny and her father he made a straight line for them. "The code's been broken!" he announced, addressing Penny. "What did they learn, Jerry?" she asked eagerly. "It's just as you thought, Penny." Jerry dropped his bombshell. "Mrs. Deline definitely is an Enemy Agent. Apparently she was sent to Sunset Beach to aid that escaped prisoner I told you about!" # CHAPTER 23 _NIGHT ADVENTURE_ As Jerry made the startling announcement, Penny glanced anxiously at her father. In the excitement of the moment she had not thought how much of a shock it might be to him to learn that Mrs. Deline was an agent employed by a foreign country. To her astonishment, he looked neither surprised nor dismayed. "So you have the proof, Jerry!" Mr. Parker exclaimed. "That's fine! But what's all this about a code? How did you stumble onto it?" "No time for details now," Jerry answered tersely. "Penny turned the trick—she and Louise saw Mrs. Deline bury a package in the sand." "And Mrs. Deline brought that package from the lighthouse," Penny interposed eagerly. "Mr. McCoy must have given it to her." "What's the plan of action?" Mr. Parker demanded. "Army men already have gone to the lighthouse to search that place thoroughly." "Our job is to keep watch of the dune where the package was buried. Naturally we have no way of knowing what time anyone will show up there. It may be an all night wait." "I'll be with you in a minute," Mr. Parker declared. "Just as soon as I get an overcoat." He started toward the elevator, then came back to the group. "What about Mrs. Deline?" he asked. "She's here in the hotel. Went to her room only a few minutes ago." "She'll be placed under arrest," Jerry said. "Better call her on the telephone and get her down here. Don't let her suspect that you think anything is wrong." Mr. Parker vanished into the nearest telephone booth. "I can't understand it," Penny murmured to Jerry. "I was sure Dad was head over heels in love with Mrs. Deline. Why, it didn't even seem to ruffle him when he learned the truth about her." Jerry grinned. "Maybe," he drawled, "that was because he knew all the time." Penny was dumbfounded. "You mean—" she stammered, "You mean that Dad's been acting a part? Pretending to admire Mrs. Deline while actually he didn't?" "Something like that. You see, your Dad became interested in the outlaw radio station and the men who operate it. By making inquiries before he left Riverview, he obtained information that made him think Mrs. Deline might be involved in some way. He knew she never had been in China but spent many years in Japan. He learned also that instead of being a newspaper correspondent, she had carried on secret work for various governments." "Dad knew all that! And he never let on to me!" "He couldn't very well, Penny. If you had guessed the truth, you'd have given it away by your manner—no matter how much you tried to act natural." "What a little nit-wit I've been!" "You have not," Jerry denied warmly. "Anyone else would have acted the same. Without knowing it, you helped your father a lot. You turned up evidence he never could have obtained alone." "Where do you fit into the picture, Jerry? Did Dad send for you?" "You don't send for anyone in the Army," Jerry explained, grinning. "By pure luck I was assigned here on a special mission. Your father learned I was coming, so we united forces." "Then you've both known from the first about Mrs. Deline?" "We've had a dark brown suspicion, Penny. But no proof until tonight." Penny drew a deep breath. Before she could ask another question, her father came hurrying down the hotel corridor. "Mrs. Deline's not in her room!" he reported. "She doesn't answer." "She went upstairs only a few minutes ago," Penny recalled. "Yes, she did, but she's not there now." "Maybe she's asleep," Jerry said, "and failed to hear the "phone. We'll have to check." Without explaining why the matter was urgent, Mr. Parker arranged with the desk clerk to have one of the hotel maids go to Mrs. Deline's room. While the trio waited in the upstairs corridor, the woman rapped several times on the bedroom door, and failing to get a response, unlocked it with her master key. "Mrs. Deline!" she called, softly at first, then in a louder voice. There was no answer. The maid then snapped on the light. "Why, there's no one here!" she cried. "The bed's not been slept in!" "That's what I was afraid of," muttered Mr. Parker. With Jerry and Penny, he entered the bedroom. Everything was in perfect order. However, Mrs. Deline's suitcase was gone and all her belongings had been removed from the closet. "She's skipped without paying her room rent!" the maid exclaimed. "I'll call the manager!" Penny was peering into the waste paper basket beside the desk. "Look!" she drew the attention of her father and Jerry. "Burned letters and papers!" Digging into the basket, she brought up several charred sheets of paper. They were unreadable and crumpled in her hand. "This was a bad break for us—Mrs. Deline getting away!" Jerry exclaimed in disgust. "Evidently her work at Sunset Beach is finished. She's moving on to another pasture." "But she can't be far away," Penny reasoned. "After all, we know when she came to her room." "There still may be a chance to nab her," Mr. Parker said. "We'll notify the police to guard all the roads and the airport. I'll report to Major Gregg too." Without awaiting the arrival of the hotel manager, the trio hastened to the lobby. There Jerry and Mr. Parker made several telephone calls. "Now let's be on our way up the beach," Jerry urged anxiously. "We've killed too much time as it is." Penny half expected that her father would refuse permission for her to go along. To her delight he merely said: "I suppose there's no keeping you here, Penny. Well, come with us. I guess you've earned the right by your good work." It was a dark night, warm but misty. No lights were showing outside the hotel, though far up the beach the powerful lighthouse beacon cut swathes across the black sea. "What's the plan?" Mr. Parker asked Jerry. "The entire coast for fifty miles is being watched. I thought just on a chance we might keep vigil at the place where Mrs. Deline buried the package of explosives. Someone may show up there. On the other hand, Penny tipped off the fact that she knew where the bundle was buried." "Mrs. Deline watched Louise and me through a spy glass," Penny recalled ruefully. "She knew we didn't find the package though." "That's our assignment anyhow," Jerry said. "To keep watch of that particular place until relieved by Army men." The Parker car was on the hotel lot close by. Getting it, the trio took the beach road but stopped some distance from the lighthouse. Not wishing the car to attract the attention of any passer-by, it was left parked on a private driveway. Jerry, Penny and her father then crossed the dunes afoot and proceeded up the beach until they came to their station. "Think this is the place?" Penny asked skeptically. "I know it is," Jerry replied. "Remember what I told you about taking observations? Let's see if the package is still here?" He began digging in one of the dunes. Almost at once he came upon the box of explosives. "Exactly as we left it," he reported, replacing the sand. "No one's been here." "I doubt anyone will come," Mr. Parker commented. "Probably afraid." High overhead and out of sight, Penny heard the drone of planes on coastal patrol. She stared up into the dark sky and then toward the sea. The tide was coming in and long rolling waves washed the beach, dashed themselves on the shoreline and retreated. "We'll have to get down out of sight," Jerry warned. "Mustn't be seen from the road or the ocean either one." "How about this spot?" Mr. Parker suggested, pointing to a hollow between two giant dunes. The place seemed exactly right, so the trio flattened themselves on the sand. Jerry looked at the luminous dial of his watch. "One fifteen," he announced. "No sign of activity." "And no sign of any soldiers," Mr. Parker added. "I hope that whoever is to take over here shows up before long." "I don't," Penny said, snuggling close between her father and Jerry. "I'm having fun!" "If anything should develop, it's apt to be serious business," Jerry warned. "I'm inclined to think that we tipped our hand and nothing will happen." An hour elapsed. During that time there was no sound save the roar of the restless sea. The warm sand made a comfortable couch, and despite her best intentions, Penny caught herself dozing. She had all she could do to keep awake. "What time is it now?" she presently asked. "Two thirty-five," Jerry answered. "It doesn't look as if there's to be any activity, but then the night's young." "The night may be, but I'm not," Mr. Parker grumbled, shifting into a more comfortable position. "Wonder when our relief is to show up?" "Must be some mix up on orders. We're probably stuck here for the night." "In that case, Penny should return to the hotel." "Oh, no. Dad! Anyway, if I left now I might attract the attention of anyone watching this place." "You thought that one up!" her father chuckled. "Except for ourselves, there's no person within a quarter of a mile of this place." "You're wrong about that," murmured Jerry, stiffening to alert attention. "What's up, Jerry?" Mr. Parker said quickly. "You act as if you were seeing things!" "I am, Chief! Look to the right—between us and the lighthouse!" Mr. Parker and Penny gazed intently in the direction indicated. "Can't see a thing," Mr. Parker whispered. "Your eyes must be tricking you, Jerry." "Wait just a minute." Even as Jerry spoke, a shadowy figure emerged from the mists. The man came swiftly down the beach, making no sound as he walked. When he was very close, the revolving beacon of the lighthouse singled him out for a fleeting instant. Brief as was the moment of illumination, Penny recognized the man. "George Emory!" she whispered tensely. "What's he doing here?" # CHAPTER 24 _OUT OF THE SEA_ The answer to Penny's whispered question soon became obvious. George Emory looked carefully about the windswept beach. The three tense watchers thought that he might approach the dune where they lay hidden, but he did not. Instead, the man paused while several yards away and gazed toward the sea. A moment he stood thus, silhouetted against the sky. Then using a glowing flashlight, he began making wide sweeps with his arm. "A signal!" Jerry whispered. "He's trying to attract the attention of a boat out at sea!" "Shall we go for him?" asked Mr. Parker. "Wait!" Jerry advised. "He's not the only one we're after. We're stalking bigger game." At intervals for the next fifteen minutes, George Emory repeated the flashlight signals. Then he turned off the light and waited. Anxiously, Jerry, Penny and Mr. Parker kept their faces turned to the sea. They sensed that the hour of action was at hand, and it worried them that Army men had failed to arrive. "Look, Dad!" Penny suddenly whispered. She had glimpsed far from shore a long shadowy object which easily could be a boat. No lights were showing nor had she heard any sound. "I don't see a thing," Mr. Parker whispered back. "Yes! Now I do! Jove! It looks like a submarine that's surfaced. I can make out the conning tower!" "But why would it dare come here?" Penny speculated. "Won't it be detected by the patrol planes?" "Tonight's a bad night," Jerry pointed out. "Besides, the shore is so indented at this point of coast that perfect protection is almost impossible. They're sending a boat, that's sure!" A small craft had been launched from the wave-washed deck of the submarine. Manned by two men who rowed with muffled oars, it slowly approached the shore. When it was very close the watchers behind the sand dune saw by its grotesque sausage shape that it was a large, rubber boat. Like a gray ghost it slid over the water. Mr. Parker gripped Penny's hand in an encouraging squeeze. "Wish you were safe at the hotel," he whispered. "I was a fool to let you come." Penny's heart pounded but she shook her head vigorously. Not for anything would she have missed the adventure. However, she was cool headed enough to realize that the situation was not shaping up well for her father and Jerry. There were two men visible in the rubber boat, unquestionably armed. Then George Emory must be reckoned with and the arrival of others might be expected at any moment. Jerry carried a revolver but her father had no weapon. Already it was too late for any member of the trio to safely go for help. "That sub may intend to land Secret Agents here," Jerry speculated. "But from the code message we deciphered, it's more likely they plan to take aboard one or more passengers." "Perhaps that escaped flier," Penny supplied. "He's a valuable man to them. Well worth the risk they're taking to try to rescue him." "If passengers are to go aboard, where are they?" Penny whispered. "There's no one here but George Emory." "We must wait and watch. We'll soon see enough or I miss my guess." The rubber boat had reached the surf and was being churned by the waves. Two men in full military uniform, leaped out and guided the boat to the beach. George Emory waded out to meet them. Shaking the hand of each, he spoke rapidly in German. Though Mr. Parker understood the language, he was unable to catch a word. Tensely, the trio waited and watched. At any moment they feared that the men from the submarine might seek the cache of explosives hidden not far away. Soberly Jerry and Mr. Parker considered trying to reach the box in the sand. To do so they must cross an open, unprotected span of beach with every likelihood of being seen. "Let's wait and see what happens," Mr. Parker advised. "We shouldn't risk calling attention to ourselves." George Emory and his two companions obviously were awaiting someone. Nervously they paced the beach. Several times Mr. Emory looked at his watch. Then from far down the road came the sound of a car traveling at high speed. Tires screamed in protest as the auto came to a sudden halt on the paved road back from the beach. "That's why they've waited!" Jerry whispered. Barely a minute elapsed before two figures were seen coming swiftly from the direction of the road. A man and a woman crawled through the bushes, under the fence, and walked hurriedly across deep sand to the beach. "Mrs. Deline!" Penny identified the woman. "The man with her is the same fellow who stole food from our camp!" "I'd know his face from photographs I've seen," contributed Jerry. "He's Oscar Kleinbrock, escaped German prisoner. The man I was sent here to trace!" Mrs. Deline and her companion reached the group of men who awaited them. "You are five minutes late," George Emory reproved. "Can we help it?" Mrs. Deline snapped. "We're lucky to be here at all. Do you know that the road is being watched?" "By whom?" "Army men. We were nearly stopped but were able to turn off into the thicket and wait." "Then there's no time to waste in talk," George Emory said curtly. Turning, he spoke to the German flier in his own language. "He's telling him to get aboard the rubber boat," Mr. Parker interpreted tensely. "Now they're saying goodbye to Emory and Mrs. Deline." "Somehow we must hold them all here!" Jerry whispered grimly. "It's two against five. And they're armed." Mr. Parker and Jerry looked at each other, fully realizing how slim was their chance of success. They were not thinking of themselves but of Penny and what could happen to her if they failed. Mr. Parker touched her arm. "Penny," he whispered. "Slip away in the darkness and make a dash for the hotel. Jerry and I will try to hold them until help comes. Just keep low as you run or those fiends may take a pot-shot at you." Penny would not desert her father and Jerry. Stubbornly, she shook her head. "We want to know that you are safe," Jerry urged. "Please go while you still have a chance. You can help us most by bringing help." Penny's determination to remain, weakened. Yet reason told her she never could reach the hotel and return with help in time to do any good. It dawned upon her that Jerry was only saying what he did to get her safely away. "If only we had the box of explosives!" she whispered. "With it we might have a chance against those men!" "It's too late to dig up the box now," said Jerry. "We probably couldn't find it without a light. And the noise we'd make—" "Let me try," Penny interrupted. "All right, see if you can get your hands on the box," her father agreed suddenly. "Slip back of the dune, and then circle. Don't try to cross the beach. Be careful! Remember the least sound will bring a hail of bullets." Penny nodded and slipped away into the darkness, crawling on hands and knees. Barely had she left the shelter of the big sand dune than she heard two shots fired in quick succession. "Those came from Jerry's revolver!" she thought. "Oh, it was a trick to get me safely away! Now he and Dad are in for fireworks!" Raising her head above the protecting sand dune, Penny saw why Jerry had fired. The rubber boat was being launched. To delay the attack would mean that the entire party might escape. "They'll all get away!" Penny thought in dismay. "How can Jerry and Dad hold them single handed?" George Emory returned Jerry's fire with deadly aim. The bullets bit into the dune, throwing up little geysers of sand. "Launch the boat!" he shouted savagely to the men from the submarine. "Get away while you can! Be quick!" Jerry and Mr. Parker were determined that the party should not escape. As the men sought to launch the rubber boat, they made a concerted rush for the German flier who was to be taken aboard the waiting submarine. Caught by surprise, he went down beneath their blows. Fearful of hitting his own man, George Emory dared not fire again. Instead, he and the crewmen of the submarine fell upon Jerry and Mr. Parker. In the melee, one person could not be distinguished from another. "Fools! Fools!" cried Mrs. Deline as she watched the fierce, uneven struggle. "There is no time to be lost!" Jerry and Mr. Parker were putting up the fight of their lives, but they were no match for four able bodied, trained men. Penny, desperate with anxiety, saw that the struggle could end only in one way—disaster for Jerry and her father. "If I had that box of explosives maybe I could help them!" flashed through her mind. Rolling over a dune, she ran to the place near the fence where she thought the cache was buried. Frantically she clawed and dug at the sand. She could not find the box. "It must be here!" she told herself desperately. "Or was it hidden in the next dune?" She tried another place slightly to the right. As she dug, she heard a sound behind her. Turning swiftly, she saw Mrs. Deline starting across the beach toward her. "Oh, no, you don't!" the woman shouted. Penny's hand encountered something hard and firm. The box of explosives! Digging wildly, she lifted it from the bed of sand and sprang to her feet. Her fingers closed upon one of the hand grenades. "Get back!" she ordered Mrs. Deline, balancing herself as if to throw. The woman stopped short, then retreated a few steps. But only for a moment was she frightened. "Why, you infant, you couldn't throw a grenade!" she jeered. "You don't know how. Besides, you haven't the nerve!" "Get back!" Penny ordered again. "I warn you." Mrs. Deline laughed scornfully and came on. Even the thought of throwing a hand grenade terrified Penny. She knew that she could not deliberately harm Mrs. Deline or even the men who were mercilessly beating her father and Jerry. Yet she had to do something. "Maybe I can destroy the rubber boat!" she thought. "It's far enough away so that no one should be hurt by the explosion." Whirling away from Mrs. Deline, Penny faced the sea. Fixing her eyes on her target, the rubber boat at the water's edge, she hurled the grenade. "Idiot!" cried Mrs. Deline, flinging herself flat on the sand to protect her face from flying fragments. Penny did likewise. The grenade dropped with a thud on the sand beside the rubber boat. Her aim had been perfect. But there was no explosion. Belatedly, Penny realized that she had forgotten to pull the safety pin. Mrs. Deline kept her face buried beneath her arms and did not yet know what had happened. Sick with the knowledge that she had failed, Penny was desperate. Her father and Jerry were being cruelly beaten by their opponents. In another minute they would be overpowered and the Germans would escape to the waiting submarine. "I can't let them get away!" Penny whispered. "I must do something!" Remembering the pencil bombs, she groped in the cardboard box for them. They were not there. Instead, her fingers closed upon the sharp bladed knife. "I'll slash the rubber boat!" she thought. "I'll try to make a hole in it!" Before Mrs. Deline realized what the girl was about, Penny darted down the beach. The men from the submarine did not see her. Reaching the rubber boat, she leaped into it. Working with desperate haste, she jabbed the knife through the bottom. The material was tough and it took all of her strength to make a long jagged gash. Water seeped in, slowly at first, then faster. "I've done it!" Penny thought jubilantly. "I've done it!" Her triumph was fleeting. The next instant the girl was struck a hard stunning blow from behind. As she collapsed in a limp little heap on the sand, she dimly saw the cruel, angry face of Mrs. Deline. Then all went black and she knew no more. # CHAPTER 25 _A SCOOP FOR UNCLE SAM_ Penny opened her eyes and wondered where she was. For a moment she could remember nothing of what had transpired. Gradually, she realized that she was lying down, her head pillowed in someone's lap. She seemed to be in a fast-moving motor boat for she could hear the wash of waves against the craft. In panic she decided that she must be a prisoner enroute to the German submarine. She struggled to sit up. "Easy there, partner," said a soothing voice. Penny twisted sideways to look at the speaker. "Jerry!" she whispered. "You're all right," he said, pressing her gently back. "We'll get you to a doctor in a few minutes." "A doctor, my eye!" Penny protested with spirit. "That was a nasty blow Mrs. Deline gave you on the head," contributed another voice. Penny turned again and saw her father. His shirt was half torn off and there was a long gash on his cheek. "Dad, you're hurt!" "Nothing but a few scratches, Penny. Jerry took worse punishment than I did. But you should see the other fellows!" "What happened?" Penny asked. "Where am I anyhow?" "In a patrol boat bound for the hotel." "But what happened on the beach? The last I remember was when I tried to slash the rubber boat." "You not only tried, you did!" chuckled Jerry. "Mrs. Deline struck you on the head with something—maybe a rock—and you went down for the count. About that time, some of the Army boys arrived. Mrs. Deline and her crowd tried to make a get-away, but the boat couldn't be launched." "Then what happened?" Penny demanded as Jerry paused for breath. "The two members of the sub crew tried to swim. They were picked up by a patrol boat that had been drawn to the locality by the gun fire." "And Mrs. Deline?" "She and her pal Emory, together with the escaped flier, struck off across the sand dunes." "They didn't get away?" "Not on your life. They reached the road and there found a nice reception awaiting them! Right now the three are lodged at Headquarters." Penny took a deep breath. Her head was throbbing but she scarcely felt the pain. "What about Jim McCoy at the lighthouse?" she inquired. "He was taken into custody earlier in the evening. A portable broadcasting outfit was found on the premises." "Then Mr. McCoy really was the man responsible for those mysterious broadcasts—the Voice from the Cave?" "No doubt he had helpers," Mr. Parker contributed. "We expect to track down most of the ring now that the leaders have been captured. At any rate, we've put an end to the broadcasts. Your other theory was right too, Penny." "What theory, Dad?" "That the cave effect was produced by an echo chamber." "Then no broadcast ever originated in a cave?" "Probably not. We know McCoy shifted locations frequently. Tonight was the first time he ever dared broadcast from the lighthouse." "And what of the old beachcomber, Jake Skagway?" "Just a beachcomber," Jerry answered. "He had no connection with Emory or Mrs. Deline." Penny lay perfectly still for a few minutes, gazing up at the dark sky. A few stars pricked the black canopy above her, and now and then a quarter moon peeped from behind a cloud screen. "How did I get aboard this boat?" she presently inquired. "Another patrol boat came by," Jerry explained. "In fact, after all the fireworks, just about everyone in Sunset Beach arrived on the scene. We wanted to get you to a doctor so we took the first transportation that offered." "Almost there now too," added Mr. Parker. Penny sat up. The shore was dark but she could dimly see the dark Crystal Inn hotel. "I don't need a doctor," she laughed. "I'm feeling better every minute. My, won't Louise be green with envy when she learns what she missed!" "I'd say she was lucky," Mr. Parker corrected. "Penny, you don't seem to realize what a narrow escape we all had." "That's right," added Jerry, "those men were desperate, and they'd have stopped at nothing. I guess we owe our lives to you, Penny." Penny loved the praise. Nevertheless, she replied with a show of modesty: "Oh, I didn't do a thing, Jerry. As a matter of record, I nearly messed up the show. When I threw that hand grenade I forgot to pull the safety pin." "I'm glad you did," chuckled Jerry. "If it had exploded, we might not be here now." Penny sat very still, thinking over what had happened. Events were a bit hazy in her mind and many questions remained unanswered. "The submarine?" she asked after a moment. "Sunk," Jerry replied. "One of our patrol planes scored a direct hit." "I guess that brings me up to date," Penny sighed, "There's only one thing that bothers me." "What's that?" inquired her father. "Did you know who Mrs. Deline was when you invited her to come with us to Sunset Beach?" "No, but I had a healthy suspicion that she might be working against our country, Penny. I first met Mrs. Deline at the Club. However, she was rather transparent in making a play for my attention. In checking up I discovered that she never had been in China and never had written a newspaper story in her life. When she practically invited herself to ride with us to Sunset Beach, I thought I'd try to find out more about her little game." "I acted so silly about everything," Penny acknowledged, deeply ashamed. "I'm sorry, Dad." "You needn't be, Penny. At times you were rude to Mrs. Deline which was wrong. But your actions served a good purpose by keeping the woman so diverted that she never was on her guard." Shore was very close. As the powerful engines of the motor boat became muted, Penny said wistfully: "Now that your work is done here, Jerry, I suppose you'll be winging off to some far corner of the country." "Not for a few days at least," he reassured her. "I'm expecting a furlough and I'll spend it right here at Sunset Beach. We'll cram those days full of fun, Penny. We'll swim and golf and dance. We'll make every minute count." The boat grated gently against the dock and a sailor leaped out to make the craft fast. Mr. Parker and Jerry helped Penny ashore. Though she tried to stand steady upon her feet, the boards rocked beneath her. "Hook on," invited Jerry, offering an arm. Mr. Parker supported her on the other side, and thus they walked slowly toward the hotel. "The Three Musketeers!" chuckled the editor. "'One for all, and all for one."" "We do make a trio," agreed Penny. "Tonight it seems just as it did when we were together in Riverview working on a big news story. There's one difference though." "What's that?" asked Jerry. "Tonight we were actors in a little drama that should be page one on any newspaper. Yet neither of you news hawks so much as spoke of trying to get a scoop for the _Riverview Star_." "Good reason," rumbled Mr. Parker. "The story of what happened tonight may never be published." "I understand, Dad. If the news were printed now it might give valuable information to the enemy." Penny paused to catch her breath. With Jerry and her father still supporting her, she turned to face the restless sea. The patrol boat had slipped away into the darkness. Far up shore, unmindful that her faithless master had gone, the bright beacon from the lighthouse swept the water at regular intervals. Nothing seemed changed. "Curtain going down on one of the best adventures of my life," Penny said softly. "Who cares that the _Riverview Star_ missed the story? Why, this was an A-1 scoop for Uncle Sam!" THE END
231	--- title: Waterfront Fists author: Robert E. Howard tags: Fiction, Short Story, Fight Stories, Boxing, Action word count: 6900 ... # Waterfront Fists THE SEA GIRL hadn't been docked in Honolulu more'n three hours before Bill O'Brien come legging it down to the pool hall where I was showing Mushy Hansen the fine points of the game, to tell me that he'd got me matched to fight some has-been at the American Arena that night. "The Ruffian is in," said Bill, "and they got a fellow which they swear can take any man aboard the Sea Girl to a royal cleanin'. I ain't seen him, but they say he growed up in the back country of Australia and run wild with the kangaroos till he was shanghaied aboard a ship at an early age. They say he's licked everybody aboard the Ruffian from the cap'n down to the mess boy—" "Stow the gab and lead me to some Ruffian idjits which is cravin' to risk their jack on this tramp," I interrupted. "I got a hundred and fifty bucks that's burnin' my pockets up." Well, it was easy to find some lunatics from the Ruffian, and after putting up our money at even odds, with a bartender for stakeholder, and knowing I had a tough battle ahead of me and needed some training, I got me a haircut and then went down to the Hibernian Bar for a few shots of hard licker. While me and Bill and Mushy was lapping up our drinks, in come Sven Larsen. This huge and useless Swede has long been laboring under the hallucination that he oughta be champion of the Sea Girl, and no amount of battering has been able to quite wipe the idee outa what he supposes to be his brain. Well, this big mistake come up to me, and scowling down at me, he said: "You Irisher, put oop your hands!" I set my licker down with a short sigh of annoyance. "With a thousand sailors in port itchin' for a scrap," I said, "you got to pick on me. G'wan—I don't want to fight no shipmate now. Anyway, I got to fight the Ruffian's man in a few hours." "Aye shood be fightin' him," persisted the deluded maniac. "Aye ought to be champ of dey Sea Girl. Come on, you big stiffer!" And so saying he squared off in what he fondly believed was a fighting pose. At this moment my white bulldog, Mike, sensing trouble, bristled and looked up from the bowl of beer he was lapping up on the floor, but seeing it was nobody but Sven, he curled up and went to sleep. "Don't risk your hands on the big chump, Steve," said Bill disgustedly. "I'll fix him—" "You stay oot of dis, Bill O'Brien," said the Swede waving his huge fists around menacingly. "Aye will see to you after Aye lick Steve." "Aw, you're drunk," I said. "A fine shipmate you are." "Aye am not droonk!" he roared. "My girl told me—" "I didn't know you had a girl here," said Bill. "Well, Aye have. And she said a big man like me shood be champion of his ship and she wouldn't have nothings to do with me till Aye was. So put oop your hands—" "Aw, you're crazy," I snapped, turning back to the bar, but watching him close from the corner of my eye. Which was a good thing because he started a wild right swing that had destruction wrote all over it. I side-stepped and he crashed into the bar. Rebounding with a bloodthirsty beller he lunged at me, and seeing they was no arguing with the misguided heathen, I stepped inside his swing and brought up a right uppercut to the jaw that lifted his whole two hundred and forty-five pounds clean off the floor and stood him on the back of his neck, out cold. Mike, awakened by the crash, opened one eye, raised one ear, and then went back to sleep with a sort of gentle canine smile. "Y'oughta be careful," growled Bill, while Mushy sloshed a pitcher of dirty water over the Swede. "You mighta busted yore hand. Whyn't you hit him in the stummick?" "I didn't wanta upset his stummick," I said. "I've skinned my knuckles a little, but they ain't even bruised much. I've had "em in too many buckets uh brine." ~ AT LAST SVEN was able to sit up and cuss me, and he mumbled something I didn't catch. "He says he's got a date with his girl tonight," Mushy said, "but he's ashamed to go back to her with that welt on his jaw and tell her he got licked." "Ya," said Sven, rubbing his jaw, "you got to go tell her I can't come, Steve." "Aw, well," I said, "all right. I'll tell her you fell off the docks and sprained your ankle. Where's she live?" "She dances at the Striped Cat Cabaret," said Sven. After downing a finger of Old Jersey Cream, I tightened my belt and me and Mike sauntered forth. Bill followed me out into the street and said: "Dawg-gone it, Steve, you ought not to go cruisin' off this way, with the fight just a few hours in the offin'. That Ruffian crew is crooked as a buncha snakes—and you know what a soft head you are where women is concerned." "Your remarks is highly insultin', Bill," I returned with my well-known quiet dignity. "I don't reckon no woman ever made a fool outa me. I know "em like a book. Anyhow, you don't think I'd fall for a dame as encouraged a sap like Sven, do you? Heck, she's probably some big fat wench with a face like a bull terrier. What'd he say her name was—oh, yes, Gloria Flynn. Don't you worry about me. I'll be at the American in plenty uh time." It was after dark when me and Mike got to the Striped Cat Cabaret which is located in a tough waterfront section of the city. I asked the manager for Gloria Flynn, and he said she'd just finished a dance and was in her dressing room, changing to street clothes. He told me to wait for her at the back exit, which I done. I was standing there when the door opened and some girls come out. I said, taking off my cap, politely, "Which one of you frails is Gloria Flynn, if any?" You could of knocked me over with a pile-driver when the snappiest, prettiest one of the bunch up and said, "I'm her—and what of it?" "Well," I said, eyeing her with great admiration, "all I can say is, what does a girl like you want to waste her time with such tripe as Sven Larsen when they is men like me in port?" "Don't get fresh!" she snapped. "Oh, I ain't fresh," I assured her. "I just come to tell you that Sven fell off a dock and broke his neck—I mean sprained his ankle, and he can't make the date tonight." "Oh," she murmured. Then looking close at me, she said, "Who are you?" "I'm Steve Costigan, the fellow that licked him," I replied thoughtlessly. "Oh!" she said, kind of breathlessly. "So you're Steve Costigan!" "Yeah, I am," I said, having spilled the beans anyway. "Steve Costigan, A. B. mariner, and heavyweight champion aboard the trader Sea Girl. I knowed you didn't know me, or you wouldn't of persuaded your boy friend to risk his life by takin' a swing at me." She looked kind of bewildered. "I don't know what you're talking about." "Oh, it's all right," I hastened to assure her. "Sven told me about you urgin' him to climb me, but it's natural for a frail to want her fellow to be a champ of somethin'. What I can't understand is, what you see in a galoot like Sven." She gave a kind of hysterical laugh. "Oh, I see. Why, Mr. Costigan—" "Call me Steve," I beamed. "Well—Steve," she said with a little embarrassed laugh, "I didn't urge him anything of the sort. I just said he was such a big fellow I bet he could whip anybody aboard his ship—and he said one of the other sailors, Steve Costigan, was champion, and I said I was surprised that anybody could lick him—Sven, I mean. Why, I had no idea he'd get it into his head I wanted him to fight anybody. I do hope you didn't hurt the poor boy." "Oh, not much," I said, unconsciously swelling out my huge chest, "I always handle my shipmates easy as possible. Though uh course, I'm so powerful some times I hit harder'n I intend to. But say, sister, I know a swell little girl like you wasn't takin' that big squarehead serious. You was just sorry for him because he's so kind of big and awkward and dumb, wasn't you?" "Well," she admitted, "that was the way of it; he looked lonesome—" "Well, that's mighty fine of you," I said. "But forget about him now; after the beltin' I give him, he won't want to come back to you, and anyway, he'll find a native girl or a Chinese or somethin'. He ain't like me; a woman's a woman to him and he'll fall for anything in skirts that comes along. Me, I'm a one-woman man. Anyway, kid, it ain't right for you to trail around with a galoot like him. You owe it to yourself to keep company with only the best—me, for instance." "Maybe you're right," she said, with downcast eyes. "Sure, I'm always right," I answered modestly. "Now what say we go in and lap up something. All this talkin' I been doin's got my throat dry." "Oh, I never drink intoxicants," she said with a bright smile. "If you don't mind let's go over here to this ice-cream parlor." "O.K. with me," I said, "but first lemme introduce you to Mike who can lick his weight both in wildcats and dog biscuits." Well, Mike, he shook hands with her but he wasn't particular enthusiastic. He ain't no ladies' dog; he treats "em politely but coldly. Then we went over to the joint where they sold ice cream, and while we was dawdling over the stuff, I let my eyes wander over my charming companion. She was a beauty, no doubt about it; curly yellow hair and big trusting violet eyes. ~ "WHAT'S A NICE girl like you doin' workin' in a dump like the Striped Cat?" I asked her, and she kind of sighed and hung her head. "A girl has to do lots of things she don't like to," she said. "I was in a high class stock company which went broke here on account of the manager getting delirium tremens and having to be sent back to his home in England. I had to eat, and this was the only job open for me. Some day I'm going home; my folks live on a dairy farm in New Jersey, and I was a fool ever to leave there. Right now I can see the old white farm house, and the green meadows with the babbling brooks running through them, and the cows grazing." I thought she was going to cry for a minute, then she kind of sighed and smiled: "It's all in a lifetime, isn't it?" "You're a brave kid," I said, touched to my shoe soles, "and I wanta see more of you. I'm fightin' some guy at the American Arena in a little while. How about holdin' down a nice ringside seat there, and then havin' supper and a little dancin' afterwards? I can't dance much, but I'm a bear at the supper table." "Oh," said she, "you're the man that's going to fight Red Roach?" "Is that his name?" I asked. "Yeah, if he's the man from the Ruffian." "I'd like to go," she said, "but I have to go on in another dance number in half an hour." "Well," I said, "the fight can't last more'n three or four rounds, not with me in there. How "bout me droppin' around the Striped Cat afterwards? If you ain't through then, I'll wait for you." "That's fine," she said, and noting my slightly unsatisfied expression, she said: "If I'd known you were going to fight so soon, I wouldn't have let you eat that ice cream." "Oh, that won't interfere with my punchin' ability any," I said. "But I would like a shot of hard licker to kind of settle it on my stummick." That's the truth; sailors is supposed to be hawgs about ice cream and I have seen navy boys eat it in digusting quantities, but it's poor stuff for my belly. Mike had ate the bowl full I give him, but he'd a sight rather had a pan of slush. "Let's don't go in any of these saloons," said Gloria. "These waterfront bars sell you the same stuff rattlesnakes have in their teeth. I tell you, I've got a bottle of rare old wine not very far from here. I never touch it myself, but I keep it for my special friends and they say it's great. You've time for a nip, haven't you?" "Lead on, sister," I said, "I've always got time to take a drink, or oblige a beautiful girl!" "Ah, you flatterer," she said, giving me a little push. "I bet you tell that to every girl you meet." ~ WELL, TO MY surprise we halted before a kind of ramshackle gymnasium, and Gloria took out a key and unlocked the door. "I didn't tell you I had a kid brother with me," she said in answer to my surprised glance. "He's a weakly sort of kid, and I have to support him as well as myself. Poor kid, he would come with me when I left home. Well, Mr. Salana, who owns the gym, lets him use the equipment to build himself up; it's healthy for him. This is the boy's key. I keep the wine hidden in one of the lockers." "Ain't this where Tony Andrada trains?" I asked suspiciously. "'Cause if it is, it ain't no place for a nice girl. They is fighters and fighters, my child, and Tony is no credit to no business." "He's always been a perfect gentleman towards me," she answered. "Of course I come here only occasionally when my brother is working out—" She opened the door and we went in and then she shut it. To my slight surprise I heard the click as she locked it. She switched on a light and I seen her bending over something. Then she swung around and—wow!—I got the most unexpected, dumfounding surprise of my life to date! When she turned she had a heavy Indian club in both hands, and she heaved it up and crashed it down on my head with everything she had behind it! Well, I was so utterly dumfounded I just stood and gaped at her, and Mike, he nearly had a fit. I'd always taught him never to bite a woman, and he just didn't know what to do. Gloria was staring at me with eyes that looked like they was going to jump right out of her head. She glanced down at the broken fragments of the Indian club in a kind of stunned way, and then the color all ebbed out of her face, leaving her white as a ghost. "That's a nice way to do a friend!" I said reproachfully. "I don't mind a joke, but you've made me bite my tongue." She cringed back against the wall and held out both hands pitifully: "Don't hit me!" she cried, "please don't hit me! I had to do it!" Well, if I ever seen a scared girl, it was then. She was shaking in every limb. "You don't need to insult me on top of busting a club on my skull," I said with my quiet dignity. "I never hit no woman in my life and I ain't figurin' on it." All to once she began to cry. "Oh," said she, "I'm ashamed of myself. But please listen—I've lied to you. My brother is a fighter too, and he just about had this fight with Red Roach, when the promoter at the American changed his mind and signed you up instead. This fight would have given us enough to get back to New Jersey where those cows are grazing by the babbling meadows. I—I—thought, when you told me you were the one that's going to fight Roach, I'd fix it so you wouldn't show up, and they'd have to use Billy—that's my brother—after all. I was going to knock you unconscious and tie you up till after the fight. Oh, I know you'll hate me, but I'm desperate. I'll die if I have to live this life much longer," she said passionately. And then she starts to bawl. Well, I can't see as it was my fault, but I felt like a horse thief anyhow. "Don't cry," I said. "I'd help you all I can, but I got all my jack sunk on the imbroblio to win by a k.o." She lifted her tear stained face. "Oh, Steve, you can help me! Just stay here with me! Don't show up at the Arena! Then Billy will get the fight and we can go home! Please, Steve, please, please, please!" She had her arms around my neck and was fairly shaking me in her eagerness. Well, I admit I got a soft spot in my heart for the weaker sex, but gee whiz! "Great cats, Gloria," I said, "I'd dive off the Statue uh Liberty for you, but I can't do this. My shipmates has got every cent they got bet on me. I can't throw "em down that way." "You don't love me!" she mourned. "Aw, I do too," I protested. "But dawg-gone it, Gloria, I just can't do it, and please don't coax me, "cause it's like jerkin' a heart-string loose to say "No' to you. Wait a minute! I got a idee! You and your brother got some money saved up, ain't cha?" "Yes, some," she sniffed, dabbing at her eyes with a foolish little lace handkerchief. "Well, listen," I said, "you can double it—sink every cent you got on me to win by a kayo! It'll be a cinch placin' the dough. Everybody on the waterfront's bettin' one way or the other." "But what if you lose?" said she. "Me lose?" I snorted. "Don't make me laugh! You do that—and I can't stay another minute, kid—I'm due at the Arena right now. And say, I'll have some dough myself after the battle, and I'm goin' to help you and your brother get back to them green cows and babblin' farm houses. Now I got to go!" And before she had time to say another word, I kicked the lock off the door, being in too big a hurry to have her unlock it, and the next second me and Mike was sprinting for the Arena. ~ I FOUND BILL tearing his hair and walking the dressing room floor. "Here you are at last, are you, you blankety-blank mick dipthong!" he yelled blood-thirstily. "Where you been? You want to make a nervous wreck outa me? You realize you been committin' the one unpardonable sin, by keepin' the crowd waitin' for fifteen minutes? They're yellin' bloody murder and the crew which is all out front in ringside seats, has been throwin' chairs at the Ruffian's men which has been howlin' you'd run out on us. The promoter says if you ain't in that ring in five minutes, he'll run in a substitute." "And I'll run him into the bay," said I, sitting down and shucking my shoes. "I gotta get my wind back a little. Boy, we had Sven's girl down all wrong! She's a peach, as well as bein' a square-shootin'—" "Shut up, and get into them trunks!" howled Bill, doing a war-dance on the cap I'd just took off. "You'll never learn nothin'. Listen to that crowd! We'll be lucky if they don't lynch all of us!" Well, the maddened fans was making a noise like a flock of hungry lions, but that didn't worry me none. I'd just got into my fighting togs when the door opened and the manager of the Arena stuck a pale face in. "I got a man in place of Costigan—" he began, when he saw me and stopped. "Gangway!" I snarled, and as I pushed by him, I saw a fellow in trunks coming out of another dressing room. To my amazement it was Tony Andrada, which even had his hands taped. His jaw fell when he seen me, and his manager, Abe Gold, give a howl. They was two other thugs with them—Salana and Joe Cromwell—I'd been in Honolulu enough to know them yeggs. "What do you think you're doin' here?" I snarled, facing Tony. "They want me to fight Roach, when you run out—" he begun. Bill grabbed my arm as I was making ready to slug him. "For cats' sake!" he snarled, "you can lick him after you flatten Roach if you want to! Come on!" "It's mighty funny he should turn up, right at this time," I growled. "I thought Billy Flynn was to fight Roach if I didn't show up." "Who's Billy Flynn?" asked Bill as he rushed me up the aisle between howling rows of infuriated fans. "My new girl's kid brother," I answered as I clumb through the ropes. "If they've did anything to him, I'll—" My meditations was drowned by the thunders of the mob, who give me cheers because I'd got there, and razzes because I hadn't got there sooner. On one side of the ring the Sea Girl's crew lifted the roof with their wild whoops and on the other side the Ruffian's roughnecks greeted me with coarse, rude squawks and impolite remarks. Well, I glanced over to the opposite corner and saw Red Roach for the first, and I hope the last, time. He was tall and raw-boned, and the ugliest human I ever seen. He had freckles as big as mess pans all over him; his nose was flat, and his low slanting forehead was topped by a shock of the most scandalously red hair I ever looked at. When he rose from his stool I seen he was knock-kneed and when we came to the center of the ring to pretend to listen to instructions, I was disgusted to note that he was also cross-eyed. At first I thought he was counting the crowd, and it was slightly disconcerting to finally decide he was glaring at me! ~ WE WENT BACK to our corners, the gong sounded, the scrap started and I got another jolt. Roach come out, right foot and right hand forward. He was left-handed! I was so disgusted I come near lighting in and giving him a good cussing. Red-headed, cross-eyed—and left-handed! And he was the first good port-sider I'd ever met in a ring. I forgot to say our weights was 190 for me, and 193 for him. In addition, he was six feet three, or just three inches taller'n me, and he musta had a reach of anyways fifteen fathoms. We was still so far apart I didn't think he could reach me with a pole when—bam! his right licked out to my chin. I give a roar and plunged in, meaning to make it a quick fight. I wanted to crush this inhuman freak before the sight of him got on my nerves and rattled me. But I was all at sea. A left-hander does everything backwards. He leads with his right and crosses his left. He side-steps to the left instead of the right ordinarily. This guy done everything a port-sider's supposed to do, and a lot more stuff he thought up for hisself. He had a fast hard straight right and a wicked left swing—oh boy, how he could hit with that left! Seemed like every time I did anything, I got that right in the eye or the mouth or on the nose, and whilst I was thinking about that, bam! come the left and nearly ripped my head clean off. The long, lanky mutt—it looked like if I ever landed solid I'd bust him in two. But I couldn't get past that long straight right. My swings were all short and his straight right beat my left hook every time. When I tried trading jabs with him, his extra reach ruint that—anyway, I'm a natural hooker. My straight left is got force, but it ain't as accurate as it should be. At the end of the first round my right ear was nearly mangled. In the second frame he half closed my eye with a sizzling right hook, and opened a deep gash on my forehead. At the beginning of the third he dropped me for no-count with a left hook to the body that nearly caved me in. The Ruffian's crew was getting crazier every second and the Sea Girl's gang was yelling bloody murder. But I wasn't worried. I'm used to more punishment than I was getting and I wasn't weakening any. But dawg-gone it, it did make me mad not to be able to hit Roach. To date I hadn't landed a single solid punch. He was a clever boxer in his way, and his style woulda made Dempsey look like a one-armed paperhanger carryin' a bucket. He managed to keep me at long range, and he belted me plenty, but it wasn't his speed nor his punch that kept me all at sea; it was his cruel and unusual appearance! Dawg-gone—them eyes of his nearly had me batty. I couldn't keep from looking at "em. I tried to watch his waist-line or his feet, but every time my gaze wouldst wander back to his distorted optics. They had a kinda fatal attraction for me. Whilst I wouldst be trying to figure out where they was looking—wham! would come that left winging in from a entirely unexpected direction—and this continued. ~ WELL, AFTER ARISING from that knock-down in the third frame, I was infuriated. And after chasing him all around the ring, and getting only another black eye for my pains, I got desperate. With the round half a minute to go, I wowed the audience by closing both my eyes and tearing in, swinging wild and regardless. He was pelting me plenty, but I didn't care; that visage of his wasn't upsetting all my calculations as long as I couldn't see it, and in a second I felt my left crash against what I knew to be a human jaw. Instantly the crowd went into hystericals and I opened my eyes and looked for the corpse. My eyes rested on a recumbent figure, but it was not Red Roach. To my annoyance I realized that one of my blind swings had connected with the referee. At the same instant Roach's swinging left crashed against my jaw and I hit the canvas. But even as I went down I swung a wild dying effort right which sunk in just above Red's waistline. The round ended with all three of us on the canvas. Our respective handlers dragged us to our corners, and somebody throwed a bucket of water on the referee, who was able to answer the gong with us battlers by holding on to the ropes. Well, as I sat in my corner sniffing the smelling salts and watching Red's handlers massaging his suffering belly, I thought deeply, a very rare habit of mine while fighting. I do not believe in too much thinking; it gives a fighter the headache. Still and all, with my jaw aching from Red's left and my eyes getting strained from watching his unholy face, I rubbed the nose Mike stuck into my glove, and meditated. A left-hander is a right-hander backwards. Nine times out of ten his straight right will beat your left jab. If you lead your right to a right-hander, he'll beat you to the punch with his left; but you can lead your right to a left-hander, because his left has as far to travel as your right. So when we come out for the fourth round, instead of tearing in, I went in cautious-like for me, ignoring the yells of the Ruffian's crew that I was getting scared of their man. Red feinted with his right so clumsy even I knowed it was a feint and instantly shot my right with everything I had behind it. It beat his left swing and landed solid, but high. He staggered and I dropped him to his all fours with a whistling left hook under the heart. He was up at "Nine" and caught me with a wild left swing as I rushed in. It dizzied me but I kept coming, and every time he made a motion with his left I shot my right. Sometimes I landed first and sometimes he did, and sometimes we landed simultaneous, but my smashes had the most kick behind them. Like most port-siders when they're groggy, he'd clean forgot he had a right hand and was staking everything on his left swing. I battered him back across the ring, and he rallied and smashed over a sledge-hammer left hook that rocked me to my heels and made the blood spatter, but I bored right in with a sizzling left hook under the heart. He gasped, his knees buckled, then he steadied hisself and shot over his left just as I crashed in with a right. Bam! Something exploded in my head, and then I heard the referee counting. To my chagrin I found I was on the canvas, but Roach was there too. The still weaving and glassy-eyed referee was holding onto the ropes with one hand and counting over us both, but I managed to reel up at "Six!" Me and Red had landed square to the button at just the same second, but my jaw was just naturally tougher than his. He hadn't twitched at "Ten" and they had to carry him to his dressing room to bring him to. Well, a few minutes' work on me with smelling salts, ammonia, sponges and the like made me as good as new. I couldn't hardly wait for Bill to dress my cuts with collodion, but the minute I got my clothes on and collected my winnings and bets from the bartender, who'd come to the ring under escort from both ships, I ducked out the back way. I even left Mike with Bill because he's always scrapping with some other dog on the streets and I was in a big hurry. I was on my way to see if Gloria had followed my advice, also something else. One hundred and fifty bucks I won; with what I had that made three hundred. I got a hundred and fifty for the fracas. Altogether I had four hundred and fifty dollars all in greenbacks of large denomination in my jacket pocket. And I was going to give Gloria every cent of it, if she'd take it, so she could go back to New Jersey and the cows. This sure wasn't no place for a nice girl to be in, and I'll admit I indulged in some dreams as I hurried along—about the time I'd retire from the sea and maybe go into the dairy farming business in New Jersey. ~ I WAS HEADED for the Striped Cat, but on my way I passed Salana's gym, and I noticed that they was a light in one of the small rooms which served as a kind of office. As I passed the door I distinctly heard a voice I knowed was Gloria's. I stopped short and started to knock on the door, then something made me steal up close and listen—though I ain't a eavesdropper by nature. From the voices five people was in the room—Gloria, Salana, Abe Gold, Joe Cromwell, and Tony. "Don't hand us no line, sister," Gold was saying in his nasty rasping voice. "You said leave it to you. Yeah, we did! And look what it got us! You was goin' to keep Costigan outa the way, so's we could run Tony in at the last minute. You know the promoter at the American was all set to match Tony with Roach when Costigan's ship docked and the big cheese changed his mind and matched the Mick instead, because the fool sailors wanted the scrap. "Roach woulda been a spread for Tony, because the wop eats these port-siders up. The town sports know that, and they woulda sunk heavy on Tony. We was goin' to bet our shirts on Roach, and Tony would flop along about the third. Then we coulda all left this dump and gone to Australia. "Well, we left it up to you to get rid of Costigan. And what does he do, I ask you? He walks in as big as you please, just when Tony was fixing to go in for him. I ask you!" "Well, don't rag me," said Gloria in a voice which startled me, it was that hard, "I did my best. I got hold of a Swede aboard the Sea Girl and primed the big stiff proper. I stirred him up and sent him down to climb Costigan, thinking he'd bung the mick up so he couldn't come on tonight, or that Costigan would at least break his hands on him. "But the harp flattened him without even spraining a thumb, and the first thing I knew, he was waiting for me outside the cabaret. I thought he'd come to smack me down for sicking the Swede on him, but the big slob had just come to tell me the square-head couldn't keep his date. Can you feature that? Well, he fell for me right off, naturally, and I got him into the gym here, intending to lay him cold and lock him up till after the fight. But say! That big mick must have a skull made of reinforced battleship steel! I shattered a five-pound Indian club over his dome without even making him bat his eyes! "Well, I hope I never have a half-minute like that again! When I failed to even stagger him with that clout, I thought I was a gone goose! I had visions of him twisting my head off and feeding it to that ugly cannibal he calls his bulldog. "But you can't tell about those tough looking sluggers like him. He didn't even offer to lay a hand on me, and when I got my second wind, I spun him a yarn about having a kid brother that needed this fight to get back home. He fell for it so easy that I thought I could coax him to run out on his own accord, but he balked there. All he'd do was to advise me to bet on him, and then all at once he said it was time for him to be at the stadium, and he busted right out through the door and took it on the lam, making some crack about coming back after the fight." "A fine mess you've made!" sneered Salana. "You've gummed things up proper! We had everything set for a killing—" "A high class brand of sports you are!" she snapped. "I'm ashamed to be seen with you, you cheap grafters! A big killing! You don't know what one is. Anyway, what do you want me to do, cry?" "We want you to give back that hundred we paid you in advance," snarled Salana, "and if you don't, you'll cry plenty." "And I guess you think I risk my life for such cheap welchers as you for nothing?" she sneered. "Not one cent—" There was the sound of a blow and Gloria give a short, sharp cry which was cut short in a sort of gasp. "Give her the works, Joe," Salana snarled. "You can't cross me, you little—!" ~ NEVER MIND WHAT he called her. I'd have half killed him for that alone. I tore the door clean off the hinges as I went through it, and I seen a sight that made a red mist wave in front of me so everything in that room looked bloody and grim. Salana had Gloria down on a chair and was twisting both her arms up behind her back till it looked like they'd break. Joe Cromwell had the fingers of his left hand sunk deep in her white throat and his right drawed back to smash in her face. Tony and Abe Gold was looking on with callous, contemptuous sneers. They all turned to look as the door crashed in, and I saw Salana go white as I give one roar and went into action. He turned loose of the girl, but before he could get his hands up, I crashed him with a left-hander that crushed his nose and knocked out four teeth, and my next smash tore Joe Cromwell's ear loose and left it hanging by a shred. Another of the same sort stood him on his head in a corner with a cracked jaw-bone, and almost simultaneous Abe Gold barely missed me with a pair of brass knuckles, and Tony landed hard on my ear. But I straightened with a right-hander that dropped Gold across Salana with three broken ribs, and missed a left swing that wouldst of decapitated Tony hadst it landed. I ain't one of these fellows which has to be crazy mad to put up a good fight, but when I am crazy mad, they's no limit to the destruction I can hand out. Maybe in the ring, under ordinary circumstances, Tony could of cut me to ribbons, but here he never had a chance. I didn't even feel the punches he was raining on me, and after missing a flock of swings in a row, I landed under his jaw with a hay-making right-hander that I brought up from the floor. Tony turned a complete somersault in the air, and when he come down his head hit the wall with a force that laid his scalp open and wouldst of knocked him cold, if he hadn't already been unconscious before he landed. Maybe a minute and a half after I busted through the door, I stood alone in the middle of the carnage, panting and glaring down at the four silent figures which littered the room. All I craved was for all the other yeggs in Honolulu to come busting in. Pretty soon I looked around for Gloria and saw her cringing in a corner like she was trying to flatten herself out against the wall. She was white-faced and her eyes was blazing with terror. She give a kind of hunted cry when I looked at her. "Don't! Please, don't!" "Please don't what?" I snapped in some irritation. "Ain't you learned by this time that I don't clout frails? I come in here to rescue you from these gypes, and you insult me!" "Forgive me," she begged. "I can't help but be a little afraid of you—you look so much like a gorilla—" "What!" "I mean you're such a terrible fighter," she hastily amended. "Come on—let's get out of here before these welchers come to." "Would that they wouldst," I brooded. "What I done to "em was just a sample of what I'm goin' to do to "em. Dawg-gone it, some of these days somebody's goin' to upset my temper, then I'll lose control of myself and hurt somebody." Well, we went out on the street, which was mostly deserted and rather dimly lighted, and Gloria said pretty soon: "Thank you for rescuing me. If my brother had been there—" "Gloria," I said wearily, "ain't you ever goin' to stop lyin'? I was outside the door and heard it all." "Oh," said she. "Well," I said, "I reckon I'm a fool when it comes to women. I thought I was stuck on you, and didn't have sense enough to know you was stringin' me. Why, I even brung the four hundred and fifty bucks I won, intendin' to give it to you." And so saying I threw out the wad of bills, waved it reproachfully in front of her eyes and replaced it in my jacket pocket. All at once she started crying. "Oh, Steve, you make me ashamed of myself! You're so fine and noble—" "Well," I said with my quiet dignity, "I know it, but I can't help it. It's just my nature." "I'm so ashamed," she sobbed. "There's no use lying; Salana paid me a hundred dollars to get you out of the way. But, Steve, I'm changing my ways right here! I'm not asking you to forgive me, because I guess it's too much to ask, and you've done enough for me. But I'm going home tomorrow. That stuff I told you about the dairy farm in New Jersey was the only thing I told you that wasn't a lie. I'm going home and live straight, and I want to kiss you, just once, because you've showed me the error of my ways." And so saying, she threw her arms around me and kissed me vigorously—and me not objectin' in no manner. "I'm going back to the old, pure simple life," she said. "Back to the green meadows and babbling cows!" And she made off down the street at a surprising rate of speed. I watched her go and a warm glow spread over me. After all, I thought, I do know women, and the hardest of them is softened by the influence of a strong, honest, manly heart like mine. She vanished around a corner and I turned back toward the Hibernian Bar, at the same time reaching for my bank roll. Then I give a yell that woke up everybody in that section of Honolulu with cold sweat standing out on them. Now I knowed why she wanted to put her arms around me. My money was gone! She loved me—she loved me not! THE END
232	--- author: Mary Roberts Rinehart tags: Humorous stories, Detective and mystery stories, Love stories, Man-woman relationships, Fiction, Health resorts, Impersonation title: Where There's a Will summary: " \"Where There's a Will\" by Mary Roberts Rinehart is a novel written in the early 20th century. The book revolves around the lives and relationships of the staff and guests at Hope Springs Sanatorium, particularly focusing on the spirited spring-house girl named Minnie Waters as she navigates intrigue, duty, and the unexpected arrival of a new owner. The opening of the story introduces us to Minnie as she reflects on her life at Hope Springs, where she has dedicated fourteen years to serving guests and tending to their needs. Following the death of the old doctor who managed the sanatorium, Minnie grapples with her responsibilities and the future of the place she considers home. Key players like Miss Patty Jennings, a frequent guest entangled in royal romance, and Mr. Richard Carter, the doctor's grandson who is expected to take charge of the establishment, begin to emerge. As excitement builds around new developments\u2014including Miss Patty's engagement and intriguing secrets in the air\u2014the stage is set for a mix of drama and humor, showcasing Minnie's bold personality and her connections to the unfolding storylines. " word_count: 63469 fiction_type: Novel ... # CHAPTER I: I HAVE A WARNING When it was all over Mr. Sam came out to the spring-house to say good-by to me before he and Mrs. Sam left. I hated to see him go, after all we had been through together, and I suppose he saw it in my face, for he came over close and stood looking down at me, and smiling. "You saved us, Minnie," he said, "and I needn't tell you we're grateful; but do you know what I think?" he asked, pointing his long forefinger at me. "I think you've enjoyed it even when you were suffering most. Red-haired women are born to intrigue, as the sparks fly upward." "Enjoyed it!" I snapped. "I'm an old woman before my time, Mr. Sam. What with trailing back and forward through the snow to the shelter-house, and not getting to bed at all some nights, and my heart going by fits and starts, as you may say, and half the time my spinal marrow fairly chilled—not to mention putting on my overshoes every morning from force of habit and having to take them off again, I'm about all in." "It's been the making of you, Minnie," he said, eying me, with his hands in his pockets. "Look at your cheeks! Look at your disposition! I don't believe you'd stab anybody in the back now!" (Which was a joke, of course; I never stabbed anybody in the back.) He sauntered over and dropped a quarter into the slot-machine by the door, but the thing was frozen up and refused to work. I've seen the time when Mr. Sam would have kicked it, but he merely looked at it and then at me. "Turned virtuous, like everything else around the place. Not that I don't approve of virtue, Minnie, but I haven't got used to putting my foot on the brass rail of the bar and ordering a nut sundae. Hook the money out with a hairpin, Minnie, and buy some shredded wheat in remembrance of me." He opened the door and a blast of February wind rattled the window-frames. Mr. Sam threw out his chest under his sweater and waved me another good-by. "Well, I'm off, Minnie," he said. "Take care of yourself and don't sit too tight on the job; learn to rise a bit in the saddle." "Good-by, Mr. Sam!" I called, putting down Miss Patty's doily and following him to the door; "good-by; better have something before you start to keep you warm." He turned at the corner of the path and grinned back at me. "All right," he called. "I'll go down to the bar and get a lettuce sandwich!" Then he was gone, and happy as I was, I knew I would miss him terribly. I got a wire hairpin and went over to the slot-machine, but when I had finally dug out the money I could hardly see it for tears. It began when the old doctor died. I suppose you have heard of Hope Sanatorium and the mineral spring that made it famous. Perhaps you have seen the blotter we got out, with a flash-light interior of the spring-house on it, and me handing the old doctor a glass of mineral water, and wearing the embroidered linen waist that Miss Patty Jennings gave me that winter. The blotters were a great success. Below the picture it said, "Yours for health," and in the body of the blotter, in red lettering, "Your system absorbs the health-giving drugs in Hope Springs water as this blotter soaks up ink." The "Yours for health" was my idea. I have been spring-house girl at Hope Springs Sanatorium for fourteen years. My father had the position before me, but he took rheumatism, and as the old doctor said, it was bad business policy to spend thousands of dollars in advertising that Hope Springs water cured rheumatism, and then have father creaking like a rusty hinge every time he bent over to fill a glass with it. Father gave me one piece of advice the day he turned the spring-house over to me. "It's a difficult situation, my girl," he said. "Lots of people think it's simply a matter of filling a glass with water and handing it over the railing. Why, I tell you a barkeeper's a high-priced man mostly, and his job's a snap to this. I'd like to know how a barkeeper would make out if his customers came back only once a year and he had to remember whether they wanted their drinks cold or hot or "chill off'. And another thing: if a chap comes in with a tale of woe, does the barkeeper have to ask him what he's doing for it, and listen while he tells how much weight he lost in a blanket sweat? No, sir; he pushes him a bottle and lets it go at that." Father passed away the following winter. He'd been a little bit delirious, and his last words were: "Yes, sir; hot, with a pinch of salt, sir?" Poor father! The spring had been his career, you may say, and I like to think that perhaps even now he is sitting by some everlasting spring measuring out water with a golden goblet instead of the old tin dipper. I said that to Mr. Sam once, and he said he felt quite sure that I was right, and that where father was the water would be appreciated. He had heard of father. Well, for the first year or so I nearly went crazy. Then I found things were coming my way. I've got the kind of mind that never forgets a name or face and can combine them properly, which isn't common. And when folks came back I could call them at once. It would do your heart good to see some politician, coming up to rest his stomach from the free bar in the state house at the capital, enter the spring-house where everybody is playing cards and drinking water and not caring a rap whether he's the man that cleans the windows or the secretary of the navy. If he's been there before, in sixty seconds I have his name on my tongue and a glass of water in his hand, and have asked him about the rheumatism in his right knee and how the children are. And in ten minutes he's sitting in a bridge game and trotting to the spring to have his glass refilled during his dummy hand, as if he'd grown up in the place. The old doctor used to say my memory was an asset to the sanatorium. He depended on me a good bit—the old doctor did—and that winter he was pretty feeble. (He was only seventy, but he'd got in the habit of making it eighty to show that the mineral water kept him young. Finally he got to BEING eighty, from thinking it, and he died of senility in the end.) He was in the habit of coming to the spring-house every day to get his morning glass of water and read the papers. For a good many years it had been his custom to sit there, in the winter by the wood fire and in the summer just inside the open door, and to read off the headings aloud while I cleaned around the spring and polished glasses. "I see the president is going fishing, Minnie," he'd say, or "Airbrake is up to 133; I wish I'd bought it that time I dreamed about it. It was you who persuaded me not to, Minnie." And all that winter, with the papers full of rumors that Miss Patty Jennings was going to marry a prince, we'd followed it by the spring-house fire, the old doctor and I, getting angry at the Austrian emperor for opposing it when we knew how much too good Miss Patty was for any foreigner, and then getting nervous and fussed when we read that the prince's mother was in favor of the match and it might go through. Miss Patty and her father came every winter to Hope Springs and I couldn't have been more anxious about it if she had been my own sister. Well, as I say, it all began the very day the old doctor died. He stamped out to the spring-house with the morning paper about nine o'clock, and the wedding seemed to be all off. The paper said the emperor had definitely refused his consent and had sent the prince, who was his cousin, for a Japanese cruise, while the Jennings family was going to Mexico in their private car. The old doctor was indignant, and I remember how he tramped up and down the spring-house, muttering that the girl had had a lucky escape, and what did the emperor expect if beauty and youth and wealth weren't enough. But he calmed down, and soon he was reading that the papers were predicting an early spring, and he said we'd better begin to increase our sulphur percentage in the water. I hadn't noticed anything strange in his manner, although we'd all noticed how feeble he was growing, but when he got up to go back to the sanatorium and I reached him his cane, it seemed to me he avoided looking at me. He went to the door and then turned and spoke to me over his shoulder. "By the way," he remarked, "Mr. Richard will be along in a day or so, Minnie. You'd better break it to Mrs. Wiggins." Since the summer before we'd had to break Mr. Dick's coming to Mrs. Wiggins the housekeeper, owing to his finding her false front where it had blown out of a window, having been hung up to dry, and his wearing it to luncheon as whiskers. Mr. Dick was the old doctor's grandson. "Humph!" I said, and he turned around and looked square at me. "He's a good boy at heart, Minnie," he said. "We've had our troubles with him, you and I, but everything has been quiet lately." When I didn't say anything he looked discouraged, but he had a fine way of keeping on until he gained his point, had the old doctor. "It HAS been quiet, hasn't it?" he demanded. "I don't know," I said; "I have been deaf since the last explosion!" And I went down the steps to the spring. I heard the tap of his cane as he came across the floor, and I knew he was angry. "Confound you, Minnie," he exclaimed, "if I could get along without you I'd discharge you this minute." "And if I paid any attention to your discharging me I'd have been gone a dozen times in the last year," I retorted. "I'm not objecting to Mr. Dick coming here, am I? Only don't expect me to burst into song about it. Shut the door behind you when you go out." But he didn't go at once. He stood watching me polish glasses and get the card-tables ready, and I knew he still had something on his mind. "Minnie," he said at last, "you're a shrewd young woman—maybe more head than heart, but that's well enough. And with your temper under control, you're a CAPABLE young woman." "What has Mr. Dick been up to now?" I asked, growing suspicious. "Nothing. But I'm an old man, Minnie, a very old man." "Stuff and nonsense," I exclaimed, alarmed. "You're only seventy. That's what comes of saying in the advertising that you are eighty—to show what the springs have done for you. It's enough to make a man die of senility to have ten years tacked to his age." "And if," he went on, "if anything happens to me, Minnie, I'm counting on you to do what you can for the old place. You've been here a good many years, Minnie." "Fourteen years I have been ladling out water at this spring," I said, trying to keep my lips from trembling. "I wouldn't be at home any place else, unless it would be in an aquarium. But don't ask me to stay here and help Mr. Dick sell the old place for a summer hotel. For that's what he'll do." "He won't sell it," declared the old doctor grimly. "All I want is for you to promise to stay." "Oh, I'll stay," I said. "I won't promise to be agreeable, but I'll stay. Somebody'll have to look after the spring; I reckon Mr. Dick thinks it comes out of the earth just as we sell it, with the whole pharmacopoeia in it." Well, it made the old doctor happier, and I'm not sorry I promised, but I've got a joint on my right foot that throbs when it is going to rain or I am going to have bad luck, and it gave a jump then. I might have known there was trouble ahead. # CHAPTER II: MISS PATTY ARRIVES It was pretty quiet in the spring-house that day after the old doctor left. It had started to snow and only the regulars came out. What with the old doctor talking about dying, and Miss Patty Jennings gone to Mexico, when I'd been looking forward to her and her cantankerous old father coming to Hope Springs for February, as they mostly did, I was depressed all day. I got to the point where Mr. Moody feeding nickels into the slot-machine with one hand and eating zwieback with the other made me nervous. After a while he went to sleep over it, and when he had slipped a nickel in his mouth and tried to put the zwieback in the machine he muttered something and went up to the house. I was glad to be alone. I drew a chair in front of the fire and wondered what I would do if the old doctor died, and what a fool I'd been not to be a school-teacher, which is what I studied for. I was thinking to myself bitterly that all that my experience in the spring fitted me for was to be a mermaid, when I heard something running down the path, and it turned out to be Tillie, the diet cook. She slammed the door behind her and threw the Finleyville evening paper at me. "There!" she said, "I've won a cake of toilet soap from Bath-house Mike. The emperor's consented." "Nonsense!" I snapped, and snatched the paper. Tillie was right; the emperor HAD! I sat down and read it through, and there was Miss Patty's picture in an oval and the prince's in another, with a turned-up mustache and his hand on the handle of his sword, and between them both was the Austrian emperor. Tillie came and looked over my shoulder. "I'm not keen on the mustache," she said, "but the sword's beautiful—and, oh, Minnie, isn't he aristocratic? Look at his nose!" But I'm not one to make up my mind in a hurry, and I'd heard enough talk about foreign marriages in the years I'd been dipping out mineral water to make me a skeptic, so to speak. "I'm not so sure," I said slowly. "You can't tell anything by that kind of a picture. If he was even standing beside a chair I could get a line on him. He may be only four feet high." "Then Miss Jennings wouldn't love him," declared Tillie. "How do you reckon he makes his mustache point up like that?" "What's love got to do with it?" I demanded. "Don't be a fool, Tillie. It takes more than two people's pictures in a newspaper with a red heart around them and an overweight cupid above to make a love-match. Love's a word that's used to cover a good many sins and to excuse them all." "She isn't that kind," said Tillie. "She's—she's as sweet as she's beautiful, and you're as excited as I am, Minnie Waters, and if you're not, what have you got the drinking glass she used last winter put on the top shelf out of reach for?" She went to the door and slammed it open. "Thank heaven I'm not a dried-up old maid," she called back over her shoulder, "and when you're through hugging that paper you can send it up to the house." Well, I sat there and thought it over, Miss Patty, or Miss Patricia, being, so to speak, a friend of mine. They'd come to the Springs every winter for years. Many a time she'd slipped away from her governess and come down to the spring-house for a chat with me, and we'd make pop-corn together by my open fire, and talk about love and clothes, and even the tariff, Miss Patty being for protection, which was natural, seeing that was the way her father made his money, and I for free trade, especially in the winter when my tips fall off considerable. And when she was younger she would sit back from the fire, with the corn-popper on her lap and her cheeks as red as cranberries, and say: "I DON'T know why I tell you all these things, Minnie, but Aunt Honoria's funny, and I can't talk to Dorothy; she's too young, you know. Well, HE said—" only every winter it was a different "he." In my wash-stand drawer I'd kept all the clippings about her coming out and the winter she spent in Washington and was supposed to be engaged to the president's son, and the magazine article that told how Mr. Jennings had got his money by robbing widows and orphans, and showed the little frame house where Miss Patty was born—as if she's had anything to do with it. And so now I was cutting out the picture of her and the prince and the article underneath which told how many castles she'd have, and I don't mind saying I was sniffling a little bit, for I couldn't get used to the idea. And suddenly the door closed softly and there was a rustle behind me. When I turned it was Miss Patty herself. She saw the clipping immediately, and stopped just inside the door. "YOU, TOO," she said. "And we've come all this distance to get away from just that." "Well, I shan't talk about it," I replied, not holding out my hand, for with her, so to speak, next door to being a princess—but she leaned right over and kissed me. I could hardly believe it. "Why won't you talk about it?" she insisted, catching me by the shoulders and holding me off. "Minnie, your eyes are as red as your hair!" "I don't approve of it," I said. "You might as well know it now as later, Miss Patty. I don't believe in mixed marriages. I had a cousin that married a Jew, and what with him making the children promise to be good on the Talmud and her trying to raise them with the Bible, the poor things is that mixed up that it's pitiful." She got a little red at that, but she sat down and took up the clipping. "He's much better looking than that, Minnie," she said soberly, "and he's a good Catholic. But if that's the way you feel we'll not talk about it. I've had enough trouble at home as it is." "I guess from that your father isn't crazy about it," I remarked, getting her a glass of spring water. The papers had been full of how Mr. Jennings had forbidden the prince the house when he had been in America the summer before. "Certainly he's crazy about it—almost insane!" she said, and smiled at me in her old way over the top of the glass. Then she put down the glass and came over to me. "Minnie, Minnie," she said, "if you only knew how I've wanted to get away from the newspapers and the gossips and come to this smelly little spring-house and talk things over with a red-haired, sharp-tongued, mean-dispositioned spring-house girl—!" And with that I began to blubber, and she came into my arms like a baby. "You're all I've got," I declared, over and over, "and you're going to live in a country where they harness women with dogs, and you'll never hear an English word from morning to night." "Stuff!" She gave me a little shake. "He speaks as good English as I do. And now we're going to stop talking about him—you're worse than the newspapers." She took off her things and going into my closet began to rummage for the pop-corn. "Oh, how glad I am to get away," she sang out to me. "We're supposed to have gone to Mexico; even Dorothy doesn't know. Where's the pop-corner or the corn-popper or whatever you call it?" She was as happy to have escaped the reporters and the people she knew as a child, and she sat down on the floor in front of the fire and began to shell the corn into the popper, as if she'd done it only the day before. "I guess you're safe enough here," I said. "It's always slack in January—only a few chronics and the Saturday-to-Monday husbands, except a drummer now and then who drives up from Finleyville. It's too early for drooping society buds, and the chronic livers don't get around until late March, after the banquet season closes. It will be pretty quiet for a while." And at that minute the door was flung open, and Bath-house Mike staggered in. "The old doctor!" he gasped. "He's dead, Miss Minnie—died just now in the hot room in the bathhouse! One minute he was givin' me the divil for something or other, and the next—I thought he was asleep." Something that had been heavy in my breast all afternoon suddenly seemed to burst and made me feel faint all over. But I didn't lose my head. "Does anybody know yet?" I asked quickly. He shook his head. "Then he didn't die in the bath-house, Mike," I said firmly. "He died in his bed, and you know it. If it gets out that he died in the hot room I'll have the coroner on you." Miss Patty was standing by the railing of the spring. I got my shawl and started out after Mike, and she followed. "If the guests ever get hold of this they'll stampede. Start any excitement in a sanatorium," I said, "and one and all they'll dip their thermometers in hot water and swear they've got fever!" And we hurried to the house together. # CHAPTER III: A WILL Well, we got the poor old doctor moved back to his room, and had one of the chambermaids find him there, and I wired to Mrs. Van Alstyne, who was Mr. Dicky Carter's sister, and who was on her honeymoon in South Carolina. The Van Alstynes came back at once, in very bad tempers, and we had the funeral from the preacher's house in Finleyville so as not to harrow up the sanatorium people any more than necessary. Even as it was a few left, but about twenty of the chronics stayed, and it looked as if we might be able to keep going. Miss Patty sent to town for a black veil for me, and even went to the funeral. It helped to take my mind off my troubles to think who it was that was holding my hand and comforting me, and when, toward the end of the service, she got out her handkerchief and wiped her eyes I was almost overcome, she being, so to speak, in the very shadow of a throne. After it was all over the relatives gathered in the sun parlor of the sanatorium to hear the will—Mr. Van Alstyne and his wife and about twenty more who had come up from the city for the funeral and stayed over—on the house. Well, the old doctor left me the buttons for his full dress waistcoat and his favorite copy of Gray's Anatomy. I couldn't exactly set up housekeeping with my share of the estate, but when the lawyer read that part of the will aloud and a grin went around the room I flounced out of my chair. "Maybe you think I'm disappointed," I said, looking hard at the family, who weren't making any particular pretense at grief, and at the house people standing around the door. "Maybe you think it's funny to see an unmarried woman get a set of waistcoat buttons and a medical book. Well, that set of buttons was the set he bought in London on his wedding trip, and the book's the one he read himself to sleep with every night for twenty years. I'm proud to get them." Mr. Van Alstyne touched me on the arm. "Everybody knows how loyal you've been, Minnie," he assured me. "Now sit down like a good girl and listen to the rest of the will." "While I'm up I might as well get something else off my mind," I said. "I know what's in that will, but I hadn't anything to do with it, Mr. Van Alstyne. He took advantage of my being laid up with influenza last spring." They thought that was funny, but a few minutes later they weren't so cheerful. You see the sanatorium was a mighty fine piece of property, with a deer park and golf links. We'd had plenty of offers to sell it for a summer hotel, but we'd both been dead against it. That was one of the reasons for the will. The whole estate was left to Dicky Carter, who hadn't been able to come, owing to his being laid up with an attack of mumps. The family sat up and nodded at one another, or held up its hands, but when they heard there was a condition they breathed easier. Beginning with one week after the reading of the will—and not a day later—Mr. Dick was to take charge of the sanatorium and to stay there for two months without a day off. If at the end of that time the place was being successfully conducted and could show that it hadn't lost money, the entire property became his for keeps. If he failed it was to be sold and the money given to charity. You would have to know Richard Carter to understand the excitement the will caused. Most of us, I reckon, like the sort of person we've never dared to be ourselves. The old doctor had gone to bed at ten o'clock all his life and got up at seven, and so he had a sneaking fondness for the one particular grandson who often didn't go to bed at all. Twice to my knowledge when he was in his teens did Dicky Carter run away from school, and twice his grandfather kept him for a week hidden in the shelter-house on the golf links. Naturally when Mr. Van Alstyne and I had to hide him again, which is further on in the story, he went to the old shelter-house like a dog to its kennel, only this time—but that's ahead, too. Well, the family went back to town in a buzz of indignation, and I carried my waistcoat buttons and my Anatomy out to the spring-house and had a good cry. There was a man named Thoburn who was crazy for the property as a summer hotel, and every time I shut my eyes I could see "Thoburn House" over the veranda and children sailing paper boats in the mineral spring. Sure enough, the next afternoon Mr. Thoburn drove out from Finleyville with a suit case, and before he'd taken off his overcoat he came out to the spring-house. "Hello, Minnie," he exclaimed. "Does the old man's ghost come back to dope the spring, or do you do it?" "I don't know what you are talking about, Mr. Thoburn," I retorted sharply. "If you don't know that this spring has its origin in—" "In Schmidt's drug store down in Finleyville!" he finished for me. "Oh, I know all about that spring, Minnie! Don't forget that my father's cows used to drink that water and liked it. I leave it to you," he said, sniffing, "if a self-respecting cow wouldn't die of thirst before she drank that stuff as it is now." I'd been filling him a glass—it being a matter of habit with me—and he took it to the window and held it to the light. "You're getting careless, Minnie," he said, squinting at it. "Some of those drugs ought to be dissolved first in hot water. There's a lump of lithia there that has Schmidt's pharmacy label on it." "Where?" I demanded, and started for it. He laughed at that, and putting the glass down, he came over and stood smiling at me. "As ingenuous as a child," he said in his mocking way, "a nice, little red-haired child! Minnie, how old is this young Carter?" "Twenty-three." "An—er—earnest youth? Willing to buckle down to work and make the old place go? Ready to pat the old ladies on the shoulder and squeeze the young ones' hands?" "He's young," I said, "but if you're counting on his being a fool—" "Not at all," he broke in hastily. "If he hasn't too much character he'll probably succeed. I hope he isn't a fool. If he isn't, oh, friend Minnie, he'll stand the atmosphere of this Garden of Souls for about a week, and then he'll kill some of them and escape. Where is he now?" "He's been sick," I said. "Mumps!" "Mumps! Oh, my aunt!" he exclaimed, and fell to laughing. He was still laughing when he got to the door. "Mumps!" he repeated, with his hand on the knob. "Minnie, the old place will be under the hammer in three weeks, and if you know what's good for you, you'll sign in under the new management while there's a vacancy. You've been the whole show here for so long that it will be hard for you to line up in the back row of the chorus." "If I were you," I said, looking him straight in the eye, "I wouldn't pick out any new carpets yet, Mr. Thoburn. I promised the old doctor I'd help Mr. Dick, and I will." "So you're actually going to fight it out," he said, grinning. "Well, the odds are in your favor. You are two to my one." "I think it's pretty even," I retorted. "We will be hindered, so to speak, by having certain principles of honor and honesty. You have no handicap." He tried to think of a retort, and not finding one he slammed out of the spring-house in a rage. Mr. Van Alstyne and his wife came in that same day, just before dinner, and we played three-handed bridge for half an hour. As I've said, they'd been on their honeymoon, and they were both sulky at having to stay at the Springs. It was particularly hard on Mrs. Van Alstyne, because, with seven trunks of trousseau with her, she had to put on black. But she used to shut herself up in her room in the evenings and deck out for Mr. Sam in her best things. We found it out one evening when Mrs. Biggs set fire to her bureau cover with her alcohol curling-iron heater, and Mrs. Sam, who had been going around in a black crepe dress all day, rushed out in pink satin with crystal trimming, and slippers with cut-glass heels. After the first rubber Mrs. Van Alstyne threw her cards on the floor and said another day like this would finish her. "Surely Dick is able to come now," she said, like a peevish child. "Didn't he say the swelling was all gone?" "Do you expect me to pick up those cards?" Mr. Sam asked angrily, looking at her. Mrs. Sam yawned and looked up at him. "Of course I do," she answered. "If it wasn't for you I'd not have stayed a moment after the funeral. Isn't it bad enough to have seven trunks full of clothes I've never worn, and to have to put on poky old black, without keeping me here in this old ladies' home?" Mr. Sam looked at the cards and then at her. "I'm not going to pick them up," he declared. "And as to our staying here, don't you realize that if we don't your precious brother will never show up here at all, or stay if he does come? And don't you also realize that this is probably the only chance he'll ever have in the world to become financially independent of us?" "You needn't be brutal," she said sharply. "And it isn't so bad for you here as it is for me. You spend every waking minute admiring Miss Jennings, while I—there isn't a man in the place who'll talk anything but his joints or his stomach." She got up and went to the window, and Mr. Sam followed her. Nobody pays any attention to me in the spring-house; I'm a part of it, like the brass rail around the spring, or the clock. "I'm not admiring Miss Jennings," he corrected, "I'm sympathizing, dear. She looks too nice a girl to have been stung by the title bee, that's all." She turned her back to him, but he pretended to tuck the hair at the back of her neck up under her comb, and she let him do it. As I stooped to gather up the cards he kissed the tip of her ear. "Listen," he said, "there's a scream of a play down at Finleyville to-night called Sweet Peas. Senator Biggs and the bishop went down last night, and they say it's the worst in twenty years. Put on a black veil and let's slip away and see it." I think she agreed to do it, but that night after dinner, Amanda King, who has charge of the news stand, told me the sheriff had closed the opera-house and that the leading woman was sick at the hotel. "They say she looked funny last night," Amanda finished, "and I guess she's got the mumps." Mumps! My joint gave a throb at that minute. # CHAPTER IV: AND A WAY Mr. Sam wasn't taking any chances, for the next day he went to the city himself to bring Mr. Dick up. Everything was quiet that day and the day after, except that on the second day I had a difference of opinion with the house doctor and he left. The story of the will had got out, of course, and the guests were waiting to see Mr. Dick come and take charge. I got a good bit of gossip from Miss Cobb, who had had her hair cut short after a fever and used to come out early in the morning and curl it all over her head, heating the curler on the fire log. I never smell burnt hair that I don't think of Miss Cobb trying to do the back of her neck. She was one of our regulars, and every winter for ten years she'd read me the letters she had got from an insurance agent who'd run away with a married woman the day before the wedding. She kept them in a bundle, tied with lavender ribbon. It was on the third day, I think, that Miss Cobb told me that Miss Patty and her father had had a quarrel the day before. She got it from one of the chambermaids. Mr. Jennings was a liver case and not pleasant at any time, but he had been worse than usual. Annie, the chambermaid, told Miss Cobb that the trouble was about settlements, and that the more Miss Patty tried to tell him it was the European custom the worse he got. Miss Patty hadn't come down to breakfast that day, and Mr. Moody and Senator Biggs made a wager in the Turkish bath—according to Miss Cobb—Mr. Moody betting the wedding wouldn't come off at all. "Of course," Miss Cobb said, wetting her finger and trying the iron to see if it was hot, "of course, Minnie, they're not married yet, and if Father Jennings gets ugly and makes any sort of scandal it's all off. A scandal just now would be fatal. These royalties are very touchy about other people's reputations." Well, I heard that often enough in the next few days. Mr. Sam hadn't come back by the morning of the sixth day, but he wired his wife the day before that Mr. Dick was on the way. But we met every train with a sleigh, and he didn't come. I was uneasy, knowing Mr. Dick, and Mrs. Sam was worried, too. By that time everybody was waiting and watching, and on the early train on the sixth day came the lawyer, a Mr. Stitt. Mr. Thoburn was going around with a sort of greasy smile, and if I could have poisoned him safely I'd have done it. It had been snowing hard for a day or so, and at eleven o'clock that day I saw Miss Cobb and Mrs. Biggs coming down the path to the spring-house, Mrs. Biggs with her crocheting-bag hanging to the handle of her umbrella. I opened the door, but they wouldn't come in. "We won't track up your clean floor, Minnie," Mrs. Biggs said—she was a little woman, almost fifty, who'd gone through life convinced she'd only lived so long by the care she took of herself—"but I thought I'd better come and speak to you. Please don't irritate Mr. Biggs to-day. He's been reading that article of Upton Sinclair's about fasting, and hasn't had a bite to eat since noon yesterday." I noticed then that she looked pale. She was a nervous creature, although she could drink more spring water than any human being I ever saw, except one man, and he was a German. Well, I promised to be careful. I've seen them fast before, and when a fat man starts to live on his own fat, like a bear, he gets about the same disposition. Mrs. Biggs started back, but Miss Cobb waited a moment at the foot of the steps. "Mr. Van Alstyne is back," she said, "but he came alone." "Alone!" I repeated, staring at her in a sort of daze. "Alone," she said solemnly, "and I heard him ask for Mr. Carter. It seems he started for here yesterday." But I'd had time to get myself in hand, and if I had a chill up my spine she never knew it. As she started after Mrs. Biggs I saw Mr. Sam hurrying down the path toward the spring-house, and I knew my joint hadn't throbbed for nothing. Mr. Sam came in and slammed the door behind him. "What's this about Mr. Dick not being here?" he shouted. "Well, he isn't. That's all there is to it, Mr. Van Alstyne," I said calmly. I am always calm when other people get excited. For that reason some people think my red hair is a false alarm, but they soon find out. "But he MUST be here," said Mr. Van Alstyne. "I put him on the train myself yesterday, and waited until it started to be sure he was off." "The only way to get Mr. Richard anywhere you want him to go," I said dryly, "is to have him nailed in a crate and labeled." "Damned young scamp!" said Mr. Van Alstyne, although I have a sign in the spring-house, "Profanity not allowed." "EXACTLY what was he doing when you last laid eyes on him?" I asked. "He was on the train—" "Was he alone?" "Yes." "Sitting?" "No, standing. What the deuce, Minnie—" "Waving out the window to you?" "Of course not!" exclaimed Mr. Van Alstyne testily. "He was raising the window for a girl in the next seat." "Precisely!" I said. "Would you know the girl well enough to trace her?" "That's ridiculous, you know," he said trying to be polite. "Out of a thousand and one things that may have detained him—" "Only one thing ever detains Mr. Dick, and that always detains him," I said solemnly. "That's a girl. You're a newcomer in the family, Mr. Van Alstyne; you don't remember the time he went down here to the station to see his Aunt Agnes off to the city, and we found him three weeks later in Oklahoma trying to marry a widow with five children." Mr. Van Alstyne dropped into a chair, and through force of habit I gave him a glass of spring water. "This was a pretty girl, too," he said dismally. I sat down on the other side of the fireplace, and it seemed to me that father's crayon enlargement over the mantel shook its head at me. After a minute Mr. Van Alstyne drank the water and got up. "I'll have to tell my wife," he said. "Who's running the place, anyhow? You?" "Not—exactly," I explained, "but, of course, when anything comes up they consult me. The housekeeper is a fool, and now that the house doctor's gone—" "Gone! Who's looking after the patients?" "Well, most of them have been here before," I explained, "and I know their treatment—the kind of baths and all that." "Oh, YOU know the treatment!" he said, eying me. "And why did the house doctor go?" "He ordered Mr. Moody to take his spring water hot. Mr. Moody's spring water has been ordered cold for eleven years, and I refused to change. It was between the doctor and me, Mr. Van Alstyne." "Oh, of course," he said, "if it was a matter of principle—" He stopped, and then something seemed to strike him. "I say," he said; "about the doctor—that's all right, you know; lots of doctors and all that. But for heaven's sake, Minnie, don't discharge the cook." Now that was queer, for it had been running in my head all morning that in the slack season it would be cheaper to get a good woman instead of the chef and let Tillie, the diet cook, make the pastry. Mr. Sam picked up his hat and looked at his watch. "Eleven thirty," he said, "and no sign of that puppy yet. I guess it's up to the police." "If there was only something to do," I said, with a lump in my throat, "but to have to sit and do nothing while the old place dies it's—it's awful, Mr. Van Alstyne." "We're not dead yet," he replied from the door, "and maybe we'll need you before the day's over. If anybody can sail the old bark to shore, you can do it, Minnie. You've been steering it for years. The old doctor was no navigator, and you and I know it." It was blowing a blizzard by that time, and Miss Patty was the only one who came out to the spring-house until after three o'clock. She shook the snow off her furs and stood by the fire, looking at me and not saying anything for fully a minute. "Well," she said finally, "aren't you ashamed of yourself?" "Why?" I asked, and swallowed hard. "To be in all this trouble and not let me know. I've just this minute heard about it. Can't we get the police?" "Mr. Van Alstyne is trying," I said, "but I don't hope much. Like as not Mr. Dick will turn up tomorrow and say his calendar was a day slow." I gave her a glass of water, and I noticed when she took it how pale she was. But she held it up and smiled over it at me. "Here's to everything turning out better than we expect!" she said, and made a face as she drank the water. I thought that she was thinking of her own troubles as well as mine, for she put down the glass and stood looking at her engagement ring, a square red ruby in an old-fashioned setting. It was a very large ruby, but I've seen showier rings. "There isn't anything wrong, Miss Patty, is there?" I asked, and she dropped her hand and looked at me. "Oh, no," she said. "That is, nothing much, Minnie. Father is—I think he's rather ridiculous about some things, but I dare say he'll come around. I don't mind his fussing with me, but—if it should get in the papers, Minnie! A breath of unpleasant notoriety now would be fatal!" "I don't see why," I said sharply. "The royal families of Europe have a good bit of unpleasant notoriety themselves occasionally. I should think they'd fall over themselves to get some good red American blood. Blue blood's bad blood; you can ask any doctor." But she only smiled. "You're like father, Minnie," she said. "You'll never understand." "I'm not sure I want to," I snapped, and fell to polishing glasses. The storm stopped a little at three and most of the guests waded down through the snow for bridge and spring water. By that time the afternoon train was in, and no Mr. Dick. Mr. Sam was keeping the lawyer, Mr. Stitt, in the billiard room, and by four o'clock they'd had everything that was in the bar and were inventing new combinations of their own. And Mrs. Sam had gone to bed with a nervous headache. Senator Biggs brought the mail down to the spring-house at four, but there was nothing for me except a note from Mr. Sam, rather shaky, which said he'd no word yet and that Mr. Stitt had mixed all the cordials in the bar in a beer glass and had had to go to bed. At half past four Mr. Thoburn came out for a minute. He said there was only one other train from town that night and the chances were it would be snowed up at the junction. "Better get on the band wagon before the parade's gone past," he said in an undertone. But I went into my pantry and shut the door with a slam, and when I came out he was gone. I nearly went crazy that afternoon. I put salt in Miss Cobb's glass when she always drank the water plain. Once I put the broom in the fire and started to sweep the porch with a fire log Luckily they were busy with their letters and it went unnoticed, the smell of burning straw not rising, so to speak, above the sulphur in the spring. Senator Biggs went from one table to another telling how well he felt since he stopped eating, and trying to coax the other men to starve with him. It's funny how a man with a theory about his stomach isn't happy until he has made some other fellow swallow it. "Well," he said, standing in front of the fire with a glass of water in his hand, "it's worth while to feel like this. My head's as clear as a bell. I don't care to eat; I don't want to eat. The "fast' is the solution." "Two stages to that solution, Senator," said the bishop; "first, resolution; last, dissolution." Then they all began at once. If you have ever heard twenty people airing their theories on diet you know all about it. One shouts for Horace Fletcher, and another one swears by the scraped-beef treatment, and somebody else never touches a thing but raw eggs and milk, and pretty soon there is a riot of calories and carbohydrates. It always ends the same way: the man with the loudest voice wins, and the defeated ones limp over to the spring and tell their theories to me. They know I'm being paid to listen. On this particular afternoon the bishop stopped the riot by rising and holding up his hand. "Ladies and gentlemen," he said, "let us not be rancorous. If each of us has a theory, and that theory works out to his satisfaction, then—why are we all here?" "Merely to tell one another the good news!" Mr. Jennings said sourly from his corner. Honest, it was funny. If some folks were healthy they'd be lonesome. But when things had got quiet—except Mr. Moody dropping nickels into the slot-machine—I happened to look over at Miss Patty, and I saw there was something wrong. She had a letter open in her lap not one of the blue ones with the black and gold seal that every one in the house knew came from the prince but a white one, and she was staring at it as if she'd seen a ghost. # CHAPTER V: WANTED—AN OWNER I have never reproached Miss Patty, but if she had only given me the letter to read or had told me the whole truth instead of a part of it, I would have understood, and things would all have been different. It is all very well for her to say that I looked worried enough already, and that anyhow it was a family affair. I SHOULD HAVE BEEN TOLD. All she did was to come up to me as I stood in the spring, with her face perfectly white, and ask me if my Dicky Carter was the Richard Carter who stayed at the Grosvenor in town. "He doesn't stay anywhere," I said, with my feet getting cold, "but that's where he has apartments. What has he been doing now?" "You're expecting him on the evening train, aren't you?" she asked. "Don't stare like that: my father's watching." "He ought to be on the evening train," I said. I wasn't going to say I expected him. I didn't. "Listen, Minnie," she said, "you'll have to send him away again the moment he comes. He must not go into the house." I stood looking at her, with my mouth open. "Not go into the house," I repeated, "with everybody waiting for him for the last six days, and Mr. Stitt here to turn things over to him!" She stood tapping her foot, with her pretty brows knitted. "The wretch!" she cried, "the hateful creature as if things weren't bad enough! I suppose he'll have to come, Minnie, but I must see him before he sees any one else." Just then the bishop brought his glass over to the spring. "Hot this time, Minnie," he said. "Do you know, I'm getting the mineral-water habit, Patty! I'm afraid plain water will have no attraction for me after this." He put his hand over hers on the rail. They were old friends, the bishop and the Jenningses. "Well, how goes it to-day with the father?" he said in a low tone, and smiling. Miss Patty shrugged her shoulders. "Worse, if possible." "I thought so," he said cheerfully. "If state of mind is any criterion I should think he has had a relapse. A little salt, Minnie." Miss Patty stood watching him while he tasted it. "Bishop," she said suddenly, "will you do something for me?" "I always have, Patty." He was very fond of Miss Patty, was the bishop. "Then—to-night, not later than eight o'clock, get father to play cribbage, will you? And keep him in the card-room until nine." "Another escapade!" he said, pretending to be very serious. "Patty, Patty, you'll be the death of me yet. Is thy servant a dog, that he should do this thing?" "Certainly NOT," said Miss Patty. "Just a dear, slightly bald, but still very distinguished slave!" The bishop picked up her left hand and looked at the ring and from that to her face. "There will be plenty of slaves to kiss this little hand, where you are going, my child," he said. "Sometimes I wish that some nice red-blooded boy here at home—but I dare say it will turn out surprisingly well as it is." "Bishop, Bishop!" Mrs. Moody called. "How naughty of you, and with your bridge hand waiting to be held!" He carried his glass back to the table, stopping for a moment beside Mr. Jennings. "If Patty becomes any more beautiful," he said, "I shall be in favor of having her wear a mask. How are we young men to protect ourselves?" "Pretty is as pretty does!" declared Mr. Jennings from behind his newspaper, and Miss Patty went out with her chin up. Well, I knew Mr. Dick had been up to some mischief; I had suspected it all along. But Miss Patty went to bed, and old Mrs. Hutchins, who's a sort of lady's-maid-companion of hers, said she mustn't be disturbed. I was pretty nearly sick myself. And when Mr. Sam came out at five o'clock and said he'd been in the long-distance telephone booth for an hour and had called everybody who had ever known Mr. Dick, and that he had dropped right off the earth, I just about gave up. He had got some detectives, he said, and there was some sort of a story about his having kept right on the train to Salem, Ohio, but if he had they'd lost the trail there, and anyhow, with the railroad service tied up by the storm there wasn't much chance of his getting to Finleyville in time. Luckily Mr. Stitt was in bed with a mustard leaf over his stomach and ice on his head, and didn't know whether it was night or morning. But Thoburn was going around with a watch in his hand, and Mr. Sam was for killing him and burying the body in the snow. At half past five I just about gave up. I was sitting in front of the fire wondering why I'd taken influenza the spring before from getting my feet wet in a shower, when I had been standing in a mineral spring for so many years that it's a wonder I'm not web-footed. It was when I had influenza that the old doctor made the will, you remember. Maybe I was crying, I don't recall. It was dark outside, and nothing inside but firelight. Suddenly I seemed to feel somebody looking at the back of my neck and I turned around. There was a man standing outside one of the windows, staring in. My first thought, of course, was that it was Mr. Dick, but just as the face vanished I saw that it wasn't. It was older by three or four years than Mr. Dick's and a bit fuller. I'm not nervous. I've had to hold my own against chronic grouches too long to have nerves, so I went to the door and looked out. The man came around the corner just then and I could see him plainly in the firelight. He was covered with snow, and he wore a sweater and no overcoat, but he looked like a gentleman. "I beg your pardon for spying," he said, "but the fire looked so snug! I've been trying to get to the hotel over there, but in the dark I've lost the path." "That's not a hotel," I snapped, for that touched me on the raw. "That's Hope Springs Sanatorium, and this is one of the Springs." "Oh, Hope Springs, internal instead of eternal!" he said. "That's awfully bad, isn't it? To tell you the truth, I think I'd better come in and get some; I'm short on hope just now." I thought that was likely enough, for although his voice was cheerful and his eyes smiled, there was a drawn look around his mouth, and he hadn't shaved that day. I wish I had had as much experience in learning what's right with folks as I have had in learning what's wrong with them. "You'd better come in and get warm, anyhow," I told him, "only don't spring any more gags. I've been "Hebe' for fourteen years and I've served all the fancy drinks you can name over the brass railing of that spring. Nowadays, when a fellow gets smart and asks for a Mamie Taylor, I charge him a Mamie Taylor price." He shut the door behind him and came over to the fire. "I'm pretty well frozen," he said. "Don't be astonished if I melt before your eyes; I've been walking for hours." Now that I had a better chance to see him I'd sized up that drawn look around his mouth. "Missed your luncheon, I suppose," I said, poking the fire log. He grinned rather sheepishly. "Well, I haven't had any, and I've certainly missed it," he said. "Fasting's healthy, you know." I thought of Senator Biggs, who carried enough fat to nourish him for months, and then I looked at my visitor, who hadn't an ounce of extra flesh on him. "Nothing's healthy that isn't natural," I declared. "If you'd care for a dish of buttered and salted pop-corn, there's some on the mantel. It's pretty salty; the idea is to make folks thirsty so they'll enjoy the mineral water." "Think of raising a real thirst only to drown it with spring water!" he said. But he got the pop corn and he ate it all. If he hadn't had any luncheon he hadn't had much breakfast. The queer part was—he was a gentleman; his clothes were the right sort, but he had on patent leather shoes in all that snow and an automobile cap. I put away the glasses while he ate. Pretty soon he looked up and the drawn lines were gone. He wasn't like Mr. Dick, but he was the same type, only taller and heavier built. "And so it isn't a hotel," he remarked. "Well, I'm sorry. The caravansary in the village is not to my liking, and I had thought of engaging a suite up here. My secretary usually attends to these things, but—don't take away all the glasses, Heb—I beg your pardon—but the thirst is coming." He filled the glass himself and then he came up and stood in front of me, with the glass held up in the air. "To the best woman I have met in many days," he said, not mocking but serious. "I was about to lie down and let the little birds cover me with leaves." Then he glanced at the empty dish and smiled. "To buttered pop-corn! Long may it wave!" he said, and emptied the glass. Well, I found a couple of apples in my pantry and brought them out, and after he ate them he told me what had happened to him. He had been a little of everything since he left college he was about twenty-five had crossed the Atlantic in a catboat and gone with somebody or other into some part of Africa—they got lost and had to eat each other or lizards, or something like that—and then he went to the Philippines, and got stuck there and had to sell books to get home. He had a little money, "enough for a grub-stake," he said, and all his folks were dead. Then a college friend of his wrote a rural play called Sweet Peas—"Great title, don't you think?" he asked—and he put up all the money. It would have been a hit, he said, but the kid in the play—the one that unites its parents in the last act just before he dies of tuberculosis—the kid took the mumps and looked as if, instead of fading away, he was going to blow up. Everybody was so afraid of him that they let him die alone for three nights in the middle of the stage. Then the leading woman took the mumps, and the sheriff took everything else. "You city folks seem to know so much," I said, "and yet you bring a country play to the country! Why don't you bring out a play with women in low-necked gowns, and champagne suppers, and a scandal or two? They packed Pike's Opera-House three years ago with a play called Why Women Sin." Well, of course, the thing failed, and he lost every dollar he'd put into it, which was all he had, including what he had in his pockets. "They seized my trunks," he explained, "and I sold my fur-lined overcoat for eight dollars, which took one of the girls back home. It's hard for the women. A fellow can always get some sort of a job—I was coming up here to see if they needed an extra clerk or a waiter, or chauffeur, or anything that meant a roof and something to eat—but I suppose they don't need a jack-of-all-trades." "No," I answered, "but I'll tell you what I think they're going to need. And that's an owner!" # CHAPTER VI: THE CONSPIRACY I'm not making any excuses. I did it for the best. In any sort of crisis there are always folks who stand around and wring their hands and say, "What shall we do?" And then if it's a fire and somebody has had enough sense to send for the engines, they say: "Just look at what the water did!" Although as far as I can see I'm the only one that suffered any damage. If Mr. Thoburn had not been there, sitting by to see the old sanatorium die so it could sprout wings and fly as a summer hotel, I'd never have thought of it. But I was in despair. I got up and opened the door, but the Snow came in in a cloud, and the path was half a foot deep again. It shows on what little threads big things hang, for when I saw the storm I gave up the idea of bringing Mr. Sam down to see the young man, and the breath of fresh air in my face brought me to my senses. But the angel of providence appeared in the shape of Mike, the bath man, coming down through the snow in a tearing rage. The instant I saw Mike I knew it was settled. "Am I or am I not to give Mr. Moody a needle shower?" he shouted, almost beside himself. And I saw he had his overcoat over his bath costume, which is a Turkish towel. "A needle shower followed by a salt rub," said I. "He's been having them for eleven years. What's the matter?" "That fool of a young doctor," shouted Mike, "he told him before he left that if he'd been taking them for eleven years and wasn't any better it was time to stop. Ain't business bad enough—only four people in the house takin' baths regular—without his buttin' in!" "Where's Mr. Moody?" "In the bath. I've locked up his clothes." "You give him a needle shower and a salt rub," I ordered, "and if he makes a fuss just send for me. And, Mike," I said, as he started out, "ask Mr. Van Alstyne to come out here immediately." That's the way it was all the time. Everybody brought their troubles to me, and I guess I thought I was a little tin god on wheels and the place couldn't get along without me. But it did; it does. We all think we'll leave a big hole behind us when we go, but it's just like taking your thumb out of a bowl of soup. There isn't even a dent. Mr. Van Alstyne came out on the run, and when he saw Mr. Pierce by the fire—that was his name, Alan Pierce—he stopped and stared. Then he said: "You infernal young scamp!" And with that Mr. Pierce jumped up, surprised and pretty mad, and Mr. Van Alstyne saw his mistake. "I'm sure I beg your pardon!" he said. "The fact is, I was expecting somebody else, and in the firelight—" "You surprised me, that's all," said Mr. Pierce. "Under the circumstances, I'm glad I'm not the other chap." "You may be," assured Mr. Sam grimly. "You're not unlike him, by the way. A little taller and heavier, but—" Now it's all very well for Mr. Sam to say I originated the idea and all that, but as truly as I am writing this, as I watched his face I saw the same thought come into it. He looked Mr. Pierce up and down, and then he stared into the fire and puckered his mouth to whistle, but he didn't. And finally he glanced at me, but I was looking into the fire, too. "Just come, haven't you?" he asked. "How did you get up the hill?" "Walked," said Mr. Pierce, smiling. "It took some digging, too. But I didn't come for my health, unless you think three meals a day are necessary for health." Mr. Sam turned and stared at him. "By Jove! you don't mean it!" "I wish I didn't," Mr. Pierce replied. "One of the hardest things I've had to remember for the last ten hours was that for two years I voluntarily ate only two meals a day. A man's a fool to do a thing like that! It's reckless." Mr. Sam got up and began to walk the floor, his hands in his pockets. He tried to get my eye, but still I looked in the fire. "All traffic's held up, Minnie," he said. "The eight o'clock train is stalled beyond the junction, in a drift. I've wired the conductor, and Carter isn't on it." "Well?" said I. "If we could only get past to-day," Mr. Sam went on; "if Thoburn would only choke to death, or—if there was somebody around who looked like Dick. I dare say, by to-morrow—" He looked at Mr. Pierce, who smiled and looked at him. "And I resemble Dick!" said Mr. Pierce. "Well, if he's a moral and upright young man—" "He isn't!" Mr. Sam broke in savagely. And then and there he sat down and told Mr. Pierce the trouble we were in, and what sort of cheerful idiot Dicky Carter was, and how everybody liked him, but wished he would grow up before the family good name was gone, and that now he had a chance to make good and be self-supporting, and he wasn't around, and if Mr. Sam ever got his hands on him he'd choke a little sense down his throat. And then Mr. Pierce told about the play and the mumps, and how he was stranded. When Mr. Sam asked him outright if he'd take Mr. Dick's place overnight he agreed at once. "I haven't anything to lose," he said, "and anyhow I've been on a diet of Sweet Peas so long that a sanatorium is about what I need." "It's like this," explained Mr. Sam, "Old Stitt is pretty thoroughly jingled—excuse me, Minnie, but it's the fact. I'll take you to his room, with the lights low, and all you'll need to do is to shake hands with him. He's going on the early train to-morrow. Then you needn't mix around much with the guests until to-morrow, and by that time I hope to have Dick within thrashing distance." Just as they'd got it arranged that Mr. Pierce was to put on Mr. Sam's overcoat and walk down to the village so that he could come up in a sleigh, as if he had driven over from Yorkton—he was only to walk across the hall in front of the office, with his collar up, just enough to show himself and then go to his room with a chill—just as it was all arranged, Mr. Sam thought of something. "The house people are waiting for Dick," he said to me, "and about forty women are crocheting in the lobby, so they'll be sure to see him. Won't some of them know it isn't Dick?" I thought pretty fast. "He hasn't been around much lately," I said. "Nobody would know except Mrs. Wiggins. She'll never forget him; the last time he was here he put on her false front like a beard and wore it down to dinner." "Then it's all off," he groaned. "She's got as many eyes as a potato." "And about as much sense," said I. "Fiddlesticks! She's not so good we can't replace her, and what's the use of swallowing a camel and then sticking at a housekeeper?" "You can't get her out of the house in an hour," he objected, but in a weak voice. "I can!" I said firmly. (I did. Inside of an hour she went to the clerk, Mr. Slocum, and handed in her resignation. She was a touchy person, but I did NOT say all that was quoted. I did NOT say the kitchen was filthy; I only said it took away my appetite to look in at the door. But she left, which is the point.) Well, I stood in the doorway and watched them disappear in the darkness, and I felt better than I had all day. It's great to be able to DO something, even if that something is wrong. But as I put on my shawl and turned out the lights, I suddenly remembered. Miss Patty would be waiting in the lobby for Mr. Dick, and she would not be crocheting! # CHAPTER VII. MR. PIERCE ACQUIRES A WIFE Whoever has charge of the spring-house at Hope Springs takes the news stand in the evening. That's an old rule. The news stand includes tobacco and a circulating library, and is close to the office, and if I missed any human nature at the spring I got it there. If you can't tell all about a man by the way he asks for mineral water and drinks it, by the time you've supplied his literature and his tobacco and heard him grumbling over his bill at the office, you've got a line on him and a hook in it. After I ate my supper I relieved Amanda King, who runs the news stand in the daytime, when she isn't laid off with the toothache. Mr. Sam was right. All the women had on their puffs, and they were sitting in a half-circle on each side of the door. Mrs. Sam was there, looking frightened and anxious, and standing near the card-room door was Miss Patty. She was all in white, with two red spots on her cheeks, and I thought if her prince could have seen her then he would pretty nearly have eaten her up. Mr. Thoburn was there, of course, pretending to read the paper, but every now and then he looked at his watch, and once he got up and paced off the lobby, putting down the length in his note-book. I didn't need a mind-reader to tell me he was figuring the cost of a new hardwood floor and four new rugs. Mr. Sam came to the news stand, and he was so nervous he could hardly light a cigarette. "I've had a message from one of the detectives," he said. "They've traced him to Salem, Ohio, but they lost him there. If we can only hold on this evening—! Look at that first-night audience!" "Mr. Pierce is due in three minutes," I told him. "I hope you told him to kiss his sister." "Nothing of the sort," he objected. "Why should he kiss her? Mrs. Van Alstyne is afraid of the whole thing: she won't stand for that." "I guess she could endure it," I remarked dryly. "It's astonishing how much of that sort of thing a woman can bear." He looked at me and grinned. "By gad," he said, "I wouldn't be as sophisticated as you are for a good deal. Isn't that the sleigh?" Everybody had heard it. The women sat up and craned forward to look at the door: Mrs. Sam was sitting forward clutching the arms of her chair. She was in white, having laid off her black for that evening, with a red rose pinned on her so Mr. Pierce would know her. Miss Patty heard the sleigh-bells also, and she turned and came toward the door. Her mouth was set hard, and she was twisting the ruby ring as she always did when she was nervous. And at the same moment Mr. Sam and I both saw it; she was in white, too, and she had a red rose tucked in her belt! Mr. Sam muttered something and rushed at her, but he was too late. Just as he got to her the door opened and in came Mr. Pierce, with Mr. Sam's fur coat turned up around his ears and Mr. Sam's fur cap drawn well down on his head. He stood for an instant blinking in the light, and Mrs. Van Alstyne got up nervously. He never even saw her. His eyes lighted on Miss Patty's face and stayed there. Mr. Sam was there, but what could he do? Mr. Pierce walked over to Miss Patty, took her hand, said, "Hello there!" and KISSED HER. It was awful. Most women will do anything to save a scene, and that helped us, for she never turned a hair. But when Mr. Sam got him by the arm and led him toward the stairs, she turned so that the old cats sitting around could not see her and her face was scarlet. She went over to the wood fire—our lobby is a sort of big room with chairs and tables and palms, and an open fire in winter—and sat down. I don't think she knew herself whether she was most astonished or angry. Mrs. Biggs gave a nasty little laugh. "Your brother didn't see you," she said to Mrs. Van Alstyne. "I dare say a sister doesn't count much when a future princess is around!" Mrs. Van Alstyne was still staring up the staircase, but she came to herself at that. She had some grit in her, if she did look like a French doll. "My brother and Miss Jennings are very old friends," she remarked quietly. I believe that was what she thought, too. I don't think she had seen the other red rose, and what was she to think but that Mr. Pierce had known Miss Jennings somewhere? She was dazed, Mrs. Sam was. But she carried off the situation anyhow, and gave us time to breathe. We needed it. "If I were his highness," said Miss Cobb, spreading the Irish lace collar she was making over her knee and squinting at it, "I should wish my fiancee to be more er—dignified. Those old Austrian families are very haughty. They would not understand our American habit of osculation." I was pretty mad at that, for anybody could have seen Miss Patty didn't kiss him. "If by osculation you mean kissing, Miss Cobb," I said, going over to her, "I guess you don't remember the Austrian count who was a head waiter here. If there was anything in the way of osculation that that member of an old Austrian family didn't know, I've got to find it out. He could kiss all around any American I ever saw!" I went back to my news stand. I was shaking so my knees would hardly hold me. All I could think of was that they had swallowed Mr. Pierce, bait and hook, and that for a time we were saved, although in the electric light Mr. Pierce was a good bit less like Dicky Carter than he had seemed to be in the spring-house by the fire. Well, "Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof." Everybody went to bed early. Mr. Thoburn came over and bought a cigar on his way up-stairs, and he was as gloomy as he had been cheerful before. "Well," I said, "I guess you won't put a dancing floor in the dining-room just yet, Mr. Thoburn." "I'm not in a hurry," he snapped. "It's only January, and I don't want the place until May. I'll get it when I'm ready for it. I had a good look at young Carter, and he's got too square a jaw to run a successful neurasthenics' home." I went to the pantry myself at ten o'clock and fixed a tray of supper for Mr. Pierce. He would need all his strength the next day, and a man can't travel far on buttered pop-corn. I found some chicken and got a bottle of the old doctor's wine—I had kept the key of his wine-cellar since he died—and carried the tray up to Mr. Pierce's sitting-room. He had the old doctor's suite. The door was open an inch or so, and as I was about to knock I heard a girl's voice. It was Miss Patty! "How can you deny it?" she was saying angrily. "I dare say you will even deny that you ever saw this letter before!" There was a minute's pause while I suppose he looked at the letter. "I never did!" he said solemnly. There had been a queer sound all along, but now I made it out. Some one else was in the room, sniveling and crying. "My poor lamb!" it whimpered. And I knew it was Mrs. Hutchins, Miss Patty's old nurse. "Perhaps," said Miss Patty, "you also deny that you were in Ohio the day before yesterday." "I was in Ohio, but I positively assert—" "I'll send for the police, that's what I'll do!" Mrs. Hutchins said, with a burst of rage, and her chair creaked. "How can I ever tell your father?" "You'll do nothing of the sort," said Miss Patty. "Do you want the whole story in the papers? Isn't it awful enough as it is? Mr. Carter, I have asked my question twice now and I am waiting for an answer." "But I don't know the answer!" he said miserably. "I—I assure you, I'm absolutely in the dark. I don't know what's in the letter. I—I haven't always done what I should, I dare say, but my conduct in the state of Ohio during the last few weeks has been without stain—unless I've forgotten—but if it had been anything very heinous, I'd remember, don't you think?" Somebody crossed the room, and a paper rustled. "Read that!" said Miss Patty's voice. And then silence for a minute. "Good lord!" exclaimed Mr. Pierce. "Do you deny that?" "Absolutely!" he said firmly. "I—I have never even heard of the Reverend Dwight Johnstone—" There was a scream from Mrs. Hutchins, and a creak as she fell into her chair again. "Your father!" she said, over and over. "What can we say to your father?" "And that is all you will say?" demanded Miss Patty scornfully. "'You don't know;' "there's a mistake;' "you never saw the letter before!" Oh, if I were only a man!" "I'll tell you what we'll do," Mr. Pierce said, with something like hope in his voice. "We'll send for Mr. Van Alstyne! That's the thing, of course. I'll send for—er—Jim." Mr. Van Alstyne's name is Sam, but nobody noticed. "Mr. Van Alstyne!" repeated Miss Patty in a dazed way. I guessed it was about time to make a diversion, so I knocked and walked in with the tray, and they all glared at me. Mrs. Hutchins was collapsed in a chair, holding a wet handkerchief to her eyes, and one side of her cap was loose and hanging down. Miss Patty was standing by a table, white and angry, and Mr. Pierce was about a yard from her, with the letter in his hands. But he was looking at her. "I've brought your supper, Mr. Carter," I began. Then I stopped and stared at Miss Patty and Mrs. Hutchins. "Oh," I said. "Thank you," said Mr. Pierce, very uncomfortable. "Just put it down anywhere." I stalked across the room and put it on the table. Then I turned and looked at Mrs. Hutchins. "I'm sorry," I said, "but it's one of the rules of this house that guests don't come to these rooms. They're strictly private. It isn't MY rule, ladies, but if you will step down to the parlor—" Mrs. Hutchins' face turned purple. She got up in a hurry. "I'm here with Miss Jennings on a purely personal matter," she said furiously. "How dare you turn us out?" "Nonsense, Minnie!" said Miss Patty. "I'll go when I'm ready." "Rule of the house," I remarked, and going over to the door I stood holding it open. There wasn't any such rule, but I had to get them out; they had Mr. Pierce driven into a corner and yelling for help. "There is no such rule and you know it, Minnie!" Miss Patty said angrily. "Come, Nana! We're not learning anything, and there's nothing to be done until morning, anyhow. My head's whirling." Mrs. Hutchins went out first. "The first thing I'D do if I owned this place, I'd get rid of that red-haired girl," she snapped to Mr. Pierce. "If you want to know why there are fewer guests here every year, I'll tell you. SHE'S the reason!" Then she flounced out with her head up. (That was pure piffle. The real reason, as every thinking person knows, is Christian Science. It's cheaper and more handy. And now that it isn't heresy to say it, the spring being floored over, I reckon that most mineral springs cure by suggestion. Also, of course, if a man's drinking four gallons of lithia water a day, he's so saturated that if he does throw in anything alcoholic or indigestible, it's too busy swimming for its life to do any harm.) Mr. Pierce took a quick step toward Miss Patty and looked down at her. "About—what happened down-stairs to-night," he stammered, with the unhappiest face I ever saw on a man, "I—I've been ready to knock my fool head off ever since. It was a mistake—a—" "My letter, please," said Miss Patty coolly, looking back at him without a blink. "Please don't look like that!" he begged. "I came in suddenly out of the darkness, and you—" "My letter, please!" she said again, raising her eyebrows. He gave up trying then. He held out the letter and she took it and went out with her head up and scorn in the very way she trailed her skirt over the door-sill. But I'm no fool; it didn't need the way he touched the door-knob where she had been holding it, when he closed the door after her, to tell me what ailed him. He was crazy about her from the minute he saw her, and he hadn't a change of linen or a cent to his name. And she, as you might say, on the ragged edge of royalty, with queens and princes sending her stomachers and tiaras until she'd hardly need clothes! Well, a cat may look at a king. He went over to the fireplace, where I was putting his coffee to keep it hot, and looked down at me. "I've a suspicion, Minnie," he said, "that, to use a vulgar expression, I've bitten off more than I can chew in this little undertaking, and that I'm in imminent danger of choking to death. Do you know anybody, a friend of Miss er—Jennings, named Dorothy?" "She's got a younger sister of that name," I said, with a sort of chill going over me. "She's in boarding-school now." "Oh, no, she's not!" he remarked, picking up the coffee-pot. "It seems that I met her on the train somewhere or other the day before yesterday, and ran off with her and married her!" I sat back on the rug speechless. "You should have warned me, Minnie," he went on, growing more cheerful over his chicken and coffee. "I came up here to-night, the proud possessor of a bunch of keys, a patent folding cork-screw and a pocket, automobile road map. Inside two hours I have a sanatorium and a wife. At this rate, Minnie, before morning I may reasonably hope to have a family." I sat where I was on the floor and stared into the fire. Don't tell me the way of the wicked is hard; the wicked get all the fun there is out of life, and as far as I can see, it's the respectable "in at ten o'clock and up at seven" part of the wicked's family that has all the trouble and does the worrying. "If we could only keep it hidden for a few days!" I said. "But, of course, the papers will get it, and just now, with columns every day about Miss Patty's clothes—" "Her what?" "And all the princes of the blood sending presents, and the king not favoring it very much—" "What are you talking about?" "About Miss Jennings' wedding. Don't you read the newspaper?" He hadn't really known who she was up to that minute. He put down the tray and got up. "I—I hadn't connected her with the—the newspaper Miss Jennings," he said, and lighted a cigarette over the lamp. Something in his face startled me, I must say. "You're not going to give up now?" I asked. I got up and put my hand on his arm, and I think he was shaking. "If you do, I'll—I'll go out and drown myself, head down, in the spring." He had been going to run away—I saw it then—but he put a hand over mine. Then he looked at the door where Miss Patty had gone out and gave himself a shake. "I'll stay," he said. "We'll fight it out on this line if it takes all summer, Minnie." He stood looking into the fire, and although I'm not fond of men, knowing, as I have explained, a great deal about their stomachs and livers and very little about their hearts, there was something about Mr. Pierce that made me want to go up and pat him on the head like a little boy. "After all," he said, "what's blue blood to good red blood?" Which was almost what the bishop had said! # CHAPTER VIII: AND MR. MOODY INDIGESTION Mr. Moody took indigestion that night—not but that he always had it, but this was worse—and Mrs. Moody came to my room about two o'clock and knocked at the door. "You'd better come," she said. "There's no doctor, and he's awful bad. Blames you, too; he says you made him take a salt rub." "My land," I snapped, trying to find my bedroom slippers, "I didn't make him take clam chowder for supper, and that's what's the matter with him. He's going on a strained rice diet, that's what he's going to do. I've got to have my sleep." She was waiting in the hall in her kimono, and holding a candle. Anybody could see she'd been crying. As she often said to me, of course she was grateful that Mr. Moody didn't drink—no one knew his virtues better than she did. But her sister married a man who went on a terrible bat twice a year, and all the rest of the time he was humble and affable trying to make up for it. And sometimes she thought if Mr. Moody would only take a little whisky when he had these attacks—! I'd rather be the wife of a cheerful drunkard any time than have to live with a cantankerous saint. Miss Cobb and I had had many a fight over it, but at that time there wasn't much likelihood of either of us being called on to choose. Well, we went down to Mr. Moody's room, and he was sitting up in bed with his knees drawn up to his chin and a hot-water bottle held to him. "Look at your work, woman," he said to me when I opened the door. "I'm dying!" "You look sick," I said, going over to the bed. It never does to cross them when they get to the water-bottle stage. "The pharmacy clerk's gone to a dance over at Trimble's, but I guess I can find you some whisky." "Do have some whisky, George," begged Mrs. Moody, remembering her brother-in-law. "I never touch the stuff and you both know it," he snarled. He had a fresh pain just then and stopped, clutching up the bottle. "Besides," he finished, when it was over, "I haven't got any whisky." Well, to make a long story short, we got him to agree to some whisky from the pharmacy, with a drop of peppermint in it, if he could wash it down with spring water so it wouldn't do him any harm. "There isn't any spring water in the house," I said, losing my temper a little, "and I'm not going out there in my bedroom slippers, Mr. Moody. I don't see why your eating what you shouldn't needs to give me pneumonia." Mrs. Moody was standing beside the bed, and I saw her double chin begin to work. If you have ever seen a fat woman, in a short red kimono holding a candle by, a bed, and crying, you know how helpless she looks. "Don't go, Minnie," she sniffled. "It would be too awful. If you are afraid you could take the poker." "I'm not going!" I declared firmly. "It's—it's dratted idiocy, that's all. Plain water would do well enough. There's a lot of people think whisky is poison with water, anyhow. Where's the pitcher?" Oh, yes, I went. I put on some stockings of Mrs. Moody's and a petticoat and a shawl and started. It was when I was in the pharmacy looking for the peppermint that I first noticed my joint again. A joint like that's a blessing or a curse, the way you look at it. I found the peppermint and some whisky and put them on the stairs. Then I took my pitcher and lantern and started for the spring-house. It was still snowing, and part of the time Mrs. Moody's stockings were up to their knees. The wind was blowing hard, and when I rounded the corner of the house my lantern went out. I stood there in the storm, with the shawl flapping, thanking heaven I was a single woman, and about ready to go back and tell Mr. Moody what I thought of him when I looked toward the spring-house. At first I thought it was afire, then I saw that the light was coming from the windows. Somebody was inside, with a big fire and all the lights going. I'd had tramps sleep all night in the spring-house before, and once they left a card by the spring: "Water, water everywhere and not a drop to drink!" So I started out through the snow on a half run. By the bridge over Hope Springs Creek I slipped and fell, and I heard the pitcher smash to bits on the ice below. But as soon as I could move I went on again. That spring-house had been my home for a good many years, and the tramp didn't live who could spend the night there if I knew it. I realized then that I should have taken the poker. I went over cautiously to one of the windows, wading in deep snow to get there—and if you have ever done that in a pair of bedroom slippers you can realize the state of my mind—and looked in. There were three chairs drawn up in a row in front of the fire, with my bearskin hearth-rug on them to make a couch, and my shepherd's plaid shawl folded at one end for a pillow. And stretched on that with her long sealskin coat laid over her was Dorothy Jennings, Miss Patty's younger sister! She was alone, as far as I could see, and she was leaning on her elbow with her cheek in her hand, staring at the fire. Just then the door into the pantry opened and out came Mr. Dick himself. "Were you calling, honey?" he said, coming over and looking down at her. "You were such a long time!" says she, glancing up under her lashes at him. "I—I was lonely!" "Bless you," says Mr. Dick, stooping over her. "What did I ever do without you?" I could have told her a few things he did, but by that time it was coming over me pretty strong that here was the real Dicky Carter and that I had an extra one on my hands. The minute I looked at this one I knew that nobody but a blind man would mistake one for the other, and Mr. Thoburn wasn't blind. I tell you I stood out in that snow-bank and perspired! When I looked again Mr. Dick was on his knees by the row of chairs, and Miss Dorothy—Mrs. Dicky, of course—was running her fingers through his hair. "Minnie used to keep apples and things in the pantry," he said, "but she must be growing stingy in her old age; there's not a bite there." "I'm not so very hungry when I have you!" cooed Mrs. Dicky. "But you can't eat me." He brought her hand down from his hair—I may be stingy in my old age, but I've learned a few things, and one is that a man feels like a fool with his hair rumpled, and I can tell the degree of a woman's experience by the way she lets his top hair alone—and pretended to bite it, her hand, of course. "Although I could eat you," he said. "I'd like to take a bite out of your throat right there." Well, it was no place for me unless they knew I was around. I waded around to the door and walked in, and there was a grand upsetting of the sealskin coat and my shepherd's plaid shawl. Mr. Dick jumped to his feet and Mrs. Dick sat bolt upright and stared at me over the backs of the chairs. "Minnie!" cried Mr. Dick. "As I'm a married man, it's Minnie herself; Minnie, the guardian angel! The spirit of the place! Dorothy, don't you remember Minnie?" She came toward me with her hand out. She was a pretty little thing, not so beautiful as Miss Patty, but with a nice way about her. "I'm awfully glad to see you again," she said. "Of course I remember—why you are hardly dressed at all! You must be frozen!" I went over to the fire and emptied my bedroom slippers of snow. Then I sat down and looked at them both. "Frozen!" repeated I; "I'm in a hot sweat. If you two children meant to come, why in creation didn't you come in time?" "We did," replied Mr. Dick, promptly. "We crawled under the wire fence into the deer park at five minutes to twelve. The will said "Be on the ground," and I was—flat on the ground!" "We've had the police," I said, drearily enough. "I wouldn't live through another day like yesterday for a hundred dollars." "We were held up by the snow," he explained. "We got a sleigh to come over in, but we walked up the hill and came here. I don't mind saying that my wife's people don't know about this yet, and we're going to lay low until we've cooked up some sort of a scheme to tell them." Then he came over and put his hand on my shoulder. "Poor old Minnie!" he said; "honest, I'm sorry. I've been a hard child to raise, haven't I? But that's all over, Minnie. I've got an incentive now, and it's "steady, old boy," for me from now. You and I will run the place and run it right." "I don't want to!" I retorted, holding my bedroom slippers to steam before the fire. "I'm going to buy out Timmon's candy store and live a quiet life, Mr. Dick. This place is making me old." "Nonsense! We're going to work together, and we'll make this the busiest spot in seven counties. Dorothy and I have got it all planned out and we've got some corking good ideas." He put his hands in his pockets and strutted up and down. "It's the day of advertising, you know, Minnie," he said. "You've got to have the goods, and then you've got to let people know you've got the goods. What would you say to a shooting-gallery in the basement, under the reading-room?" "Fine!" I said, with sarcasm, turning my slippers. "If things got too quiet that would wake them up a bit, and we could have a balloon ascension on Saturdays!" "Not an ascension," said he, with my bitterness going right over his head. "Nothing sensational, Minnie. That's the way with women; they're always theatrical. But what's the matter with a captive balloon, and letting fresh-air cranks sleep in a big basket bed—say, at five hundred feet? Or a thousand—a thousand would be better. The air's purer." "With a net below," says I, "in case they should turn over and fall out of bed! It's funny nobody ever thought of it before!" "Isn't it?" exclaimed Mrs. Dick. "And we've all sorts of ideas. Dick—Mr. Carter has learned of a brand new cocktail for the men—" "A lulu!" he broke in. "And I'm going around to read to the old ladies and hold their hands—" "You'll have to chloroform them first," I put in. "Perhaps it would be better to give the women the cocktail and hold the men's hands." "Oh, if you're going to be funny!" Mr. Dick said savagely, "we'll not tell you any more. I've been counting on you, Minnie. You've been here so long. You know," he said to his wife, "when I was a little shaver I thought Minnie had webbed-feet—she was always on the bank, like a duck. You ARE a duck, Minnie," he says to me; "a nice red-headed duck! Now don't be quirky and spoil everything." I couldn't be light-hearted to save my life. "Your sister's been wild all day," I told Mrs. Dick. "She got your letter to-day—yesterday—but I don't think she's told your father yet." "What!" she screeched, and caught at the mantelpiece to hold herself. "Not Pat!" she said, horrified, "and father! Here!" Well, I listened while they told me. They hadn't had the faintest idea that Mr. Jennings and Miss Patty were there at the sanatorium. The girl had been making a round of visits in the Christmas holidays, and instead of going back to school she'd sent a forged excuse and got a month off—she hadn't had any letters, of course. The plan had been not to tell anybody but her sister until Mr. Dick had made good at the sanatorium. "The idea was this, Minnie," said Mr. Dick. "Old—I mean Mr. Jennings is—is not well; he has a chronic indisposition—" "Disposition, I call it," put in Mr. Jennings' daughter. "And he's apt to regard my running away with Dorothy when I haven't a penny as more of an embezzlement than an elopement." "Fiddle!" exclaimed Mrs. Dick. "I asked you to marry me, and now they're here and have to spoil it all." The thought of her father and his disposition suddenly overpowered her and she put her yellow head on the back of a chair and began to cry. "I—I can't tell him!" she sobbed. "I wrote to Pat,—why doesn't Pat tell him? I'm going back to school." "You'll do nothing of the sort. You're a married woman now, and where I go you go. My country is your country, and my sanatorium is your sanatorium." He was in a great rage. But she got up and began trying to pull on her fur coat, and her jaw was set. She looked like her father for a minute. "Where are you going?" he asked, looking scared. "Anywhere. I'll go down to the station and take the first train, it doesn't matter where to." She picked up her muff, but he went over and stood against the door. "Not a step without me!" he declared. "I'll go with you, of course; you know that. I'm not afraid of your father: I'd as soon as not go in and wake him now and tell him the whole thing—that you've married a chap who isn't worth the butter on his bread, who can't buy you kid gloves—" "But you will, as soon as the sanatorium succeeds!" she put in bravely. She put down her muff. "Don't tell him to-night, anyhow. Maybe Pat will think of some way to break it to him. She can do a lot with father." "I hope she can think of some way to break another Richard Carter to the people in the house," I said tartly. "Another Richard Carter!" they said together, and then I told them about how we had waited and got desperate, and how we'd brought in Mr. Pierce at the last minute and that he was asleep now at the house. They roared. To save my life I couldn't see that it was funny. But when I came to the part about Thoburn being there, and his having had a good look at Mr. Pierce, and that he was waiting around with his jaws open to snap up the place when it fell under the hammer, Mr. Dick stopped laughing and looked serious. "Lord deliver us from our friends!" he said. "Between you and Sam, you've got things in a lovely mess, Minnie. What are you going to do about it now?" "It's possible we can get by Thoburn," I said. "You can slip in to-night, we can get Mr. Pierce out—Lord knows he'll be glad to go—and Miss Dorothy can go back to school. Then, later, when you've got things running and are making good—" "I'm not going back to school," she declared, "but I'll go away; I'll not stand in your way, Dicky." She took two steps toward the door and waited for him to stop her. "Nonsense, Minnie," he exclaimed angrily and put his arm around her, "I won't be separated from my wife. You got me into this scrape, and—" "I didn't marry you!" I retorted. "And I'm not responsible for your father-in-law's disposition." "You'll have to help us out," he finished. "What shall I do? Murder Mr. Jennings?" I asked bitterly. "If you expect me to suggest that you both go to the house, and your wife can hide in your rooms—" "Why not?" asked Mr. Dick. Well, I sat down again and explained patiently that it would get out among the servants and cause a scandal, and that even if it didn't I wasn't going to have any more deception: I had enough already. And after a while they saw it as I did, and agreed to wait and see Miss Patty before they decided. They wanted to have her wakened at once, but I refused, although I agreed to bring her out first thing in the morning. "But you can't stay here," I said. "There'll be Miss Cobb at nine o'clock, and the man comes to light the fire at eight." "We could go to the old shelter-house on the golf links," suggested Mr. Dick, looking me square in the eye. (I took the hint, and Mrs. Dicky never knew he had been hidden there before.) "Nobody ever goes near it in winter." So I put on my slippers again and we started through the snow across the golf links, Mr. Dick carrying a bundle of firewood, and I leading the way with my lantern. Twice I went into a drift to my waist, and once a rabbit bunted into me head on, and would have scared me into a chill if I hadn't been shaking already. The two behind me were cheerful enough. Mr. Dick pointed out the general direction of the deer park which hides the shelter-house from the sanatorium, and if you'll believe it, with snow so thick I had to scrape it off the lantern every minute or so, those children planned to give something called A Midsummer Night's Dream in the deer park among the trees in the spring, to entertain the patients. "I wish to heaven I'd wake up and find all THIS a dream," I called back over my shoulder. But they were busy with costumes and getting some folks they knew from town to take the different parts and they never even heard me. The last few yards they snowballed each other and me. I tell you I felt a hundred years old. We got into the shelter-house by my crawling through a window, and when we had lighted the fire and hung up the lantern, it didn't seem so bad. The place had been closed since summer, and it seemed colder than outside, but those two did the barn dance then and there. There were two rooms, and Mr. Dick had always used the back one to hide in. It's a good thing Mrs. Dick was not a suspicious person. Many a woman would have wondered when she saw him lift a board in the floor and take out a rusty tin basin, a cake of soap, a moldy towel, a can of sardines, a tooth-brush and a rubber carriage robe to lay over the rafters under the hole in the roof. But it's been my experience that the first few days of married life women are blind because they want to be and after that because they have to be. It was about four when I left them, sitting on a soap box in front of the fire toasting sardines on the end of Mr. Dick's walking-stick. Mrs. Dick made me put on her sealskin coat, and I took the lantern, leaving them in the firelight. They'd gone back to the captive balloon idea and were wondering if they couldn't get it copyrighted! I took a short cut home, crawling through the barbed-wire fence and going through the deer park. I was too tired and cold to think. I stumbled down the hill to the house, and just before I got to the corner I heard voices, and the shuffling of feet through the snow. The next instant a lantern came around the corner of the house. Mr. Thoburn was carrying it, and behind him were the bishop, Mike the bath man, and Mr. Pierce. "It's like that man Moody," the bishop was saying angrily, "to send the girl—" "Piffle!" snarled Mr. Thoburn. "If ever a woman was able to take care of herself—" And then they saw me, and they all stopped and stared. "Good gracious, girl!" said the bishop, with his dressing-gown blowing out straight behind him in the wind. "We thought you'd been buried in a drift!" "I don't see why!" I retorted defiantly. "Can't I go out to my own spring-house without having a posse after me to bring me back?" "Ordinarily," said Mr. Thoburn, with his snaky eyes on me, "I think I may say that you might go almost anywhere without my turning out to recover you. But Mrs. Moody is having hysterics." Mrs. Moody! I'd forgotten the Moodys! "She is convinced that you have drowned yourself, head down, in the spring," Mr. Pierce said in his pleasant way. "You've been gone two hours, you know." He took my arm and turned me toward the house. I was dazed. "In answer to your urgent inquiry," Mr. Thoburn called after me, disagreeably, "Mr. Moody has not died. He is asleep. But, by the way, where's the spring water?" I didn't answer him; I couldn't. We went into the house; Mrs. Moody and Miss Cobb were sitting on the stairs. Mrs. Moody had been crying, and Miss Cobb was feeding her the whisky I had left, with a teaspoon. She had had a half tumblerful already and was quite maudlin. She ran to me and put her arms around me. "I thought I was a murderess!" she cried. "Oh, the thought! Blood on my soul! Why, Minnie Waters, wherever did you get that sealskin coat!" # CHAPTER IX: DOLLY, HOW COULD YOU? I lay down across my bed at six o'clock that morning, but I was too tired and worried to sleep, so at seven I got up and dressed. I was frightened when I saw myself in the glass. My eyes looked like burnt holes in a blanket. I put on two pairs of stockings and heavy shoes, for I knew I was going to do the Eskimo act again that day and goodness knows how many days more, and then I went down and knocked at the door of Miss Patty's room. She hadn't been sleeping either. She called to me in an undertone to come in, and she was lying propped up with pillows, with something pink around her shoulders and the night lamp burning beside the bed. She had a book in her hand, but all over the covers and on the table at her elbow were letters in the blue foreign envelopes with the red and black and gold seal. I walked over to the foot of the bed. "They're here," I said. She sat up, and some letters slid to the floor. "THEY'RE here!" she repeated. "Do you mean Dorothy?" "She and her husband. They came last night at five minutes to twelve. Their train was held up by the blizzard and they won't come in until they see you. They're hiding in the shelter-house on the golf links." I think she thought I was crazy: I looked it. She hopped out of bed and closed the door into her sitting-room—Mrs. Hutchins' room opened off it—and then she came over and put her hand on my arm. "Will you sit down and try to tell me just what you mean?" she said. "How can my sister and her—her wretch of a husband have come last night at midnight when I saw Mr. Carter myself not later than ten o'clock?" Well, I had to tell her then about who Mr. Pierce was and why I had to get him, and she understood almost at once. She was the most understanding girl I ever met. She saw at once what Mr. Sam wouldn't have known in a thousand years—that I wanted to save the old place not to keep my position—but because I'd been there so long, and my father before me, and had helped to make it what it was and all that. And she stood there in her nightgown—she who was almost a princess—and listened to me, and patted me on the shoulder when I broke down, telling her about Thoburn and the summer hotel. "But here I am," I finished, "telling you about my troubles and forgetting what I came for. You'll have to go out to the shelter-house, Miss Patty. And I guess you're expected to fix it up with your father." She stopped unfastening her long braids of hair. "Certainly I'll go to the shelter-house," she said, "and I'll shake a little sense into Dorothy Jennings—the abominable little idiot! But they needn't think I'm going to help them with father; I wouldn't if I could, and I can't. He won't speak to me. I'm in disgrace, Minnie." She gave her hair a shake, twisted it into a rope and then a knot, and stuck a pin in it. It was lovely: I wish Miss Cobb could have seen her. "You've known father for years, Minnie: have you ever known him to be so—so—" "Devilish" was the word she meant, but I finished for her. "Unreasonable?" I said. "Well, once before when you were a little girl, he put his cane through a window in the spring-house, because he thought it needed air. The spring-house, of course, not the cane." "Exactly," she said, looking around the room, "and now he's putting a cane through every plan I have made. Do you see my heavy boots?" "It's like this," I remarked, bringing the boots from outside the door, "if he's swallowed the prince and is choking on the settlement question he might as well get over it. All those foreigners expect pay for taking a wife. Didn't the chef here want to marry Tillie, the diet cook, and didn't he want her to turn over the three hundred dollars she had in the bank, and her real estate, which was a sixth interest in a cemetery lot? But Tillie stuck it out and he wouldn't take her without." "It isn't quite the same, Minnie," she said, sitting down on the floor to put on her stockings. "The principle's the same," I retorted, "and if you ask me—" "I haven't," she said disagreeably, "and when you begin to argue, Minnie, you make my head ache." "I have had a heartache for a week," I snapped, "let alone heartburn, and I'll be glad when the Jennings family is safely married and I can sleep at night." I was hurt. I went out and shut the door behind me, but I stopped in the hall and went back. "I forgot to say," I began, and stopped. She was still sitting on the floor, trying to put her heavy boots on, and crying all over them. "Stop that instantly," I said, and jerked her shoes from her. "Get into a chair and let me put them on. And if you will wait a jiffy I'll bring you a cup of coffee. I'm not even a Christian in the morning until I've had my coffee." "You haven't had it yet, have you?" she asked, and we laughed together, rather shaky. But as I buttoned her shoes I saw her eyes going toward the blue letters on the bed. "Oh, Minnie," she said, "if you only knew how peculiar they are in Europe! They'll never allow a sanatorium in the family!" "I guess a good many would be the better for having one close," I said. Well, I left her to get dressed and went to the kitchens. Tillie was there getting the beef tea ready for the day, but none of the rest was around. They knew the housekeeper was gone, but I guess they'd forgotten that I was still on hand. I put a kettle against the electric bell that rings in the chef's room so it would keep on ringing and went on into the diet kitchen. "Tillie," I said, "can you trust me?" She looked up from her beef. "Whether I can or not, I always have," she answered. "Well, can I trust you? That's more to the point." She put down her knife and came over to me, with her hands on her hips. "I don't know what you're up to, Minnie," she said, "and I don't know that I care. But if you've forgotten the time I went to the city and brought you sulphur and the Lord only knows what for your old spring when you'd run short and were laid up with influenza—" "Hush!" I exclaimed. "You needn't shout it. Tillie, I don't want you to ask me any questions, but I want four raw eggs in a basket, a pot of coffee and cream, some fruit if you can get it when the chef unlocks the refrigerator room, and bread and butter. They can make their own toast." "They?" she said, with her mouth open. But I didn't explain any more. I had found Tillie about a year before, frying sausages at the railroad station, and made her diet cook at the sanatorium. Mrs. Wiggins hadn't wanted her, but, as I told the old doctor at the time, we needed somebody in the kitchen to keep an eye on things for us. It was through Tillie that we discovered that the help were having egg-nog twice a day, with eggs as scarce as hens' teeth, and the pharmacy clerk putting in a requisition for more whisky every week. Well, I scribbled a note to Mr. Van Alstyne, telling what had happened, and put it under his door, and then I met Miss Patty in the hall by the billiard room and I gave her some coffee from the basket, in the sun parlor. It was still dark, although it was nearly eight o'clock, and nobody saw us go out together. Just as we left I heard the chef in the kitchen bawling out that he'd murder whoever put the kettle against the bell, and Tillie saying it must have dropped off the hook and landed there. We went to the spring-house first, to avoid suspicion, and then across back of the deer park to the shelter-house. It was still snowing, but not so much, and the tracks we had made early in the morning were still there, mine off to one side alone, and the others close together and side by side. There was a whole history in those snow tracks, mine alone and kind of offish, and the others cuddling together. It made me lonely to look at them. I remember wishing I'd taught school, as I was educated to; woman wasn't made to live alone, and most school-teachers get married. Miss Patty did not say much. She was holding her chin high and looking rather angry and determined. At the spring-house I gave her the basket and took an armful of fire-wood myself. I knew Mr. Dick would never think of it until the fire was out. They were both asleep in the shelter-house. He was propped up against the wall on a box, with the rubber carriage robe around him, and she was lying by the fire, with Mrs. Moody's shawl over her and her muff under her head. Miss Patty stood in the doorway for an instant. Then she walked over and, leaning down, shook her sister by the arm. "Dorothy!" she said. "Wake up, you wretched child!" And shook her again. Mrs. Dicky groaned and yawned, and opened her eyes one at a time. But when she saw it was Miss Patty she sat up at once, looking dazed and frightened. "You needn't pinch me, Pat!" she said, and at that Mr. Dick wakened and jumped up, with the carriage robe still around him. "Oh, Dolly, Dolly!" said Miss Patty suddenly, dropping on her knees beside Mrs. Dicky, "what a bad little girl you are! What a thing for you to do! Think of father and Aunt Honoria!" "I shan't," retorted Mrs. Dicky decidedly. "I'm not going to spoil my honeymoon like that. For heaven's sake, Pat, don't cry. I'm not dead. Dick, this is my sister, Patricia." Miss Pat looked at him, but she didn't bow. She gave him one look, from his head to his heels. "Dolly, how COULD you!" she said, and got up. It wasn't very comfortable for Mr. Dick, but he took it much better than I expected. He went over and gave his wife a hand to help her up, and still holding hers, he turned to Miss Patty. "You are perfectly right," he said, "I don't see how she could myself. The more you know of me the more you'll wonder. But she did; we're up against that." He grinned at Miss Patty, and after a minute Miss Patty smiled back. But it wasn't much of a smile. I was unpacking the breakfast, putting the coffee-pot on the fire and getting ready to cook the eggs and make toast. But I was watching, too. Suddenly Mrs. Dick made a dive for Miss Patty and threw her arms around her. "You darling!" she cried. "I'm so glad to see you again—Pat, you'll tell father, won't you? He'll take it from you. If I tell him he'll have apoplexy or something." But Miss Patty set her pretty mouth—both those girls have their father's mouth—and held her sister out at arm's length and looked at her. "Listen," she said. "Do you know what you have done to me? Do you know that when father knows this he's going to annul the marriage or have Mr. Carter arrested for kidnaping or abduction?—whatever it is." Mrs. Dick puckered her face to cry, and Mr. Dick took a step forward, but Miss Patty waved him off. "You know father as well as I do, Dolly. You know what he is, and lately he's been awful. He's not well—it's his liver again—and he won't listen to anything. Why, the Austrian ambassador came up here, all this distance, to talk about the etiquette of the—of my wedding, something about precedence, and he wouldn't even see him." "He can't annul it," said Mr. Dick angrily. "I'm of age. And I can support my wife, too, or will be able—soon." "Dolly's not of age," said Miss Patty wearily. "I've sat up all night figuring it out. He's going to annul the marriage, or he'll make a scandal anyhow, and that's just as bad. Dolly,"—she turned to her sister imploringly—"Dolly, I can't have a scandal now. You know how Oskar's people have taken this, anyhow; they've given in, because he insisted, but they don't want me, and if there's a lot of notoriety now the emperor will send him to Africa or some place, and—" "I wish they would!" Mrs. Carter burst out suddenly. "I hate the whole thing. They only tolerate you—us—for our money. You needn't look at me like that; Oskar may be all right, but his mother and sisters are hateful—simply hateful!" "I'll not be with them." "No, but they'll be with you." Mrs. Dicky walked over to the window and looked out, dabbing her eyes. "You've been everything to me, Pat, and I'm so happy now—I'd rather be here on a soap box with Dick than on a throne or a dais or whatever you'll have to sit on over there, with Oskar. I want to be happy—and you won't. Look at Alice Thorne and her duke!" "If you really want me to be happy," Miss Patty said, going over to her, "you'll go back to school until the wedding is over." "I won't leave Dicky." She swung around and gave Mr. Dick an adoring glance, and Miss Patty looked discouraged. "Take him with you," she said. "Isn't there some place near where he could stay, and telephone you now and then?" "Telephone!" said Mrs. Dick scornfully. "Can't leave," Mr. Dick objected. "Got to be on the property." Miss Patty shrugged her shoulders and turned to go. "You're both perfectly hopeless," she said. "I'll go and tell father, Dorothy, but you know what will happen. You'll be back in school at Greenwich by to-night, and your—husband will probably be under arrest." She opened the door, but I dropped the toast I was making and ran after her. "If he is arrested," I said, "they'll have to keep him on the place. He can't leave." She didn't say anything; she lifted her hand and looked at the ruby ring, and then she glanced back into the room where Mr. Dick and his wife were whispering together, and turned up her coat collar. "I'm going," she said, and stepped into the snow. But they called her back in a hurry. "Look here, Miss—Miss Patricia," Mr. Dick said, "why can't we stay here, where we are? It's very comfortable—that is, it's livable. There's plenty of fresh air, anyhow, and everybody's shouting for fresh air nowadays. They've got somebody to take my place in the house." "And father needn't know a thing—you can fix that," broke in Mrs. Dick. "And after your wedding he will be in a better humor; he'll know it's over and not up to him any more." Miss Patty came back to the shelter-house again and sat down on the soap box. "We MIGHT carry it off," she said. "If I could only go back to town! But father is in one of his tantrums, and he won't go, or let me go. The idea!—with Aunt Honoria on the long-distance wire every day, having hysterics, and my clothes waiting to be tried on and everything. I'm desperate." "And all sorts of things being arranged for you!" put in Mrs. Dick enviously. "And the family jewels being reset in Vienna for you and all that! It would be great—if you only didn't have to take Oskar with the jewels!" Miss Patty frowned. "You are not going to marry him," she said, with a glance at Mr. Dick, who, with his coat off, was lying flat on the floor, one arm down in the hole where the things had been hidden, trying to hook up a can of baked beans. "If it doesn't turn out well, you and father have certainly done your part in the way of warning. It's just as Aunt Honoria said; the family will make a tremendous row beforehand, but afterward, when it all turns out well, they'll take the credit." Mr. Dick was busy with the beans and I was turning the eggs. Mrs. Dick went over to her sister and put her arm around her. "That's right, Patty," she said, "you're more like mother than I am. I'm a Jennings all over—except that, heavens be praised, I've got the Sherwood liver. I guess I'm common plebeian, like dad, too. I'm plebeian enough, anyhow, to think there's been a lot too much about marriage settlements and the consent of the emperor in all this, and not enough about love." I could have patted Mrs. Dicky on the back for that, and I almost upset the eggs into the fire. I'm an advocate of marrying for love every time, although a title and a bunch of family jewels thrown in wouldn't worry me. "Do you want me to protest that the man who has asked me to marry him cares about me?" Miss Patty replied in an angry undertone. "Couldn't he have married a thousand other girls! Hadn't a marriage been arranged between him and the cousin—" "I know all that," Mrs. Dicky said, and her voice sounded older than Miss Patty's, and motherly. "But—are you in love with him, Pat?" "Certainly," Miss Patty said indignantly. "Don't be silly, Dolly." At that instant Mr. Dick found the beans, and got up shouting that we'd have a meal fit for a prince—if princes ate anything so every day as baked beans. I put the eggs on a platter and poured the coffee, and we all sat around the soap box and ate. I wished that Miss Cobb could have seen me there—how they insisted on my having a second egg, and was my coffee cold, and wasn't I too close to the fire? It was Minnie here and Minnie there, and me next to Miss Patty on the floor, and she, as you may say, right next to royalty. I wished it could have been in the spring-house, with father's crayon enlargement looking down on us. Everybody felt better for the meal, and we were sitting there laughing and talking and very cheerful when Mr. Van Alstyne opened the door and looked in. His face was stern, but when he saw us, with Miss Patty on her knees toasting a piece of bread and Mr. Dicky passing the tin basin as a finger-bowl, he stopped scowling and looked amused. "They're here, Sallie," he called to his wife, and they both came in, covered with snow, and we had coffee and eggs all over again. Well, they stayed for an hour, and Mr. Sam talked himself black in the face and couldn't get anywhere. For the Dickys refused to be separated, and Mrs. Dick wouldn't tell her father, and Miss Patty wouldn't do it for her, and the minute Mr. Sam made a suggestion that sounded rational Mrs. Dick would cry and say she didn't care to live, anyhow, and she wished she had died of ptomaine poisoning the time she ate the bad oysters at school. So finally Mr. Sam gave up and said he washed his hands of the whole affair, and that he was going to make another start on his wedding journey, and if they wanted to be a pair of fools it wasn't up to him—only for heaven's sake not to cry about it. And then he wiped Mrs. Dicky's eyes and kissed her, she being, as he explained, his sister-in-law now and much too pretty for him to scold. And when the Dickys found they were not going to be separated we had more coffee all around and everybody grew more cheerful. Oh, we were very cheerful! I look back now and think how cheerful we were, and I shudder. It was strange that we hadn't been warned by Mr. Pierce's square jaw, but we were not. We sat around the fire and ate and laughed, and Mr. Dick arranged that Mr. Pierce should come out to him every evening for orders about the place if he accepted, and everybody felt he would—and I was to come at the same time and bring a basket of provisions for the next day. Of course, the instant Mr. Jennings left the young couple could go into the sanatorium as guests under another name and be comfortable. And as soon as the time limit was up, and the place was still running smoothly, they could declare the truth, claim the sanatorium, having fulfilled the conditions of the will, and confess to Mr. Jennings—over the long-distance wire. Well, it promised well, I must say. Mr. Stitt left on the ten train that morning, looking lemon-colored and mottled. He insisted that he wasn't able to go, but Mr. Sam gave him a headache powder and put him on the train, anyhow. Yes, as I say, it promised well. But we made two mistakes: we didn't count on Mr. Thoburn, and we didn't know Mr. Pierce. And who could have imagined that Mike the bath man would do as he did? # CHAPTER X: ANOTHER COMPLICATION After luncheon, when everybody at Hope Springs takes a nap, we had another meeting at the shelter-house, this time with Mr. Pierce. He had spent the morning tramping over the hills with a gun and keeping out of the way of people, and what with three square meals, a good night's sleep and the exercise, he was looking a lot better. Seen in daylight, he had very dark hair and blue-gray eyes and a very square chin, although it had a sort of dimple in it. I used to wonder which won out, the dimple or the chin, but I wasn't long in finding out. Well, he looked dazed when I took him to the shelter-house and he saw Mr. Dick and Mrs. Dick and the Mr. Sams and Miss Patty. They gave him a lawn-mower to sit on, and Mr. Sam explained the situation. "I know it's asking a good bit, Mr. Pierce," he said, "and personally I can see only one way out of all this. Carter ought to go in and take charge, and his—er—wife ought to go back to school. But they won't have it, and—er—there are other reasons." He glanced at Miss Patty. Mr. Pierce also glanced at Miss Patty. He'd been glancing at her at intervals of two seconds ever since she came in, and being a woman and having a point to gain, Miss Patty seemed to have forgotten the night before, and was very nice to him. Once she smiled directly at him, and whatever he was saying died in his throat of the shock. When she turned her head away he stared at the back of her neck, and when she looked at the fire he gazed at her profile, and always with that puzzled look, as if he hadn't yet come to believe that she was the newspaper Miss Jennings. After everything had been explained to him, including Mr. Jennings' liver and disposition, she turned to him and said: "We are in your hands, you see, Mr. Pierce. Are you going to help us?" And when she asked him that, it was plain to me that he was only sorry he couldn't die helping. "If everybody agrees to it," he said, looking at her, "and you all think it's feasible and I can carry it off, I'm perfectly willing to try." "Oh, it's feasible," Mr. Dick said in a relieved voice, getting up and beginning to strut up and down the room. "It isn't as though I'm beyond call. You can come out here and consult me if you get stuck. And then there's Minnie; she knows a good bit about the old place." Mr. Sam looked at me and winked. "Of course," said Mr. Dick, "I expect to retain control, you understand that, I suppose, Pierce? You can come out every day for instructions. I dare say sanatoriums are hardly your line." Mr. Pierce was looking at Miss Patty and she knew it. When a woman looks as unconscious as she did it isn't natural. "Eh—oh, well no, hardly," he said, coming to himself; "I've tried everything else, I believe. It can't be worse than carrying a bunch of sweet peas from garden to garden." Mr. Dick stopped walking and turned suddenly to stare at Mr. Pierce. "Sweet—what?" he said. Everybody else was talking, and I was the only one who saw him change color. "Sweet peas," said Mr. Pierce. "And that reminds me—I'd like to make one condition, Mr. Carter. I feel in a measure responsible for the company; most of them have gone back to New York, but the leading woman is sick at the hotel in Finleyville. I'd like to bring her here for two weeks to recuperate. I assure you, I have no interest in her, but I'm sorry for her; she's had the mumps." "Mumps!" everybody said together, and Mr. Sam looked at his brother-in-law. "Kid in the play got "em, and they spread around," Mr. Pierce explained. "Nasty disease." "Why, you've just had them, too, Dicky!" said his wife. They all turned to look at him, and I must say his expression was curious. Luckily, I had the wit to knock over the breakfast basket, which was still there, and when we'd gathered up the broken china, Mr. Dick had got himself in hand. "I'm sorry, old man," he said to Mr. Pierce, "but I'm not in favor of bringing Miss—the person you speak of—up to the sanatorium just now. Mumps, you know—very contagious, and all that." "She's over that part," Mr. Pierce said; "she only needs to rest." "Certainly—let her come," said Mrs. Dicky. "If they're as contagious as all that, you haven't been afraid of MY getting them." "I—I'm not in favor of it," Mr. Dick insisted, looking obstinate. "The minute you bring an actress here you've got the whole place by the ears." "Fiddlesticks!" said his sister. "Because any actress could set YOU by the ears—" Mrs. Dick sat up suddenly. "Certainly, if she isn't well bring her up," said Miss Patty. "Only—won't she know your name is not Carter?" "She's discretion itself," Mr. Pierce said. "Her salary hasn't been paid for a month, and as I'm responsible, I'd be glad to see her looked after." "I don't want her here. I'll—I'll pay her board at the hotel," Mr. Dick began, "only for heaven's sake, don't—" He stopped, for every one was staring. "Why in the world would you do that?" Miss Patty asked. "Don't be ridiculous. That's the only condition Mr. Pierce has made." Mr. Dick stalked to the window and looked out, his hands in his pockets. I couldn't help being reminded of the time he had run away from school, when his grandfather found him in the shelter-house and gave him his choice of going back at once or reading medicine with him. "Oh, bring her up! Bring her up!" he said without looking around. "If Pierce won't stay unless he can play the friend in need, all right. But don't come after me if the whole blamed sanatorium swells up with mumps and faints at the sight of a pickle." That was Wednesday. Things at the sanatorium were about the same on the surface. The women crocheted and wondered what the next house doctor would be like, and the men gambled at the slot-machines and played billiards and grumbled at the food and the management, and when they weren't drinking spring water they were in the bar washing away the taste of it. They took twenty minutes on the verandas every day for exercise and kept the house temperature at eighty. Senator Biggs was still fasting and Mrs. Biggs took to spending all day in the spring-house and turning pale every time she heard his voice. It was that day, I think, that I found the magazine with Upton Sinclair's article on fasting stuck fast in a snow-drift, as if it had been thrown violently. Wednesday afternoon Miss Julia Summers came with three lap robes, a white lace veil and a French poodle in a sleigh and went to bed in one of the best rooms, and that night we started to move out furniture to the shelter-house. By working almost all night we got the shelter-house fairly furnished, although we made a trail through the snow that looked like a fever chart. Toward daylight Mr. Sam dropped a wash-bowl on my toe and I went to bed with an arnica compress. I limped out in time to be on hand before Miss Cobb got there, but what with a chilblain on my heel and hardly any sleep for two nights—not to mention my toe—I wasn't any too pleasant. "It's my opinion you're overeating, Minnie," Miss Cobb said. "You're skin's a sight!" "You needn't look at it," I retorted. She burned the back of her neck just then and it was three minutes before she could speak. When she could she was considerably milder. "Just give it a twist or two, Minnie, won't you?" she said, holding out the curler. "I haven't been able to sleep on the back of my head for three weeks." Well, I curled her hair for her and she told me about Miss Summers being still shut in her room, and how she'd offered Mike an extra dollar to give the white poodle a Turkish bath—it being under the weather as to health—and how Mike had soaked the little beast for an hour in a tub of water, forgetting the sulphur, and it had come out a sort of mustard color, and how Miss Summers had had hysterics when she saw it. "Mike dipped him in bluing to bleach him again, or rather "her'—it's name is Arabella—" Miss Cobb said, "but all it did was to make it mottled like an Easter egg. Everybody is charmed. There were no dogs allowed while the old doctor lived. Things were different." "Yes, things were different," I assented, limping over to heat the curler. "How—how does Mr. Carter get along?" Miss Cobb put down her hand-mirror and sniffed. "Well," she said, "goodness knows I'm no trouble maker, but somebody ought to tell that young man a few things. He's forever looking at the thermometer and opening windows. I declare, if I hadn't brought my woolen tights along I'd have frozen to death at breakfast. Everybody's complaining." I put that away in my mind to speak about. It was only by nailing the windows shut and putting strips of cotton batting around the cracks that we'd ever been able to keep people there in the winter. I had my first misgiving then. Heaven knows I didn't realize what it was going to be. Well, by the evening of that day things were going fairly well. Tillie brought out a basket every morning to me at the spring-house, fairly bursting with curiosity, and Mr. Sam got some canned stuff in Finleyville and took it after dark to the shelter-house. But after the second day Mrs. Dicky got tired holding a frying-pan over the fire and I had to carry out at least one hot meal a day. They got their own breakfast in a chafing-dish, or rather he got it and carried it to her. And she'd sit on the edge of her cot, with her feet on the soap box—the floor was drafty—wrapped in a pink satin negligee with bands of brown fur on it, looking sweet and perfectly happy, and let him feed her boiled egg with a spoon. I took them some books—my Gray's Anatomy, and Jane Eyre and Molly Bawn, by The Duchess, and the newspapers, of course. They were full of talk about the wedding, and the suite the prince was bringing over with him, and every now and then a notice would say that Miss Dorothy Jennings, the bride's young sister, who was still in school and was not coming out until next year, would be her sister's maid of honor. And when they came to that, they would hug each other—or me, if I happened to be close—and act like a pair of children, which they were. Generally it would end up by his asking her if she wasn't sorry she wasn't back at Greenwich studying French conjugations and having a dance without any men on Friday nights, and she would say "Wretch!" and kiss him, and I'd go out and slam the door. But there was something on Mr. Dick's mind. I hadn't known him for fourteen years for nothing. And the night Mr. Sam and I carried out the canned salmon and corn and tomatoes he walked back with me to the edge of the deer park, Mr. Sam having gone ahead. "Now," I said, when we were out of ear-shot, "spit it out. I've been expecting it." "Listen, Minnie," he answered, "is Ju—is Miss Summers still confined to her room?" "No," I replied coldly. "Ju—Miss Summers was down to-night to dinner." "Then she's seen Pierce," he said, "and he's told her the whole story and by to-morrow—" "What?" I demanded, clutching his arm. "You wretched boy, don't tell me after all I've done." "Oh, confound it, Minnie," he exclaimed, "it's as much your fault as mine. Couldn't you have found somebody else, instead of getting, of all things on earth, somebody from the Sweet Peas Company?" "I see," I said slowly. "Then it WASN'T coincidence about the mumps!" "Confounded kid had them," he said with bitterness. "Minnie, something's got to be done, and done soon. If you want the plain truth, Miss—er—Summers and I used to be friends—and—well, she's suing me for breach of promise. Now for heaven's sake, Minnie, don't make a fuss—" But my knees wouldn't hold me. I dropped down in a snow-drift and covered my face. # CHAPTER XI: MISS PATTY'S PRINCE I dragged myself back to the spring-house and dropped in front of the fire. What with worry and no sleep and now this new complication I was dead as yesterday's newspaper. I sat there on the floor with my hands around my knees, thinking what to do next, and as I sat there, the crayon enlargement of father on the spring-house wall began to shake its head from side to side, and then I saw it hold out its hand and point a finger at me. "Cut and run, Minnie," it said. "Get out from under! Go and buy Timmon's candy store before the smash—the smash—!" When I opened my eyes Mr. Pierce was sitting on the other side of the chimney and staring at the fire. He had a pipe between his teeth, but he wasn't smoking, and he had something of the same look about his mouth he'd had the first day I saw him. "Well?" he said, when he saw I was awake. "I guess I was sleeping." I sat up and pushed in my hairpins and yawned. I was tireder than ever. "I'm clean worn out." "Of course you're tired," he declared angrily. "You're not a horse, and you haven't been to bed for two nights." "Care killed the cat," I said. "I don't mind losing sleep, but it's like walking in a swamp, Mr. Pierce. First I put a toe in—that was when I asked you to stay over night. Then I went a step farther, lured on, as you may say, by Miss Patty waving a crown or whatever it is she wants, just beyond my nose. And to-night I've got a—well, to-night I'm in to the neck and yelling for a quick death." He leaned over to where I sat before the fire and twisted my head toward him. "To-night—what?" he demanded. But that minute I made up my mind not to tell him. He might think the situation was too much for him and leave, or he might decide he ought to tell Miss Summers where Dick was. There was no love lost between him and Mr. Carter. "To-night—I'm just tired and cranky," I said, "so—is Miss Summers settled yet?" He nodded, as if he wasn't thinking of Miss Summers. "What did you tell her?" "Haven't seen her," he said. "Sent her a note that I was understudying a man named Carter and to mind to pick up her cues." "It's a common enough name," I said, but he had lighted his pipe again and had dropped forward, one elbow on his knee, his hand holding the bowl of his pipe, and staring into the fire. He looked up when I closed and locked the pantry door. "I've just been thinking," he remarked, "here we are—a group of people—all struggling like mad for one thing, but with different motives. Mine are plain enough and mercenary enough, although a certain red-haired girl with a fine loyalty to an old doctor and a sanatorium is carrying me along with her enthusiasm. And Van Alstyne's motives are clear enough—and selfish. Carter is merely trying to save his own skin—but a girl like Miss Pat—Miss Jennings!" "There's nothing uncertain about what she wants, or wrong either," I retorted. "She's right enough. The family can't stand a scandal just now with her wedding so close." He smiled and got up, emptying his pipe. "Nevertheless, oh, Minnie, of the glowing hair and heart," he said, "Miss Jennings has disappointed me. You see, I believe in marrying for love." "Love!" I was disgusted. "Don't talk to me about love! Love is the sort of thing that makes two silly idiots run away and get married and live in a shelter-house, upsetting everybody's plans, while their betters have to worry themselves sick and carry them victuals." He got up and began to walk up and down the spring-house, scowling at the floor. "Of course," he agreed, "he may be a decent sort, and she may really want him." "Of course she does!" I said. He stopped short. "I've been wanting a set of red puffs for three years, and I can hardly walk past Mrs. Yost's window down in the village. They've got some that match my hair and I fairly yearn for them. But if I got "em I dare say I'd put them in a box and go after wanting something else. It's the same way with Miss Patty. She'll get her prince, and because it isn't real love, but only the same as me with the puffs, she'll go after wanting something else. Only she can't put him away in a box. She'll have to put him on and wear him for better, for worse." "Lord help her!" he said solemnly, and went over to the window and stood there looking out. I went over beside him. From the window we could see the three rows of yellow lights that marked the house, and somebody with a lantern was going down the path toward the stables. Mr. Pierce leaned forward, his hands at the top of the window-sash, and put his forehead against the glass. "Why is it that a lighted window in a snow-storm always makes a fellow homesick?" he said in his half-mocking way. "If he hasn't got a home it makes him want one." "Well, why don't you get one?" I asked. "On nothing a year?" he said. "Not even prospects! And set up housekeeping in the shelter-house with my good friend Minnie carrying us food and wearing herself to a shadow, not to mention bringing trashy books to my bride." "She isn't that kind," I broke in, and got red. I'd been thinking of Miss Patty. But he went over to the table and picked up his glass of spring water, only to set it down untasted. "No, she's not that kind!" he agreed, and never noticed the slip. "You know, Minnie, women aren't all alike, but they're not all different. An English writer has them classified to a T—there's the mother woman—that's you. You're always mothering somebody with that maternal spirit of yours. It's a pity it's vicarious." I didn't say anything, not knowing just what he meant. But I've looked it up since and I guess he was about right. "And there's the mistress woman—Mrs. Dicky, for example, or—" he saw Miss Cobb's curler on the mantel and picked it up—"or even Miss Cobb," he said. "Coquetry and selfishness without maternal instinct. How much of Miss Cobb's virtue is training and environment, Minnie, not to mention lack of temptation, and how much was born in her?" "She's a preacher's daughter," I remarked. I could understand about Mrs. Dicky, but I thought he was wrong about Miss Cobb. "Exactly," he said. "And the third kind of woman is the mistress-mother kind, and they're the salt of the earth, Minnie." He began to walk up and down by the spring with his hands in his pockets and a far-away look in his eyes. "The man who marries that kind of woman is headed straight for paradise." "That's the way!" I snapped. "You men have women divided into classes and catalogued like horses on sale." "Aren't they on sale?" he demanded, stopping. "Isn't it money, or liberty, or—or a title, usually?" I knew he was thinking of Miss Patty again. "As for the men," I continued, "I guess you can class the married ones in two classes, providers and non-providers. They're all selfish and they haven't enough virtue to make a fuss about." "I'd be a shining light in the non-provider class," he said, and picking up his old cap he opened the door. Miss Patty herself was coming up the path. She was flushed from the cold air and from hurrying, and I don't know that I ever saw her look prettier. When she came into the light we could both see that she was dressed for dinner. Her fur coat was open at the neck, and she had only a lace scarf over her head. (She was a disbeliever in colds, anyhow, and all winter long she slept with the windows open and the steam-heat off!) "I'm so glad you're still here, Minnie!" she exclaimed, breathing fast. "You haven't taken the dinner out to the shelter-house yet, have you?" "Not yet," I replied. "Tillie hasn't brought the basket. The chef's been fussing about the stuff we're using in the diet kitchen the last few days, and I wouldn't be surprised if he's shut off all extras." But I guess her sister and Mr. Dick could have starved to death just then without her noticing. She was all excitement, for all she's mostly so cool. "I have a note here for my sister," she said, getting it out of her pocket. "I know we all impose on you, Minnie, but—will you take it for me? I'd go, but I'm in slippers, and, anyhow, I'd need a lantern, and that would be reckless, wouldn't it?" "In slippers!" Mr. Pierce interrupted. "It's only five degrees above zero! Of all the foolhardy—!" Miss Patty did not seem to hear him. She gave the letter to me and followed me out on the step. "You're a saint, Minnie," she said, leaning over and squeezing my arm, "and because you're going back and forth in the cold so much, I want you to have this—to keep." She stooped and picked up from the snow beside the steps something soft and furry and threw it around my neck, and the next instant I knew she was giving me her chinchilla set, muff and all. I was so pleased I cried, and all the way over to the shelter-house I sniveled and danced with joy at the same time. There's nothing like chinchilla to tone down red hair. Well, I took the note out to the shelter-house, and rapped. Mr. Dick let me in, and it struck me he wasn't as cheerful as usual. He reached out and took the muff. "Oh," he said, "I thought that was the supper." "It's coming," I said, looking past him for Mrs. Dicky. Usually when I went there she was drawing Mr. Dick's profile on a bit of paper or teaching him how to manicure his nails, but that night she was lying on the cot and she didn't look up. "Sleeping?" I asked in a whisper. "Grumping!" Mr. Dick answered. He went over and stood looking down at her with his hands in his pockets and his hair ruffled as if he'd been running his fingers through it. She never moved a shoulder. "Dorothy," he said. "Here's Minnie." She pretended not to hear. "Dorothy!" he repeated. "I wish you wouldn't be such a g—Confound it, Dolly, be reasonable. Do you want to make me look like a fool?" She turned her face enough to uncover one eye. "It wouldn't be difficult," she answered, staring at him with the one eye. It was red from crying. "Now listen, Dolly." He got down on one knee beside the cot and tried to take her hand, but she jerked it away. "I've tried wearing my hair that way, and it—it isn't becoming, to say the least. I don't mind having it wet and brushed back in a pompadour, if you insist, but I certainly do balk at the ribbon." "You've only got to wear the ribbon an hour or so, until it dries." She brought her hand forward an inch or so and he took it and kissed it. It should have been slapped. "I'll tell you what I'll do," he said. "You can fix it any way you please, when it's too late for old Sam or Pierce to drop in, and I'll wear the confounded ribbon all night. Won't that do?" But she had seen the note and sat up and held out her hand for it. She was wearing one of Miss Patty's dresses and it hung on her—not that Miss Patty was large, but she had a beautiful figure, and Mrs. Dicky, of course, was still growing and not properly filled out. "Dick!" she said suddenly, "what do you think? Oskar is here! Pat's in the wildest excitement. He's in town, and Aunt Honoria has telephoned to know what to do! Listen: he is incog., of course, and registered as Oskar von Inwald. He did an awfully clever thing—came in through Canada while the papers thought he was in St. Moritz." "For heaven's sake," replied Mr. Dick, "tell her not to ask him here. I shouldn't know how to talk to him." "He speaks lovely English," declared Mrs. Dick, still reading. "I know all that," he said, walking around nervously, "but if he's going to be my brother-in-law, I suppose I don't get down on my knees and knock my head on the floor. What do I say to him? Your Highness? Oh, I've known a lord or two, but that's different. You call them anything you like and lend them money." "I dare say you can with Oskar, too." Mrs. Dicky put the note down and sighed. "Well, he's coming. Pat says dad won't go back to town until he's had twenty-one baths, and he's only had eleven and she's got to stay with him. And you needn't worry about what to call Oskar. He's not to know we're here." I was worried on my way back to the spring-house—not that the prince would make much difference, as far as I could see things being about as bad as they could be. But some of the people were talking of leaving, and since we had to have a prince it seemed a pity he wasn't coming with all his retinue and titles. It would have been a good ten thousand dollars' worth of advertising for the place, and goodness knows we needed it. When I got back to the spring-house Miss Patty and Mr. Pierce were still there. He was in front of the fire, with his back to it, and she was near the door. "Of course it isn't my affair," he was saying. "You are perfectly—" Then I opened the door and he stopped. I went on into the pantry to take off my overshoes, and as I closed the door he continued. "I didn't mean to say what I have. I meant to explain about the other night—I had a right to do that. But you forced the issue." "I was compelled to tell you he was coming," she said angrily. "I felt I should. You have been good enough to take Mr. Carter's place here and save me from an embarrassing situation—" "I had no philanthropic motives," he insisted stubbornly. "I did it, as you must know, for three meals a day and a roof over my head. If you wish me to be entirely frank, I disapprove of the whole thing." I heard the swish of her dress as she left the door and went toward him. "What would you have had me do?" she asked. "Take those two children to your father. What if there was a row? Why should there be such a lot made of it, anyhow? They're young, but they'll get older. It isn't a crime for two people to—er—love each other, is it? And if you think a scandal or two in your family—granting your father would make a scandal—is going to put another patch on the ragged reputations of the royal family of—" "How dare you!" she cried furiously. "How DARE you!" I heard her cross the room and fling the door open and a second later it slammed. When I came out of the pantry Mr. Pierce was sitting in his old position, elbow on knee, holding his pipe and staring at the bowl. # CHAPTER XII: WE GET A DOCTOR I had my hands full the next day. We'd had another snow-storm during the night and the trains were blocked again. About ten o'clock we got a telegram from the new doctor we'd been expecting, that he'd fallen on the ice on his way to the train and broken his arm, and at eleven a delegation from the guests waited on Mr. Pierce and told him they'd have to have a house physician at once. Senator Biggs was the spokesman. He said that, personally, he couldn't remain another day without one; that he should be under a physician's care every moment of his fast, and that if no doctor came that day he'd be in favor of all the guests showing their displeasure by leaving together. "Either that," Thoburn said from the edge of the crowd, "or call it a hotel at once and be done with it. A sanatorium without a doctor is like an omelet without eggs!" "Hamlet without ham," somebody said. "We're doing the best we can," Mr. Pierce explained. "We—we expect a doctor to-day." "When?" from Mr. Jennings, who had come on a cane and was watching Mr. Pierce like a hawk. "This afternoon, probably. As there is no one here very ill—" But at that they almost fell on him and tore him to pieces. I had to step in front of him myself and say we'd have somebody there by two o'clock if we had to rob a hospital to get him. And Mr. Sam cried, "Three cheers for Minnie, the beautiful spring-house girl!" and led off. There's no doubt about it—a man ought to be born to the sanatorium business. A real strong and healthy man has no business trying to run a health resort, and I saw Mr. Pierce wasn't making the hit that I'd expected him to. He was too healthy. You only needed to look at him to know that he took a cold plunge every morning, and liked to walk ten miles a day, and could digest anything and go to sleep the minute his head touched the pillow. And he had no tact. When Mrs. Biggs went to him and explained that the vacuum cleaner must not be used in her room—that it exhausted the air or something, and she could hardly breathe after it—he only looked bewildered and then drew a diagram to show her it was impossible that it could exhaust the air. The old doctor knew how: he'd have ordered an oxygen tank opened in the room after the cleaner was used and she'd have gone away happy. Of course Mr. Pierce was most polite. He'd listen to their complaints—and they were always complaining, that's part of the regime—with a puzzled face, trying to understand, but he couldn't. He hadn't a nerve in his body. Once, when one of the dining-room girls dropped a tray of dishes and half the women went to bed with headache from the nervous shock, he never even looked up, but went on with his dinner, and the only comment he made afterward was to tell the head waitress to see that Annie didn't have to pay breakage—that the trays were too heavy for a woman, anyhow. As Miss Cobb said, he was impossible. Well, as if I didn't have my hands full with getting meals to the shelter-house, and trying to find a house doctor, and wondering how long it would be before "Julia" came face to face with Dick Carter somewhere or other, and trying to keep one eye on Thoburn while I kept Mr. Pierce straight with the other—that day, during luncheon, Mike the bath man came out to the spring-house and made a howl about his wages. He'd been looking surly for two days. "What about your wages?" I snapped. "Aren't you getting what you've always had?" "No tips!" he said sulkily. "Only a few taking baths—only one daily, and that's that man Jennings. There's no use talking, Miss Minnie, I've got to have a double percentage on that man or you'll have to muzzle him. He—he's dangerous." "If I give you the double percentage, will you stay?" "I don't know but that I'd rather have the muzzle, Miss Minnie," he answered slowly, "but—I'll stay. It won't be for long." Which left me thinking. I'd seen Thoburn talking to Mike more than once lately, and he'd been going around with an air of assurance that didn't make me any too cheerful. Evenings, when I'd relieved Amanda King at the news stand, I'd seen Thoburn examining the woodwork of the windows, and only the night before, happening on the veranda unexpectedly, I found Mike and him measuring it with a tape line. As I say, Mike's visit left me thinking. The usual crowd came out that afternoon and drank water and sat around the fire and complained—all except Senator Biggs, who happened in just as I was pouring melted butter over a dish of hot salted pop-corn. He stood just inside the door, sniffling, with his eyes fixed on the butter, and then groaned and went out. He looked terrible—his clothes hung on him like bags; as the bishop said, it was ghastly to see a convexity change to such a concavity in three days. Mr. Moody won three dollars that day from the slot-machine and was almost civil to his wife, but old Jennings sat with his foot on a stool and yelled if anybody slammed the door. Mrs. Hutchins brought him out with her eyes red and asked me if she could leave him there. "I'm sorry if I was rude to you the other night, Minnie," she said, "but I was upset. I'm so worn-out that I'll have to lie down for an hour, and if he doesn't get better soon, I—I shall have to have help. My nerves are gone." At four o'clock Mr. Sam came in, and he had Mr. Thoburn tight by the arm. "My dear old chap," he was saying, "it would be as much as your life's worth. That ground is full of holes and just now covered with snow—!" He caught my eye, and wiped his forehead. "Heaven help us!" he said, coming over to the spring, "I found him making for the shelter-house, armed with a foot rule! Somebody's got to take him in hand—I tell you, the man's a menace!" "What about the doctor?" I asked, reaching up his glass. "Be here to-night," he answered, "on the—" But at that minute a boy brought a telegram down and handed it to him. The new doctor was laid up with influenza! We sat there after the others had gone, and Mr. Sam said he was for giving up the fight, only to come out now with the truth would mean such a lot of explaining and a good many people would likely find it funny. Mr. Pierce came in later and we gave him the telegram to read. "I don't see why on earth they need a doctor, anyhow," he said, "they're not sick. If they'd take a little exercise and get some air in their lungs—" "My dear fellow," Mr. Sam cried in despair, "some people are born in sanatoriums, some acquire them, and others have them thrust upon them—I've had this place thrust upon me. I don't know why they want a doctor, but they do. They balked at Rodgers from the village. They want somebody here at night. Mr. Jennings has the gout and there's the deuce to pay. Some of them talk of leaving." "Let "em leave," said Mr. Pierce. "If they'd go home and drink three gallons of any kind of pure water a day—" "Sh! That's heresy here! My dear fellow, we've got to keep them." Mr. Pierce glanced at the telegram and handed it back. "Lot's of starving M. D."s would jump at the chance," he said, "but if it's as urgent as all this we can't wait to hunt. I'll tell you, Van Alstyne, there's a chap down in the village he was the character man with the Sweet Peas Company—and he's stranded there. I saw him this morning. He's washing dishes in the depot restaurant for his meals. We used to call him Doc, and I've a hazy idea that he's a graduate M. D.—name's Barnes." "Great!" cried Mr. Van Alstyne. "Let's have Barnes. You get him, will you, Pierce?" Mr. Pierce promised and they started out together. At the door Mr. Sam turned. "Oh, by the way, Minnie," he called, "better gild one of your chairs and put a red cushion on it. The prince has arrived." Well, I thought it all out that afternoon as I washed the glasses, and it was terrible. I had two people in the shelter-house to feed and look after like babies, with Tillie getting more curious every day about the basket she brought, and not to be held much longer; and I had a man running the sanatorium and running it to the devil as fast as it could go. Not that he wasn't a nice young man, big, strong-jawed and all that, but you can't make a diplomat out of an ordinary man in three days, and it takes more diplomacy to run a sanatorium a week than it does to be secretary of state for four years. Then I had a prince incognito, and Thoburn stirring up mischief, and the servants threatening to strike, and no house doctor— Just as I got to that somebody opened the door behind me and looked in. I glanced around, and it was a man with the reddest hair I ever saw. Mine was pale by comparison. He was rather short and heavy-set, and he had a pleasant face, although not handsome, his nose being slightly bent to the left. But at first all I could see was his hair. "Good evening," he said, edging himself in. "Are you Miss Waters?" "Yes," I said, rising and getting a glass ready, "although I'm not called that often, except by people who want to pun on my name and my business." I looked at him sharply, but he hadn't intended any pun. He took off his hat and came over to the spring where I was filling his glass. "If that's for me, you needn't bother," he said. "If it tastes as it smells, I'm not thirsty. My name's Barnes, and I was to wait here for Mr. Van Alstyne." "Barnes!" I repeated. "Then you're the doctor." He grinned, and stood turning his hat around in his hands. "Not exactly," he said. "I graduated in medicine a good many years ago, but after a year of it, wearing out more seats of trousers waiting for patients than I earned enough to pay for, and having to have new trousers, I took to other things." "Oh, yes," I said. "You're an actor now." He looked thoughtful. "Some people think I'm not," he answered, "but I'm on the stage. Graduated there from prize-fighting. Prize-fighting, the stage, and then writing for magazines—that's the usual progression. Sometimes, as a sort of denouement before the final curtain, we have dinner at the White House." I took a liking to the man at once. It was a relief to have somebody who was willing to tell all about himself and wasn't incognito, or in hiding, or under somebody else's name. I put a fresh log on the fire, and as it blazed up I saw him looking at me. "Ye gods and little fishes!" he said. "Another redhead! Why, we're as alike as two carrots off the same bunch!" In five minutes I knew how old he was, and where he was raised, and that what he wanted more than anything on earth was a little farmhouse with chickens and a cow. "Where you can have air, you know," he said, waving his hands, which were covered with reddish hair. "Lord, in the city I starve for air! And where, when you're getting soft you can go out and tackle the wood-pile. That's living!" And then he wanted to know what he was to do at the sanatorium and I told him as well as I could. I didn't tell him everything, but I explained why Mr. Pierce was calling himself Carter, and about the two in the shelter-house. I had to. He knew as well as I did that three days before Mr. Pierce had had nothing to his name but a folding automobile road map or whatever it was. "Good for old Pierce!" he said when I finished. "He's a prince, Miss Waters. If you'd seen him sending those girls back to town—well, I'll do all I can to help him. But I'm not much of a doctor. It's safe to acknowledge it; you'll find it out soon enough." Mr. and Mrs. Van Alstyne came in just then, and Mr. Sam told him what he was expected to do. It wasn't much: he was to tell them at what temperatures to take their baths, "and Minnie will help you out with that," he added, and what they were to eat and were not to eat. "Minnie will tell you that, too," he finished, and Mr. Barnes, DOCTOR Barnes, came over and shook my hand. "I'm perfectly willing to be first assistant," he declared. "We'll put our heads together and the result will be—" "Combustion!" said Mr. Sam, and we all laughed. "Remember," Mr. Sam instructed him, as Doctor Barnes started out, "when you don't know what to prescribe, order a Turkish bath. The baths are to a sanatorium what the bar is to a club—they pay the bills." Well, we got it all fixed and Doctor Barnes started out, but at the door he stopped. "I say," he asked in an undertone, "the stork doesn't light around here, does he?" "Not if they see him first!" I replied grimly, and he went out. # CHAPTER XIII: THE PRINCE—PRINCIPALLY It was all well enough for me to say—as I had to to Tillie many a time—that it was ridiculous to make a fuss over a person for what, after all, was an accident of birth. It was well enough for me to say that it was only by chance that I wasn't strutting about with a crown on my head and a man blowing a trumpet to let folks know I was coming, and by the same token and the same chance Prince Oskar might have been a red-haired spring-house girl, breaking the steels in her figure stooping over to ladle mineral water out of a hole in the earth. Nevertheless, at five o'clock, after every one had gone, when I saw Miss Patty, muffled in furs, tripping out through the snow, with a tall thin man beside her, walking very straight and taking one step to her four, I felt as though somebody had hit me at the end of my breast-bone. They stopped a minute outside before they came in, and I had to take myself in hand. "Now look here, Minnie, you idiot," I said to myself, "this is America; you're as good as he is; not a bend of the knee or a stoop of the neck. And if he calls you "my good girl' hit him." They came in together, laughing and talking, and, to be honest, if I hadn't caught the back of a chair, I'd have had one foot back of the other and been making a courtesy in spite of myself. "We're late, Minnie!" Miss Patty said. "Oskar, this is one of my best friends, and you are to be very nice to her." He had one of those single glass things in his eye and he gave me a good stare through it. Seen close he was handsomer than Mr. Pierce, but he looked older than his picture. "Ask her if she won't be nice to me," he said in as good English as mine, and held out his hand. "Any of Miss Patty's friends—" I began, with a lump in my throat, and gave his hand a good squeeze. I thought he looked startled, and suddenly I had a sort of chill. "Good gracious!" I exclaimed, "should I have kissed it?" They roared at that, and Miss Patty had to sit down in a chair. "You see, she knows, Oskar," she said. "The rest are thinking and perhaps guessing, but Minnie is the only one that knows, and she never talks. Everybody who comes here tells Minnie his troubles." "But—am I a trouble?" he asked in a low tone. I was down in the spring, but I heard it. "So far you have hardly been an unalloyed joy," she replied, and from the spring I echoed "Amen." "Yes—I'm so hung with family skeletons that I clatter when I walk," I explained, pretending I hadn't heard, and brought them both glasses of water. "It's got to be a habit with some people to save their sciatica and their husband's dispositions and their torpid livers and their unpaid bills and bring "em here to me." He sniffed at the glass and put it down. "Herr Gott!" he said, "what a water! It is—the whole thing is extraordinary! I can understand the reason for Carlsbad or Wiesbaden—it is gay. One sees one's friends; it is—social. But here—!" He got up and, lifting a window curtain, peered out into the snow. "Here," he repeated, "shut in by forests and hills, a thousand miles from life—" He shrugged his shoulders and came back to the table. "It is well enough for the father," he went on to Miss Patty, "but for you! Why—it is depressing, gray. The only bit of color in it all is—here, in what you call the spring-house." I thought he meant Miss Patty's cheeks or her lovely violet eyes, but he was looking at my hair. I had caught his eye on it before, but this time he made no secret about it, and he sighed, for all the world as if it reminded him of something. He went over to the slot-machine and stood in front of it, humming and trying the different combinations. I must say he had a nice back. Miss Patty came over and slipped her hand in mine. "Well?" she whispered, looking at me with her pretty eyebrows raised. "He looks all right," I had to confess. "Perhaps you can coax him to shave." She laughed. "Oskar!" she called, "you have passed, but you are conditioned. Minnie objects to the mustache." He turned and looked at me gravely. "It is my—greatest attraction," he declared, "but it is also a great care. If Miss Minnie demands it, I shall give it to her in a—in a little box." He sauntered over and looked at me in his audacious way. "But you must promise to care for it. Many women have loved it." "I believe that!" I answered, and stared back at him without blinking. "I guess I wouldn't want the responsibility." But I had an idea that he meant what he said about the many women, and that Miss Patty knew it as well as I did. She flushed a little, and they went very soon after that. I stood and watched them until they disappeared in the snow, and I felt lonelier than ever, and sad, although certainly he was better than I had expected to find him. He was a man, and not a little cub with a body hardly big enough to carry his forefathers' weaknesses. But he had a cold eye and a warm mouth, and that sort of man is generally a social success and a matrimonial failure. It wasn't until toward night that I remembered I'd been talking to a real prince and I hadn't once said "your Highness" or "your Excellency" or whatever I should have said. I had said "You!" I had hardly closed the door after them when it opened again and Mr. Pierce came in. He shut the door and, going over to one of the tables, put a package down on it. "Here's the stuff you wanted for the spring, Minnie," he announced. "I suppose I can't do anything more than register a protest against it?" "You needn't bother doing that," I answered, "unless it makes you feel better. Your authority ends at that door. Inside the spring-house I'm in control." (It's hard to believe, with things as they are, that I once really believed that. But I did. It was three full days later that I learned that I'd been mistaken!) Well, he sat there and looked at nothing while I heated water in my brass kettle over the fire and dissolved the things against Thoburn's quick eye the next day, and he didn't say anything. He had a gift for keeping quiet, Mr. Pierce had. It got on my nerves after a while. "Things are doing better," I remarked, stirring up my mixture. "Yes," he said, without moving. "I suppose they're happier now they have a doctor?" "Yes—no—I don't know. He's not much of a doctor, you know—and there don't seem to be any medical books around." "There's one on the care and feeding of infants in the circulating library," I said, "and he can have my Anatomy." "You're generous!" he remarked, with one of his quick smiles. "It's a book," I snapped, and fell to stirring again. But he was moping once more, with his feet out and his hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling. "I say, Minnie—" "Yes?" "Miss—Miss Jennings and the von Inwald were here just now, weren't they? I passed them on the bridge." "Yes." "What—how do you like him?" "Better than I expected and not so well as I might," I said. "If you are going to the house soon you might take Miss Patty her handkerchief. It's there under that table." I took my mixture into the pantry and left it to cool. But as I started back I stopped. He had got the handkerchief and was standing in front of the fire, holding it in the palm of his hand and looking at it. And all in a minute he crushed it to his face with both hands and against the firelight I could see him quivering. I stepped back into the pantry and came out again noisily. He was standing very calm and quiet where he had been before, and no handkerchief in sight. "Well," I said, "did you get it?" "Get what?" "Miss Patty's handkerchief?" "Oh—that! Yes. Here it is." He pulled it out of his pocket and held it up by the corner. "Ridiculous size, isn't it, and—" he held it up to his nose—"I dare say one could almost tell it was hers by the scent. It's—it's like her." "Humph!" I said, suddenly suspicious, and looked at it. "Well," I said, "it may remind you of Miss Patty, and the scent may be like Miss Patty, but she doesn't use perfume on her handkerchief. This has an E. C. on it, which means Eliza Cobb." He left soon after, rather crestfallen, but to save my life I couldn't forget what I'd seen—him with that scrap of linen that he thought was hers crushed to his face, and his shoulders heaving. I had an idea that he hadn't cared much for women before, and that, this being a first attack, he hadn't established what the old doctor used to call an immunity. # CHAPTER XIV: PIERCE DISAPPROVES Mrs. Hutchins came out to the spring-house the next morning. She was dressed in a black silk with real lace collar and cuffs, and she was so puffed up with pride that she forgot to be nasty to me. "I thought I'd better come to you, Minnie," she said. "There seems to be nobody in authority here any more. Mr. Carter has put the—has put Mr. von Inwald in the north wing. I can not imagine why he should have given him the coldest and most disagreeable part of the house." I said I'd speak to Mr. Carter and try to have him moved, and she rustled over to where I was brushing the hearth and stooped down. "Mr. von Inwald is incognito, of course," she said, "but he belongs to a very old family in his own country—a noble family. He ought to have the best there is in the house." I promised that, too, and she went away, but I made up my mind to talk to Mr. Pierce. The sanatorium business isn't one where you can put your own likes and dislikes against the comfort of the guests. Miss Cobb came out a few minutes after; she had on her new green silk with the white lace trimming. She saw me staring as she threw off her cape and put her curler on the log. "It's a little dressy for so early, of course, Minnie," she said, "but I wish you'd see some of the other women! Breakfast looked like an afternoon reception. What would you think of pinning this black velvet ribbon around my head?" "It might have done twenty years ago, Miss Cobb," I answered, "but I wouldn't advise it now." I was working at the slot-machine, and I heard her sniff behind me as she hung up her mirror on the window-frame. She tried the curler on the curtain, which she knows I object to, but she was too full of her subject to be sulky for long. "I wish you could see Blanche Moody!" she began again, standing holding the curler, with a thin wreath of smoke making a halo over her head. "Drawn in—my dear, I don't see how she can breathe! I guess there's no doubt about Mr. von Inwald." "I'd like to know who put this beer check in the slot-machine yesterday," I said as indifferently as I could. "What about Mr. von Inwald?" She tiptoed over to me, the halo trailing after her. "About his being a messenger from the prince to Miss Jennings!" she answered in a whisper. "He spent last night closeted with papa, and the chambermaid on that floor told Lily Biggs that there was almost a quarrel." "That doesn't mean anything," I objected. "If the Angel Gabriel was shut in with Mr. Jennings for ten minutes he'd be blowing his trumpet for help." Miss Cobb shrugged her shoulders and took hold of a fresh wisp of hair with the curler. "I dare say," she assented, "but the Angel Gabriel wouldn't have waited to breakfast with Miss Jennings, and have kissed her hand before everybody at the foot of the stairs!" "Is he handsome?" I asked, curious to know how he would impress other women. But Miss Cobb had never seen a man she would call ugly. "Handsome!" she said. "My dear, he's beautiful! He has a duel scar on his left cheek—all the nobility have them over there. I've a cousin living in Berlin—she's the wittiest person—and she says the German child of the future will be born with a scarred left cheek!" Well, I was sick enough of hearing of Mr. von Inwald before the day was over. All morning in the spring-house they talked Mr. von Inwald. They pretended to play cards, but they were really playing European royalty. Every time somebody laid down a queen, he'd say, "Is the queen still living, or didn't she die a few years ago?" And when they played the knave, they'd start off about the prince again. They'd all decided that Mr. von Inwald was noble—somebody said that the "von" was a sort of title. The women were planning to make the evenings more cheerful, too. They couldn't have a dance with the men using canes or forbidden to exercise, but Miss Cobb had a lot of what she called "parlor games" that she wanted to try out. "Introducing the Jones family" was one of them. In the afternoon Mr. von Inwald came out to the spring-house and sat around, very affable and friendly, drinking the water. He and the bishop grew quite chummy. Miss Patty was not there, but about four o'clock Mr. Pierce came out. He did not sit down, but wandered around the room, not talking to anybody, but staring, whenever he could, at the prince. Once I caught Mr. von Inwald's eyes fixed on him, as if he might have seen him before. After a while Mr. Pierce sat down in a corner like a sulky child and filled his pipe, and as nobody noticed him except to complain about the pipe, which he didn't even hear, he sat there for a half-hour, bent forward, with his pipe clenched in his teeth, and never took his eyes off Mr. von Inwald's face. Senator Biggs was the one who really caused the trouble. He spent a good deal of time in the spring-house trying to fool his stomach by keeping it filled up all the time with water. He had got past the cranky stage, being too weak for it; his face was folded up in wrinkles like an accordion and his double chin was so flabby you could have tucked it away inside his collar. "What do you think of American women, Mr. von Inwald?" he asked, and everybody stopped playing cards and listened for the answer. As Mr. von Inwald represented the prince, wouldn't he be likely to voice the prince's opinion of American women? It's my belief Mr. von Inwald was going to say something nice. He smiled as if he meant to, but just then he saw Mr. Pierce in his corner sneering behind his pipe. They looked at each other steadily, and nobody could mistake the hate in Mr. Pierce's face or his sneer. After a minute the prince looked away and shrugged his shoulders, but he didn't make his pretty speech. "American women!" he said, turning his glass of spring water around on the table before him, "they are very lovely, of course." He looked around and there were Mrs. Moody and Mrs. Biggs and Miss Cobb, and he even glanced at me in the spring. Then he looked again at Mr. Pierce and kept his eyes there. "But they are spoiled, fearfully spoiled. They rule their parents and they expect to rule their husbands. In Europe we do things better; we are not—what is the English?—hag-ridden?" There was a sort of murmur among the men, but the women all nodded as if they thought Europe was entirely right. They'd have agreed with him if he'd advocated sixteen wives sitting cross-legged on a mat, like the Turks. Mr. Pierce was still staring at the prince. "What I don't quite understand, Mr. von Inwald," the bishop put in in his nice way, "is your custom of expecting a girl to bring her husband a certain definite sum of money and to place it under the husband's control. Our wealthy American girls control their own money," He was thinking of Miss Patty, and everybody knew it. The prince turned red and glared at the bishop. Then I think he remembered that they didn't know who he was, and he smiled and started to turning the glass again. "Pardon!" he said. "Is it not better? What do women know of money? They throw it away on trifles, dress, jewels—American women are extravagant. It is one result of their—of their spoiling." Mr. Pierce got up and emptied his pipe into the fire. Then he turned. "I'm afraid you have not known the best type of American women," he said, looking hard at the prince. "Our representative women are our middle-class women. They do not contract European alliances, not having sufficient money to attract the attention of the nobility, or enough to buy titles, as they do pearls, for the purpose of adornment." Mr. von Inwald got up, and his face was red. Mr. Pierce was white and sneering. "Also," he went on, "when they marry they wish to control their own money, and not see it spent in—ways with which you are doubtless familiar." We were all paralyzed. Nobody moved. Mr. Pierce put his pipe in his pocket and stalked out, slamming the door. Then Mr. von Inwald shrugged his shoulders and laughed. "I see I shall have to talk to our young friend," he said and picked up his glass. "I'm afraid I've given a wrong impression. I like the American women very much; too well," he went on with a flash of his teeth, looking around the room, and brought the glass to the spring for me to fill. But as I've said before, I can tell a good bit about a man from the way he gives me his glass, and he was in a perfect frenzy of rage. When I reached it back to him he gripped it until his nails were white. My joint ached all the rest of the afternoon. About five o'clock Mr. Thoburn stopped in long enough to say: "What's this I hear about Carter making an ass of himself to-day?" "I haven't heard it," I answered. "What is it?" But he only laughed and turned up his collar to go. "Jove, Minnie," he said, "why do women of your spirit always champion the losing side? Be a good girl; give me a hand now and then with this thing, and I'll see you don't lose by it." "We're not going to lose," I retorted angrily. "Nobody has left yet. We are still ahead on the books." He came over and shook a finger in my face. "Nobody has left—and why? Because they're all taking a series of baths. Wait until they've had their fifteen, or twenty-one, or whatever the cure is, and then see them run!" It was true enough; I knew it. # CHAPTER XV: THE PRINCE, WITH APOLOGIES Tillie brought the supper basket for the shelter-house about six o'clock and sat down for a minute by the fire. She said Mr. Pierce (Carter to her) had started out with a gun about five o'clock. It was foolish, but it made me uneasy. "They've gone plumb crazy over that Mr. von Inwald," she declared. "It makes me tired. How do they know he's anything but what he says he is? He may be a messenger from the emperor of Austria, and he may be selling flannel chest protectors. Miss Cobb's all set up; she's talking about getting up an entertainment and asking that Miss Summers to recite." She got up, leaving the basket on the hearth. "And say," she said, "you ought to see that dog now. It's been soakin' in peroxide all day!" She went out with the peroxide, but a moment later she opened the door and stuck her head in, nodding toward the basket. "Say," she said, "the chef's getting fussy about the stuff I'm using in the diet kitchen. You've got to cut it out soon, Minnie. If I was you I'd let him starve." "What!" I screeched, and grasped the rail of the spring. "Let him starve!" she repeated. "Wha—what are you talking about?" I demanded when I got my voice. She winked at me from the doorway. "Oh, I'm on all right, Minnie!" she assured me, "although heaven only knows where he puts it all! He's sagged in like a chair with broken springs." I saw then that she thought I was feeding Senator Biggs on the sly, and I breathed again. But my nerves were nearly gone, and when just then I heard a shot from the direction of the deer park, even Tillie noticed how pale I got. "I don't know what's come over you, Minnie," she said. "That's only Mr. Carter shooting rabbits. I saw him go out as I started down the path." I was still nervous when I put on my shawl and picked up the basket. But there was a puddle on the floor and the soup had spilled. There was nothing for it but to go back for more soup, and I got it from the kitchen without the chef seeing me. When I opened the spring-house door again Mr. Pierce was by the fire, and in front of him, where I'd left the basket, lay a dead rabbit. He was sitting there with his chin in his hands looking at the poor thing, and there was no basket in sight. "Well," I asked, "did you change my basket into a dead rabbit?" "Basket!" he said, looking up. "What basket?" I looked everywhere, but the basket was gone, and after a while I decided that Mr. Dick had had an attack of thoughtfulness (or hunger) and had carried it out himself. And all the time I looked for the basket Mr. Pierce sat with the gun across his knees and stared at the rabbit. "I'd thank you to take that messy thing out of here," I told him. "Poor little chap!" he exclaimed. "He was playing in the snow, and I killed him—not because I wanted food or sport, Minnie, but—well, because I had to kill something." "I hope you don't have those attacks often," I said. He looked at the rabbit and sighed. "Never in my life!" he answered. "For food or sport, that's different, but—blood-lust!" He got up and put the gun in the corner, and I saw he looked white and miserable. "I don't like myself to-night, Minnie," he said, trying to smile, "and nobody likes me. I'm going into the garden to eat worms!" I didn't like to scold him when he was feeling bad anyhow, but business is business. So I asked him how long he thought people would stay if he acted as he had that day. I said that a sanatorium was a place where the man who runs it can't afford to have likes and dislikes; that for my part I'd a good deal rather he'd get rid of his excitement by shooting off a gun, provided he pointed it away from the house, than to sit around and let his mind explode and kill all our prospects. I told him, too, to remember that he wasn't responsible for the morals or actions of his guests, only for their health. "Health!" he echoed, and kicked a chair. "Health! Why, if I wanted to keep a good dog in condition, Minnie, I wouldn't bring him here." "No," I retorted, "you'd shut him in an old out oven, and give him a shoe to chew, and he'd come out in three days frisking and happy. But you can't do that with people." "Why not?" he asked. "Although, of course, the supply of out ovens and old shoes is limited here." "As far as Mr. von Inwald goes," I went on, "that's not your affair or mine. If Miss Patty's own father can't prevent it, why should you worry about it?" "Precisely," he agreed. "Why should I? But I do, Minnie—that's the devil of it." "There are plenty of nice girls," I suggested, feeling rather sorry for him. "Are there? Oh, I dare say." He stooped and picked up his rabbit. "Straight through the head; not so bad for twilight. Poor little chap!" He said good night and went out, taking the gun and the rabbit with him, and I went into the pantry to finish straightening things for the night. In a few minutes I heard voices in the other room, one Mr. Pierce's, and one with a strong German accent. "When was that?" Mr. von Inwald's voice. "A year ago, in Vienna." "Where?" "At the Bal Tabarin. You were in a loge. The man I was with told me who the woman was. It was she, I think, who suggested that you lean over the rail—" "Ah, so!" said Mr. von Inwald as if he just remembered. "Ah, yes, I recall—I was with—the lady was red-haired, is it not? And it was she who desired me—" "You leaned over the rail and poured a glass of wine on my head. It was very funny. The lady was charmed." "I recall it perfectly. I remember that I did it under protest—it was a very fine wine, and expensive." "Then you also recall," said Mr. Pierce, very quietly, "that because you were with a—well, because you were with a woman, I could not return your compliment. But I demanded the privilege at some future date when you were alone." "It is a pity," replied Mr. von Inwald, "that now, when I am alone, there is no wine!" "No, there is no wine," Mr. Pierce agreed slowly, "but there is—" I opened the door at that, and both of them started. Mr. von Inwald was standing with his arms folded, and Mr. Pierce had one arm raised holding up a glass of spring water. In another second it would have been in the other man's face. I walked over to Mr. Pierce and took the glass out of his hand, and his expression was funny to see. "I've been looking everywhere for that glass," I said. "It's got to be washed." Mr. von Inwald laughed and picked up his soft hat from the table. He turned around at the door and looked back at Mr. Pierce, still laughing. "Accept my apologies!" he said. "It was such a fine wine, and so expensive." Then he went out. # CHAPTER XVI: STOP, THIEF! I was pretty nervous when I took charge of the news stand that evening. Amanda King had an appointment with the dentist and had left everything topsyturvey. I was still straightening up when people began to come down to dinner. Miss Cobb walked over to the news stand, and she'd cut the white yoke out of her purple silk. She looked very dressy, although somewhat thin. "Everybody has dressed for dinner to-night, Minnie," she informed me. "We didn't want Mr. von Inwald to have a wrong idea of American society, especially after Mr. Carter's ridiculous conduct this afternoon, and I wonder if you'll be sweet enough to start the phonograph in the orchestra gallery as we go in—something with dignity, you know—the wedding march, or the overture from Aida." "Aida's cracked," I said shortly, "and as far as I'm concerned, Mr. von Inwald can walk in to his meals without music, or starve to death waiting for the band." But she got the phonograph, anyhow, and put the elevator boy in the gallery with it. She picked out some things by Caruso and Tetrazzini and piled them on a chair, but James had things to himself up there, and played The Spring Chicken through three times during dinner, with Miss Cobb glaring at the gallery until the back of her neck ached, and the dining-room girls waltzing in with the dishes and polka-ing out. Mr. Moody came out when dinner was over in a fearful rage and made for the news stand. "One of your ideas, I suppose," he asserted. "What sort of a night am I going to have after chewing my food to rag-time, with my jaws doing a skirt-dance? Why in heaven's name couldn't you have had something slow, like Handel's Largo, if you've got to have music?" But dinner was over fifteen minutes sooner than usual. James cake-walked everybody out to My Ann Elizer, and Miss Cobb was mortified to death. Two or three things happened that night. For one, I got a good look at Miss Julia Summers. She was light-haired and well-fleshed, with an ugly face but a pleasant smile. She wore a low-necked dress that made Miss Cobb's with the yoke out look like a storm collar, and if she had a broken heart she didn't show it. "Hello," she cried, looking at my hair, "are you selling tobacco here or are you the cigar-lighter?" "Neither," I answered, looking over her head. "I am employed as the extinguisher of gay guests." "Good," she said, smiling. "I'm something fine at that myself. Suppose I stay here and help. If I watch that line of knitting women I'll be crotcheting Arabella's wool in my sleep to-night." Well, she was too cheerful to be angry with. So she stayed around for a while, and it was amazing how much tobacco I sold that evening. Men who usually bought tobies bought the best cigars, and when Mr. Jennings came up, scowling, and I handed him the brand he'd smoked for years, she took one, clipped the end of it as neat as a finger nail and gave it to him, holding up the lighter. "I'm not going to smoke yet, young woman," he said, glaring at her. But she only smiled. "I'm sorry," she said. "I've been waiting hungrily until some discriminating smoker would buy one of those and light it. I love the aroma." And he stood there for thirty minutes, standing mostly on one foot on account of the gouty one, puffing like a locomotive, with her sniffing at the aroma and telling him how lonely she felt with no friends around and just recovering from a severe illness. At eight o'clock he had Mrs. Hutchins bring him his fur-lined coat and he and Miss Julia took Arabella, the dog, for a walk on the veranda! The rest of the evening was quiet, and I needed it. Miss Patty and Mr. von Inwald talked by the fire and I think he told her something—not all—of the scene in the spring-house. For she passed Mr. Pierce at the foot of the stairs on her way up for the night and she pretended not to see him. He stood there looking up after her with his mouth set, and at the turn she glanced down and caught his eye. I thought she flushed, but I wasn't sure, and at that minute Senator Biggs bought three twenty-five-cent cigars and told me to keep the change from a dollar. I was so surprised at the alteration in him that I forgot Miss Patty entirely. About twelve o'clock, just after I went to my room, somebody knocked at the door. When I opened, the new doctor was standing in the hall. "I'm sorry to disturb you," he said, "but nobody seems to know where the pharmacy clerk is and I'll have to get some medicine." "If I'd had my way, we'd have had a bell on that pharmacy clerk long ago," I snapped, getting my keys. "Who's sick?" "The big man," he replied. "Biggs is his name, I think, a senator or something." I was leading the way to the stairs, but I stopped. "I might have known it," I said. "He hasn't been natural all evening. What's the matter with him? Too much fast?" "Fast!" He laughed. "Too much feast! He's got as pretty a case of indigestion as I've seen for some time. He's giving a demonstration that's almost theatrical." Well, he insisted it was indigestion, although I argued that it wasn't possible, and he wanted ipecac. "I haven't seen a pharmacopoeia for so long that I wouldn't know one if I met it," he declared, "but I've got a system of mnemonics that never fails. Ipecac and colic both end with "c'—I'll never forget that conjunction. It was pounded in and poured in in my early youth." Well, the pharmacy was locked, and we couldn't find a key to fit it. And when I suggested mustard and warm water he jumped at the idea. "Fine!" he said. "Better let me dish out the spring-water and you take my job! Lead on, MacDuff, to the kitchen." Although it was only midnight there was not a soul about. A hall leads back of the office to the kitchen and pantries, and there was a low light there, but the rest was dark. We bumped through the diet kitchen and into the scullery, when we found we had no matches. I went back for some, and when I got as far as the diet kitchen again Doctor Barnes was there, just inside the door. "Sh!" he whispered. "Come into the scullery. The kitchen is dark, but there is somebody in there, fumbling around, striking matches. I suppose you don't have such things as burglars in this neck of the woods?" Well, somebody had broken into Timmons' candy store a week before and stolen a box of chewing-gum and a hundred post-cards, and I told him so in a whisper. "Anyhow, it isn't the chef," I said. "He's had a row with the bath man and is in bed with a cut hand and a black eye, and nobody else has any business here." We tiptoed into the scullery in the dark: just then somebody knocked a kettle down in the kitchen and it hit the stove below with a crash. Whoever was there swore, and it was not Francois, who expresses his feelings mostly in French. This was English. There's a little window from the kitchen into the scullery as well as a door. The window had a wooden slide and it was open an inch or so. We couldn't see anything, but we could hear a man moving around. Once he struck a match, but it went out and he said "Damn!" again, and began to feel his way toward the scullery. Doctor Barnes happened to touch my hand and he patted it as if to tell me not to be frightened. Then he crept toward the scullery door and waited there. It swung open slowly, but he waited until it closed again and the man was in the room. Then he yelled and jumped and there was the sound of a fall. I could hardly strike the match—I was trembling so—but when I did there was Mr. Dick lying flat on the floor and the doctor sitting on him. "Mister Dick!" I gasped, and dropped the match. "Something hit me!" Mr. Dick said feebly, and when I had got a candle lighted and had explained to Doctor Barnes that it was a mistake, he got off him and let him up. He was as bewildered as Mr. Dick and pretty nearly as mad. We put him—Mr. Dick—in a chair and gave him a glass of water, and after he had got his breath—the doctor being a heavy man—he said he was trying to find something to eat. "Confound it, Minnie," he exclaimed, "we're starving! It seems to me there are enough of you here at least to see that we are fed. Not a bite since lunch!" "But I thought you had the basket," I explained. "I left it at the spring-house, and when I went back it was gone." "So that was it!" he answered. And then he explained that just about the time they expected their supper they saw a man carry a basket stealthily through the snow to the deer park. It was twilight, but they watched him from the window, and he put the basket through the barbed-wire fence and then crawled after it. Just inside he sat down on a log and, opening the basket, began to eat. He was still there when it got too dark to see him. "If that was our dinner," he finished savagely, "I hope he choked to death over it." Doctor Barnes chuckled. "He didn't," he said, "but he's got the worst case of indigestion in seven counties." Well, I got the mustard and water ready with Mr. Dick standing by hoping Mr. Biggs would die before he got it, and then I filled a basket for the shelter-house. I put out the light and he took the basket and started out, but he came back in a hurry. "There's somebody outside talking," he said. I went to the door with him and listened. "The sooner the better," Mike was saying. "I'm no good while I've got it on my mind." And Mr. Thoburn: "To-morrow is too soon: they're not in the mood yet. Perhaps the day after. I'll let you know." I didn't get to sleep until almost morning, and then it was to dream that Mr. Pierce was shouting "Hypocrites" to all the people in the sanatorium and threatening to throw glasses of mustard and warm water at them. # CHAPTER XVII: A BUNCH OF LETTERS When people went down to breakfast the next morning they found a card hanging on the office door with a half dozen new rules on it, and when I went out to the spring-house the guests were having an indignation meeting in the sun parlor, with the bishop in the chair, and Senator Biggs, so wobbly he could hardly stand, making a speech. I tried to see Mr. Pierce, but early as it was he had gone for a walk, taking Arabella with him. So I called a conference at the shelter-house—Miss Patty, Mr. and Mrs. Van Alstyne, Mr. and Mrs. Dick, and myself. Mrs. Dick wasn't dressed, but she sat up on the edge of her cot in her dressing-gown, with her feet on the soap box, and yawned. As we didn't have enough chairs, Miss Patty jerked the soap box away and made me sit down. Mr. Dick was getting breakfast. We were in a tight place and we knew it. "He is making it as hard for us as he can," Mrs. Sam declared. "The idea of having the card-room lights put out at midnight, and the breakfast room closed at ten! Nobody gets up at that hour." "He was to come here every evening for orders," said Mr. Dick, measuring ground coffee with a tablespoon, as I had showed him. "He came just once, and as for orders—well, he gave "em to me!" But Miss Patty was always fair. "I loathe him," she asserted. "I want to quarrel with him the minute I see him. He—he is presumptuous to the point of impertinence—but he's honest: he thinks we're all hypocrites—those that are well and those that are sick or think they are—and he hates hypocrisy." Everybody talked at once, then, and she listened. "Very well," she said. "I'll amend it. We're not all hypocrites. My motives in all this are perfectly clear—and selfish." "You and old Pierce would make a fine team, Pat," Mrs. Dick remarked with a yawn. "I like hypocrites myself. They're so comfy. But if you're not above advice, Pat, you'll have Aunt Honoria break her neck or something—anything to get father back to town. Something is going to explode, and Oskar doesn't like to be agitated." She curled up on the cot with that and went sound asleep. The rest of us had coffee and talked, but there wasn't anything to do. As Mr. Sam said, Mr. Pierce didn't want to stay, anyhow, and as likely as not if we went to him in a body and told him he must come to the shelter-house for instructions, and be suave and gentle when he was called down by the guests about the steam-pipes making a racket, he'd probably prefer to go down to the village and take Doctor Barnes' place washing dishes at the station. That wouldn't call for any particular mildness. But he settled it by appearing himself. He came across the snow from the direction of Mount Hope, and he had a pair of skees over his shoulder. (At that time I didn't even know the name of the things, but I learned enough about them later.) I must say he looked very well beside Mr. Dick, who wasn't very large, anyhow, and who hadn't had time to put on his collar, and Mr. Sam, who's always thin and sallow and never takes a step he doesn't have to. I let him in, and when he saw us all there he started and hesitated. "Come in, Pierce," Mr. Sam said. "We've just been talking about you." He came in, but he didn't look very comfortable. "What have you decided to do with me?" he asked. "Put me under restraint?" He was unbuttoning his sweater, and now he took out two of the smallest rabbits I ever saw and held them up by the ears. Miss Patty gave a little cry and took them, cuddling them in her lap. "They're starving and almost frozen, poor little devils," he said. "I found them near where I shot the mother last night, Minnie, and by way of atonement I'm going to adopt them." Well, although the minute before they'd all been wishing they'd never seen him, they pretty nearly ate him up. Miss Patty held the rabbits, so we all had turns at feeding them warm milk with a teaspoon and patting their pink noses. When it came Mr. Pierce's turn they were about full up, so he curled his big body on the floor at Miss Patty's feet and talked to the rabbits and looked at her. He had one of those faces that's got every emotion marked on it as clear as a barometer—when he was mad his face was mad all over, and when he was pleased he glowed to the tips of his ears. And he was pleased that morning. But, of course, he had to be set right about the sanatorium, and Mr. Sam began it. Mr. Pierce listened, sitting on the floor and looking puzzled and more and more unhappy. Finally he got up and drew a long breath. "Exactly," he agreed. "I know you are all right and I'm wrong—according to your way of thinking. But if these people want to be well, why should I encourage them to do the wrong thing? They eat too much, they don't exercise"—he turned to Mr. Van Alstyne. "Why, do you know, I asked a half dozen of the men—one after the other—to go skeeing with me this morning and not one of them accepted!" "Really!" Mr. Sam exclaimed mockingly. "What can you do with people like that?" Mr. Pierce went on. "They don't want to be well; they're all hypocrites. Look at that man Biggs! I'll lay you ten to one that after fasting five days and then stealing a whole chicken, a dozen oysters and Lord knows what else, now that he's sick, he'll hold it against me." "He's not holding anything," I objected. "Because HE is a hypocrite—" Mr. Sam began. "That's not the point, Pierce," Mr. Dick broke in importantly. "You were to come here for orders and you haven't done it. You're running this place for me, not for yourself." Mr. Pierce looked at Mr. Dick and from there to Mr. Sam and smiled. "I did come," he explained. "I came twice, and each time we played roulette. I lost all the money I'd had in advance. Honestly," he confessed, "I felt I couldn't afford to come every day." Miss Patty got up and put the baby rabbits into her sister's big fur muff. "We are all talking around the question," she said. "Mr. Pierce undertook to manage the sanatorium, and to try to manage it successfully. He can not do that without making some attempt at conciliating the people. It's—it's absurd to antagonize them." "Exactly," he said coldly. "I was to manage it, and to try to do it successfully. I'm sorry my methods don't meet with the approval of this—er—executive committee. But it might as well be clear that I intend to use my own methods—or none." Well, what could we do? Miss Patty went out with her head up, and the rest of us stayed and ate humble pie, and after a while he agreed to stay if he wasn't interfered with. He said he and Doctor Barnes had a plan that he thought was a winner—that it would either make or break the place, and he thought it would make it. And by that time we were so meek that we didn't even ask what it was. Doctor Barnes and Miss Summers were the first to come to the mineral spring that morning. She stopped just inside the door and sniffed. "Something's dead under the floor," she said. "If there's anything dead," Doctor Barnes replied, "it's in the center of the earth. That's the sulphur water." She came in at that, but unwillingly, and sat down with her handkerchief to her nose. Then she saw me. "Good gracious!" she exclaimed. "What have you done that they put you here?" "If you mean the bouquet from the spring, you get to like it after a while," I said grimly. "Ordinary air hasn't got any snap for me now." "Humph!" She looked at me suspiciously, but I was busy wiping off the tables. "Well," she said, holding up the glass Doctor Barnes had brought her, "it doesn't cost me anything, so here goes. But think of paying money for it!" She drank it down in a gulp and settled herself in her chair. "What'll it do to me?" she asked. "Mixed drinks always play the deuce with me, Barnes, and you know it." "If you'll cut down your diet and take some exercise it will make you thin," I began. "'The process is painless and certain: kindly nature in her benevolent plan—"" "Give me another!" she interrupted, and Doctor Barnes filled her glass again. "Some women spell fate f-a-t-e," she said, looking at the water, "but I spell it without the e." She took half of it and then put down the glass. "Honestly," she declared, "I'd rather be fat." Mr. Pierce met them there a few minutes later and they had a three-cornered chat. But Miss Summers evidently didn't know just how much I knew and was careful of what she said. Once, however, when I was in the pantry she thought I was beyond ear-shot. "Good heavens, Pierce," she said, "if they could put THAT in a play!" "Cut it out, Julia," Doctor Barnes snapped, and it wasn't until they had gone that I knew she'd meant me. I looked through the crack of the door and she was leaning over taking a puff at Doctor Barnes' cigarette. "Curious old world, isn't it?" she said between puffs. "Here we are the three of us—snug and nice, having seven kinds of hell-fire water and not having to pay for it; three meals a day and afternoon tea ditto, good beds and steam-heat ditto—and four days ago where were we? Pierce, you were hocking your clothes! Doc, you—" "Washing dishes!" he said. "I never knew before how extravagant it is to have a saucer under a cup!" "And I!" she went on, "I, Julia Summers, was staring at a ceiling in the Finleyville hotel, with a face that looked like a toy balloon." "And now," said Doctor Barnes, "you are more beautiful than ever. I am a successful physician—oh, lord, Julia, if you'd hear me faking lines in my part! And my young friend here—Pierce—Julia, Pierce has now become a young reprobate named Dicky Carter, and may the Lord have mercy on his soul!" I tried to get out in time, but I was too late. I saw her rise, saw the glass of water at her elbow roll over and smash on the floor, and saw her clutch wildly at Mr. Pierce's shoulder. "Not—not DICKY Carter!" she cried. "Richard—they call him Dick," Mr. Pierce said uneasily, and loosened her fingers from his coat. Oh, well, everybody knows it now—how she called Mr. Dick everything in the calendar, and then began to cry and said nobody would ever know what she'd been through with, and the very dress she had on was a part of the trousseau she'd had made, and what with the dressmaker's bills— Suddenly she stopped crying. "Where is he, anyhow?" she demanded. "All we are sure of," Mr. Pierce replied quietly, "is that he is not in the sanatorium." She looked at us all closely, but she got nothing from my face. "Oh, very well," she said, shrugging her shoulders, "I'll wait until he shows up. It doesn't cost anything." Then, with one of her easy changes, she laughed and picked up her muff to go. "Minnie and I," she said, "will tend bar here, and in our leisure moments we will pour sulphur water on a bunch of Dicky's letters that I have, to cool "em." She walked to the door and turned around, smiling. "Carry fire insurance on "em all the time," she finished and went out, leaving us staring at one another! # CHAPTER XVIII: MISS COBB'S BURGLAR I went to bed early that night. What with worrying and being alternately chilled by tramping through the snow and roasted as if I was sitting on a volcano with an eruption due, I was about all in. We'd been obliged to tell Mrs. Sam about the Summers woman, and I had to put hot flannels on her from nine to ten. She was quieter when I left her, but, as I told Mr. Sam, it was the stillness of despair, not resignation. I guess it was about four o'clock in the morning when a hand slid over my face, and I sat up and yelled. The hand covered my mouth at that, and something long and white and very thin beside the bed said: "Sh! For heaven's sake, Minnie!" It was Miss Cobb! It was lucky I came to my senses when I did, for her knees gave way under her just then and she doubled up on the floor beside the bed with her face in my comfort. I lighted a candle and set it on a chair beside the bed and took a good look at her. She was shaking all over, which wasn't strange, for I sleep with my window open, and she had a key in her hand. "Here," she gasped, holding out the key, "here, Minnie, wake the house and get him, but, oh, Minnie, for heaven's sake, save my reputation!" "Get who?" I demanded, for I saw it was her room key. "I have been coming here for ten years," she groaned, out of the comfort, "and now, to be bandied about by the cold breath of scandal!" I shook her by the shoulder "The cold breath you are raving about is four degrees below zero. If you can't tell me what's the matter I'm going back to bed and cover my feet." She got up at that and stood swaying, with her nightgown flapping around her like a tent. "I have locked a man in my room!" she declared in a terrible voice, and collapsed into the middle of the bed. Well, I leaned over and tried to tell her she'd made a mistake. The more I looked at her, with her hair standing straight out over her head, and her cambric nightgown with a high collar and long sleeves, and the hump on her nose where her brother Willie had hit her in childhood with a baseball bat, the surer I was that somebody had made a mistake—likely the man. Now there's two ways to handle a situation like that: one of them is to rouse the house—and many a good sanatorium has been hurt by a scandal and killed by a divorce; the other way is to take one strong man who can hold his tongue, find the guilty person, and send him a fake telegram the next morning that his mother is sick. I've done that more than once. I sat down on the side of the bed and put on my slippers. "What did he look like?" I asked. "Could you see him?" She uncovered one eye. "Not—not distinctly," she said. "I—think he was large, and—and rather handsome. That beast of a dog must have got in my room and was asleep under the bed, for it wakened me by snarling." There was nothing in that to make me nervous, but it did. As I put on my kimono I was thinking pretty hard. I could not waken Mr. Pierce by knocking, so I went in and shook him. He was sound asleep, with his arms over his head, and when I caught his shoulder he just took my hand and, turning over, tucked it under his cheek and went asleep again. "Mr. Pierce! Mr. Pierce!" He wakened a little at that, but not enough to open his eyes. He seemed to know that the hand wasn't his, however, for he kissed it. And with that I slapped him and he wakened. He lay there blinking at my candle and then he yawned. "Musht have been ashleep!" he said, and turned over on his other side and shut his eyes. It was two or three minutes at least before I had him sitting on the side of the bed, with a blanket spread over his knees, and was telling him about Miss Cobb. "Miss Cobb!" he said. "Oh, heavens, Minnie, tell her to go back to bed!" He yawned. "If there's anybody there it's a mistake. I'm sleepy. What time is it?" "I'm not going out of this room until you get up!" I declared grimly. "Oh, very well!" he said, and put his feet back into bed. "If you think I'm going to get up while you're here—" After he seemed pretty well wakened I went out. I waited in the sitting-room and I heard him growling as he put on his clothes. When he came out, however, he was more cheerful, and he stopped in the hall to fish a case out of Mr. Sam's dressing-gown pocket and light a cigarette. "Now!" he said, taking my arm. "Forward, the light-ly clad brigade! But—" he stopped—"Minnie, we are unarmed! Shall I get the patent folding corkscrew?" He had to be quiet when we got to the bedroom floors, however, and when we stopped outside Miss Cobb's door he was as sober as any one could wish him. "You needn't come in," he whispered. "Ten to one she dreamed it, but if she didn't you're better outside. And whatever you hear, don't yell." I gave him the key and he fitted it quietly in the lock. Arabella, just inside, must have heard, for she snarled. But the snarl turned into a yelp, as if she'd been suddenly kicked. Mr. Pierce, with his hand on the knob, turned and looked at me in the candle-light. Then he opened the door. Arabella gave another yelp and rushed out; she went between my feet like a shot and almost overthrew me, and when I'd got my balance again I looked into the room. Mr. Pierce was at the window, staring out, and the room was empty. "The idiot!" Mr. Pierce said. "If it hadn't been for that snowbank! Here, give me that candle!" He stood there waving it in circles, but there was neither sight nor sound from below. After a minute Mr. Pierce put the window down and we stared at the room. All the bureau drawers were out on the floor, and the lid of poor Miss Cobb's trunk was open and the tray upset. But her silver-backed brush was still on the bureau and the ring the insurance agent had given her lay beside it. We brought her back to her room, and she didn't know whether to be happy that she was vindicated or mad at the state her things were in. I tucked her up in bed after she'd gone over her belongings and Mr. Pierce had double-locked the window and gone out. She drew my head down to her and her eyes were fairly popping out of her head. "I feel as though I'm going crazy, Minnie!" she whispered, "but the only things that are gone are my letters from Mr. Jones, and—my black woolen tights!" # CHAPTER XIX: NO MARRIAGE IN HEAVEN I slept late the next morning, and when I'd had breakfast and waded to the spring-house it was nearly nine. It was still snowing, and no papers or mail had got through, although the wires were still in fair working order. As I floundered out I thought I saw somebody slink around the corner of the spring-house, but when I got there nobody was in sight. I was on my knees in front of the fireplace, raking out the fire, when I heard the door close behind me, and when I turned, there stood Mr. Dick, muffled to the neck, with his hat almost over his face. "What the deuce kept you so late this morning?" he demanded, in a sulky voice, and limping over to a table he drew a package out of his pocket and slammed it on the table. "I was up half the night, as usual," I said, rising. "You oughtn't to be here, Mr. Dick!" He caught hold of the rail around the spring, and hobbling about, dropped into a chair with a groan. "For two cents," he declared, "I'd chop a hole in the ice pond and drown myself. There's no marriage in Heaven." "That's no argument for the other place," I answered, and stopped, staring. He was pulling something out of his overcoat pocket, an inch at a time. "For God's sake, Minnie," he exclaimed, "return this—this garment to—whomever it belongs to!" He handed it to me, and it was Miss Cobb's black tights! I stood and stared. "And then," he went on, reaching for the package on the table, "when you've done that, return to "Binkie' these letters from her Jonesie." He took the newspaper off the bundle then, and I saw it was wrapped with a lavender ribbon. I sat down and gazed at him, fascinated. He was the saddest-eyed piece of remorse I'd seen for a long time. "And when you've got your breath back, Minnie," he said feebly, "and your strength, would you mind taking the floor mop and hitting me a few cracks? Only not on the right leg, Minnie—not on the right leg. I landed on it last night; it's twisted like a pretzel." "Don't stand and stare," he continued irritably, when I didn't make a move, "at least get that—that infernal black garment out of sight. Cover it with the newspaper. And if you don't believe that a sweet-faced young girl like my wife has a positive talent for wickedness and suspicion, go out to the shelter-house this morning." "So it was you!" I gasped, putting the newspaper over the tights. "Why in the name of peace did you jump out the window, and what did you want with—with these things?" He twisted around in his chair to stare at me, and then stooped and clutched frantically at his leg, as if for inspiration. "Want with those things!" he snarled. "I suppose you can't understand that a man might wake up in the middle of the night with a mad craving for a pair of black woolen tights, and—" "You needn't be sarcastic with me," I broke in. "You can save that for your wife. I suppose you also had a wild longing for the love-letters of an insurance agent—" And then it dawned on me, and I sat down and laughed until I cried. "And you thought you were stealing your own letters!" I cried. "The ones she carries fire insurance on! Oh, Mr. Dick, Mr. Dick!" "How was I to know it wasn't Ju—Miss Summers' room?" he demanded angrily. "Didn't I follow the dratted dog? And wouldn't you have thought the wretched beast would have known me instead of sitting on its tail under the bed and yelling for mother? I gave her the dog myself. Oh, I tell you, Minnie, if I ever get away from this place—" "You've got to get away this minute," I broke in, remembering. "They'll be coming any instant now." He got up and looked around him helplessly. "Where'll I go?" he asked. "I can't go back to the shelter-house." I looked at him and he tried to grin. "Fact," he said, "hard to believe, but—fact, Minnie. She's got the door locked. Didn't I tell you she is of a suspicious nature? She was asleep when I left, and mostly she sleeps all night. And just because she wakes when I'm out, and lets me come in thinking she's asleep, when she has one eye open all the time, and she sees what I'd never even seen myself—that the string of that damned garment, whatever it is, is fastened to the hook of my shoe, me thinking all the time that the weight was because I'd broken my leg jumping—doesn't she suddenly sit up and ask me where I've been? And I—I'm unsuspicious, Minnie, by nature, and I said I'd been asleep. Then she jumped up and showed me that—that thing—those things, hanging to my shoe, and she hasn't spoken to me since. I wish I was dead." And just then a dog barked outside and somebody on the step stamped the snow off his feet. We were both paralyzed for a moment. "Julia!" Mr. Dick cried, and went white. I made a leap for the door, just as the handle turned, and put my back against it. "Just a minute," I called. "The carpet is caught under it!" Mr. Dick had lost his head and was making for the spring, as if he thought hiding his feet would conceal him. I made frantic gestures to him to go into my pantry, and he went at last, leaving his hat on the table, I left the door and flung it after him—the hat, of course, not the door—and when Miss Summers sauntered in just after, I was on my knees brushing the hearth, with my heart going three-four time and skipping every sixth beat. "Hello!" she said. "Lovely weather—for polar bears. If the natives wade through this all winter it's no wonder they walk as if they are ham-strung. Don't bother getting me a glass. I'll get my own." She was making for the pantry when I caught her, and I guess I looked pretty wild. "I'll get it," I said. "I—that's one of the rules." She put her hands in the pockets of her white sweater and smiled at me. "Do you know," she declared, "the old ladies' knitting society isn't so far wrong about you! About your making rules—whatever you want, WHENEVER you want "em." She put her head on one side. "Now," she went on, "suppose I break that rule and get my own glass? What happens to me? I don't think I'll be put out!" I threw up my hands in despair, for I was about at the end of my string. "Get it then!" I exclaimed, and sat down, waiting for the volcano to erupt. But she only laughed and sat down on a table, swinging her feet. "When you know me better, Minnie," she said, "you'll know I don't spoil sport. I happen to know you have somebody in the pantry—moreover, I know it's a man. There are tracks on the little porch, my dear girl, not made by your galoshes. Also, my dearest girl, there's a gentleman's glove by your chair there!" I put my foot on it. "And just to show you what a good fellow I am—" She got off the table, still smiling, and sauntered to the pantry door, watching me over her shoulder. "Don't be alarmed!" she called through the door, "I'm not coming in! I shall take my little drink of nature's benevolent remedy out of the tin ladle, and then—I shall take my departure!" My heart was skipping every second beat by that time, and Miss Julia stood by the pantry door, her head back and her eyes almost closed, enjoying every minute of it. If Arabella hadn't made a diversion just then I think I'd have fainted. She'd pulled the newspaper and the tights off the table and was running around the room with them, one leg in her mouth. "Stop it, Arabella!" said Miss Julia, and took the tights from her. "Yours?" she asked, with her eyebrows raised. "No—yes," I answered. "I'd never have suspected you of them!" she remarked. "Hardly sheer enough to pull through a finger ring, are they?" She held them up and gazed at them meditatively. "That's one thing I draw the line at. On the boards, you know—never have worn "em and never will. They're not modest, to my mind,—and, anyhow, I'm too fat!" Mr. Sam and his wife came in at that moment, Mr. Sam carrying a bottle of wine for the shelter-house, wrapped in a paper, and two cans of something or other. He was too busy trying to make the bottle look like something else—which a good many people have tried and failed at—to notice what Miss Summers was doing, and she had Miss Cobb's protectors stuffed in her muff and was standing very dignified in front of the fire by the time they'd shaken off the snow. "Good morning!" she said. "Morning!" said Mr. Sam, hanging up his overcoat with one hand, and trying to put the bottle in one of the pockets with the other. Mrs. Sam didn't look at her. "Good morning, Mrs. Van Alstyne!" Miss Summers almost threw it at her. "I spoke to you before; I guess you didn't hear me." "Oh, yes, I heard you," answered Mrs. Sam, and turned her back on her. Give me a little light-haired woman for sheer devilishness! I'd expected to see Miss Summers fly to pieces with rage, but she stared at Mrs. Sam's back, and after a minute she laughed. "I see!" she remarked slowly. "You're the sister, aren't you?" Mr. Sam had given up trying to hide the bottle and now he set it on the floor with a thump and came over to the fire. "It's—you see, the situation is embarrassing," he began. "If we had had any idea—" "I might have been still in the Finleyville hotel!" she finished for him. "Awful thought, isn't it?" "Under the circumstances," went on Mr. Sam, nervously, "don't you think it would be—er—better form if er—under the circumstances—" "I'm thinking of my circumstances," she put in, good-naturedly. "If you imagine that six weeks of one-night stands has left me anything but a rural wardrobe and a box of dog biscuit for Arabella, you're pretty well mistaken. I haven't even a decent costume. All we had left after the sheriff got through was some grass mats, a checked sunbonnet and a pump." "Minnie," Mrs. Sam said coldly, "that little beast of a dog is trying to drink out of the spring!" I caught her in time and gave her a good slapping. When I looked up Miss Summers was glaring down at me over the rail. "Just what do you mean by hitting my dog?" she demanded. It was the first time I'd seen her angry. "Just what I appeared to mean," I answered. "If you want to take it as a love pat, you may." And I stalked to the door and threw the creature out into the snow. It was the first false step that day; if I'd known what putting that dog out meant—! "I don't allow dogs here," I said, and shut the door. Miss Summers was furious; she turned and stared at Mrs. Sam, who was smiling at the fire. "Let Arabella in," she said to me in an undertone, "or I'll open the pantry door!" "Open the door!" I retorted. I was half hysterical, but it was no time to weaken. She looked me straight in the eye for fully ten seconds; then, to my surprise, she winked at me. But when she turned on Mr. Sam she was cold rage again and nothing else. "I am not going to leave, if that is what you are about to suggest," she said. "I've been trying to see Dicky Carter the last ten days, and I'll stay here until I see him." "It's a delicate situation—" "Delicate!" she snapped. "It's indelicate it's indecent, that's what it is. Didn't I get my clothes, and weren't we to have been married by the Reverend Dwight Johnstone, out in Salem, Ohio? And didn't he go out there and have old Johnstone marry him to somebody else? The wretch! If I ever see him—" A glass dropped in the pantry and smashed, but nobody paid any attention. "Oh, I'm not going until he comes!" she continued. "I'll stay right here, and I'll have what's coming to me or I'll know the reason why. Don't forget for a minute that I know why Mr. Pierce is here, and that I can spoil the little game by calling the extra ace, if I want to." "You're forgetting one thing," Mrs. Sam said, facing her for the first time, "if you call the game, my brother is worth exactly what clothes he happens to be wearing at the moment and nothing else. He hasn't a penny of his own." "I don't believe it," she sniffed. "Look at the things he gave me!" "Yes. I've already had the bills," said Mr. Sam. She whirled and looked at him, and then she threw back her head and laughed. "You!" she said. "Why, bless my soul! All the expense of a double life and none of its advantages!" She went out on that, still laughing, leaving Mrs. Sam scarlet with rage, and when she was safely gone I brought Mr. Dick out to the fire. He was so limp he could hardly walk, and it took three glasses of the wine and all Mr. Sam could do to start him back to the shelter-house. His sister would not speak to him. Mike went to Mr. Pierce that day and asked for a raise of salary. He did not get it. Perhaps, as things have turned out, it was for the best, but it is strange to think how different things would have been if he'd been given it. He was sent up later, of course, for six months for malicious mischief, but by that time the damage was done. # CHAPTER XX: EVERY DOG HAS HIS DAY That was on a Saturday morning. During the golf season Saturday is always a busy day with us, with the husbands coming up for over Sunday, and trying to get in all the golf, baths and spring water they can in forty-eight hours. But in the winter Saturday is the same as any, other day. It had stopped snowing and the sun was shining, although it was so cold that the snow blew like powder. By eleven o'clock every one who could walk had come to the spring-house. Even Mr. Jennings came down in a wheeled chair, and Senator Biggs, still looking a sort of grass-green and keeping his eyes off me, came and sat in a corner, with a book called Fast versus Feast held so that every one could see. There were bridge tables going, and five hundred, and a group around the slot-machine, while the crocheters formed a crowd by themselves, exchanging gossip and new stitches. About twelve o'clock Mr. Thoburn came in, and as he opened the door, in leaped Arabella. The women made a fuss over the creature and cuddled her, and when I tried to put her out everybody objected. So she stayed, and Miss Summers put her through a lot of tricks, while the men crowded around. As I said before, Miss Summers was a first favorite with the men. Mr. von Inwald and Miss Patty came in just then and stood watching. "And now," said Mr. von Inwald, "I propose, as a reward to Miss Arabella, a glass of this wonderful water. Minnie, a glass of water for Arabella!" "She doesn't drink out of one of my glasses," I declared angrily. "It's one of my rules that dogs—" "Tut!" said Mr. Thoburn. "What's good for man is good for beast. Besides, the little beggar's thirsty." Well, they made a great fuss about the creature's being thirsty, and so finally I got a panful of spring water and it drank until I thought it would burst. I'm not vicious, as I say, but I wish it had. Well, the dog finished and lay down by the fire, and everything seemed to go on as before. Mr. Thoburn was in a good humor, and he came over to the spring and brought a trayful of glasses. "To save you steps, Minnie!" he explained. "You have no idea how it pains me to see you working. Gentlemen, name your poison!" "A frappe with blotting-paper on the side," Mr. Moody snarled from the slot-machine. "If I drink much more, I'll have to be hooped up like a barrel." "Just what is the record here?" the bishop asked. "I'm ordered eight glasses, but I find it more than a sufficiency." "We had one man here once who could drink twenty-five at a time," I said, "but he was a German." "He was a tank," Mr. Sam corrected grumpily. He was watching something on the floor—I couldn't see what. "All I need is to swallow a few goldfish and I'd be a first-class aquarium." "What I think we should do," Miss Cobb said, "is to try to find out just what suits us, and stick to that. I'm always trying." "Damned trying!" Mr. Jennings snarled, and limped over for more water. "I'd like to know where to go for rheumatism." "I got mine here," said Mr. Thoburn cheerfully. "It's my opinion this place is rheumatic as well as malarious. And as for this water, with all due respect to the spirit in the spring"—he bowed to me—"I think it's an insult to ask people to drink it. It isn't half so strong as it was two years ago. Taste it; smell it! I ask the old friends of the sanatorium, is that water what it used to be?" "Don't tell me it was ever any worse than this!" Miss Summers exclaimed. But Thoburn went on. The card-players stopped to listen, but Mr. Sam was still staring at something on the floor. "I tell you, the spring is losing its virtue, and, like a woman, without virtue, it is worthless." "But interesting!" Mr. Sam said, and stooped down. "Consider," went on Mr. Thoburn, standing and holding his glass to the light, "how we are at the mercy of this little spring! A convulsion in the bowels of the earth, and its health-giving properties may be changed to the direst poison. How do we know, you and I, some such change has not occurred overnight? Unlikely as it is, it's a possibility that, sitting here calmly, we may be sipping our death potion." Some of the people actually put down their glasses and everybody began to look uneasy except Mr. Sam, who was still watching something I could not see. Mr. Thoburn looked around and saw he'd made an impression. "We may," he continued, "although my personal opinion of this water is that it's growing too weak to be wicked. I prove my faith in Mother Nature; if it is poisoned, I am gone. I drink!" Mr. Sam suddenly straightened up and glanced at Miss Summers. "Perhaps I'm mistaken," he said, "but I think there is something the matter with Arabella." Everybody looked: Arabella was lying on her back, jerking and twitching and foaming at the mouth. "She's been poisoned!" Miss Summers screeched, and fell on her knees beside her. "It's that wretched water!" There was pretty nearly a riot in a minute. Everybody jumped up and stared at the dog, and everybody remembered the water he or she had just had, and coming on top of Mr. Thoburn's speech, it made them babbling lunatics. As I look back, I have a sort of picture of Miss Summers on the floor with Arabella in her lap, and the rest telling how much of the water they had had and crowding around Mr. Thoburn. "It seems hardly likely it was the water," he said, "although from what I recall of my chemistry it is distinctly possible. Springs have been known to change their character, and the coincidence—the dog and the water—is certainly startling. Still, as nobody feels ill—" But they weren't sure they didn't. The bishop said he felt perfectly well, but he had a strange inclination to yawn all the time, and Mrs. Biggs' left arm had gone to sleep. And then, with the excitement and all, Miss Cobb took a violent pain in the back of her neck and didn't know whether to cry or to laugh. Well, I did what I could. The worst of it was, I wasn't sure it wasn't the water. I thought possibly Mr. Pierce had made a mistake in what he had bought at the drug store, and although I don't as a rule drink it myself, I began to feel queer in the pit of my stomach. Mr. Thoburn came over to the spring, and filling a glass, took it to the light, with every one watching anxiously. When he brought it back he stooped over the railing and whispered to me. "When did you fix it?" he asked sternly. "Last night," I answered. It was no time to beat about the bush. "It's yellower than usual," he said. "I'm inclined to think something has gone wrong at the drug store, Minnie." I could hardly breathe. I had the most terrible vision of all the guests lying around like Arabella, twitching and foaming, and me going to prison as a wholesale murderess. Any hair but mine would have turned gray in that minute. Mr. von Inwald was watching like the others, and now he came over and caught Mr. Thoburn by the arm. "What do you think—" he asked nervously. "I—I have had three glasses of it!" "Three!" shouted Senator Biggs, coming forward. "I've had eleven! I tell you, I've been feeling queer for twenty-four hours! I'm poisoned! That's what I am." He staggered out, with Mrs. Biggs just behind him, and from that moment they were all demoralized. I stood by the spring and sipped at the water to show I wasn't afraid of it, with my knees shaking under me and Arabella lying stock-still, as if she had died, under my very nose. One by one they left to look for Doctor Barnes, or to get the white of egg, which somebody had suggested as an antidote. Miss Cobb was one of the last to go. She turned in the doorway and looked back at me, with tears in her eyes. "It isn't your fault, Minnie," she said, "and forgive me if I have ever said anything unkind to you." Then she went, and I was alone, looking down at Arabella. Or rather, I thought I was alone, for there was a movement by one of the windows and Miss Patty came forward and knelt by the dog. "Of all the absurdities!" she said. "Poor little thing! Minnie, I believe she's breathing!" She put the dog's head in her lap, and the little beast opened its eyes and tried to wag its blue tail. "Oh, Miss Patty, Miss Patty!" I exclaimed, and I got down beside her and cried on her shoulder, with her stroking my hand and calling me dearest! Me! I was wiping my eyes when the door was thrown open and Mr. Pierce ran in. He had no hat on and his hair was powdered with snow. He stopped just inside the door and looked at Miss Patty. "You—" he said "you are all right? You are not—" he came forward and stood over her, with his heart in his eyes. She MUST have known from that minute. "My God!" he exclaimed, "I thought you were poisoned!" She looked up, without smiling, and then I thought she half shut her eyes, as if what she saw in his face hurt her. "I am all right," she assured him, "and little Arabella will be all right, too. She's had a convulsion, that's all—probably from overeating. As for the others—!" "Where is the—where is von Inwald?" "He has gone to take the white of an egg," she replied rather haughtily. She was too honest to evade anything, but she flushed. Of course, I knew what he didn't—that the prince had been among the first to scurry to the house, and that he hadn't even waited for her. He walked to the window, as if he didn't want her to see what he thought of that, and I saw him looking hard at something outside in the snow. When he walked back to the fire he was smiling, and he stooped over and poked Arabella with his finger. "So that was it!" he said. "Full to the scuppers, poor little wretch! Minnie, I am hoist with my own petard, which in this case was a boomerang." "Which is in English—" I asked. "With the instinct of her sex, Arabella has unearthed what was meant to be buried forever. She had gorged herself into a convulsion on that rabbit I shot last night!" # CHAPTER XXI: THE MUTINY They went to the house together, he carrying Arabella like a sick baby and Miss Patty beside him. As far as I could see they didn't speak a word to each other, but once or twice I saw her turn and look up at him as if she was puzzled. I closed the door and stood just inside, looking at father's picture over the mantel. As sure as I stood there, the eyes were fixed on the spring, and I sensed, as you may say, what they meant. I went over and looked down into the spring, and it seemed to me it was darker than usual. It may have smelled stronger, but the edge had been taken off my nose, so to speak, by being there so long. From the spring I looked again at father, and his eyes were on me mournful and sad. I felt as though, if he'd been there, father would have turned the whole affair to the advantage of the house, and it was almost more than I could bear. I was only glad the old doctor's enlargement had not come yet. I couldn't have endured having it see what had occurred. The only thing I could think of was to empty the spring and let the water come in plain. I could put a little sulphur in to give it color and flavor, and if it turned out that Mr. Pierce was right and that Arabella was only a glutton, I could put in the other things later. I was carrying out my first pailful when Doctor Barnes came down the path and took the pail out of my hand. "What are you doing?" he asked. "Making a slide?" "No," I said bitterly, "I am watering the flowers." "Good!" He was not a bit put out. "Let me help you." He took the pail across the path and poured a little into the snow at the base of a half-dozen fence posts. "There!" he said, coming back triumphant. "The roses are done. Now let's have a go at the pansies and the lady's-slippers and the—the begonias. I say"—he stopped suddenly on his way in—"sulphur water on a begonia—what would it make? Skunk cabbage?" Inside, however, he put down the pail, and pulling me in, closed the door. "Now forget it!" he commanded. "Just because a lot of damn fools see a dog in a fit and have one, too, is that any reason for your being scared wall-eyed and knock-kneed?" "I'm not!" I snapped. "Well, you're wall-eyed with fright," he insisted. "Of course, you're the best judge of your own knees, but after last night—Had any lunch?" I shook my head. "Exactly," he said. "You make me think of the little boy who dug post-holes in the daytime and took in washings at night to support the family. Sit down." I sat. "Inhale and exhale slowly four times, and then swallow the lump in your throat.... Gone?" "Yes." "Good." He was fumbling in his pocket and he brought out a napkin. When he opened it there was a sandwich, a piece of cheese and a banana. "What do you think of that?" he asked, watching me anxiously. "Looks pretty good?" "Fine," I said, hating to disappoint him, although I never eat sardines, and bananas give me indigestion, "I'm hungry enough to eat a raw Italian." "Then fall to," he directed, and with a flourish he drew a bottle of ginger ale from his pocket. "How's this?" he demanded, holding it up. "Cheers but doesn't inebriate; not a headache in a barrel; ginger ale to the gingery! "A quart of ale is a dish for a king,"" he said, holding up a glass. "That's Shakespeare, Miss Minnie." I was a good bit more cheerful when I'd choked down the sandwich, especially when he assured me the water was all right—"a little high, as you might say, but not poisonous. Lord, I wish you could have seen them staggering into my office!" "I saw enough," I said with a shiver. "That German, von Inwald," he went on, "he's the limit. He accused us of poisoning him for reasons of state!" "Where are they now?" "My dear girl," he answered, putting down his glass, "what has been pounded into me ever since I struck the place? The baths! I prescribe "em all day and dream "em all night. Where are the poisonees now? They are steaming, stewing, exuding in the hot rooms of the bath department—all of them, every one of them! In the hold and the hatches down!" He picked up the pail and went down the steps to the spring. "After all," he said, "it won't hurt to take out a little of this and pour it on the ground. It ought to be good fertilizer." He stooped. "'Come, gentle spring, ethereal mildness, come,"" he quoted, and dipped in the pail. Just then somebody fell against the door and stumbled into the room. It was Tillie, as white as milk, and breathing in gasps. "Quick!" she screeched, "Minnie, quick!" "What is it?" I asked, jumping up. She'd fallen back against the door-frame and stood with her hand clutching her heart. "That dev—devil—Mike!" she panted. "He has turned on the steam in the men's baths and gone—gone away!" "With people in the bath?" Doctor Barnes asked, slamming down the pail. Tillie nodded. "Then why in creation don't they get out of the baths until we can shut off the steam?" I demanded, grabbing up my shawl. But Tillie shook her head in despair. "They can't," she answered, "he's hid their clothes!" The next thing I recall is running like mad up the walk with Doctor Barnes beside me, steadying me by the arm. I only spoke once that I remember and that was just as we got to the house, "This settles it!" I panted, desperately. "It's all over." "Not a bit of it!" he said, shoving me up the steps and into the hall. "The old teakettle is just getting "het up' a bit. By the gods and little fishes, just listen to it singing down there!" The help was gathered in a crowd at the head of the bath-house staircase, where a cloud of steam was coming up, and down below we could hear furious talking, and somebody shouting, "Mike! Mike!" in a voice that was choked with rage and steam. Doctor Barnes elbowed his way through the crowd to the top of the stairs and I followed. "There's Minnie!" Amanda King yelled. "She knows all about the place. Minnie, you can shut it off, can't you?" "I'll try," I said, and was starting down, when Doctor Barnes jerked me back. "You stay here," he said. "Where's Mr. Pier—where's Carter?" "Down with the engineer," somebody replied out of the steam cloud. "Hello there!" he called down the staircase. "How's the air?" "Clothes! Send us some clothes!" It was Mr. Sam calling. The rest was swallowed up in a fresh roaring, as if a steam-pipe had given away. That settled the people below. With a burst of fury they swarmed up the stairs in their bath sheets, the bishop leading, and just behind him, talking as no gentleman should talk under any circumstances, Senator Biggs. The rest followed, their red faces shining through the steam—all of them murderous, holding their sheets around them with one hand, and waving the other in a frenzy. It was awful. The help scattered and ran, but I stood my ground. The sight of a man in a sheet didn't scare me and it was no time for weakness. The steam was thicker than ever, and the hall was misty. A moment later the engineer came up and after him Mr. Pierce, with a towel over his mouth and a screw-driver in his hand. He was white with rage. He brushed past the sheets without paying the slightest attention to them, and tore the towel off his mouth. "Who saw Mike last?" he shouted across to where the pharmacy clerk, the elevator boy and some of the bell-boys had retreated to the office and were peeping out through the door. Here Mr. Moody, who's small at any time, and who without the padding on his shoulders and wrapped in a sheet with his red face above, looked like a lighted cigarette, darted out of the crowd and caught him by the sleeve. "Here!" he cried, "we've got a few things to say to you, you young—" "Take your hand off my arm!" thundered Mr. Pierce. The storm broke with that. They crowded around Mr. Pierce, yelling like maniacs, and he stood there, white-faced, and let them wear themselves out. The courage of a man in a den of lions was nothing to it. Doctor Barnes forced his way through the crowd and stood there beside him. It wasn't only the steam and their clothes being hidden; it had started with the scare at the spring in the morning, and when they had told him what they thought about that, they went back still further and bellowed about the mismanagement of the place ever since he had taken charge, and the food, and the steam-heat, and the new rules—oh, they hated him all right, and they told him so, purple-faced with rage and heat, dancing around him and shaking one fist in his face, as I say, while they held their sheets fast with the other. And I stood there and watched, my mind awhirl, expecting every minute to hear that they were all leaving, or to have some one forget and shake both fists at once. And that's how it ended finally—I mean, of course, that they said they would all leave immediately, and that he ought to be glad to have them go quietly, and not have him jailed for malicious mischief or compounding a felony. The whole thing was an outrage, and the three train would leave the house as empty as a squeezed lemon. I wanted to go forward and drop on my knees and implore them to remember the old doctor, and the baths they'd had when nothing went wrong, and the days when they'd sworn that the spring kept them young and well, but there was something in Mr. Pierce's face that kept me back. "At three o'clock, then," he said. "Very well." "Don't be a fool!" I heard Mr. Sam from the crowd. "Is that all you have to say?" roared Mr. von Inwald. I hadn't noticed him before. He had his sheet on in Grecian style and it looked quite ornamental although a little short. "Haven't you any apology to make, sir?" "Neither apology nor explanation to you," Mr. Pierce retorted. And to the other: "It is an unfortunate accident—incident, if you prefer." He looked at Thoburn, who was the only one in a bath robe, and who was the only cheerful one in the lot. "I had refused a request of the bath man's and he has taken this form of revenge. If this gives me the responsibility I am willing to take it. If you expect me to ask you to stay I'll not do it. I don't mind saying that I am as tired of all this as you are." "As tired of what?" demanded Mr. Moody, pushing forward out of the crowd. Mr. Sam was making frantic gestures to catch Mr. Pierce's eye, but he would not look at him. "Of all this," he said. "Of charging people sanatorium prices under a pretense of making them well. Does anybody here imagine he's going to find health by sitting around in an overstuffed leather chair, with the temperature at eighty, eating five meals a day, and walking as far as the mineral spring for exercise?" There was a sort of angry snarl in the air, and Mr. Sam threw up his one free hand in despair. "In fact," Mr. Pierce went on, "I'd about decided on a new order of things for this place anyhow. It's going to be a real health resort, run for people who want to get well or keep well. People who wish to be overfed, overheated and coddled need not come—or stay." The bishop spoke over the heads of the others, who looked dazed. "Does that mean," he inquired mildly, "that—guests must either obey this new order of things or go away?" Mr. Pierce looked at the bishop and smiled. "I'm sorry, sir," he said, "but as every one is leaving, anyhow—" They fairly jumped at him then. They surrounded him in a howling mob and demanded how he dared to turn them out, and what did he mean by saying they were overfed, and they would leave when they were good and ready and not before, and he could go to blazes. It was the most scandalous thing I've ever known of at Hope Springs, and in the midst of it Mr. Pierce stood cool and quiet, waiting for a chance to speak. And when the time came he jumped in and told them the truth about themselves, and most of it hurt. He was good and mad, and he stood there and picked out the flabby ones and the fat ones, the whisky livers and the tobacco hearts and the banquet stomachs, and called them out by name. When he got through they were standing in front of him, ashamed to look at one another, and not knowing whether to fall on him and tear him to pieces, or go and weep in a corner because they'd played such havoc with the bodies the Lord gave them. If he'd weakened for a minute they'd have jumped on him. But he didn't. He got through and stood looking at them in their sheets, and then he said coolly: "The bus will be ready at two-thirty, gentlemen," and turning on his heels, went into the office and closed the door. They scattered to their rooms in every stage of rage and excitement, and at last only Mr. Sam and I were left staring at each other. "Damned young idiot!" he said. "I wish to heavens you'd never suggested bringing him here, Minnie!" And leaving me speechless with indignation, he trailed himself and his sheet up the stairs. # CHAPTER XXII: HOME TO ROOST I couldn't stand any more. It was all over! I rushed to my room and threw myself on the bed. At two-thirty I heard the bus come to the porte-cochere under my window and then drive away; that was the last straw. I put a pillow over my head so nobody could hear me, and then and there I had hysterics. I knew I was having them, and I wasn't ashamed. I'd have exploded if I hadn't. And then somebody jerked the pillow away and I looked up, with my eyes swollen almost shut, and it was Doctor Barnes. He had a glass of water in his hand and he held it right above me. "One more yell," he said, "and it goes over you!" I lay there staring up at him, and then I knew what a fright I looked, and although I couldn't speak yet, I reached up and felt for my hairpins. "That's better," he said, putting down the glass. "Another ten minutes of that and you'd have burst a blood vessel. Don't worry. I know I have no business here, but I anticipated something of this kind, and it may interest you to know that I've been outside in the hall since the first whoop. It's been a good safety-valve." I sat up and stared at him. I could hardly see out of my eyes. He had his back to the light, but I could tell that he had a cross of adhesive plaster on his cheek and that one eye was almost shut. He smiled when he saw my expression. "It's the temperament," he said. "It goes with the hair. I've got it too, only I'm apt to go out and pick a fight at such times, and a woman hasn't got that outlet. As you see, I found Mike, and my disfigurement is to Mike's as starlight to the noonday glare. Come and take a walk." I shook my head, but he took my arm and pulled me off the bed. "You come for a walk!" he said. "I'll wait in the hall until you powder your nose. You look like a fire that's been put out by a rain-storm." I didn't want to go, but anything was better than sitting in the room moping. I put on my jacket and Miss Patty's chinchillas, which cheered me a little, but as we went downstairs the quiet of the place sat on my chest like a weight. The lower hall was empty. A new card headed "Rules" hung on the door into the private office, but I did not read it. What was the use of rules without people to disobey them? Mrs. Moody had forgotten her crocheting bag and it hung on the back of a chair. I had to bite my lip to keep it from trembling again. "The Jenningses are still here," said the doctor. "The old man is madder than any hornet ever dared be, and they go in the morning. But the situation was too much for our German friend. He left with the others." Well, we went out and I took the path I knew best, which was out toward the spring-house. There wasn't a soul in sight. The place looked lonely, with the trees hung with snow, and arching over the board walk. At the little bridge over the creek Doctor Barnes stopped, and leaning over the rail, took a good look at me. "When you self-contained women go to pieces," he said, "you pretty near smash, don't you? You look as if you'd had a death in your family." "This WAS my family," I half sniveled. "But," he said, "you'll be getting married and having a home of your own and forgetting all about this." He looked at me with his sharp eyes. "There's probably some nice chap in the village, eh?" I shook my head. I had just caught sight of the broken pieces of the Moody water-pitcher on the ice below. "No nice young man!" he remarked. "Not the telegraph operator, or the fellow who runs the livery-stable—I've forgotten his name." "Look here," I turned on him, "if you're talking all this nonsense to keep my mind off things, you needn't." "I'm not," he said. "I'm asking for the sake of my own mind, but we'll not bother about that now. We'd better start back." It was still snowing, although not so hard. The air had done me some good, but the lump in my throat seemed to have gone to my chest. The doctor helped me along, for the snow was drifting, and when he saw I was past the crying stage he went back to what we were both thinking about. "Old Pierce is right," he said. "Remember, Miss Minnie, I've nothing against you or your mineral spring; in fact, I'm strong for you both. But while I'm out of the ring now for good—I don't mind saying to you what I said to Pierce, that the only thing that gets into training here, as far as I can see, is a fellow's pocketbook." We went back to the house and I straightened the news stand, Amanda King having taken a violent toothache as a result of the excitement. The Jenningses were packing to go, and Miss Summers had got a bottle of peroxide and shut herself in her room. At six o'clock Tillie beckoned to me from the door of the officers' dining-room and said she'd put the basket in the snow by the grape arbor. I got ready, with a heavy heart, to take it out. I had forgotten all about their dinner, for one thing, and I had to carry bad news. But Mr. Pierce had been there before me. I saw tracks in the fresh snow, for, praise heaven! it had snowed all that week and our prints were filled up almost as fast as we made them. When I got to the shelter-house it was in a wild state of excitement. Mrs. Dick, with her cheeks flushed, had gathered all her things on the cot and was rolling them up in sheets and newspapers. But Mr. Dick was sitting on the box in front of the fire with his curly hair standing every way. He had been roasting potatoes, and as I opened the door, he picked one up and poked at it to see if it was done. "Damn!" he said, and dropped it. Mrs. Dick sat on the cot rolling up a pink ribbon and looked at him. "If you want to know exactly my reason for insisting on moving to-night, I'll tell you," she said, paying no attention to me. "It is your disposition." He didn't say anything, but he put his foot on the potato and smashed it. "If I had to be shut in here with you one more day," she went on, "I'd hate you." "Why the one more day?" he asked, without looking up. But she didn't answer him. She was in the worst kind of a temper; she threw the ribbon down, and coming over, lifted the lid of my basket and looked in. "Ham again!" she exclaimed ungratefully. "Thanks so much for remembering us, Minnie. I dare say our dinner to-day slipped your mind!" "I wonder if it strikes you, Minnie," Mr. Dick said, noticing me for the first time, "that if you and Sam hadn't been so confounded meddling, that fellow Pierce would be washing buggies in the village livery-stable where he belongs, and I'd be in one piece of property that's as good as gone this minute." "Egg salad and cheese!" said Mrs. Dick. "I'm sick of cheese. If that's the kind of supper you've been serving—" But I was in a bad humor, anyhow, and I'd had enough. I stood just inside the door and I told them I'd done the best I could, not for them, but because I'd promised the old doctor, and if I'd made mistakes I'd answer for them to him if I ever met him in the next world. And in the meantime I washed my hands of the whole thing, and they might make out as best they could. I was going. Mrs. Dick heard me through. Then she came over and put her hand on mine where it lay on the table. "You're perfectly right," she said. "I know how you have tried, and that the fault is all that wretched Pierce's. You mustn't mind Mr. Carter, Minnie. He's been in that sort of humor all day." He looked at her with the most miserable face I ever saw, but he didn't say anything. She sighed, the little wretch. "We've all made mistakes," she said, "and not the least was my thinking that I—well, never mind. I dare say we will manage somehow." He got up then, his face twisted with misery. "Say it," he said. "You hate me; you shiver if I touch your hand—oh, I'm not very keen, but I saw that." "The remedy for that is very, simple," she replied coolly. "You needn't touch my hand." "Stop!" I snapped. "Just stop before you say something you'll be sorry for. Of course, you hate each other. It beats me, anyhow, why two people who get married always want to get away by themselves until they're so sick of each other that they don't get over it the rest of their lives. The only sensible honeymoon I ever heard of was when one of the chambermaids here married a farmer in the neighborhood. It was harvest and he couldn't leave, so she went ALONE to see her folks and she said it beat having him along all hollow." She was setting out the supper, putting things down with a bang. He didn't move, although he must have been starving. "Another thing I'd advise," I said. "Eat first and talk after. You'll see things different after you've got something in your stomach." "I wish you wouldn't meddle, Minnie!" she snapped, and having put down her own plate and knife and fork, not laying a place for him, she went over and tried to get one of the potatoes from the fire. Well, she burnt her finger, or pretended to, and I guess her solution was as good as mine, for she began to cry, and when I left he was tying it up with a bit of his handkerchief; if she shivered when he kissed it I didn't notice it. They were to come up to the house after her father left in the morning, and I was to dismiss all the old help and get new ones so he could take charge and let Mr. Pierce go. I plodded back with my empty basket. I had only one clear thought,—that I wouldn't have any more tramping across the golf links in the snow. I was too tired really to care that with the regular winter boarders gone and eight weeks still until Lent, we'd hardly be able to keep going another fortnight. I wanted to get back to my room and go to bed and forget. But as I came near the house I saw Mr. Pierce come out on the front piazza and switch on the lights. He stood there looking out into the snow, and the next minute I saw why. Coming up the hill and across the lawn was a shadowy line of people, black against the white. They were not speaking, and they moved without noise over the snow. I thought for a minute that my brain had gone wrong; then the first figure came into the light, and it was the bishop. He stood at the front of the steps and looked up at Mr. Pierce. "I dare say," he said, trying to look easy, "that this is sooner than you expected us!" Mr. Pierce looked down at the crowd. Then he smiled, a growing smile that ended in a grin. "On the contrary," he said, "I've been expecting you for an hour or more." The procession began to move gloomily up the steps. All of them carried hand luggage, and they looked tired and sheepish Miss Cobb stopped in front of Mr. Pierce. "Do you mean to say," she demanded furiously, "that you knew the railroad was blocked with snow, and yet you let us go!" "On the contrary, Miss Cobb," he said politely, "I remember distinctly regretting that you insisted on going. Besides, there was the Sherman House." Senator Briggs {sic} stopped in front of him. "Probably you also knew that THAT was full, including the stables, with people from the stalled trains," he asserted furiously. Two by two they went in and through the hall, stamping the snow off, and up to their old rooms again, leaving Slocum, the clerk, staring at them as if he couldn't believe his eyes. Mr. Pierce and I watched from the piazza, through the glass. We saw Doctor Barnes stop and look, and then go and hang over the news stand and laugh himself almost purple, and we saw Mr. Thoburn bringing up the tail of the procession and trying to look unconcerned. I am not a revengeful woman, but that was one of the happiest moments of my life. Doctor Barnes turned suddenly, and catching me by the arm, whirled me around and around, singing wildly something about Noah and "the animals went in two by, two, the elephant and the kangaroo." He stopped as suddenly as he began and walked me to the door again. "We've got "em in the ark," he said, "but I'm thinking this forty days of snow is nearly over, Minnie. I don't think much of the dove and the olive-branch, but WE'VE GOT TO KEEP THEM." "It's against the law," I quavered. "Nonsense!" he said. "We've got to make "em WANT to stay!" # CHAPTER XXIII: BACK TO NATURE We gave them a good supper and Mr. Pierce ordered claret served without extra charge. By eight o'clock they were all in better humor, and when they'd gathered in the lobby Miss Summers gave an imitation of Marie Dressler doing the Salome dance. Every now and then somebody would look out and say it was still snowing, and with the memory of the drifts and the cold stove in the railroad station behind them, they'd gather closer around the fire and insist that they would go as soon as the road was cleared. But with the exception of Mr. von Inwald, not one of them really wanted to go. As Doctor Barnes said over the news stand, each side was bluffing and wouldn't call the other, and the fellow with the most nerve would win. "And, oh, my aunt!" he said, "what a sweet disposition the von Inwald has! Watch him going up and banging his head against the wall!" Everybody was charmed with the Salome dance, especially when Miss Summers drew the cover off a meat platter she'd been dancing around, and there was Arabella sitting on her hind legs, with a card tied to her neck, and the card said that at eleven there would be a clambake in the kitchen for all the guests. (The clambake was my idea, but the dog, of course, was Miss Julia's. I never saw a woman so full of ideas, although it seems that what should have been on the platter was the head of somebody or other.) Just after the dance I saw Mr. von Inwald talking to Miss Patty. He had been ugly all evening, and now he looked like a devil. She stood facing him with her head thrown back and her fingers twisting her ruby ring. I guessed that she was about as much surprised as anything else, people having a habit of being pleasant to her most of the time. He left her in a rage, and as he went he collided with Arabella and kicked her. Miss Patty went white but Miss Summers was not a bit put out. She simply picked up the howling dog and confronted Mr. von Inwald. "Perhaps you didn't notice," she said sweetly, "but you kicked my dog." "Why don't you keep her out of the way?" he snarled, and they stood glaring at each other. "Under the circumstances, Arabella," Miss Julia said—and everybody was listening—"we can only withdraw Mr. von Inwald's invitation to the kitchen." "Thank you, I had not intended to go," he said furiously, and went out into the veranda, slamming the door behind him. Mr. Jennings looked up from where he was playing chess by the fire and nodded at Miss Summers. "Serves him right for his temper!" he said. "Checkmate!" said the bishop. Mr. Jennings turned and glared at the board. Then with one sweep he threw all the chessmen on the floor. As Tillie said later, it would be a pity to spoil two houses with Mr. von Inwald and Mr. Jennings If they were in the same family, they could work it off on each other. Miss Patty came down to the news stand and pretended to hunt for a magazine. I reached over and stroked her hand. "Don't take it too hard, dearie," I said. "He's put out to-night, and maybe he isn't well. Men are like babies. If their stomachs are all right and have plenty in them, they're pleasant enough. It's been my experience that your cranky man's a sick man." "I don't think he is sick, Minnie," she said, with a catch in her voice. "I—I think he is just dev—devilish!" Well, I thought that too, so I just stroked her hand, and after a minute she got her color again. "It is hard for him," she said. "He thinks this is all vulgar and American, and—oh, Minnie, I want to get away, and yet what shall I do without you to keep me sensible." "You'll be a long ways off soon," I said, touching the ring under my hand. "I wish you could come with me," she said, but I shook my head. "Here is one dog that isn't going to sit under any rich man's table and howl for crumbs," I answered. "If he kicked ME, I'd bite him." At eleven o'clock we had the clambake with beer in the kitchen, and Mr. von Inwald came, after all. They were really very cheerful, all of them. Doctor Barnes insisted that Senator Biggs must not fast any longer, and he ate by my count three dozen clams. At the end, when everybody was happy and everything forgiven, Mr. Pierce got up and made a speech. He said he was sorry for what had happened that day, but that much he had said he still maintained: that to pretend to make people well in the way most sanatoriums did it was sheer folly, and he felt his responsibility too keenly to countenance a system that was clearly wrong and that the best modern thought considered obsolete. Miss Cobb sat up at that; she is always talking about the best modern thought. He said that perfect health, clear skins, bright eyes—he looked at the women, and except for Miss Patty, there wasn't an honest complexion or a bright eye in the lot—keen appetites and joy of living all depended on rational and simple living. "Hear, hear!" said the men. "The nearer we live to nature, the better," said Senator Biggs oracularly. "Back to nature," shouted Mr. Moody through a clam. "Exactly," Mr. Pierce said, smiling. Mrs. Moody looked alarmed. "You don't mean doing without clothes—and all that!" she protested. "Surely!" Miss Summers said, holding up her beer glass. "A toast, everybody! Back to nature, sans rats, sans rouge, sans stays, sans everything. I'll need to wear a tag with my name on it. Nobody will recognize me!" Mr. Pierce got up again at the head of the long kitchen table and said he merely meant rational living—more air, more exercise, simpler food and better hours. It was being done now in a thousand fresh-air farms, and succeeding. Men went back to their business clearer-headed and women grew more beautiful. At that, what with the reaction from sitting in the cold station, and the beer and everything, they all grew enthusiastic. Doctor Barnes made a speech, telling that he used to be puny and weak, and how he went into training and became a pugilist, and how he'd fought the Tennessee something or other—the men nodded as if they knew—and licked him in forty seconds or forty rounds, I'm not sure which. The men were standing on their chairs cheering for him, and even Mr. Jennings, who'd been sitting and not saying much, said he thought probably there was something in it. They ended by agreeing to try it out for a week, beginning with the morning, when everybody was to be down for breakfast by seven-thirty. Mr. Thoburn got up and made a speech, protesting that they didn't know what they were letting themselves in for, and ended up by demanding to know if he was expected to breakfast at seven-thirty. "Yes, or earlier," Mr. Pierce said pleasantly. "I suppose you could have something at seven." "And suppose I refuse?" he retorted disagreeably. But everybody turned on him, and said if they could do it, he could, and he sat down again. Then somebody suggested that if they were to get up they'd have to go to bed, and the party broke up. Doctor Barnes helped me gather up the clam shells and the plates. "It's a risky business," he said. "To-night doesn't mean anything; they're carried away by the reaction and the desire for something new. The next week will tell the tale." "If we could only get rid of Mr. Thoburn!" I exclaimed. Doctor Barnes chuckled. "We may not get rid of him," he said, "but I can promise him the most interesting week of his life. He'll be too busy for mischief. I'm going to take six inches off his waist line." Well, in a half-hour or so I had cleared away, and I went out to the lobby to lock up the news stand. Just as I opened the door from the back hall, however, I heard two people talking. It was Miss Pat and Mr. Pierce. She was on the stairs and he in the hall below, looking up. "I don't WANT to stay!" she was saying. "But don't you see?" he argued. "If you go, the others will. Can't you try it for a week?" "I quite understand your motive," she said, looking down at him more pleasantly than she'd ever done, "and it's very good of you and all that. But if you'd only left things as they were, and let us all go, and other people come—" "That's just it," he said. "I'm told it's the bad season and nobody else would come until Lent. And, anyhow, it's not business to let a lot of people go away mad. It gives the place a black eye." "Dear me," she said, "how businesslike you are growing!" He went over close to the stairs and dropped his voice. "If you want the bitter truth," he went on, trying to smile, "I've put myself on trial and been convicted of being a fool and a failure. I've failed regularly and with precision at everything I have tried. I've been going around so long trying to find a place that I fit into, that I'm scarred as with many battles. And now I'm on probation—for the last time. If this doesn't go, I—I—" "What?" she asked, leaning down to him. "You'll not—" "Oh, no," he said, "nothing dramatic, of course. I could go around the country in a buggy selling lightning-rods—" She drew herself back as if she resented his refusal of her sympathy. "Or open a saloon in the Philippines!" he finished mockingly. "There's a living in that." "You are impossible," she said, and turned away. Oh, I haven't any excuse to make for him! I think he was just hungry for her sympathy and her respect, knowing nothing else was coming to him. But the minute they grew a bit friendly he seemed to remember the prince, and that, according to his idea of it, she was selling herself, and he would draw off and look at her in a mocking unhappy way that made me want to slap him. He watched her up the stairs and then turned and walked to the fire, with his hands in his pockets and his head down. I closed the news stand and he came over just as I was hanging up the cigar-case key for Amanda King in the morning. He reached up and took the key off its nail. "I'll keep that," he said. "It's no tobacco after this, Minnie." "You can't keep them here, then," I retorted. "They've got to smoke; it's the only work they do." "We'll see," he said quietly. "And—oh, yes, Minnie, now that we shall not be using the mineral spring—" "Not use the mineral spring!" I repeated, stupefied. "Certainly NOT!" he said. "This is a drugless sanatorium, Minnie, from now on. That's part of the theory—no drugs." "Well, I'll tell you one thing," I snapped, "theory or no theory, you've got to have drugs. No theory that I ever heard of is going to cure Mr. Moody's indigestion and Miss Cobb's neuralgia." "They won't have indigestion and neuralgia." "Or Amanda King's toothache." "We won't have Amanda King." He put his elbow on the stand and smiled at me. "Listen, Minnie," he said. "If you hadn't been wasting your abilities in the mineral spring, I'd be sorry to close it. But there will be plenty for you to do. Don't you know that the day of the medicine-closet in the bath-room and the department-store patent-remedy counter is over? We've got sanatoriums now instead of family doctors. In other words, we put in good sanitation systems and don't need the plumber and his repair kit." "The pharmacy?" I said between my teeth. "Closed also. No medicine, Minnie. That's our slogan. This is the day of prophylaxis. The doctors have taken a step in the right direction and are giving fewer drugs. Christian Science has abolished drugs and established the healer. We simply abolish the healer." "If we're not going to use the spring-house, we might have saved the expense of the new roof in the fall," I said bitterly. "Not at all. For two hours or so a day the spring-house will be a rest-house—windows wide open and God's good air penetrating to fastnesses it never knew before." "The spring will freeze!" "Exactly. My only regret is that it is too small to skate on. But they'll have the ice pond." "When I see Mr. Moody skating on the ice pond," I said sarcastically, "I'll see Mrs. Moody dead with the shock on the bank." "Not at all," he replied calmly. "You'll see her skating, too." And with that he went to bed. # CHAPTER XXIV: LIKE DUCKS TO WATER They took to it like ducks take to water. Not, of course, that they didn't kick about making their own beds and having military discipline generally. They complained a lot, but when after three days went by with the railroad running as much on schedule as it ever does, they were all still there, and Mr. Jennings had limped out and spent a half-hour at the wood-pile with his gouty foot on a cushion, I saw it was a success. I ought to have been glad. I was, although when Mrs. Dicky found they were all staying, and that she might have to live in the shelter-house the rest of the winter, there was an awful scene. I was glad, too, every time I could see Mr. Thoburn's gloomy face, or hear the things he said when his name went up for the military walk. (Oh yes, we had a blackboard in the hall, and every morning each guest looked to see if it was wood-pile day or military-walk day. At first, instead of wood-pile, it was walk-clearing day, but they soon had the snow off all the paths.) As I say, I was glad. It looked as if the new idea was a success, although as Doctor Barnes said, nobody could really tell until new people began to come. That was the real test. They had turned the baths into a gymnasium and they had beginners' classes and advanced classes, and a prize offered on the blackboard of a cigar for the man who made the most muscular improvement in a week. The bishop won it the first week, being the only one who could lie on his back and raise himself to a sitting position without helping himself with his hands. As Mrs. Moody said, it would be easy enough if somebody only sat on one's feet to hold them down. But I must say I never got over the shock of seeing the spring-house drifted with snow, all the windows wide open, the spring frozen hard, and people sitting there during the rest hour, in furs and steamer rugs, trying to play cards with mittens on—their hands, not the cards, of course—and not wrangling. I was lonesome for it! I hadn't much to do, except from two to four to be at the spring-house, and to count for the deep-breathing exercise. Oh, yes, we had that, too! I rang a bell every half-hour and everybody got up, and I counted slowly "one" and they breathed in through their noses, and "two" and they exhaled quickly through their mouths. I guess most of them used more of their lungs than they ever knew they had. Well, everybody looked better and felt better, although they wouldn't all acknowledge it. Miss Cobb suffered most, not having the fire log to curl her hair with. But as she said herself, between gymnasium and military walks, and the silence hour, and eating, which took a long time, everybody being hungry—and going to bed at nine, she didn't see how she could have worried with it, anyhow. The fat ones, of course, objected to an apple and a cup of hot water for breakfast, but except Mr. Thoburn, they all realized it was for the best. He wasn't there for his health, he said, having never had a sick day in his life, but when he saw it was apple and hot water or leave, he did like Adam—he took the apple. The strange thing of all was the way they began to look up to Mr. Pierce. He was very strict; if he made a rule, it was obey or leave. (As they knew after Mr. Moody refused to take the military walk, and was presented with his bill and a railroad schedule within an hour. He had to take the military walk with Doctor Barnes that afternoon alone.) They had to respect a man who could do all the things in the gymnasium that they couldn't, and come in from a ten or fifteen-mile tramp through the snow and take a cold plunge and a swim to rest himself. It was on Monday that we really got things started, and on Monday afternoon Miss Summers came out to the shelter-house in a towering rage. "Where's Mr. Pierce?" she demanded. "I guess you can see he isn't here," I said. "Just wait until I see him!" she announced. "Do you know that I am down on the blackboard for the military walk to-day? "Why not?" She turned and glared at me. "Why not?" she repeated. "Why, the audacity of the wretch! He brings me out into the country in winter to play in his atrocious play, strands me, and then tells me to walk twenty miles a day and smile over it!" She came over to me and shook my arm. "Not only that," she said, "but he has cut out my cigarettes and put Arabella on dog biscuit—Arabella, who can hardly eat a chicken wing." "Well, there's something to be thankful for," I said. "He didn't put you on dog biscuit." She laughed then, with one of her quick changes of humor. "The worst of it is," she said, in a confidential whisper, "I'll do it. I feel it. I guess if the truth were known I'm some older than he is, but—I'm afraid of him, Minnie. Little Judy is ready to crawl around and speak for a cracker or a kind word. Oh, I'm not in love with him, but he's got the courage to say what he means and do what he says." She went to the door and looked back smiling. "I'm off for the wood-pile," she called back. "And I've promised to chop two inches off my heels." As I say, they took to it like ducks to water—except two of them, von Inwald and Thoburn. Mr. von Inwald stayed on, I hardly know why, but I guess it was because Mr. Jennings still hadn't done anything final about settlements, and with the newspapers marrying him every day it wasn't very comfortable. Next to him, Mr. Thoburn was the unhappiest mortal I have ever seen. He wouldn't leave, and with Doctor Barnes carrying out his threat to take six inches off his waist, he stopped measuring window-frames with a tape line and took to measuring himself. I came across him on Wednesday—the third day—straggling home from the military walk. He and Mr. von Inwald limped across the tennis-court and collapsed on the steps of the spring-house while the others went on to the sanatorium. I had been brushing the porch, and I leaned on my broom and looked at them. "You're both looking a lot better," I said. "Not so—well, not so beer-y. How do you like it by this time?" "Fine!" answered Mr. Thoburn. "Wouldn't stay if I didn't like it." "Wouldn't you?" "But I'll tell you this, Minnie," he said, changing his position with a groan to look up at me, "somebody ought to warn that young man. Human nature can stand a lot but it can't stand everything. He's overdoing it!" "They like it," I said. "They think they do," he retorted. "Mark my words, Minnie, if he adds another mile to the walk to-morrow there will be a mutiny. Kingdoms may be lost by an extra blister on a heel." Mr. von Inwald had been sitting with his feet straight out, scowling, but now he turned and looked at me coolly. "All that keeps me here," he said, "is Minnie's lovely hair. It takes me mentally back home, Minnie, to a lovely lady—may I have a bit of it to keep by me?" "You may not," I retorted angrily. "Oh! The lovely lady—but never mind that. For the sake of my love for you, Minnie, find me a cigarette, like a good girl! I am desolate." "There's no tobacco on the place," I said firmly, and went on with my sweeping. "When I was a boy," Mr. Thoburn remarked, looking out thoughtfully over the snow, "we made a sort of cigarette out of corn-silk. You don't happen to have any corn-silk about, do you, Minnie?" "No," I said shortly. "If you take my advice, Mr. Thoburn, you'll go back to town. You can get all the tobacco you want there—and you're wasting your time here." I leaned on my broom and looked down at him, but he was stretching out his foot and painfully working his ankle up and down. "Am I?" he asked, looking at his foot. "Well, don't count on it too much, Minnie. You always inspire me, and sitting here I've just thought of something." He got up and hobbled off the porch, followed by Mr. von Inwald. I saw him say something to Mr. von Inwald, who threw back his head and laughed. Then I saw them stop and shake hands and go on again in deep conversation. I felt uneasy. Doctor Barnes came out that afternoon and watched me while I closed the windows. He had a package in his hand. He sat on the railing of the spring and looked at me. "You're not warmly enough dressed for this kind of thing," he remarked. "Where's that gray rabbits' fur, or whatever it is?" "If you mean my chinchillas," I said, "they're in their box. Chinchillas are as delicate as babies and not near so plentiful. I'm warm enough." "You look it." He reached over and caught one of my hands. "Look at that! Blue nails! It's about four degrees above zero here, and while the rest are wrapped in furs and steamer rugs, with hotwater bottles at their feet, you've got on a shawl. I'll bet you two dollars you haven't got on any—er—winter flannels." "I never bet," I retorted, and went on folding up the steamer rugs. "I'd like to help," he said, "but you're so darned capable, Miss Minnie—" "You might see if you can get the slot-machine empty," I said. "It's full of water. It wouldn't work and Mr. Moody thought it was frozen. He's been carrying out boiling water all afternoon. If it stays in there and freezes the thing will explode." He wasn't listening. He'd been fussing with his package and now he opened it and handed it to me, in the paper. "It's a sweater," he said, not looking at me. "I bought it for myself and it was too small— Confound it, Minnie, I wish I could lie! I bought them for you! There's the whole business—sweater, cap, leggings and mittens. Go on! Throw them at me!" But I didn't. I looked at them, all white and soft, and it came over me suddenly how kind people had been lately, and how much I'd been getting—the old doctor's waistcoat buttons and Miss Pat's furs, and now this! I just buried my face in them and cried. Doctor Barnes stood by and said nothing. Some men wouldn't have understood, but he did. After a minute or so he came over and pulled the sweater out from the bundle. "I'm glad you like "em," he said, "but as I bought them at Hubbard's, in Finleyville, and as the old liar guaranteed they wouldn't shrink, we'd better not cry on "em." Well, I put them on and I was warmer and happier than I had been for some time. But that night when I went out to the shelter-house with the supper basket I found both the honeymooners in a wild state of excitement. They said that about five o'clock Thoburn had gone out to the shelter-house and walked all around it. Finally he had stopped at one of the windows of the other room, had worked at it with his penknife and got it open, and crawled through. They sat paralyzed with fright, and heard him moving around the other room, and he even tried their door. But it had been locked. They hadn't the slightest idea what he was doing, but after perhaps ten minutes he went away, going out the door this time and taking the key with him. Mr. Dick had gone in when he was safely gone, but he could see nothing unusual, except that the door of the cupboard in the corner was standing open and there was a brand-new, folding, foot rule in it. That day the bar was closed for good, and there was a good bit of fussing. To add to the trouble, that evening at dinner the pastries were cut off, and at eight o'clock a delegation headed by Senator Biggs visited Mr. Pierce in the office and demanded pastry put back on the menu and the stewed fruit taken off. But Mr. Pierce was firm and they came out pretty well subdued. It was that night, I think, that candles were put in the bedrooms, and all the electric lights were turned off at nine-thirty. At ten o'clock I took my candle and went to Mr. Pierce's sitting-room door. I didn't think they'd stand much more and I wanted to tell him so. Nobody answered and I opened the door. He was asleep, face down on the hearth-rug in front of the fire. His candle was lighted on the floor beside him and near it lay a newspaper cutting crumpled in a ball. I picked it up. It was a list of the bridal party for Miss Patty's wedding. I dropped it where I found it and went out and knocked again loudly. He wakened after a minute and came to the door with the candle in his hand. "Oh, it's you, Minnie. Come in!" I went in and put my candle on the table. "I've got to talk to you," I said. "I don't mind admitting things have been going pretty well, but—they won't stand for the candles. You mark my words." "If they'll stand for the bar being closed, why not the candles?" he demanded. "Well," I said, "they can't have electric light sent up in boxes and labeled "books," but they can get liquor that way." He whistled, and then he laughed. "Then we'll not have any books," he said. "I guess they can manage. "My only books were woman's looks—"" and then he saw the ball of paper on the floor and his expression changed. He walked over and picked it up, smoothing it out on the palm of his hand. After a minute he looked up at me. "I haven't been to the shelter-house to-day. They are all right?" "They're nervous. With everybody walking these days they daren't venture a nose out of doors." He was still holding the clipping. "And—Miss Jennings!" he said. "She—I think she looks better." "Her father's in a better humor for one thing—says Abraham Lincoln split logs, and that it beats massage." I had been standing in the doorway, but he took me by the arm and drew me into the room. "I wish you'd sit down for about ten minutes, Minnie," he said. "I guess every fellow has a time when he's got to tell his troubles to some good woman—not but that you know mine already. You're as shrewd as you are kind." I sat down on the edge of a chair. For all I had had so much to do with the sanatorium, I never forgot that I was only the spring-house girl. He threw himself back in his easy chair, with the candle behind him on the table and his arms above his head. "It's like this, Minnie," he said. "Mr. Jennings likes the new order of things and—he's going to stay." I nodded. "And I like it here. I want to stay. It's the one thing I've found that I think I can do. It isn't what I've dreamed of, but it's worth while. To anchor the derelicts of humanity in a sort of repair dock here, and scrape the barnacles off their dispositions, and send them out shipshape again, surely that's something. And I can do it." I nodded again. "But if the Jenningses stay—" he looked at me. "Minnie, in heaven's name, what am I going to do if SHE stays?" "I don't know, Mr. Pierce," I said. "I couldn't sleep last night for thinking about it." He smoothed out the paper and looked at it again, but I think he scarcely saw it. "The situation is humorous," he said, "only my sense of humor seems to have died. She doesn't know I exist, except to invent new and troublesome regulations for her annoyance. She is very sweet when she meets me, but only because I am helping her to have her own way. And I—my God, Minnie, I sit in the office and listen for her step outside!" He moved a little and held out the paper in the candle-light. "'It will please Americans to know,"" he read, "'that with the exception of the Venetian lace robe sent by the bridegroom's mother, all of Miss Patricia Jennings' elaborate trousseau is being made in America. "'Prince Oskar and his suite, according to present arrangements, will sail from Naples early in March, and the wedding date, although not yet definitely fixed, will probably be the first week in April. The wedding party will include—"" He stopped there, and looked at me, trying to smile. "I knew it all before," he said, "but there's something inevitable about print. I guess I hadn't realized it." He had the same look of wretchedness he'd had the first night I saw him—a hungry look—and I couldn't help it; I went over to him and patted him on the head like a little boy. I was only the spring-house girl, but I was older than he was, and he needed somebody to comfort him. "I can't think of anything to say that will help any," I said, "unless it's what you wrote yourself on the blackboard down in the hall, "Keep busy and you'll keep happy."" He reached up for my hand, and rough and red as it was—having been in the spring for so many years—he kissed it. "Good for you, Minnie!" he said. "You're rational, and for a day or so I haven't been. That's right, KEEP BUSY. I'll do it." He got up and put his hands on my shoulders. "Good old pal, when you see me going around as if all the devils of hell were tormenting me, just come up and say that to me, will you?" I promised, and he opened the door, candle in hand, and smiling. "I'm a thousand per cent. better already," he said. "I just needed to tell somebody, I think. I dare say I've made a lot more fuss than it really deserves." At the far end of the hall, a girl came out of one room, and carrying a candle, went across to another. It was Miss Patty, going to bid her father good night. When I left, he was still staring down the hall after her, his candle dripping wax on the floor, and his face white. I guess he hadn't overstated his case. # CHAPTER XXV: THE FIRST FRUITS By Friday of that week you would hardly have known any of them. The fat ones were thinner and the thin ones fatter, and Miss Julia Summers could put her whole hand inside her belt. And they were pleasant. They'd sit down to a supper of ham and eggs and apple sauce, and yell for more apple sauce, and every evening in the billiard room they got up two weighing pools, one for the ones who wanted to reduce, and one for the people who wanted to gain. Everybody put in a dollar, and at gymnasium hour the next morning the ones who'd gained or lost the most won the pool. Mr. Thoburn won the losing pool on Thursday and Friday—he didn't want to lose weight, but he was compelled to under the circumstances. And I think worry helped him to it. They fussed some still about sleeping with the windows open, especially the bald-headed men. However, the bishop, who had been bald for thirty years, was getting a fine down all over the top of his head, and this encouraged the rest. The bishop says it is nature's instinct to protect itself from cold—all animals have fur, and heavier fur in winter—and he believed that it was the ultimate cure for baldness. Men lose their hair on top, he said, because they wear hats, and so don't need it. But let the top of the head need protection, and lo, hair comes there. Although, as Mr. Thoburn said, his nose was always cold in winter, and nature never did anything for IT. Mr. von Inwald was still there, and not troubling himself to be agreeable to any but the Jennings family. He and Mr. Pierce carefully avoided each other, but I knew well enough that only policy kept them apart. Both of them, you see, were working for something. Miss Cobb came to the spring-house early Friday morning, and from the way she came in and shut the door I knew she had something on her mind. She walked over to where I was polishing the brass railing around the spring—it had been the habit of years, and not easy to break—and stood looking at me and breathing hard. "Minnie," she exclaimed, "I have found the thief!" "Lord have mercy!" I said, and dropped the brass polish. "I have found the thief!" she repeated firmly. "Minnie, our sins always find us out." "I guess they do," I said shakily, and sat down on the steps to the spring. "Oh, Miss Cobb, if only he would use a little bit of sense!" "He?" she said. "HE nothing! It's that Summers woman I'm talking about, Minnie. I knew that woman wasn't what she ought to be the minute I set eyes on her." "The Summers woman!" I repeated. Miss Cobb leaned over the railing and shook a finger in my face. "The Summers woman," she said. "One of the chambermaids found my—my PROTECTORS hanging in the creature's closet!" I couldn't speak. There had been so much happening that I'd clean forgotten Miss Cobb and her woolen tights. And now to have them come back like this and hang themselves around my neck, so to speak—it was too much. "Per—perhaps they're hers," I said weakly after a minute. "Stuff and nonsense!" declared Miss Cobb. "Don't you think I know my own, with L. C. in white cotton on the band, and my own darning in the knee where I slipped on the ice? And more than that, Minnie, where those tights are, my letters are!" I glanced at the pantry, where her letters were hidden on the upper shelf. The door was closed. "But—but what would she want with the letters?" I asked, with my teeth fairly hitting together. Miss Cobb pushed her forefinger into my shoulder. "To blackmail me," she said, in a tragic voice, "or perhaps to publish. I've often thought of that myself—they're so beautiful. Letters from a life insurance agent to his lady-love—interesting, you know, and alliterative. As for that woman—!" "What woman!" said Miss Summers' voice from behind us. We jumped and turned. "I always save myself trouble, so if by any chance you are discussing me—" "As it happens," Miss Cobb said, glaring at her, "I WAS discussing you." "Fine!" said Miss Julia. "I love to talk about myself." "I doubt if it's an edifying subject," Miss Cobb snapped. Miss Julia looked at her and smiled. "Perhaps not," she said, "but interesting. Don't put yourself out to be friendly to me, Miss Cobb, if you don't feel like it." "Are you going to return my letters?" Miss Cobb demanded. "Your letters?" "My letters—that you took out of my room!" "Look here," Miss Julia said, still in a good humor, "don't you suppose I've got letters of my own, without bothering with another woman's?" "Perhaps," Miss Cobb replied in triumph, "perhaps you will say that you don't know anything of my—of my black woolen protectors?" "Never heard of them!" said Miss Summers. "What are they?" And then she caught my eye, and I guess I looked stricken. "Oh!" she said. "Miss Cobb was robbed the other night," I explained, as quietly as I could. "Somebody went into her room and took a bundle of letters." "Letters!" Miss Summers straightened and looked at me. "And my woolen tights," said Miss Cobb indignantly, "with all this cold weather and military walks, and having to sit two hours a day by an open window! And I'll tell you this, Miss Summers, your dog got in my room that night, and while I have no suspicions, the chambermaid found my—er—missing garment this morning in your closet!" "I don't believe," Miss Julia said, looking hard at me, "that Arabella would steal anything so—er—grotesque! Do you mean to say," she added slowly, "that nothing was taken from that room but the—lingerie and a bundle of letters?" "Exactly," said Miss Cobb, "and I'd thank you for the letters." "The letters!" Miss Julia retorted. "I've never been in your room. I haven't got the letters. I've never seen them." Then a light dawned in her face. "I—oh, it's the funniest ever!" And with that she threw her head back and laughed until the tears rolled down her cheeks and she held her side. "Screaming!" she gasped. "It's screaming! But, oh, Minnie, to have seen your face!" Miss Cobb swept to the door and turned in a fury. "I do not think it is funny," she stormed, "and I shall report to Mr. Carter at once what I have discovered." She banged out, and Miss Julia put her head on a card-table and writhed with joy. "To have seen your face, Minnie!" she panted, wiping her eyes. "To have thought you had Dick Carter's letters, that I keep rolled in asbestos, and then to have opened them and found they were to Miss Cobb!" "Be as happy as you like," I snapped, "but you are barking up the wrong tree. I don't know anything about any letters and as far as that goes, do you think I've lived here fourteen years to get into the wrong room at night? If I'd wanted to get into your room, I'd have found your room, not Miss Cobb's." She sat up and pulled her hat straight, looking me right in the eye. "If you'll recall," she said, "I came into the spring-house, and Arabella pulled that—garment of Miss Cobb's off a table. It was early—nobody was out yet. You were alone, Minnie, or no," she said suddenly, "you were not alone. Minnie, WHO was in the pantry?" "What has that to do with it?" I managed, with my feet as cold as stone. She got up and buttoned her sweater. "Don't trouble to lie," she said. "I can see through a stone wall as well as most people. Whoever got those letters thought they were stealing mine, and there are only two people who would try to steal my letters; one is Dick Carter, and the other is his brother-in-law. It wasn't Sam in the pantry—he came in just after with his little snip of a wife." "Well?" I managed. But she was smiling again, not so pleasantly. "I might have known it!" she said. "What a fool I've been, Minnie, and how clever you are under that red thatch of yours! Dicky can not appear as long as I am here, and Pierce takes his place, and I help to keep the secret and to play the game! Well, I can appreciate a joke on myself as well as most people, but—Minnie, Minnie, think of that guilty wretch of a Dicky Carter shaking in the pantry!" "I don't know what you are talking about," I said, but she only winked and went to the door. "Don't take it too much to heart," she advised. "Too much loyalty is a vice, not a virtue. And another piece of advice, Minnie—when I find Dicky Carter, stand from under; something will fall." They had charades during the rest hour that afternoon, the overweights headed by the bishop, against the underweights headed by Mr. Moody. They selected their words from one of Horace Fletcher's books, and as Mr. Pierce wasn't either over or underweight, they asked him to be referee. Oh, they were crazy about him by that time. It was "Mr. Carter" here and "dear Mr. Carter" there, with the women knitting him neckties and the men coming up to be bullied and asking for more. And he kept the upper hand, too, once he got it. It was that day, I think, that he sent Senator Biggs up to make his bed again, and nobody in the place will ever forget how he made old Mr. Jennings hang his gymnasium suit up three times before it was done properly. The old man was mad enough at the time, but inside of twenty minutes he was offering Mr. Pierce the cigar he'd won in the wood-chopping contest. But if Mr. Pierce was making a hit with the guests, he wasn't so popular with the Van Alstynes or the Carters. The night the cigar stand was closed Mr. Sam came to me and leaned over the counter. "Put the key in a drawer," he said. "I can slip down here after the lights are out and get a smoke." "Can't do it, Mr. Van Alstyne," I said. "Got positive orders." "That doesn't include me." He was still perfectly good-humored. "Sorry," I said. "Have to have a written order from Mr. Pierce." He put a silver dollar on the desk between us and looked at me over it. "Will that open the case?" he asked. But I shook my head. "Well, I'll be hanged! What the devil sort of order did he give you?" "He said," I repeated, "that I'd be coaxed and probably bribed to open the cigar case, and that you'd probably be the first one to do it, but I was to stick firm; you've been smoking too much, and your nerves are going." "Insolent young puppy!" he exclaimed angrily, and stamped away. So that I was not surprised when on that night, Friday, I was told to be at the shelter-house at ten o'clock for a protest meeting. Mrs. Sam told me. "Something has to be done," she said. "I don't intend to stand much more. Nobody has the right to say when I shall eat or what. If I want to eat fried shoe leather, that's my affair." We met at ten o'clock at the shelter-house, everybody having gone to bed—Miss Patty, the Van Alstynes and myself. The Dickys were on good terms again, for a wonder, and when we went in they were in front of the fire, she on a box and he at her feet, with his head buried in her lap. He didn't even look up when we entered. "They're here, Dicky," she said. "All right!" he answered in a smothered voice. "How many of "em?" "Four," she said, and kissed the tip of his ear. "For goodness sake, Dick!" Mrs. Sam snapped in a disgusted tone, "stop that spooning and get us something to sit on." "Help yourself," he replied, still from his wife's lap, "and don't be jealous, sis. If the sight of married happiness upsets you, go away. Go away, anyhow." Mr. Sam came over and jerked him into a sitting position. "Either you'll sit up and take part in this discussion," he said angrily, "or you'll go out in the snow until it's over." Mr. Dick leaned over and kissed his wife's hand. "A cruel fate is separating us," he explained, "but try to endure it until I return. I'll be on the other side of the fireplace." Miss Patty came to the fire and stood warming her hands. I saw her sister watching her. "What's wrong with you, Pat?" she asked. "Oskar not behaving?" "Don't be silly," Miss Patty said. "I'm all right." "She's worked to death," Mrs. Sam put in. "Look at all of us. I'll tell you I'm so tired these nights that by nine o'clock I'm asleep on my feet." "I'm tired to death, but I don't sleep," Miss Patty said. "I—I don't know why." "I do," her sister said. "If you weren't so haughty, Pat, and would just own up that you're sick of your bargain—" "Dolly!" Miss Patty got red and then white. "Oh, all right," Mrs. Dicky said, and shrugged her shoulders. "Only, I hate to see you make an idiot of yourself, when I'm so happy." Mr. Dick made a move at that to go across the fireplace to her, but Mr. Sam pushed him back where he was. "You stay right there," he said. "Here's Pierce now." He came in smiling, and as he stood inside the door, brushing the snow off, it was queer to see how his eyes went around the circle until he'd found Miss Patty and stopped at her. Nobody answered his smile, and he came over to the fire beside Miss Patty. "Great night!" he said, looking down at her. "There's something invigorating in just breathing that wind." "Do you think so?" Mrs. Sam said disagreeably. "Of course, we haven't all got your shoulders." "That's so," he answered, turning to her. "I said you women should not come so far. We could have met in my sitting-room." "You forget one thing," Mr. Dick put in disagreeably, "and that is that this meeting concerns me, and I can not very well go to YOUR sitting-room." "Fact," said Mr. Pierce, "I'd forgotten about you for the moment." "You generally do," Mr. Dick retorted. "If you want the truth, Pierce, I'm about tired of your high-handed methods." Mr. Pierce set his jaw and looked down at him. "Why? I've saved the place, haven't I? Why, look here," he said, and pulled out a couple of letters, "these are the first fruits of those that weep—in other words, per aspera ad astra! Two new guests coming the last of the week—want to be put in training!" Well, that was an argument nobody could find fault with, but their grievance was about themselves and they couldn't forgive him. They turned on him in the most heartless way—even Miss Patty—and demanded that he give them special privileges—breakfast when they wanted it, and Mr. Sam the key to the bar. And he stood firm, as he had that day in the lobby, and let the storm beat around him, looking mostly at Miss Patty. It was more than I could bear. "Shame on all of you!" I said. "He's done what he promised he'd do, and more. If he did what he ought, he'd leave this minute, and let you find out for yourself what it is to drive thirty-odd different stomachs and the same number of bad dispositions in one direction." "You are perfectly right, Minnie," Miss Patty said. "We're beastly, all of us, and I'm sorry." She went over and held out her hand to him. "You've done the impossible," she told him. He beamed. "Your approval means more than anything," he said, holding her hand. Mrs. Dick sat up and opened her eyes wide. "Speaking of Oskar," she began, and then stopped, staring past her sister, toward the door. We all turned, and there, blinking in the light, was Miss Summers. # CHAPTER XXVI: OVER THE FENCE IS OUT "WELL!" she said, and stood staring. Then she smiled—I guess our faces were funny. "May I come in?" she asked, and without waiting she came in and closed the door. "You DO look cozy!" she said, and shook herself free of snow. Mr. Dick had turned white. He got up with his eyes on her, and twice he opened his mouth and couldn't speak. He backed, still watching her, to his wife, and stood in front of her, as if to protect her. Mr. Sam got his voice first. "B—bad night for a walk," he said. "Frightful!" she said. "I've been buried to my knees. May I sit down?" To those of us who knew, her easy manner had something horrible in it. "Sorry there are no chairs, Julia," Mr. Pierce said. "Sit on the cot, won't you?" "Who IS it?" Mrs. Dick asked from, as you may say, her eclipse. She and Miss Summers were the only calm ones in the room. "I—I don't know," Mr. Dick stammered, but the next moment Miss Julia, from the cot, looked across at him and grinned. "Well, Dicky!" she said. "Who'd have thought it!" "You said you didn't know her!" his wife said from behind him. "Who'd have thought wha—what?" he asked with bravado. "All this!" Miss Julia waved her hand around the room, with its bare walls, and blankets over the windows to keep the light in and the cold out, and the circle of us sitting around on sand boxes from the links and lawn rollers. "To find you here, all snug in your own home, with your household gods and a wife." Nobody could think of anything to say. "That is," she went on, "I believe there is a wife. Good heavens, Dicky, it isn't Minnie?" He stepped aside at that, disclosing Mrs. Dick on her box, with her childish eyes wide open. "There—there IS a wife, Julia," he said. "This is her—she." Well, she'd come out to make mischief—it was written all over her when she came in the door, but when Mr. Dick presented his wife, frightened as he was and still proud of her, and Mrs. Dick smiled in her pretty way, Miss Summers just walked across and looked down at her with a queer look on her face. I shut my eyes and waited for the crash, but nothing came, and when I opened them again there were the two women holding hands and Miss Summers smiling a sort of crooked grin at Mr. Dick. "I ought to be very angry with your husband," she said. "I—well, I never expected him to marry without my being among those present. But since he has done it—! Dick, you wretched boy, you took advantage of my being laid up with the mumps!" "Mumps!" Mrs. Dick said. "Why, he has just had them himself!" She looked around the circle suspiciously, and every one of us looked as guilty as if he had been caught with the mumps concealed around him somewhere. "I didn't have real mumps," Mr. Dick explained. "It was only—er—a swelling." "You SAID it was mumps, and even now you hate pickles!" Mr. Pierce had edged over to Miss Summers and patted her shoulder. "Be a good sport, Julia," he whispered. She threw off his hand. "I'm being an idiot!" she said angrily. "Dick's an ass, and he's treated me like a villain, but look at that baby! It will be twenty years before she has to worry about her weight." "I never cared for pickles," Mr. Dick was saying with dignity. "The doctor said—" "I think we'd better be going." Miss Patty got up and gathered up her cloak. But if she meant to break up the party Miss Summers was not ready. "If you don't mind," she said, "I'll stay. I'm frozen, and I've got to go home and sleep with my window up. You're lucky," she went on to the Dickys. "I dare say the air in here would scare us under a microscope, but at least it is warm." The Van Alstynes made a move to go, but Mr. Dicky frantically gestured to them not to leave him alone, and Mrs. Sam sat down again sulkily. Mr. Pierce picked up his cap. "I'll take you back," he said to Miss Patty, and his face was fairly glowing. But Miss Patty slipped her arm through mine. "Come, Minnie, Mr. Pierce is going to take us," she said. "I'd—I'd rather go alone," I said. "Nonsense." "I'm not ready. I've got to gather up these dishes," I objected. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the glow dying out of Mr. Pierce's face. But Miss Patty took my arm and led me to the door. "Let them gather up their own dishes," she said. "Dolly, you ought to be ashamed to let Minnie slave for you the way she does. Good night, everybody." I did my best to leave them alone on the way back, but Miss Patty stuck close to my heels. It was snowing, and the going was slow. For the first five minutes she only spoke once. "And so Miss Summers and Dicky Carter are old friends!" "It appears so," Mr. Pierce said. "She's rather magnanimous, under the circumstances," Miss Patty remarked demurely. "Under what circumstances?" I heard her laugh a little, behind me. "Never mind," she said. "You needn't tell me anything you don't care to. But what a stew you must all have been in!" There was a minute's silence behind me, and then Mr. Pierce laughed too. "Stew!" he said. "For the last few days I've been either paralyzed with fright or electrified into wild bursts of mendacity. And I'm not naturally a liar." "Really!" she retorted. "What an actor you are!" They laughed together at that, and I gained a little on them. At the corner where the path skirted the deer park and turned toward the house I lost them altogether and I floundered on alone. But I had not gone twenty feet when I stopped suddenly. About fifty yards ahead a lantern was coming toward me through the snow, and I could hear a man's voice, breathless and gasping. "Set it down," it said. "The damned thing must be filled with lead." It sounded like Thoburn. "It's the snow," another voice replied, Mr. von Inwald's. "I told you it would take two trips." "Yes," Thoburn retorted, breathing in groans. "Stay up all night to get the blamed stuff here, and then get up at dawn for a cold bath and a twenty-mile walk and an apple for breakfast. Ugh, my shoulder is dislocated." I turned and flew back to Miss Patty and Pierce. They had stopped in the shelter of the fence corner and Mr. Pierce was on his knees in front of her! I was so astounded that I forgot for the moment what had brought me. "Just a second," he was saying. "It's ice on the heel." "Please get up off your knees, you'll take cold." "Never had a cold. I'll scrape it off with my knife. Why don't you wear overshoes?" "I never have a cold!" she retorted. "Why, Minnie, is that you?" "Quick," I panted. "Thoburn and Mr. von Inwald coming—basket—lantern—warn the shelter-house!" "Great Scott!" Mr. Pierce said. "Here, you girls crawl over the fence: you'll be hidden there. I'll run back and warn them." The lantern was swinging again. Mr. Thoburn's grumbling came to us through the snow, monotonous and steady. "I can't climb the fence!" Miss Patty said pitifully. But Mr. Pierce had gone. I reached my basket through the bars and climbed the fence in a hurry. Miss Patty had got almost to the top and was standing there on one snow-covered rail, staring across at me through the darkness. "I can't, Minnie," she whispered hopelessly. "I never could climb a fence, and in this skirt—!" "Quick!" I said in a low tone. The lantern was very close. "Put your leg over." She did, and sat there looking down at me like a scared baby. "Now the other." "I—I can't!" she whispered. "If I put them both over I'll fall." "Hurry!" With a little grunt she put the other foot over, sat a minute with agony in her face and her arms out, then she slid off with a squeal and brought up in a sitting position inside the fence corner. I dropped beside her. "What was that noise?" said Mr. Thoburn, almost upon us. "Something's moving inside that fence corner." "It's them deers," Mike's voice this time. We could make out the three figures. "Darned nuisance, them deers is. They'd have been shot long ago if the spring-house girl hadn't objected. She thinks she's the whole cheese around here." "Set it down again," Mr. von Inwald panted. We heard the rattle of bottles as they put down the basket, and the next instant Thoburn's fat hand was resting on the rail of the fence over our heads. I could feel Miss Patty trembling beside me. But he didn't look over. He stood there resting, breathing hard, and swearing at the weather, while Mike waited, in surly silence, and the von Inwald cursed in German. After my heart had been beating in my ears for about three years the fat hand moved, and I heard the rattle of glass again and Thoburn's groan as he bent over his half of the load. "'Come on, my partners in distress, My comrades through this wilderness,"" he said, and the others grunted and started on. When they had disappeared in the snow we got out of our cramped position and prepared to scurry home. I climbed the fence and looked after them. "Humph!" I said, "I guess that basket isn't for the hungry poor. I'd give a good bit to know—" Then I turned and looked for Miss Patty. She was flat on the snow, crawling between the two lower rails of the fence. "Have you no shame?" I demanded. She looked up at me with her head and half her long sealskin coat through the fence. "None," she said pitifully. "Minnie, I'm stuck perfectly tight!" "You ought to be left as you are," I said, jerking at her, "for people to come"—jerk—"to-morrow to look at"—jerk. She came through at that, and we lay together in the snow and like to burst a rib laughing. "You'll never be a princess, Miss Patty," I declared. "You're too lowly minded." She sat up suddenly and straightened her sealskin cap on her head. "I wish," she said unpleasantly, "I wish you wouldn't always drag in disagreeable things, Minnie!" And she was sulky all the way to the house. Miss Summers came to my room that night as I was putting my hot-water bottle to bed, in a baby-blue silk wrapper with a band of fur around the low neck—Miss Summers, of course, not the hot-water bottle. "Well!" she said, sitting down on the foot of the bed and staring at me. "Well, young woman, for a person who has never been farther away than Finleyville you do pretty well!" "Do what?" I asked, with the covers up to my chin. "Do what, Miss Innocence!" she said mockingly. "You're the only red-haired woman I ever saw who didn't look as sophisticated as the devil. I'll tell you one thing, though." She reached down into the pocket of her dressing-gown and brought up a cigarette and a match. "You never had me fooled for a minute!" She looked at me over the match. I lay and stared back. "And another thing," she said. "I never had any real intention of marrying Dicky Carter and raising a baby sanatorium. I wouldn't have the face to ask Arabella to live here." "I'm glad you feel that way, Miss Summers," I said. "I've gone through a lot; I'm an old woman in the last two weeks. My hair's falling from its having to stand up on end half the time." She leaned over and put her cigarette on the back of my celluloid mirror, and then suddenly she threw back her head and laughed. "Minnie!" she said, between fits, "Minnie! As long as I live I'll never forget that wretched boy's face! And the sand boxes! And the blankets over the windows! And the tarpaulin over the rafters! And Mr. Van Alstyne sitting on the lawnmower! I'd rather have had my minute in that doorway than fifty thousand dollars!" "If you had had to carry out all those things—" I began, but she checked me. "Listen!" she said. "Somebody with brains has got to take you young people in hand. You're not able to look after yourselves. I'm fond of Alan Pierce, for one thing, and I don't care to see a sanatorium that might have been the child of my solicitude kidnaped and reared as a summer hotel by Papa Thoburn. A good fat man is very, very good, Minnie, but when he is bad he is horrid." "It's too late," I objected feebly. "He can't get it now." "Can't he!" She got up and yawned, stretching. "Well, I'll lay you ten to one that if we don't get busy he'll have the house empty in thirty-six hours, and a bill of sale on it in as many days." The celluloid mirror blazed up at that minute, and she poured the contents of my water-pitcher over the dresser. For the next hour, while I was emptying water out of the bureau drawers and hanging up my clothes to dry, she told me what she knew of Thoburn's scheme, and it turned me cold. But I went to bed finally. Just as I was dozing off, somebody opened my door, and I heard a curious scraping along the floor. I turned on the light, and there was Arabella, half-dragging and half-carrying a solid silver hand-mirror with a card on it: "To Minnie, to replace the one that blew up. J. S." # CHAPTER XXVII: A CUPBOARD FULL OF RYE Doctor Barnes came to me at the news stand the next morning before gymnasium. "Well," he said, "you look as busy as a dog with fleas. Have you heard the glad tidings?" "What?" I asked without much spirit. "I've heard considerable tidings lately, and not much of it has cheered me up any." He leaned over and ran his fingers up through his hair. "You know, Miss Minnie," he said, "somebody ought kindly to kill our friend Thoburn, or he'll come to a bad end." "Shall I do it, or will you?" I said, filling up the chewing-gum jar. (Mr. Pierce had taken away the candy case.) Doctor Barnes glanced around to see if there was any one near, and leaned farther over. "The cupboard isn't empty now!" he said. "Not for nothing did I spend part of the night in the Dicky-bird's nest! By the way, did you ever hear that touching story about little Sally walking up and laying an egg?—I see you have. What do you think is in the cupboard?" "I know about it," I said shortly. "Liquor—in a case labeled "Books—breakable."" "'Sing a song of sixpence, a cupboard full of rye!"" he said. "Almost a goal! But not ONLY liquors, my little friend. Champagne—cases of it—caviar, canned grouse with truffles, lobster, cheeses, fine cigars, everything you could think of, erotic, exotic and narcotic. An orgy in cans and bottles, a bacchanalian revel: a cupboard full of indigestion, joy, forgetfulness and katzenjammer. Oh, my suffering palate, to have to leave it all without one sniff, one sip, one nibble!" "He's wasting his money," I said. "They're all crazy about the simple life." He looked around and, seeing no one in the lobby, reached over and took one of my hands. "Strange," he said, looking at it. "No webs, and yet it's been an amphibious little creature most of its life. My dear girl, our friend Thoburn is a rascal, but he is also a student of mankind and a philosopher. Gee," he said, "think of a woman fighting her way alone through the world with a bit of a fist like that!" I jerked my hand away. "It's like this, my dear," he said. "Human nature's a curious thing. It's human nature, for instance, for me to be crazy about you, when you're as hands-offish as a curly porcupine. And it is human nature, by the same token, to like to be bullied, especially about health, and to respect and admire the fellow who does the bullying. That's why we were crazy about Roosevelt, and that's why Pierce is trailing his kingly robes over them while they lie on their faces and eat dirt—and stewed fruit." He reached for my hand again, but I put it behind me. "But alas," he said, "there is another side to human nature, and our friend Thoburn has not kept a summer hotel for nothing. It is notoriously weak, especially as to stomach. You may feed "em prunes and whole-wheat bread and apple sauce, and after a while they'll forget the fat days, and remember only the lean and hungry ones. But let some student of human nature at the proper moment introduce just one fat day, one feast, one revel—" "Talk English," I said sharply. "Don't break in on my flights of fancy," he objected. "If you want the truth, Thoburn is going to have a party—a forbidden feast. He's going to rouse again the sleeping dogs of appetite, and send them ravening back to the Plaza, to Sherry's and Del's and the little Italian restaurants on Sixth Avenue. He's going to take them up on a high mountain and show them the wines and delicatessen of the earth, and then ask them if they're going to be bullied into eating boiled beef and cabbage." "Then I don't care how soon he does it," I said despondently. "I'd rather die quickly than by inches." "Die!" he said. "Not a bit of it. Remember, our friend Pierce is also a student of human nature. He's thinking it out now in the cold plunge, and I miss my guess if Thoburn's sky-rocket hasn't got a stick that'll come back and hit him on the head." He had been playing with one of the chewing-gum jars, and when he had gone I shoved it back into its place. It was by the merest chance that I glanced at it, and I saw that he had slipped a small white box inside. I knew I was being a silly old fool, but my heart beat fast when I took it out and looked at it. On the lid was written "For a good girl," and inside lay the red puffs from Mrs. Yost's window down in Finleyville. Just under them was an envelope. I could scarcely see to open it. "Dearest Minnie," the note inside said, "I had them matched to my own thatch, and I think they'll match yours. And since, in the words of the great Herbert Spencer, things that match the same thing match each other—! What do you say?—Barnes." "P. S.—I love you. I feel like a damn fool saying it, but heaven knows it's true." "P. P. S.—Still love you. It's easier the second time." "N. B.—I love you—got the habit now and can't stop writing it.—B." Well, I had to keep calm and attend to business, but I was seething inside like a Seidlitz powder. Every few minutes I'd reread the letter under the edge of the stand, and the more I read it the more excited I got. When a woman's gone past thirty before she gets her first love-letter, she isn't sure whether to thank providence or the man, but she's pretty sure to make a fool of herself. Thoburn came to the news stand on his way out with the ice-cutting gang to the pond. "Last call to the dining-car, Minnie," he said. "'Will you—won't you—will you—won't you—will you join the dance?"" "I haven't any reason for changing my plans," I retorted. "I promised the old doctor to stick by the place, and I'm sticking." "As the man said when he sat down on the flypaper. You're going by your heart, Minnie, and not by your head, and in this toss, heads win." But with my new puffs on the back of my head, and my letter in my pocket, I wasn't easy to discourage. Thoburn shouldered his pick and, headed by Doctor Barnes, the ice-cutters started out in single file. As they passed the news stand Doctor Barnes glanced at me, and my heart almost stopped. "Do they—is it a match?" he asked, with his eyes on mine. I couldn't speak, but I nodded "yes," and all that afternoon I could see the wonderful smile that lit up his face as he went out. It made him almost good-looking. Oh, there's nothing like love, especially if you've waited long enough to be hungry for it, and not spoiled your taste for it by a bite here and a piece of a heart there, beforehand, so to speak. Miss Cobb stopped at the news stand on her way to the gymnasium. She was a homely woman at any time, and in her bloomers she looked like a soup-bone. Under ordinary circumstances she'd have seen the puffs from the staircase and have asked what they cost and told me they didn't match, in one breath. But she had something else on her mind. She padded over to the counter in her gym shoes, and for once she'd forgotten her legs. "May I speak to you, Minnie?" she asked. "You mostly do," I said. "There isn't a new rule about speaking, is there?" "This is important, Minnie," she said, rolling her eyes around as she always did when she was excited. "I'm in such a state of ex—I see you bought the puffs! Perhaps you will lend them to me if we arrange for a country dance." "They don't match," I objected. "They—they wouldn't look natural, Miss Cobb." "They don't look natural on you, either. Do you suppose anybody believes that the Lord sent you hair in seventeen rows of pipes, so that, red as it is, it looks like an instantaneous water-heater?" "I'm not lending them," I said firmly. It would have been like lending an engagement ring, to my mind. Miss Cobb was not offended. She went at once to what had brought her, and bent over the counter. "Where's the Summers woman?" she asked. "In the gym. She's made herself a new gym suit out of her polka dotted silk, and she looks lovely." "Humph!" retorted Miss Cobb. "Minnie, you love Miss Jennings almost like a daughter, don't you?" "Like a sister, Miss Cobb," I said. "I'm not feeble yet." "Well, you wouldn't want to see her deceived." "I wouldn't have it," I answered. "Then what do you call this?" She put a small package on the counter, and stared at me over it. "There's treachery here, black treachery." She pointed one long thin forefinger at the bundle. "What is it? A bomb?" I asked, stepping back. More than once it had occurred to me that having royalty around sometimes meant dynamite. Miss Cobb showed her teeth. "Yes, a bomb," she said. "Minnie, since that creature took my letters and my er—protectors, I have suspected her. Now listen. Yesterday I went over the letters and I missed one that beautiful one in verse, beginning, "Oh, creature of the slender form and face!" Minnie, it had disappeared—melted away." "I'm not surprised," I said. "And so, last night, when the Summers woman was out, goodness knows where, Blanche Moody and I went through her room. We did not find my precious missive from Mr. Jones, but we did find these, Minnie, tied around with a pink silk stocking." "Heavens!" I said, mockingly. "Not a pink silk!" "Pink," she repeated solemnly. "Minnie, I have felt it all along. Mr. Oskar von Inwald is the prince himself." "No!" "Yes. And more than that, he is making desperate love to Miss Summers. Three of those letters were written in one day! Why, even Mr. Jones—" "The wretch!" I cried. I was suddenly savage. I wanted to take Mr. von Inwald by the throat and choke him until his lying tongue was black, to put the letters where Miss Patty could never see them. I wanted—I had to stop to sell Senator Biggs some chewing-gum, and when he had gone, Miss Cobb was reaching out for the bundle. I snatched it from her. "Give me those letters instantly," she cried shrilly. But I marched from behind the counter and over to the fireplace. "Never," I said, and put the package on the log. When they were safely blazing, I turned and looked at Miss Cobb. "I'd put my hand right beside those letters to save Miss Patty a heartache," I said, "and you know it." "You're a fool." She was raging. "You'll let her marry him and have the heartaches afterward." "She won't marry him," I snapped, and walked away with my chin up, leaving her staring. But I wasn't so sure as I pretended to be. Mr. von Inwald and Mr. Jennings had been closeted together most of the morning, and Mr. von Inwald was whistling as he started out for the military walk. It seemed as if the very thing that had given Mr. Pierce his chance to make good had improved Mr. Jennings' disposition enough to remove the last barrier to Miss Jennings' wedding with somebody else. Well, what's one man's meat is another man's poison. # CHAPTER XXVIII: LOVE, LOVE, LOVE Even if we hadn't known, we'd have guessed there was something in the air. There was an air of subdued excitement during the rest hour in the spring-house, and a good bit of whispering and laughing, in groups which would break up with faces as long as the moral law the moment they saw my eye on them. They were planning a mutiny, as you may say, and I guess no sailors on a pirate ship were more afraid of the captain's fist than they were of Mr. Pierce's disapproval. He'd been smart enough to see that most of them, having bullied other people all their lives, liked the novelty of being bullied themselves. And now they were getting a new thrill by having a revolt. They were terribly worked up. Miss Patty stayed after the others had gone, sitting in front of the empty fireplace in the same chair Mr. Pierce usually took, and keeping her back to me. When I'd finished folding the steamer rugs and putting them away, I went around and stood in front of her. "Your eyes are red," I remarked. "I've got a cold." She was very haughty. "Your nose isn't red," I insisted. "And, anyhow, you say you never have a cold." "I wish you would let me alone, Minnie." She turned her back to me. "I dare say I may have a cold if I wish." "Do you know what they are saying here?" I demanded. "Do you know that Miss Cobb has found out in some way or other who Mr. von Inwald is? And that the four o'clock gossip edition says your father has given his consent and that you can go and buy a diadem or whatever you are going to wear, right off?" "Well," she said, in a choked voice, with her back to me, "what of it? Didn't you and Mr. Pierce both do your best to bring it about?" "Our what?" I couldn't believe my ears. "You made father well. He's so p—pleasant he'll do anything except leave this awful place!" "Well, of all the ungrateful people—" I began, and then Mr. Pierce came in. He had a curious way of stopping when he saw her, as if she just took the wind out of his sails, so to speak, and then of whipping off his hat, if anything with sails can wear a hat, and going up to her with his heart in his eyes. He always went straight to her and stopped suddenly about two feet away, trying to think of something ordinary to say. Because the extraordinary thing he wanted to say was always on the end of his tongue. But this day he didn't light up when he saw her. He went through all the other motions, but his mouth was set in a straight line, and when he came close to her and looked down his eyes were hard. It's been my experience of men that the younger they are the harder they take things and the more uncompromising they are. It takes a good many years and some pretty hard knocks to make people tolerant. "I was looking for you," he said to her. "The bishop has just told me. There are no obstacles now." "None," she said, looking up at him with wretchedness in her eyes, if he had only seen. "I am very happy." "She was just saying," I said bitterly, "how grateful she was to both of us." "I don't understand." "It is not hard to understand," she said, smiling. I wanted to slap her. "Father was unreasonable because he was ill. You have made him well. I can never thank you enough." But she rather overdid the joy part of it, and he leaned over and looked in her face. "I think I'm stupid," he said. "I know I'm unhappy. But isn't that what I was to do—to make them well if I could?" "How could anybody know—" she began angrily, and then stopped. "You have done even more," she said sweetly. "You've turned them into cherubims and seraphims. Butter wouldn't melt in their mouths. Ugh! How I hate amiability raised to the NTH power!" He smiled. I think it was getting through his thick man's skull that she wasn't so happy as she should have been, and he was thrilled through and through. "My amiability must be the reason you dislike me!" he suggested. They had both forgotten me. "Do I dislike you?" she asked, raising her eyebrows. "I never really thought about it, but I'm sure I don't." She didn't look at him, she looked at me. She knew I knew she lied. His smile faded. "Well," he said, "speaking of disliking amiability, you don't hate yourself, I'm sure." "You are wrong," she retorted, "I loathe myself." And she walked to the window. He took a step or two after her. "Why do it at all?" he asked in a low tone. "You don't love him—you can't. And if it isn't love—" He remembered me suddenly and stopped. "Please go on," she said sweetly from the window. "Do not mind Minnie. She is my conscience, anyhow. She is always scolding me; you might both scold in chorus." "I wouldn't presume to scold." "Then give me a little advice and look superior and righteous. I'm accustomed to that also." "As long as you are in this mood, I can't give you anything but a very good day," he said angrily, and went toward the door. But when he had almost reached it he turned. "I will say this," he said, "you have known for three days that Mr. Thoburn was going to have a supper to-night, and you didn't let us know. You must have known his purpose." I guess I was as surprised as she was. I'd never suspected she knew. She looked at him over her shoulder. "Why shouldn't he have a supper?" she demanded angrily. "I'm starving—we're all starving for decent food. I'm kept here against my will. Why shouldn't I have one respectable meal? You with your wretched stewed fruits and whole-wheat breads! Ugh!" "I'm sorry. Thoburn's idea, of course, is to make the guests discontented, so they will leave." "Oh!" she said. She hadn't thought of that, and she flushed. "At least," she said, "you must give me credit for not trying to spoil Dick and Dolly's chance here." "We are going to allow the party to go on," he said, still stiff and uncompromising. It would have been better if he'd accepted her bit of apology. "How kind of you! I dare say he would have it, anyhow." She was sarcastic again. "Probably. And you—will go?" "Certainly." "Even when the result—" "Oh, don't preach!" she said, putting her hands to her ears. "If you and Minnie want to preach, why don't you preach at each other? Minnie talks "love, love, love." And you preach health and morality. You drive me crazy between you." "Suppose," he said with a gleam in his eyes, "suppose I preach "love, love, love!"" She put her fingers in her ears again. "Say it to Minnie," she cried, and turned her back to him. "Very well," he said. "Minnie, Miss Jennings refuses to listen, and there are some things I must say. Once again I am going to register a protest against her throwing herself away in a loveless marriage. I—I feel strongly on the subject, Minnie." She half turned, as if to interrupt. Then she thought better of it and kept her fingers in her ears, her face flushed. But he had learned what he hoped—that she could hear him. "You ask me why I feel so strongly, Minnie, and you are right to ask. Under ordinary circumstances, Minnie, any remark of mine on the subject would be ridiculous impertinence." He stopped and eyed her back, but she did not move. "It is impertinence under any circumstances, but consider the provocation. I see a young, beautiful and sensitive girl, marrying, frankly without love, a man whom I know to be unworthy, and you ask me to stand aside and allow it to happen!" "Are you still preaching?" she asked coldly over her shoulder. "It must be a long sermon." And then, knowing he had only a moment more, his voice changed and became deep and earnest. His hands, that were clutching a chair-back, took a stronger hold, so that the ends of the nails were white. "You see, Minnie," he said, turning a little pale, "I—I love Miss Jennings myself. You have known it a long time, for you love her, too. It has come to the point that I measure the day by the hours when I can see her. She doesn't care for me; sometimes I think she hates me." He paused here, but Miss Patty didn't move. "I haven't anything to offer a woman except a clean life and the kind of love that a woman could be proud of. I have no title—" Miss Patty suddenly took her fingers out of her ears and turned around. She was flushed and shaken, but she looked past him without blinking an eyelash to me. "Dear me," she said, "the sermon must have been exciting, Minnie! You are quite trembly!" And with that she picked up her muff and went out, with not a glance at him. He looked at me. "Well," he said, "THAT'S over. She's angry, Minnie, and she'll never forgive me." "Stuff!" I snapped, "I notice she waited to hear it all, and no real woman ever hated a man for saying he loved her." # CHAPTER XXIX: A BIG NIGHT TO-NIGHT I carried out the supper to the shelter-house as usual that night, but I might have saved myself the trouble. Mrs. Dicky was sitting on a box, with her hair in puffs and the folding card-table before her, and Mr. Dick was uncorking a bottle of champagne with a nail. There were two or three queer-smelling cans open on the table. Mrs. Dick looked at my basket and turned up her nose. "Put it anywhere, Minnie," she said loftily, "I dare say it doesn't contain anything reckless." "Cold ham and egg salad," I said, setting it down with a slam. "Stewed prunes and boiled rice for dessert. If those cans taste as they smell, you'd better keep the basket to fall back on. Where'd you get THAT?" Mr. Dick looked at me over the bottle and winked. "In the next room," he said, "iced to the proper temperature, paid for by somebody else, and coming after a two-weeks' drought! Minnie, there isn't a shadow on my joy!" "He'll miss it," I said. But Mr. Dick was pouring out three large tumblersful of the stuff, and he held one out to me. "Miss it!" he exclaimed. "Hasn't he been out three times to-day, tapping his little CACHE? And didn't he bring out Moody and the senator and von Inwald this afternoon, and didn't they sit in the next room there from two to four, roaring songs and cracking bottles and jokes." "Beasts!" Mrs. Dicky said savagely. "Two hours, and we daren't move!" "Drink, pretty creature!" Mr. Dick said, motioning to my glass. "Don't be afraid of it, Minnie; it's food and drink." "I don't like it," I said, sipping at it. "I'd rather have the spring water." "You'll have to cultivate a taste for it," he explained. "You'll like the second half better." I got it down somehow and started for the door. Mr. Dick came after me with something that smelled fishy on the end of a fork. "Better eat something," he suggested. "That was considerable champagne, Minnie." "Stuff and nonsense," I said. "I was tired and it has rested me. That's all, Mr. Dick." "Sure?" "Certainly," I said with dignity, "I'm really rested, Mr. Dick. And happy—I'm very happy, Mr. Dick." "Perhaps I'd better close the door," he said. "The light may be seen—" "You needn't close it until I've finished talking," I said. "I've done my best for you and yours, Mr. Dick. I hope you appreciate it. Night after night I've tramped out here through the snow, and lost sleep, and lied myself black in the face—you've no idea how I've had to lie, Mr. Dick." "Come in and shut the door, Dick," Mrs. Dick called, "I'm freezing." That made me mad. "Exactly," I said, glaring at her through the doorway. "Exactly—I can wade through the snow, bringing you meals that you scorn—oh, yes, you scorn them. What did you do to the basket tonight? Look at it, lying there, neglected in a corner, with p—perfectly good ham and stewed fruit in it." All of a sudden I felt terrible about the way they had treated the basket, and I sat down on the steps and began to cry. I remember that, and Mr. Dick sitting down beside me and putting his arm around me and calling me "good old Minnie," and for heaven's sake not to cry so loud. But I was past caring. I had a sort of recollection of his getting me to stand up, and our walking through about twenty-one miles of snow to the spring-house. When we got there he stood off in the twilight and looked at me. "I'm sorry, Minnie," he said, "I never dreamed it would do that." "Do what?" "Nothing. You're sure you won't forget?" "I never forget," I said. I had got up the steps by this time and was trying to figure why the spring-house door had two knobs. I hadn't any idea what he meant. "Remember," he said, very slowly, "Thoburn is going to have his party to-night instead of to-morrow. Tell Pierce that. To-night, not to-morrow." I was pretty well ashamed when I got in the spring-house and sat down in the dark. I kept saying over and over to myself, so I'd not forget, "tonight, not to-morrow," but I couldn't remember WHAT was to be to-night. I was sleepy, too, and my legs were cold and numb. I remember going into the pantry for a steamer rug, and sitting down there for a minute, with the rug around my knees before I started to the house. And that is all I DO remember. I was wakened by a terrible hammering in the top of my head. I reached out for the glass of water that I always put beside my bed at night and I touched a door-knob instead. Then I realized that the knocking wasn't all in my head. There was a sort of steady movement of feet on the other side of the door, with people talking and laughing. And above it all rose the steady knock—knock of somebody beating on tin. "Can't do it." It was the bishop's voice. "I am convinced that nothing but dynamite will open this tin of lobster." "Just a moment, Bishop," Mr. Thoburn's voice and the clink of bottles, "I have a can opener somewhere. You'll find the sauce a la Newburg—" "Here, somebody, a glass, quick! A bottle's broken!" "Did anybody remember to bring salt and pepper?" "DEAR Mr. Thoburn!" It sounded like Miss Cobb. "Think of thinking of all this!" "The credit is not mine, dear lady," Mr. Thoburn said. "Where the deuce is that corkscrew? No, dear lady, man makes his own destiny, but his birth date remains beyond his control." "Ladies and gentlemen," somebody said, "to Mr. Thoburn's birthday being beyond his control!" There was the clink of glasses, but I had remembered what it had been that I was to remember. And now it was too late. I was trapped in the pantry of my spring-house and Mr. Pierce was probably asleep. I clutched my aching head and tried to think. I was roused by hearing somebody say that Miss Jennings had no glass, and by steps nearing the pantry. I had just time to slip the bolt. "Pantry's locked!" said a voice. "Drat that Minnie!" somebody else said. "The girl's a nuisance." "Hush!" Miss Summers said. "She's probably in there now—taking down what we say and what we eat. Convicting us out of our own mouths." I held my breath and the knob rattled. Then they found a glass for Miss Patty and forgot the pantry. Under cover of the next burst of noises I tried the pantry window, but it was frozen shut. Nothing but a hammer would have loosened it. I began to dig at it with a wire hairpin, but I hadn't much hope. The fun in the spring-house was getting fast and furious. Miss Summers was leaning against the pantry door and I judged that most of the men in the room were around her, as usual. I put my ear to the panel of the door, and I could pretty nearly see what was going on. They were toasting Mr. Thoburn, and getting hungrier every minute as the supper was put out on the card-tables. "To the bottle!" somebody said. "In infancy, the milk bottle; in our prime, the wine bottle; in our dotage, the pill bottle." Mr. von Inwald came over and stood beside Miss Summers, and I could hear every whisper. "I have good news for you," she said in an undertone. "Oh! And what?" "Sh! You may recall," she said, "the series of notes, letters, epistles, with which you have been honoring me lately?" "How could I forget? They were written in my heart's blood!" "Indeed!" Her voice lifted its eyebrows, so to speak. "Well, somebody got in my room last night and stole I dare say a pint of your heart's blood. They're gone." He was pretty well upset, as he might be, and she stood by and listened to the things he said, which, if they were as bad in English as they sounded in German, I wouldn't like to write down. And when he cooled down and condensed, as you may say, into English, he said Miss Jennings must have seen the letters, for she would hardly speak to him. And Miss Summers said she hoped Miss Jennings had—she was too nice a girl to treat shamefully. And after he had left her there alone, I heard a sort of scratching on the door behind Miss Summers' back, and then something being shoved under the door. I stooped down and picked it up. It was a key! I struck a match, and I saw by the tag that it was the one to the old doctor's rooms. I knew right off what it meant. Mr. Pierce had gone to bed, or pretended to throw them off the track and Thoburn had locked him in! Thoburn hadn't taken any chances. He knew the influence Mr. Pierce had over them all, and he and his champagne and tin cans had to get in their work before Mr. Pierce had another chance at them. I had no time to wonder how Miss Summers knew I was in the pantry. I tried the window again, but it wouldn't work. Somebody in the spring-house was shouting, "'Hot butter blue beans, please come to supper!"" and I could hear them crowding around the tables. I worked frantically with the hairpin, and just then two shadowy figures outside slipped around the corner of the building. It was Mr. Pierce and Doctor Barnes! I darted back and put my ear to the door, but they did not come in at once. Mr. Thoburn made a speech, saying how happy he was that they were all well and able to go back to civilization again, where the broiled lobster flourished like a green bay tree and the prune and the cabbage were unknown. There was loud applause, and then Senator Biggs cleared his throat. "Ladies and gentlemen, distinguished fellow guests," he began, "I suggest a toast to the autocrat of Hope Springs. It is the only blot on the evening, that, owing to the exigencies of the occasion, he can not be with us. Securely fastened in his room, he is now sleeping the sleep that follows a stomach attuned to prunes, a mind attuned to rule." "Eat, drink and be merry!" somebody said, "for to-morrow you diet!" There was a swish and rustle, as if a woman got up in a hurry. "Do you mean," said Miss Patty's clear voice, "that you have dared to lock Mr. Pier—Mr. Carter in his room?" "My dear young lady," several of them began, but she didn't give them time. "It is outrageous, infamous!" she stormed. I didn't need to see her to know how she looked. "How DARE you! Suppose the building should catch fire!" "Fire!" somebody said in a bewildered voice. "My dear young lady—" "Don't "my dear young lady' me," she said angrily. "Father, Bishop, will you stand for this? Why, he may jump out the window and hurt himself! Give me the key!" Miss Julia's fingers were beating a tatoo behind her, as if she was afraid I might miss it. "If he jumps out he probably will hurt himself. It is impossible to release him now, Miss Jennings, but if you insist we can have a mattress placed under the window." "Thanks, Thoburn. It won't be necessary." The voice came from the door, and a hush fell on the party. I slipped my bolt and peeped out. Framed in the doorway was Mr. Pierce, with Doctor Barnes looking over his shoulder. The people in the spring-house were abject. That's the only word for it. Craven, somebody suggested later, and they were that, too. They smiled sickly grins and tried to be defiant, and most of them tried to put down whatever they held in their hands and to look innocent. If you ever saw a boy when his school-teacher asks him what he has in his mouth, and multiply the boy thirty times in number and four times in size, you'll know how they looked. Mr. Pierce never smiled. He wouldn't let them speak a word in defense or explanation. He simply lined them up as he did at gym, and sent them, one by one, to the corner with whatever they had in their hands. He made Mr. Jennings give up a bottle of anchovies that he'd stuffed in his pocket, and the bishop had to come over with a cheese. And when it was all over, he held the door open and they went back to the house. They fairly ducked past him in the doorway, although he hadn't said a dozen words. It was a rout. The backbone of the rebellion was broken. I knew that never again would the military discipline of Hope Springs be threatened. Thoburn might as well pack and go. It was Mr. Pierce's day. Mr. von Inwald was almost the last. He stood by, sneering, with an open bottle of olives in his hand, watching the others go out. Mr. Pierce held the door open and eyed him. "I'll trouble you to put that bottle with the others, in the corner," Mr. Pierce said sternly. They stood glaring at each other angrily. "And if I refuse?" "You know the rules here. If you refuse, there is a hotel at Finleyville." Mr. von Inwald glanced past Mr. Pierce to where Doctor Barnes stood behind him, with his cauliflower ear and his pugilist's shoulders. Then he looked at the bottle in his hand, and from it to Miss Patty, standing haughtily by. "I have borne much for you, Patricia," he said, "but I refuse to be bullied any longer. I shall go to the hotel at Finleyville, and I shall take the little olives with me." He smiled unpleasantly at Mr. Pierce, whose face did not relax. He walked jauntily to the door and turned, flourishing the bottle. "The land of the free and the home of the brave!" he sneered, raising the bottle in the air. Standing jeering in the doorway, he bowed to Miss Patty and Mr. Pierce, and put an olive into his mouth. But instantly he made a terrible face, and clapped a hand just in front of his left ear. He stood there a moment, his face distorted—then he darted into the night, and I never saw him again. "Mumps!" Doctor Barnes ejaculated, and stood staring after him from the steps. # CHAPTER XXX: LET GOOD DIGESTION There was no one left but Miss Patty. As she started out past him with a crimson spot in each cheek Mr. Pierce put his hand on her arm. She hesitated, and he closed the door on Doctor Barnes and put his back against it. I had just time to slip back into the pantry and shut myself in. For a minute there wasn't a sound. Then— "I told you I should come," Miss Patty said, in her haughtiest manner. "You need not trouble to be disagreeable." "Disagreeable!" he repeated. "I am abject!" "I don't understand," she said. "But you needn't explain. It really does not matter." "It matters to me. I had to do this to-night. I promised you I would make good, and if I had let this pass—Don't you see, I couldn't let it go." "You can let me go, now." "Not until I have justified myself to you." "I am not interested." I heard him take a step or two toward her. "I don't quite believe that," he said in a low tone. "You were interested in what I said here this afternoon." "I didn't hear it." "None of it?" "Not—not all." "I spoke, you remember, about your sister, and about Dick—" he paused. I could imagine her staring at him in her wide-eyed way. "You never mentioned them!" she said scornfully and stopped. He laughed, a low laugh, boyish and full of triumph. "Ah!" he said. "So you DID hear! I'm going to say it again, anyhow. I love you, Patty. I'm—I'm mad for you. I've loved you hopelessly for so long that to-night, when there's a ray of hope, I'm—I'm hardly sane. I—" "Please!" she said. "I love you so much that I waken at night just to say your name, over and over, and when dawn comes through the windows—" "You don't know what you are saying!" she said wildly. "I am—still—" "I welcome the daylight," he went on, talking very fast, "because it means another day when I can see you. If it sounds foolish, it's—it's really lots worse than it sounds, Patty." The door opened just then, and Doctor Barnes' voice spoke from the step. "I say," he complained, "you needn't—" "Get out!" Mr. Pierce said angrily, and the door slammed. The second's interruption gave him time, I think, to see how far he'd gone, and his voice, when he spoke again, was not so hopeful. "I'm not pleading my cause," he said humbly, "I know I haven't any cause. I have nothing to offer you." "You said this afternoon," Miss Patty said softly, "that you could offer me the—the kind of love that a woman could be proud of." She finished off with a sort of gasp, as if she was shocked at herself. I was so excited that my heart beat a tatoo against my ribs, and without my being conscious of it, as you may say, the pantry door opened about an inch and I found myself with an eye to the crack. They were standing facing each other, he all flushed and eager and my dear Miss Patty pale and trembly. But she wasn't shy. She was looking straight into his eyes and her blessed lips were quivering. "How can you care?" she asked, when he only stood and looked at her. "I've been such a—such a selfish beast!" "Hush!" He leaned toward her, and I held my breath. "You are everything that is best in the world, and I—what can I offer you? I have nothing, not even this sanatorium! No money, no title—" "Oh, THAT!" she interrupted, and stood waiting. "Well, you—you could at least offer yourself!" "Patty!" She went right over to him and put her hands on his shoulders. "And if you won't," she said, "I'll offer myself instead!" His arms went around her like a flash at that, and he kissed her. I've seen a good many kisses in my day, the spring-house walk being a sort of lover's lane, but they were generally of the quick-get-away variety. This was different. He just gathered her up to him and held her close, and if she was one-tenth as much thrilled as I was in the pantry she'd be ready to die kissing. Then, without releasing her, he raised his head, with such a look of victory in his face that I still see it sometimes in my sleep, and his eye caught mine through the crack. But if I'd looked to see him drop her I was mistaken. He drew her up and kissed her again, but this time on the forehead. And when he'd let her go and she had dropped into a chair and hid her shining face against the back, as if she was ashamed, which she might well be, he stood laughing over her bent head at me. "Come out, Minnie!" he called. "Come out and hear the good news!" "Hear!" I said, "I've seen all the news I want." "Gracious!" Miss Patty said, and buried her head again. But he had reached the shameless stage; a man who is really in love always seems to get to that point sooner or later. He stooped and kissed the back of her neck, and if his hand shook when he pushed in one of her shell hairpins it was excitement and not fright. "I hardly realize it, Minnie," he said. "I don't deserve her for a minute." "Certainly not," I said. "He does." Miss Patty's voice smothered. Then she got up and came over to me. "There is going to be an awful fuss, Minnie," she said. "Think of Aunt Honoria—and Oskar!" "Let them fuss!" I said grandly. "If the worst comes, you can spend your honeymoon in the shelter-house. I'm so used to carrying meals there now that it's second nature." And at that they both made for me, and as Mr. Pierce kissed me Doctor Barnes opened the door. He stood for a moment, looking queer and wild, and then he slammed the door and we heard him stamping down the steps. Mr. Pierce had to bring him back. Well, that's all there is to it. The place filled up and stayed filled, but not under Mr. Pierce. Mr. Jennings said ability of his kind was wasted there, once the place was running, and set him to building a railroad somewhere or other, with him and Miss Patty living in a private car, and he carrying a portable telephone with him so he can talk to her every hour or so. Mr. Dick and his wife are running the sanatorium, or think they are. Doctor Barnes is the whole place, really. Mr. Jennings was so glad to have Miss Patty give up the prince and send him back home, after he'd been a week in the hotel at Finleyville looking as if his face would collapse if you stuck a pin in it—Mr. Jennings was so happy, not to mention having worked off his gout at the wood-pile, that he forgave the Dickys without any trouble, and even went out and had a meal with them in the shelter-house before they moved in, with Mr. Dick making the coffee. I miss the spring, as I said at the beginning. It is hard to teach an old dog new tricks, but with Miss Patty happy, and with Doctor Barnes around— Thoburn came out the afternoon before he left, just after the rest hour, and showed me how much too loose his waistcoat had become. "I've lost, Minnie," he confessed. "Lost fifteen pounds and the dream of my life. But I've found something, too." "What?" "My waist line!" he said, and threw his chest out. "You look fifteen years younger," I said, and at that he came over to me and took my hand. "Minnie," he said, "maybe you and I haven't always agreed, but I've always liked you, Minnie—always." "Thanks," I said, taking my hand away. "You've got all kinds of spirit," he said. "You've saved the place, all right. And if you—if you tire of this, and want another home, I've got one, twelve rooms, center hall, tiled baths, cabinet mantels—I'd be good to you, Minnie. The right woman could do anything with me." When I grasped what he meant, I was staggered. "I'm sorry," I explained, as gently as I could. "I'm—I'm going to marry Doctor Barnes one of these days." He stared at me. Then he laughed a little and went toward the door. "Barnes!" he said, turning. "Another redhead, by gad! Well, I'll tell you this, young woman, you're red, but he's redder. Your days for running things to suit yourself are over." "I'm glad of it," I retorted. "I want to be managed myself for a change. Somebody," I said, "who won't be always thinking how he feels, unless it's how he feels toward me." "Bah! He'll bully you." "'It's human nature to like to be bullied,"" I quoted. "And I guess I'm not afraid. He's healthy and a healthy man's never a crank." "A case of yours for health, eh?" he said, and held out his hand. THE END
233	--- title: While the Smoke Rolled author: Robert E. Howard tags: Fiction, Short Story, Western, Humor, Slang word count: 6437 ... # While the Smoke Rolled > "The War of 1812 might have had a very different ending if Sir Wilmot Pembroke had succeeded in his efforts to organize the Western Indians into one vast confederacy to hurl against the American frontier; just why he did fail is as great a mystery as is the nature of the accident which forced his companions to carry him back to Canada on a stretcher." > —Wilkinson's "History of the Northwest." Wolf Mountain, Texas. March 10, 1879 Mister WN. Wilkinson. Chicago, Illinoy. Dear Sir: The schoolmarm down to Coon Creek was reading the above passage to me out of yore history book which you writ. It ain't no mystery. It's all explained in this here letter which I'm sending you which has been sticking in the family Bible along with the birth records for years. It was writ by my grandpap. Please send it back when you've read it, and oblige. Yores respeckfully. Pike Bearfield, Esquire. ~ Aboard the keelboat Pirut Queen. On the Missoury. September, 1814. Mister Peter Bearfield. Nashville, Tennessee. ~ Dear Sir: Well, pap, I hope you air satisfied, perswading me to stay out here on the Missoury and skin bufflers and fight musketeers, whilst everybody else in the family is having big doings and enjoying theirselves. When I think about Bill and John and Joel marching around with Gen'ral Hickory Jackson, and wearing them gorgeous unerforms, and fighting in all them fine battles yore having back there I could dang near bawl. I ain't going to be put on no more jest because I'm the youngest. Soon's I git back to Saint Louis I'm going to throw up my job and head for Tennessee, and the Missoury Fur Company can go to hell. I ain't going to spend all my life working for a living whilst my wuthless brothers has all the fun, by golly, I ain't. And if you tries to oppress me any more, I'll go and enlist up North and git to be a Yankee; you can see from this how desprut I be, so you better consider. Anyway, I jest been through a experience up beyond Owl River which has soured me on the whole dern fur trade. I reckon you'll say what the hell has he been doing up the river this time of year, there ain't no furs up there in the summer. Well, it was all on account of Big Nose, the Minnetaree chief, and I git sick at my stummick right now every time I see a Minnetaree. You know the way the guvment takes Injun chiefs East and shows "em the cities and forts and armies and things. The idea being that the chief will git so scairt when he sees how strong the white man is, that when he gits home he won't never go on the war-path no more. So he comes home and tells the tribe about what he seen, and they accuse him of being a liar and say he's been bought off by the white folks; so he gits mad and goes out and sculps the first white man he meets jest to demonstrate his independence. But it's a good theery, anyway. So they taken Big Nose to Memphis and would of took him all the way to Washington, only they was scairt they'd run into a battle somewheres on the way and the cannon would scare Big Nose into a decline. So they brung him back to Saint Charles and left him for the company to git him back to his village on Knife River. So Joshua Humphrey, one of the clerks, he put a crew of twenty men and four hunters onto the Pirut Queen, and loaded Big Nose on, and we started. The other three hunters was all American too, and the boatmen was Frenchies from down the Mississippi. I wisht you could of saw Big Nose. He had on a plug hat they give him, and a blue swaller-tailed coat with brass buttons, and a big red sash and broadcloth britches—only he'd cut the seat out of "em like a Injun always does; and the boots they give him hurt his flat feet, so he wore "em tied around his neck. He was the most pecooliar-looking critter I ever laid eyes onto, and I shuddered to think what'd happen when the Sioux first ketched sight of him. Big Nose shuddered too, and more'n I did, because the Sioux hated him anyhow, and the Tetons had swore to kiver a drum with his hide. But all the way up the Lower River he was like a hawg in clover, because the Omahas and Osages and Iowas would come down to the bank and look at him, clap their hands over their open mouths to show how astonished and admireful they was. He strutted and swelled all over the boat. But the further away from the Platte we got the more his feathers drooped; and one day a Injun rode up on the bluffs and looked at us as we went past, and he was a Sioux. Big Nose had a chill and we had to revive him with about a quart of company rum, and it plumb broke my heart to see all that good licker going to waste down a Injun's gullet. When Big Nose come to, he shed his white man's duds and got into his regular outfit—which was mostly a big red blanket that looked like a prairie fire by sunset. I told Joshua he better throw the blanket overboard, because it was knowed all up and down the river, and any Sioux would recognize it at a glance. But Joshua said if we threw it overboard we'd have to throw Big Nose overboard too, because he thought it was big medicine. Anyway, he said, they warn't no use trying to keep the Sioux from knowing we was taking Big Nose home. They knowed it already and would take him away from us if they could. Joshua said he aimed to use diplomacy to save Big Nose's sculp. I didn't like the sound of that, because I notice when somebody I'm working for uses diplomacy it generally means I got to risk my neck and he gits the credit. Jest like you, pap, when you git to working and figgering, like you say, the way it always comes around you do the figgering and I do the working. The further north we got, the closter Big Nose stayed in the cabin which ain't big enough to swing a cat in; but Big Nose didn't want to swing no cat, and every time he come on deck he seen swarms of Sioux all over the bluffs jest fixing for to descent on him. Joshua said it was hallucernations, but I said it would be delirium trimmings purty soon if that jug warn't took away from him. We made purty good time, ten to twenty miles a day, except when we had winds agen us, or had to haul the boat along on the cordelle—which is a big line that the Frenchies gits out and pulls on, in case you don't know. Towing a twenty-ton keelboat in water up to yore neck ain't no joke. Every day we expected trouble with the Sioux, but we got past the mouth of the Owl River all right, and Joshua said he guessed the Sioux knowed better'n to try any monkey business with him. And that very day a Yankton on a piebald hoss hailed us from the bluffs, and told us they was a hundred Tetons laying in ambush for us amongst the willers along the next p'int of land. We'd have to go around it on the cordelle; and whilst the boatmen was tugging and hauling in water up to their waists, the Sioux aimed to jump us. The Yankton said the Tetons didn't have nothing personal agen us white men, and warn't aiming to do us no harm—outside of maybe cutting our throats for a joke—but you oughta herd what he said they was going to do to Big Nose. It war plumb scandalous. Big Nose ducked down into the cabin and started having another chill; and the Frenchies got scairt and would of turnt the boat around and headed for Saint Charles if we'd let "em. Us hunters wanted Joshua to put us ashore and let us circle the p'int from inland and come onto the Sioux from behind. We could do a sight of damage to "em before they knowed we was onto "em. But Joshua said not even four American hunters could lick a hundred Sioux, and he furthermore said shet up and let him think. So he sot down on a kag and thunk for a spell, and then he says to me: "Ain't Fat Bear's village out acrost yonder about five mile?" I said yes, and he said: "Well, look, you put on Big Nose's blanket and git on the Yankton's hoss and head for the village. The Sioux'll think we've throwed Big Nose out to root for hisself; and whilst they're chasin' you the boat can git away up the river with Big Nose." "I don't suppose it matters what happens to me!" I says bitterly. "Oh," says he, "Fat Bear is yore friend and wunst you git in his village he won't let the Sioux git you. You'll have a good start before they can see you, on account of the bluffs there, and you ought to be able to beat "em into the village." "I suppose it ain't occurred to you at all that they'll shott arrers at me all the way," I says. "You know a Sioux cain't shoot as good from a runnin' hoss as a Comanche can," he reassured me. "You jest keep three or four hundred yards ahead of "em, and I bet they won't hit you hardly any at all." "Well, why don't you do it, then?" I demanded. At this Joshua bust into tears. "To think that you should turn agen me after all I've did for you!" he wept—though what he ever done for me outside of trying to skin me out of my wages I dunno. "After I taken you off'n a Natchez raft and persuaded the company to give you a job at a princely salary, you does this to me! A body'd think you didn't give a dern about my personal safety! My pore old grandpap used to say: "Bewar' of a Southerner like you would a hawk! He'll eat yore vittles and drink yore licker and then stick you with a butcher knife jest to see you kick!" When I thinks—" "Aw, hesh up," I says in disgust. "I'll play Injun for you. I'll put on the blanket and stick feathers in my hair, but I'll be derned if I'll cut the seat out a my britches." "It'd make it look realer," he argued, wiping his eyes on the fringe of my hunting shirt. "Shet up!" I yelled with passion. "They is a limit to everything!" "Oh, well, all right," says he, "if you got to be temperamental. You'll have the blanket on over yore pants, anyway." So we went into the cabin to git the blanket, and would you believe me, that derned Injun didn't want to lemme have it, even when his fool life was at stake. He thought it was a medicine blanket, and the average Injun would ruther lose his life than his medicine. In fack, he give us a tussle for it, and they is no telling how long it would of went on if he hadn't accidentally banged his head agen a empty rum bottle I happened to have in my hand at the time. It war plumb disgusting. He also bit me severely in the hind laig, whilst I was setting on him and pulling the feathers out of his hair—which jest goes to show how much gratitude a Injun has got. But Joshua said the company had contracted to deliver him to Hidatsa, and we was going to do it if we had to kill him. Joshua give the Yankton a hatchet and a blanket, and three shoots of powder for his hoss—which was a awful price—but the Yankton knowed we had to have it and gouged us for all it was wuth. So I put on the red blanket, and stuck the feathers in my hair, and got on the hoss, and started up a gully for the top of the bluffs. Joshua yelled: "If you git to the village, stay there till we come back down the river. We'll pick you up then. I'd be doin' this myself, but it wouldn't be right for me to leave the boat. T'wouldn't be fair to the company money to replace it, and—" "Aw, go to hell!" I begged, and kicked the piebald in the ribs and headed for Fat Bear's village. When I got up on the bluffs, I could see the p'int; and the Sioux seen me and was fooled jest like Joshua said, because they come b'iling out of the willers and piled onto their ponies and lit out after me. Their hosses was better'n mine, jest as I suspected, but I had a good start; and I was still ahead of "em when we topped a low ridge and got within sight of Fat Bear's village—which was, so far as I know, the only Arikara village south of Grand River. I kept expectin' a arrer in my back because they was within range now, and their howls was enough to freeze a mortal's blood; but purty soon I realized that they aimed to take me alive. They thought I was Big Nose, and they detested him so thorough a arrer through the back was too good for him. So I believed I had a good chance of making it after all, because I seen the piebald was going to last longer'n the Tetons thought he would. I warn't far from the village now, and I seen that the tops of the lodges was kivered with Injuns watching the race. Then a trade-musket cracked, and the ball whistled so clost it stang my ear, and all to wunst I remembered that Fat Bear didn't like Big Nose no better'n the Sioux did. I could see him up on his lodge taking aim at me again, and the Sioux was right behind me. I was in a hell of a pickle. If I taken the blanket off and let him see who I was, the Sioux would see I warn't Big Nose, too, and fill me full of arrers; and if I kept the blanket on he'd keep on shooting at me with his cussed gun. Well, I'd ruther be shot at by one Arikara than a hundred Sioux, so all I could do was hope he'd miss. And he did, too; that is he missed me, but his slug taken a notch out of the piebald's ear, and the critter r'ared up and throwed me over his head; he didn't have no saddle nor bridle, jest a hackamore. The Sioux howled with glee and their chief, old Bitin' Hoss, he was ahead of the others; and he rode in and grabbed me by the neck as I riz. I'd lost my rifle in the fall, but I hit Bitin' Hoss betwixt the eyes with my fist so hard I knocked him off'n his hoss and I bet he rolled fifteen foot before he stopped. I grabbed for his hoss, but the critter bolted, so I shucked that blanket and pulled for the village on foot. The Sioux was so surprized to see Big Nose turn into a white man they forgot to shoot at me till I had run more'n a hundred yards; and then when they did let drive, all the arrers missed but one. It hit me right where you kicked Old Man Montgomery last winter and I will have their heart's blood for it if it's the last thing I do. You jest wait; the Sioux nation will regret shooting a Bearfield behind his back. They come for me lickety-split but I had too good a start; they warn't a hoss in Dakota could of ketched me under a quarter of a mile. The Arikaras was surprized too, and some of "em fell off their tipis and nearly broke their necks. They was too stunned to open the gate to the stockade, so I opened it myself—hit it with my shoulder and knocked it clean off'n the rawhide hinges and fell inside on top of it. The Sioux was almost on top of me, with their arrers drawed back, but now they sot their hosses back onto their haunches and held their fire. If they'd come in after me it would of meant a fight with the Arikaras. I half expected "em to come in anyway, because the Sioux ain't no ways scairt of the Arikaras, but in a minute I seen why they didn't. Fat Bear had come down off of his lodge, and I riz up and says: "Hao!" "Hao!" says he, but he didn't say it very enthusiastic. He's a fat-bellied Injun with a broad, good-natured face; and outside of being the biggest thief on the Missoury, he's a good friend of the white men—especially me, because I wunst taken him away from the Cheyennes when they was going to burn him alive. Then I seen about a hundred strange braves in the crowd, and they was Crows. I recognized their chief, old Spotted Hawk, and I knowed why the Sioux didn't come in after me in spite of the Arikaras. That was why Fat Bear was a chief, too. A long time ago he made friends with Spotted Hawk, and when the Sioux or anybody crowded him too clost, the Crows would come in and help him. Them Crows air scrappers and no mistake. "This is plumb gaudy!" I says. "Git yore braves together and us and the Crows will go out and run them fool Tetons clean into the Missoury, by golly." "No, no, no!" says he. He's hung around the trading posts till he can talk English nigh as good as me. "There's a truce between us! Big powwow tonight!" Well, the Sioux knowed by now how they'd been fooled; but they also knowed the Pirut Queen would be past the p'int and outa their reach before they could git back to the river; so they camped outside, and Bitin' Hoss hollered over the stockade: "There is bad flesh in my brother's village! Send it forth that we may cleanse it with fire!" Fat Bear bust into a sweat and says: "That means they want to bum you! Why did you have to come here, jest at this time?" "Well," I says in a huff, "air you goin' to hand me over to "em?" "Never!" says he, wiping his brow with a bandanner he stole from the guvment trading post below the Kansas. "But I'd rather a devil had come through that gate than a Big Knife!" That's what them critters calls a American. "We and the Crows and Sioux have a big council on tonight, and—" Jest then a man in a gilded cock hat and a red coat come through the crowd, with a couple of French Canadian trappers, and a pack of Soc Injuns from the Upper Mississippi. He had a sword on him and he stepped as proud as a turkey gobbler in the fall. "What is this bloody American doing here?" says he, and I says: "Who the hell air you?" And he says: "Sir Wilmot Pembroke, agent of Indian affairs in North America for his Royal Majesty King George, that's who!" "Well, step out from the crowd, you lobster-backed varmint," says I, stropping my knife on my leggin', "and I'll decorate a sculp-pole with yore innards—and that goes for them two Hudson Bay skunks, too!" "No!" says Fat Bear, grabbing my arm. "There is a truce! No blood must be spilled in my village! Come into my lodge." "The truce doesn't extend beyond the stockade," says Sir Wilmot. "Would you care to step outside with me?" "So yore Teton friends could fill me with arrers?" I sneered. "I ain't as big a fool as I looks." "No, that wouldn't be possible," agreed he, and I was so overcame with rage all I could do was gasp. Another instant and I would of had my knife in his guts, truce or no truce, but Fat Bear grabbed me and got me into his tipi. He had me set on a pile of buffler hides and one of his squaws brung me a pot of meat; but I was too mad to be hungry, so I only et four or five pounds of buffler liver. Fat Bear sot down his trade musket, which he had stole from a Hudson Bay Company trapper, and said: "The council tonight is to decide whether or not the Arikaras shall take the warpath against the Big Knives. This Red-Coat, Sir Wilmot, says the Big White Chief over the water is whipping the Big White Father of the Big Knives, in the village called Washington." I was so stunned by this news I couldn't say nothing. We hadn't had no chance to git news about the war since we started up the river. "Sir Wilmot wants the Sioux, Crows and Arikaras to join him in striking the American settlements down the river," says Fat Bear. "The Crows believe the Big Knives are losing the war, and they're wavering. If they go with the Sioux, I must go too; otherwise the Sioux will burn my village. I cannot exist without the aid of the Crows. The Red-Coat has a Soc medicine man, who will go into a medicine lodge tonight and talk with the Great Spirit. It is big medicine, such was never seen before on any village on the Missouri. The medicine man will tell the Crows and the Arikaras to go with the Sioux." "You mean this Englishman aims to lead a war-party down the river?" I says, plumb horrified. "Clear to Saint Louis!" says Fat Bear. "He will wipe out all the Americans on the river!" "He won't neither," says I with great passion, rising and drawing my knife. "I'll go over to his lodge right now and cut his gizzard out!" But Fat Bear grabbed me and hollered: "If you spill blood, no one will ever dare recognize a truce again! I cannot let you kill the Red-Coat!" "But he's plannin' to kill everybody on the river, dern it!" I yelled. "What'm I goin' to do?" "You must get up in council and persuade the warriors not to go on the war-path," says he. "Good gosh," I says, "I can't make no speech." "The Red-Coat has a serpent's tongue," says Fat Bear, shaking his head. "If he had presents to give the chiefs, his cause would be as good as won. But his boat upset as he came along the river, and all his goods were lost. If you had presents to give to Spotted Hawk and Biting Horse—" "You know I ain't got no presents!" I roared, nigh out of my head. "What the hell am I goin' to do?" "I dunno," says he, despairful. "Some white men pray when they're in a pickle." "I'll do it!" I says. "Git outa my way!" So I kneeled down on a stack of buffler robes, and I'd got as far as: "Now I lay me down to sleep—" when my knee nudged something under the hides that felt familiar. I reched down and yanked it out—and sure enough, it was a keg! "Where'd you git this?" I yelped. "I stole it out of the company's storehouse the last time I was in Saint Louis," he confessed, "but—" "But nothin'!" exulted I. "I dunno how come you ain't drunk it all up before now, but it's my wampum! I ain't goin' to try to out-talk that lobster-back tonight. Soon's the council's open, I'll git up kind of casual and say that the Red-Coat has got a empty bag of talk for "em, with nothin' to go with it, but the Big White Father at Washington has sent "em a present. Then I'll drag out the keg. T'aint much to divide up amongst so many, but the chiefs is what counts, and they's enough licker to git them too drunk to know what Sir Wilmot and the medicine man says." "They know you didn't bring anything into the village with you," he says. "So much the better," I says. "I'll tell "em it's wakan and I can perjuice whiskey out of the air." "They'll want you to perjuice some more," says he. "I'll tell "em a evil spirit, in the shape of a skunk with a red coat on, is interferin' with my magic powers," I says, gitting brainier every minute. "That'll make "em mad at Sir Wilmot. Anyway, they won't care where the licker come from. A few snorts and the Sioux will probably remember all the gredges they got agen the Socs and run "em outa camp." "You'll get us all killed," says Fat Bear, mopping his brow. "But about that keg, I want to tell you—" "You shet up about that keg," I says sternly. "It warn't yore keg in the first place. The fate of a nation is at stake, and you tries to quibble about a keg of licker! Git some stiffenin' into yore laigs; what we does tonight may decide who owns this continent. If we puts it over it'll be a big gain for the Americans." "And what'll the Indians get out of it?" he ast. "Don't change the subjeck," I says. "I see they've stacked buffler hides out at the council circle for the chiefs and guests to get on—and by the way, you be dern sure you gives me a higher stack to get on than Sir Wilmot gits. When nobody ain't lookin', you hide this keg clost to where I'm to set. If I had to send to yore lodge to git it, it'd take time and look fishy, too." "Well," he begun reluctantly, but I flourished a fist under his nose and said with passion: "Dang it, do like I says! One more blat outa you and I busts the truce and yore snoot simultaneous!" So he spread his hands kinda helpless, and said something about all white men being crazy, and anyway he reckoned he'd lived as long as the Great Spirit aimed for him to. But I give no heed, because I have not got no patience with them Injun superstitions. I started out of his lodge and dang near fell over one of them French trappers which they called Ondrey; t'other'n was named Franswaw. "What the hell you doin' here?" I demanded, but he merely give me a nasty look and snuck off. I started for the lodge where the Crows was, and the next man I met was old Shingis. I dunno what his real name is, we always call him old Shingis; I think he's a Iowa or something. He's so old he's done forgot where he was born, and so ornery he jest lives around with first one tribe and then another till they git tired of him and kick him out. He ast for some tobaccer and I give him a pipe-full, and then he squinted his eye at me and said: "The Red-Coat did not have to bring a man from the Mississippi to talk with Waukontonka. They say Shingis is heyoka. They say he is a friend of the Unktehi, the Evil Spirits." Well, nobody never said that but him, but that's the way Injuns brag on theirselves; so I told him everybody knowed he was wakan, and went on to the lodge where the Crows was. Spotted Hawk ast me if it was the Red-Coats had burnt Washington and I told him not to believe everything a Red-Coat told him. Then I said: "Where's this Red-Coat's presents?" Spotted Hawk made a wry face because that was a p'int which stuck in his mind, too, but he said: "The boat upset and the river took the gifts meant for the chiefs." "Then that means that the Unktehi air mad at him," I says. "His medicine's weak. Will you foller a man which his medicine is weak?" "We will listen to what he has to say in council," says Spotted Hawk, kind of uncertain, because a Injun is scairt of having anything to do with a man whose medicine is weak. It was gitting dark by this time, and when I come out of the lodge I met Sir Wilmot, and he says: "Trying to traduce the Crows, eh? I'll have the pleasure of watching my Sioux friends roast you yet! Wait till Striped Thunder talks to them from the medicine lodge tonight." "He who laughs last is a stitch in time," I replied with dignerty, so tickled inside about the way I was going to put it over him I was reconciled to not cutting his throat. I then went on, ignoring his loud, rude laughter. Jest wait! thunk I, jest wait! Brains always wins in the end. I passed by the place where the buffler hides had been piled in a circle, in front of a small tipi made out of white buffler skins. Nobody come nigh that place till the powwow opened, because it was wakan, as the Sioux say, meaning magic. But all of a sudden I seen old Shingis scooting through the tipis clostest to the circle, making a arful face. He grabbed a water bucket made out of a buffler's stummick, and drunk about a gallon, then he shook his fists and talked to hisself energetic. I said: "Is my red brother's heart pained?" "#%&*@!" says old Shingis. "There is a man of black heart in this village! Let him beware! Shingis is the friend of the Unktehi!" Then he lit out like a man with a purpose, and I went on to Fat Bear's lodge. He was squatting on his robes looking at hisself in a mirrer he stole from the Northwest Fur Company three seasons ago. "What you doin'?" I ast, reching into the meat pot. "Trying to imagine how I'll look after I'm scalped," says he. "For the last time, that keg—" "Air you tryin' to bring that subjeck up agen?" I says, rising in wrath; and jest then a brave come to the door to say that everybody was ready to go set in council. "See?" whispers Fat Bear to me. "I'm not even boss in my own village when Spotted Hawk and Biting Horse are here! They give the orders!" We went to the powwow circle, which they had to hold outside because they warn't a lodge big enough to hold all of "em. The Arikaras sot on one side, the Crows on the other and the Sioux on the other. I sot beside Fat Bear, and Sir Wilmot and his Socs and Frenchmen sot opposite us. The medicine man sot cross-legged, with a heavy wolf-robe over his shoulders—though it was hot enough to fry a aig, even after the sun had went down. But that's the way a heyoka man does. If it'd been snowing, likely he'd of went naked. The women and chillern got up on top of the lodges to watch us, and I whispered and ast Fat Bear where the keg was. He said under the robes right behind me. He then started humming his death-song under his breath. I begun feeling for it, but before I found it, Sir Wilmot riz and said: "I will not worry my red brothers with empty words! Let the Big Knives sing like mosquitos in the ears of the people! The Master of Life shall speak through the lips of Striped Thunder. As for me, I bring no words, but a present to make your hearts glad!" And I'm a Choctaw if he didn't rech down under a pile of robes and drag out Fat Bear's keg! I like to keeled over and I hear Fat Bear grunt like he'd been kicked in the belly. I seen Ondrey leering at me, and I instantly knowed he'd overheard us talking and had stole it out from amongst the hides after Fat Bear put it there for me. The way the braves' eyes glistened I knowed the Red-Coats had won, and I was licked. Well, I war so knocked all of a heap, all I could think of was to out with my knife and git as many as I could before they got me. I aimed to git Sir Wilmot, anyway; they warn't enough men in the world to keep me from gutting him before I died. A Bearfield on his last rampage is wuss'n a cornered painter. You remember great-uncle Esau Bearfield. When the Creeks finally downed him, they warn't enough of "em left alive in that war party to sculp him, and he was eighty-seven. I reched for my knife, but jest then Sir Wilmot says: "Presently the milk of the Red-Coats will make the hearts of the warriors sing. But now is the time for the manifestations of the Great Spirit, whom the Sioux call Waukontonka, and other tribes other names, but he is the Master of Life for all. Let him speak through the lips of Striped Thunder." So I thought I'd wait till everybody was watching the medicine lodge before I made my break. Striped Thunder went into the lodge and closed the flap, and the Socs lit fires in front of it and started dancing back and forth in front of "em singing: "Oh, Master of Life, enter the white skin lodge! Possess him who sits within! Speak through his mouth!" I ain't going to mention what they throwed on the fires, but they smoked something fierce so you couldn't even see the lodge, and the Socs dancing back and forth looked like black ghosts. Then all to wunst they sounded a yell inside the lodge and a commotion like men fighting. The Injuns looked like they was about ready to rise up and go yonder in a hurry, but Sir Wilmot said: "Do not fear! The messenger of the Master of Life contends with the Unktehi for possession of the medicine man's body! Soon the good spirit will prevail and we will open the lodge and hear the words of Waukontonka!" Well, hell, I knowed Striped Thunder wouldn't say nothing but jest what Sir Wilmot had told him to say; but them fool Injuns would believe they was gitting the straight goods from the Great Spirit hisself. Things got quiet in the lodge and the smoke died down, and Sir Wilmot says: "Thy children await, O Waukontonka." He opened the door, and I'm a Dutchman if they was anything in that lodge but a striped polecat! He waltzed out with his tail h'isted over his back and them Injuns let out one arful yell and fell over backwards; and then they riz up and stampeded—Crows, Arikaras, Sioux, Socs and all, howling: "The Unktehi have prevailed! They have turned Striped Thunder into an evil beast!" They didn't stop to open the gate. The Sioux clumb the stockade and the Crows busted right through it. I seen old Biting Hoss and Spotted Hawk leading the stampede, and I knowed the great Western Injun Confederation was busted all to hell. The women and chillern was right behind the braves, and in sight of fifteen seconds the only Injun in sight was Fat Bear. Sir Wilmot jest stood there like he'd been putrified into rock, but Franswaw he run around behind the lodge and let out a squall. "Somebody's slit the back wall!" he howled. "Here's Striped Thunder lying behind the lodge with a knot on his head the size of a egg! Somebody crawled in and knocked him senseless and dragged him out while the smoke rolled!" "The same man left the skunk!" frothed Sir Wilmot. "You Yankee dog, you're responsible for this!" "Who you callin' a Yankee?" I roared, whipping out my knife. "Remember the truce!" squalled Fat Bear, but Sir Wilmot was too crazy mad to remember anything. I parried his sword with my knife as he lunged, and grabbed his arm, and I reckon that was when he got his elber dislocated. Anyway he give a maddened yell and tried to draw a pistol with his good hand; so I hit him in the mouth with my fist, and that's when he lost them seven teeth he's so bitter about. Whilst he was still addled, I taken his pistol away from him and throwed him over the stockade. I got a idee his fractured skull was caused by him hitting his head on a stump outside. Meanwhile Ondrey and Franswaw was hacking at me with their knives, so I taken "em by their necks and beat their fool heads together till they was limp, and then I throwed "em over the stockade after Sir Wilmot. "And I reckon that settles that!" I panted. "I dunno how this all come about, but you can call up yore women and chillern and tell "em they're now citizens of the United States of America, by golly!" I then picked up the keg, because I was hot and thirsty, but Fat Bear says: "Wait! Don't drink that! I—" "Shet up!" I roared. "After all I've did for the nation tonight, I deserves a dram! Shame on you to begredge a old friend—" I taken a big gulp—and then I give a maddened beller and throwed that keg as far as I could heave it, and run for water. I drunk about three gallons, and when I could breathe again I got a club and started after Fat Bear, who clumb up on top of a lodge. "Come down!" I requested with passion. "Come down whilst I beats yore brains out! Whyn't you tell me what was in that keg?" "I tried to," says he, "but you wouldn't listen. I thought it was whiskey when I stole it, or I wouldn't have taken it. I talked to Shingis while you were hunting the water bucket, jest now. It was him that put the skunk in the medicine lodge. He saw Ondrey hide the keg on Sir Wilmot's side of the council circle; he sneaked a drink out of it, and that's why he did what he did. It was for revenge. The onreasonable old buzzard thought Sir Wilmot was tryin' to pizen him." So that's the way it was. Anyway, I'm quitting my job as soon as I git back to Saint Louis. It's bad enuff when folks gits too hifaluting to use candles, and has got to have oil lamps in a trading post. But I'll be derned if I'll work for a outfit which puts the whale-oil for their lamps in the same kind of kegs they puts their whiskey. Your respeckful son. Boone Bearfield. THE END
234	--- author: Dorothy L. (Dorothy Leigh) Sayers tags: Private investigators, England, Fiction, Detective and mystery stories, Murder, Investigation, Wimsey, Peter, Lord (Fictitious character), 1890- title: Whose Body? A Lord Peter Wimsey Novel summary: ' "Whose Body?" by Dorothy L. Sayers is a detective novel written in the early 20th century. The story introduces Lord Peter Wimsey, an aristocratic amateur sleuth, who finds himself embroiled in a bizarre case involving a dead body discovered in the bath of a respectable architect. The novel features both humor and intricacies of detective work, as Lord Peter navigates through social quirks and the murkiness of crime in London. The opening portion of the novel sets the tone for a classic whodunit. Lord Peter Wimsey receives a call from his mother about the shocking discovery made by Mr. Thipps, the architect, who finds a naked corpse in his bath. Following the initial shock, Wimsey promptly decides to investigate the curious case himself. As he meets Mr. Thipps, the architect reveals his distress over the intrusion of police and the peculiar circumstances surrounding the incident. The interplay between the quirky characters and the unfolding mystery serves to create an engaging atmosphere, laying the groundwork for an entertaining exploration of motives and the peculiarities of human behavior in the face of crime. ' word_count: 57195 fiction_type: Novel ... # CHAPTER I "Oh, damn!" said Lord Peter Wimsey at Piccadilly Circus. "Hi, driver!" The taxi man, irritated at receiving this appeal while negotiating the intricacies of turning into Lower Regent Street across the route of a 19 'bus, a 38-B and a bicycle, bent an unwilling ear. "I've left the catalogue behind," said Lord Peter deprecatingly. "Uncommonly careless of me. D'you mind puttin' back to where we came from?" "To the Savile Club, sir?" "No—110 Piccadilly—just beyond—thank you." "Thought you was in a hurry," said the man, overcome with a sense of injury. "I'm afraid it's an awkward place to turn in," said Lord Peter, answering the thought rather than the words. His long, amiable face looked as if it had generated spontaneously from his top hat, as white maggots breed from Gorgonzola. The taxi, under the severe eye of a policeman, revolved by slow jerks, with a noise like the grinding of teeth. The block of new, perfect and expensive flats in which Lord Peter dwelt upon the second floor, stood directly opposite the Green Park, in a spot for many years occupied by the skeleton of a frustrate commercial enterprise. As Lord Peter let himself in he heard his man's voice in the library, uplifted in that throttled stridency peculiar to well-trained persons using the telephone. "I believe that's his lordship just coming in again—if your Grace would kindly hold the line a moment." "What is it, Bunter?" "Her Grace has just called up from Denver, my lord. I was just saying your lordship had gone to the sale when I heard your lordship's latchkey." "Thanks," said Lord Peter; "and you might find me my catalogue, would you? I think I must have left it in my bedroom, or on the desk." He sat down to the telephone with an air of leisurely courtesy, as though it were an acquaintance dropped in for a chat. "Hullo, Mother—that you?" "Oh, there you are, dear," replied the voice of the Dowager Duchess. "I was afraid I'd just missed you." "Well, you had, as a matter of fact. I'd just started off to Brocklebury's sale to pick up a book or two, but I had to come back for the catalogue. What's up?" "Such a quaint thing," said the Duchess. "I thought I'd tell you. You know little Mr. Thipps?" "Thipps?" said Lord Peter. "Thipps? Oh, yes, the little architect man who's doing the church roof. Yes. What about him?" "Mrs. Throgmorton's just been in, in quite a state of mind." "Sorry, Mother, I can't hear. Mrs. Who?" "Throgmorton—Throgmorton—the vicar's wife." "Oh, Throgmorton, yes?" "Mr. Thipps rang them up this morning. It was his day to come down, you know." "Yes?" "He rang them up to say he couldn't. He was so upset, poor little man. He'd found a dead body in his bath." "Sorry, Mother, I can't hear; found what, where?" "A dead body, dear, in his bath." "What?—no, no, we haven't finished. Please don't cut us off. Hullo! Hullo! Is that you, Mother? Hullo!—Mother!—Oh, yes—sorry, the girl was trying to cut us off. What sort of body?" "A dead man, dear, with nothing on but a pair of pince-nez. Mrs. Throgmorton positively blushed when she was telling me. I'm afraid people do get a little narrow-minded in country vicarages." "Well, it sounds a bit unusual. Was it anybody he knew?" "No, dear, I don't think so, but, of course, he couldn't give her many details. She said he sounded quite distracted. He's such a respectable little man—and having the police in the house and so on, really worried him." "Poor little Thipps! Uncommonly awkward for him. Let's see, he lives in Battersea, doesn't he?" "Yes, dear; 59, Queen Caroline Mansions; opposite the Park. That big block just round the corner from the Hospital. I thought perhaps you'd like to run round and see him and ask if there's anything we can do. I always thought him a nice little man." "Oh, quite," said Lord Peter, grinning at the telephone. The Duchess was always of the greatest assistance to his hobby of criminal investigation, though she never alluded to it, and maintained a polite fiction of its non-existence. "What time did it happen, Mother?" "I think he found it early this morning, but, of course, he didn't think of telling the Throgmortons just at first. She came up to me just before lunch—so tiresome, I had to ask her to stay. Fortunately, I was alone. I don't mind being bored myself, but I hate having my guests bored." "Poor old Mother! Well, thanks awfully for tellin' me. I think I'll send Bunter to the sale and toddle round to Battersea now an' try and console the poor little beast. So-long." "Good-bye, dear." "Bunter!" "Yes, my lord." "Her Grace tells me that a respectable Battersea architect has discovered a dead man in his bath." "Indeed, my lord? That's very gratifying." "Very, Bunter. Your choice of words is unerring. I wish Eton and Balliol had done as much for me. Have you found the catalogue?" "Here it is, my lord." "Thanks. I am going to Battersea at once. I want you to attend the sale for me. Don't lose time—I don't want to miss the Folio Dante[A] nor the de Voragine—here you are—see? ‘Golden Legend'—Wynkyn de Worde, 1493—got that?—and, I say, make a special effort for the Caxton folio of the ‘Four Sons of Aymon'—it's the 1489 folio and unique. Look! I've marked the lots I want, and put my outside offer against each. Do your best for me. I shall be back to dinner." "Very good, my lord." "Take my cab and tell him to hurry. He may for you; he doesn't like me very much. Can I," said Lord Peter, looking at himself in the eighteenth-century mirror over the mantelpiece, "can I have the heart to fluster the flustered Thipps further—that's very difficult to say quickly—by appearing in a top-hat and frock-coat? I think not. Ten to one he will overlook my trousers and mistake me for the undertaker. A grey suit, I fancy, neat but not gaudy, with a hat to tone, suits my other self better. Exit the amateur of first editions; new motive introduced by solo bassoon; enter Sherlock Holmes, disguised as a walking gentleman. There goes Bunter. Invaluable fellow—never offers to do his job when you've told him to do somethin' else. Hope he doesn't miss the ‘Four Sons of Aymon.' Still, there _is_ another copy of that—in the Vatican.[B] It might become available, you never know —if the Church of Rome went to pot or Switzerland invaded Italy—whereas a strange corpse doesn't turn up in a suburban bathroom more than once in a lifetime—at least, I should think not—at any rate, the number of times it's happened, _with_ a pince-nez, might be counted on the fingers of one hand, I imagine. Dear me! it's a dreadful mistake to ride two hobbies at once." He had drifted across the passage into his bedroom, and was changing with a rapidity one might not have expected from a man of his mannerisms. He selected a dark-green tie to match his socks and tied it accurately without hesitation or the slightest compression of his lips; substituted a pair of brown shoes for his black ones, slipped a monocle into a breast pocket, and took up a beautiful Malacca walking-stick with a heavy silver knob. "That's all, I think," he murmured to himself. "Stay—I may as well have you—you may come in useful—one never knows." He added a flat silver matchbox to his equipment, glanced at his watch, and seeing that it was already a quarter to three, ran briskly downstairs, and, hailing a taxi, was carried to Battersea Park. * * * * * Mr. Alfred Thipps was a small, nervous man, whose flaxen hair was beginning to abandon the unequal struggle with destiny. One might say that his only really marked feature was a large bruise over the left eyebrow, which gave him a faintly dissipated air incongruous with the rest of his appearance. Almost in the same breath with his first greeting, he made a self-conscious apology for it, murmuring something about having run against the dining-room door in the dark. He was touched almost to tears by Lord Peter's thoughtfulness and condescension in calling. "I'm sure it's most kind of your lordship," he repeated for the dozenth time, rapidly blinking his weak little eyelids. "I appreciate it very deeply, very deeply, indeed, and so would Mother, only she's so deaf, I don't like to trouble you with making her understand. It's been very hard all day," he added, "with the policemen in the house and all this commotion. It's what Mother and me have never been used to, always living very retired, and it's most distressing to a man of regular habits, my lord, and reely, I'm almost thankful Mother doesn't understand, for I'm sure it would worry her terribly if she was to know about it. She was upset at first, but she's made up some idea of her own about it now, and I'm sure it's all for the best." The old lady who sat knitting by the fire nodded grimly in response to a look from her son. "I always said as you ought to complain about that bath, Alfred," she said suddenly, in the high, piping voice peculiar to the deaf, "and it's to be 'oped the landlord'll see about it now; not but what I think you might have managed without having the police in, but there! you always were one to make a fuss about a little thing, from chicken-pox up." "There now," said Mr. Thipps apologetically, "you see how it is. Not but what it's just as well she's settled on that, because she understands we've locked up the bathroom and don't try to go in there. But it's been a terrible shock to me, sir—my lord, I should say, but there! my nerves are all to pieces. Such a thing has never 'appened—happened to me in all my born days. Such a state I was in this morning—I didn't know if I was on my head or my heels—I reely didn't, and my heart not being too strong, I hardly knew how to get out of that horrid room and telephone for the police. It's affected me, sir, it's affected me, it reely has—I couldn't touch a bit of breakfast, nor lunch neither, and what with telephoning and putting off clients and interviewing people all morning, I've hardly known what to do with myself." "I'm sure it must have been uncommonly distressin'," said Lord Peter, sympathetically, "especially comin' like that before breakfast. Hate anything tiresome happenin' before breakfast. Takes a man at such a confounded disadvantage, what?" "That's just it, that's just it," said Mr. Thipps, eagerly. "When I saw that dreadful thing lying there in my bath, mother-naked, too, except for a pair of eyeglasses, I assure you, my lord, it regularly turned my stomach, if you'll excuse the expression. I'm not very strong, sir, and I get that sinking feeling sometimes in the morning, and what with one thing and another I 'ad—had to send the girl for a stiff brandy, or I don't know _what_ mightn't have happened. I felt so queer, though I'm anything but partial to spirits as a rule. Still, I make it a rule never to be without brandy in the house, in case of emergency, you know?" "Very wise of you," said Lord Peter, cheerfully. "You're a very far-seein' man, Mr. Thipps. Wonderful what a little nip'll do in case of need, and the less you're used to it the more good it does you. Hope your girl is a sensible young woman, what? Nuisance to have women faintin' and shriekin' all over the place." "Oh, Gladys is a good girl," said Mr. Thipps, "very reasonable indeed. She was shocked, of course; that's very understandable. I was shocked myself, and it wouldn't be proper in a young woman not to be shocked under the circumstances, but she is reely a helpful, energetic girl in a crisis, if you understand me. I consider myself very fortunate these days to have got a good, decent girl to do for me and Mother, even though she is a bit careless and forgetful about little things, but that's only natural. She was very sorry indeed about having left the bathroom window open, she reely was, and though I was angry at first, seeing what's come of it, it wasn't anything to speak of, not in the ordinary way, as you might say. Girls will forget things, you know, my lord, and reely she was so distressed I didn't like to say too much to her. All I said was: ‘It might have been burglars,' I said, ‘remember that, next time you leave a window open all night; this time it was a dead man,' I said, ‘and that's unpleasant enough, but next time it might be burglars,' I said, ‘and all of us murdered in our beds.' But the police-inspector—Inspector Sugg, they called him, from the Yard—he was very sharp with her, poor girl. Quite frightened her, and made her think he suspected her of something, though what good a body could be to her, poor girl, I can't imagine, and so I told the Inspector. He was quite rude to me, my lord—I may say I didn't like his manner at all. ‘If you've got anything definite to accuse Gladys or me of, Inspector,' I said to him, ‘bring it forward, that's what you have to do,' I said, ‘but I've yet to learn that you're paid to be rude to a gentleman in his own 'ouse—house.' Reely," said Mr. Thipps, growing quite pink on the top of his head, "he regularly roused me, regularly roused me, my lord, and I'm a mild man as a rule." "Sugg all over," said Lord Peter. "I know him. When he don't know what else to say, he's rude. Stands to reason you and the girl wouldn't go collectin' bodies. Who'd want to saddle himself with a body? Difficulty's usually to get rid of 'em. Have you got rid of this one yet, by the way?" "It's still in the bathroom," said Mr. Thipps. "Inspector Sugg said nothing was to be touched till his men came in to move it. I'm expecting them at any time. If it would interest your lordship to have a look at it—" "Thanks awfully," said Lord Peter. "I'd like to very much, if I'm not puttin' you out." "Not at all," said Mr. Thipps. His manner as he led the way along the passage convinced Lord Peter of two things—first, that, gruesome as his exhibit was, he rejoiced in the importance it reflected upon himself and his flat, and secondly, that Inspector Sugg had forbidden him to exhibit it to anyone. The latter supposition was confirmed by the action of Mr. Thipps, who stopped to fetch the door-key from his bedroom, saying that the police had the other, but that he made it a rule to have two keys to every door, in case of accident. The bathroom was in no way remarkable. It was long and narrow, the window being exactly over the head of the bath. The panes were of frosted glass; the frame wide enough to admit a man's body. Lord Peter stepped rapidly across to it, opened it and looked out. The flat was the top one of the building and situated about the middle of the block. The bathroom window looked out upon the back-yards of the flats, which were occupied by various small outbuildings, coal-holes, garages, and the like. Beyond these were the back gardens of a parallel line of houses. On the right rose the extensive edifice of St. Luke's Hospital, Battersea, with its grounds, and, connected with it by a covered way, the residence of the famous surgeon, Sir Julian Freke, who directed the surgical side of the great new hospital, and was, in addition, known in Harley Street as a distinguished neurologist with a highly individual point of view. This information was poured into Lord Peter's ear at considerable length by Mr. Thipps, who seemed to feel that the neighbourhood of anybody so distinguished shed a kind of halo of glory over Queen Caroline Mansions. "We had him round here himself this morning," he said, "about this horrid business. Inspector Sugg thought one of the young medical gentlemen at the hospital might have brought the corpse round for a joke, as you might say, they always having bodies in the dissecting-room. So Inspector Sugg went round to see Sir Julian this morning to ask if there was a body missing. He was very kind, was Sir Julian, very kind indeed, though he was at work when they got there, in the dissecting-room. He looked up the books to see that all the bodies were accounted for, and then very obligingly came round here to look at this"—he indicated the bath—"and said he was afraid he couldn't help us—there was no corpse missing from the hospital, and this one didn't answer to the description of any they'd had." "Nor to the description of any of the patients, I hope," suggested Lord Peter casually. At this grisly hint Mr. Thipps turned pale. "I didn't hear Inspector Sugg inquire," he said, with some agitation. "What a very horrid thing that would be—God bless my soul, my lord, I never thought of it." "Well, if they had missed a patient they'd probably have discovered it by now," said Lord Peter. "Let's have a look at this one." He screwed his monocle into his eye, adding: "I see you're troubled here with the soot blowing in. Beastly nuisance, ain't it? I get it, too—spoils all my books, you know. Here, don't you trouble, if you don't care about lookin' at it." He took from Mr. Thipps's hesitating hand the sheet which had been flung over the bath, and turned it back. The body which lay in the bath was that of a tall, stout man of about fifty. The hair, which was thick and black and naturally curly, had been cut and parted by a master hand, and exuded a faint violet perfume, perfectly recognisable in the close air of the bathroom. The features were thick, fleshy and strongly marked, with prominent dark eyes, and a long nose curving down to a heavy chin. The clean-shaven lips were full and sensual, and the dropped jaw showed teeth stained with tobacco. On the dead face the handsome pair of gold pince-nez mocked death with grotesque elegance; the fine gold chain curved over the naked breast. The legs lay stiffly stretched out side by side; the arms reposed close to the body; the fingers were flexed naturally. Lord Peter lifted one arm, and looked at the hand with a little frown. "Bit of a dandy, your visitor, what?" he murmured. "Parma violet and manicure." He bent again, slipping his hand beneath the head. The absurd eyeglasses slipped off, clattering into the bath, and the noise put the last touch to Mr. Thipps's growing nervousness. "If you'll excuse me," he murmured, "it makes me feel quite faint, it reely does." He slipped outside, and he had no sooner done so than Lord Peter, lifting the body quickly and cautiously, turned it over and inspected it with his head on one side, bringing his monocle into play with the air of the late Joseph Chamberlain approving a rare orchid. He then laid the head over his arm, and bringing out the silver matchbox from his pocket, slipped it into the open mouth. Then making the noise usually written "Tut-tut," he laid the body down, picked up the mysterious pince-nez, looked at it, put it on his nose and looked through it, made the same noise again, readjusted the pince-nez upon the nose of the corpse, so as to leave no traces of interference for the irritation of Inspector Sugg; rearranged the body; returned to the window and, leaning out, reached upwards and sideways with his walking-stick, which he had somewhat incongruously brought along with him. Nothing appearing to come of these investigations, he withdrew his head, closed the window, and rejoined Mr. Thipps in the passage. Mr. Thipps, touched by this sympathetic interest in the younger son of a duke, took the liberty, on their return to the sitting-room, of offering him a cup of tea. Lord Peter, who had strolled over to the window and was admiring the outlook on Battersea Park, was about to accept, when an ambulance came into view at the end of Prince of Wales Road. Its appearance reminded Lord Peter of an important engagement, and with a hurried "By Jove!" he took his leave of Mr. Thipps. "My mother sent kind regards and all that," he said, shaking hands fervently; "hopes you'll soon be down at Denver again. Good-bye, Mrs. Thipps," he bawled kindly into the ear of the old lady. "Oh, no, my dear sir, please don't trouble to come down." He was none too soon. As he stepped out of the door and turned towards the station, the ambulance drew up from the other direction, and Inspector Sugg emerged from it with two constables. The Inspector spoke to the officer on duty at the Mansions, and turned a suspicious gaze on Lord Peter's retreating back. "Dear old Sugg," said that nobleman, fondly, "dear, dear old bird! How he does hate me, to be sure." # CHAPTER II "Excellent, Bunter," said Lord Peter, sinking with a sigh into a luxurious armchair. "I couldn't have done better myself. The thought of the Dante makes my mouth water—and the ‘Four Sons of Aymon.' And you've saved me £60—that's glorious. What shall we spend it on, Bunter? Think of it—all ours, to do as we like with, for as Harold Skimpole so rightly observes, £60 saved is £60 gained, and I'd reckoned on spending it all. It's your saving, Bunter, and properly speaking, your £60. What do we want? Anything in your department? Would you like anything altered in the flat?" "Well, my lord, as your lordship is so good"—the man-servant paused, about to pour an old brandy into a liqueur glass. "Well, out with it, my Bunter, you imperturbable old hypocrite. It's no good talking as if you were announcing dinner—you're spilling the brandy. The voice is Jacob's voice, but the hands are the hands of Esau. What does that blessed darkroom of yours want now?" "There's a Double Anastigmat with a set of supplementary lenses, my lord," said Bunter, with a note almost of religious fervour. "If it was a case of forgery now—or footprints—I could enlarge them right up on the plate. Or the wide-angled lens would be useful. It's as though the camera had eyes at the back of its head, my lord. Look—I've got it here." He pulled a catalogue from his pocket, and submitted it, quivering, to his employer's gaze. Lord Peter perused the description slowly, the corners of his long mouth lifted into a faint smile. "It's Greek to me," he said, "and £50 seems a ridiculous price for a few bits of glass. I suppose, Bunter, you'd say £750 was a bit out of the way for a dirty old book in a dead language, wouldn't you?" "It wouldn't be my place to say so, my lord." "No, Bunter, I pay you £200 a year to keep your thoughts to yourself. Tell me, Bunter, in these democratic days, don't you think that's unfair?" "No, my lord." "You don't. D'you mind telling me frankly why you don't think it unfair?" "Frankly, my lord, your lordship is paid a nobleman's income to take Lady Worthington in to dinner and refrain from exercising your lordship's undoubted powers of repartee." Lord Peter considered this. "That's your idea, is it, Bunter? Noblesse oblige—for a consideration. I daresay you're right. Then you're better off than I am, because I'd have to behave myself to Lady Worthington if I hadn't a penny. Bunter, if I sacked you here and now, would you tell me what you think of me?" "No, my lord." "You'd have a perfect right to, my Bunter, and if I sacked you on top of drinking the kind of coffee you make, I'd deserve everything you could say of me. You're a demon for coffee, Bunter—I don't want to know how you do it, because I believe it to be witchcraft, and I don't want to burn eternally. You can buy your cross-eyed lens." "Thank you, my lord." "Have you finished in the dining-room?" "Not quite, my lord." "Well, come back when you have. I have many things to tell you. Hullo! who's that?" The doorbell had rung sharply. "Unless it's anybody interestin' I'm not at home." "Very good, my lord." Lord Peter's library was one of the most delightful bachelor rooms in London. Its scheme was black and primrose; its walls were lined with rare editions, and its chairs and Chesterfield sofa suggested the embraces of the houris. In one corner stood a black baby grand, a wood fire leaped on a wide old-fashioned hearth, and the Sèvres vases on the chimneypiece were filled with ruddy and gold chrysanthemums. To the eyes of the young man who was ushered in from the raw November fog it seemed not only rare and unattainable, but friendly and familiar, like a colourful and gilded paradise in a mediaeval painting. "Mr. Parker, my lord." Lord Peter jumped up with genuine eagerness. "My dear man, I'm delighted to see you. What a beastly foggy night, ain't it? Bunter, some more of that admirable coffee and another glass and the cigars. Parker, I hope you're full of crime—nothing less than arson or murder will do for us tonight. ‘On such a night as this—' Bunter and I were just sitting down to carouse. I've got a Dante, and a Caxton folio that is practically unique, at Sir Ralph Brocklebury's sale. Bunter, who did the bargaining, is going to have a lens which does all kinds of wonderful things with its eyes shut, and We both have got a body in a bath, We both have got a body in a bath— For in spite of all temptations To go in for cheap sensations We insist upon a body in a bath— Nothing less will do for us, Parker. It's mine at present, but we're going shares in it. Property of the firm. Won't you join us? You really must put _something_ in the jack-pot. Perhaps you have a body. Oh, do have a body. Every body welcome. Gin a body meet a body Hauled before the beak, Gin a body jolly well knows who murdered a body and that old Sugg is on the wrong tack, Need a body speak? Not a bit of it. He tips a glassy wink to yours truly and yours truly reads the truth." "Ah," said Parker, "I knew you'd been round to Queen Caroline Mansions. So've I, and met Sugg, and he told me he'd seen you. He was cross, too. Unwarrantable interference, he calls it." "I knew he would," said Lord Peter. "I love taking a rise out of dear old Sugg, he's always so rude. I see by the Star that he has excelled himself by taking the girl, Gladys What's-her-name, into custody. Sugg of the evening, beautiful Sugg! But what were _you_ doing there?" "To tell you the truth," said Parker, "I went round to see if the Semitic-looking stranger in Mr. Thipps's bath was by any extraordinary chance Sir Reuben Levy. But he isn't." "Sir Reuben Levy? Wait a minute, I saw something about that. I know! A headline: ‘Mysterious disappearance of famous financier.' What's it all about? I didn't read it carefully." "Well, it's a bit odd, though I daresay it's nothing really—old chap may have cleared for some reason best known to himself. It only happened this morning, and nobody would have thought anything about it, only it happened to be the day on which he had arranged to attend a most important financial meeting and do some deal involving millions—I haven't got all the details. But I know he's got enemies who'd just as soon the deal didn't come off, so when I got wind of this fellow in the bath, I buzzed round to have a look at him. It didn't seem likely, of course, but unlikelier things do happen in our profession. The funny thing is, old Sugg had got bitten with the idea it is him, and is wildly telegraphing to Lady Levy to come and identify him. But as a matter of fact, the man in the bath is no more Sir Reuben Levy than Adolf Beck, poor devil, was John Smith. Oddly enough, though, he would be really extraordinarily like Sir Reuben if he had a beard, and as Lady Levy is abroad with the family, somebody may say it's him, and Sugg will build up a lovely theory, like the Tower of Babel, and destined so to perish." "Sugg's a beautiful, braying ass," said Lord Peter. "He's like a detective in a novel. Well, I don't know anything about Levy, but I've seen the body, and I should say the idea was preposterous upon the face of it. What do you think of the brandy?" "Unbelievable, Wimsey—sort of thing makes one believe in heaven. But I want your yarn." "D'you mind if Bunter hears it, too? Invaluable man, Bunter—amazin' fellow with a camera. And the odd thing is, he's always on the spot when I want my bath or my boots. I don't know when he develops things—I believe he does 'em in his sleep. Bunter!" "Yes, my lord." "Stop fiddling about in there, and get yourself the proper things to drink and join the merry throng." "Certainly, my lord." "Mr. Parker has a new trick: The Vanishing Financier. Absolutely no deception. Hey, presto, pass! and where is he? Will some gentleman from the audience kindly step upon the platform and inspect the cabinet? Thank you, sir. The quickness of the 'and deceives the heye." "I'm afraid mine isn't much of a story," said Parker. "It's just one of those simple things that offer no handle. Sir Reuben Levy dined last night with three friends at the Ritz. After dinner the friends went to the theatre. He refused to go with them on account of an appointment. I haven't yet been able to trace the appointment, but anyhow, he returned home to his house—9a, Park Lane—at twelve o'clock." "Who saw him?" "The cook, who had just gone up to bed, saw him on the doorstep, and heard him let himself in. He walked upstairs, leaving his greatcoat on the hall peg and his umbrella in the stand—you remember how it rained last night. He undressed and went to bed. Next morning he wasn't there. That's all," said Parker abruptly, with a wave of the hand. "It isn't all, it isn't all. Daddy, go on, that's not _half_ a story," pleaded Lord Peter. "But it _is_ all. When his man came to call him he wasn't there. The bed had been slept in. His pyjamas and all his clothes were there, the only odd thing being that they were thrown rather untidily on the ottoman at the foot of the bed, instead of being neatly folded on a chair, as is Sir Reuben's custom—looking as though he had been rather agitated or unwell. No clean clothes were missing, no suit, no boots—nothing. The boots he had worn were in his dressing-room as usual. He had washed and cleaned his teeth and done all the usual things. The housemaid was down cleaning the hall at half-past six, and can swear that nobody came in or out after that. So one is forced to suppose that a respectable middle-aged Hebrew financier either went mad between twelve and six a.m. and walked quietly out of the house in his birthday suit on a November night, or else was spirited away like the lady in the ‘Ingoldsby Legends,' body and bones, leaving only a heap of crumpled clothes behind him." "Was the front door bolted?" "That's the sort of question you _would_ ask, straight off; it took me an hour to think of it. No; contrary to custom, there was only the Yale lock on the door. On the other hand, some of the maids had been given leave to go to the theatre, and Sir Reuben may quite conceivably have left the door open under the impression they had not come in. Such a thing has happened before." "And that's really all?" "Really all. Except for one very trifling circumstance." "I love trifling circumstances," said Lord Peter, with childish delight; "so many men have been hanged by trifling circumstances. What was it?" "Sir Reuben and Lady Levy, who are a most devoted couple, always share the same room. Lady Levy, as I said before, is in Mentonne at the moment for her health. In her absence, Sir Reuben sleeps in the double bed as usual, and invariably on his own side—the outside—of the bed. Last night he put the two pillows together and slept in the middle, or, if anything, rather closer to the wall than otherwise. The housemaid, who is a most intelligent girl, noticed this when she went up to make the bed, and, with really admirable detective instinct, refused to touch the bed or let anybody else touch it, though it wasn't till later that they actually sent for the police." "Was nobody in the house but Sir Reuben and the servants?" "No; Lady Levy was away with her daughter and her maid. The valet, cook, parlourmaid, housemaid and kitchenmaid were the only people in the house, and naturally wasted an hour or two squawking and gossiping. I got there about ten." "What have you been doing since?" "Trying to get on the track of Sir Reuben's appointment last night, since, with the exception of the cook, his ‘appointer' was the last person who saw him before his disappearance. There may be some quite simple explanation, though I'm dashed if I can think of one for the moment. Hang it all, a man doesn't come in and go to bed and walk away again ‘mid nodings on' in the middle of the night." "He may have been disguised." "I thought of that—in fact, it seems the only possible explanation. But it's deuced odd, Wimsey. An important city man, on the eve of an important transaction, without a word of warning to anybody, slips off in the middle of the night, disguised down to his skin, leaving behind his watch, purse, cheque-book, and—most mysterious and important of all—his spectacles, without which he can't see a step, as he is extremely short-sighted. He—" "That _is_ important," interrupted Wimsey. "You are sure he didn't take a second pair?" "His man vouches for it that he had only two pairs, one of which was found on his dressing-table, and the other in the drawer where it is always kept." Lord Peter whistled. "You've got me there, Parker. Even if he'd gone out to commit suicide he'd have taken those." "So you'd think—or the suicide would have happened the first time he started to cross the road. However, I didn't overlook the possibility. I've got particulars of all today's street accidents, and I can lay my hand on my heart and say that none of them is Sir Reuben. Besides, he took his latchkey with him, which looks as though he'd meant to come back." "Have you seen the men he dined with?" "I found two of them at the club. They said that he seemed in the best of health and spirits, spoke of looking forward to joining Lady Levy later on—perhaps at Christmas—and referred with great satisfaction to this morning's business transaction, in which one of them—a man called Anderson of Wyndham's—was himself concerned." "Then up till about nine o'clock, anyhow, he had no apparent intention or expectation of disappearing." "None—unless he was a most consummate actor. Whatever happened to change his mind must have happened either at the mysterious appointment which he kept after dinner, or while he was in bed between midnight and 5.30 a.m." "Well, Bunter," said Lord Peter, "what do you make of it?" "Not in my department, my lord. Except that it is odd that a gentleman who was too flurried or unwell to fold his clothes as usual should remember to clean his teeth and put his boots out. Those are two things that quite frequently get overlooked, my lord." "If you mean anything personal, Bunter," said Lord Peter, "I can only say that I think the speech an unworthy one. It's a sweet little problem, Parker mine. Look here, I don't want to butt in, but I should dearly love to see that bedroom tomorrow. 'Tis not that I mistrust thee, dear, but I should uncommonly like to see it. Say me not nay—take another drop of brandy and a Villar Villar, but say not, say not nay!" "Of course you can come and see it—you'll probably find lots of things I've overlooked," said the other, equably, accepting the proffered hospitality. "Parker, acushla, you're an honour to Scotland Yard. I look at you, and Sugg appears a myth, a fable, an idiot-boy, spawned in a moonlight hour by some fantastic poet's brain. Sugg is too perfect to be possible. What does he make of the body, by the way?" "Sugg says," replied Parker, with precision, "that the body died from a blow on the back of the neck. The doctor told him that. He says it's been dead a day or two. The doctor told him that, too. He says it's the body of a well-to-do Hebrew of about fifty. Anybody could have told him that. He says it's ridiculous to suppose it came in through the window without anybody knowing anything about it. He says it probably walked in through the front door and was murdered by the household. He's arrested the girl because she's short and frail-looking and quite unequal to downing a tall and sturdy Semite with a poker. He'd arrest Thipps, only Thipps was away in Manchester all yesterday and the day before and didn't come back till late last night—in fact, he wanted to arrest him till I reminded him that if the body had been a day or two dead, little Thipps couldn't have done him in at 10.30 last night. But he'll arrest him tomorrow as an accessory—and the old lady with the knitting, too, I shouldn't wonder." "Well, I'm glad the little man has so much of an alibi," said Lord Peter, "though if you're only glueing your faith to cadaveric lividity, rigidity, and all the other quiddities, you must be prepared to have some sceptical beast of a prosecuting counsel walk slap-bang through the medical evidence. Remember Impey Biggs defending in that Chelsea tea-shop affair? Six bloomin' medicos contradictin' each other in the box, an' old Impey elocutin' abnormal cases from Glaister and Dixon Mann till the eyes of the jury reeled in their heads! ‘Are you prepared to swear, Dr. Thingumtight, that the onset of rigor mortis indicates the hour of death without the possibility of error?' ‘So far as my experience goes, in the majority of cases,' says the doctor, all stiff. ‘Ah!' says Biggs, ‘but this is a Court of Justice, Doctor, not a Parliamentary election. We can't get on without a minority report. The law, Dr. Thingumtight, respects the rights of the minority, alive or dead.' Some ass laughs, and old Biggs sticks his chest out and gets impressive. ‘Gentlemen, this is no laughing matter. My client—an upright and honourable gentleman—is being tried for his life—for his life, gentlemen—and it is the business of the prosecution to show his guilt—if they can—without a shadow of doubt. Now, Dr. Thingumtight, I ask you again, can you solemnly swear, without the least shadow of doubt,—probable, possible shadow of doubt—that this unhappy woman met her death neither sooner nor later than Thursday evening? A probable opinion? Gentlemen, we are not Jesuits, we are straightforward Englishmen. You cannot ask a British-born jury to convict any man on the authority of a probable opinion.' Hum of applause." "Biggs's man was guilty all the same," said Parker. "Of course he was. But he was acquitted all the same, an' what you've just said is libel." Wimsey walked over to the bookshelf and took down a volume of Medical Jurisprudence. "‘Rigor mortis—can only be stated in a very general way—many factors determine the result.' Cautious brute. ‘On the average, however, stiffening will have begun—neck and jaw—5 to 6 hours after death'—m'm—‘in all likelihood have passed off in the bulk of cases by the end of 36 hours. Under certain circumstances, however, it may appear unusually early, or be retarded unusually long!' Helpful, ain't it, Parker? ‘Brown-Séquard states ... 3½ minutes after death.... In certain cases not until lapse of 16 hours after death ... present as long as 21 days thereafter.' Lord! ‘Modifying factors—age—muscular state—or febrile diseases—or where temperature of environment is high'—and so on and so on—any bloomin' thing. Never mind. You can run the argument for what it's worth to Sugg. _He_ won't know any better." He tossed the book away. "Come back to facts. What did _you_ make of the body?" "Well," said the detective, "not very much—I was puzzled—frankly. I should say he had been a rich man, but self-made, and that his good fortune had come to him fairly recently." "Ah, you noticed the calluses on the hands—I thought you wouldn't miss that." "Both his feet were badly blistered—he had been wearing tight shoes." "Walking a long way in them, too," said Lord Peter, "to get such blisters as that. Didn't that strike you as odd, in a person evidently well off?" "Well, I don't know. The blisters were two or three days old. He might have got stuck in the suburbs one night, perhaps—last train gone and no taxi—and had to walk home." "Possibly." "There were some little red marks all over his back and one leg I couldn't quite account for." "I saw them." "What did you make of them?" "I'll tell you afterwards. Go on." "He was very long-sighted—oddly long-sighted for a man in the prime of life; the glasses were like a very old man's. By the way, they had a very beautiful and remarkable chain of flat links chased with a pattern. It struck me he might be traced through it." "I've just put an advertisement in the _Times_ about it," said Lord Peter. "Go on." "He had had the glasses some time—they had been mended twice." "Beautiful, Parker, beautiful. Did you realize the importance of that?" "Not specially, I'm afraid—why?" "Never mind—go on." "He was probably a sullen, ill-tempered man—his nails were filed down to the quick as though he habitually bit them, and his fingers were bitten as well. He smoked quantities of cigarettes without a holder. He was particular about his personal appearance." "Did you examine the room at all? I didn't get a chance." "I couldn't find much in the way of footprints. Sugg & Co. had tramped all over the place, to say nothing of little Thipps and the maid, but I noticed a very indefinite patch just behind the head of the bath, as though something damp might have stood there. You could hardly call it a print." "It rained hard all last night, of course." "Yes; did you notice that the soot on the window-sill was vaguely marked?" "I did," said Wimsey, "and I examined it hard with this little fellow, but I could make nothing of it except that something or other had rested on the sill." He drew out his monocle and handed it to Parker. "My word, that's a powerful lens." "It is," said Wimsey, "and jolly useful when you want to take a good squint at somethin' and look like a bally fool all the time. Only it don't do to wear it permanently—if people see you full-face they say: ‘Dear me! how weak the sight of that eye must be!' Still, it's useful." "Sugg and I explored the ground at the back of the building," went on Parker, "but there wasn't a trace." "That's interestin'. Did you try the roof?" "No." "We'll go over it tomorrow. The gutter's only a couple of feet off the top of the window. I measured it with my stick—the gentleman-scout's vade-mecum, I call it—it's marked off in inches. Uncommonly handy companion at times. There's a sword inside and a compass in the head. Got it made specially. Anything more?" "Afraid not. Let's hear your version, Wimsey." "Well, I think you've got most of the points. There are just one or two little contradictions. For instance, here's a man wears expensive gold-rimmed pince-nez and has had them long enough to be mended twice. Yet his teeth are not merely discoloured, but badly decayed and look as if he'd never cleaned them in his life. There are four molars missing on one side and three on the other and one front tooth broken right across. He's a man careful of his personal appearance, as witness his hair and his hands. What do you say to that?" "Oh, these self-made men of low origin don't think much about teeth, and are terrified of dentists." "True; but one of the molars has a broken edge so rough that it had made a sore place on the tongue. Nothing's more painful. D'you mean to tell me a man would put up with that if he could afford to get the tooth filed?" "Well, people are queer. I've known servants endure agonies rather than step over a dentist's doormat. How did you see that, Wimsey?" "Had a look inside; electric torch," said Lord Peter. "Handy little gadget. Looks like a matchbox. Well—I daresay it's all right, but I just draw your attention to it. Second point: Gentleman with hair smellin' of Parma violet and manicured hands and all the rest of it, never washes the inside of his ears. Full of wax. Nasty." "You've got me there, Wimsey; I never noticed it. Still—old bad habits die hard." "Right oh! Put it down at that. Third point: Gentleman with the manicure and the brilliantine and all the rest of it suffers from fleas." "By Jove, you're right! Flea-bites. It never occurred to me." "No doubt about it, old son. The marks were faint and old, but unmistakable." "Of course, now you mention it. Still, that might happen to anybody. I loosed a whopper in the best hotel in Lincoln the week before last. I hope it bit the next occupier!" "Oh, all these things _might_ happen to anybody—separately. Fourth point: Gentleman who uses Parma violet for his hair, etc., etc., washes his body in strong carbolic soap—so strong that the smell hangs about twenty-four hours later." "Carbolic to get rid of the fleas." "I will say for you, Parker, you've an answer for everything. Fifth point: Carefully got-up gentleman, with manicured, though masticated, finger-nails, has filthy black toe-nails which look as if they hadn't been cut for years." "All of a piece with habits as indicated." "Yes, I know, but such habits! Now, sixth and last point: This gentleman with the intermittently gentlemanly habits arrives in the middle of a pouring wet night, and apparently through the window, when he has already been twenty-four hours dead, and lies down quietly in Mr. Thipps's bath, unseasonably dressed in a pair of pince-nez. Not a hair on his head is ruffled—the hair has been cut so recently that there are quite a number of little short hairs stuck on his neck and the sides of the bath—and he has shaved so recently that there is a line of dried soap on his cheek—" "Wimsey!" "Wait a minute—and _dried soap in his mouth_." Bunter got up and appeared suddenly at the detective's elbow, the respectful man-servant all over. "A little more brandy, sir?" he murmured. "Wimsey," said Parker, "you are making me feel cold all over." He emptied his glass—stared at it as though he were surprised to find it empty, set it down, got up, walked across to the bookcase, turned round, stood with his back against it and said: "Look here, Wimsey—you've been reading detective stories; you're talking nonsense." "No, I ain't," said Lord Peter, sleepily, "uncommon good incident for a detective story, though, what? Bunter, we'll write one, and you shall illustrate it with photographs." "Soap in his—Rubbish!" said Parker. "It was something else—some discoloration—" "No," said Lord Peter, "there were hairs as well. Bristly ones. He had a beard." He took his watch from his pocket, and drew out a couple of longish, stiff hairs, which he had imprisoned between the inner and the outer case. Parker turned them over once or twice in his fingers, looked at them close to the light, examined them with a lens, handed them to the impassible Bunter, and said: "Do you mean to tell me, Wimsey, that any man alive would"—he laughed harshly—"shave off his beard with his mouth open, and then go and get killed with his mouth full of hairs? You're mad." "I don't tell you so," said Wimsey. "You policemen are all alike—only one idea in your skulls. Blest if I can make out why you're ever appointed. He was shaved after he was dead. Pretty, ain't it? Uncommonly jolly little job for the barber, what? Here, sit down, man, and don't be an ass, stumpin' about the room like that. Worse things happen in war. This is only a blinkin' old shillin' shocker. But I'll tell you what, Parker, we're up against a criminal—_the_ criminal—the real artist and blighter with imagination—real, artistic, finished stuff. I'm enjoyin' this, Parker." # CHAPTER III Lord Peter finished a Scarlatti sonata, and sat looking thoughtfully at his own hands. The fingers were long and muscular, with wide, flat joints and square tips. When he was playing, his rather hard grey eyes softened, and his long, indeterminate mouth hardened in compensation. At no other time had he any pretensions to good looks, and at all times he was spoilt by a long, narrow chin, and a long, receding forehead, accentuated by the brushed-back sleekness of his tow-coloured hair. Labour papers, softening down the chin, caricatured him as a typical aristocrat. "That's a wonderful instrument," said Parker. "It ain't so bad," said Lord Peter, "but Scarlatti wants a harpsichord. Piano's too modern—all thrills and overtones. No good for our job, Parker. Have you come to any conclusion?" "The man in the bath," said Parker, methodically, "was _not_ a well-off man careful of his personal appearance. He was a labouring man, unemployed, but who had only recently lost his employment. He had been tramping about looking for a job when he met with his end. Somebody killed him and washed him and scented him and shaved him in order to disguise him, and put him into Thipps's bath without leaving a trace. Conclusion: the murderer was a powerful man, since he killed him with a single blow on the neck, a man of cool head and masterly intellect, since he did all that ghastly business without leaving a mark, a man of wealth and refinement, since he had all the apparatus of an elegant toilet handy, and a man of bizarre, and almost perverted imagination, as is shown in the two horrible touches of putting the body in the bath and of adorning it with a pair of pince-nez." "He is a poet of crime," said Wimsey. "By the way, your difficulty about the pince-nez is cleared up. Obviously, the pince-nez never belonged to the body." "That only makes a fresh puzzle. One can't suppose the murderer left them in that obliging manner as a clue to his own identity." "We can hardly suppose that; I'm afraid this man possessed what most criminals lack—a sense of humour." "Rather macabre humour." "True. But a man who can afford to be humorous at all in such circumstances is a terrible fellow. I wonder what he did with the body between the murder and depositing it chez Thipps. Then there are more questions. How did he get it there? And why? Was it brought in at the door, as Sugg of our heart suggests? or through the window, as we think, on the not very adequate testimony of a smudge on the window-sill? Had the murderer accomplices? Is little Thipps really in it, or the girl? It don't do to put the notion out of court merely because Sugg inclines to it. Even idiots occasionally speak the truth accidentally. If not, why was Thipps selected for such an abominable practical joke? Has anybody got a grudge against Thipps? Who are the people in the other flats? We must find out that. Does Thipps play the piano at midnight over their heads or damage the reputation of the staircase by bringing home dubiously respectable ladies? Are there unsuccessful architects thirsting for his blood? Damn it all, Parker, there must be a motive somewhere. Can't have a crime without a motive, you know." "A madman—" suggested Parker, doubtfully. "With a deuced lot of method in his madness. He hasn't made a mistake—not one, unless leaving hairs in the corpse's mouth can be called a mistake. Well, anyhow, it's not Levy—you're right there. I say, old thing, neither your man nor mine has left much clue to go upon, has he? And there don't seem to be any motives knockin' about, either. And we seem to be two suits of clothes short in last night's work. Sir Reuben makes tracks without so much as a fig-leaf, and a mysterious individual turns up with a pince-nez, which is quite useless for purposes of decency. Dash it all! If only I had some good excuse for takin' up this body case officially—" The telephone bell rang. The silent Bunter, whom the other two had almost forgotten, padded across to it. "It's an elderly lady, my lord," he said. "I think she's deaf—I can't make her hear anything, but she's asking for your lordship." Lord Peter seized the receiver, and yelled into it a "Hullo!" that might have cracked the vulcanite. He listened for some minutes with an incredulous smile, which gradually broadened into a grin of delight. At length he screamed: "All right! all right!" several times, and rang off. "By Jove!" he announced, beaming, "sportin' old bird! It's old Mrs. Thipps. Deaf as a post. Never used the 'phone before. But determined. Perfect Napoleon. The incomparable Sugg has made a discovery and arrested little Thipps. Old lady abandoned in the flat. Thipps's last shriek to her: ‘Tell Lord Peter Wimsey.' Old girl undaunted. Wrestles with telephone book. Wakes up the people at the exchange. Won't take no for an answer (not bein' able to hear it), gets through, says: ‘Will I do what I can?' Says she would feel safe in the hands of a real gentleman. Oh, Parker, Parker! I could kiss her, I reely could, as Thipps says. I'll write to her instead—no, hang it, Parker, we'll go round. Bunter, get your infernal machine and the magnesium. I say, we'll all go into partnership—pool the two cases and work 'em out together. You shall see my body tonight, Parker, and I'll look for your wandering Jew tomorrow. I feel so happy, I shall explode. O Sugg, Sugg, how art thou suggified! Bunter, my shoes. I say, Parker, I suppose yours are rubber-soled. Not? Tut, tut, you mustn't go out like that. We'll lend you a pair. Gloves? Here. My stick, my torch, the lampblack, the forceps, knife, pill-boxes—all complete?" "Certainly, my lord." "Oh, Bunter, don't look so offended. I mean no harm. I believe in you, I trust you—what money have I got? That'll do. I knew a man once, Parker, who let a world-famous poisoner slip through his fingers because the machine on the Underground took nothing but pennies. There was a queue at the booking office and the man at the barrier stopped him, and while they were arguing about accepting a five-pound-note (which was all he had) for a twopenny ride to Baker Street, the criminal had sprung into a Circle train, and was next heard of in Constantinople, disguised as an elderly Church of England clergyman touring with his niece. Are we all ready? Go!" They stepped out, Bunter carefully switching off the lights behind them. * * * * * As they emerged into the gloom and gleam of Piccadilly, Wimsey stopped short with a little exclamation. "Wait a second," he said. "I've thought of something. If Sugg's there he'll make trouble. I must short-circuit him." He ran back, and the other two men employed the few minutes of his absence in capturing a taxi. Inspector Sugg and a subordinate Cerberus were on guard at 59, Queen Caroline Mansions, and showed no disposition to admit unofficial inquirers. Parker, indeed, they could not easily turn away, but Lord Peter found himself confronted with a surly manner and what Lord Beaconsfield described as a masterly inactivity. It was in vain that Lord Peter pleaded that he had been retained by Mrs. Thipps on behalf of her son. "Retained!" said Inspector Sugg, with a snort. "_She'll_ be retained if she doesn't look out. Shouldn't wonder if she wasn't in it herself, only she's so deaf, she's no good for anything at all." "Look here, Inspector," said Lord Peter, "what's the use of bein' so bally obstructive? You'd much better let me in—you know I'll get there in the end. Dash it all, it's not as if I was takin' the bread out of your children's mouths. Nobody paid me for finding Lord Attenbury's emeralds for you." "It's my duty to keep out the public," said Inspector Sugg, morosely, "and it's going to stay out." "I never said anything about your keeping out of the public," said Lord Peter, easily, sitting down on the staircase to thrash the matter out comfortably, "though I've no doubt pussyfoot's a good thing, on principle, if not exaggerated. The golden mean, Sugg, as Aristotle says, keeps you from bein' a golden ass. Ever been a golden ass, Sugg? I have. It would take a whole rose-garden to cure me, Sugg— "‘You are my garden of beautiful roses, My own rose, my one rose, that's you!'" "I'm not going to stay any longer talking to you," said the harassed Sugg; "it's bad enough— Hullo, drat that telephone. Here, Cawthorn, go and see what it is, if that old catamaran will let you into the room. Shutting herself up there and screaming," said the Inspector, "it's enough to make a man give up crime and take to hedging and ditching." The constable came back: "It's from the Yard, sir," he said, coughing apologetically; "the Chief says every facility is to be given to Lord Peter Wimsey, sir. Um!" He stood apart noncommittally, glazing his eyes. "Five aces," said Lord Peter, cheerfully. "The Chief's a dear friend of my mother's. No go, Sugg, it's no good buckin'; you've got a full house. I'm goin' to make it a bit fuller." He walked in with his followers. The body had been removed a few hours previously, and when the bathroom and the whole flat had been explored by the naked eye and the camera of the competent Bunter, it became evident that the real problem of the household was old Mrs. Thipps. Her son and servant had both been removed, and it appeared that they had no friends in town, beyond a few business acquaintances of Thipps's, whose very addresses the old lady did not know. The other flats in the building were occupied respectively by a family of seven, at present departed to winter abroad, an elderly Indian colonel of ferocious manners, who lived alone with an Indian man-servant, and a highly respectable family on the third floor, whom the disturbance over their heads had outraged to the last degree. The husband, indeed, when appealed to by Lord Peter, showed a little human weakness, but Mrs. Appledore, appearing suddenly in a warm dressing-gown, extricated him from the difficulties into which he was carelessly wandering. "I am sorry," she said, "I'm afraid we can't interfere in any way. This is a very unpleasant business, Mr.— I'm afraid I didn't catch your name, and we have always found it better not to be mixed up with the police. Of course, _if_ the Thippses are innocent, and I am sure I hope they are, it is very unfortunate for them, but I must say that the circumstances seem to me most suspicious, and to Theophilus too, and I should not like to have it said that we had assisted murderers. We might even be supposed to be accessories. Of course you are young, Mr.—" "This is Lord Peter Wimsey, my dear," said Theophilus mildly. She was unimpressed. "Ah, yes," she said, "I believe you are distantly related to my late cousin, the Bishop of Carisbrooke. Poor man! He was always being taken in by impostors; he died without ever learning any better. I imagine you take after him, Lord Peter." "I doubt it," said Lord Peter. "So far as I know he is only a connection, though it's a wise child that knows its own father. I congratulate you, dear lady, on takin' after the other side of the family. You'll forgive my buttin' in upon you like this in the middle of the night, though, as you say, it's all in the family, and I'm sure I'm very much obliged to you, and for permittin' me to admire that awfully fetchin' thing you've got on. Now, don't you worry, Mr. Appledore. I'm thinkin' the best thing I can do is to trundle the old lady down to my mother and take her out of your way, otherwise you might be findin' your Christian feelin's gettin' the better of you some fine day, and there's nothin' like Christian feelin's for upsettin' a man's domestic comfort. Good-night, sir—good-night, dear lady—it's simply rippin' of you to let me drop in like this." "Well!" said Mrs. Appledore, as the door closed behind him. And— "I thank the goodness and the grace That on my birth have smiled," said Lord Peter, "and taught me to be bestially impertinent when I choose. Cat!" Two a.m. saw Lord Peter Wimsey arrive in a friend's car at the Dower House, Denver Castle, in company with a deaf and aged lady and an antique portmanteau. * * * * * "It's very nice to see you, dear," said the Dowager Duchess, placidly. She was a small, plump woman, with perfectly white hair and exquisite hands. In feature she was as unlike her second son as she was like him in character; her black eyes twinkled cheerfully, and her manners and movements were marked with a neat and rapid decision. She wore a charming wrap from Liberty's, and sat watching Lord Peter eat cold beef and cheese as though his arrival in such incongruous circumstances and company were the most ordinary event possible, which with him, indeed, it was. "Have you got the old lady to bed?" asked Lord Peter. "Oh, yes, dear. Such a striking old person, isn't she? And very courageous. She tells me she has never been in a motor-car before. But she thinks you a very nice lad, dear—that careful of her, you remind her of her own son. Poor little Mr. Thipps—whatever made your friend the inspector think he could have murdered anybody?" "My friend the inspector—no, no more, thank you, Mother—is determined to prove that the intrusive person in Thipps's bath is Sir Reuben Levy, who disappeared mysteriously from his house last night. His line of reasoning is: We've lost a middle-aged gentleman without any clothes on in Park Lane; we've found a middle-aged gentleman without any clothes on in Battersea. Therefore they're one and the same person, Q.E.D., and put little Thipps in quod." "You're very elliptical, dear," said the Duchess, mildly. "Why should Mr. Thipps be arrested even if they are the same?" "Sugg must arrest somebody," said Lord Peter, "but there is one odd little bit of evidence come out which goes a long way to support Sugg's theory, only that I know it to be no go by the evidence of my own eyes. Last night at about 9.15 a young woman was strollin' up the Battersea Park Road for purposes best known to herself, when she saw a gentleman in a fur coat and top-hat saunterin' along under an umbrella, lookin' at the names of all the streets. He looked a bit out of place, so, not bein' a shy girl, you see, she walked up to him, and said: ‘Good-evening.' ‘Can you tell me, please,' says the mysterious stranger, ‘whether this street leads into Prince of Wales Road?' She said it did, and further asked him in a jocular manner what he was doing with himself and all the rest of it, only she wasn't altogether so explicit about that part of the conversation, because she was unburdenin' her heart to Sugg, d'you see, and he's paid by a grateful country to have very pure, high-minded ideals, what? Anyway, the old boy said he couldn't attend to her just then as he had an appointment. ‘I've got to go and see a man, my dear,' was how she said he put it, and he walked on up Alexandra Avenue towards Prince of Wales Road. She was starin' after him, still rather surprised, when she was joined by a friend of hers, who said: ‘It's no good wasting your time with him—that's Levy—I knew him when I lived in the West End, and the girls used to call him Peagreen Incorruptible'—friend's name suppressed, owing to implications of story, but girl vouches for what was said. She thought no more about it till the milkman brought news this morning of the excitement at Queen Caroline Mansions; then she went round, though not likin' the police as a rule, and asked the man there whether the dead gentleman had a beard and glasses. Told he had glasses but no beard, she incautiously said: ‘Oh, then, it isn't him,' and the man said: ‘Isn't who?' and collared her. That's her story. Sugg's delighted, of course, and quodded Thipps on the strength of it." "Dear me," said the Duchess, "I hope the poor girl won't get into trouble." "Shouldn't think so," said Lord Peter. "Thipps is the one that's going to get it in the neck. Besides, he's done a silly thing. I got that out of Sugg, too, though he was sittin' tight on the information. Seems Thipps got into a confusion about the train he took back from Manchester. Said first he got home at 10.30. Then they pumped Gladys Horrocks, who let out he wasn't back till after 11.45. Then Thipps, bein' asked to explain the discrepancy, stammers and bungles and says, first, that he missed the train. Then Sugg makes inquiries at St. Pancras and discovers that he left a bag in the cloakroom there at ten. Thipps, again asked to explain, stammers worse an' says he walked about for a few hours—met a friend—can't say who—didn't meet a friend—can't say what he did with his time—can't explain why he didn't go back for his bag—can't say what time he _did_ get in—can't explain how he got a bruise on his forehead. In fact, can't explain himself at all. Gladys Horrocks interrogated again. Says, this time, Thipps came in at 10.30. Then admits she didn't hear him come in. Can't say why she didn't hear him come in. Can't say why she said first of all that she _did_ hear him. Bursts into tears. Contradicts herself. Everybody's suspicion roused. Quod 'em both." "As you put it, dear," said the Duchess, "it all sounds very confusing, and not quite respectable. Poor little Mr. Thipps would be terribly upset by anything that wasn't respectable." "I wonder what he did with himself," said Lord Peter thoughtfully. "I really don't think he was committing a murder. Besides, I believe the fellow has been dead a day or two, though it don't do to build too much on doctors' evidence. It's an entertainin' little problem." "Very curious, dear. But so sad about poor Sir Reuben. I must write a few lines to Lady Levy; I used to know her quite well, you know, dear, down in Hampshire, when she was a girl. Christine Ford, she was then, and I remember so well the dreadful trouble there was about her marrying a Jew. That was before he made his money, of course, in that oil business out in America. The family wanted her to marry Julian Freke, who did so well afterwards and was connected with the family, but she fell in love with this Mr. Levy and eloped with him. He was very handsome, then, you know, dear, in a foreign-looking way, but he hadn't any means, and the Fords didn't like his religion. Of course we're all Jews nowadays, and they wouldn't have minded so much if he'd pretended to be something else, like that Mr. Simons we met at Mrs. Porchester's, who always tells everybody that he got his nose in Italy at the Renaissance, and claims to be descended somehow or other from La Bella Simonetta—so foolish, you know, dear—as if anybody believed it; and I'm sure some Jews are very good people, and personally I'd much rather they believed something, though of course it must be very inconvenient, what with not working on Saturdays and circumcising the poor little babies and everything depending on the new moon and that funny kind of meat they have with such a slang-sounding name, and never being able to have bacon for breakfast. Still, there it was, and it was much better for the girl to marry him if she was really fond of him, though I believe young Freke was really devoted to her, and they're still great friends. Not that there was ever a real engagement, only a sort of understanding with her father, but he's never married, you know, and lives all by himself in that big house next to the hospital, though he's very rich and distinguished now, and I know ever so many people have tried to get hold of him—there was Lady Mainwaring wanted him for that eldest girl of hers, though I remember saying at the time it was no use expecting a surgeon to be taken in by a figure that was all padding—they have so many opportunities of judging, you know, dear." "Lady Levy seems to have had the knack of makin' people devoted to her," said Peter. "Look at the pea-green incorruptible Levy." "That's quite true, dear; she was a most delightful girl, and they say her daughter is just like her. I rather lost sight of them when she married, and you know your father didn't care much about business people, but I know everybody always said they were a model couple. In fact it was a proverb that Sir Reuben was as well loved at home as he was hated abroad. I don't mean in foreign countries, you know, dear—just the proverbial way of putting things—like ‘a saint abroad and a devil at home'—only the other way on, reminding one of the _Pilgrim's Progress_." "Yes," said Peter, "I daresay the old man made one or two enemies." "Dozens, dear—such a dreadful place, the City, isn't it? Everybody Ishmaels together—though I don't suppose Sir Reuben would like to be called that, would he? Doesn't it mean illegitimate, or not a proper Jew, anyway? I always did get confused with those Old Testament characters." Lord Peter laughed and yawned. "I think I'll turn in for an hour or two," he said. "I must be back in town at eight—Parker's coming to breakfast." The Duchess looked at the clock, which marked five minutes to three. "I'll send up your breakfast at half-past six, dear," she said. "I hope you'll find everything all right. I told them just to slip a hot-water bottle in; those linen sheets are so chilly; you can put it out if it's in your way." # CHAPTER IV "—So there it is, Parker," said Lord Peter, pushing his coffee-cup aside and lighting his after-breakfast pipe; "you may find it leads you to something, though it don't seem to get me any further with my bathroom problem. Did you do anything more at that after I left?" "No; but I've been on the roof this morning." "The deuce you have—what an energetic devil you are! I say, Parker, I think this co-operative scheme is an uncommonly good one. It's much easier to work on someone else's job than one's own—gives one that delightful feelin' of interferin' and bossin' about, combined with the glorious sensation that another fellow is takin' all one's own work off one's hands. You scratch my back and I'll scratch yours, what? Did you find anything?" "Not very much. I looked for any footmarks of course, but naturally, with all this rain, there wasn't a sign. Of course, if this were a detective story, there'd have been a convenient shower exactly an hour before the crime and a beautiful set of marks which could only have come there between two and three in the morning, but this being real life in a London November, you might as well expect footprints in Niagara. I searched the roofs right along—and came to the jolly conclusion that any person in any blessed flat in the blessed row might have done it. All the staircases open on to the roof and the leads are quite flat; you can walk along as easy as along Shaftesbury Avenue. Still, I've got some evidence that the body did walk along there." "What's that?" Parker brought out his pocketbook and extracted a few shreds of material, which he laid before his friend. "One was caught in the gutter just above Thipps's bathroom window, another in a crack of the stone parapet just over it, and the rest came from the chimney-stack behind, where they had caught in an iron stanchion. What do you make of them?" Lord Peter scrutinized them very carefully through his lens. "Interesting," he said, "damned interesting. Have you developed those plates, Bunter?" he added, as that discreet assistant came in with the post. "Yes, my lord." "Caught anything?" "I don't know whether to call it anything or not, my lord," said Bunter, dubiously. "I'll bring the prints in." "Do," said Wimsey. "Hallo! here's our advertisement about the gold chain in the _Times_—very nice it looks: ‘Write,'phone or call 110, Piccadilly.' Perhaps it would have been safer to put a box number, though I always think that the franker you are with people, the more you're likely to deceive 'em; so unused is the modern world to the open hand and the guileless heart, what?" "But you don't think the fellow who left that chain on the body is going to give himself away by coming here and inquiring about it?" "I don't, fathead," said Lord Peter, with the easy politeness of the real aristocracy; "that's why I've tried to get hold of the jeweller who originally sold the chain. See?" He pointed to the paragraph. "It's not an old chain—hardly worn at all. Oh, thanks, Bunter. Now, see here, Parker, these are the finger-marks you noticed yesterday on the window-sash and on the far edge of the bath. I'd overlooked them; I give you full credit for the discovery, I crawl, I grovel, my name is Watson, and you need not say what you were just going to say, because I admit it all. Now we shall—Hullo, hullo, hullo!" The three men stared at the photographs. "The criminal," said Lord Peter, bitterly, "climbed over the roofs in the wet and not unnaturally got soot on his fingers. He arranged the body in the bath, and wiped away all traces of himself except two, which he obligingly left to show us how to do our job. We learn from a smudge on the floor that he wore india rubber boots, and from this admirable set of finger-prints on the edge of the bath that he had the usual number of fingers and wore rubber gloves. That's the kind of man he is. Take the fool away, gentlemen." He put the prints aside, and returned to an examination of the shreds of material in his hand. Suddenly he whistled softly. "Do you make anything of these, Parker?" "They seemed to me to be ravellings of some coarse cotton stuff—a sheet, perhaps, or an improvised rope." "Yes," said Lord Peter—"yes. It may be a mistake—it may be _our_ mistake. I wonder. Tell me, d'you think these tiny threads are long enough and strong enough to hang a man?" He was silent, his long eyes narrowing into slits behind the smoke of his pipe. "What do you suggest doing this morning?" asked Parker. "Well," said Lord Peter, "it seems to me it's about time I took a hand in your job. Let's go round to Park Lane and see what larks Sir Reuben Levy was up to in bed last night." * * * * * "And now, Mrs. Pemming, if you would be so kind as to give me a blanket," said Mr. Bunter, coming down into the kitchen, "and permit of me hanging a sheet across the lower part of this window, and drawing the screen across here, so—so as to shut off any reflections, if you understand me, we'll get to work." Sir Reuben Levy's cook, with her eye upon Mr. Bunter's gentlemanly and well-tailored appearance, hastened to produce what was necessary. Her visitor placed on the table a basket, containing a water-bottle, a silver-backed hair-brush, a pair of boots, a small roll of linoleum, and the "Letters of a Self-made Merchant to His Son," bound in polished morocco. He drew an umbrella from beneath his arm and added it to the collection. He then advanced a ponderous photographic machine and set it up in the neighbourhood of the kitchen range; then, spreading a newspaper over the fair, scrubbed surface of the table, he began to roll up his sleeves and insinuate himself into a pair of surgical gloves. Sir Reuben Levy's valet, entering at the moment and finding him thus engaged, put aside the kitchenmaid, who was staring from a front-row position, and inspected the apparatus critically. Mr. Bunter nodded brightly to him, and uncorked a small bottle of grey powder. "Odd sort of fish, your employer, isn't he?" said the valet, carelessly. "Very singular, indeed," said Mr. Bunter. "Now, my dear," he added, ingratiatingly, to the kitchen-maid, "I wonder if you'd just pour a little of this grey powder over the edge of the bottle while I'm holding it—and the same with this boot—here, at the top—thank you, Miss—what is your name? Price? Oh, but you've got another name besides Price, haven't you? Mabel, eh? That's a name I'm uncommonly partial to—that's very nicely done, you've a steady hand, Miss Mabel—see that? That's the finger marks—three there, and two here, and smudged over in both places. No, don't you touch 'em, my dear, or you'll rub the bloom off. We'll stand 'em up here till they're ready to have their portraits taken. Now then, let's take the hair-brush next. Perhaps, Mrs. Pemming, you'd like to lift him up very carefully by the bristles." "By the bristles, Mr. Bunter?" "If you please, Mrs. Pemming—and lay him here. Now, Miss Mabel, another little exhibition of your skill, _if_ you please. No—we'll try lamp-black this time. Perfect. Couldn't have done it better myself. Ah! there's a beautiful set. No smudges this time. That'll interest his lordship. Now the little book—no, I'll pick that up myself—with these gloves, you see, and by the edges—I'm a careful criminal, Mrs. Pemming, I don't want to leave any traces. Dust the cover all over, Miss Mabel; now this side—that's the way to do it. Lots of prints and no smudges. All according to plan. Oh, please, Mr. Graves, you mustn't touch it—it's as much as my place is worth to have it touched." "D'you have to do much of this sort of thing?" inquired Mr. Graves, from a superior standpoint. "Any amount," replied Mr. Bunter, with a groan calculated to appeal to Mr. Graves's heart and unlock his confidence. "If you'd kindly hold one end of this bit of linoleum, Mrs. Pemming, I'll hold up this end while Miss Mabel operates. Yes, Mr. Graves, it's a hard life, valeting by day and developing by night—morning tea at any time from 6.30 to 11, and criminal investigation at all hours. It's wonderful, the ideas these rich men with nothing to do get into their heads." "I wonder you stand it," said Mr. Graves. "Now there's none of that here. A quiet, orderly, domestic life, Mr. Bunter, has much to be said for it. Meals at regular hours; decent, respectable families to dinner—none of your painted women—and no valeting at night, there's _much_ to be said for it. I don't hold with Hebrews as a rule, Mr. Bunter, and of course I understand that you may find it to your advantage to be in a titled family, but there's less thought of that these days, and I will say, for a self-made man, no one could call Sir Reuben vulgar, and my lady at any rate is county—Miss Ford, she was, one of the Hampshire Fords, and both of them always most considerate." "I agree with you, Mr. Graves—his lordship and me have never held with being narrow-minded—why, yes, my dear, of course it's a footmark, this is the washstand linoleum. A good Jew can be a good man, that's what I've always said. And regular hours and considerate habits have a great deal to recommend them. Very simple in his tastes, now, Sir Reuben, isn't he? for such a rich man, I mean." "Very simple indeed," said the cook; "the meals he and her ladyship have when they're by themselves with Miss Rachel—well, there now—if it wasn't for the dinners, which is always good when there's company, I'd be wastin' my talents and education here, if you understand me, Mr. Bunter." Mr. Bunter added the handle of the umbrella to his collection, and began to pin a sheet across the window, aided by the housemaid. "Admirable," said he. "Now, if I might have this blanket on the table and another on a towel-horse or something of that kind by way of a background—you're very kind, Mrs. Pemming.... Ah! I wish his lordship never wanted valeting at night. Many's the time I've sat up till three and four, and up again to call him early to go off Sherlocking at the other end of the country. And the mud he gets on his clothes and his boots!" "I'm sure it's a shame, Mr. Bunter," said Mrs. Pemming, warmly. "Low, I calls it. In my opinion, police-work ain't no fit occupation for a gentleman, let alone a lordship." "Everything made so difficult, too," said Mr. Bunter nobly sacrificing his employer's character and his own feelings in a good cause; "boots chucked into a corner, clothes hung up on the floor, as they say—" "That's often the case with these men as are born with a silver spoon in their mouths," said Mr. Graves. "Now, Sir Reuben, he's never lost his good old-fashioned habits. Clothes folded up neat, boots put out in his dressing-room, so as a man could get them in the morning, everything made easy." "He forgot them the night before last, though." "The clothes, not the boots. Always thoughtful for others, is Sir Reuben. Ah! I hope nothing's happened to him." "Indeed, no, poor gentleman," chimed in the cook, "and as for what they're sayin', that he'd 'ave gone out surrepshous-like to do something he didn't ought, well, I'd never believe it of him, Mr. Bunter, not if I was to take my dying oath upon it." "Ah!" said Mr. Bunter, adjusting his arc-lamps and connecting them with the nearest electric light, "and that's more than most of us could say of them as pays us." * * * * * "Five foot ten," said Lord Peter, "and not an inch more." He peered dubiously at the depression in the bed clothes, and measured it a second time with the gentleman-scout's vade-mecum. Parker entered this particular in a neat pocketbook. "I suppose," he said, "a six-foot-two man _might_ leave a five-foot-ten depression if he curled himself up." "Have you any Scotch blood in you, Parker?" inquired his colleague, bitterly. "Not that I know of," replied Parker. "Why?" "Because of all the cautious, ungenerous, deliberate and cold-blooded devils I know," said Lord Peter, "you are the most cautious, ungenerous, deliberate and cold-blooded. Here am I, sweating my brains out to introduce a really sensational incident into your dull and disreputable little police investigation, and you refuse to show a single spark of enthusiasm." "Well, it's no good jumping at conclusions." "Jump? You don't even crawl distantly within sight of a conclusion. I believe if you caught the cat with her head in the cream-jug you'd say it was conceivable that the jug was empty when she got there." "Well, it would be conceivable, wouldn't it?" "Curse you," said Lord Peter. He screwed his monocle into his eye, and bent over the pillow, breathing hard and tightly through his nose. "Here, give me the tweezers," he said presently. "Good heavens, man, don't blow like that, you might be a whale." He nipped up an almost invisible object from the linen. "What is it?" asked Parker. "It's a hair," said Wimsey grimly, his hard eyes growing harder. "Let's go and look at Levy's hats, shall we? And you might just ring for that fellow with the churchyard name, do you mind?" Mr. Graves, when summoned, found Lord Peter Wimsey squatting on the floor of the dressing-room before a row of hats arranged upside down before him. "Here you are," said that nobleman cheerfully. "Now, Graves, this is a guessin' competition—a sort of three-hat trick, to mix metaphors. Here are nine hats, including three top-hats. Do you identify all these hats as belonging to Sir Reuben Levy? You do? Very good. Now I have three guesses as to which hat he wore the night he disappeared, and if I guess right, I win; if I don't, you win. See? Ready? Go. I suppose you know the answer yourself, by the way?" "Do I understand your lordship to be asking which hat Sir Reuben wore when he went out on Monday night, your lordship?" "No, you don't understand a bit," said Lord Peter. "I'm asking if _you_ know—don't tell me, I'm going to guess." "I do know, your lordship," said Mr. Graves, reprovingly. "Well," said Lord Peter, "as he was dinin' at the Ritz he wore a topper. Here are three toppers. In three guesses I'd be bound to hit the right one, wouldn't I? That don't seem very sportin'. I'll take one guess. It was this one." He indicated the hat next the window. "Am I right, Graves—have I got the prize?" "That _is_ the hat in question, my lord," said Mr. Graves, without excitement. "Thanks," said Lord Peter, "that's all I wanted to know. Ask Bunter to step up, would you?" Mr. Bunter stepped up with an aggrieved air, and his usually smooth hair ruffled by the focussing cloth. "Oh, there you are, Bunter," said Lord Peter; "look here—" "Here I am, my lord," said Mr. Bunter, with respectful reproach, "but if you'll excuse me saying so, downstairs is where I ought to be, with all those young women about—they'll be fingering the evidence, my lord." "I cry your mercy," said Lord Peter, "but I've quarrelled hopelessly with Mr. Parker and distracted the estimable Graves, and I want you to tell me what finger-prints you have found. I shan't be happy till I get it, so don't be harsh with me, Bunter." "Well, my lord, your lordship understands I haven't photographed them yet, but I won't deny that their appearance is interesting, my lord. The little book off the night table, my lord, has only the marks of one set of fingers—there's a little scar on the right thumb which makes them easy recognised. The hair-brush, too, my lord, has only the same set of marks. The umbrella, the toothglass and the boots all have two sets: the hand with the scarred thumb, which I take to be Sir Reuben's, my lord, and a set of smudges superimposed upon them, if I may put it that way, my lord, which may or may not be the same hand in rubber gloves. I could tell you better when I've got the photographs made, to measure them, my lord. The linoleum in front of the washstand is very gratifying indeed, my lord, if you will excuse my mentioning it. Besides the marks of Sir Reuben's boots which your lordship pointed out, there's the print of a man's naked foot—a much smaller one, my lord, not much more than a ten-inch sock, I should say if you asked me." Lord Peter's face became irradiated with almost a dim, religious light. "A mistake," he breathed, "a mistake, a little one, but he can't afford it. When was the linoleum washed last, Bunter?" "Monday morning, my lord. The housemaid did it and remembered to mention it. Only remark she's made yet, and it's to the point. The other domestics—" His features expressed disdain. "What did I say, Parker? Five-foot-ten and not an inch longer. And he didn't dare to use the hair-brush. Beautiful. But he _had_ to risk the top-hat. Gentleman can't walk home in the rain late at night without a hat, you know, Parker. Look! what do you make of it? Two sets of finger-prints on everything but the book and the brush, two sets of feet on the linoleum, and two kinds of hair in the hat!" He lifted the top-hat to the light, and extracted the evidence with tweezers. "Think of it, Parker—to remember the hair-brush and forget the hat—to remember his fingers all the time, and to make that one careless step on the tell-tale linoleum. Here they are, you see, black hair and tan hair—black hair in the bowler and the panama, and black and tan in last night's topper. And then, just to make certain that we're on the right track, just one little auburn hair on the pillow, on this pillow, Parker, which isn't quite in the right place. It almost brings tears to my eyes." "Do you mean to say—" said the detective, slowly. "I mean to say," said Lord Peter, "that it was not Sir Reuben Levy whom the cook saw last night on the doorstep. I say that it was another man, perhaps a couple of inches shorter, who came here in Levy's clothes and let himself in with Levy's latchkey. Oh, he was a bold, cunning devil, Parker. He had on Levy's boots, and every stitch of Levy's clothing down to the skin. He had rubber gloves on his hands which he never took off, and he did everything he could to make us think that Levy slept here last night. He took his chances, and won. He walked upstairs, he undressed, he even washed and cleaned his teeth, though he didn't use the hair-brush for fear of leaving red hairs in it. He had to guess what Levy did with boots and clothes; one guess was wrong and the other right, as it happened. The bed must look as if it had been slept in, so he gets in, and lies there in his victim's very pyjamas. Then, in the morning sometime, probably in the deadest hour between two and three, he gets up, dresses himself in his own clothes that he has brought with him in a bag, and creeps downstairs. If anybody wakes, he is lost, but he is a bold man, and he takes his chance. He knows that people do not wake as a rule—and they don't wake. He opens the street door which he left on the latch when he came in—he listens for the stray passer-by or the policeman on his beat. He slips out. He pulls the door quietly to with the latchkey. He walks briskly away in rubber-soled shoes—he's the kind of criminal who isn't complete without rubber-soled shoes. In a few minutes he is at Hyde Park Corner. After that—" He paused, and added: "He did all that, and unless he had nothing at stake, he had everything at stake. Either Sir Reuben Levy has been spirited away for some silly practical joke, or the man with the auburn hair has the guilt of murder upon his soul." "Dear me!" ejaculated the detective, "you're very dramatic about it." Lord Peter passed his hand rather wearily over his hair. "My true friend," he murmured in a voice surcharged with emotion, "you recall me to the nursery rhymes of my youth—the sacred duty of flippancy: "There was an old man of Whitehaven Who danced a quadrille with a raven, But they said: It's absurd To encourage that bird— So they smashed that old man of Whitehaven. That's the correct attitude, Parker. Here's a poor old buffer spirited away—such a joke—and I don't believe he'd hurt a fly himself—that makes it funnier. D'you know, Parker, I don't care frightfully about this case after all." "Which, this or yours?" "Both. I say, Parker, shall we go quietly home and have lunch and go to the Coliseum?" "You can if you like," replied the detective; "but you forget I do this for my bread and butter." "And I haven't even that excuse," said Lord Peter; "well, what's the next move? What would you do in my case?" "I'd do some good, hard grind," said Parker. "I'd distrust every bit of work Sugg ever did, and I'd get the family history of every tenant of every flat in Queen Caroline Mansions. I'd examine all their box-rooms and rooftraps, and I would inveigle them into conversations and suddenly bring in the words ‘body' and ‘pince-nez,' and see if they wriggled, like those modern psyo-what's-his-names." "You would, would you?" said Lord Peter with a grin. "Well, we've exchanged cases, you know, so just you toddle off and do it. I'm going to have a jolly time at Wyndham's." Parker made a grimace. "Well," he said, "I don't suppose you'd ever do it, so I'd better. You'll never become a professional till you learn to do a little work, Wimsey. How about lunch?" "I'm invited out," said Lord Peter, magnificently. "I'll run around and change at the club. Can't feed with Freddy Arbuthnot in these bags; Bunter!" "Yes, my lord." "Pack up if you're ready, and come round and wash my face and hands for me at the club." "Work here for another two hours, my lord. Can't do with less than thirty minutes' exposure. The current's none too strong." "You see how I'm bullied by my own man, Parker? Well, I must bear it, I suppose. Ta-ta!" He whistled his way downstairs. The conscientious Mr. Parker, with a groan, settled down to a systematic search through Sir Reuben Levy's papers, with the assistance of a plate of ham sandwiches and a bottle of Bass. * * * * * Lord Peter and the Honourable Freddy Arbuthnot, looking together like an advertisement for gents' trouserings, strolled into the dining-room at Wyndham's. "Haven't seen you for an age," said the Honourable Freddy. "What have you been doin' with yourself?" "Oh, foolin' about," said Lord Peter, languidly. "Thick or clear, sir?" inquired the waiter of the Honourable Freddy. "Which'll you have, Wimsey?" said that gentleman, transferring the burden of selection to his guest. "They're both equally poisonous." "Well, clear's less trouble to lick out of the spoon," said Lord Peter. "Clear," said the Honourable Freddy. "Consommé Polonais," agreed the waiter. "Very nice, sir." Conversation languished until the Honourable Freddy found a bone in the filleted sole, and sent for the head waiter to explain its presence. When this matter had been adjusted Lord Peter found energy to say: "Sorry to hear about your gov'nor, old man." "Yes, poor old buffer," said the Honourable Freddy; "they say he can't last long now. What? Oh! the Montrachet '08. There's nothing fit to drink in this place," he added gloomily. After this deliberate insult to a noble vintage there was a further pause, till Lord Peter said: "How's 'Change?" "Rotten," said the Honourable Freddy. He helped himself gloomily to salmis of game. "Can I do anything?" asked Lord Peter. "Oh, no, thanks—very decent of you, but it'll pan out all right in time." "This isn't a bad salmis," said Lord Peter. "I've eaten worse," admitted his friend. "What about those Argentines?" inquired Lord Peter. "Here, waiter, there's a bit of cork in my glass." "Cork?" cried the Honourable Freddy, with something approaching animation; "you'll hear about this, waiter. It's an amazing thing a fellow who's paid to do the job can't manage to take a cork out of a bottle. What you say? Argentines? Gone all to hell. Old Levy bunkin' off like that's knocked the bottom out of the market." "You don't say so," said Lord Peter. "What d'you suppose has happened to the old man?" "Cursed if I know," said the Honourable Freddy; "knocked on the head by the bears, I should think." "P'r'aps he's gone off on his own," suggested Lord Peter. "Double life, you know. Giddy old blighters, some of these City men." "Oh, no," said the Honourable Freddy, faintly roused; "no, hang it all, Wimsey, I wouldn't care to say that. He's a decent old domestic bird, and his daughter's a charmin' girl. Besides, he's straight enough—he'd _do_ you down fast enough, but he wouldn't _let_ you down. Old Anderson is badly cut up about it." "Who's Anderson?" "Chap with property out there. He belongs here. He was goin' to meet Levy on Tuesday. He's afraid those railway people will get in now, and then it'll be all U. P." "Who's runnin' the railway people over here?" inquired Lord Peter. "Yankee blighter, John P. Milligan. He's got an option, or says he has. You can't trust these brutes." "Can't Anderson hold on?" "Anderson isn't Levy. Hasn't got the shekels. Besides, he's only one. Levy covers the ground—he could boycott Milligan's beastly railway if he liked. That's where he's got the pull, you see." "B'lieve I met the Milligan man somewhere," said Lord Peter, thoughtfully. "Ain't he a hulking brute with black hair and a beard?" "You're thinkin' of somebody else," said the Honourable Freddy. "Milligan don't stand any higher than I do, unless you call five-feet-ten hulking—and he's bald, anyway." Lord Peter considered this over the Gorgonzola. Then he said: "Didn't know Levy had a charmin' daughter." "Oh, yes," said the Honourable Freddy, with an elaborate detachment. "Met her and Mamma last year abroad. That's how I got to know the old man. He's been very decent. Let me into this Argentine business on the ground floor, don't you know?" "Well," said Lord Peter, "you might do worse. Money's money, ain't it? And Lady Levy is quite a redeemin' point. At least, my mother knew her people." "Oh, _she's_ all right," said the Honourable Freddy, "and the old man's nothing to be ashamed of nowadays. He's self-made, of course, but he don't pretend to be anything else. No side. Toddles off to business on a 96 'bus every morning. ‘Can't make up my mind to taxis, my boy,' he says. ‘I had to look at every halfpenny when I was a young man, and I can't get out of the way of it now.' Though, if he's takin' his family out, nothing's too good. Rachel—that's the girl—always laughs at the old man's little economies." "I suppose they've sent for Lady Levy," said Lord Peter. "I suppose so," agreed the other. "I'd better pop round and express sympathy or somethin', what? Wouldn't look well not to, d'you think? But it's deuced awkward. What am I to say?" "I don't think it matters much what you say," said Lord Peter, helpfully. "I should ask if you can do anything." "Thanks," said the lover, "I will. Energetic young man. Count on me. Always at your service. Ring me up any time of the day or night. That's the line to take, don't you think?" "That's the idea," said Lord Peter. * * * * * Mr. John P. Milligan, the London representative of the great Milligan railroad and shipping company, was dictating code cables to his secretary in an office in Lombard Street, when a card was brought up to him, bearing the simple legend: LORD PETER WIMSEY _Marlborough Club_ Mr. Milligan was annoyed at the interruption, but, like many of his nation, if he had a weak point, it was the British aristocracy. He postponed for a few minutes the elimination from the map of a modest but promising farm, and directed that the visitor should be shown up. "Good-afternoon," said that nobleman, ambling genially in, "it's most uncommonly good of you to let me come round wastin' your time like this. I'll try not to be too long about it, though I'm not awfully good at comin' to the point. My brother never would let me stand for the county, y'know—said I wandered on so nobody'd know what I was talkin' about." "Pleased to meet you, Lord Wimsey," said Mr. Milligan. "Won't you take a seat?" "Thanks," said Lord Peter, "but I'm not a peer, you know—that's my brother Denver. My name's Peter. It's a silly name, I always think, so old-world and full of homely virtue and that sort of thing, but my godfathers and godmothers in my baptism are responsible for that, I suppose, officially—which is rather hard on them, you know, as they didn't actually choose it. But we always have a Peter, after the third duke, who betrayed five kings somewhere about the Wars of the Roses, though come to think of it, it ain't anything to be proud of. Still, one has to make the best of it." Mr. Milligan, thus ingeniously placed at that disadvantage which attends ignorance, manoeuvred for position, and offered his interrupter a Corona Corona. "Thanks, awfully," said Lord Peter, "though you really mustn't tempt me to stay here burblin' all afternoon. By Jove, Mr. Milligan, if you offer people such comfortable chairs and cigars like these, I wonder they don't come an' live in your office." He added mentally: "I wish to goodness I could get those long-toed boots off you. How's a man to know the size of your feet? And a head like a potato. It's enough to make one swear." "Say now, Lord Peter," said Mr. Milligan, "can I do anything for you?" "Well, d'you know," said Lord Peter, "I'm wonderin' if you would. It's damned cheek to ask you, but fact is, it's my mother, you know. Wonderful woman, but don't realize what it means, demands on the time of a busy man like you. We don't understand hustle over here, you know, Mr. Milligan." "Now don't you mention that," said Mr. Milligan; "I'd be surely charmed to do anything to oblige the Duchess." He felt a momentary qualm as to whether a duke's mother were also a duchess, but breathed more freely as Lord Peter went on: "Thanks—that's uncommonly good of you. Well, now, it's like this. My mother—most energetic, self-sacrificin' woman, don't you see, is thinkin' of gettin' up a sort of a charity bazaar down at Denver this winter, in aid of the church roof, y'know. Very sad case, Mr. Milligan—fine old antique—early English windows and decorated angel roof, and all that—all tumblin' to pieces, rain pourin' in and so on—vicar catchin' rheumatism at early service, owin' to the draught blowin' in over the altar—you know the sort of thing. They've got a man down startin' on it—little beggar called Thipps—lives with an aged mother in Battersea—vulgar little beast, but quite good on angel roofs and things, I'm told." At this point, Lord Peter watched his interlocutor narrowly, but finding that this rigmarole produced in him no reaction more startling than polite interest tinged with faint bewilderment, he abandoned this line of investigation, and proceeded: "I say, I beg your pardon, frightfully—I'm afraid I'm bein' beastly long-winded. Fact is, my mother is gettin' up this bazaar, and she thought it'd be an awfully interestin' side-show to have some lectures—sort of little talks, y'know—by eminent business men of all nations. ‘How I Did It' kind of touch, y'know—‘A Drop of Oil with a Kerosene King'—‘Cash Conscience and Cocoa' and so on. It would interest people down there no end. You see, all my mother's friends will be there, and we've none of us any money—not what you'd call money, I mean—I expect our incomes wouldn't pay your telephone calls, would they?—but we like awfully to hear about the people who can make money. Gives us a sort of uplifted feelin', don't you know. Well, anyway, I mean, my mother'd be frightfully pleased and grateful to you, Mr. Milligan, if you'd come down and give us a few words as a representative American. It needn't take more than ten minutes or so, y'know, because the local people can't understand much beyond shootin' and huntin', and my mother's crowd can't keep their minds on anythin' more than ten minutes together, but we'd really appreciate it very much if you'd come and stay a day or two and just give us a little breezy word on the almighty dollar." "Why, yes," said Mr. Milligan, "I'd like to, Lord Peter. It's kind of the Duchess to suggest it. It's a very sad thing when these fine old antiques begin to wear out. I'll come with great pleasure. And perhaps you'd be kind enough to accept a little donation to the Restoration Fund." This unexpected development nearly brought Lord Peter up all standing. To pump, by means of an ingenious lie, a hospitable gentleman whom you are inclined to suspect of a peculiarly malicious murder, and to accept from him in the course of the proceedings a large cheque for a charitable object, has something about it unpalatable to any but the hardened Secret Service agent. Lord Peter temporized. "That's awfully decent of you," he said. "I'm sure they'd be no end grateful. But you'd better not give it to me, you know. I might spend it, or lose it. I'm not very reliable, I'm afraid. The vicar's the right person—the Rev. Constantine Throgmorton, St. John-before-the-Latin-Gate Vicarage, Duke's Denver, if you like to send it there." "I will," said Mr. Milligan. "Will you write it out now for a thousand pounds, Scoot, in case it slips my mind later?" The secretary, a sandy-haired young man with a long chin and no eyebrows, silently did as he was requested. Lord Peter looked from the bald head of Mr. Milligan to the red head of the secretary, hardened his heart and tried again. "Well, I'm no end grateful to you, Mr. Milligan, and so'll my mother be when I tell her. I'll let you know the date of the bazaar—it's not quite settled yet, and I've got to see some other business men, don't you know. I thought of askin' someone from one of the big newspaper combines to represent British advertisin' talent, what?—and a friend of mine promises me a leadin' German financier—very interestin' if there ain't too much feelin' against it down in the country, and I'll have to find somebody or other to do the Hebrew point of view. I thought of askin' Levy, y'know, only he's floated off in this inconvenient way." "Yes," said Mr. Milligan, "that's a very curious thing, though I don't mind saying, Lord Peter, that it's a convenience to me. He had a cinch on my railroad combine, but I'd nothing against him personally, and if he turns up after I've brought off a little deal I've got on, I'll be happy to give him the right hand of welcome." A vision passed through Lord Peter's mind of Sir Reuben kept somewhere in custody till a financial crisis was over. This was exceedingly possible, and far more agreeable than his earlier conjecture; it also agreed better with the impression he was forming of Mr. Milligan. "Well, it's a rum go," said Lord Peter, "but I daresay he had his reasons. Much better not inquire into people's reasons, y'know, what? Specially as a police friend of mine who's connected with the case says the old johnnie dyed his hair before he went." Out of the tail of his eye, Lord Peter saw the redheaded secretary add up five columns of figures simultaneously and jot down the answer. "Dyed his hair, did he?" said Mr. Milligan. "Dyed it red," said Lord Peter. The secretary looked up. "Odd thing is," continued Wimsey, "they can't lay hands on the bottle. Somethin' fishy there, don't you think, what?" The secretary's interest seemed to have evaporated. He inserted a fresh sheet into his looseleaf ledger, and carried forward a row of digits from the preceding page. "I daresay there's nothin' in it," said Lord Peter, rising to go. "Well, it's uncommonly good of you to be bothered with me like this, Mr. Milligan—my mother'll be no end pleased. She'll write you about the date." "I'm charmed," said Mr. Milligan. "Very pleased to have met you." Mr. Scoot rose silently to open the door, uncoiling as he did so a portentous length of thin leg, hitherto hidden by the desk. With a mental sigh Lord Peter estimated him at six-foot-four. "It's a pity I can't put Scoot's head on Milligan's shoulders," said Lord Peter, emerging into the swirl of the city. "And what _will_ my mother say?" # CHAPTER V Mr. Parker was a bachelor, and occupied a Georgian but inconvenient flat at No. 12A Great Ormond Street, for which he paid a pound a week. His exertions in the cause of civilization were rewarded, not by the gift of diamond rings from empresses or munificent cheques from grateful Prime Ministers, but by a modest, though sufficient, salary, drawn from the pockets of the British taxpayer. He awoke, after a long day of arduous and inconclusive labour, to the smell of burnt porridge. Through his bedroom window, hygienically open top and bottom, a raw fog was rolling slowly in, and the sight of a pair of winter pants, flung hastily over a chair the previous night, fretted him with a sense of the sordid absurdity of the human form. The telephone bell rang, and he crawled wretchedly out of bed and into the sitting-room, where Mrs. Munns, who did for him by the day, was laying the table, sneezing as she went. Mr. Bunter was speaking. "His lordship says he'd be very glad, sir, if you could make it convenient to step round to breakfast." If the odour of kidneys and bacon had been wafted along the wire, Mr. Parker could not have experienced a more vivid sense of consolation. "Tell his lordship I'll be with him in half an hour," he said, thankfully, and plunging into the bathroom, which was also the kitchen, he informed Mrs. Munns, who was just making tea from a kettle which had gone off the boil, that he should be out to breakfast. "You can take the porridge home for the family," he added, viciously, and flung off his dressing-gown with such determination that Mrs. Munns could only scuttle away with a snort. A 19 'bus deposited him in Piccadilly only fifteen minutes later than his rather sanguine impulse had prompted him to suggest, and Mr. Bunter served him with glorious food, incomparable coffee, and the _Daily Mail_ before a blazing fire of wood and coal. A distant voice singing the "et iterum venturus est" from Bach's Mass in B minor proclaimed that for the owner of the flat cleanliness and godliness met at least once a day, and presently Lord Peter roamed in, moist and verbena-scented, in a bath-robe cheerfully patterned with unnaturally variegated peacocks. "Mornin', old dear," said that gentleman. "Beast of a day, ain't it? Very good of you to trundle out in it, but I had a letter I wanted you to see, and I hadn't the energy to come round to your place. Bunter and I've been makin' a night of it." "What's the letter?" asked Parker. "Never talk business with your mouth full," said Lord Peter, reprovingly; "have some Oxford marmalade—and then I'll show you my Dante; they brought it round last night. What ought I to read this morning, Bunter?" "Lord Erith's collection is going to be sold, my lord. There is a column about it in the _Morning Post_. I think your lordship should look at this review of Sir Julian Freke's new book on ‘The Physiological Bases of the Conscience' in the _Times Literary Supplement_. Then there is a very singular little burglary in the _Chronicle_, my lord, and an attack on titled families in the _Herald_—rather ill-written, if I may say so, but not without unconscious humour which your lordship will appreciate." "All right, give me that and the burglary," said his lordship. "I have looked over the other papers," pursued Mr. Bunter, indicating a formidable pile, "and marked your lordship's after-breakfast reading." "Oh, pray don't allude to it," said Lord Peter; "you take my appetite away." There was silence, but for the crunching of toast and the crackling of paper. "I see they adjourned the inquest," said Parker presently. "Nothing else to do," said Lord Peter; "but Lady Levy arrived last night, and will have to go and fail to identify the body this morning for Sugg's benefit." "Time, too," said Mr. Parker shortly. Silence fell again. "I don't think much of your burglary, Bunter," said Lord Peter. "Competent, of course, but no imagination. I want imagination in a criminal. Where's the _Morning Post_?" After a further silence, Lord Peter said: "You might send for the catalogue, Bunter, that Apollonios Rhodios[C] might be worth looking at. No, I'm damned if I'm going to stodge through that review, but you can stick the book on the library list if you like. His book on crime was entertainin' enough as far as it went, but the fellow's got a bee in his bonnet. Thinks God's a secretion of the liver—all right once in a way, but there's no need to keep on about it. There's nothing you can't prove if your outlook is only sufficiently limited. Look at Sugg." "I beg your pardon," said Parker; "I wasn't attending. Argentines are steadying a little, I see." "Milligan," said Lord Peter. "Oil's in a bad way. Levy's made a difference there. That funny little boom in Peruvians that came on just before he disappeared has died away again. I wonder if he was concerned in it. D'you know at all?" "I'll find out," said Lord Peter. "What was it?" "Oh, an absolutely dud enterprise that hadn't been heard of for years. It suddenly took a little lease of life last week. I happened to notice it because my mother got let in for a couple of hundred shares a long time ago. It never paid a dividend. Now it's petered out again." Wimsey pushed his plate aside and lit a pipe. "Having finished, I don't mind doing some work," he said. "How did you get on yesterday?" "I didn't," replied Parker. "I sleuthed up and down those flats in my own bodily shape and two different disguises. I was a gas-meter man and a collector for a Home for Lost Doggies, and I didn't get a thing to go on, except a servant in the top flat at the Battersea Bridge Road end of the row who said she thought she heard a bump on the roof one night. Asked which night, she couldn't rightly say. Asked if it was Monday night, she thought it very likely. Asked if it mightn't have been in that high wind on Saturday night that blew my chimney-pot off, she couldn't say but what it might have been. Asked if she was sure it was on the roof and not inside the flat, said to be sure they did find a picture tumbled down next morning. Very suggestible girl. I saw your friends, Mr. and Mrs. Appledore, who received me coldly, but could make no definite complaint about Thipps except that his mother dropped her h's, and that he once called on them uninvited, armed with a pamphlet about anti-vivisection. The Indian Colonel on the first floor was loud, but unexpectedly friendly. He gave me Indian curry for supper and some very good whisky, but he's a sort of hermit, and all _he_ could tell me was that he couldn't stand Mrs. Appledore." "Did you get nothing at the house?" "Only Levy's private diary. I brought it away with me. Here it is. It doesn't tell one much, though. It's full of entries like: ‘Tom and Annie to dinner'; and ‘My dear wife's birthday; gave her an old opal ring'; ‘Mr. Arbuthnot dropped in to tea; he wants to marry Rachel, but I should like someone steadier for my treasure.' Still, I thought it would show who came to the house and so on. He evidently wrote it up at night. There's no entry for Monday." "I expect it'll be useful," said Lord Peter, turning over the pages. "Poor old buffer. I say, I'm not so certain now he was done away with." He detailed to Mr. Parker his day's work. "Arbuthnot?" said Parker. "Is that the Arbuthnot of the diary?" "I suppose so. I hunted him up because I knew he was fond of fooling round the Stock Exchange. As for Milligan, he _looks_ all right, but I believe he's pretty ruthless in business and you never can tell. Then there's the red-haired secretary—lightnin' calculator man with a face like a fish, keeps on sayin' nuthin'—got the Tarbaby in his family tree, I should think. Milligan's got a jolly good motive for, at any rate, suspendin' Levy for a few days. Then there's the new man." "What new man?" "Ah, that's the letter I mentioned to you. Where did I put it? Here we are. Good parchment paper, printed address of solicitor's office in Salisbury, and postmark to correspond. Very precisely written with a fine nib by an elderly business man of old-fashioned habits." Parker took the letter and read: CRIMPLESHAM AND WICKS, _Solicitors_, MILFORD HILL, SALISBURY, 17 November, 192—. Sir, With reference to your advertisement today in the personal column of _The Times_, I am disposed to believe that the eyeglasses and chain in question may be those I lost on the L. B. & S. C. Electric Railway while visiting London last Monday. I left Victoria by the 5.45 train, and did not notice my loss till I arrived at Balham. This indication and the optician's specification of the glasses, which I enclose, should suffice at once as an identification and a guarantee of my bona fides. If the glasses should prove to be mine, I should be greatly obliged to you if you would kindly forward them to me by registered post, as the chain was a present from my daughter, and is one of my dearest possessions. Thanking you in advance for this kindness, and regretting the trouble to which I shall be putting you, I am, Yours very truly, THOS. CRIMPLESHAM Lord Peter Wimsey, 110, Piccadilly, W. (Encl.) "Dear me," said Parker, "this is what you might call unexpected." "Either it is some extraordinary misunderstanding," said Lord Peter, "or Mr. Crimplesham is a very bold and cunning villain. Or possibly, of course, they are the wrong glasses. We may as well get a ruling on that point at once. I suppose the glasses are at the Yard. I wish you'd just ring 'em up and ask 'em to send round an optician's description of them at once—and you might ask at the same time whether it's a very common prescription." "Right you are," said Parker, and took the receiver off its hook. "And now," said his friend, when the message was delivered, "just come into the library for a minute." On the library table, Lord Peter had spread out a series of bromide prints, some dry, some damp, and some but half-washed. "These little ones are the originals of the photos we've been taking," said Lord Peter, "and these big ones are enlargements all made to precisely the same scale. This one here is the footmark on the linoleum; we'll put that by itself at present. Now these finger-prints can be divided into five lots. I've numbered 'em on the prints—see?—and made a list: "A. The finger-prints of Levy himself, off his little bedside book and his hair-brush—this and this—you can't mistake the little scar on the thumb. "B. The smudges made by the gloved fingers of the man who slept in Levy's room on Monday night. They show clearly on the water-bottle and on the boots—superimposed on Levy's. They are very distinct on the boots—surprisingly so for gloved hands, and I deduce that the gloves were rubber ones and had recently been in water. "Here's another interestin' point. Levy walked in the rain on Monday night, as we know, and these dark marks are mud-splashes. You see they lie _over_ Levy's finger-prints in every case. Now see: on this left boot we find the stranger's thumb-mark _over_ the mud on the leather above the heel. That's a funny place to find a thumb-mark on a boot, isn't it? That is, if Levy took off his own boots. But it's the place where you'd expect to see it if somebody forcibly removed his boots for him. Again, most of the stranger's finger-marks come _over_ the mud-marks, but here is one splash of mud which comes on top of them again. Which makes me infer that the stranger came back to Park Lane, wearing Levy's boots, in a cab, carriage or car, but that at some point or other he walked a little way—just enough to tread in a puddle and get a splash on the boots. What do you say?" "Very pretty," said Parker. "A bit intricate, though, and the marks are not all that I could wish a finger-print to be." "Well, I won't lay too much stress on it. But it fits in with our previous ideas. Now let's turn to: "C. The prints obligingly left by my own particular villain on the further edge of Thipps's bath, where you spotted them, and I ought to be scourged for not having spotted them. The left hand, you notice, the base of the palm and the fingers, but not the tips, looking as though he had steadied himself on the edge of the bath while leaning down to adjust something at the bottom, the pince-nez perhaps. Gloved, you see, but showing no ridge or seam of any kind—I say rubber, you say rubber. That's that. Now see here: "D and E come off a visiting-card of mine. There's this thing at the corner, marked F, but that you can disregard; in the original document it's a sticky mark left by the thumb of the youth who took it from me, after first removing a piece of chewing-gum from his teeth with his finger to tell me that Mr. Milligan might or might not be disengaged. D and E are the thumb-marks of Mr. Milligan and his red-haired secretary. I'm not clear which is which, but I saw the youth with the chewing-gum hand the card to the secretary, and when I got into the inner shrine I saw John P. Milligan standing with it in his hand, so it's one or the other, and for the moment it's immaterial to our purpose which is which. I boned the card from the table when I left. "Well, now, Parker, here's what's been keeping Bunter and me up till the small hours. I've measured and measured every way backwards and forwards till my head's spinnin', and I've stared till I'm nearly blind, but I'm hanged if I can make my mind up. Question 1. Is C identical with B? Question 2. Is D or E identical with B? There's nothing to go on but the size and shape, of course, and the marks are so faint—what do you think?" Parker shook his head doubtfully. "I think E might almost be put out of the question," he said; "it seems such an excessively long and narrow thumb. But I think there is a decided resemblance between the span of B on the water-bottle and C on the bath. And I don't see any reason why D shouldn't be the same as B, only there's so little to judge from." "Your untutored judgment and my measurements have brought us both to the same conclusion—if you can call it a conclusion," said Lord Peter, bitterly. "Another thing," said Parker. "Why on earth should we try to connect B with C? The fact that you and I happen to be friends doesn't make it necessary to conclude that the two cases we happen to be interested in have any organic connection with one another. Why should they? The only person who thinks they have is Sugg, and he's nothing to go by. It would be different if there were any truth in the suggestion that the man in the bath was Levy, but we know for a certainty he wasn't. It's ridiculous to suppose that the same man was employed in committing two totally distinct crimes on the same night, one in Battersea and the other in Park Lane." "I know," said Wimsey, "though of course we mustn't forget that Levy _was_ in Battersea at the time, and now we know he didn't return home at twelve as was supposed, we've no reason to think he ever left Battersea at all." "True. But there are other places in Battersea besides Thipps's bathroom. And he _wasn't_ in Thipps's bathroom. In fact, come to think of it, that's the one place in the universe where we know definitely that he wasn't. So what's Thipps's bath got to do with it?" "I don't know," said Lord Peter. "Well, perhaps we shall get something better to go on today." He leaned back in his chair and smoked thoughtfully for some time over the papers which Bunter had marked for him. "They've got you out in the limelight," he said. "Thank Heaven, Sugg hates me too much to give me any publicity. What a dull Agony Column! ‘Darling Pipsey—Come back soon to your distracted Popsey'—and the usual young man in need of financial assistance, and the usual injunction to ‘Remember thy Creator in the days of thy youth.' Hullo! there's the bell. Oh, it's our answer from Scotland Yard." The note from Scotland Yard enclosed an optician's specification identical with that sent by Mr. Crimplesham, and added that it was an unusual one, owing to the peculiar strength of the lenses and the marked difference between the sight of the two eyes. "That's good enough," said Parker. "Yes," said Wimsey. "Then Possibility No. 3 is knocked on the head. There remain Possibility No. 1: Accident or Misunderstanding, and No. 2: Deliberate Villainy, of a remarkably bold and calculating kind—of a kind, in fact, characteristic of the author or authors of our two problems. Following the methods inculcated at that University of which I have the honour to be a member, we will now examine severally the various suggestions afforded by Possibility No. 2. This Possibility may be again subdivided into two or more Hypotheses. On Hypothesis 1 (strongly advocated by my distinguished colleague Professor Snupshed), the criminal, whom we may designate as X, is not identical with Crimplesham, but is using the name of Crimplesham as his shield, or aegis. This hypothesis may be further subdivided into two alternatives. Alternative A: Crimplesham is an innocent and unconscious accomplice, and X is in his employment. X writes in Crimplesham's name on Crimplesham's office-paper and obtains that the object in question, i.e., the eyeglasses, be despatched to Crimplesham's address. He is in a position to intercept the parcel before it reaches Crimplesham. The presumption is that X is Crimplesham's charwoman, office-boy, clerk, secretary or porter. This offers a wide field of investigation. The method of inquiry will be to interview Crimplesham and discover whether he sent the letter, and if not, who has access to his correspondence. Alternative B: Crimplesham is under X's influence or in his power, and has been induced to write the letter by (_a_) bribery, (_b_) misrepresentation or (_c_) threats. X may in that case be a persuasive relation or friend, or else a creditor, blackmailer or assassin; Crimplesham, on the other hand, is obviously venal or a fool. The method of inquiry in this case, I would tentatively suggest, is again to interview Crimplesham, put the facts of the case strongly before him, and assure him in the most intimidating terms that he is liable to a prolonged term of penal servitude as an accessory after the fact in the crime of murder— Ah-hem! Trusting, gentlemen, that you have followed me thus far, we will pass to the consideration of Hypothesis No. 2, to which I personally incline, and according to which X is identical with Crimplesham. "In this case, Crimplesham, who is, in the words of an English classic, a man-of-infinite-resource-and-sagacity, correctly deduces that, of all people, the last whom we shall expect to find answering our advertisement is the criminal himself. Accordingly, he plays a bold game of bluff. He invents an occasion on which the glasses may very easily have been lost or stolen, and applies for them. If confronted, nobody will be more astonished than he to learn where they were found. He will produce witnesses to prove that he left Victoria at 5.45 and emerged from the train at Balham at the scheduled time, and sat up all Monday night playing chess with a respectable gentleman well known in Balham. In this case, the method of inquiry will be to pump the respectable gentleman in Balham, and if he should happen to be a single gentleman with a deaf housekeeper, it may be no easy matter to impugn the alibi, since, outside detective romances, few ticket-collectors and 'bus-conductors keep an exact remembrance of all the passengers passing between Balham and London on any and every evening of the week. "Finally, gentlemen, I will frankly point out the weak point of all these hypotheses, namely: that none of them offers any explanation as to why the incriminating article was left so conspicuously on the body in the first instance." Mr. Parker had listened with commendable patience to this academic exposition. "Might not X," he suggested, "be an enemy of Crimplesham's, who designed to throw suspicion upon him?" "He might. In that case he should be easy to discover, since he obviously lives in close proximity to Crimplesham and his glasses, and Crimplesham in fear of his life will then be a valuable ally for the prosecution." "How about the first possibility of all, misunderstanding or accident?" "Well! Well, for purposes of discussion, nothing, because it really doesn't afford any data for discussion." "In any case," said Parker, "the obvious course appears to be to go to Salisbury." "That seems indicated," said Lord Peter. "Very well," said the detective, "is it to be you or me or both of us?" "It is to be me," said Lord Peter, "and that for two reasons. First, because, if (by Possibility No. 2, Hypothesis 1, Alternative A) Crimplesham is an innocent catspaw, the person who put in the advertisement is the proper person to hand over the property. Secondly, because, if we are to adopt Hypothesis 2, we must not overlook the sinister possibility that Crimplesham-X is laying a careful trap to rid himself of the person who so unwarily advertised in the daily press his interest in the solution of the Battersea Park mystery." "That appears to me to be an argument for our both going," objected the detective. "Far from it," said Lord Peter. "Why play into the hands of Crimplesham-X by delivering over to him the only two men in London with the evidence, such as it is, and shall I say the wits, to connect him with the Battersea body?" "But if we told the Yard where we were going, and we both got nobbled," said Mr. Parker, "it would afford strong presumptive evidence of Crimplesham's guilt, and anyhow, if he didn't get hanged for murdering the man in the bath he'd at least get hanged for murdering us." "Well," said Lord Peter, "if he only murdered me you could still hang him—what's the good of wasting a sound, marriageable young male like yourself? Besides, how about old Levy? If you're incapacitated, do you think anybody else is going to find him?" "But we could frighten Crimplesham by threatening him with the Yard." "Well, dash it all, if it comes to that, I can frighten him by threatening him with _you_, which, seeing you hold what evidence there is, is much more to the point. And, then, suppose it's a wild-goose chase after all, you'll have wasted time when you might have been getting on with the case. There are several things that need doing." "Well," said Parker, silenced but reluctant, "why can't I go, in that case?" "Bosh!" said Lord Peter. "I am retained (by old Mrs. Thipps, for whom I entertain the greatest respect) to deal with this case, and it's only by courtesy I allow you to have anything to do with it." Mr. Parker groaned. "Will you at least take Bunter?" he said. "In deference to your feelings," replied Lord Peter, "I will take Bunter, though he could be far more usefully employed taking photographs or overhauling my wardrobe. When is there a good train to Salisbury, Bunter?" "There is an excellent train at 10.50, my lord." "Kindly make arrangements to catch it," said Lord Peter, throwing off his bath-robe and trailing away with it into his bedroom. "And, Parker—if you have nothing else to do you might get hold of Levy's secretary and look into that little matter of the Peruvian oil." * * * * * Lord Peter took with him, for light reading in the train, Sir Reuben Levy's diary. It was a simple, and in the light of recent facts, rather a pathetic document. The terrible fighter of the Stock Exchange, who could with one nod set the surly bear dancing, or bring the savage bull to feed out of his hand, whose breath devastated whole districts with famine or swept financial potentates from their seats, was revealed in private life as kindly, domestic, innocently proud of himself and his belongings, confiding, generous and a little dull. His own small economies were duly chronicled side by side with extravagant presents to his wife and daughter. Small incidents of household routine appeared, such as: "Man came to mend the conservatory roof," or "The new butler (Simpson) has arrived, recommended by the Goldbergs. I think he will be satisfactory." All visitors and entertainments were duly entered, from a very magnificent lunch to Lord Dewsbury, the Minister for Foreign Affairs, and Dr. Jabez K. Wort, the American plenipotentiary, through a series of diplomatic dinners to eminent financiers, down to intimate family gatherings of persons designated by Christian names or nicknames. About May there came a mention of Lady Levy's nerves, and further reference was made to the subject in subsequent months. In September it was stated that "Freke came to see my dear wife and advised complete rest and change of scene. She thinks of going abroad with Rachel." The name of the famous nerve-specialist occurred as a diner or luncher about once a month, and it came into Lord Peter's mind that Freke would be a good person to consult about Levy himself. "People sometimes tell things to the doctor," he murmured to himself. "And, by Jove! if Levy was simply going round to see Freke on Monday night, that rather disposes of the Battersea incident, doesn't it?" He made a note to look up Sir Julian and turned on further. On September 18th, Lady Levy and her daughter had left for the south of France. Then suddenly, under the date October 5th, Lord Peter found what he was looking for: "Goldberg, Skriner and Milligan to dinner." There was the evidence that Milligan had been in that house. There had been a formal entertainment—a meeting as of two duellists shaking hands before the fight. Skriner was a well-known picture-dealer; Lord Peter imagined an after-dinner excursion upstairs to see the two Corots in the drawing-room, and the portrait of the oldest Levy girl, who had died at the age of sixteen. It was by Augustus John, and hung in the bedroom. The name of the red-haired secretary was nowhere mentioned, unless the initial S., occurring in another entry, referred to him. Throughout September and October, Anderson (of Wyndham's) had been a frequent visitor. Lord Peter shook his head over the diary, and turned to the consideration of the Battersea Park mystery. Whereas in the Levy affair it was easy enough to supply a motive for the crime, if crime it were, and the difficulty was to discover the method of its carrying out and the whereabouts of the victim, in the other case the chief obstacle to inquiry was the entire absence of any imaginable motive. It was odd that, although the papers had carried news of the affair from one end of the country to the other and a description of the body had been sent to every police station in the country, nobody had as yet come forward to identify the mysterious occupant of Mr. Thipps's bath. It was true that the description, which mentioned the clean-shaven chin, elegantly cut hair and the pince-nez, was rather misleading, but on the other hand, the police had managed to discover the number of molars missing, and the height, complexion and other data were correctly enough stated, as also the date at which death had presumably occurred. It seemed, however, as though the man had melted out of society without leaving a gap or so much as a ripple. Assigning a motive for the murder of a person without relations or antecedents or even clothes is like trying to visualize the fourth dimension—admirable exercise for the imagination, but arduous and inconclusive. Even if the day's interview should disclose black spots in the past or present of Mr. Crimplesham, how were they to be brought into connection with a person apparently without a past, and whose present was confined to the narrow limits of a bath and a police mortuary? "Bunter," said Lord Peter, "I beg that in the future you will restrain me from starting two hares at once. These cases are gettin' to be a strain on my constitution. One hare has nowhere to run from, and the other has nowhere to run to. It's a kind of mental D.T., Bunter. When this is over I shall turn pussyfoot, forswear the police news, and take to an emollient diet of the works of the late Charles Garvice." * * * * * It was its comparative proximity to Milford Hill that induced Lord Peter to lunch at the Minster Hotel rather than at the White Hart or some other more picturesquely situated hostel. It was not a lunch calculated to cheer his mind; as in all Cathedral cities, the atmosphere of the Close pervades every nook and corner of Salisbury, and no food in that city but seems faintly flavoured with prayer-books. As he sat sadly consuming that impassive pale substance known to the English as "cheese" unqualified (for there are cheeses which go openly by their names, as Stilton, Camembert, Gruyère, Wensleydale or Gorgonzola, but "cheese" is cheese and everywhere the same), he inquired of the waiter the whereabouts of Mr. Crimplesham's office. The waiter directed him to a house rather further up the street on the opposite side, adding: "But anybody'll tell you, sir; Mr. Crimplesham's very well known hereabouts." "He's a good solicitor, I suppose?" said Lord Peter. "Oh, yes, sir," said the waiter, "you couldn't do better than trust to Mr. Crimplesham, sir. There's folk say he's old-fashioned, but I'd rather have my little bits of business done by Mr. Crimplesham than by one of these fly-away young men. Not but what Mr. Crimplesham'll be retiring soon, sir, I don't doubt, for he must be close on eighty, sir, if he's a day, but then there's young Mr. Wicks to carry on the business, and he's a very nice, steady-like young gentleman." "Is Mr. Crimplesham really as old as that?" said Lord Peter. "Dear me! He must be very active for his years. A friend of mine was doing business with him in town last week." "Wonderful active, sir," agreed the waiter, "and with his game leg, too, you'd be surprised. But there, sir, I often think when a man's once past a certain age, the older he grows the tougher he gets, and women the same or more so." "Very likely," said Lord Peter, calling up and dismissing the mental picture of a gentleman of eighty with a game leg carrying a dead body over the roof of a Battersea flat at midnight. "‘He's tough, sir, tough, is old Joey Bagstock, tough and devilish sly,'" he added, thoughtlessly. "Indeed, sir?" said the waiter. "I couldn't say, I'm sure." "I beg your pardon," said Lord Peter; "I was quoting poetry. Very silly of me. I got the habit at my mother's knee and I can't break myself of it." "No, sir," said the waiter, pocketing a liberal tip. "Thank you very much, sir. You'll find the house easy. Just afore you come to Penny-farthing Street, sir, about two turnings off, on the right-hand side opposite." "Afraid that disposes of Crimplesham-X," said Lord Peter. "I'm rather sorry; he was a fine sinister figure as I had pictured him. Still, his may yet be the brain behind the hands—the aged spider sitting invisible in the centre of the vibrating web, you know, Bunter." "Yes, my lord," said Bunter. They were walking up the street together. "There is the office over the way," pursued Lord Peter. "I think, Bunter, you might step into this little shop and purchase a sporting paper, and if I do not emerge from the villain's lair—say within three-quarters of an hour, you may take such steps as your perspicuity may suggest." Mr. Bunter turned into the shop as desired, and Lord Peter walked across and rang the lawyer's bell with decision. "The truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth is my long suit here, I fancy," he murmured, and when the door was opened by a clerk he delivered over his card with an unflinching air. He was ushered immediately into a confidential-looking office, obviously furnished in the early years of Queen Victoria's reign, and never altered since. A lean, frail-looking old gentleman rose briskly from his chair as he entered and limped forward to meet him. "My dear sir," exclaimed the lawyer, "how extremely good of you to come in person! Indeed, I am ashamed to have given you so much trouble. I trust you were passing this way, and that my glasses have not put you to any great inconvenience. Pray take a seat, Lord Peter." He peered gratefully at the young man over a pince-nez obviously the fellow of that now adorning a dossier in Scotland Yard. Lord Peter sat down. The lawyer sat down. Lord Peter picked up a glass paper-weight from the desk and weighed it thoughtfully in his hand. Subconsciously he noted what an admirable set of finger-prints he was leaving upon it. He replaced it with precision on the exact centre of a pile of letters. "It's quite all right," said Lord Peter. "I was here on business. Very happy to be of service to you. Very awkward to lose one's glasses, Mr. Crimplesham." "Yes," said the lawyer, "I assure you I feel quite lost without them. I have this pair, but they do not fit my nose so well—besides, that chain has a great sentimental value for me. I was terribly distressed on arriving at Balham to find that I had lost them. I made inquiries of the railway, but to no purpose. I feared they had been stolen. There were such crowds at Victoria, and the carriage was packed with people all the way to Balham. Did you come across them in the train?" "Well, no," said Lord Peter, "I found them in rather an unexpected place. Do you mind telling me if you recognized any of your fellow-travellers on that occasion?" The lawyer stared at him. "Not a soul," he answered. "Why do you ask?" "Well," said Lord Peter, "I thought perhaps the—the person with whom I found them might have taken them for a joke." The lawyer looked puzzled. "Did the person claim to be an acquaintance of mine?" he inquired. "I know practically nobody in London, except the friend with whom I was staying in Balham, Dr. Philpots, and I should be very greatly surprised at his practising a jest upon me. He knew very well how distressed I was at the loss of the glasses. My business was to attend a meeting of shareholders in Medlicott's Bank, but the other gentlemen present were all personally unknown to me, and I cannot think that any of them would take so great a liberty. In any case," he added, "as the glasses are here, I will not inquire too closely into the manner of their restoration. I am deeply obliged to you for your trouble." Lord Peter hesitated. "Pray forgive my seeming inquisitiveness," he said, "but I must ask you another question. It sounds rather melodramatic, I'm afraid, but it's this. Are you aware that you have any enemy—anyone, I mean, who would profit by your—er—decease or disgrace?" Mr. Crimplesham sat frozen into stony surprise and disapproval. "May I ask the meaning of this extraordinary question?" he inquired stiffly. "Well," said Lord Peter, "the circumstances are a little unusual. You may recollect that my advertisement was addressed to the jeweller who sold the chain." "That surprised me at the time," said Mr. Crimplesham, "but I begin to think your advertisement and your behaviour are all of a piece." "They are," said Lord Peter. "As a matter of fact I did not expect the owner of the glasses to answer my advertisement. Mr. Crimplesham, you have no doubt read what the papers have to say about the Battersea Park mystery. Your glasses are the pair that was found on the body, and they are now in the possession of the police at Scotland Yard, as you may see by this." He placed the specification of the glasses and the official note before Crimplesham. "Good God!" exclaimed the lawyer. He glanced at the paper, and then looked narrowly at Lord Peter. "Are you yourself connected with the police?" he inquired. "Not officially," said Lord Peter. "I am investigating the matter privately, in the interests of one of the parties." Mr. Crimplesham rose to his feet. "My good man," he said, "this is a very impudent attempt, but blackmail is an indictable offence, and I advise you to leave my office before you commit yourself." He rang the bell. "I was afraid you'd take it like that," said Lord Peter. "It looks as though this ought to have been my friend Detective Parker's job, after all." He laid Parker's card on the table beside the specification, and added: "If you should wish to see me again, Mr. Crimplesham, before tomorrow morning, you will find me at the Minster Hotel." Mr. Crimplesham disdained to reply further than to direct the clerk who entered to "show this person out." * * * * * In the entrance Lord Peter brushed against a tall young man who was just coming in, and who stared at him with surprised recognition. His face, however, aroused no memories in Lord Peter's mind, and that baffled nobleman, calling out Bunter from the newspaper shop, departed to his hotel to get a trunk-call through to Parker. * * * * * Meanwhile, in the office, the meditations of the indignant Mr. Crimplesham were interrupted by the entrance of his junior partner. "I say," said the latter gentleman, "has somebody done something really wicked at last? Whatever brings such a distinguished amateur of crime on our sober doorstep?" "I have been the victim of a vulgar attempt at blackmail," said the lawyer; "an individual passing himself off as Lord Peter Wimsey—" "But that _is_ Lord Peter Wimsey," said Mr. Wicks, "there's no mistaking him. I saw him give evidence in the Attenbury emerald case. He's a big little pot in his way, you know, and goes fishing with the head of Scotland Yard." "Oh, dear," said Mr. Crimplesham. * * * * * Fate arranged that the nerves of Mr. Crimplesham should be tried that afternoon. When, escorted by Mr. Wicks, he arrived at the Minster Hotel, he was informed by the porter that Lord Peter Wimsey had strolled out, mentioning that he thought of attending Evensong. "But his man is here, sir," he added, "if you'd like to leave a message." Mr. Wicks thought that on the whole it would be well to leave a message. Mr. Bunter, on inquiry, was found to be sitting by the telephone, waiting for a trunk-call. As Mr. Wicks addressed him the bell rang, and Mr. Bunter, politely excusing himself, took down the receiver. "Hullo!" he said. "Is that Mr. Parker? Oh, thanks! Exchange! Exchange! Sorry, can you put me through to Scotland Yard? Excuse me, gentlemen, keeping you waiting.—Exchange! all right—Scotland Yard—Hullo! Is that Scotland Yard?—Is Detective Parker round there?—Can I speak to him?—I shall have done in a moment, gentlemen.—Hullo! is that you, Mr. Parker? Lord Peter would be much obliged if you could find it convenient to step down to Salisbury, sir. Oh, no, sir, he's in excellent health, sir—just stepped round to hear Evensong, sir—oh, no, I think tomorrow morning would do excellently, sir, thank you, sir." # CHAPTER VI It was, in fact, inconvenient for Mr. Parker to leave London. He had had to go and see Lady Levy towards the end of the morning, and subsequently his plans for the day had been thrown out of gear and his movements delayed by the discovery that the adjourned inquest of Mr. Thipps's unknown visitor was to be held that afternoon, since nothing very definite seemed forthcoming from Inspector Sugg's inquiries. Jury and witnesses had been convened accordingly for three o'clock. Mr. Parker might altogether have missed the event, had he not run against Sugg that morning at the Yard and extracted the information from him as one would a reluctant tooth. Inspector Sugg, indeed, considered Mr. Parker rather interfering; moreover, he was hand-in-glove with Lord Peter Wimsey, and Inspector Sugg had no words for the interferingness of Lord Peter. He could not, however, when directly questioned, deny that there was to be an inquest that afternoon, nor could he prevent Mr. Parker from enjoying the inalienable right of any interested British citizen to be present. At a little before three, therefore, Mr. Parker was in his place, and amusing himself with watching the efforts of those persons who arrived after the room was packed to insinuate, bribe or bully themselves into a position of vantage. The Coroner, a medical man of precise habits and unimaginative aspect, arrived punctually, and looking peevishly round at the crowded assembly, directed all the windows to be opened, thus letting in a stream of drizzling fog upon the heads of the unfortunates on that side of the room. This caused a commotion and some expressions of disapproval, checked sternly by the Coroner, who said that with the influenza about again an unventilated room was a death-trap; that anybody who chose to object to open windows had the obvious remedy of leaving the court, and further, that if any disturbance was made he would clear the court. He then took a Formamint lozenge, and proceeded, after the usual preliminaries, to call up fourteen good and lawful persons and swear them diligently to inquire and a true presentment make of all matters touching the death of the gentleman with the pince-nez and to give a true verdict according to the evidence, so help them God. When an expostulation by a woman juror—an elderly lady in spectacles who kept a sweet-shop, and appeared to wish she was back there—had been summarily quashed by the Coroner, the jury departed to view the body. Mr. Parker gazed round again and identified the unhappy Mr. Thipps and the girl Gladys led into an adjoining room under the grim guard of the police. They were soon followed by a gaunt old lady in a bonnet and mantle. With her, in a wonderful fur coat and a motor bonnet of fascinating construction, came the Dowager Duchess of Denver, her quick, dark eyes darting hither and thither about the crowd. The next moment they had lighted on Mr. Parker, who had several times visited the Dower House, and she nodded to him, and spoke to a policeman. Before long, a way opened magically through the press, and Mr. Parker found himself accommodated with a front seat just behind the Duchess, who greeted him charmingly, and said: "What's happened to poor Peter?" Parker began to explain, and the Coroner glanced irritably in their direction. Somebody went up and whispered in his ear, at which he coughed, and took another Formamint. "We came up by car," said the Duchess—"so tiresome—such bad roads between Denver and Gunbury St. Walters—and there were people coming to lunch—I had to put them off—I couldn't let the old lady go alone, could I? By the way, such an odd thing's happened about the Church Restoration Fund—the Vicar—oh, dear, here are these people coming back again; well, I'll tell you afterwards—do look at that woman looking shocked, and the girl in tweeds trying to look as if she sat on undraped gentlemen every day of her life—I don't mean that—corpses of course—but one finds oneself being so Elizabethan nowadays—what an awful little man the coroner is, isn't he? He's looking daggers at me—do you think he'll dare to clear me out of the court or commit me for what-you-may-call-it?" The first part of the evidence was not of great interest to Mr. Parker. The wretched Mr. Thipps, who had caught cold in gaol, deposed in an unhappy croak to having discovered the body when he went in to take his bath at eight o'clock. He had had such a shock, he had to sit down and send the girl for brandy. He had never seen the deceased before. He had no idea how he came there. Yes, he had been in Manchester the day before. He had arrived at St. Pancras at ten o'clock. He had cloak-roomed his bag. At this point Mr. Thipps became very red, unhappy and confused, and glanced nervously about the court. "Now, Mr. Thipps," said the Coroner, briskly, "we must have your movements quite clear. You must appreciate the importance of the matter. You have chosen to give evidence, which you need not have done, but having done so, you will find it best to be perfectly explicit." "Yes," said Mr. Thipps faintly. "Have you cautioned this witness, officer?" inquired the Coroner, turning sharply to Inspector Sugg. The Inspector replied that he had told Mr. Thipps that anything he said might be used agin' him at his trial. Mr. Thipps became ashy, and said in a bleating voice that he 'adn't—hadn't meant to do anything that wasn't right. This remark produced a mild sensation, and the Coroner became even more acidulated in manner than before. "Is anybody representing Mr. Thipps?" he asked, irritably. "No? Did you not explain to him that he could—that he _ought_ to be represented? You did not? Really, Inspector! Did you not know, Mr. Thipps, that you had a right to be legally represented?" Mr. Thipps clung to a chair-back for support, and said, "No," in a voice barely audible. "It is incredible," said the Coroner, "that so-called educated people should be so ignorant of the legal procedure of their own country. This places us in a very awkward position. I doubt, Inspector, whether I should permit the prisoner—Mr. Thipps—to give evidence at all. It is a delicate position." The perspiration stood on Mrs. Thipps's forehead. "Save us from our friends," whispered the Duchess to Parker. "If that cough-drop-devouring creature had openly instructed those fourteen people—and what unfinished-looking faces they have—so characteristic, I always think, of the lower middle-class, rather like sheep, or calves' head (boiled, I mean), to bring in wilful murder against the poor little man, he couldn't have made himself plainer." "He can't let him incriminate himself, you know," said Parker. "Stuff!" said the Duchess. "How could the man incriminate himself when he never did anything in his life? You men never think of anything but your red tape." Meanwhile Mr. Thipps, wiping his brow with a handkerchief, had summoned up courage. He stood up with a kind of weak dignity, like a small white rabbit brought to bay. "I would rather tell you," he said, "though it's reelly very unpleasant for a man in my position. But I reelly couldn't have it thought for a moment that I'd committed this dreadful crime. I assure you, gentlemen, I _couldn't bear_ that. No. I'd rather tell you the truth, though I'm afraid it places me in rather a—well, I'll tell you." "You fully understand the gravity of making such a statement, Mr. Thipps," said the Coroner. "Quite," said Mr. Thipps. "It's all right—I—might I have a drink of water?" "Take your time," said the Coroner, at the same time robbing his remark of all conviction by an impatient glance at his watch. "Thank you, sir," said Mr. Thipps. "Well, then, it's true I got to St. Pancras at ten. But there was a man in the carriage with me. He'd got in at Leicester. I didn't recognise him at first, but he turned out to be an old school-fellow of mine." "What was this gentleman's name?" inquired the Coroner, his pencil poised. Mr. Thipps shrank together visibly. "I'm afraid I can't tell you that," he said. "You see—that is, you _will_ see—it would get him into trouble, and I couldn't do that—no, I reelly couldn't do that, not if my life depended on it. No!" he added, as the ominous pertinence of the last phrase smote upon him, "I'm sure I couldn't do that." "Well, well," said the Coroner. The Duchess leaned over to Parker again. "I'm beginning quite to admire the little man," she said. Mr. Thipps resumed. "When we got to St. Pancras I was going home, but my friend said no. We hadn't met for a long time and we ought to—to make a night of it, was his expression. I fear I was weak, and let him overpersuade me to accompany him to one of his haunts. I use the word advisedly," said Mr. Thipps, "and I assure you, sir, that if I had known beforehand where we were going I never would have set foot in the place. "I cloak-roomed my bag, for he did not like the notion of our being encumbered with it, and we got into a taxicab and drove to the corner of Tottenham Court Road and Oxford Street. We then walked a little way, and turned into a side street (I do not recollect which) where there was an open door, with the light shining out. There was a man at a counter, and my friend bought some tickets, and I heard the man at the counter say something to him about ‘Your friend,' meaning me, and my friend said, ‘Oh, yes, he's been here before, haven't you, Alf?' (which was what they called me at school), though I assure you, sir"—here Mr. Thipps grew very earnest—"I never had, and nothing in the world should induce me to go to such a place again. "Well, we went down into a room underneath, where there were drinks, and my friend had several, and made me take one or two—though I am an abstemious man as a rule—and he talked to some other men and girls who were there—a very vulgar set of people, I thought them, though I wouldn't say but what some of the young ladies were nice-looking enough. One of them sat on my friend's knee and called him a slow old thing, and told him to come on—so we went into another room, where there were a lot of people dancing all these up-to-date dances. My friend went and danced, and I sat on a sofa. One of the young ladies came up to me and said, didn't I dance, and I said ‘No,' so she said wouldn't I stand her a drink then. ‘You'll stand us a drink then, darling,' that was what she said, and I said, ‘Wasn't it after hours?' and she said that didn't matter. So I ordered the drink—a gin and bitters it was—for I didn't like not to, the young lady seemed to expect it of me and I felt it wouldn't be gentlemanly to refuse when she asked. But it went against my conscience—such a young girl as she was—and she put her arm round my neck afterwards and kissed me just like as if she was paying for the drink—and it reelly went to my 'eart," said Mr. Thipps, a little ambiguously, but with uncommon emphasis. Here somebody at the back said, "Cheer-oh!" and a sound was heard as of the noisy smacking of lips. "Remove the person who made that improper noise," said the Coroner, with great indignation. "Go on, please, Mr. Thipps." "Well," said Mr. Thipps, "about half-past twelve, as I should reckon, things began to get a bit lively, and I was looking for my friend to say good-night, not wishing to stay longer, as you will understand, when I saw him with one of the young ladies, and they seemed to be getting on altogether too well, if you follow me, my friend pulling the ribbons off her shoulder and the young lady laughing—and so on," said Mr. Thipps, hurriedly, "so I thought I'd just slip quietly out, when I heard a scuffle and a shout—and before I knew what was happening there were half-a-dozen policemen in, and the lights went out, and everybody stampeding and shouting—quite horrid, it was. I was knocked down in the rush, and hit my head a nasty knock on a chair—that was where I got that bruise they asked me about—and I was dreadfully afraid I'd never get away and it would all come out, and perhaps my photograph in the papers, when someone caught hold of me—I think it was the young lady I'd given the gin and bitters to—and she said, ‘This way,' and pushed me along a passage and out at the back somewhere. So I ran through some streets, and found myself in Goodge Street, and there I got a taxi and came home. I saw the account of the raid afterwards in the papers, and saw my friend had escaped, and so, as it wasn't the sort of thing I wanted made public, and I didn't want to get him into difficulties, I just said nothing. But that's the truth." "Well, Mr. Thipps," said the Coroner, "we shall be able to substantiate a certain amount of this story. Your friend's name—" "No," said Mr. Thipps, stoutly, "not on any account." "Very good," said the Coroner. "Now, can you tell us what time you did get in?" "About half-past one, I should think. Though reelly, I was so upset—" "Quite so. Did you go straight to bed?" "Yes, I took my sandwich and glass of milk first. I thought it might settle my inside, so to speak," added the witness, apologetically, "not being accustomed to alcohol so late at night and on an empty stomach, as you may say." "Quite so. Nobody sat up for you?" "Nobody." "How long did you take getting to bed first and last?" Mr. Thipps thought it might have been half-an-hour. "Did you visit the bathroom before turning in?" "No." "And you heard nothing in the night?" "No. I fell fast asleep. I was rather agitated, so I took a little dose to make me sleep, and what with being so tired and the milk and the dose, I just tumbled right off and didn't wake till Gladys called me." Further questioning elicited little from Mr. Thipps. Yes, the bathroom window had been open when he went in in the morning, he was sure of that, and he had spoken very sharply to the girl about it. He was ready to answer any questions; he would be only too 'appy—happy to have this dreadful affair sifted to the bottom. Gladys Horrocks stated that she had been in Mr. Thipps's employment about three months. Her previous employers would speak to her character. It was her duty to make the round of the flat at night, when she had seen Mrs. Thipps to bed at ten. Yes, she remembered doing so on Monday evening. She had looked into all the rooms. Did she recollect shutting the bathroom window that night? Well, no, she couldn't swear to it, not in particular, but when Mr. Thipps called her into the bathroom in the morning it certainly _was_ open. She had not been into the bathroom before Mr. Thipps went in. Well, yes, it had happened that she had left that window open before, when anyone had been 'aving a bath in the evening and 'ad left the blind down. Mrs. Thipps 'ad 'ad a bath on Monday evening, Mondays was one of her regular bath nights. She was very much afraid she 'adn't shut the window on Monday night, though she wished her 'ead 'ad been cut off afore she'd been so forgetful. Here the witness burst into tears and was given some water, while the Coroner refreshed himself with a third lozenge. Recovering, witness stated that she had certainly looked into all the rooms before going to bed. No, it was quite impossible for a body to be 'idden in the flat without her seeing of it. She 'ad been in the kitchen all evening, and there wasn't 'ardly room to keep the best dinner service there, let alone a body. Old Mrs. Thipps sat in the drawing-room. Yes, she was sure she'd been into the dining-room. How? Because she put Mr. Thipps's milk and sandwiches there ready for him. There had been nothing in there—that she could swear to. Nor yet in her own bedroom, nor in the 'all. Had she searched the bedroom cupboard and the box-room? Well, no, not to say searched; she wasn't use to searchin' people's 'ouses for skelintons every night. So that a man might have concealed himself in the box-room or a wardrobe? She supposed he might. In reply to a woman juror—well, yes, she was walking out with a young man. Williams was his name, Bill Williams,—well, yes, William Williams, if they insisted. He was a glazier by profession. Well, yes, he 'ad been in the flat sometimes. Well, she supposed you might say he was acquainted with the flat. Had she ever—no, she 'adn't, and if she'd thought such a question was going to be put to a respectable girl she wouldn't 'ave offered to give evidence. The vicar of St. Mary's would speak to her character and to Mr. Williams's. Last time Mr. Williams was at the flat was a fortnight ago. Well, no, it wasn't exactly the last time she 'ad seen Mr. Williams. Well, yes, the last time was Monday—well, yes, Monday night. Well, if she must tell the truth, she must. Yes, the officer had cautioned her, but there wasn't any 'arm in it, and it was better to lose her place than to be 'ung, though it was a cruel shame a girl couldn't 'ave a bit of fun without a nasty corpse comin' in through the window to get 'er into difficulties. After she 'ad put Mrs. Thipps to bed, she 'ad slipped out to go to the Plumbers' and Glaziers' Ball at the "Black Faced Ram." Mr. Williams 'ad met 'er and brought 'er back. 'E could testify to where she'd been and that there wasn't no 'arm in it. She'd left before the end of the ball. It might 'ave been two o'clock when she got back. She'd got the keys of the flat from Mrs. Thipps's drawer when Mrs. Thipps wasn't looking. She 'ad asked leave to go, but couldn't get it, along of Mr. Thipps bein' away that night. She was bitterly sorry she 'ad be'aved so, and she was sure she'd been punished for it. She had 'eard nothing suspicious when she came in. She had gone straight to bed without looking round the flat. She wished she were dead. No, Mr. and Mrs. Thipps didn't 'ardly ever 'ave any visitors; they kep' themselves very retired. She had found the outside door bolted that morning as usual. She wouldn't never believe any 'arm of Mr. Thipps. Thank you, Miss Horrocks. Call Georgiana Thipps, and the Coroner thought we had better light the gas. The examination of Mrs. Thipps provided more entertainment than enlightenment, affording as it did an excellent example of the game called "cross questions and crooked answers." After fifteen minutes' suffering, both in voice and temper, the Coroner abandoned the struggle, leaving the lady with the last word. "You needn't try to bully me, young man," said that octogenarian with spirit, "settin' there spoilin' your stomach with them nasty jujubes." At this point a young man arose in court and demanded to give evidence. Having explained that he was William Williams, glazier, he was sworn, and corroborated the evidence of Gladys Horrocks in the matter of her presence at the "Black Faced Ram" on the Monday night. They had returned to the flat rather before two, he thought, but certainly later than 1.30. He was sorry that he had persuaded Miss Horrocks to come out with him when she didn't ought. He had observed nothing of a suspicious nature in Prince of Wales Road at either visit. Inspector Sugg gave evidence of having been called in at about half-past eight on Monday morning. He had considered the girl's manner to be suspicious and had arrested her. On later information, leading him to suspect that the deceased might have been murdered that night, he had arrested Mr. Thipps. He had found no trace of breaking into the flat. There were marks on the bathroom window-sill which pointed to somebody having got in that way. There were no ladder marks or footmarks in the yard; the yard was paved with asphalt. He had examined the roof, but found nothing on the roof. In his opinion the body had been brought into the flat previously and concealed till the evening by someone who had then gone out during the night by the bathroom window, with the connivance of the girl. In that case, why should not the girl have let the person out by the door? Well, it might have been so. Had he found traces of a body or a man or both having been hidden in the flat? He found nothing to show that they might _not_ have been so concealed. What was the evidence that led him to suppose that the death had occurred that night? At this point Inspector Sugg appeared uneasy, and endeavoured to retire upon his professional dignity. On being pressed, however, he admitted that the evidence in question had come to nothing. _One of the jurors_: Was it the case that any finger-marks had been left by the criminal? Some marks had been found on the bath, but the criminal had worn gloves. _The Coroner_: Do you draw any conclusion from this fact as to the experience of the criminal? _Inspector Sugg_: Looks as if he was an old hand, sir. _The Juror_: Is that very consistent with the charge against Alfred Thipps, Inspector? The Inspector was silent. _The Coroner_: In the light of the evidence which you have just heard, do you still press the charge against Alfred Thipps and Gladys Horrocks? _Inspector Sugg_: I consider the whole set-out highly suspicious. Thipps's story isn't corroborated, and as for the girl Horrocks, how do we know this Williams ain't in it as well? _William Williams_: Now, you drop that. I can bring a 'undred witnesses— _The Coroner_: Silence, if you please. I am surprised, Inspector, that you should make this suggestion in that manner. It is highly improper. By the way, can you tell us whether a police raid was actually carried out on the Monday night on any Night Club in the neighbourhood of St. Giles's Circus? _Inspector Sugg_ (sulkily): I believe there was something of the sort. _The Coroner_: You will, no doubt, inquire into the matter. I seem to recollect having seen some mention of it in the newspapers. Thank you, Inspector, that will do. Several witnesses having appeared and testified to the characters of Mr. Thipps and Gladys Horrocks, the Coroner stated his intention of proceeding to the medical evidence. "Sir Julian Freke." There was considerable stir in the court as the great specialist walked up to give evidence. He was not only a distinguished man, but a striking figure, with his wide shoulders, upright carriage and leonine head. His manner as he kissed the Book presented to him with the usual deprecatory mumble by the Coroner's officer, was that of a St. Paul condescending to humour the timid mumbo-jumbo of superstitious Corinthians. "So handsome, I always think," whispered the Duchess to Mr. Parker; "just exactly like William Morris, with that bush of hair and beard and those exciting eyes looking out of it—so splendid, these dear men always devoted to something or other—not but what I think socialism is a mistake—of course it works with all those nice people, so good and happy in art linen and the weather always perfect—Morris, I mean, you know—but so difficult in real life. Science is different—I'm sure if I had nerves I should go to Sir Julian just to look at him—eyes like that give one something to think about, and that's what most of these people want, only I never had any—nerves, I mean. Don't you think so?" "You are Sir Julian Freke," said the Coroner, "and live at St. Luke's House, Prince of Wales Road, Battersea, where you exercise a general direction over the surgical side of St. Luke's Hospital?" Sir Julian assented briefly to this definition of his personality. "You were the first medical man to see the deceased?" "I was." "And you have since conducted an examination in collaboration with Dr. Grimbold of Scotland Yard?" "I have." "You are in agreement as to the cause of death?" "Generally speaking, yes." "Will you communicate your impressions to the Jury?" "I was engaged in research work in the dissecting room at St. Luke's Hospital at about nine o'clock on Monday morning, when I was informed that Inspector Sugg wished to see me. He told me that the dead body of a man had been discovered under mysterious circumstances at 59 Queen Caroline Mansions. He asked me whether it could be supposed to be a joke perpetrated by any of the medical students at the hospital. I was able to assure him, by an examination of the hospital's books, that there was no subject missing from the dissecting room." "Who would be in charge of such bodies?" "William Watts, the dissecting-room attendant." "Is William Watts present?" inquired the Coroner of the officer. William Watts was present, and could be called if the Coroner thought it necessary. "I suppose no dead body would be delivered to the hospital without your knowledge, Sir Julian?" "Certainly not." "Thank you. Will you proceed with your statement?" "Inspector Sugg then asked me whether I would send a medical man round to view the body. I said that I would go myself." "Why did you do that?" "I confess to my share of ordinary human curiosity, Mr. Coroner." Laughter from a medical student at the back of the room. "On arriving at the flat I found the deceased lying on his back in the bath. I examined him, and came to the conclusion that death had been caused by a blow on the back of the neck, dislocating the fourth and fifth cervical vertebrae, bruising the spinal cord and producing internal haemorrhage and partial paralysis of the brain. I judged the deceased to have been dead at least twelve hours, possibly more. I observed no other sign of violence of any kind upon the body. Deceased was a strong, well-nourished man of about fifty to fifty-five years of age." "In your opinion, could the blow have been self-inflicted?" "Certainly not. It had been made with a heavy, blunt instrument from behind, with great force and considerable judgment. It is quite impossible that it was self-inflicted." "Could it have been the result of an accident?" "That is possible, of course." "If, for example, the deceased had been looking out of the window, and the sash had shut violently down upon him?" "No; in that case there would have been signs of strangulation and a bruise upon the throat as well." "But deceased might have been killed through a heavy weight accidentally falling upon him?" "He might." "Was death instantaneous, in your opinion?" "It is difficult to say. Such a blow might very well cause death instantaneously, or the patient might linger in a partially paralyzed condition for some time. In the present case I should be disposed to think that deceased might have lingered for some hours. I base my decision upon the condition of the brain revealed at the autopsy. I may say, however, that Dr. Grimbold and I are not in complete agreement on the point." "I understand that a suggestion has been made as to the identification of the deceased. _You_ are not in a position to identify him?" "Certainly not. I never saw him before. The suggestion to which you refer is a preposterous one, and ought never to have been made. I was not aware until this morning that it had been made; had it been made to me earlier, I should have known how to deal with it, and I should like to express my strong disapproval of the unnecessary shock and distress inflicted upon a lady with whom I have the honour to be acquainted." _The Coroner_: It was not my fault, Sir Julian; I had nothing to do with it; I agree with you that it was unfortunate you were not consulted. The reporters scribbled busily, and the court asked each other what was meant, while the jury tried to look as if they knew already. "In the matter of the eyeglasses found upon the body, Sir Julian. Do these give any indication to a medical man?" "They are somewhat unusual lenses; an oculist would be able to speak more definitely, but I will say for myself that I should have expected them to belong to an older man than the deceased." "Speaking as a physician, who has had many opportunities of observing the human body, did you gather anything from the appearance of the deceased as to his personal habits?" "I should say that he was a man in easy circumstances, but who had only recently come into money. His teeth are in a bad state, and his hands shows signs of recent manual labour." "An Australian colonist, for instance, who had made money?" "Something of that sort; of course, I could not say positively." "Of course not. Thank you, Sir Julian." Dr. Grimbold, called, corroborated his distinguished colleague in every particular, except that, in his opinion, death had not occurred for several days after the blow. It was with the greatest hesitancy that he ventured to differ from Sir Julian Freke, and he might be wrong. It was difficult to tell in any case, and when he saw the body, deceased had been dead at least twenty-four hours, in his opinion. Inspector Sugg, recalled. Would he tell the jury what steps had been taken to identify the deceased? A description had been sent to every police station and had been inserted in all the newspapers. In view of the suggestion made by Sir Julian Freke, had inquiries been made at all the seaports? They had. And with no results? With no results at all. No one had come forward to identify the body? Plenty of people had come forward; but nobody had succeeded in identifying it. Had any effort been made to follow up the clue afforded by the eyeglasses? Inspector Sugg submitted that, having regard to the interests of justice, he would beg to be excused from answering that question. Might the jury see the eyeglasses? The eyeglasses were handed to the jury. William Watts, called, confirmed the evidence of Sir Julian Freke with regard to dissecting-room subjects. He explained the system by which they were entered. They usually were supplied by the workhouses and free hospitals. They were under his sole charge. The young gentlemen could not possibly get the keys. Had Sir Julian Freke, or any of the house surgeons, the keys? No, not even Sir Julian Freke. The keys had remained in his possession on Monday night? They had. And, in any case, the inquiry was irrelevant, as there was no body missing, nor ever had been? That was the case. The Coroner then addressed the jury, reminding them with some asperity that they were not there to gossip about who the deceased could or could not have been, but to give their opinion as to the cause of death. He reminded them that they should consider whether, according to the medical evidence, death could have been accidental or self-inflicted, or whether it was deliberate murder, or homicide. If they considered the evidence on this point insufficient, they could return an open verdict. In any case, their verdict could not prejudice any person; if they brought it in "murder," all the whole evidence would have to be gone through again before the magistrate. He then dismissed them, with the unspoken adjuration to be quick about it. Sir Julian Freke, after giving his evidence, had caught the eye of the Duchess, and now came over and greeted her. "I haven't seen you for an age," said that lady. "How are you?" "Hard at work," said the specialist. "Just got my new book out. This kind of thing wastes time. Have you seen Lady Levy yet?" "No, poor dear," said the Duchess. "I only came up this morning, for this. Mrs. Thipps is staying with me—one of Peter's eccentricities, you know. Poor Christine! I must run round and see her. This is Mr. Parker," she added, "who is investigating that case." "Oh," said Sir Julian, and paused. "Do you know," he said in a low voice to Parker, "I am very glad to meet you. Have you seen Lady Levy yet?" "I saw her this morning." "Did she ask you to go on with the inquiry?" "Yes," said Parker; "she thinks," he added, "that Sir Reuben may be detained in the hands of some financial rival or that perhaps some scoundrels are holding him to ransom." "And is that _your_ opinion?" asked Sir Julian. "I think it very likely," said Parker, frankly. Sir Julian hesitated again. "I wish you would walk back with me when this is over," he said. "I should be delighted," said Parker. At this moment the jury returned and took their places, and there was a little rustle and hush. The Coroner addressed the foreman and inquired if they were agreed upon their verdict. "We are agreed, Mr. Coroner, that deceased died of the effects of a blow upon the spine, but how that injury was inflicted we consider that there is not sufficient evidence to show." * * * * * Mr. Parker and Sir Julian Freke walked up the road together. "I had absolutely no idea until I saw Lady Levy this morning," said the doctor, "that there was any idea of connecting this matter with the disappearance of Sir Reuben. The suggestion was perfectly monstrous, and could only have grown up in the mind of that ridiculous police officer. If I had had any idea what was in his mind I could have disabused him and avoided all this." "I did my best to do so," said Parker, "as soon as I was called in to the Levy case—" "Who called you in, if I may ask?" inquired Sir Julian. "Well, the household first of all, and then Sir Reuben's uncle, Mr. Levy of Portman Square, wrote to me to go on with the investigation." "And now Lady Levy has confirmed those instructions?" "Certainly," said Parker in some surprise. Sir Julian was silent for a little time. "I'm afraid I was the first person to put the idea into Sugg's head," said Parker, rather penitently. "When Sir Reuben disappeared, my first step, almost, was to hunt up all the street accidents and suicides and so on that had turned up during the day, and I went down to see this Battersea Park body as a matter of routine. Of course, I saw that the thing was ridiculous as soon as I got there, but Sugg froze on to the idea—and it's true there was a good deal of resemblance between the dead man and the portraits I've seen of Sir Reuben." "A strong superficial likeness," said Sir Julian. "The upper part of the face is a not uncommon type, and as Sir Reuben wore a heavy beard and there was no opportunity of comparing the mouths and chins, I can understand the idea occurring to anybody. But only to be dismissed at once. I am sorry," he added, "as the whole matter has been painful to Lady Levy. You may know, Mr. Parker, that I am an old, though I should not call myself an intimate, friend of the Levys." "I understood something of the sort." "Yes. When I was a young man I—in short, Mr. Parker, I hoped once to marry Lady Levy." (Mr. Parker gave the usual sympathetic groan.) "I have never married, as you know," pursued Sir Julian. "We have remained good friends. I have always done what I could to spare her pain." "Believe me, Sir Julian," said Parker, "that I sympathize very much with you and with Lady Levy, and that I did all I could to disabuse Inspector Sugg of this notion. Unhappily, the coincidence of Sir Reuben's being seen that evening in the Battersea Park Road—" "Ah, yes," said Sir Julian. "Dear me, here we are at home. Perhaps you would come in for a moment, Mr. Parker, and have tea or a whisky-and-soda or something." Parker promptly accepted this invitation, feeling that there were other things to be said. The two men stepped into a square, finely furnished hall with a fireplace on the same side as the door, and a staircase opposite. The dining-room door stood open on their right, and as Sir Julian rang the bell a man-servant appeared at the far end of the hall. "What will you take?" asked the doctor. "After that dreadfully cold place," said Parker, "what I really want is gallons of hot tea, if you, as a nerve specialist, can bear the thought of it." "Provided you allow of a judicious blend of China in it," replied Sir Julian in the same tone, "I have no objection to make. Tea in the library at once," he added to the servant, and led the way upstairs. "I don't use the downstairs rooms much, except the dining-room," he explained as he ushered his guest into a small but cheerful library on the first floor. "This room leads out of my bedroom and is more convenient. I only live part of my time here, but it's very handy for my research work at the hospital. That's what I do there, mostly. It's a fatal thing for a theorist, Mr. Parker, to let the practical work get behindhand. Dissection is the basis of all good theory and all correct diagnosis. One must keep one's hand and eye in training. This place is far more important to me than Harley Street, and some day I shall abandon my consulting practice altogether and settle down here to cut up my subjects and write my books in peace. So many things in this life are a waste of time, Mr. Parker." Mr. Parker assented to this. "Very often," said Sir Julian, "the only time I get for any research work—necessitating as it does the keenest observation and the faculties at their acutest—has to be at night, after a long day's work and by artificial light, which, magnificent as the lighting of the dissecting room here is, is always more trying to the eyes than daylight. Doubtless your own work has to be carried on under even more trying conditions." "Yes, sometimes," said Parker; "but then you see," he added, "the conditions are, so to speak, part of the work." "Quite so, quite so," said Sir Julian; "you mean that the burglar, for example, does not demonstrate his methods in the light of day, or plant the perfect footmark in the middle of a damp patch of sand for you to analyze." "Not as a rule," said the detective, "but I have no doubt many of your diseases work quite as insidiously as any burglar." "They do, they do," said Sir Julian, laughing, "and it is my pride, as it is yours, to track them down for the good of society. The neuroses, you know, are particularly clever criminals—they break out into as many disguises as—" "As Leon Kestrel, the Master-Mummer," suggested Parker, who read railway-stall detective stories on the principle of the 'busman's holiday. "No doubt," said Sir Julian, who did not, "and they cover up their tracks wonderfully. But when you can really investigate, Mr. Parker, and break up the dead, or for preference the living body with the scalpel, you always find the footmarks—the little trail of ruin or disorder left by madness or disease or drink or any other similar pest. But the difficulty is to trace them back, merely by observing the surface symptoms—the hysteria, crime, religion, fear, shyness, conscience, or whatever it may be; just as you observe a theft or a murder and look for the footsteps of the criminal, so I observe a fit of hysterics or an outburst of piety and hunt for the little mechanical irritation which has produced it." "You regard all these things as physical?" "Undoubtedly. I am not ignorant of the rise of another school of thought, Mr. Parker, but its exponents are mostly charlatans or self-deceivers. ‘_Sie haben sich so weit darin eingeheimnisst_' that, like Sludge the Medium, they are beginning to believe their own nonsense. I should like to have the exploring of some of their brains, Mr. Parker; I would show you the little faults and landslips in the cells—the misfiring and short-circuiting of the nerves, which produce these notions and these books. At least," he added, gazing sombrely at his guest, "at least, if I could not quite show you today, I shall be able to do so tomorrow—or in a year's time—or before I die." He sat for some minutes gazing into the fire, while the red light played upon his tawny beard and struck out answering gleams from his compelling eyes. Parker drank tea in silence, watching him. On the whole, however, he remained but little interested in the causes of nervous phenomena and his mind strayed to Lord Peter, coping with the redoubtable Crimplesham down in Salisbury. Lord Peter had wanted him to come: that meant, either that Crimplesham was proving recalcitrant or that a clue wanted following. But Bunter had said that tomorrow would do, and it was just as well. After all, the Battersea affair was not Parker's case; he had already wasted valuable time attending an inconclusive inquest, and he really ought to get on with his legitimate work. There was still Levy's secretary to see and the little matter of the Peruvian Oil to be looked into. He looked at his watch. "I am very much afraid—if you will excuse me—" he murmured. Sir Julian came back with a start to the consideration of actuality. "Your work calls you?" he said, smiling. "Well, I can understand that. I won't keep you. But I wanted to say something to you in connection with your present inquiry—only I hardly know—I hardly like—" Parker sat down again, and banished every indication of hurry from his face and attitude. "I shall be very grateful for any help you can give me," he said. "I'm afraid it's more in the nature of hindrance," said Sir Julian, with a short laugh. "It's a case of destroying a clue for you, and a breach of professional confidence on my side. But since—accidentally—a certain amount has come out, perhaps the whole had better do so." Mr. Parker made the encouraging noise which, among laymen, supplies the place of the priest's insinuating, "Yes, my son?" "Sir Reuben Levy's visit on Monday night was to me," said Sir Julian. "Yes?" said Mr. Parker, without expression. "He found cause for certain grave suspicions concerning his health," said Sir Julian, slowly, as though weighing how much he could in honour disclose to a stranger. "He came to me, in preference to his own medical man, as he was particularly anxious that the matter should be kept from his wife. As I told you, he knew me fairly well, and Lady Levy had consulted me about a nervous disorder in the summer." "Did he make an appointment with you?" asked Parker. "I beg your pardon," said the other, absently. "Did he make an appointment?" "An appointment? Oh, no! He turned up suddenly in the evening after dinner when I wasn't expecting him. I took him up here and examined him, and he left me somewhere about ten o'clock, I should think." "May I ask what was the result of your examination?" "Why do you want to know?" "It might illuminate—well, conjecture as to his subsequent conduct," said Parker, cautiously. This story seemed to have little coherence with the rest of the business, and he wondered whether coincidence was alone responsible for Sir Reuben's disappearance on the same night that he visited the doctor. "I see," said Sir Julian. "Yes. Well, I will tell you in confidence that I saw grave grounds of suspicion, but as yet, no absolute certainty of mischief." "Thank you. Sir Reuben left you at ten o'clock?" "Then or thereabouts. I did not at first mention the matter as it was so very much Sir Reuben's wish to keep his visit to me secret, and there was no question of accident in the street or anything of that kind, since he reached home safely at midnight." "Quite so," said Parker. "It would have been, and is, a breach of confidence," said Sir Julian, "and I only tell you now because Sir Reuben was accidentally seen, and because I would rather tell you in private than have you ferretting round here and questioning my servants, Mr. Parker. You will excuse my frankness." "Certainly," said Parker. "I hold no brief for the pleasantness of my profession, Sir Julian. I am very much obliged to you for telling me this. I might otherwise have wasted valuable time following up a false trail." "I am sure I need not ask you, in your turn, to respect this confidence," said the doctor. "To publish the matter abroad could only harm Sir Reuben and pain his wife, besides placing me in no favourable light with my patients." "I promise to keep the thing to myself," said Parker, "except of course," he added hastily, "that I must inform my colleague." "You have a colleague in the case?" "I have." "What sort of person is he?" "He will be perfectly discreet, Sir Julian." "Is he a police officer?" "You need not be afraid of your confidence getting into the records at Scotland Yard." "I see that you know how to be discreet, Mr. Parker." "We also have our professional etiquette, Sir Julian." * * * * * On returning to Great Ormond Street, Mr. Parker found a wire awaiting him, which said: "Do not trouble to come. All well. Returning tomorrow. Wimsey." # CHAPTER VII On returning to the flat just before lunch-time on the following morning, after a few confirmatory researches in Balham and the neighbourhood of Victoria Station, Lord Peter was greeted at the door by Mr. Bunter (who had gone straight home from Waterloo) with a telephone message and a severe and nursemaid-like eye. "Lady Swaffham rang up, my lord, and said she hoped your lordship had not forgotten you were lunching with her." "I have forgotten, Bunter, and I mean to forget. I trust you told her I had succumbed to lethargic encephalitis suddenly, no flowers by request." "Lady Swaffham said, my lord, she was counting on you. She met the Duchess of Denver yesterday—" "If my sister-in-law's there I won't go, that's flat," said Lord Peter. "I beg your pardon, my lord, the Dowager Duchess." "What's she doing in town?" "I imagine she came up for the inquest, my lord." "Oh, yes—we missed that, Bunter." "Yes, my lord. Her Grace is lunching with Lady Swaffham." "Bunter, I can't. I can't, really. Say I'm in bed with whooping cough, and ask my mother to come round after lunch." "Very well, my lord. Mrs. Tommy Frayle will be at Lady Swaffham's, my lord, and Mr. Milligan—" "Mr. who?" "Mr. John P. Milligan, my lord, and—" "Good God, Bunter, why didn't you say so before? Have I time to get there before he does? All right. I'm off. With a taxi I can just—" "Not in those trousers, my lord," said Mr. Bunter, blocking the way to the door with deferential firmness. "Oh, Bunter," pleaded his lordship, "do let me—just this once. You don't know how important it is." "Not on any account, my lord. It would be as much as my place is worth." "The trousers are all right, Bunter." "Not for Lady Swaffham's, my lord. Besides, your lordship forgets the man that ran against you with a milk-can at Salisbury." And Mr. Bunter laid an accusing finger on a slight stain of grease showing across the light cloth. "I wish to God I'd never let you grow into a privileged family retainer, Bunter," said Lord Peter, bitterly, dashing his walking-stick into the umbrella-stand. "You've no conception of the mistakes my mother may be making." Mr. Bunter smiled grimly and led his victim away. When an immaculate Lord Peter was ushered, rather late for lunch, into Lady Swaffham's drawing-room, the Dowager Duchess of Denver was seated on a sofa, plunged in intimate conversation with Mr. John P. Milligan of Chicago. * * * * * "I'm vurry pleased to meet you, Duchess," had been that financier's opening remark, "to thank you for your exceedingly kind invitation. I assure you it's a compliment I deeply appreciate." The Duchess beamed at him, while conducting a rapid rally of all her intellectual forces. "Do come and sit down and talk to me, Mr. Milligan," she said. "I do so love talking to you great business men—let me see, is it a railway king you are or something about puss-in-the-corner—at least, I don't mean that exactly, but that game one used to play with cards, all about wheat and oats, and there was a bull and a bear, too—or was it a horse?—no, a bear, because I remember one always had to try and get rid of it and it used to get so dreadfully crumpled and torn, poor thing, always being handed about, one got to recognise it, and then one had to buy a new pack—so foolish it must seem to you, knowing the real thing, and dreadfully noisy, but really excellent for breaking the ice with rather stiff people who didn't know each other—I'm quite sorry it's gone out." Mr. Milligan sat down. "Wal, now," he said, "I guess it's as interesting for us business men to meet British aristocrats as it is for Britishers to meet American railway kings, Duchess. And I guess I'll make as many mistakes talking your kind of talk as you would make if you were tryin' to run a corner in wheat in Chicago. Fancy now, I called that fine lad of yours Lord Wimsey the other day, and he thought I'd mistaken him for his brother. That made me feel rather green." This was an unhoped-for lead. The Duchess walked warily. "Dear boy," she said, "I am so glad you met him, Mr. Milligan. _Both_ my sons are a _great_ comfort to me, you know, though, of course, Gerald is more conventional—just the right kind of person for the House of Lords, you know, and a splendid farmer. I can't see Peter down at Denver half so well, though he is always going to all the right things in town, and very amusing sometimes, poor boy." "I was vurry much gratified by Lord Peter's suggestion," pursued Mr. Milligan, "for which I understand you are responsible, and I'll surely be very pleased to come any day you like, though I think you're flattering me too much." "Ah, well," said the Duchess, "I don't know if you're the best judge of that, Mr. Milligan. Not that I know anything about business myself," she added. "I'm rather old-fashioned for these days, you know, and I can't pretend to do more than know a nice _man_ when I see him; for the other things I rely on my son." The accent of this speech was so flattering that Mr. Milligan purred almost audibly, and said: "Wal, Duchess, I guess that's where a lady with a real, beautiful, old-fashioned soul has the advantage of these modern young blatherskites—there aren't many men who wouldn't be nice—to her, and even then, if they aren't rock-bottom she can see through them." "But that leaves me where I was," thought the Duchess. "I believe," she said aloud, "that I ought to be thanking you in the name of the vicar of Duke's Denver for a very munificent cheque which reached him yesterday for the Church Restoration Fund. He was so delighted and astonished, poor dear man." "Oh, that's nothing," said Mr. Milligan, "we haven't any fine old crusted buildings like yours over on our side, so it's a privilege to be allowed to drop a little kerosene into the worm-holes when we hear of one in the old country suffering from senile decay. So when your lad told me about Duke's Denver I took the liberty to subscribe without waiting for the Bazaar." "I'm sure it was very kind of you," said the Duchess. "You are coming to the Bazaar, then?" she continued, gazing into his face appealingly. "Sure thing," said Mr. Milligan, with great promptness. "Lord Peter said you'd let me know for sure about the date, but we can always make time for a little bit of good work anyway. Of course I'm hoping to be able to avail myself of your kind invitation to stop, but if I'm rushed, I'll manage anyhow to pop over and speak my piece and pop back again." "I hope so very much," said the Duchess. "I must see what can be done about the date—of course, I can't promise—" "No, no," said Mr. Milligan heartily. "I know what these things are to fix up. And then there's not only me—there's all the real big men of European eminence your son mentioned, to be consulted." The Duchess turned pale at the thought that any one of these illustrious persons might some time turn up in somebody's drawing-room, but by this time she had dug herself in comfortably, and was even beginning to find her range. "I can't say how grateful we are to you," she said; "it will be such a treat. Do tell me what you think of saying." "Wal—" began Mr. Milligan. Suddenly everybody was standing up and a penitent voice was heard to say: "Really, most awfully sorry, y'know—hope you'll forgive me, Lady Swaffham, what? Dear lady, could I possibly forget an invitation from you? Fact is, I had to go an' see a man down in Salisbury—absolutely true, 'pon my word, and the fellow wouldn't let me get away. I'm simply grovellin' before you, Lady Swaffham. Shall I go an' eat my lunch in the corner?" Lady Swaffham gracefully forgave the culprit. "Your dear mother is here," she said. "How do, Mother?" said Lord Peter, uneasily. "How are you, dear?" replied the Duchess. "You really oughtn't to have turned up just yet. Mr. Milligan was just going to tell me what a thrilling speech he's preparing for the Bazaar, when you came and interrupted us." Conversation at lunch turned, not unnaturally, on the Battersea inquest, the Duchess giving a vivid impersonation of Mrs. Thipps being interrogated by the Coroner. "‘Did you hear anything unusual in the night?' says the little man, leaning forward and screaming at her, and so crimson in the face and his ears sticking out so—just like a cherubim in that poem of Tennyson's—or is a cherub blue?—perhaps it's a seraphim I mean—anyway, you know what I mean, all eyes, with little wings on its head. And dear old Mrs. Thipps saying, ‘Of course I have, any time these eighty years,' and _such_ a sensation in court till they found out she thought he'd said, ‘Do you sleep without a light?' and everybody laughing, and then the Coroner said quite loudly, ‘Damn the woman,' and she heard that, I can't think why, and said: ‘Don't you get swearing, young man, sitting there in the presence of Providence, as you may say. I don't know what young people are coming to nowadays'—and he's sixty if he's a day, you know," said the Duchess. * * * * * By a natural transition, Mrs. Tommy Frayle referred to the man who was hanged for murdering three brides in a bath. "I always thought that was so ingenious," she said, gazing soulfully at Lord Peter, "and do you know, as it happened, Tommy had just made me insure my life, and I got so frightened, I gave up my morning bath and took to having it in the afternoon when he was in the House—I mean, when he was _not_ in the house—not at home, I mean." "Dear lady," said Lord Peter, reproachfully, "I have a distinct recollection that all those brides were thoroughly unattractive. But it was an uncommonly ingenious plan—the first time of askin'—only he shouldn't have repeated himself." "One demands a little originality in these days, even from murderers," said Lady Swaffham. "Like dramatists, you know—so much easier in Shakespeare's time, wasn't it? Always the same girl dressed up as a man, and even that borrowed from Boccaccio or Dante or somebody. I'm sure if I'd been a Shakespeare hero, the very minute I saw a slim-legged young page-boy I'd have said: ‘Odsbodikins! There's that girl again!'" "That's just what happened, as a matter of fact," said Lord Peter. "You see, Lady Swaffham, if ever you want to commit a murder, the thing you've got to do is to prevent people from associatin' their ideas. Most people don't associate anythin'—their ideas just roll about like so many dry peas on a tray, makin' a lot of noise and goin' nowhere, but once you begin lettin' 'em string their peas into a necklace, it's goin' to be strong enough to hang you, what?" "Dear me!" said Mrs. Tommy Frayle, with a little scream, "what a blessing it is none of my friends have any ideas at all!" "Y'see," said Lord Peter, balancing a piece of duck on his fork and frowning, "it's only in Sherlock Holmes and stories like that, that people think things out logically. Or'nar'ly, if somebody tells you somethin' out of the way, you just say, ‘By Jove!' or ‘How sad!' an' leave it at that, an' half the time you forget about it, 'nless somethin' turns up afterwards to drive it home. F'r instance, Lady Swaffham, I told you when I came in that I'd been down to Salisbury, 'n' that's true, only I don't suppose it impressed you much; 'n' I don't suppose it'd impress you much if you read in the paper tomorrow of a tragic discovery of a dead lawyer down in Salisbury, but if I went to Salisbury again next week 'n' there was a Salisbury doctor found dead the day after, you might begin to think I was a bird of ill omen for Salisbury residents; and if I went there again the week after, 'n' you heard next day that the see of Salisbury had fallen vacant suddenly, you might begin to wonder what took me to Salisbury, an' why I'd never mentioned before that I had friends down there, don't you see, an' you might think of goin' down to Salisbury yourself, an' askin' all kinds of people if they'd happened to see a young man in plum-coloured socks hangin' round the Bishop's Palace." "I daresay I should," said Lady Swaffham. "Quite. An' if you found that the lawyer and the doctor had once upon a time been in business at Poggleton-on-the-Marsh when the Bishop had been vicar there, you'd begin to remember you'd once heard of me payin' a visit to Poggleton-on-the-Marsh a long time ago, an' you'd begin to look up the parish registers there an' discover I'd been married under an assumed name by the vicar to the widow of a wealthy farmer, who'd died suddenly of peritonitis, as certified by the doctor, after the lawyer'd made a will leavin' me all her money, and _then_ you'd begin to think I might have very good reasons for gettin' rid of such promisin' blackmailers as the lawyer, the doctor an' the bishop. Only, if I hadn't started an association in your mind by gettin' rid of 'em all in the same place, you'd never have thought of goin' to Poggleton-on-the-Marsh, 'n' you wouldn't even have remembered I'd ever been there." "_Were_ you ever there, Lord Peter?" inquired Mrs. Tommy, anxiously. "I don't think so," said Lord Peter; "the name threads no beads in my mind. But it might, any day, you know." "But if you were investigating a crime," said Lady Swaffham, "you'd have to begin by the usual things, I suppose—finding out what the person had been doing, and who'd been to call, and looking for a motive, wouldn't you?" "Oh, yes," said Lord Peter, "but most of us have such dozens of motives for murderin' all sorts of inoffensive people. There's lots of people I'd like to murder, wouldn't you?" "Heaps," said Lady Swaffham. "There's that dreadful—perhaps I'd better not say it, though, for fear you should remember it later on." "Well, I wouldn't if I were you," said Peter, amiably. "You never know. It'd be beastly awkward if the person died suddenly tomorrow." "The difficulty with this Battersea case, I guess," said Mr. Milligan, "is that nobody seems to have any associations with the gentleman in the bath." "So hard on poor Inspector Sugg," said the Duchess. "I quite felt for the man, having to stand up there and answer a lot of questions when he had nothing at all to say." Lord Peter applied himself to the duck, having got a little behindhand. Presently he heard somebody ask the Duchess if she had seen Lady Levy. "She is in great distress," said the woman who had spoken, a Mrs. Freemantle, "though she clings to the hope that he will turn up. I suppose you knew him, Mr. Milligan—know him, I should say, for I hope he's still alive somewhere." Mrs. Freemantle was the wife of an eminent railway director, and celebrated for her ignorance of the world of finance. Her _faux pas_ in this connection enlivened the tea parties of City men's wives. "Wal, I've dined with him," said Mr. Milligan, good-naturedly. "I think he and I've done our best to ruin each other, Mrs. Freemantle. If this were the States," he added, "I'd be much inclined to suspect myself of having put Sir Reuben in a safe place. But we can't do business that way in your old country; no, ma'am." "It must be exciting work doing business in America," said Lord Peter. "It is," said Mr. Milligan. "I guess my brothers are having a good time there now. I'll be joining them again before long, as soon as I've fixed up a little bit of work for them on this side." "Well, you mustn't go till after my bazaar," said the Duchess. Lord Peter spent the afternoon in a vain hunt for Mr. Parker. He ran him down eventually after dinner in Great Ormond Street. Parker was sitting in an elderly but affectionate armchair, with his feet on the mantelpiece, relaxing his mind with a modern commentary on the Epistle to the Galatians. He received Lord Peter with quiet pleasure, though without rapturous enthusiasm, and mixed him a whisky-and-soda. Peter took up the book his friend had laid down and glanced over the pages. "All these men work with a bias in their minds, one way or other," he said; "they find what they are looking for." "Oh, they do," agreed the detective; "but one learns to discount that almost automatically, you know. When I was at college, I was all on the other side—Conybeare and Robertson and Drews and those people, you know, till I found they were all so busy looking for a burglar whom nobody had ever seen, that they couldn't recognise the footprints of the household, so to speak. Then I spent two years learning to be cautious." "Hum," said Lord Peter, "theology must be good exercise for the brain then, for you're easily the most cautious devil I know. But I say, do go on reading—it's a shame for me to come and root you up in your off-time like this." "It's all right, old man," said Parker. The two men sat silent for a little, and then Lord Peter said: "D'you like your job?" The detective considered the question, and replied: "Yes—yes, I do. I know it to be useful, and I am fitted to it. I do it quite well—not with inspiration, perhaps, but sufficiently well to take a pride in it. It is full of variety and it forces one to keep up to the mark and not get slack. And there's a future to it. Yes, I like it. Why?" "Oh, nothing," said Peter. "It's a hobby to me, you see. I took it up when the bottom of things was rather knocked out for me, because it was so damned exciting, and the worst of it is, I enjoy it—up to a point. If it was all on paper I'd enjoy every bit of it. I love the beginning of a job—when one doesn't know any of the people and it's just exciting and amusing. But if it comes to really running down a live person and getting him hanged, or even quodded, poor devil, there don't seem as if there was any excuse for me buttin' in, since I don't have to make my livin' by it. And I feel as if I oughtn't ever to find it amusin'. But I do." Parker gave this speech his careful attention. "I see what you mean," he said. "There's old Milligan, f'r instance," said Lord Peter. "On paper, nothin' would be funnier than to catch old Milligan out. But he's rather a decent old bird to talk to. Mother likes him. He's taken a fancy to me. It's awfully entertainin' goin' and pumpin' him with stuff about a bazaar for church expenses, but when he's so jolly pleased about it and that, I feel a worm. S'pose old Milligan has cut Levy's throat and plugged him into the Thames. It ain't my business." "It's as much yours as anybody's," said Parker; "it's no better to do it for money than to do it for nothing." "Yes, it is," said Peter stubbornly. "Havin' to live is the only excuse there is for doin' that kind of thing." "Well, but look here!" said Parker. "If Milligan has cut poor old Levy's throat for no reason except to make himself richer, I don't see why he should buy himself off by giving £1,000 to Duke's Denver church roof, or why he should be forgiven just because he's childishly vain, or childishly snobbish." "That's a nasty one," said Lord Peter. "Well, if you like, even because he has taken a fancy to you." "No, but—" "Look here, Wimsey—do you think he _has_ murdered Levy?" "Well, he may have." "But do you think he has?" "I don't want to think so." "Because he has taken a fancy to you?" "Well, that biases me, of course—" "I daresay it's quite a legitimate bias. You don't think a callous murderer would be likely to take a fancy to you?" "Well—besides, I've taken rather a fancy to him." "I daresay that's quite legitimate, too. You've observed him and made a subconscious deduction from your observations, and the result is, you don't think he did it. Well, why not? You're entitled to take that into account." "But perhaps I'm wrong and he did do it." "Then why let your vainglorious conceit in your own power of estimating character stand in the way of unmasking the singularly cold-blooded murder of an innocent and lovable man?" "I know—but I don't feel I'm playing the game somehow." "Look here, Peter," said the other with some earnestness, "suppose you get this playing-fields-of-Eton complex out of your system once and for all. There doesn't seem to be much doubt that something unpleasant has happened to Sir Reuben Levy. Call it murder, to strengthen the argument. If Sir Reuben has been murdered, is it a game? and is it fair to treat it as a game?" "That's what I'm ashamed of, really," said Lord Peter. "It _is_ a game to me, to begin with, and I go on cheerfully, and then I suddenly see that somebody is going to be hurt, and I want to get out of it." "Yes, yes, I know," said the detective, "but that's because you're thinking about your attitude. You want to be consistent, you want to look pretty, you want to swagger debonairly through a comedy of puppets or else to stalk magnificently through a tragedy of human sorrows and things. But that's childish. If you've any duty to society in the way of finding out the truth about murders, you must do it in any attitude that comes handy. You want to be elegant and detached? That's all right, if you find the truth out that way, but it hasn't any value in itself, you know. You want to look dignified and consistent—what's that got to do with it? You want to hunt down a murderer for the sport of the thing and then shake hands with him and say, ‘Well played—hard luck—you shall have your revenge tomorrow!' Well, you can't do it like that. Life's not a football match. You want to be a sportsman. You can't be a sportsman. You're a responsible person." "I don't think you ought to read so much theology," said Lord Peter. "It has a brutalizing influence." He got up and paced about the room, looking idly over the bookshelves. Then he sat down again, filled and lit his pipe, and said: "Well, I'd better tell you about the ferocious and hardened Crimplesham." He detailed his visit to Salisbury. Once assured of his bona fides, Mr. Crimplesham had given him the fullest details of his visit to town. "And I've substantiated it all," groaned Lord Peter, "and unless he's corrupted half Balham, there's no doubt he spent the night there. And the afternoon was really spent with the bank people. And half the residents of Salisbury seem to have seen him off on Monday before lunch. And nobody but his own family or young Wicks seems to have anything to gain by his death. And even if young Wicks wanted to make away with him, it's rather far-fetched to go and murder an unknown man in Thipps's place in order to stick Crimplesham's eyeglasses on his nose." "Where was young Wicks on Monday?" asked Parker. "At a dance given by the Precentor," said Lord Peter, wildly. "David—his name is David—dancing before the ark of the Lord in the face of the whole Cathedral Close." There was a pause. "Tell me about the inquest," said Wimsey. Parker obliged with a summary of the evidence. "Do you believe the body could have been concealed in the flat after all?" he asked. "I know we looked, but I suppose we might have missed something." "We might. But Sugg looked as well." "Sugg!" "You do Sugg an injustice," said Lord Peter; "if there had been any signs of Thipps's complicity in the crime, Sugg would have found them." "Why?" "Why? Because he was looking for them. He's like your commentators on Galatians. He thinks that either Thipps, or Gladys Horrocks, or Gladys Horrocks's young man did it. Therefore he found marks on the window sill where Gladys Horrocks's young man might have come in or handed something in to Gladys Horrocks. He didn't find any signs on the roof, because he wasn't looking for them." "But he went over the roof before me." "Yes, but only in order to prove that there were no marks there. He reasons like this: Gladys Horrocks's young man is a glazier. Glaziers come on ladders. Glaziers have ready access to ladders. Therefore Gladys Horrocks's young man had ready access to a ladder. Therefore Gladys Horrocks's young man came on a ladder. Therefore there will be marks on the window sill and none on the roof. Therefore he finds marks on the window sill but none on the roof. He finds no marks on the ground, but he thinks he would have found them if the yard didn't happen to be paved with asphalt. Similarly, he thinks Mr. Thipps may have concealed the body in the box-room or elsewhere. Therefore you may be sure he searched the box-room and all the other places for signs of occupation. If they had been there he would have found them, because he was looking for them. Therefore, if he didn't find them it's because they weren't there." "All right," said Parker, "stop talking. I believe you." He went on to detail the medical evidence. "By the way," said Lord Peter, "to skip across for a moment to the other case, has it occurred to you that perhaps Levy was going out to see Freke on Monday night?" "He was; he did," said Parker, rather unexpectedly, and proceeded to recount his interview with the nerve-specialist. "Humph!" said Lord Peter. "I say, Parker, these are funny cases, ain't they? Every line of inquiry seems to peter out. It's awfully exciting up to a point, you know, and then nothing comes of it. It's like rivers getting lost in the sand." "Yes," said Parker. "And there's another one I lost this morning." "What's that?" "Oh, I was pumping Levy's secretary about his business. I couldn't get much that seemed important except further details about the Argentine and so on. Then I thought I'd just ask round in the City about those Peruvian Oil shares, but Levy hadn't even heard of them so far as I could make out. I routed out the brokers, and found a lot of mystery and concealment, as one always does, you know, when somebody's been rigging the market, and at last I found one name at the back of it. But it wasn't Levy's." "No? Whose was it?" "Oddly enough, Freke's. It seems mysterious. He bought a lot of shares last week, in a secret kind of way, a few of them in his own name, and then quietly sold 'em out on Tuesday at a small profit—a few hundreds, not worth going to all that trouble about, you wouldn't think." "Shouldn't have thought he ever went in for that kind of gamble." "He doesn't as a rule. That's the funny part of it." "Well, you never know," said Lord Peter; "people do these things just to prove to themselves or somebody else that they could make a fortune that way if they liked. I've done it myself in a small way." He knocked out his pipe and rose to go. "I say, old man," he said suddenly, as Parker was letting him out, "does it occur to you that Freke's story doesn't fit in awfully well with what Anderson said about the old boy having been so jolly at dinner on Monday night? Would you be, if you thought you'd got anything of that sort?" "No, I shouldn't," said Parker; "but," he added with his habitual caution, "some men will jest in the dentist's waiting-room. You, for one." "Well, that's true," said Lord Peter, and went downstairs. # CHAPTER VIII Lord Peter reached home about midnight, feeling extraordinarily wakeful and alert. Something was jigging and worrying in his brain; it felt like a hive of bees, stirred up by a stick. He felt as though he were looking at a complicated riddle, of which he had once been told the answer but had forgotten it and was always on the point of remembering. "Somewhere," said Lord Peter to himself, "somewhere I've got the key to these two things. I know I've got it, only I can't remember what it is. Somebody said it. Perhaps I said it. I can't remember where, but I know I've got it. Go to bed, Bunter, I shall sit up a little. I'll just slip on a dressing-gown." Before the fire he sat down with his pipe in his mouth and his jazz-coloured peacocks gathered about him. He traced out this line and that line of investigation—rivers running into the sand. They ran out from the thought of Levy, last seen at ten o'clock in Prince of Wales Road. They ran back from the picture of the grotesque dead man in Mr. Thipps's bathroom—they ran over the roof, and were lost—lost in the sand. Rivers running into the sand—rivers running underground, very far down— Where Alph, the sacred river, ran Through caverns measureless to man Down to a sunless sea. By leaning his head down, it seemed to Lord Peter that he could hear them, very faintly, lipping and gurgling somewhere in the darkness. But where? He felt quite sure that somebody had told him once, only he had forgotten. He roused himself, threw a log on the fire, and picked up a book which the indefatigable Bunter, carrying on his daily fatigues amid the excitements of special duty, had brought from the Times Book Club. It happened to be Sir Julian Freke's "Physiological Bases of the Conscience," which he had seen reviewed two days before. "This ought to send one to sleep," said Lord Peter; "if I can't leave these problems to my subconscious I'll be as limp as a rag tomorrow." He opened the book slowly, and glanced carelessly through the preface. "I wonder if that's true about Levy being ill," he thought, putting the book down; "it doesn't seem likely. And yet—Dash it all, I'll take my mind off it." He read on resolutely for a little. "I don't suppose Mother's kept up with the Levys much," was the next importunate train of thought. "Dad always hated self-made people and wouldn't have 'em at Denver. And old Gerald keeps up the tradition. I wonder if she knew Freke well in those days. She seems to get on with Milligan. I trust Mother's judgment a good deal. She was a brick about that bazaar business. I ought to have warned her. She said something once—" He pursued an elusive memory for some minutes, till it vanished altogether with a mocking flicker of the tail. He returned to his reading. Presently another thought crossed his mind aroused by a photograph of some experiment in surgery. "If the evidence of Freke and that man Watts hadn't been so positive," he said to himself, "I should be inclined to look into the matter of those shreds of lint on the chimney." He considered this, shook his head and read with determination. Mind and matter were one thing, that was the theme of the physiologist. Matter could erupt, as it were, into ideas. You could carve passions in the brain with a knife. You could get rid of imagination with drugs and cure an outworn convention like a disease. "The knowledge of good and evil is an observed phenomenon, attendant upon a certain condition of the brain-cells, which is removable." That was one phrase; and again: "Conscience in man may, in fact, be compared to the sting of a hive-bee, which, so far from conducing to the welfare of its possessor, cannot function, even in a single instance, without occasioning its death. The survival-value in each case is thus purely social; and if humanity ever passes from its present phase of social development into that of a higher individualism, as some of our philosophers have ventured to speculate, we may suppose that this interesting mental phenomenon may gradually cease to appear; just as the nerves and muscles which once controlled the movements of our ears and scalps have, in all save a few backward individuals, become atrophied and of interest only to the physiologist." "By Jove!" thought Lord Peter, idly, "that's an ideal doctrine for the criminal. A man who believed that would never—" And then it happened—the thing he had been half-unconsciously expecting. It happened suddenly, surely, as unmistakably, as sunrise. He remembered—not one thing, nor another thing, nor a logical succession of things, but everything—the whole thing, perfect, complete, in all its dimensions as it were and instantaneously; as if he stood outside the world and saw it suspended in infinitely dimensional space. He no longer needed to reason about it, or even to think about it. He knew it. There is a game in which one is presented with a jumble of letters and is required to make a word out of them, as thus: C O S S S S R I The slow way of solving the problem is to try out all the permutations and combinations in turn, throwing away impossible conjunctions of letters, as: S S S I R C or S C S R S O Another way is to stare at the inco-ordinate elements until, by no logical process that the conscious mind can detect, or under some adventitious external stimulus, the combination: S C I S S O R S presents itself with calm certainty. After that, one does not even need to arrange the letters in order. The thing is done. Even so, the scattered elements of two grotesque conundrums, flung higgledy-piggledy into Lord Peter's mind, resolved themselves, unquestioned henceforward. A bump on the roof of the end house—Levy in a welter of cold rain talking to a prostitute in the Battersea Park Road—a single ruddy hair—lint bandages—Inspector Sugg calling the great surgeon from the dissecting-room of the hospital—Lady Levy with a nervous attack—the smell of carbolic soap—the Duchess's voice—"not really an engagement, only a sort of understanding with her father"—shares in Peruvian Oil—the dark skin and curved, fleshy profile of the man in the bath—Dr. Grimbold giving evidence, "In my opinion, death did not occur for several days after the blow"—india-rubber gloves—even, faintly, the voice of Mr. Appledore, "He called on me, sir, with an anti-vivisectionist pamphlet"—all these things and many others rang together and made one sound, they swung together like bells in a steeple, with the deep tenor booming through the clamour: "The knowledge of good and evil is a phenomenon of the brain, and is removable, removable, removable. The knowledge of good and evil is removable." Lord Peter Wimsey was not a young man who habitually took himself very seriously, but this time he was frankly appalled. "It's impossible," said his reason, feebly; "_credo quia impossibile_," said his interior certainty with impervious self-satisfaction. "All right," said conscience, instantly allying itself with blind faith, "what are you going to do about it?" Lord Peter got up and paced the room: "Good Lord!" he said. "Good Lord!" He took down "Who's Who" from the little shelf over the telephone and sought comfort in its pages: FREKE, Sir Julian, Kt. _cr._ 1916; G.C.V.O. _cr._ 1919; K.C.V.O. 1917; K.C.B. 1918; M.D., F.R.C.P., F.R.C.S., Dr. en Méd. Paris; D. Sci. Cantab.; Knight of Grace of the Order of S. John of Jerusalem; Consulting Surgeon of St. Luke's Hospital, Battersea. _b._ Gryllingham, 16 March, 1872, _only son_ of Edward Curzon Freke, Esq., of Gryll Court, Gryllingham. _Educ._ Harrow and Trinity Coll., Cambridge; Col. A.M.S.; late Member of the Advisory Board of the Army Medical Service. _Publications_: Some Notes on the Pathological Aspects of Genius, 1892; Statistical Contributions to the Study of Infantile Paralysis in England and Wales, 1894; Functional Disturbances of the Nervous System, 1899; Cerebro-Spinal Diseases, 1904; The Borderland of Insanity, 1906; An Examination into the Treatment of Pauper Lunacy in the United Kingdom, 1906; Modern Developments in Psycho-Therapy: A Criticism, 1910; Criminal Lunacy, 1914; The Application of Psycho-Therapy to the Treatment of Shell-Shock, 1917; An Answer to Professor Freud, with a Description of Some Experiments Carried Out at the Base Hospital at Amiens, 1919; Structural Modifications Accompanying the More Important Neuroses, 1920. _Clubs_: White's; Oxford and Cambridge; Alpine, etc. _Recreations_: Chess, Mountaineering, Fishing. _Address_: 282, Harley Street and St. Luke's House, Prince of Wales Road, Battersea Park, S.W.11. He flung the book away. "Confirmation!" he groaned. "As if I needed it!" He sat down again and buried his face in his hands. He remembered quite suddenly how, years ago, he had stood before the breakfast table at Denver Castle—a small, peaky boy in blue knickers, with a thunderously beating heart. The family had not come down; there was a great silver urn with a spirit lamp under it, and an elaborate coffee-pot boiling in a glass dome. He had twitched the corner of the tablecloth—twitched it harder, and the urn moved ponderously forward and all the teaspoons rattled. He seized the tablecloth in a firm grip and pulled his hardest—he could feel now the delicate and awful thrill as the urn and the coffee machine and the whole of a Sèvres breakfast service had crashed down in one stupendous ruin—he remembered the horrified face of the butler, and the screams of a lady guest. A log broke across and sank into a fluff of white ash. A belated motor-lorry rumbled past the window. Mr. Bunter, sleeping the sleep of the true and faithful servant, was aroused in the small hours by a hoarse whisper, "Bunter!" "Yes, my lord," said Bunter, sitting up and switching on the light. "Put that light out, damn you!" said the voice. "Listen—over there—listen—can't you hear it?" "It's nothing, my lord," said Mr. Bunter, hastily getting out of bed and catching hold of his master; "it's all right, you get to bed quick and I'll fetch you a drop of bromide. Why, you're all shivering—you've been sitting up too late." "Hush! no, no—it's the water," said Lord Peter with chattering teeth; "it's up to their waists down there, poor devils. But listen! can't you hear it? Tap, tap, tap—they're mining us—but I don't know where—I can't hear—I can't. Listen, you! There it is again—we must find it—we must stop it.... Listen! Oh, my God! I can't hear—I can't hear anything for the noise of the guns. Can't they stop the guns?" "Oh, dear!" said Mr. Bunter to himself. "No, no—it's all right, Major—don't you worry." "But I hear it," protested Peter. "So do I," said Mr. Bunter stoutly; "very good hearing, too, my lord. That's our own sappers at work in the communication trench. Don't you fret about that, sir." Lord Peter grasped his wrist with a feverish hand. "Our own sappers," he said; "sure of that?" "Certain of it," said Mr. Bunter, cheerfully. "They'll bring down the tower," said Lord Peter. "To be sure they will," said Mr. Bunter, "and very nice, too. You just come and lay down a bit, sir—they've come to take over this section." "You're sure it's safe to leave it?" said Lord Peter. "Safe as houses, sir," said Mr. Bunter, tucking his master's arm under his and walking him off to his bedroom. Lord Peter allowed himself to be dosed and put to bed without further resistance. Mr. Bunter, looking singularly un-Bunterlike in striped pyjamas, with his stiff black hair ruffled about his head, sat grimly watching the younger man's sharp cheekbones and the purple stains under his eyes. "Thought we'd had the last of these attacks," he said. "Been overdoin' of himself. Asleep?" He peered at him anxiously. An affectionate note crept into his voice. "Bloody little fool!" said Sergeant Bunter. # CHAPTER IX Mr. Parker, summoned the next morning to 110 Piccadilly, arrived to find the Dowager Duchess in possession. She greeted him charmingly. "I am going to take this silly boy down to Denver for the week-end," she said, indicating Peter, who was writing and only acknowledged his friend's entrance with a brief nod. "He's been doing too much—running about to Salisbury and places and up till all hours of the night—you really shouldn't encourage him, Mr. Parker, it's very naughty of you—waking poor Bunter up in the middle of the night with scares about Germans, as if that wasn't all over years ago, and he hasn't had an attack for ages, but there! Nerves are such funny things, and Peter always did have nightmares when he was quite a little boy—though very often of course it was only a little pill he wanted; but he was so dreadfully bad in 1918, you know, and I suppose we can't expect to forget all about a great war in a year or two, and, really, I ought to be very thankful with both my boys safe. Still, I think a little peace and quiet at Denver won't do him any harm." "Sorry you've been having a bad turn, old man," said Parker, vaguely sympathetic; "you're looking a bit seedy." "Charles," said Lord Peter, in a voice entirely void of expression, "I am going away for a couple of days because I can be no use to you in London. What has got to be done for the moment can be much better done by you than by me. I want you to take this"—he folded up his writing and placed it in an envelope—"to Scotland Yard immediately and get it sent out to all the workhouses, infirmaries, police stations, Y.M.C.A.'s and so on in London. It is a description of Thipps's corpse as he was before he was shaved and cleaned up. I want to know whether any man answering to that description has been taken in anywhere, alive or dead, during the last fortnight. You will see Sir Andrew Mackenzie personally, and get the paper sent out at once, by his authority; you will tell him that you have solved the problems of the Levy murder and the Battersea mystery"—Mr. Parker made an astonished noise to which his friend paid no attention—"and you will ask him to have men in readiness with a warrant to arrest a very dangerous and important criminal at any moment on your information. When the replies to this paper come in, you will search for any mention of St. Luke's Hospital, or of any person connected with St. Luke's Hospital, and you will send for me at once. "Meanwhile you will scrape acquaintance—I don't care how—with one of the students at St. Luke's. Don't march in there blowing about murders and police warrants, or you may find yourself in Queer Street. I shall come up to town as soon as I hear from you, and I shall expect to find a nice ingenuous Sawbones here to meet me." He grinned faintly. "D'you mean you've got to the bottom of this thing?" asked Parker. "Yes. I may be wrong. I hope I am, but I know I'm not." "You won't tell me?" "D'you know," said Peter, "honestly I'd rather not. I say I _may_ be wrong—and I'd feel as if I'd libelled the Archbishop of Canterbury." "Well, tell me—is it one mystery or two?" "One." "You talked of the Levy murder. Is Levy dead?" "God—yes!" said Peter, with a strong shudder. The Duchess looked up from where she was reading the _Tatler_. "Peter," she said, "is that your ague coming on again? Whatever you two are chattering about, you'd better stop it at once if it excites you. Besides, it's about time to be off." "All right, Mother," said Peter. He turned to Bunter, standing respectfully in the door with an overcoat and suitcase. "You understand what you have to do, don't you?" he said. "Perfectly, thank you, my lord. The car is just arriving, your Grace." "With Mrs. Thipps inside it," said the Duchess. "She'll be delighted to see you again, Peter. You remind her so of Mr. Thipps. Good-morning, Bunter." "Good-morning, your Grace." Parker accompanied them downstairs. When they had gone he looked blankly at the paper in his hand—then, remembering that it was Saturday and there was need for haste, he hailed a taxi. "Scotland Yard!" he cried. * * * * * Tuesday morning saw Lord Peter and a man in a velveteen jacket swishing merrily through seven acres of turnip-tops, streaked yellow with early frosts. A little way ahead, a sinuous undercurrent of excitement among the leaves proclaimed the unseen yet ever-near presence of one of the Duke of Denver's setter pups. Presently a partridge flew up with a noise like a police rattle, and Lord Peter accounted for it very creditably for a man who, a few nights before, had been listening to imaginary German sappers. The setter bounded foolishly through the turnips, and fetched back the dead bird. "Good dog," said Lord Peter. Encouraged by this, the dog gave a sudden ridiculous gambol and barked, its ear tossed inside out over its head. "Heel," said the man in velveteen, violently. The animal sidled up, ashamed. "Fool of a dog, that," said the man in velveteen; "can't keep quiet. Too nervous, my lord. One of old Black Lass's pups." "Dear me," said Peter, "is the old dog still going?" "No, my lord; we had to put her away in the spring." Peter nodded. He always proclaimed that he hated the country and was thankful to have nothing to do with the family estates, but this morning he enjoyed the crisp air and the wet leaves washing darkly over his polished boots. At Denver things moved in an orderly way; no one died sudden and violent deaths except aged setters—and partridges, to be sure. He sniffed up the autumn smell with appreciation. There was a letter in his pocket which had come by the morning post, but he did not intend to read it just yet. Parker had not wired; there was no hurry. * * * * * He read it in the smoking-room after lunch. His brother was there, dozing over the _Times_—a good, clean Englishman, sturdy and conventional, rather like Henry VIII in his youth; Gerald, sixteenth Duke of Denver. The Duke considered his cadet rather degenerate, and not quite good form; he disliked his taste for police-court news. The letter was from Mr. Bunter. Chapter 110, Piccadilly, W.1. My Lord: I write (Mr. Bunter had been carefully educated and knew that nothing is more vulgar than a careful avoidance of beginning a letter with the first person singular) as your lordship directed, to inform you of the result of my investigations. I experienced no difficulty in becoming acquainted with Sir Julian Freke's man-servant. He belongs to the same club as the Hon. Frederick Arbuthnot's man, who is a friend of mine, and was very willing to introduce me. He took me to the club yesterday (Sunday) evening, and we dined with the man, whose name is John Cummings, and afterwards I invited Cummings to drinks and a cigar in the flat. Your lordship will excuse me doing this, knowing that it is not my habit, but it has always been my experience that the best way to gain a man's confidence is to let him suppose that one takes advantage of one's employer. ("I always suspected Bunter of being a student of human nature," commented Lord Peter.) I gave him the best old port ("The deuce you did," said Lord Peter), having heard you and Mr. Arbuthnot talk over it. ("Hum!" said Lord Peter.) Its effects were quite equal to my expectations as regards the principal matter in hand, but I very much regret to state that the man had so little understanding of what was offered to him that he smoked a cigar with it (one of your lordship's Villar Villars). You will understand that I made no comment on this at the time, but your lordship will sympathize with my feelings. May I take this opportunity of expressing my grateful appreciation of your lordship's excellent taste in food, drink and dress? It is, if I may say so, more than a pleasure—it is an education, to valet and buttle your lordship. Lord Peter bowed his head gravely. "What on earth are you doing, Peter, sittin' there noddin' an' grinnin' like a what-you-may-call-it?" demanded the Duke, coming suddenly out of a snooze. "Someone writin' pretty things to you, what?" "Charming things," said Lord Peter. The Duke eyed him doubtfully. "Hope to goodness you don't go and marry a chorus beauty," he muttered inwardly, and returned to the _Times_. * * * * * Over dinner I had set myself to discover Cummings's tastes, and found them to run in the direction of the music-hall stage. During his first glass I drew him out in this direction, your lordship having kindly given me opportunities of seeing every performance in London, and I spoke more freely than I should consider becoming in the ordinary way in order to make myself pleasant to him. I may say that his views on women and the stage were such as I should have expected from a man who would smoke with your lordship's port. With the second glass I introduced the subject of your lordship's inquiries. In order to save time I will write our conversation in the form of a dialogue, as nearly as possible as it actually took place. _Cummings_: You seem to get many opportunities of seeing a bit of life, Mr. Bunter. _Bunter_: One can always make opportunities if one knows how. _Cummings_: Ah, it's very easy for you to talk, Mr. Bunter. You're not married, for one thing. _Bunter_: I know better than that, Mr. Cummings. _Cummings_: So do I—_now_, when it's too late. (He sighed heavily, and I filled up his glass.) _Bunter_: Does Mrs. Cummings live with you at Battersea? _Cummings_: Yes, her and me we do for my governor. Such a life! Not but what there's a char comes in by the day. But what's a char? I can tell you it's dull all by ourselves in that d—d Battersea suburb. _Bunter_: Not very convenient for the Halls, of course. _Cummings_: I believe you. It's all right for you, here in Piccadilly, right on the spot as you might say. And I daresay your governor's often out all night, eh? _Bunter_: Oh, frequently, Mr. Cummings. _Cummings_: And I daresay you take the opportunity to slip off yourself every so often, eh? _Bunter_: Well, what do _you_ think, Mr. Cummings? _Cummings_: That's it; there you are! But what's a man to do with a nagging fool of a wife and a blasted scientific doctor for a governor, as sits up all night cutting up dead bodies and experimenting with frogs? _Bunter_: Surely he goes out sometimes. _Cummings_: Not often. And always back before twelve. And the way he goes on if he rings the bell and you ain't there. I give you _my_ word, Mr. Bunter. _Bunter_: Temper? _Cummings_: No-o-o—but looking through you, nasty-like, as if you was on that operating table of his and he was going to cut you up. Nothing a man could rightly complain of, you understand, Mr. Bunter, just nasty looks. Not but what I will say he's very correct. Apologizes if he's been inconsiderate. But what's the good of that when he's been and gone and lost you your night's rest? _Bunter_: How does he do that? Keeps you up late, you mean? _Cummings_: Not him; far from it. House locked up and household to bed at half-past ten. That's his little rule. Not but what I'm glad enough to go as a rule, it's that dreary. Still, when I _do_ go to bed I like to go to sleep. _Bunter_: What does he do? Walk about the house? _Cummings_: Doesn't he? All night. And in and out of the private door to the hospital. _Bunter_: You don't mean to say, Mr. Cummings, a great specialist like Sir Julian Freke does night work at the hospital? _Cummings_: No, no; he does his own work—research work, as you may say. Cuts people up. They say he's very clever. Could take you or me to pieces like a clock, Mr. Bunter, and put us together again. _Bunter_: Do you sleep in the basement, then, to hear him so plain? _Cummings_: No; our bedroom's at the top. But, Lord! what's that? He'll bang the door so you can hear him all over the house. _Bunter_: Ah, many's the time I've had to speak to Lord Peter about that. And talking all night. And baths. _Cummings_: Baths? You may well say that, Mr. Bunter. Baths? Me and my wife sleep next to the cistern-room. Noise fit to wake the dead. All hours. When d'you think he chose to have a bath, no later than last Monday night, Mr. Bunter? _Bunter_: I've known them to do it at two in the morning, Mr. Cummings. _Cummings_: Have you, now? Well, this was at three. Three o'clock in the morning we was waked up. I give you _my_ word. _Bunter_: You don't say so, Mr. Cummings. _Cummings_: He cuts up diseases, you see, Mr. Bunter, and then he don't like to go to bed till he's washed the bacilluses off, if you understand me. Very natural, too, I daresay. But what I say is, the middle of the night's no time for a gentleman to be occupying his mind with diseases. _Bunter_: These great men have their own way of doing things. _Cummings_: Well, all I can say is, it isn't my way. (I could believe that, your lordship. Cummings has no signs of greatness about him, and his trousers are not what I would wish to see in a man of his profession.) _Bunter_: Is he habitually as late as that, Mr. Cummings? _Cummings_: Well, no, Mr. Bunter, I will say, not as a general rule. He apologized, too, in the morning, and said he would have the cistern seen to—and very necessary, in my opinion, for the air gets into the pipes, and the groaning and screeching as goes on is something awful. Just like Niagara, if you follow me, Mr. Bunter, I give you _my_ word. _Bunter_: Well, that's as it should be, Mr. Cummings. One can put up with a great deal from a gentleman that has the manners to apologize. And, of course, sometimes they can't help themselves. A visitor will come in unexpectedly and keep them late, perhaps. _Cummings_: That's true enough, Mr. Bunter. Now I come to think of it, there _was_ a gentleman come in on Monday evening. Not that he came late, but he stayed about an hour, and may have put Sir Julian behindhand. _Bunter_: Very likely. Let me give you some more port, Mr. Cummings. Or a little of Lord Peter's old brandy. _Cummings_: A little of the brandy, thank you, Mr. Bunter. I suppose you have the run of the cellar here. (He winked at me.) "Trust me for that," I said, and I fetched him the Napoleon. I assure your lordship it went to my heart to pour it out for a man like that. However, seeing we had got on the right tack, I felt it wouldn't be wasted. "I'm sure I wish it was always gentlemen that come here at night," I said. (Your lordship will excuse me, I am sure, making such a suggestion.) ("Good God," said Lord Peter, "I wish Bunter was less thorough in his methods.") _Cummings_: Oh, he's that sort, his lordship, is he? (He chuckled and poked me. I suppress a portion of his conversation here, which could not fail to be as offensive to your lordship as it was to myself. He went on:) No, it's none of that with Sir Julian. Very few visitors at night, and always gentlemen. And going early as a rule, like the one I mentioned. _Bunter:_ Just as well. There's nothing I find more wearisome, Mr. Cummings, than sitting up to see visitors out. _Cummings:_ Oh, I didn't see this one out. Sir Julian let him out himself at ten o'clock or thereabouts. I heard the gentleman shout "Good-night" and off he goes. _Bunter:_ Does Sir Julian always do that? _Cummings:_ Well, that depends. If he sees visitors downstairs, he lets them out himself: if he sees them upstairs in the library, he rings for me. _Bunter:_ This was a downstairs visitor, then? _Cummings:_ Oh, yes. Sir Julian opened the door to him, I remember. He happened to be working in the hall. Though now I come to think of it, they went up to the library afterwards. That's funny. I know they did, because I happened to go up to the hall with coals, and I heard them upstairs. Besides, Sir Julian rang for me in the library a few minutes later. Still, anyway, we heard him go at ten, or it may have been a bit before. He hadn't only stayed about three-quarters of an hour. However, as I was saying, there was Sir Julian banging in and out of the private door all night, and a bath at three in the morning, and up again for breakfast at eight—it beats me. If I had all his money, curse me if I'd go poking about with dead men in the middle of the night. I'd find something better to do with my time, eh, Mr. Bunter— I need not repeat any more of his conversation, as it became unpleasant and incoherent, and I could not bring him back to the events of Monday night. I was unable to get rid of him till three. He cried on my neck, and said I was the bird, and you were the governor for him. He said that Sir Julian would be greatly annoyed with him for coming home so late, but Sunday night was his night out and if anything was said about it he would give notice. I think he will be ill-advised to do so, as I feel he is not a man I could conscientiously recommend if I were in Sir Julian Freke's place. I noticed that his boot-heels were slightly worn down. I should wish to add, as a tribute to the great merits of your lordship's cellar, that, although I was obliged to drink a somewhat large quantity both of the Cockburn '68 and the 1800 Napoleon I feel no headache or other ill effects this morning. Trusting that your lordship is deriving real benefit from the country air, and that the little information I have been able to obtain will prove satisfactory, I remain. With respectful duty to all the family, Obediently yours, MERVYN BUNTER. "Y'know," said Lord Peter thoughtfully to himself, "I sometimes think Mervyn Bunter's pullin' my leg. What is it, Soames?" "A telegram, my lord." "Parker," said Lord Peter, opening it. It said: "Description recognised Chelsea Workhouse. Unknown vagrant injured street accident Wednesday week. Died workhouse Monday. Delivered St. Luke's same evening by order Freke. Much puzzled. Parker." "Hurray!" said Lord Peter, suddenly sparkling. "I'm glad I've puzzled Parker. Gives me confidence in myself. Makes me feel like Sherlock Holmes. ‘Perfectly simple, Watson.' Dash it all, though! this is a beastly business. Still, it's puzzled Parker." "What's the matter?" asked the Duke, getting up and yawning. "Marching orders," said Peter, "back to town. Many thanks for your hospitality, old bird—I'm feelin' no end better. Ready to tackle Professor Moriarty or Leon Kestrel or any of 'em." "I do wish you'd keep out of the police courts," grumbled the Duke. "It makes it so dashed awkward for me, havin' a brother makin' himself conspicuous." "Sorry, Gerald," said the other; "I know I'm a beastly blot on the 'scutcheon." "Why can't you marry and settle down and live quietly, doin' something useful?" said the Duke, unappeased. "Because that was a wash-out as you perfectly well know," said Peter; "besides," he added cheerfully, "I'm bein' no end useful. You may come to want me yourself, you never know. When anybody comes blackmailin' you, Gerald, or your first deserted wife turns up unexpectedly from the West Indies, you'll realize the pull of havin' a private detective in the family. ‘Delicate private business arranged with tact and discretion. Investigations undertaken. Divorce evidence a specialty. Every guarantee!' Come, now." "Ass!" said Lord Denver, throwing the newspaper violently into his armchair. "When do you want the car?" "Almost at once. I say, Jerry, I'm taking Mother up with me." "Why should she be mixed up in it?" "Well, I want her help." "I call it most unsuitable," said the Duke. The Dowager Duchess, however, made no objection. "I used to know her quite well," she said, "when she was Christine Ford. Why, dear?" "Because," said Lord Peter, "there's a terrible piece of news to be broken to her about her husband." "Is he dead, dear?" "Yes; and she will have to come and identify him." "Poor Christine." "Under very revolting circumstances, Mother." "I'll come with you, dear." "Thank you, Mother, you're a brick. D'you mind gettin' your things on straight away and comin' up with me? I'll tell you about it in the car." # CHAPTER X Mr. Parker, a faithful though doubting Thomas, had duly secured his medical student: a large young man like an overgrown puppy, with innocent eyes and a freckled face. He sat on the Chesterfield before Lord Peter's library fire, bewildered in equal measure by his errand, his surroundings and the drink which he was absorbing. His palate, though untutored, was naturally a good one, and he realized that even to call this liquid a drink—the term ordinarily used by him to designate cheap whisky, post-war beer or a dubious glass of claret in a Soho restaurant—was a sacrilege; this was something outside normal experience: a genie in a bottle. The man called Parker, whom he had happened to run across the evening before in the public-house at the corner of Prince of Wales Road, seemed to be a good sort. He had insisted on bringing him round to see this friend of his, who lived splendidly in Piccadilly. Parker was quite understandable; he put him down as a government servant, or perhaps something in the City. The friend was embarrassing; he was a lord, to begin with, and his clothes were a kind of rebuke to the world at large. He talked the most fatuous nonsense, certainly, but in a disconcerting way. He didn't dig into a joke and get all the fun out of it; he made it in passing, so to speak, and skipped away to something else before your retort was ready. He had a truly terrible man-servant—the sort you read about in books—who froze the marrow in your bones with silent criticism. Parker appeared to bear up under the strain, and this made you think more highly of Parker; he must be more habituated to the surroundings of the great than you would think to look at him. You wondered what the carpet had cost on which Parker was carelessly spilling cigar ash; your father was an upholsterer—Mr. Piggott, of Piggott & Piggott, Liverpool—and you knew enough about carpets to know that you couldn't even guess at the price of this one. When you moved your head on the bulging silk cushion in the corner of the sofa, it made you wish you shaved more often and more carefully. The sofa was a monster—but even so, it hardly seemed big enough to contain you. This Lord Peter was not very tall—in fact, he was rather a small man, but he didn't look undersized. He looked right; he made you feel that to be six-foot-three was rather vulgarly assertive; you felt like Mother's new drawing-room curtains—all over great big blobs. But everybody was very decent to you, and nobody said anything you couldn't understand, or sneered at you. There were some frightfully deep-looking books on the shelves all round, and you had looked into a great folio Dante which was lying on the table, but your hosts were talking quite ordinarily and rationally about the sort of books you read yourself—clinking good love stories and detective stories. You had read a lot of those, and could give an opinion, and they listened to what you had to say, though Lord Peter had a funny way of talking about books, too, as if the author had confided in him beforehand, and told him how the story was put together, and which bit was written first. It reminded you of the way old Freke took a body to pieces. "Thing I object to in detective stories," said Mr. Piggott, "is the way fellows remember every bloomin' thing that's happened to 'em within the last six months. They're always ready with their time of day and was it rainin' or not, and what were they doin' on such an' such a day. Reel it all off like a page of poetry. But one ain't like that in real life, d'you think so, Lord Peter?" Lord Peter smiled, and young Piggott, instantly embarrassed, appealed to his earlier acquaintance. "You know what I mean, Parker. Come now. One day's so like another, I'm sure I couldn't remember—well, I might remember yesterday, p'r'aps, but I couldn't be certain about what I was doin' last week if I was to be shot for it." "No," said Parker, "and evidence given in police statements sounds just as impossible. But they don't really get it like that, you know. I mean, a man doesn't just say, ‘Last Friday I went out at 10 a.m. to buy a mutton chop. As I was turning into Mortimer Street I noticed a girl of about twenty-two with black hair and brown eyes, wearing a green jumper, check skirt, Panama hat and black shoes, riding a Royal Sunbeam Cycle at about ten miles an hour turning the corner by the Church of St. Simon and St. Jude on the wrong side of the road riding towards the market place!' It amounts to that, of course, but it's really wormed out of him by a series of questions." "And in short stories," said Lord Peter, "it has to be put in statement form, because the real conversation would be so long and twaddly and tedious, and nobody would have the patience to read it. Writers have to consider their readers, if any, y'see." "Yes," said Mr. Piggott, "but I bet you most people would find it jolly difficult to remember, even if you asked 'em things. I should—of course, I know I'm a bit of a fool, but then, most people are, ain't they? You know what I mean. Witnesses ain't detectives, they're just average idiots like you and me." "Quite so," said Lord Peter, smiling as the force of the last phrase sank into its unhappy perpetrator; "you mean, if I were to ask you in a general way what you were doin'—say, a week ago today, you wouldn't be able to tell me a thing about it offhand?" "No—I'm sure I shouldn't." He considered. "No. I was in at the Hospital as usual, I suppose, and, being Tuesday, there'd be a lecture on something or the other—dashed if I know what—and in the evening I went out with Tommy Pringle—no, that must have been Monday—or was it Wednesday? I tell you, I couldn't swear to anything." "You do yourself an injustice," said Lord Peter gravely. "I'm sure, for instance, you recollect what work you were doing in the dissecting-room on that day, for example." "Lord, no! not for certain. I mean, I daresay it might come back to me if I thought for a long time, but I wouldn't swear to it in a court of law." "I'll bet you half-a-crown to sixpence," said Lord Peter, "that you'll remember within five minutes." "I'm sure I can't." "We'll see. Do you keep a notebook of the work you do when you dissect? Drawings or anything?" "Oh, yes." "Think of that. What's the last thing you did in it?" "That's easy, because I only did it this morning. It was leg muscles." "Yes. Who was the subject?" "An old woman of sorts; died of pneumonia." "Yes. Turn back the pages of your drawing book in your mind. What came before that?" "Oh, some animals—still legs; I'm doing motor muscles at present. Yes. That was old Cunningham's demonstration on comparative anatomy. I did rather a good thing of a hare's legs and a frog's, and rudimentary legs on a snake." "Yes. Which day does Mr. Cunningham lecture?" "Friday." "Friday; yes. Turn back again. What comes before that?" Mr. Piggott shook his head. "Do your drawings of legs begin on the right-hand page or the left-hand page? Can you see the first drawing?" "Yes—yes—I can see the date written at the top. It's a section of a frog's hind leg, on the right-hand page." "Yes. Think of the open book in your mind's eye. What is opposite to it?" This demanded some mental concentration. "Something round—coloured—oh, yes—it's a hand." "Yes. You went on from the muscles of the hand and arm to leg- and foot-muscles?" "Yes; that's right. I've got a set of drawings of arms." "Yes. Did you make those on the Thursday?" "No; I'm never in the dissecting-room on Thursday." "On Wednesday, perhaps?" "Yes; I must have made them on Wednesday. Yes; I did. I went in there after we'd seen those tetanus patients in the morning. I did them on Wednesday afternoon. I know I went back because I wanted to finish 'em. I worked rather hard—for me. That's why I remember." "Yes; you went back to finish them. When had you begun them, then?" "Why, the day before." "The day before. That was Tuesday, wasn't it?" "I've lost count—yes, the day before Wednesday—yes, Tuesday." "Yes. Were they a man's arms or a woman's arms?" "Oh, a man's arms. "Yes; last Tuesday, a week ago today, you were dissecting a man's arms in the dissecting-room. Sixpence, please." "By Jove!" "Wait a moment. You know a lot more about it than that. You've no idea how much you know. You know what kind of man he was." "Oh, I never saw him complete, you know. I got there a bit late that day, I remember. I'd asked for an arm specially, because I was rather weak in arms, and Watts—that's the attendant—had promised to save me one." "Yes. You have arrived late and found your arm waiting for you. You are dissecting it—taking your scissors and slitting up the skin and pinning it back. Was it very young, fair skin?" "Oh, no—no. Ordinary skin, I think—with dark hairs on it—yes, that was it." "Yes. A lean, stringy arm, perhaps, with no extra fat anywhere?" "Oh, no—I was rather annoyed about that. I wanted a good, muscular arm, but it was rather poorly developed and the fat got in my way." "Yes; a sedentary man who didn't do much manual work." "That's right." "Yes. You dissected the hand, for instance, and made a drawing of it. You would have noticed any hard calluses." "Oh, there was nothing of that sort." "No. But should you say it was a young man's arm? Firm young flesh and limber joints?" "No—no." "No. Old and stringy, perhaps." "No. Middle-aged—with rheumatism. I mean, there was a chalky deposit in the joints, and the fingers were a bit swollen." "Yes. A man about fifty." "About that." "Yes. There were other students at work on the same body." "Oh, yes." "Yes. And they made all the usual sort of jokes about it." "I expect so—oh, yes!" "You can remember some of them. Who is your local funny man, so to speak?" "Tommy Pringle." "What was Tommy Pringle's doing?" "Can't remember." "Whereabouts was Tommy Pringle working?" "Over by the instrument cupboard—by sink C." "Yes. Get a picture of Tommy Pringle in your mind's eye." Piggott began to laugh. "I remember now. Tommy Pringle said the old Sheeny—" "Why did he call him a Sheeny?" "I don't know. But I know he did." "Perhaps he looked like it. Did you see his head?" "No." "Who had the head?" "I don't know—oh, yes, I do, though. Old Freke bagged the head himself, and little Bouncible Binns was very cross about it, because he'd been promised a head to do with old Scrooger." "I see. What was Sir Julian doing with the head?" "He called us up and gave us a jaw on spinal haemorrhage and nervous lesions." "Yes. Well, go back to Tommy Pringle." Tommy Pringle's joke was repeated, not without some embarrassment. "Quite so. Was that all?" "No. The chap who was working with Tommy said that sort of thing came from over-feeding." "I deduce that Tommy Pringle's partner was interested in the alimentary canal." "Yes; and Tommy said, if he'd thought they'd feed you like that he'd go to the workhouse himself." "Then the man was a pauper from the workhouse?" "Well, he must have been, I suppose." "Are workhouse paupers usually fat and well-fed?" "Well, no—come to think of it, not as a rule." "In fact, it struck Tommy Pringle and his friend that this was something a little out of the way in a workhouse subject?" "Yes." "And if the alimentary canal was so entertaining to these gentlemen, I imagine the subject had come by his death shortly after a full meal." "Yes—oh, yes—he'd have had to, wouldn't he?" "Well, I don't know," said Lord Peter. "That's in your department, you know. That would be your inference, from what they said." "Oh, yes. Undoubtedly." "Yes; you wouldn't, for example, expect them to make that observation if the patient had been ill for a long time and fed on slops." "Of course not." "Well, you see, you really know a lot about it. On Tuesday week you were dissecting the arm muscles of a rheumatic middle-aged Jew, of sedentary habits, who had died shortly after eating a heavy meal, of some injury producing spinal haemorrhage and nervous lesions, and so forth, and who was presumed to come from the workhouse?" "Yes." "And you could swear to those facts, if need were?" "Well, if you put it in that way, I suppose I could." "Of course you could." Mr. Piggott sat for some moments in contemplation. "I say," he said at last, "I did know all that, didn't I?" "Oh, yes—you knew it all right—like Socrates's slave." "Who's he?" "A person in a book I used to read as a boy." "Oh—does he come in ‘The Last Days of Pompeii'?" "No—another book—I daresay you escaped it. It's rather dull." "I never read much except Henty and Fenimore Cooper at school.... But—have I got rather an extra good memory, then?" "You have a better memory than you credit yourself with." "Then why can't I remember all the medical stuff? It all goes out of my head like a sieve." "Well, why can't you?" said Lord Peter, standing on the hearthrug and smiling down at his guest. "Well," said the young man, "the chaps who examine one don't ask the same sort of questions you do." "No?" "No—they leave you to remember all by yourself. And it's beastly hard. Nothing to catch hold of, don't you know? But, I say—how did you know about Tommy Pringle being the funny man and—" "I didn't, till you told me." "No; I know. But how did you know he'd be there if you did ask? I mean to say—I say," said Mr. Piggott, who was becoming mellowed by influences themselves not unconnected with the alimentary canal—"I say, are you rather clever, or am I rather stupid?" "No, no," said Lord Peter, "it's me. I'm always askin' such stupid questions, everybody thinks I must mean somethin' by 'em." This was too involved for Mr. Piggott. "Never mind," said Parker, soothingly, "he's always like that. You mustn't take any notice. He can't help it. It's premature senile decay, often observed in the families of hereditary legislators. Go away, Wimsey, and play us the ‘Beggar's Opera,' or something." "That's good enough, isn't it?" said Lord Peter, when the happy Mr. Piggott had been despatched home after a really delightful evening. "I'm afraid so," said Parker. "But it seems almost incredible." "There's nothing incredible in human nature," said Lord Peter; "at least, in educated human nature. Have you got that exhumation order?" "I shall have it tomorrow. I thought of fixing up with the workhouse people for tomorrow afternoon. I shall have to go and see them first." "Right you are; I'll let my mother know." "I begin to feel like you, Wimsey, I don't like this job." "I like it a deal better than I did." "You are really certain we're not making a mistake?" Lord Peter had strolled across to the window. The curtain was not perfectly drawn, and he stood gazing out through the gap into lighted Piccadilly. At this he turned round: "If we are," he said, "we shall know tomorrow, and no harm will have been done. But I rather think you will receive a certain amount of confirmation on your way home. Look here, Parker, d'you know, if I were you I'd spend the night here. There's a spare bedroom; I can easily put you up." Parker stared at him. "Do you mean—I'm likely to be attacked?" "I think it very likely indeed." "Is there anybody in the street?" "Not now; there was half-an-hour ago." "When Piggott left?" "Yes." "I say—I hope the boy is in no danger." "That's what I went down to see. I don't think so. Fact is, I don't suppose anybody would imagine we'd exactly made a confidant of Piggott. But I think you and I are in danger. You'll stay?" "I'm damned if I will, Wimsey. Why should I run away?" "Bosh!" said Peter. "You'd run away all right if you believed me, and why not? You don't believe me. In fact, you're still not certain I'm on the right tack. Go in peace, but don't say I didn't warn you." "I won't; I'll dictate a message with my dying breath to say I was convinced." "Well, don't walk—take a taxi." "Very well, I'll do that." "And don't let anybody else get into it." "No." It was a raw, unpleasant night. A taxi deposited a load of people returning from the theatre at the block of flats next door, and Parker secured it for himself. He was just giving the address to the driver, when a man came hastily running up from a side street. He was in evening dress and an overcoat. He rushed up, signalling frantically. "Sir—sir!—dear me! why, it's Mr. Parker! How fortunate! If you would be so kind—summoned from the club—a sick friend—can't find a taxi—everybody going home from the theatre—if I might share your cab—you are returning to Bloomsbury? I want Russell Square—if I might presume—a matter of life and death." He spoke in hurried gasps, as though he had been running violently and far. Parker promptly stepped out of the taxi. "Delighted to be of service to you, Sir Julian," he said; "take my taxi. I am going down to Craven Street myself, but I'm in no hurry. Pray make use of the cab." "It's extremely kind of you," said the surgeon. "I am ashamed—" "That's all right," said Parker, cheerily. "I can wait." He assisted Freke into the taxi. "What number? 24 Russell Square, driver, and look sharp." The taxi drove off. Parker remounted the stairs and rang Lord Peter's bell. "Thanks, old man," he said. "I'll stop the night, after all." "Come in," said Wimsey. "Did you see that?" asked Parker. "I saw something. What happened exactly?" Parker told his story. "Frankly," he said, "I've been thinking you a bit mad, but now I'm not quite so sure of it." Peter laughed. "Blessed are they that have not seen and yet have believed. Bunter, Mr. Parker will stay the night." "Look here, Wimsey, let's have another look at this business. Where's that letter?" Lord Peter produced Bunter's essay in dialogue. Parker studied it for a short time in silence. "You know, Wimsey, I'm as full of objections to this idea as an egg is of meat." "So'm I, old son. That's why I want to dig up our Chelsea pauper. But trot out your objections." "Well—" "Well, look here, I don't pretend to be able to fill in all the blanks myself. But here we have two mysterious occurrences in one night, and a complete chain connecting the one with another through one particular person. It's beastly, but it's not unthinkable." "Yes, I know all that. But there are one or two quite definite stumbling-blocks." "Yes, I know. But, see here. On the one hand, Levy disappeared after being last seen looking for Prince of Wales Road at nine o'clock. At eight next morning a dead man, not unlike him in general outline, is discovered in a bath in Queen Caroline Mansions. Levy, by Freke's own admission, was going to see Freke. By information received from Chelsea workhouse a dead man, answering to the description of the Battersea corpse in its natural state, was delivered that same day to Freke. We have Levy with a past, and no future, as it were; an unknown vagrant with a future (in the cemetery) and no past, and Freke stands between their future and their past." "That looks all right—" "Yes. Now, further: Freke has a motive for getting rid of Levy—an old jealousy." "Very old—and not much of a motive." "People have been known to do that sort of thing.[D] You're thinking that people don't keep up old jealousies for twenty years or so. Perhaps not. Not just primitive, brute jealousy. That means a word and a blow. But the thing that rankles is hurt vanity. That sticks. Humiliation. And we've all got a sore spot we don't like to have touched. I've got it. You've got it. Some blighter said hell knew no fury like a woman scorned. Stickin' it on to women, poor devils. Sex is every man's loco spot—you needn't fidget, you know it's true—he'll take a disappointment, but not a humiliation. I knew a man once who'd been turned down—not too charitably—by a girl he was engaged to. He spoke quite decently about her. I asked what had become of her. ‘Oh,' he said, ‘she married the other fellow.' And then burst out—couldn't help himself. ‘Lord, yes!' he cried. ‘To think of it—jilted for a Scotchman!' I don't know why he didn't like Scots, but that was what got him on the raw. Look at Freke. I've read his books. His attacks on his antagonists are savage. And he's a scientist. Yet he can't bear opposition, even in his work, which is where any first-class man is most sane and open-minded. Do you think he's a man to take a beating from any man on a side-issue? On a man's most sensitive side-issue? People are opinionated about side-issues, you know. I see red if anybody questions my judgment about a book. And Levy—who was nobody twenty years ago—romps in and carries off Freke's girl from under his nose. It isn't the girl Freke would bother about—it's having his aristocratic nose put out of joint by a little Jewish nobody. "There's another thing. Freke's got another side-issue. He likes crime. In that criminology book of his he gloats over a hardened murderer. I've read it, and I've seen the admiration simply glaring out between the lines whenever he writes about a callous and successful criminal. He reserves his contempt for the victims or the penitents or the men who lose their heads and get found out. His heroes are Edmond de la Pommerais, who persuaded his mistress into becoming an accessory to her own murder, and George Joseph Smith of Brides-in-a-bath fame, who could make passionate love to his wife in the night and carry out his plot to murder her in the morning. After all, he thinks conscience is a sort of vermiform appendix. Chop it out and you'll feel all the better. Freke isn't troubled by the usual conscientious deterrent. Witness his own hand in his books. Now again. The man who went to Levy's house in his place knew the house: Freke knew the house; he was a red-haired man, smaller than Levy, but not much smaller, since he could wear his clothes without appearing ludicrous: you have seen Freke—you know his height—about five-foot-eleven, I suppose, and his auburn mane; he probably wore surgical gloves: Freke is a surgeon; he was a methodical and daring man: surgeons are obliged to be both daring and methodical. Now take the other side. The man who got hold of the Battersea corpse had to have access to dead bodies. Freke obviously had access to dead bodies. He had to be cool and quick and callous about handling a dead body. Surgeons are all that. He had to be a strong man to carry the body across the roofs and dump it in at Thipps's window. Freke is a powerful man and a member of the Alpine Club. He probably wore surgical gloves and he let the body down from the roof with a surgical bandage. This points to a surgeon again. He undoubtedly lived in the neighbourhood. Freke lives next door. The girl you interviewed heard a bump on the roof of the end house. That is the house next to Freke's. Every time we look at Freke, he leads somewhere, whereas Milligan and Thipps and Crimplesham and all the other people we've honoured with our suspicion simply led nowhere." "Yes; but it's not quite so simple as you make out. What was Levy doing in that surreptitious way at Freke's on Monday night?" "Well, you have Freke's explanation." "Rot, Wimsey. You said yourself it wouldn't do." "Excellent. It won't do. Therefore Freke was lying. Why should he lie about it, unless he had some object in hiding the truth?" "Well, but why mention it at all?" "Because Levy, contrary to all expectation, had been seen at the corner of the road. That was a nasty accident for Freke. He thought it best to be beforehand with an explanation—of sorts. He reckoned, of course, on nobody's ever connecting Levy with Battersea Park." "Well, then, we come back to the first question: Why did Levy go there?" "I don't know, but he was got there somehow. Why did Freke buy all those Peruvian Oil shares?" "I don't know," said Parker in his turn. "Anyway," went on Wimsey, "Freke expected him, and made arrangements to let him in himself, so that Cummings shouldn't see who the caller was." "But the caller left again at ten." "Oh, Charles! I did not expect this of you. This is the purest Suggery! Who saw him go? Somebody said ‘Good-night' and walked away down the street. And you believe it was Levy because Freke didn't go out of his way to explain that it wasn't." "D'you mean that Freke walked cheerfully out of the house to Park Lane, and left Levy behind—dead or alive—for Cummings to find?" "We have Cummings's word that he did nothing of the sort. A few minutes after the steps walked away from the house, Freke rang the library bell and told Cummings to shut up for the night." "Then—" "Well—there's a side door to the house, I suppose—in fact, you know there is—Cummings said so—through the hospital." "Yes—well, where was Levy?" "Levy went up into the library and never came down. You've been in Freke's library. Where would you have put him?" "In my bedroom next door." "Then that's where he did put him." "But suppose the man went in to turn down the bed?" "Beds are turned down by the housekeeper, earlier than ten o'clock." "Yes.... But Cummings heard Freke about the house all night." "He heard him go in and out two or three times. He'd expect him to do that, anyway." "Do you mean to say Freke got all that job finished before three in the morning?" "Why not?" "Quick work." "Well, call it quick work. Besides, why three? Cummings never saw him again till he called him for eight o'clock breakfast." "But he was having a bath at three." "I don't say he didn't get back from Park Lane before three. But I don't suppose Cummings went and looked through the bathroom keyhole to see if he was in the bath." Parker considered again. "How about Crimplesham's pince-nez?" he asked. "That is a bit mysterious," said Lord Peter. "And why Thipps's bathroom?" "Why, indeed? Pure accident, perhaps—or pure devilry." "Do you think all this elaborate scheme could have been put together in a night, Wimsey?" "Far from it. It was conceived as soon as that man who bore a superficial resemblance to Levy came into the workhouse. He had several days." "I see." "Freke gave himself away at the inquest. He and Grimbold disagreed about the length of the man's illness. If a small man (comparatively speaking) like Grimbold presumes to disagree with a man like Freke, it's because he is sure of his ground." "Then—if your theory is sound—Freke made a mistake." "Yes. A very slight one. He was guarding, with unnecessary caution, against starting a train of thought in the mind of anybody—say, the workhouse doctor. Up till then he'd been reckoning on the fact that people don't think a second time about anything (a body, say) that's once been accounted for." "What made him lose his head?" "A chain of unforeseen accidents. Levy's having been recognised—my mother's son having foolishly advertised in the _Times_ his connection with the Battersea end of the mystery—Detective Parker (whose photograph has been a little prominent in the illustrated press lately) seen sitting next door to the Duchess of Denver at the inquest. His aim in life was to prevent the two ends of the problem from linking up. And there were two of the links, literally side by side. Many criminals are wrecked by over-caution." Parker was silent. # CHAPTER XI "A regular pea-souper, by Jove," said Lord Peter. Parker grunted, and struggled irritably into an overcoat. "It affords me, if I may say so, the greatest satisfaction," continued the noble lord, "that in a collaboration like ours all the uninteresting and disagreeable routine work is done by you." Parker grunted again. "Do you anticipate any difficulty about the warrant?" inquired Lord Peter. Parker grunted a third time. "I suppose you've seen to it that all this business is kept quiet?" "Of course." "You've muzzled the workhouse people?" "Of course." "And the police?" "Yes." "Because, if you haven't there'll probably be nobody to arrest." "My dear Wimsey, do you think I'm a fool?" "I had no such hope." Parker grunted finally and departed. Lord Peter settled down to a perusal of his Dante. It afforded him no solace. Lord Peter was hampered in his career as a private detective by a public-school education. Despite Parker's admonitions, he was not always able to discount it. His mind had been warped in its young growth by "Raffles" and "Sherlock Holmes," or the sentiments for which they stand. He belonged to a family which had never shot a fox. "I am an amateur," said Lord Peter. Nevertheless, while communing with Dante, he made up his mind. * * * * * In the afternoon he found himself in Harley Street. Sir Julian Freke might be consulted about one's nerves from two till four on Tuesdays and Fridays. Lord Peter rang the bell. "Have you an appointment, sir?" inquired the man who opened the door. "No," said Lord Peter, "but will you give Sir Julian my card? I think it possible he may see me without one." He sat down in the beautiful room in which Sir Julian's patients awaited his healing counsel. It was full of people. Two or three fashionably dressed women were discussing shops and servants together, and teasing a toy griffon. A big, worried-looking man by himself in a corner looked at his watch twenty times a minute. Lord Peter knew him by sight. It was Wintrington, a millionaire, who had tried to kill himself a few months ago. He controlled the finances of five countries, but he could not control his nerves. The finances of five countries were in Sir Julian Freke's capable hands. By the fireplace sat a soldierly-looking young man, of about Lord Peter's own age. His face was prematurely lined and worn; he sat bolt upright, his restless eyes darting in the direction of every slightest sound. On the sofa was an elderly woman of modest appearance, with a young girl. The girl seemed listless and wretched; the woman's look showed deep affection, and anxiety tempered with a timid hope. Close beside Lord Peter was another younger woman, with a little girl, and Lord Peter noticed in both of them the broad cheekbones and beautiful grey, slanting eyes of the Slav. The child, moving restlessly about, trod on Lord Peter's patent-leather toe, and the mother admonished her in French before turning to apologize to Lord Peter. "Mais je vous en prie, madame," said the young man, "it is nothing." "She is nervous, pauvre petite," said the young woman. "You are seeking advice for her?" "Yes. He is wonderful, the doctor. Figure to yourself, monsieur, she cannot forget, poor child, the things she has seen." She leaned nearer, so that the child might not hear. "We have escaped—from starving Russia—six months ago. I dare not tell you—she has such quick ears, and then, the cries, the tremblings, the convulsions—they all begin again. We were skeletons when we arrived—mon Dieu!—but that is better now. See, she is thin, but she is not starved. She would be fatter but for the nerves that keep her from eating. We who are older, we forget—enfin, on apprend à ne pas y penser—but these children! When one is young, monsieur, tout ça impressionne trop." Lord Peter, escaping from the thraldom of British good form, expressed himself in that language in which sympathy is not condemned to mutism. "But she is much better, much better," said the mother, proudly; "the great doctor, he does marvels." "C'est un homme précieux," said Lord Peter. "Ah, monsieur, c'est un saint qui opère des miracles! Nous prions pour lui, Natasha et moi, tous les jours. N'est-ce pas, chérie? And consider, monsieur, that he does it all, ce grand homme, cet homme illustre, for nothing at all. When we come here, we have not even the clothes upon our backs—we are ruined, famished. Et avec ça que nous sommes de bonne famille—mais hélas! monsieur, en Russie, comme vous savez, ça ne vous vaut que des insultes—des atrocités. Enfin! the great Sir Julian sees us, he says—‘Madame, your little girl is very interesting to me. Say no more. I cure her for nothing—pour ses beaux yeux,' a-t-il ajouté en riant. Ah, monsieur, c'est un saint, un véritable saint! and Natasha is much, much better." "Madame, je vous en félicite." "And you, monsieur? You are young, well, strong—you also suffer? It is still the war, perhaps?" "A little remains of shell-shock," said Lord Peter. "Ah, yes. So many good, brave, young men—" "Sir Julian can spare you a few minutes, my lord, if you will come in now," said the servant. Lord Peter bowed to his neighbour, and walked across the waiting-room. As the door of the consulting-room closed behind him, he remembered having once gone, disguised, into the staff-room of a German officer. He experienced the same feeling—the feeling of being caught in a trap, and a mingling of bravado and shame. * * * * * He had seen Sir Julian Freke several times from a distance, but never close. Now, while carefully and quite truthfully detailing the circumstances of his recent nervous attack, he considered the man before him. A man taller than himself, with immense breadth of shoulder, and wonderful hands. A face beautiful, impassioned and inhuman; fanatical, compelling eyes, bright blue amid the ruddy bush of hair and beard. They were not the cool and kindly eyes of the family doctor, they were the brooding eyes of the inspired scientist, and they searched one through. "Well," thought Lord Peter, "I shan't have to be explicit, anyhow." "Yes," said Sir Julian, "yes. You had been working too hard. Puzzling your mind. Yes. More than that, perhaps—troubling your mind, shall we say?" "I found myself faced with a very alarming contingency." "Yes. Unexpectedly, perhaps." "Very unexpected indeed." "Yes. Following on a period of mental and physical strain." "Well—perhaps. Nothing out of the way." "Yes. The unexpected contingency was—personal to yourself?" "It demanded an immediate decision as to my own actions—yes, in that sense it was certainly personal." "Quite so. You would have to assume some responsibility, no doubt." "A very grave responsibility." "Affecting others besides yourself?" "Affecting one other person vitally, and a very great number indirectly." "Yes. The time was night. You were sitting in the dark?" "Not at first. I think I put the light out afterwards." "Quite so—that action would naturally suggest itself to you. Were you warm?" "I think the fire had died down. My man tells me that my teeth were chattering when I went in to him." "Yes. You live in Piccadilly?" "Yes." "Heavy traffic sometimes goes past during the night, I expect." "Oh, frequently." "Just so. Now this decision you refer to—you had taken that decision." "Yes." "Your mind was made up?" "Oh, yes." "You had decided to take the action, whatever it was." "Yes." "Yes. It involved perhaps a period of inaction." "Of comparative inaction—yes." "Of suspense, shall we say?" "Yes—of suspense, certainly." "Possibly of some danger?" "I don't know that that was in my mind at the time." "No—it was a case in which you could not possibly consider yourself." "If you like to put it that way." "Quite so. Yes. You had these attacks frequently in 1918?" "Yes—I was very ill for some months." "Quite. Since then they have recurred less frequently?" "Much less frequently." "Yes—when did the last occur?" "About nine months ago." "Under what circumstances?" "I was being worried by certain family matters. It was a question of deciding about some investments, and I was largely responsible." "Yes. You were interested last year, I think, in some police case?" "Yes—in the recovery of Lord Attenbury's emerald necklace." "That involved some severe mental exercise?" "I suppose so. But I enjoyed it very much." "Yes. Was the exertion of solving the problem attended by any bad results physically?" "None." "No. You were interested, but not distressed." "Exactly." "Yes. You have been engaged in other investigations of the kind?" "Yes. Little ones." "With bad results for your health?" "Not a bit of it. On the contrary. I took up these cases as a sort of distraction. I had a bad knock just after the war, which didn't make matters any better for me, don't you know." "Ah! you are not married?" "No." "No. Will you allow me to make an examination? Just come a little nearer to the light. I want to see your eyes. Whose advice have you had till now?" "Sir James Hodges'." "Ah! yes—he was a sad loss to the medical profession. A really great man—a true scientist. Yes. Thank you. Now I should like to try you with this little invention." "What's it do?" "Well—it tells me about your nervous reactions. Will you sit here?" The examination that followed was purely medical. When it was concluded, Sir Julian said: "Now, Lord Peter, I'll tell you about yourself in quite untechnical language—" "Thanks," said Peter, "that's kind of you. I'm an awful fool about long words." "Yes. Are you fond of private theatricals, Lord Peter?" "Not particularly," said Peter, genuinely surprised. "Awful bore as a rule. Why?" "I thought you might be," said the specialist, drily. "Well, now. You know quite well that the strain you put on your nerves during the war has left its mark on you. It has left what I may call old wounds in your brain. Sensations received by your nerve-endings sent messages to your brain, and produced minute physical changes there—changes we are only beginning to be able to detect, even with our most delicate instruments. These changes in their turn set up sensations; or I should say, more accurately, that sensations are the names we give to these changes of tissue when we perceive them: we call them horror, fear, sense of responsibility and so on." "Yes, I follow you." "Very well. Now, if you stimulate those damaged places in your brain again, you run the risk of opening up the old wounds. I mean, that if you get nerve-sensations of any kind producing the reactions which we call horror, fear, and sense of responsibility, they may go on to make disturbance right along the old channel, and produce in their turn physical changes which you will call by the names you were accustomed to associate with them—dread of German mines, responsibility for the lives of your men, strained attention and the inability to distinguish small sounds through the overpowering noise of guns." "I see." "This effect would be increased by extraneous circumstances producing other familiar physical sensations—night, cold or the rattling of heavy traffic, for instance." "Yes." "Yes. The old wounds are nearly healed, but not quite. The ordinary exercise of your mental faculties has no bad effect. It is only when you excite the injured part of your brain." "Yes, I see." "Yes. You must avoid these occasions. You must learn to be irresponsible, Lord Peter." "My friends say I'm only too irresponsible already." "Very likely. A sensitive nervous temperament often appears so, owing to its mental nimbleness." "Oh!" "Yes. This particular responsibility you were speaking of still rests upon you?" "Yes, it does." "You have not yet completed the course of action on which you have decided?" "Not yet." "You feel bound to carry it through?" "Oh, yes—I can't back out of it now." "No. You are expecting further strain?" "A certain amount." "Do you expect it to last much longer?" "Very little longer now." "Ah! Your nerves are not all they should be." "No?" "No. Nothing to be alarmed about, but you must exercise care while undergoing this strain, and afterwards you should take a complete rest. How about a voyage in the Mediterranean or the South Seas or somewhere?" "Thanks. I'll think about it." "Meanwhile, to carry you over the immediate trouble I will give you something to strengthen your nerves. It will do you no permanent good, you understand, but it will tide you over the bad time. And I will give you a prescription." "Thank you." Sir Julian got up and went into a small surgery leading out of the consulting-room. Lord Peter watched him moving about—boiling something and writing. Presently he returned with a paper and a hypodermic syringe. "Here is the prescription. And now, if you will just roll up your sleeve, I will deal with the necessity of the immediate moment." Lord Peter obediently rolled up his sleeve. Sir Julian Freke selected a portion of his forearm and anointed it with iodine. "What's that you're goin' to stick into me. Bugs?" The surgeon laughed. "Not exactly," he said. He pinched up a portion of flesh between his finger and thumb. "You've had this kind of thing before, I expect." "Oh, yes," said Lord Peter. He watched the cool fingers, fascinated, and the steady approach of the needle. "Yes—I've had it before—and, d'you know—I don't care frightfully about it." He had brought up his right hand, and it closed over the surgeon's wrist like a vice. The silence was like a shock. The blue eyes did not waver; they burned down steadily upon the heavy white lids below them. Then these slowly lifted; the grey eyes met the blue—coldly, steadily—and held them. When lovers embrace, there seems no sound in the world but their own breathing. So the two men breathed face to face. "As you like, of course, Lord Peter," said Sir Julian, courteously. "Afraid I'm rather a silly ass," said Lord Peter, "but I never could abide these little gadgets. I had one once that went wrong and gave me a rotten bad time. They make me a bit nervous." "In that case," replied Sir Julian, "it would certainly be better not to have the injection. It might rouse up just those sensations which we are desirous of avoiding. You will take the prescription, then, and do what you can to lessen the immediate strain as far as possible." "Oh, yes—I'll take it easy, thanks," said Lord Peter. He rolled his sleeve down neatly. "I'm much obliged to you. If I have any further trouble I'll look in again." "Do—do—" said Sir Julian, cheerfully. "Only make an appointment another time. I'm rather rushed these days. I hope your mother is quite well. I saw her the other day at that Battersea inquest. You should have been there. It would have interested you." # CHAPTER XII The vile, raw fog tore your throat and ravaged your eyes. You could not see your feet. You stumbled in your walk over poor men's graves. The feel of Parker's old trench-coat beneath your fingers was comforting. You had felt it in worse places. You clung on now for fear you should get separated. The dim people moving in front of you were like Brocken spectres. "Take care, gentlemen," said a toneless voice out of the yellow darkness, "there's an open grave just hereabouts." You bore away to the right, and floundered in a mass of freshly turned clay. "Hold up, old man," said Parker. "Where is Lady Levy?" "In the mortuary; the Duchess of Denver is with her. Your mother is wonderful, Peter." "Isn't she?" said Lord Peter. A dim blue light carried by somebody ahead wavered and stood still. "Here you are," said a voice. Two Dantesque shapes with pitchforks loomed up. "Have you finished?" asked somebody. "Nearly done, sir." The demons fell to work again with the pitchforks—no, spades. Somebody sneezed. Parker located the sneezer and introduced him. "Mr. Levett represents the Home Secretary. Lord Peter Wimsey. We are sorry to drag you out on such a day, Mr. Levett." "It's all in the day's work," said Mr. Levett, hoarsely. He was muffled to the eyes. The sound of the spades for many minutes. An iron noise of tools thrown down. Demons stooping and straining. A black-bearded spectre at your elbow. Introduced. The Master of the Workhouse. "A very painful matter, Lord Peter. You will forgive me for hoping you and Mr. Parker may be mistaken." "I should like to be able to hope so too." Something heaving, straining, coming up out of the ground. "Steady, men. This way. Can you see? Be careful of the graves—they lie pretty thick hereabouts. Are you ready?" "Right you are, sir. You go on with the lantern. We can follow you." Lumbering footsteps. Catch hold of Parker's trench-coat again. "That you, old man? Oh, I beg your pardon, Mr. Levett—thought you were Parker." "Hullo, Wimsey—here you are." More graves. A headstone shouldered crookedly aslant. A trip and jerk over the edge of the rough grass. The squeal of gravel under your feet. "This way, gentlemen, mind the step." The mortuary. Raw red brick and sizzling gas-jets. Two women in black, and Dr. Grimbold. The coffin laid on the table with a heavy thump. "'Ave you got that there screw-driver, Bill? Thank 'ee. Be keerful wi' the chisel now. Not much substance to these 'ere boards, sir." Several long creaks. A sob. The Duchess's voice, kind but peremptory. "Hush, Christine. You mustn't cry." A mutter of voices. The lurching departure of the Dante demons—good, decent demons in corduroy. Dr. Grimbold's voice—cool and detached as if in the consulting room. "Now—have you got that lamp, Mr. Wingate? Thank you. Yes, here on the table, please. Be careful not to catch your elbow in the flex, Mr. Levett. It would be better, I think, if you came on this side. Yes—yes—thank you. That's excellent." The sudden brilliant circle of an electric lamp over the table. Dr. Grimbold's beard and spectacles. Mr. Levett blowing his nose. Parker bending close. The Master of the Workhouse peering over him. The rest of the room in the enhanced dimness of the gas-jets and the fog. A low murmur of voices. All heads bent over the work. Dr. Grimbold again—beyond the circle of the lamplight. "We don't want to distress you unnecessarily, Lady Levy. If you will just tell us what to look for—the—? Yes, yes, certainly—and—yes—stopped with gold? Yes—the lower jaw, the last but one on the right? Yes—no teeth missing—no—yes? What kind of a mole? Yes—just over the left breast? Oh, I beg your pardon, just under—yes—appendicitis? Yes—a long one—yes—in the middle? Yes, I quite understand—a scar on the arm? Yes, I don't know if we shall be able to find that—yes—any little constitutional weakness that might—? Oh, yes—arthritis—yes—thank you, Lady Levy—that's very clear. Don't come unless I ask you to. Now, Wingate." A pause. A murmur. "Pulled out? After death, you think—well, so do I. Where is Dr. Colegrove? You attended this man in the workhouse? Yes. Do you recollect—? No? You're quite certain about that? Yes—we mustn't make a mistake, you know. Yes, but there are reasons why Sir Julian can't be present; I'm asking _you_, Dr. Colegrove. Well, you're certain—that's all I want to know. Just bring the light closer, Mr. Wingate, if you please. These miserable shells let the damp in so quickly. Ah! what do you make of this? Yes—yes—well, that's rather unmistakable, isn't it? Who did the head? Oh, Freke—of course. I was going to say they did good work at St. Luke's. Beautiful, isn't it, Dr. Colegrove? A wonderful surgeon—I saw him when he was at Guy's. Oh, no, gave it up years ago. Nothing like keeping your hand in. Ah—yes, undoubtedly that's it. Have you a towel handy, sir? Thank you. Over the head, if you please—I think we might have another here. Now, Lady Levy—I am going to ask you to look at a scar, and see if you recognise it. I'm sure you are going to help us by being very firm. Take your time—you won't see anything more than you absolutely must." "Lucy, don't leave me." "No, dear." A space cleared at the table. The lamplight on the Duchess's white hair. "Oh, yes—oh, yes! No, no—I couldn't be mistaken. There's that funny little kink in it. I've seen it hundreds of times. Oh, Lucy—Reuben!" "Only a moment more, Lady Levy. The mole—" "I—I think so—oh, yes, that is the very place." "Yes. And the scar—was it three-cornered, just above the elbow?" "Yes, oh, yes." "Is this it?" "Yes—yes—" "I must ask you definitely, Lady Levy. Do you, from these three marks identify the body as that of your husband?" "Oh! I must, mustn't I? Nobody else could have them just the same in just those places? It is my husband. It is Reuben. Oh—" "Thank you, Lady Levy. You have been very brave and very helpful." "But—I don't understand yet. How did he come here? Who did this dreadful thing?" "Hush, dear," said the Duchess; "the man is going to be punished." "Oh, but—how cruel! Poor Reuben! Who could have wanted to hurt him? Can I see his face?" "No, dear," said the Duchess. "That isn't possible. Come away—you mustn't distress the doctors and people." "No—no—they've all been so kind. Oh, Lucy!" "We'll go home, dear. You don't want us any more, Dr. Grimbold?" "No, Duchess, thank you. We are very grateful to you and to Lady Levy for coming." There was a pause, while the two women went out, Parker, collected and helpful, escorting them to their waiting car. Then Dr. Grimbold again: "I think Lord Peter Wimsey ought to see—the correctness of his deductions—Lord Peter—very painful—you may wish to see—yes, I was uneasy at the inquest—yes—Lady Levy—remarkably clear evidence—yes—most shocking case—ah, here's Mr. Parker—you and Lord Peter Wimsey entirely justified—do I really understand—? Really? I can hardly believe it—so distinguished a man—as you say, when a great brain turns to crime—yes—look here! Marvellous work—marvellous—somewhat obscured by this time, of course—but the most beautiful sections—here, you see, the left hemisphere—and here—through the corpus striatum—here again—the very track of the damage done by the blow—wonderful—guessed it—saw the effect of the blow as he struck it, you know—ah, I should like to see _his_ brain, Mr. Parker—and to think that—heavens, Lord Peter, you don't know what a blow you have struck at the whole profession—the whole civilized world! Oh, my dear sir! Can you ask me? My lips are sealed of course—all our lips are sealed." The way back through the burial ground. Fog again, and the squeal of wet gravel. "Are your men ready, Charles?" "They have gone. I sent them off when I saw Lady Levy to the car." "Who is with them?" "Sugg." "Sugg?" "Yes—poor devil. They've had him up on the mat at headquarters for bungling the case. All that evidence of Thipps's about the night club was corroborated, you know. That girl he gave the gin-and-bitters to was caught, and came and identified him, and they decided their case wasn't good enough, and let Thipps and the Horrocks girl go. Then they told Sugg he had overstepped his duty and ought to have been more careful. So he ought, but he can't help being a fool. I was sorry for him. It may do him some good to be in at the death. After all, Peter, you and I had special advantages." "Yes. Well, it doesn't matter. Whoever goes won't get there in time. Sugg's as good as another." But Sugg—an experience rare in his career—was in time. * * * * * Parker and Lord Peter were at 110 Piccadilly. Lord Peter was playing Bach and Parker was reading Origen when Sugg was announced. "We've got our man, sir," said he. "Good God!" said Peter. "Alive?" "We were just in time, my lord. We rang the bell and marched straight up past his man to the library. He was sitting there doing some writing. When we came in, he made a grab for his hypodermic, but we were too quick for him, my lord. We didn't mean to let him slip through our hands, having got so far. We searched him thoroughly and marched him off." "He is actually in gaol, then?" "Oh, yes—safe enough—with two warders to see he doesn't make away with himself." "You surprise me, Inspector. Have a drink." "Thank you, my lord. I may say that I'm very grateful to you—this case was turning out a pretty bad egg for me. If I was rude to your lordship—" "Oh, it's all right, Inspector," said Lord Peter, hastily. "I don't see how you could possibly have worked it out. I had the good luck to know something about it from other sources." "That's what Freke says." Already the great surgeon was a common criminal in the inspector's eyes—a mere surname. "He was writing a full confession when we got hold of him, addressed to your lordship. The police will have to have it, of course, but seeing it's written for you, I brought it along for you to see first. Here it is." He handed Lord Peter a bulky document. "Thanks," said Peter. "Like to hear it, Charles?" "Rather." Accordingly Lord Peter read it aloud. # CHAPTER XIII Dear Lord Peter—When I was a young man I used to play chess with an old friend of my father's. He was a very bad, and a very slow, player, and he could never see when a checkmate was inevitable, but insisted on playing every move out. I never had any patience with that kind of attitude, and I will freely admit now that the game is yours. I must either stay at home and be hanged or escape abroad and live in an idle and insecure obscurity. I prefer to acknowledge defeat. If you have read my book on "Criminal Lunacy," you will remember that I wrote: "In the majority of cases, the criminal betrays himself by some abnormality attendant upon this pathological condition of the nervous tissues. His mental instability shows itself in various forms: an overweening vanity, leading him to brag of his achievement; a disproportionate sense of the importance of the offence, resulting from the hallucination of religion, and driving him to confession; egomania, producing the sense of horror or conviction of sin, and driving him to headlong flight without covering his tracks; a reckless confidence, resulting in the neglect of the most ordinary precautions, as in the case of Henry Wainwright, who left a boy in charge of the murdered woman's remains while he went to call a cab, or on the other hand, a nervous distrust of apperceptions in the past, causing him to revisit the scene of the crime to assure himself that all traces have been as safely removed as _his own judgment knows them to be_. I will not hesitate to assert that a perfectly sane man, not intimidated by religious or other delusions, could always render himself perfectly secure from detection, provided, that is, that the crime were sufficiently premeditated and that he were not pressed for time or thrown out in his calculations by purely fortuitous coincidence. You know as well as I do, how far I have made this assertion good in practice. The two accidents which betrayed me, I could not by any possibility have foreseen. The first was the chance recognition of Levy by the girl in the Battersea Park Road, which suggested a connection between the two problems. The second was that Thipps should have arranged to go down to Denver on the Tuesday morning, thus enabling your mother to get word of the matter through to you before the body was removed by the police and to suggest a motive for the murder out of what she knew of my previous personal history. If I had been able to destroy these two accidentally forged links of circumstance, I will venture to say that you would never have so much as suspected me, still less obtained sufficient evidence to convict. Of all human emotions, except perhaps those of hunger and fear, the sexual appetite produces the most violent, and, under some circumstances, the most persistent reactions; I think, however, I am right in saying that at the time when I wrote my book, my original sensual impulse to kill Sir Reuben Levy had already become profoundly modified by my habits of thought. To the animal lust to slay and the primitive human desire for revenge, there was added the rational intention of substantiating my own theories for the satisfaction of myself and the world. If all had turned out as I had planned, I should have deposited a sealed account of my experiment with the Bank of England, instructing my executors to publish it after my death. Now that accident has spoiled the completeness of my demonstration, I entrust the account to you, whom it cannot fail to interest, with the request that you will make it known among scientific men, in justice to my professional reputation. The really essential factors of success in any undertaking are money and opportunity, and as a rule, the man who can make the first can make the second. During my early career, though I was fairly well-off, I had not absolute command of circumstance. Accordingly I devoted myself to my profession, and contented myself with keeping up a friendly connection with Reuben Levy and his family. This enabled me to remain in touch with his fortunes and interests, so that, when the moment for action should arrive, I might know what weapons to use. Meanwhile, I carefully studied criminology in fiction and fact—my work on "Criminal Lunacy" was a side-product of this activity—and saw how, in every murder, the real crux of the problem was the disposal of the body. As a doctor, the means of death were always ready to my hand, and I was not likely to make any error in that connection. Nor was I likely to betray myself on account of any illusory sense of wrong-doing. The sole difficulty would be that of destroying all connection between my personality and that of the corpse. You will remember that Michael Finsbury, in Stevenson's entertaining romance, observes: "What hangs people is the unfortunate circumstance of guilt." It became clear to me that the mere leaving about of a superfluous corpse could convict nobody, provided that nobody was guilty in connection _with that particular corpse_. Thus the idea of substituting the one body for the other was early arrived at, though it was not till I obtained the practical direction of St. Luke's Hospital that I found myself perfectly unfettered in the choice and handling of dead bodies. From this period on, I kept a careful watch on all the material brought in for dissection. My opportunity did not present itself until the week before Sir Reuben's disappearance, when the medical officer at the Chelsea workhouse sent word to me that an unknown vagrant had been injured that morning by the fall of a piece of scaffolding, and was exhibiting some very interesting nervous and cerebral reactions. I went round and saw the case, and was immediately struck by the man's strong superficial resemblance to Sir Reuben. He had been heavily struck on the back of the neck, dislocating the fourth and fifth cervical vertebrae and heavily bruising the spinal cord. It seemed highly unlikely that he could ever recover, either mentally or physically, and in any case there appeared to me to be no object in indefinitely prolonging so unprofitable an existence. He had obviously been able to support life until recently, as he was fairly well nourished, but the state of his feet and clothing showed that he was unemployed, and under present conditions he was likely to remain so. I decided that he would suit my purpose very well, and immediately put in train certain transactions in the City which I had already sketched out in my own mind. In the meantime, the reactions mentioned by the workhouse doctor were interesting, and I made careful studies of them, and arranged for the delivery of the body to the hospital when I should have completed my preparations. On the Thursday and Friday of that week I made private arrangements with various brokers to buy the stock of certain Peruvian Oil-fields, which had gone down almost to waste-paper. This part of my experiment did not cost me very much, but I contrived to arouse considerable curiosity, and even a mild excitement. At this point I was of course careful not to let my name appear. The incidence of Saturday and Sunday gave me some anxiety lest my man should after all die before I was ready for him, but by the use of saline injections I contrived to keep him alive and, late on Sunday night, he even manifested disquieting symptoms of at any rate a partial recovery. On Monday morning the market in Peruvians opened briskly. Rumours had evidently got about that somebody knew something, and this day I was not the only buyer in the market. I bought a couple of hundred more shares in my own name, and left the matter to take care of itself. At lunch time I made my arrangements to run into Levy accidentally at the corner of the Mansion House. He expressed (as I expected) his surprise at seeing me in that part of London. I simulated some embarrassment and suggested that we should lunch together. I dragged him to a place a bit off the usual beat, and there ordered a good wine and drank of it as much as he might suppose sufficient to induce a confidential mood. I asked him how things were going on 'Change. He said, "Oh, all right," but appeared a little doubtful, and asked me whether I did anything in that way. I said I had a little flutter occasionally, and that, as a matter of fact, I'd been put on to rather a good thing. I glanced round apprehensively at this point, and shifted my chair nearer to his. "I suppose you don't know anything about Peruvian Oil, do you?" he said. I started and looked round again, and leaning across to him, said, dropping my voice: "Well, I do, as a matter of fact, but I don't want it to get about. I stand to make a good bit on it." "But I thought the thing was hollow," he said; "it hasn't paid a dividend for umpteen years." "No," I said, "it hasn't, but it's going to. I've got inside information." He looked a bit unconvinced, and I emptied off my glass, and edged right up to his ear. "Look here," I said, "I'm not giving this away to everyone, but I don't mind doing you and Christine a good turn. You know, I've always kept a soft place in my heart for her, ever since the old days. You got in ahead of me that time, and now it's up to me to heap coals of fire on you both." I was a little excited by this time, and he thought I was drunk. "It's very kind of you, old man," he said, "but I'm a cautious bird, you know, always was. I'd like a bit of proof." And he shrugged up his shoulders and looked like a pawnbroker. "I'll give it to you," I said, "but it isn't safe here. Come round to my place tonight after dinner, and I'll show you the report." "How d'you get hold of it?" said he. "I'll tell you tonight," said I. "Come round after dinner—any time after nine, say." "To Harley Street?" he asked, and I saw that he meant coming. "No," I said, "to Battersea—Prince of Wales Road; I've got some work to do at the hospital. And look here," I said, "don't you let on to a soul that you're coming. I bought a couple of hundred shares today, in my own name, and people are sure to get wind of it. If we're known to be about together, someone'll twig something. In fact, it's anything but safe talking about it in this place." "All right," he said, "I won't say a word to anybody. I'll turn up about nine o'clock. You're sure it's a sound thing?" "It can't go wrong," I assured him. And I meant it. We parted after that, and I went round to the workhouse. My man had died at about eleven o'clock. I had seen him just after breakfast, and was not surprised. I completed the usual formalities with the workhouse authorities, and arranged for his delivery at the hospital at about seven o'clock. In the afternoon, as it was not one of my days to be in Harley Street, I looked up an old friend who lives close to Hyde Park, and found that he was just off to Brighton on some business or other. I had tea with him, and saw him off by the 5.35 from Victoria. On issuing from the barrier it occurred to me to purchase an evening paper, and I thoughtlessly turned my steps to the bookstall. The usual crowds were rushing to catch suburban trains home, and on moving away I found myself involved in a contrary stream of travellers coming up out of the Underground, or bolting from all sides for the 5.45 to Battersea Park and Wandsworth Common. I disengaged myself after some buffeting and went home in a taxi; and it was not till I was safely seated there that I discovered somebody's gold-rimmed pince-nez involved in the astrakhan collar of my overcoat. The time from 6.15 to seven I spent concocting something to look like a bogus report for Sir Reuben. At seven I went through to the hospital, and found the workhouse van just delivering my subject at the side door. I had him taken straight up to the theatre, and told the attendant, William Watts, that I intended to work there that night. I told him I would prepare the body myself—the injection of a preservative would have been a most regrettable complication. I sent him about his business, and then went home and had dinner. I told my man that I should be working in the hospital that evening, and that he could go to bed at 10.30 as usual, as I could not tell whether I should be late or not. He is used to my erratic ways. I only keep two servants in the Battersea house—the man-servant and his wife, who cooks for me. The rougher domestic work is done by a charwoman, who sleeps out. The servants' bedroom is at the top of the house, overlooking Prince of Wales Road. As soon as I had dined I established myself in the hall with some papers. My man had cleared dinner by a quarter past eight, and I told him to give me the syphon and tantalus; and sent him downstairs. Levy rang the bell at twenty minutes past nine, and I opened the door to him myself. My man appeared at the other end of the hall, but I called to him that it was all right, and he went away. Levy wore an overcoat with evening dress and carried an umbrella. "Why, how wet you are!" I said. "How did you come?" "By 'bus," he said, "and the fool of a conductor forgot to put me down at the end of the road. It's pouring cats and dogs and pitch-dark—I couldn't see where I was." I was glad he hadn't taken a taxi, but I had rather reckoned on his not doing so. "Your little economies will be the death of you one of these days," I said. I was right there, but I hadn't reckoned on their being the death of me as well. I say again, I could not have foreseen it. I sat him down by the fire, and gave him a whisky. He was in high spirits about some deal in Argentines he was bringing off the next day. We talked money for about a quarter of an hour and then he said: "Well, how about this Peruvian mare's-nest of yours?" "It's no mare's-nest," I said; "come and have a look at it." I took him upstairs into the library, and switched on the centre light and the reading lamp on the writing table. I gave him a chair at the table with his back to the fire, and fetched the papers I had been faking, out of the safe. He took them, and began to read them, poking over them in his short-sighted way, while I mended the fire. As soon as I saw his head in a favourable position I struck him heavily with the poker, just over the fourth cervical. It was delicate work calculating the exact force necessary to kill him without breaking the skin, but my professional experience was useful to me. He gave one loud gasp, and tumbled forward on to the table quite noiselessly. I put the poker back, and examined him. His neck was broken, and he was quite dead. I carried him into my bedroom and undressed him. It was about ten minutes to ten when I had finished. I put him away under my bed, which had been turned down for the night, and cleared up the papers in the library. Then I went downstairs, took Levy's umbrella, and let myself out at the hall door, shouting "Good-night" loudly enough to be heard in the basement if the servants should be listening. I walked briskly away down the street, went in by the hospital side door, and returned to the house noiselessly by way of the private passage. It would have been awkward if anybody had seen me then, but I leaned over the back stairs and heard the cook and her husband still talking in the kitchen. I slipped back into the hall, replaced the umbrella in the stand, cleared up my papers there, went up into the library and rang the bell. When the man appeared I told him to lock up everything except the private door to the hospital. I waited in the library until he had done so, and about 10.30 I heard both servants go up to bed. I waited a quarter of an hour longer and then went through to the dissecting-room. I wheeled one of the stretcher tables through the passage to the house door, and then went to fetch Levy. It was a nuisance having to get him downstairs, but I had not liked to make away with him in any of the ground-floor rooms, in case my servant should take a fancy to poke his head in during the few minutes that I was out of the house, or while locking up. Besides, that was a flea-bite to what I should have to do later. I put Levy on the table, wheeled him across to the hospital and substituted him for my interesting pauper. I was sorry to have to abandon the idea of getting a look at the latter's brain, but I could not afford to incur suspicion. It was still rather early, so I knocked down a few minutes getting Levy ready for dissection. Then I put my pauper on the table and trundled him over to the house. It was now five past eleven, and I thought I might conclude that the servants were in bed. I carried the body into my bedroom. He was rather heavy, but less so than Levy, and my Alpine experience had taught me how to handle bodies. It is as much a matter of knack as of strength, and I am, in any case, a powerful man for my height. I put the body into the bed—not that I expected anyone to look in during my absence, but if they should they might just as well see me apparently asleep in bed. I drew the clothes a little over his head, stripped, and put on Levy's clothes, which were fortunately a little big for me everywhere, not forgetting to take his spectacles, watch and other oddments. At a little before half-past eleven I was in the road looking for a cab. People were just beginning to come home from the theatre, and I easily secured one at the corner of Prince of Wales Road. I told the man to drive me to Hyde Park Corner. There I got out, tipped him well, and asked him to pick me up again at the same place in an hour's time. He assented with an understanding grin, and I walked on up Park Lane. I had my own clothes with me in a suitcase, and carried my own overcoat and Levy's umbrella. When I got to No. 9A there were lights in some of the top windows. I was very nearly too early, owing to the old man's having sent the servants to the theatre. I waited about for a few minutes, and heard it strike the quarter past midnight. The lights were extinguished shortly after, and I let myself in with Levy's key. It had been my original intention, when I thought over this plan of murder, to let Levy disappear from the study or the dining-room, leaving only a heap of clothes on the hearth-rug. The accident of my having been able to secure Lady Levy's absence from London, however, made possible a solution more misleading, though less pleasantly fantastic. I turned on the hall light, hung up Levy's wet overcoat and placed his umbrella in the stand. I walked up noisily and heavily to the bedroom and turned off the light by the duplicate switch on the landing. I knew the house well enough, of course. There was no chance of my running into the man-servant. Old Levy was a simple old man, who liked doing things for himself. He gave his valet little work, and never required any attendance at night. In the bedroom I took off Levy's gloves and put on a surgical pair, so as to leave no tell-tale finger-prints. As I wished to convey the impression that Levy had gone to bed in the usual way, I simply went to bed. The surest and simplest method of making a thing appear to have been done is to do it. A bed that has been rumpled about with one's hands, for instance, never looks like a bed that has been slept in. I dared not use Levy's brush, of course, as my hair is not of his colour, but I did everything else. I supposed that a thoughtful old man like Levy would put his boots handy for his valet, and I ought to have deduced that he would fold up his clothes. That was a mistake, but not an important one. Remembering that well-thought-out little work of Mr. Bentley's, I had examined Levy's mouth for false teeth, but he had none. I did not forget, however, to wet his tooth-brush. At one o'clock I got up and dressed in my own clothes by the light of my own pocket torch. I dared not turn on the bedroom lights, as there were light blinds to the windows. I put on my own boots and an old pair of goloshes outside the door. There was a thick Turkey carpet on the stairs and hall-floor, and I was not afraid of leaving marks. I hesitated whether to chance the banging of the front door, but decided it would be safer to take the latchkey. (It is now in the Thames. I dropped it over Battersea Bridge the next day.) I slipped quietly down, and listened for a few minutes with my ear to the letter-box. I heard a constable tramp past. As soon as his steps had died away in the distance I stepped out and pulled the door gingerly to. It closed almost soundlessly, and I walked away to pick up my cab. I had an overcoat of much the same pattern as Levy's, and had taken the precaution to pack an opera hat in my suitcase. I hoped the man would not notice that I had no umbrella this time. Fortunately the rain had diminished for the moment to a sort of drizzle, and if he noticed anything he made no observation. I told him to stop at 50 Overstrand Mansions, and I paid him off there, and stood under the porch till he had driven away. Then I hurried round to my own side door and let myself in. It was about a quarter to two, and the harder part of my task still lay before me. My first step was so to alter the appearance of my subject as to eliminate any immediate suggestion either of Levy or of the workhouse vagrant. A fairly superficial alteration was all I considered necessary, since there was not likely to be any hue-and-cry after the pauper. He was fairly accounted for, and his deputy was at hand to represent him. Nor, if Levy was after all traced to my house, would it be difficult to show that the body in evidence was, as a matter of fact, not his. A clean shave and a little hair-oiling and manicuring seemed sufficient to suggest a distinct personality for my silent accomplice. His hands had been well washed in hospital, and though calloused, were not grimy. I was not able to do the work as thoroughly as I should have liked, because time was getting on. I was not sure how long it would take me to dispose of him, and moreover, I feared the onset of _rigor mortis_, which would make my task more difficult. When I had him barbered to my satisfaction, I fetched a strong sheet and a couple of wide roller bandages, and fastened him up carefully, padding him with cotton wool wherever the bandages might chafe or leave a bruise. Now came the really ticklish part of the business. I had already decided in my own mind that the only way of conveying him from the house was by the roof. To go through the garden at the back in this soft wet weather was to leave a ruinous trail behind us. To carry a dead man down a suburban street in the middle of the night seemed outside the range of practical politics. On the roof, on the other hand, the rain, which would have betrayed me on the ground, would stand my friend. To reach the roof, it was necessary to carry my burden to the top of the house, past my servants' room, and hoist him out through the trap-door in the box-room roof. Had it merely been a question of going quietly up there myself, I should have had no fear of waking the servants, but to do so burdened by a heavy body was more difficult. It would be possible, provided that the man and his wife were soundly asleep, but if not, the lumbering tread on the narrow stair and the noise of opening the trap-door would be only too plainly audible. I tiptoed delicately up the stair and listened at their door. To my disgust I heard the man give a grunt and mutter something as he moved in his bed. I looked at my watch. My preparations had taken nearly an hour, first and last, and I dared not be too late on the roof. I determined to take a bold step and, as it were, bluff out an alibi. I went without precaution against noise into the bathroom, turned on the hot and cold water taps to the full and pulled out the plug. My household has often had occasion to complain of my habit of using the bath at irregular night hours. Not only does the rush of water into the cistern disturb any sleepers on the Prince of Wales Road side of the house, but my cistern is afflicted with peculiarly loud gurglings and thumpings, while frequently the pipes emit a loud groaning sound. To my delight, on this particular occasion, the cistern was in excellent form, honking, whistling and booming like a railway terminus. I gave the noise five minutes' start, and when I calculated that the sleepers would have finished cursing me and put their heads under the clothes to shut out the din, I reduced the flow of water to a small stream and left the bathroom, taking good care to leave the light burning and lock the door after me. Then I picked up my pauper and carried him upstairs as lightly as possible. The box-room is a small attic on the side of the landing opposite to the servants' bedroom and the cistern-room. It has a trap-door, reached by a short, wooden ladder. I set this up, hoisted up my pauper and climbed up after him. The water was still racing into the cistern, which was making a noise as though it were trying to digest an iron chain, and with the reduced flow in the bathroom the groaning of the pipes had risen almost to a hoot. I was not afraid of anybody hearing other noises. I pulled the ladder through on to the roof after me. Between my house and the last house in Queen Caroline Mansions there is a space of only a few feet. Indeed, when the Mansions were put up, I believe there was some trouble about ancient lights, but I suppose the parties compromised somehow. Anyhow, my seven-foot ladder reached well across. I tied the body firmly to the ladder, and pushed it over till the far end was resting on the parapet of the opposite house. Then I took a short run across the cistern-room and the box-room roof, and landed easily on the other side, the parapet being happily both low and narrow. The rest was simple. I carried my pauper along the flat roofs, intending to leave him, like the hunchback in the story, on someone's staircase or down a chimney. I had got about half-way along when I suddenly thought, "Why, this must be about little Thipps's place," and I remembered his silly face, and his silly chatter about vivisection. It occurred to me pleasantly how delightful it would be to deposit my parcel with him and see what he made of it. I lay down and peered over the parapet at the back. It was pitch-dark and pouring with rain again by this time, and I risked using my torch. That was the only incautious thing I did, and the odds against being seen from the houses opposite were long enough. One second's flash showed me what I had hardly dared to hope—an open window just below me. I knew those flats well enough to be sure it was either the bathroom or the kitchen. I made a noose in a third bandage that I had brought with me, and made it fast under the arms of the corpse. I twisted it into a double rope, and secured the end to the iron stanchion of a chimney-stack. Then I dangled our friend over. I went down after him myself with the aid of a drain-pipe and was soon hauling him in by Thipps's bathroom window. By that time I had got a little conceited with myself, and spared a few minutes to lay him out prettily and make him shipshape. A sudden inspiration suggested that I should give him the pair of pince-nez which I had happened to pick up at Victoria. I came across them in my pocket while I was looking for a penknife to loosen a knot, and I saw what distinction they would lend his appearance, besides making it more misleading. I fixed them on him, effaced all traces of my presence as far as possible, and departed as I had come, going easily up between the drain-pipe and the rope. I walked quietly back, re-crossed my crevasse and carried in my ladder and sheet. My discreet accomplice greeted me with a reassuring gurgle and thump. I didn't make a sound on the stairs. Seeing that I had now been having a bath for about three-quarters of an hour, I turned the water off, and enabled my deserving domestics to get a little sleep. I also felt it was time I had a little myself. First, however, I had to go over to the hospital and make all safe there. I took off Levy's head, and started to open up the face. In twenty minutes his own wife could not have recognised him. I returned, leaving my wet goloshes and mackintosh by the garden door. My trousers I dried by the gas stove in my bedroom, and brushed away all traces of mud and brickdust. My pauper's beard I burned in the library. I got a good two hours' sleep from five to seven, when my man called me as usual. I apologized for having kept the water running so long and so late, and added that I thought I would have the cistern seen to. I was interested to note that I was rather extra hungry at breakfast, showing that my night's work had caused a certain wear-and-tear of tissue. I went over afterwards to continue my dissection. During the morning a peculiarly thick-headed police inspector came to inquire whether a body had escaped from the hospital. I had him brought to me where I was, and had the pleasure of showing him the work I was doing on Sir Reuben Levy's head. Afterwards I went round with him to Thipps's and was able to satisfy myself that my pauper looked very convincing. As soon as the Stock Exchange opened I telephoned my various brokers, and by exercising a little care, was able to sell out the greater part of my Peruvian stock on a rising market. Towards the end of the day, however, buyers became rather unsettled as a result of Levy's death, and in the end I did not make more than a few hundreds by the transaction. Trusting I have now made clear to you any point which you may have found obscure, and with congratulations on the good fortune and perspicacity which have enabled you to defeat me, I remain, with kind remembrances to your mother, Yours very truly, JULIAN FREKE _Post-Scriptum_: My will is made, leaving my money to St. Luke's Hospital, and bequeathing my body to the same institution for dissection. I feel sure that my brain will be of interest to the scientific world. As I shall die by my own hand, I imagine that there may be a little difficulty about this. Will you do me the favour, if you can, of seeing the persons concerned in the inquest, and obtaining that the brain is not damaged by an unskilful practitioner at the post-mortem, and that the body is disposed of according to my wish? By the way, it may be of interest to you to know that I appreciated your motive in calling this afternoon. It conveyed a warning, and I am acting upon it in spite of the disastrous consequences to myself. I was pleased to realize that you had not underestimated my nerve and intelligence, and refused the injection. Had you submitted to it, you would, of course, never have reached home alive. No trace would have been left in your body of the injection, which consisted of a harmless preparation of strychnine, mixed with an almost unknown poison, for which there is at present no recognised test, a concentrated solution of sn— * * * * * At this point the manuscript broke off. "Well, that's all clear enough," said Parker. "Isn't it queer?" said Lord Peter. "All that coolness, all those brains—and then he couldn't resist writing a confession to show how clever he was, even to keep his head out of the noose." "And a very good thing for us," said Inspector Sugg, "but Lord bless you, sir, these criminals are all alike." "Freke's epitaph," said Parker, when the Inspector had departed. "What next, Peter?" "I shall now give a dinner party," said Lord Peter, "to Mr. John P. Milligan and his secretary and to Messrs. Crimplesham and Wicks. I feel they deserve it for not having murdered Levy." "Well, don't forget the Thippses," said Mr. Parker. "On no account," said Lord Peter, "would I deprive myself of the pleasure of Mrs. Thipps's company. Bunter!" "My lord?" "The Napoleon brandy." FOOTNOTES [A] This is the first Florence edition, 1481, by Niccolo di Lorenzo. Lord Peter's collection of printed Dantes is worth inspection. It includes, besides the famous Aldine 8vo. of 1502, the Naples folio of 1477—"edizione rarissima," according to Colomb. This copy has no history, and Mr. Parker's private belief is that its present owner conveyed it away by stealth from somewhere or other. Lord Peter's own account is that he "picked it up in a little place in the hills," when making a walking-tour through Italy. [B] Lord Peter's wits were wool-gathering. The book is in the possession of Earl Spencer. The Brocklebury copy is incomplete, the last five signatures being altogether missing, but is unique in possessing the colophon. [C] Apollonios Rhodios. Lorenzobodi Alopa. Firenze. 1496. (4to.) The excitement attendant on the solution of the Battersea Mystery did not prevent Lord Peter from securing this rare work before his departure for Corsica. [D] Lord Peter was not without authority for his opinion: "With respect to the alleged motive, it is of great importance to see whether there was a motive for committing such a crime, or whether there was not, or whether there is an improbability of its having been committed so strong as not to be overpowered by positive evidence. But _if there be any motive which can be assigned, I am bound to tell you that the inadequacy of that motive is of little importance_. We know, from the experience of criminal courts, that atrocious crimes of this sort have been committed from very slight motives; _not merely from malice and revenge_, but to gain a small pecuniary advantage, and to drive off for a time pressing difficulties."—L. C. J. Campbell, summing up in Reg. v. Palmer, Shorthand Report, p. 308 C. C. C., May, 1856, Sess. Pa. 5. (Italics mine. D. L. S.) THE END
235	--- title: Winner Take All author: Robert E. Howard tags: Fiction, Short Story word count: 5734 ... # Winner Take All ME AND BILL O'Brien was flat broke when we come out of Jerry Rourke's American Bar. Yes, sir—half a hour ashore, and cleaned along by of a land shark with a pair of educated dice. Not having the coin to pay his fine in case my white bulldog Mike followed his usual custom of tearing off some cop's pants leg, I left him with Jerry till I could raise some dough. Well, me and Bill sallied forth into the night looking for anything that might mean money, experience having told us that you can find mighty near anything in the wharf-side streets of Singapore. Well, what we did find was the last thing we'd of expected. We was passing a dark alley in the native quarters when we heard a woman screaming: "Help! Help! Help!" We dashed into the alley immediately, and in the faint light we seen a girl struggling with a big Chinee. I seen the flash of a knife and I yelled and dived for him, but he dropped the frail and scooted down the alley like a scared rabbit, ducking the cobble-stone Bill heaved after him. "Are you hurt, Miss?" I asked with my usual courtesy, lifting her to her feet. "No, but I'm scared stiff," she answered. "That was a close call—let's get out of here before the big Chinee comes back with a mob." So we legged it out into the street. Under the light of the street lamps we saw she was a white girl—American by her accent, and not hard to look at either, with her big grey eyes and wavy black hair. "Where at shall we take you to, Miss?" asked Bill. "I dance at the Bristol Cabaret," said she. "But let's go into the saloon—the bar-keep's a friend of mine and I want to buy you men a drink. It's the least I can do, for saving my life." "Don't mention it, Miss," said I with a courtly bow. "We was glad to be of service. Howthesomever, if it will give you any pleasure to buy us a drink, we would not think of refusin'." "More especially as we have just lost all our jack in a crap game, and are slowly but surely perishin' of thirst," said Bill, who ain't got my natural tact. So we went in and got a back room to ourselves, and while we was downing our liquor—me and Bill, that is, because the girl said she never even tasted the stuff—she cupped her chin in her hands and rested her elbows on the table and gazing deep in my eyes, she sighed deeply. "If I had a big strong man like you to protect me," she said in open admiration, "I wouldn't have to work in joints like the Bristol, and be abused by such swipes as tried to slit my gullet tonight." I involuntarily expanded my enormous chest and said: "Well, lady, as long as Steve Costigan, A.B. mariner, can stand on his feet and hit with either maulie, you got no call to be afraid of anybody. The best thing, next to fightin', that me and Bill O'Brien here do is aid ladies in distress." She shook her head wistfully. "You've been very kind to me, but you sailors are all alike—a girl in every port. But—I haven't even introduced myself—my name is Joan Wells, and I'm from Philadelphia." "We're mighty glad to meet somebody from the States," said Bill. "But why was that slant-eye tryin' to knife you?" "I—I really shouldn't tell," said she, looking kind of frightened. "We ain't tryin' to intrude in your private affairs none," I hastened to add. "I couldn't keep a secret from a man like you," said she with a languishing glance that made my heart skip a beat, "so I'll tell you. Take a look out the door to see that nobody's listening at the key-hole." Nobody wasn't, so she went on. "Did you ever hear of the No Sen Tong?" We shook our heads. We knowed in a general way about the big tongs, or merchant houses, which just about controls the Orient, but we hadn't had no experience with them. "Well," said she, "it's the richest, most secret tong in the world. When I first came here I worked as private secretary for old To Ying, who's one of its highest secret officials. He fired me because I wouldn't let him get fresh with me—the old slant-eyed snake—and I went to work at the Bristol. But once you've been on the inside of an organization like that, you have ways of knowing things that other people don't." Her eyes sparkled and her fists clenched as she got all excited. "I'm in on the biggest coup of the century!" she exclaimed. "If I live, I'll be a rich woman! Did you ever hear of the Korean Copper Company? No? Well, it's about to go bankrupt. They've never paid a single dividend. Stock's selling at a dollar a share, with no buyers. But, listen! They've hit the biggest copper mine that the world has ever seen! The No Sens are quietly buying up all the stock they can get—at a dollar a share! As soon as I found this out I ran down to the broker's and bought a hundred shares. It took every cent I had. But one of the No Sen spies saw me, and that's why old To Ying tried to have me bumped off. He's afraid I'll squeal. "Think what a riot there'll be on the stock market tomorrow when the word gets in! Tonight Korean Copper's selling for a dollar! Tomorrow it'll be worth a thousand dollars a share!" "Hold everything!" I said, kind of dizzy. "You mean you shoot a buck and get a thousand on the spin of the wheel?" "I sure do—say, why don't you men buy some stock? It's the chance of a lifetime! Most of it has been bought up by the No Sens, but I know where I can get you a few hundred shares." Bill laughed bitterly. "Sister, it might as well be sellin' for a thousand per right now as far as we're concerned. We ain't got a dime! And my watch is in a pawn-shop in Hong Kong." "I'd gladly lend you some money," said she, "but I spent all mine on stock—" "Wait a minute," said I, getting on my feet, "I got a idee. Miss Wells—Joan, is it safe for you to be left alone for a few hours?" "Sure; the bar-keep goes off duty in a few minutes, and he can see me home." "All right. I think we can raise some dough. Where can we see you, in say about three hours?" "Come to the Alley of the Seven Mandarins," said she, "and knock on the door with the green dragon carved on it. I'm going to hide there till the No Sens quit looking for me. I'll be waiting for you," said she, giving my rugged hand a timid, shy little squeeze that made my big, honest heart flutter like a boy's. ~ THEN ME AND Bill was out in the foggy dim lighted streets and making tracks. I led the way through narrow streets and garbage-strewn back alleys till we was in the toughest section of Singapore's waterfront. It's dangerous in the daytime; it's pure Hades at night. Right on the wharfs we come to a big ramshackle building, which a struggling sign announced as Heinie Steinman's Grand International Fight Arena. This dump was all lighted up, and was shaking with the ferocious roars which went up inside. "Hello, Steve; hello, Bill," said the fellow at the door, a dip who knowed us well. "How "bout a couple good ringside seats?" "Gangway," said I. "We ain't got no money—but I'm fightin' here tonight." "G'wan," said he, "you ain't even matched with nobody—" "One side!" I roared, drawing back my famous right. "I'm fightin' somebody here tonight, get me?" "Well, go in and fight somebody that's paid to git mutilated!" he squawked, turning slightly pale and climbing up on the ticket counter, so me and Bill stalked haughtily within. If you want to study humanity in its crudest and most uncivilized form, take in one of Heinie Steinman's fight shows. The usual crowd was there—sailors, longshoremen, beach-combers, thugs and crooks; men of every breed and color and description, from the toughest ships and the worst ports in the world. Undoubtedly, the men which fights at the International performs to the toughest crowds in the world. The fighters is mostly sailors trying to pick up a few dollars by massacring each other. Well, as me and Bill entered, the fans was voicing their disapproval in a tone that would of curled the hair of a head-hunter. The main event had just driven the patrons into a frenzy by going to the limit, and they was howling like a pack of wolves because they'd been no knockout. The crowd that comes to Heinie's Arena don't make no talk about being wishful to see a exhibition of boxing. What they want is gore and busted noses, and if somebody don't get just about killed they think they have been gypped, and wreck the joint. Just as me and Bill come in, the principals scurried out of the ring followed by a offering of chair bottoms, bricks and dead cats, and Heinie, who'd been acting as referee, tried to calm the mob—which only irritated them more and somebody hit Heinie square between the eyes with a rotten tomato. The maddened crowd was fast reaching a point where they was liable to do anything, when me and Bill climbed into the ring. They knowed us, and they kind of quieted down a minute and then started yelling fiercer than ever. "For my sake, Steve," said Heinie, kind of pale, wiping the vegetable out of his eyes, "say somethin' to "em before they start a riot. Them two hams that just faded away only cake-walked through the bout and these wolves is ready to lynch everybody concerned, particularly includin' me." "Have you got somebody I can fight?" I asked. "No, I ain't," he said, "But I'll announce—" "I don't see no announcer," I growled, and turning to the crowd I silenced them by the simple process of roaring: "Shut up!" in a voice which drowned them all out. "Listen here, you tin-horn sports!" I bellered. "You've already paid your dough, but do you think you've got your money's worth?" "No!" they thundered in a voice that started Heinie's knees to knocking. "We been robbed! We been rooked! We been gypped! Give us our money back! Wreck the dump! Hang that Dutchman!" "Shut up, you Port Mahon baboons!" I roared. "If you're sports enough to jar loose and make up a purse of twenty-five dollars, I'll fight any man in the house to a finish, winner take all!" At that they lifted the roof. "'At's the stuff!" they whooped. "Shower down gents. We know Steve! He always gives us a run for our money!" Coins and a few bills began to shower on the canvas, and two men jumped up from among the crowd and started for the ring. One was a red-headed Englishman and the other was a lithe black-haired fellow. They met just outside the ropes. "One side, bloke," growled the red-head. "H'I'm fightin' this bloody Yank!" Black-head's right shot out like a battering ram and red-head kissed the floor, and laid still. The mob went into hysterics of joy and the winner hopped over the ropes, followed by three or four of the most villainous looking mugs I ever hope to see. "I weel fight Costigan!" said he, and Heinie give a deep sigh of relief. But Bill swore under his breath. "That's Panther Cortez," said he. "And you know you ain't been trainin' close lately." "Never mind," I growled. "Count the money. Heinie, you keep your hands off that dough till Bill counts it." "Thirty-six dollars and fifty cents," announced Bill, and I turned to the slit-eyed devil which called hisself Panther Cortez, and growled: "You willin' to fight for that much—winner take all, loser gets nothin' but a headache?" He grinned with a flash of white fangs. "Sure!—I fight you just for the fun of knocking you cold!" I turned my back on him with a snarl and, giving Heinie the money to hold, though it was a terrible risk to take, I strode to one of the make-shift dressing rooms, where I was given a pair of dingy trunks, which Heinie pulled off a preliminary boy which had gone on earlier in the evening and was still out. I gave little thought to my opponent, though Bill kept grouching about the fact that I was going to get so little for knocking out such a man as Cortez. "You oughta be gettin' at least a hundred and fifty," Bill grumbled. "This Cortez is a mean puncher, and shifty and dirty. He ain't never been knocked out." "Well," said I, "it ain't never too late to begin. All I want you to do is watch and see that none of his handlers don't sneak around and hit me with a water bottle. Thirty-six shares means thirty-six thousand dollars for us. Tomorrer we'll kick the Old Man in the slats for a token of farewell, and start livin'! No more standin' watch and gettin' sunburnt and froze for somebody else—" "Hey!" yelled Heinie, looking in at the door, "hurry up, will ya? This crowd's goin' clean nuts waitin'. The Panther's already in the ring." ~ AS I CLIMBED through the ropes I was greeted by a roar such as must of resembled them given by the Roman mobs when a favorite gladiator was throwed to the lions. Cortez was seated in his corner, smiling like a big lazy jungle cat, the lids drooping down over his glittering eyes in a way that always irritated me. He was a mixed breed—Spanish, French, Malay and heck knows what else, but all devil. He was the choice fighting man aboard the Water Snake, a British vessel with a shady reputation, and though I'd never fought him, I knowed he was a dangerous man. But, gosh, all he represented to me just then was thirty-six dollars and fifty cents, which in turn represented thirty-six thousand dollars. Heinie waved his arms and said: "Gents, you all know these boys! Both of them has fought here plenty of times before, and—" The crowd rose up and drowned him out: "Yeah, we know "em. Cut the introductions and le's see gore spilt!" "Weights," yelled Heinie to make hisself heard. "Sailor Costigan of the Sea Girl, one hundred ninety pounds! Panther Cortez of the Water Snake, one hundred eighty-five pounds!" "That's a lie!" roared Bill. "He weighs one-ninety if he weighs a ounce!" "Aw, stow yer gab, ye bleedin' mick!" snarled one of the Panther seconds, shoving out his lantern jaw. Bill bent his right on that jaw and the limey went over the ropes on his head. The mob applauded madly; things was going just to their taste! All they needed to make it a perfect evening was for me or Cortez to get our neck broke—preferably both of us. Well, Heinie chased Cortez' handlers out of the ring, and Bill climbed out, and the slaughter was on. Heinie was referee, but he didn't give us no instructions. We'd fought enough there to know what we was supposed to do, and that was to sock and keep on socking till somebody kissed the canvas and stayed there. The gloves we wore was at least a ounce and a half lighter than the regular style, and nothing was a foul at the International as long as both fellows could stand on their feet. The Panther was lithe, rangy, quick; taller than me, but not so heavy. We come together in the middle of the ring, and he hit with cat-like speed. Left to the face, right to the body and left to the jaw. Simultaneous I shot my right to his chin, and he hit the canvas on the seat of his trunks. The crowd howled, but he wasn't hurt much, mainly surprised and mad. His eyes blazed. He took the count of nine, though he could of got up sooner, and bounced up, stopping me in my tracks with a hard left to the mouth. I missed with a looping left, took a right to the ribs and landed hard under the heart. He spat in my face and began working his arms like pistons—left, right, left, right, to the face and body while the crowd went nuts. But that was my game; I grinned savagely and braced my feet, boring in and slugging hard with both hands. A minute of this, and he backed away in a hurry, blood trickling from a cut on his cheek. I was after him and sank a left deep in his midriff that made him clinch and hold on. On the break he nailed me with a straight right to the head, and followed it up with a hard left to the eye, but failed to land his right, and got a wicked right hook to the ribs. I battered away at his body, but he was all elbows, and, irritated, I switched to his head and nearly tore it off with a blazing right hook just at the gong. "That round was yours by a mile," said Bill, between exchanging insults with Cortez' handlers. "But watch out; he's dangerous and dirty—" "I'm goin' to ask Joan to marry me," I said. "I can tell she's fell for me, right off. I dunno why it is, but it seems like they's a fatal fascination about me for women. They can't keep from floppin' for me at first sight—" The gong sounded and I dashed out to collect that $36.50. Well, the Panther had found out that he couldn't trade wallops with me, so he come out boxing. I don't mean he tin-canned and rode his bicycle, like some prominent fighters I could mention. He was one baby that could fight and box at the same time, if you get me. When I say he boxed, I mean he feinted me out of position, kept me off balance, speared me with cutting left jabs, ducked my ferocious returns, tied me up in the clinches, nearly ripped my head off with right uppercuts in close, stayed inside my wings, and generally made a sap outa me. Inside of a minute he had me bleeding at the mouth and nose, and I hadn't landed solid once. The crowd was howling like wolves and Bill was cussing something terrible, but I wasn't worried. I had all night to lick him in, and I knowed I'd connect sooner or later, and I did quicker than I'd thought. It was a smashing right hook under the heart, and it bent Senyor Cortez double. While in this position I clouted him heartily behind the ear and drove him to his knees. He was up without a count, slipped the terrible swing I threw at him, and having clinched and tied me up, scraped his glove laces across my eyes and ground his heel into my instep. He hung on like a regular octopus regardless of my cruel and unusual oaths. Heinie wouldn't pull him loose, and finally we both went to the canvas still clinched in a vise-like embrace. This mishap threw the crowd into a perfect delirium of delight, which was increased by Cortez earnestly chewing my ear while we writhed on the mat. Driven to frenzy I tore loose, arose and closed the Panther's left eye with a terrible right swing the minute he was on his feet. He came back with a slashing left hook to the body, ripped the same hand to my already battered face, and stopped a straight left with his own map. At that moment the gong rang. ~ "I'M GOIN' TO kick Heinie Steinman loose from his britches after the fight!" snarled Bill, shaking with rage as he mopped the blood off my mangled ear. "If that wasn't the dirtiest foul I ever seen—" "I wonder if we couldn't buy a half share with that fifty cents," I meditated. "That'd be five hundred dollars—" I rushed out for the third frame inclined to settle matters quick, but Cortez had other plans. He opened a cut over my eye with a left hook, ripped a right hook to my sore ear and went under my return. He come up with a venomous right under the heart, ducked my left swing and jabbed me three times on the nose without a return. Maddened, I hurtled into him headlong, grabbed him with my left and clubbed him with my right till he tied me up. At close quarters we traded short arm rights and lefts to the body and he was the first to back away, not forgetting to flick me in the eye with his long left as he did so. I was right on top of him and suddenly he lowered his head and butted me square in the mouth, bringing a flow of claret that dyed my chin. He instantly ripped in a right uppercut that loosened a bunch of my teeth and backed me into the ropes with a perfect whirlwind of left and right hooks to the head. With the ropes cutting into my back I rallied, steadied myself and smashed a right under his heart that stopped him in his tracks. A left to the jaw set him back on his heels and rattled his teeth like a castinet, and before I could hit again the gong sounded. "This is lastin' considerably longer than I thought," I said to Bill, who was mopping blood and talking to Heinie with some heat. "My gosh, Bill," said Heinie. "Be reasonable! If I stopped this fight and awarded it to Steve or anybody else on a foul, these thugs wouldst tear this buildin' down and hang me to the rafters. They craves a knockout—" "They're goin' to get one!" I snarled. "Never mind the fouls. Say, Bill, did you ever see such clear, honest eyes as Joan's got? I know women, I wanta tell you, and I never seen a straighter, squarer jane in my life—" At the gong we went into a clinch and pounded each other's midsections till Heinie broke us. Cortez wasn't taking much chances, fighting wary and cautious. He slashed away with his left, but he kept his right high and never let it go unless he was sure of landing. He was using his elbows plenty in the clinches, and butting every chance he got, but Heinie pretended not to see. The crowd didn't care; as long as a man fought, they didn't care how he fought. Bill was making remarks that would of curled the toes of a Hottentot, but nobody seemed to mind. About the middle of the lap, Cortez began making remarks about my ancestors that made me good and mad. My Irish got up, and I went for him like a wild bull, head down and arms hammering. He shot his left and side-stepped, but the left ain't made that can stop me when my temper's up, and I was right on top of him too fast for him to get away. I battered him across the ring, but just as I thought I had him pinned on the ropes he side-stepped and I fell into them myself. This highly amused the crowd, and Cortez hooked three lefts to my head while I was untangling myself, and when I slewed around and swung, he ducked and crashed my jaw with a right hook he brought up from the floor and which had me groggy for the first time that night. Sensing victory, he shot the same hand three times to my head, knocking me back into the ropes where he sank his left to the wrist in my midriff. I was dizzy and slightly sick, but I saw Cortez' snarling face in a sort of red haze and I smashed my right square into the middle of that face. He was off his guard—not expecting a return like that and his head went back like it was hinged. The blood splattered, and the crowd howled with relish. I plunged after him, but he crouched and as I came in he went under my swing and hooked his right hard to my groin. Oh Jerusha! I dropped like my legs had been cut from under me, and writhed and twisted on the canvas like a snake with a broken back. I had to clench my teeth to keep from vomiting and I was sick—nauseated if you get what I mean. I looked up and Heinie, with his face white, was fixing to count over me. "One!" he said. "Two! Three!" "You hog-fat nit-wit!" screamed Bill. "If you count him out I'll blow your brains through the back of your skull!" Heinie shivered like he had a chill; he took a quick look at Bill, then he shot a scared glance at the ravening crowd, and he ducked his head like a tortoise, shut his eyes and kept on counting. "Four! Five! Six!" "Thirty-six thousand dollars!" I groaned, reaching for the ropes. The cold sweat was standing out on my brow as I pulled myself up. "Seven! Eight! Nine!" I was up, feet braced wide, holding the top rope to keep from falling. Cortez came lunging in to finish me, and I knowed if I let go I'd fall again. I hunched my shoulder and blocked his right, but he ripped his left to my chin and crashed his right high on my temple—and then the gong sounded. He socked me again after the gong, before he went to his corner—but a little thing like that don't cause no comment in the International Fight Arena. ~ BILL HELPED ME to my corner, cursing between clenched teeth, but, with my usual recuperative powers, I was already recovering from the effects of that foul blow. Bill emptied a bucket-full of cold water over me, and much to Cortez' disgust I come out for the fifth frame as good as new. He didn't think so at first, but a wicked right-hander under the heart shook him to the toes and made him back pedal in a hurry. I went for him like a whirlwind and, seeming somewhat discouraged, he began his old tactics of hit and run. A sudden thought hit me that maybe all the shares was bought up. This fight looked like it was going on forever; here I was chasing Panther Cortez around the ring and doing no damage, while the No Sens was buying up all the Korean Copper in sight. Every minute a fortune was slipping that much farther away from me, and this rat refused to stand up and be knocked out like a man. I nearly went crazy with fury. "Come on and fight, you yellow skunk!" I raged, while the crowd yelled blood-thirstily, beginning to be irritated at Cortez' tactics, which was beginning to be more run than hit. "Stand up to it, you white-livered, yellow-bellied, Porchugeeze half-caste!" They's always something that'll get under a fellow's hide. This got under Cortez'. Maybe he did have some breed blood in him. Anyway, he went clean crazy. He give a howl like a blood-mad jungle-cat, and in spite of the wild yells from his corner, he tore in with his eyes glaring and froth on his lips. Biff! Bim! Bam! I was caught in a perfect whirlwind of punches; it was like being clawed by a real panther. But, with a savage grin, I slugged it out with him. That's my game! He hit three blows to my one, but mine were the ones that counted. There was the salty tang of blood in my mouth, and blood in my eyes; it reddened Heinie's shirt, and stained the canvas under our feet. It spattered in the faces of the yelling ring-siders at every blow. But my gloves were sinking deep at every sock, and I was satisfied. Toe to toe we slashed and smashed, till the ring swum red and the thunder of our blows could be heard all over the house. But it couldn't last; flesh and blood couldn't stand it. Somebody had to go—and it was Cortez. Flat on his back he hit, and bounced back up without a count. But I was on him like a blood-mad tiger. I took his left and right in the face without hardly feeling them, and smashed my right under his heart and my left to his jaw. He staggered, glassy eyed; a crashing right to the jaw dropped him under the ropes on his face. Maybe he's there yet. Anyhow, up to the count of ten he didn't bat an eyelash. "Gimme that dough!" I snarled, jerking it out of Heinie's reluctant hand. "Hey!" he protested. "What about my cut? Didn't I promote this show? Didn't I stand all the expense? You think you can fight in my ring for nothin'—" "If I had your nerve I'd be King of Siam," I growled, shaking the blood outa my eyes, and at that moment Bill's right met Heinie's jaw like a caulking mallet meeting a ship's hull, and Heinie went to sleep. The crowd filed out, gabbling incoherently. That last touch was all that was needed to make the night a perfect success for them. "Here, give this to Cortez when he wakes up!" I snarled, shoving a five-dollar bill—American money—into the hand of one of the Panther's seconds. "He's dirty, but he's game. And he don't know it, but it's the same as me givin' him five thousand dollars. Come on, Bill." ~ I CHANGED MY clothes in the dressing-room, noting in a cracked mirror that my face looked like I'd fallen afoul a wildcat, and likewise that I had a beautiful black eye or two. We skinned out a side door, but I reckon some thugs in the crowd had seen us get the money—and they's plenty of men in the Singapore waterfront who'd cut your throat for a dime. The second I stepped out into the dark alley-way something crashed against my head, and I went to my knees seeing about a million stars. I come up again and felt a knife-edge lick along my arm. I hit out blind and landed by sheer luck. My right lifted my unseen attacker clean off his feet and dropped him like a sack on the ground. Meanwhile Bill had grappled with two more and I heard the crack as he knocked their heads together. "You hurt, Steve?" he asked, feeling for me, because it was that dark you couldn't see your hand before you. "Scratched a little," I said, my head still ringing from the blackjack sock. "Let's get outa here. Looks like we got to lick everybody in Singapore before we get that stock." We got out of the alley and beat it down the street, people looking kind of funny at us. Well, I guess I was a sight, what with my black eye and cut and battered face, the bump on my head, and my arm bleeding from the knife wound. But nobody said nothing. People in places like that have got a way of minding their own business that politer folks could well copy. "We better stop by the Waterfront Mission before we go for that stock, Steve," said Bill. "The gospel-shark will bandage your arm and not charge a cent—and keep his mouth shut afterward." "No, no, no!" said I, becoming irascible because of my hurts and the delay. "We're goin' to get that stock before we do anything else." We was passing a gambling hall and Bill's eyes lighted as he heard the click and whir of the roulette wheel. "I feel lucky tonight," he muttered. "I betcha I could run that thirty bucks up to a hundred in no time." "And I'd give my arm for a shot of licker," I snapped. "But I tell you, we ain't takin' no chances. We can guzzle and play fan-tan and roulette all we want to after we get rich." After what seemed a century we arrived at the dismal, dark and vile smelling alley that the Chinese call the Alley of the Seven Mandarins—why, I never could figure. We found the door with the green dragon and knocked, and my heart stood still for fear Joan wouldn't be there. But she was. The door opened and she give a gasp as she saw me. "Quick, don't keep us in suspense," Bill gasped. "Is the stock all took up?" "Why, no," she said. "I can get you—" "Then do it, quick," I said, pressing the money into her hand. "There's thirty-one dollars and fifty-cents—" "Is that all?" she said, like she was considerably disappointed. "If you'd a seen how I won it, you'd think it was a lot," I said. "Well," she said. "Wait a minute. The man who owns that stock lives down the alley." She vanished down the dark alley-way, and we waited with our hearts knocking holes in our ribs for what seemed like hours. Then she came out of the darkness, looking kind of white and ghostly in the shadows, and slipped a long envelope into my hot and sweaty hand. I hove a vast sigh of relief and started to say something, but she put her finger to her lips. "Shhh! I musn't be seen with you. I must go, now." And before I could say a word, she'd vanished in the dark. "Open the envelope, Steve," urged Bill. "Let's see what a fortune looks like!" I opened it and pulled out a slip of paper. I moved over to the lamp-light in the street to read what was wrote on it. Then I give a roar that brought faces to every window on the street. Bill jerked the paper from me and glared at it and then he give a maddened howl and joined me in a frenzied burst of horrible talk that brought a dozen cops on the run. We wasn't in no condition to make any coherent reply, and the ensuing riot didn't end till the reserves was called out. On the paper which was in the envelope Joan Wells gave me in return for my hard-earned money was wrote: This is to certify that you are entitled to thirty-one and a half shares of stock in the Korean Copper Company which was dissolved in the year 1875. Don't worry about the No Sen Tong; it was extinct before the Boxer Rebellion. Of all the suckers that have fallen for this graft, you saps were the easiest. But cheer up; you're out only $31.50, and I took one bonehead for $300. A girl has got to live. THE END
236	--- author: Poul Anderson tags: Science fiction, Adventure stories, Pirates, Fiction, Magicians title: Witch of the Demon Seas summary: ' "Witch of the Demon Seas" by A. A. Craig is a fantasy novel written in the early 1950s. The story revolves around Corun, a pirate condemned to death who finds himself entwined with powerful sorcery and an ambitious witch named Chryseis. Together with a sorcerer and a formidable crew, Corun embarks on a perilous quest to harness the powers of the elusive Xanthi, the Sea Demons, while facing betrayal and intrigue that could change the fate of kingdoms. The beginning of the novel introduces Corun, a proud pirate captured by King Khroman and facing execution, when he is offered a chance at life by the sorcerous duo Shorzon and Chryseis. They propose a dangerous plan to confront the terrifying Xanthi in hopes of gaining their aid to overthrow Achaerea. Corun grapples with his tumultuous feelings for Chryseis as he navigates a treacherous alliance forged in darkness and ambition. As the plot unfolds, tensions rise, leading to imminent confrontations with enemies both external and internal, setting the stage for an epic struggle of magic and will. ' word_count: 20083 fiction_type: Novella teaser: Guide a black galleon to the lost, fear-haunted Citadel of the Xanthi wizards—into the very jaws of Doom? Corun, condemned pirate of Conahur, laughed. Aye, he'd do it, and gladly. It would mean a reprieve from the headsman's axe—a few more precious moments of life and love ... though his lover be a witch! ... # I Khroman the Conqueror, Thalassocrat of Achaera, stood watching his guards bring up the captured pirates. He was a huge man, his hair and square-cut beard jet-black despite middle age, the strength of his warlike youth still in his powerful limbs. He wore a plain white tunic and purple-trimmed cloak; the only sign of kingship was the golden chaplet on his head and the signet ring on one finger. In the gaudy crowd of slender, chattering courtiers, he stood out with a brutal contrast. "So they've finally captured him," he rumbled. "So we're finally rid of Corun and his sea-going bandits. Maybe now the land will have some peace." "What will you do with them, sire?" asked Shorzon the Sorcerer. Khroman shrugged heavy shoulders. "I don't know. Pirates are usually fed to the erinyes at the games, I suppose, but Corun deserves something special." "Public torture, perhaps, sire? It could be stretched over many days." "No, you fool! Corun was the bravest enemy Achaera ever had. He deserves an honorable death and a decent tomb. Not that it matters much, but—" Shorzon exchanged a glance with Chryseis, then looked back toward the approaching procession. ~ The city Tauros was built around a semicircular bay, a huge expanse of clear green water on whose surface floated ships from halfway round the world—the greatest harbor for none knew how many empty sea-leagues, capital of Achaera which, with its trade and its empire of entire archipelagoes, was the mightiest of the thalassocracies. Beyond the fortified sea walls at the end of the bay, the ocean swelled mightily to the clouded horizon, gray and green and amber. Within, the hulls and sails of ships were a bright confusion up to the stone docks. The land ran upward from the bay, and Tauros was built on the hills, a tangle of streets between houses that ranged from the clay huts of the poor to the marble villas of the great. Beyond the city walls on the landward side, the island of Achaera lifted still more steeply, a gaunt rocky country with a few scattered farms and herds. Her power came all from the sea. A broad straight road lined with sphinxes ran straight from the harbor up to the palace, which stood on the highest hill in the city. At its end, wide marble stairs lifted toward the fragrant imperial gardens in which the court stood. Folk swarmed about the street, mobs straining to see the soldiers as they led their captives toward the palace. The word that Corun of Conahur, the most dangerous of the pirates, had finally been taken had driven merchants to ecstasy and brought insurance rates tumbling down. There was laughter in the throng, jeers for the prisoners, shouts for the king. Not entirely so, however. Most of the crowd were, of course, Achaerans, a slim dark-haired folk clad generally in a light tunic and sandals, proud of their ancient might and culture. They were loudest in shouting at the robbers. But there were others who stood silent and glum-faced, not daring to voice their thoughts but making them plain enough. Tall, fair men from Conahur itself, galled by Achaeran rule; fur-clad barbarians from Norriki, blue-skinned savages from Umlotu, with a high professional regard for their fellow pirate; slaves from a hundred islands, who had not ceased dreaming of home and remembered that Corun had been in the habit of freeing slaves when he captured a ship or a town. Others might be neutral, coming from too far away to care, for Corun had only attacked Achaeran galleys; the black men from misty Orzaban, the copper-colored Chilatzis, the yellow wizards from mysterious Hiung-nu. The soldiers marched their prisoners rapidly up the street. They were mercenaries, blue Umlotuans in the shining corselets, greaves, and helmets of the Achaeran forces, armed with the short sword and square shield of Achaera as well as the long halberds which were their special weapon. When the mob came too close, they swung the butts out with bone-snapping force. The captive pirates were mostly from Conahur, though there were a number of other lands represented. They stumbled wearily along, clad in a few rags, weighted down hand and foot by their chains. Only one of them, the man in the lead, walked erect, but he strode along with the arrogance of a conqueror. "That must be Corun himself, there in the front of them," said Chryseis. "It is," nodded Shorzon. ~ They moved forward for a better look. Imperceptibly, the court shrank from them. Khroman's advisor and daughter were feared in Tauros. Shorzon was tall and lean and dry, as if the Heaven-Fire beyond the eternal clouds had fallen on him and seared all moisture out of the gaunt body. He had the noble features of the old Achaeran aristocracy, but his eyes were dark and sunken and smoldering with strange fires. Even in the warmth of midday, he wore a black robe falling to his feet, and his white beard streamed over it. Folk knew that he had learned sorcery in Hiung-nu, and it was whispered that for all Khroman's brawling strength it was Shorzon who really dominated the realm. Khroman had married Shorzon's daughter—none knew who her mother had been, though it was thought she was a witch from Hiung-nu. She had not lived long after giving birth to Chryseis, whose grandfather thus came to have much of her upbringing in his hands. Rumor had it that she was as much a witch as he a warlock. Certainly she could be cruel and ungovernable. But she had a strange dark beauty over her that haunted men; there were more who would die for her than one could readily count ... and, it was said, _had_ died after a night or two. She was tall and lithe, with night-black hair that streamed to her waist when unbound. Her eyes were huge and dark in a face of coldly chiseled loveliness, and the full red mouth denied the austere, goddess-like fineness of her countenance. Today she had not affected the heavy gold and jewels of the court; a white robe hung in dazzling folds about her—and there might as well not have been another woman present. The prisoners came through the palace gates, which clashed shut behind them. Up the stairs they went and into the fragrance of green trees and bushes, blooming plants, and leaping fountains that was the garden. There they halted, and the court buzzed about them like flies around a dead animal. Khroman stepped up to Corun. "Greeting," he said, and there was no mockery in his voice. "Greeting," replied the pirate in the same even tones. They measured each other, the look of two strong men who understood what they were about. Corun was as big as Khroman, a fair-skinned giant of a man in chains and rags. Weather-bleached yellow hair hung to his shoulders from a haughtily lifted head, and his fire-blue eyes were unwavering on the king's. His face was lean, long-jawed, curve-nosed, hardened by bitterness and suffering and desperate unending battle. A chained erinye could not have looked more fiercely on his captors. "It's taken a long time to catch you, Corun," said Khroman. "You've led us a merry chase. Once I almost had the pleasure of meeting you myself. It was when you raided Serapolis—remember? I happened to be there, and gave chase in one of the war-galleys. But we never did catch you." "One of the ships did." Corun's voice was strangely soft for so big a man. "It didn't come back, as you may recall." "How did they finally catch you?" asked Khroman. ~ Corun shrugged, and the chains about his wrists rattled. "You already know as much as I care to talk about," he said wearily. "We sailed into Iliontis Bay and found a whole fleet waiting for us. Someone must finally have spied out our stronghold." Khroman nodded, and Corun shrugged a shoulder: "They blocked off our retreat, so we just fought till everyone was dead or captured. These half-hundred men are all who live. Unfortunately, I was knocked out during the battle and woke up to find myself a prisoner. Otherwise—" his blue gaze raked the court with a lashing contempt—"I could be peacefully feeding fish now, instead of your witless fish-eyes." "I won't drag out the business for you, Corun," said Khroman. "Your men will have to be given to the games, of course, but you can be decently and privately beheaded." "Thanks," said the pirate, "but I'll stay with my men." Khroman stared at him in puzzlement. "But why did you ever do it?" he asked finally. "With your strength and skill and cunning, you could have gone far in Achaera. We take mercenaries from conquered provinces, you know. You could have gotten Achaeran citizenship in time." "I was a prince of Conahur," said Corun slowly. "I saw my land invaded and my folk taken off as slaves. I saw my brothers hacked down at the battle of Lyrr, my sister taken as concubine by your admiral, my father hanged, my mother burned alive when they fired the old castle. They offered me amnesty because I was young and they wanted a figurehead. So I swore an oath of fealty to Achaera, and broke it the first chance I got. It was the only oath I ever broke, and still I am proud of it. I sailed with pirates until I was big enough to master my own ships. That is enough of an answer." "It may be," said Khroman slowly. "You realize, of course, that the conquest of Conahur took place before I came to the throne? And that I certainly couldn't negate it, in view of the Thalassocrat's duty to his own country, and had to punish its incessant rebelliousness?" "I don't hold anything against you yourself, Khroman," said Corun with a tired smile. "But I'd give my soul to the nether fires for the chance to pull your damned palace down around your ears!" "I'm sorry it has to end this way," said the king. "You were a brave man. I'd like to drain many beakers of wine with you on the other side of death." He signed to the guards. "Take him away." "One moment, sire," said Shorzon. "Is it your intention to lock all these pirates in the same dungeon cell?" "Why—I suppose so. Why not?" "I do not trust their captain. Chained and imprisoned, he is still a menace. I think he has certain magical techniques—" "That's a lie!" spat Corun. "I never needed your stinking woman's tricks to flatten the likes of Achaera!" "I would not leave him with his men," advised Shorzon imperturbably. "Best he be given his own cell, alone. I know a place." "Well—well, let it be so." Khroman waved a hand in dismissal. As Shorzon turned to lead the guards off, he traded a long glance with Chryseis. Her eyes remained hooded as she looked after the departing captives. # II The cell was no longer than a man's height, a dripping cave hewed out of the rock under the palace foundations. Corun crouched on the streaming floor in utter darkness. The chains which they had locked to ringbolts in the wall clashed when he stirred. And this was how it ended, he thought bitterly. The wild career of the exiled conqueror, the heave and surge of ships under the running waves, the laughter of comrades and the clamor of swords and the thrum of wind in the rigging, had come to this—one man hunched in a loneliness and darkness like a colder womb, waiting in timeless murk for the day when they would drag him out to be torn by beasts for the amusement of fools. They fed him at intervals, a slave bringing a bowl of prison swill while a spear-armed guard stood well out of reach and watched. Otherwise he was alone. He could not even hear the voices of other captives; there was only the slow dripping of water and the harsh tones of iron links. The cell must lie below even the regular dungeons, far down in the very bowels of the island. Vague images floated across his mind—the high cliffs about Iliontis Bay, the great flowers blooming with sullen fires in the jungle beyond the beach, the slim black corsair galleys at anchor. He remembered the open sky, the eternally clouded sky under which blew the long wet winds, out of which spilled rain and lightning and grew the eerie blue of dusk. He had often wondered what lay beyond those upper clouds. Now and then, he remembered, one could see the vague disc of the Heaven-Fire, and he had heard of times when incredibly violent storms opened a brief rift in the high cloud layers to let through a shaft of searing brilliance at whose touch water boiled and the earth burst into flame. It made him think of the speculations of Conahur's philosophers, that the world was really a globe around which the Heaven-Fire swung, bringing day and night. Some had gone so far as to imagine that it was the world which did the moving, that the Heaven-Fire was a ball of flame in the middle of creation about which all other things revolved. But Conahur was in chains now, he remembered, its folk bowed to the will of Achaera's greedy proconsuls, its art and philosophy the idle playthings of the conquerors. The younger generation was growing up with an idea that it might be best to yield, to become absorbed into the thalassocracy and so eventually gain equal status with the Achaerans. But Corun could not forget the great flames flapping against a wind-torn night sky, the struggling forms at ropes' ends swaying from trees, the long lines of chained people stumbling hopelessly to the slave galleys under Achaeran lashes. Perhaps he had carried the grudge too long—no, by Breannach Brannor! There had been a family which was no longer. That was grudge enough for a lifetime. A lifetime, he thought sardonically, which wouldn't be very much protracted now. ~ He sighed wearily in the stinking gloom of the cell. There were too many memories crowding in. The outlaw years had been hard and desperate, but they'd been good ones too. There had been song and laughter and comradeship and gigantic deeds over an endless waste of waters—the long blue hush of twilight, the soft black nights, the gray days with a sea running gray and green and gold under squalls of rain, the storms roaring and raging, the eager leap of a ship—frenzy of battle at the taking of town or galley, death so close one could almost hear the beat of black wings, orgy of loot and vengeance—the pirate town, grass huts under jungle trees, stuffed with treasure, full of brawling bawdy life, the scar-faced swaggering men and the lusty insolent women, ruddy fire-light hammering back the night while the surf thundered endlessly along the beach— Well, all things came to a close. And while he would have wished a different sort of death for himself, he didn't have long to wait in this misery. Something stirred, far down the narrow corridor, and he caught the flickering glow of a torch. Scowling, he stood up, stooped under the low ceiling. Who in all the hells was this? It was too soon for feeding, unless his time sense had gone completely awry, and he didn't think the games could have been prepared in the few days since his arrival. They came up to the entrance of the cell and stood looking in by the guttering red torchlight. A snarl twisted Corun's lips. Shorzon and Chryseis—"Of all the scum of Achaera," he growled, "I had to be inflicted with you." "This is no time for insolence," said the sorcerer coldly. He lifted the torch higher. The red light threw his face into blood-splashed shadow. His eyes were pits of darkness in which smoldered two embers. His black robe blended with the surrounding shadow, his face and hands seemed to float disembodied in the dank air. Corun's eyes traveled to Chryseis, and in spite of the hate that burned in him he had to admit she was perhaps the loveliest woman he had ever seen. Tall and slim and lithe, moving with the soundless grace of a Sanduvian pherax, the dark hair sheening down past the chill sculptured beauty of her marble-white face, she returned his blue stare with eyes of dark flame. She was dressed as if for action—a brief tunic that left arms and legs bare, a short black cloak, and high buskins—but jewels still blazed at throat and wrists. Behind her padded a lean shadow at sight of which Corun stiffened. He had heard of Chryseis' tame erinye. Folk said the devil-beast had found a harder heart in the witch's breast and yielded to her; some said less mentionable things. The slitted green eyes flared at Corun and the cruel muzzle opened in a fanged yawn. "Back, Perias," said Chryseis evenly. Her voice was low and sweet, almost a caress. It seemed strange that such a voice had spoken the rituals of black sorcery and ordered the flaying alive of a thousand helpless Issarian prisoners and counseled some of the darkest intrigues in Achaera's bloody history. She said to Corun: "This is a fine end for all your noble thoughts, man of Conahur." "At least," he answered, "you credit me with having had them. Which is more than I'd say for you." ~ The red lips curved in a cynical smile. "Human purposes have a habit of ending this way. The mighty warrior, the scourge of the seas, ends in a foul prison cell waiting for an unimaginative death. The old epics lied, didn't they? Life isn't quite the glorious adventure that fools think it to be." "It could be, if it weren't for your sort." Wearily: "Go away, won't you? If you won't even let me talk with my old comrades, you can at least spare me your own company." "We are here with a definite purpose," said Shorzon. "We offer you life, freedom—and the liberation of Conahur!" He shook his tawny head. "It isn't even funny." "No, no, I mean it," said Chryseis earnestly. "Shorzon had you put in here alone not out of malice, but simply to make this private talk possible. You can help us with a project so immeasurably greater than your petty quarrels that anything you can ask in return will be as nothing. And you are the one man who can do so. "I tell you this so that, realizing you have some kind of bargaining position, you will meet as us as equal to equal, not as prisoner to captor. If you agree to aid us, you will be released this instant." With a sudden flame within him, Corun tautened his huge body. O gods—O almighty gods beyond the clouds—if it were true—! His voice shook: "What do you want?" "Your help in a desperate venture," said Chryseis. "I tell you frankly that we may well all die in it. But at least you will die as a free man—and if we succeed, all the world may be ours." "What is it?" he asked hoarsely. "I cannot tell you everything now," said Shorzon. "But the story has long been current that you once sailed to the lairs of the Xanthi, the Sea Demons, and returned alive. Is it true?" "Aye." Corun stiffened, with sudden alarm trembling in his nerves. "Aye, by great good luck I came back. But they are not a race for humans to traffic with." "I think the powers I can summon will match theirs," said Shorzon. "We want you to guide us to their dwellings and teach us the language on the way, as well as whatever else you know about them. When we return, you may go where you choose. And if we get their help, we will be able to set Conahur free soon afterward." Corun shook his head. "It's nothing good that you plan," he said slowly. "No one would approach the Xanthi for any good purpose." "You did, didn't you?" chuckled the wizard dryly. "If you want the truth, we are after their help in seizing the government of Achaera, as well as certain knowledge they have." "If you succeeded," argued Corun stubbornly, "why should you then let Conahur go?" "Because power over Achaera is only a step to something too far beyond the petty goals of empire for you to imagine," said Shorzon bleakly. "You must decide now, man. If you refuse, you die." Chryseis moved one slim hand and the erinye padded forward on razor-clawed feet. The leathery wings were folded back against the long black body, the barbed tail lashed hungrily and a snarl vibrated in the lean throat. "If you say no," came the woman's sweet voice, "Perias will rip your guts out. That will at least afford us an amusing spectacle for our trouble." Then she smiled, the dazzling smile which had driven men to their doom ere this. "But if you say yes," she whispered, "a destiny waits for you that kings would envy. You are a strong man, Corun. I like strong men—" The corsair looked into the warm dark light of her eyes, and back to the icy glare of the devil-beast. No unarmed man had ever survived the onslaught of an erinye—and he was chained. At thought of returning to the dark home of the Xanthi, he shuddered. But life was still wondrous sweet, and—once free to move about, he might still have some chance of escape or even of overpowering them. Or—who knew? He wondered, with a brief giddiness, if the dark witch before him could be as evil as her enemies said. Strong and ruthless, yes—but so was he. When he learned the full truth about her soaring plans, he might even decide they were right. In any case—to live! To die, if he must, under the sky! "I'll go," he said hoarsely. "I'll go with you." The low exultant laughter of Chryseis sang in the flare-lit gloom. Shorzon came up and took a key from his belt. For a bare moment, the thought of snapping that skinny neck raged through Corun's mind. The magician smiled grimly. "Don't try it," he said. "As a small proof of what we can do—" Suddenly he was not there. It was a monster from the jungles of Umlotu standing in the cell with Corun, a scaled beast that hissed at him with grinning jaws and spewed poison on the floor. ~ Sorcery! Corun shrank back, a chill of fear striking even his steely heart. Shorzon resumed human shape and wordlessly unlocked the chains. They fell away and Corun stumbled out into the corridor. The erinye snarled and slipped closer. Chryseis laid a hand on the beast's head, checking that gliding rush as if with a leash. Her smile and the faint sweet scent of her hair were dizzying. "Come," she said. One hand slipped between his own fingers and the cool touch seemed to burn him. Shorzon led the way, down a long sloping tunnel where only the streaming torch-flames had life. Their footsteps echoed hollowly in the wet black length of it. "We go at once," he said. "When Khroman learns of your escape, all Tauros will be after us. But it will be too late then. We sail swiftly tonight." Sail—whither? "What of my men?" asked Corun. "They're lost, I'm afraid, unless Khroman spares them until we get back," said Chryseis. "But we saved you. I'm glad of that." A faint smell of fresh salty air blew up the tunnel. It must open on the sea, thought Corun. He wondered how many passages riddled the depth under Tauros. They came out, finally, on a narrow beach under the looming western cliffs. The precipices climbed into the utter dark of night, reaching into the unseen sky. Before them lay open sea, swirling with phosphorescence. Corun drew deep lungfulls of air. Salt and seaweed and wet wild wind—sand under his feet, sky overhead, a woman beside him—by the gods, it was good to be alive! A galley was moored against a tiny pier. By the light of bobbing torches, Corun's mariner's eye surveyed her. She was built along the same lines as his own ship, a lean black vessel with one square sail; open-decked save at stem and stern, rower's benches lining the sides with a catwalk running between. There would be quarters for the men under the poop and forecastle decks, supplies in the hold beneath. A cabin was erected near the waist, apparently for officers, and there was a ballista mounted in the bows—otherwise no superstructure. A carved sea monster reared up for figurehead, and the sternpost curved back to make its tail. He read the name on the bows: _Briseia_. Strange that that dark vessel should bear a girl's name. About a fifty-man capacity, he judged. And she would be fast. The crew were getting aboard—they must have come down the cliffs along some narrow trail. They were all Umlotuan blues, he noticed, a cutthroat gang if ever he saw one but silent and well disciplined. It was shrewd to take only the mercenary warriors along; they had no patriotic interest in what happened to Achaera, and their reckless courage was legendary. A burly one-eyed officer came up and saluted. "All set, sir," he reported. "Good," nodded Shorzon. "Captain Imazu, this is our guide, Captain Corun." "The raider, eh?" Imazu chuckled and shook hands in the manner of the barbarians. "Well, we could hardly have a better one, I'm sure. Glad to know you, Corun." The pirate murmured polite phrases. But he decided that Imazu was a likeable chap, and wondered what had led him to take service under anyone with Shorzon's reputation. They went aboard. "The Sea of Demons lies due north," said Shorzon. "Is that the right way to sail?" "For the time being," nodded Corun. "When we get closer, I'll be able to tell you more exactly." "Then you may as well wash and rest," said Chryseis. "You need both." Her smile was soft in the flickering red light. Corun entered the cabin. It was divided into three compartments—apparently Imazu slept with his men, or perhaps on deck as many men preferred. His own tiny room was clean, sparsely furnished with a bunk and a washbowl. He cleaned himself eagerly and put on the fresh tunic laid out for him. When he came back on deck the ship was already under way. A strong south wind was blowing, filling the dark sail, and the _Briseia_ surged forward under its thrust. The phosphorescence shone around her hull and out on the rolling waters. Behind, the land faded into the night. He'd certainly been given no chance to escape, he thought. Barring miracles, he had to go through with it now—at least until they reached the Sea of Demons, after which anything might happen. He shivered a little, wondering darkly whether he had done right, wondering what their mission was and what the world's fate was to be as a result of it. Chryseis slipped quietly up to stand beside him. The erinye crouched down nearby, his baleful eyes never leaving the man. "Outward bound," she said, and laughter was gay in her voice. He said nothing, but stared ahead into the night. "You'd better sleep, Corun," she said. "You're tired now, and you'll need all your strength later." She laid a hand on his arm, and laughed aloud. "It will be an interesting voyage, to say the least." Rather! he thought with wry humor. It occurred to him that the trip might even have its pleasant aspects. "Goodnight, Corun," she said, and left him. Presently he went back to his room. Sleep was long in coming, and uneasy when it did arrive. # III When he came out on deck in the early morning, there was only a gray emptiness of waters out to the gray horizon. They must have left the whole Achaeran archipelago well behind them and be somewhere in the Zurian Sea now. There was a smell of rain in the air, and the ship ran swiftly before a keening wind over long white-maned rollers. Corun let the tang of salt and moisture and kelp, the huge restless vista of bounding waves, the creak and thrum of the ship and the thundering surge of the ocean, swell luxuriously up within him, the simple animal joy of being at home. The sea was his home now, he realized vaguely; he had been on it so long that it was his natural environment—his, as much as that of the laridae wheeling on white wings in the cloud-flying heavens. He looked over the watch. It seemed to be well handled—the sailors knew their business. There were armored guards at bow and stern, and the rest—clad in the plain loincloth of ordinary seamen the world over—were standing by the sail, swabbing the decks, making minor repairs and otherwise occupying themselves. Those off duty were lounging or sleeping well out of the watch's way. The helmsman kept his eye on the compass and held the tiller with a practiced hand—good, good. Captain Imazu padded up to him on bare feet. The Umlotuan wore helmet and corselet, had a sword at his side, and carried the whip of authority in one gnarled blue hand. His scarred, one-eyed face cracked in a smile. "Good morning to you, Captain Corun," he said politely. The Conahurian nodded with an amiability he had not felt for a long time. "The ship is well handled," he said. "Thanks. I'm about the only Umlotuan who's ever skippered anything bigger than a war-canoe, I suppose, but I was in the Achaeran fleet for a long time." Again the hideous but disarming smile. "I nearly met you professionally once or twice before, but you always showed us a clean pair of heels. Judging from what happened to ships that did have the misfortune to overhaul you, I'm just as glad of it." He gestured to the tiny galley below the poop deck. "How about some breakfast?" ~ Over food which was better than most to be had aboard ship, they fell into professional talk. Like all captains, Imazu was profoundly interested in the old and seemingly insoluble problem of finding an accurate position. "Dead reckoning just won't do," he complained. "Men's estimates always differ, no matter how good they may be. There isn't even a decent map to be had anywhere." Corun mentioned the efforts of theorists in Achaera, Conahur, and other civilized states to use the Heaven-Fire's altitude to determine position north and south of a given line. Imazu was aware of their work, but regarded it as of little practical value. "You just don't see it often enough," he objected. "And most of the crew would consider it the worst sort of impiety to go aiming an instrument at it. That's one reason, I suppose, why Shorzon shipped only Umlotuans. We don't worship the Heaven-Fire—our gods all live below the clouds." He cut himself a huge quid of liangzi and stuffed it into his capacious mouth. "Anyway, it doesn't give you east and west position." "The philosophers who think the world is round say we could solve that problem by making an accurate timepiece," said Corun. "I know. But it's a lot of gas, if you ask me. A sand-glass or a water-clock can only tell time so close and no closer, and those mechanical gadgets they've built are worse yet. I knew an old skipper from Norriki once who kept a joss in his cabin and got his position in dreams from it. Only had one wreck in his life." Imazu grinned. "Of course, he drowned then." "Look," said Corun suddenly, "do you know where the hell we're going, and why?" "To the Sea of Demons is all they told me. No reason given." Imazu studied Corun with his sharp black eye. "You don't know either, eh? I've a notion that most of us won't live to find out." "I'm surprised that any crew could be made to go there without a mutiny." "This gang of bully boys is only frightened of Shorzon and his witch granddaughter. They—" Imazu shut up. Looking around, Corun saw the two approaching. In the morning light, Chryseis did not seem the luring devil-woman of the night. She moved with easy grace across the rolling deck, the wind blowing her tunic and her long black hair in careless billows, and there was a girlish joy and eagerness in her. The pirate's heart stumbled and began to race. She chattered gaily of nothing while she and the old man ate. Shorzon remained silent until he was through, then said curtly to the two men: "Come into the cabin with us." They filled Corun's tiny room, sitting on bunk and floor. Shorzon said slowly, "We may as well begin now to learn what you know, Corun. What is the truth about your voyage to the Xanthi?" "It was several seasons ago," replied the corsair. "I got the thought you seem to have had, that possibly I could enlist their help against my enemies." He smiled mirthlessly. "I learned better." "What do we know of them, exactly?" said Shorzon methodically. He ticked the points off on his lean fingers. "They are an amphibious non-human race dwelling in the Sea of Demons, which is said to grow grass so that ships become tangled there and never escape." "Not so," said Corun. "There's kelp on the surface, but you can sail right through it. I think the Sea is just a dead region of water around which the great ocean currents move." "I know," said Shorzon impatiently, and resumed his summary: "Generations ago, the Xanthi, of whose presence men had only been vaguely aware before, fell upon all the islands in their sea and slew the people living there. They had great numbers, as well as tamed sea monsters and unknown powers of sorcery, so that no one could stand against them. Since then, they have not gone beyond their borders, but they ruthlessly destroy all human vessels venturing inside. King Phidion III of Achaera sent a great fleet to drive the Xanthi from their stolen territory. Not one ship returned. Men now shun the whole region as one accursed." Imazu nodded. "There's a sailor's legend that the souls of the damned go to the Xanthi," he offered. Shorzon gave him an exasperated look. "I'm only interested in facts," he said coldly. "What do you know, Corun?" "I know what you just said, as who doesn't?" answered the Conahurian. "But I think they must have limits to their powers, and be reasonable creatures—but the limits are far beyond man's, and their reason is not as ours. "I didn't try an invasion, of course. I took one small fast boat manned with picked volunteers and waited outside the Sea for a storm that would blow me into it. When that came, we ran before it—fast! In the rain and wind and waves, I figured we could get undetected far into their borders. So, it seemed, we could, and in fact we made it almost to the largest island inside. Then they came at us. "They were riding cetaraea, and driving sea serpents before them. They had spears and bows and swords, and there were hundreds of them. Any one of the snakes could have smashed our boat. We ran for land and barely made it. "We hadn't come to fight, so we held up our hands as the Xanthi leaped ashore and wondered if they'd just hack us down. But, as I'd hoped, they wanted to know what we were there for. So they took us to the black castle on the island." ~ Momentarily Corun was cold as the memory of that wet dark place of evil shuddered through his mind. "I can't tell you much about it. They have great powers of sorcery, and the place seemed somehow unreal, never the same—always wrong, always with something horrible just beyond vision in the shadows. I remember the whole time as if it were a dream. There were treasures beyond counting. I saw gold and jewels from the sea bottom, mixed in with human skulls and the figureheads of drowned ships. The light was dim and blue, and there was always fog, and noises for which we had no name hooting out in the gloom. It stank, with the vile fishy smell they have. And the walls seemed to have a watery unreality, as I said, shifting and fading like smoke. You could smell sorcery in the very air of that place. "They kept us there for many ten-days. We'd brought rich gifts, of course, which they accepted ungraciously, and they housed us in a dungeon under guard. They didn't feed us so badly, if you like a steady fish diet. And they taught us their language." "How does it sound?" asked Chryseis. "I can't make it come out right. No human throat can. Something like this—" They stiffened at the chill hissing that slithered from Corun's lips. "It has words for things I never did understand, and it lacks many of the commonest human words—fear, joy, hope, adventure—" His glance slid to Chryseis—"love—" "Do they have a word for hate?" asked Shorzon. "Oh, yes," Corun grinned without humor. After a moment he went on: "They wanted to know more of the outside world. That was why they spared our lives. When we knew the language well enough, they began to question us. _How_ they questioned us! It got to be torture, those unending days of answering the things that hissed and gabbled at us in those shadowy rooms. It was like a nightmare, where mad happenings go on without ever ending. Politics, science, philosophy, art, geography—they wanted to know it all. They pumped us dry of knowledge. When we came to something they didn't understand, such as—love, say—they went back and forth over the same ground, over and over again, until we thought we'd go crazy. And at last they'd give up in bafflement. I think they believe humans to be mad. "I made my offer, of course: the loot of Achaera in exchange for the freedom of Conahur. They—I might almost say they laughed. Finally they answered in scorn that they could take whatever they wanted, the whole world if need be, without my help." Shorzon's eyes glittered. "Did you find out anything of their powers?" he asked eagerly. "A little. They put any human magician to shame, of course. I saw them charm sea monsters to death just to eat them. I saw them working on a new building on the island—they planted a little package somewhere, and set fire to it, and great stones leaped into the air with a bang like thunder. I saw their cetaraea cavalry, their tamed war-snakes—oh, yes, they have more powers than I could name. And their numbers must be immense. They live on the sea bottom, you know—that is, their commoners do. The leaders have strongholds on land as well. They farm both sea and land, and have great smithies on the islands. "Well, in the end they let us go. They were going to put us to death for our trespass, I think, but I did some fast talking. I told them that we could carry word of their strength back to humans and overawe our race with it, so that if they ever wanted to collect tribute or something of the sort, they'd never have to fight for it. Probably that carried less weight than the fact that we had, after all, done no harm and been of some use. They had no logical reason to kill us—so they didn't." Corun smiled grimly. "We were a pretty tough crew, prepared to take a few Xanthi to death with us even if we were disarmed. Their killing-charms seem to work only on animals. That was another reason to spare us. "One of their wizards was for having me, at least, slain. He said he'd had a prevision of my return with ruin in my wake. But the others—laughed?—at him, at the very thought of a human's being dangerous to them. Moreover, they pointed out, if that was to be the case then there was nothing they could do about it; they seem to believe in a fixed destiny. But the idea amused them so much that it was still another reason for letting us go." Corun shrugged. "So we sailed away. That's all. And never till now did I have any smallest thought of returning." He added bleakly after a moment when silence had been heavy: "They have all they want to know from my visit. There will be no reason for them to spare us this time." "I think there will," said Chryseis. "There'd better be," muttered Imazu. "You can start teaching us their language," said Shorzon. "It might not be a bad idea for you to learn too, Imazu. The more who can talk to them, the better." The Umlotuan made a wry face. "Another tongue to learn! By the topknot of Mwanzi, why can't the world settle on one and end this babble!" "The poor interpreters would starve to death," smiled Chryseis. She took Corun's arm. "Come, my buccaneer, let's go up on deck for a while. There's always time to learn words." ~ They found a quiet spot on the forecastle deck, and sat down against the rail. The erinye settled his long body beside Chryseis and watched Corun with sleepy malevolence, but he was hardly aware of the devil-beast. It was Chryseis, Chryseis, dark sweet hair and dark lambent eyes, utter loveliness of face and form, singing golden voice and light warm touch and— "You are a strange man, Corun," she said softly. "What are you thinking now?" "Oh—nothing." He smiled crookedly. "Nothing." "I don't believe that. You have too many memories." Almost without knowing it, he found himself telling her of his life, the long terrible struggle against overwhelming power, the bitterness and loneliness, the death of comrades one by one—and the laughter and triumphs and wild exultance of it, the faring into unknown seas and the dicing with fate and the strong, close bonds of men against the world. He mused wistfully about a girl who was gone—but her bright image was strangely fading in his heart now, for it was Chryseis who was beside him. "It has been a hard life," she said at the end. "It took a giant of a man to endure it." She smiled, a small closed smile that made her look strangely young. "I wonder what you must think of this—sailing with your sworn foes to the end of the world on an unknown mission." "You're not my foe!" he blurted. "No—never your enemy, Corun!" she exclaimed. "We have been on opposite sides before—let it not be thus from this moment. I tell you that the purpose of this voyage, which you shall soon know, is—good. Great and good as the savagery of man has never known before. You know the old legend—that someday the Heaven-Fire will shine through opening clouds not as a destroying flame but as the giver of life—that men will see light in the sky even at night—that there will be peace and justice for all mankind? I think that day may be dawning, Corun." He sat dumbly, bewildered. She was not evil—she was not evil—It was all he knew, but it sang within him. Suddenly she laughed and sprang to her feet. "Come on!" she cried. "I'll race you around the ship!" # IV Rain and wind came, a lightning-shot squall in which the _Briseia_ wallowed and bucked and men strained at oars and pumps. Toward evening it was over, the sea stilled and the lower clouds faded so that they saw the great dull-red disc of the Heaven-Fire through the upper clouds, sinking into the western sea. There was almost a flat calm, the glassy water was ruffled only by a faint breeze which half filled the sail and sent the galley sliding slowly and noiselessly northward. "Man the oars," directed Shorzon. "Give the men a chance to rest tonight, sir," begged Imazu. "They've all worked hard today. We can row all the faster tomorrow if we must." "No time to spare," snapped the wizard. "Yes, there is," said Corun flatly. "Let the men rest, Imazu." Shorzon gave him a baleful glance. "You forget your position aboard." Corun bristled. "I think I'm just beginning to remember it," he answered with metal in his voice. Chryseis laid a hand on her grandfather's arm. "He's right," she said. "So is Imazu. It would be needless cruelty to make the sailors work tonight, and they will be better fitted by a night's rest." "Very well," said Shorzon sullenly. He went into his room and slammed the door. Presently Chryseis bade the men goodnight and went to her quarters with the erinye trotting after. Corun's eyes followed her through the deepening blue dusk. In that mystic light, the ship was a shadowy half-real background, a dimness beyond which the sea swirled in streamers of cold white radiance. "She's a strange woman," said Imazu. "I don't understand her." "Nor I," admitted Corun. "But I know now her enemies have foully lied about her." "I'm not so sure about that—" As the Conahurian turned with a dark frown, Imazu added quickly, "Oh, well, I'm probably wrong. I never had much sight of her, you know." They wandered up on the poop deck in search of a place to sit. It was deserted save for the helmsman by the dimly glowing binnacle, a deeper shadow in the thick blue twilight. Sitting back against the taffrail, they could look forward to the lean waist of the ship and the vague outline of the listlessly bellying sail. Beyond the hull, the sea was an arabesque of luminescence, delicate traceries of shifting white light out to the glowing horizon. The cold fire streamed from the ship's bows and whirled in her wake, the hull dripped liquid flame. The night was very quiet. The faint hiss and smack of cloven water, creak of planks and tackle, distant splashing of waves and invisible sea beasts—otherwise there was only the enormous silence under the high clouds. The breeze was cool on their cheeks. "How long till we get to the Sea of Demons?" asked Imazu. His voice was oddly hushed in the huge stillness. "With ordinary sailing weather, I'd say about three ten-days—maybe four," answered Corun indifferently. "It's a strange mission we're on, aye, that it is." Imazu's head wagged, barely visible in the dark. "I like it not, Corun. I have evil feelings about it, and the omens I took before leaving weren't good." "Why then did you sail? You're a free man, aren't you?" "So they say!" Sudden bitterness rose in the Umlotuan's voice. "Free as any of Shorzon's followers, which is to say less free than a slave, who can at least run away." "Why, doesn't he pay well?" "Oh, aye, he is lavish in that regard. But he has his ways of binding servants to him so that they must do his bidding above that of the very gods. He put his geas on most of these sailors, for instance. They were simple folk, and thought he was only magicking them a good-luck charm." "You mean they are bound? He has their souls?" "Aye. He put them to sleep in some sorcerous way and impressed his command on them. No matter what happens now, they must obey him. The geas is stronger than their own wills." Corun shivered. "Are you—Pardon. It's no concern of mine." "No, no, that's all right. He put no such binding on me—I knew better than to accept his offer of a luck-bringing spell. But he has other ways. He lent me a slave-girl from Umlotu for my pleasure—but she is lovely, wonderful, kind, all that a woman should be. She has borne me sons, and made homecoming ever a joy. But you see, she is still Shorzon's and he will not sell her to me or free her—moreover, he did put his geas on her. If ever I rebelled, she would suffer for it." Imazu spat over the rail. "So I am Shorzon's creature too." "It must be a strange service." "It is. Mostly all I have to do is captain his bodyguard. But I've seen and helped in some dark things. He's a fiend from the lowest hell, Shorzon is. And his granddaughter—" Imazu stopped. "Yes?" asked Corun roughly. His hand closed bruisingly on the other's arm. "Go on. What of her?" "Nothing. Nothing. I really have had little to do with her." Imazu's face was lost in the gloom, but Corun felt the one eye hard on him. "Only—be careful, pirate. Don't let her lay her own sort of geas on you. You've been a free man till now. Don't become anyone's blind slave." "I've no such intention," said Corun frostily. "Then no more need be said." Imazu sighed heavily and got up. "I think I'll go to bed, then. What of you?" "Not yet. I'm not sleepy. Goodnight." "Goodnight." ~ Corun sat back alone. He could barely discern the helmsman—beyond lay only glowing darkness and the whispering of the night. He felt loneliness like a cold hollow within his breast. Father and mother, his tall brothers and his laughing lovely sister, the comrades of youth, the hard wild stout-hearted pirates with whom he had sailed for such a long and bloody time—where were they now? Where in all the blowing night were they? Where was he and on what mission, sailing alone through a pit of darkness on a ship of strangers? What meaning and hope in all the cruel insanity of the world? Suddenly he wanted his mother, he wanted to lay his head on her lap and cry in desolation and hear her gentle voice—no, by the gods, it wasn't her image he saw, it was a lithe and dark-haired witch who was crooning to him and stroking his hair— He cursed tonelessly and got up. Best to go to bed and try to sleep his fancies away. He was becoming childish. He went down the catwalk toward the cabin. As he neared it, he saw a figure by the rail darkly etched against a shimmering patch of phosphorescence. His heart sprang into his throat. She turned as he came near. "Corun," she said. "I couldn't sleep. Come over here and talk to me. Isn't the night beautiful?" He leaned on the rail, not daring to look at the haunting face pale-lit by the swirling sea-fire. "It's nice," he said clumsily. "But it's lonely," she whispered. "I never felt so sad and alone before." "Why—why, that's how I felt!" he blurted. "Corun—" She came to him and he took her with a sudden madness of yearning. Perias the erinye snarled as they thrust him out of her cabin. He padded up and down the deck for a while. A sailor who stood watch near the forecastle followed him with frightened eyes and muttered prayers to the amulet about his neck. Presently the devil-beast curled up before the cabin. The lids drooped over his green eyes, but they remained unwinkingly fixed on the door. # V Under a hot sullen sky, the windless sea swelled in long slow waves that rocked the tangled kelp and ocean-grass up and down, heavenward and hellward. To starboard, the dark cliffs of a small jungled island rose from an angry muttering surf, but there were no birds flying above it. Corun pointed to the shore. "That's the first of the archipelago," he said. "From here on, we can look for the Xanthi to come at any time." "We should get as far into their territory as possible, even to the black palace," said Shorzon. "I will put a spell of invisibility on the ship." "Their sorcerers can break that," said Chryseis. "Aye, so. But when they come to know our powers, I think they will treat with us." "They'd better!" smiled Imazu grimly. "Steer on toward the island of the castle," said Shorzon to the pirate. "I go to lay the spell." He went into his cabin. Corun had a glimpse of its dark interior before the door was closed—draped in black and filled with the apparatus of magic. "He will have to be in a trance, physically, to maintain the enchantment," said Chryseis. She smiled at Corun, and his pulses raced. "Come, my dearest, it is cooler on the afterdeck." The sailors rowed steadily, sweat glistening on their bare blue hides. Imazu paced up and down the catwalk, flicking idlers with his whip. Corun stood where he could keep an eye on the steersman and see that the right course was followed. It had been utter wonder till now, he thought, unending days when they plowed through seas of magic, nights of joy such as he had never known. There had never been another woman such as Chryseis, he thought, never in all the world, and he was the luckiest of men. Though he died today, he had been more fortunate than any man ever dared dream. Chryseis, Chryseis, loveliest and wisest and most valiant of women—and she was his, before all the jealous gods, she loved him! "There has only been one thing wrong," he said. "You are going into danger now. The world would go dark if aught befell you." "And I should sit at home while you were away, and never know what had happened, never know if you lived or died—no, no, Corun!" He laid a hand on the sword at his waist. They had given him arms and armor again after she had come to him. Logical enough, he thought without resentment—he could be trusted now, as much as if he were one of Shorzon's ensorcelled warriors. But if this were a spell too, the gods deliver him from ever being freed of it! He blinked. There was a sudden breath of chill on him, and his eyes were blurring—no, no, it was the ship that wavered, ship and men fading—He clutched at Chryseis. She laughed softly and slipped an arm around his waist. "It is only Shorzon's spell," she said. "It affects us too, to some extent. And it makes the ship invisible to anyone within seeing range." Ghost ship, ghost crew, slipping over the slowly heaving waters. There was only the foggiest outline to be seen, shadow of mast and rigging against the sky, glimpses of water through the gray smoke of the hull, blobs of darkness that were the crewmen. Sound was still clear; he heard the mutter of superstitious awe, the crack of the whip, and Imazu's oaths that sent the oars creaking and splashing again. Corun's hand was a misty blur before his eyes. Chryseis was a shadow beside him. She laughed once more, a low exultant throb, and pulled his lips down to hers. He ruffled the streaming fragrant hair and felt a return of courage. It was only a spell. But what were the spells? he wondered for the thousandth time. He did not hold with the simple theory that wizards were in league with gods or demons. They had powers, yes, but he was sure that somehow these powers came only from within themselves. Chryseis had always evaded his questions about it. There must be some simple answer to the problem, some real process, as real as that of making a fire, behind the performances of the sorcerers—but it baffled him to think what it might be. Blast it all, it just wasn't reasonable that Shorzon, for instance, should have been able actually to change himself into a jungle monster many times his size. Yet he, Corun, had seen the thing, had felt its wet scales and smelled its reptile stink. How? ~ The ship plowed slowly on. Now and then Corun looked at the compass, straining his eyes to discern the blurred needle. Otherwise they could only wait. But waiting with Chryseis was remarkably pleasant. It was at the end of a timeless time, perhaps half a day, that he saw the Xanthian patrol. "Look," he pointed. "There they come." Chryseis stared boldly over the sea. The hand beneath his was steady as her voice: "So I see. They're—beautiful, aren't they?" The cetaraea came leaping across the waves, big graceful beasts with the shapes of fish, their smooth black hides shining and the water white behind their threshing tails. Astride each was a great golden form bearing a lance. They quartered across the horizon and were lost to sight. The crew mumbled in fear, shaken to their hardy souls by the terrible unhuman grace of the Xanthi. Imazu cursed them back to work. The ship went on. Islands slipped by, empty of man-sign. They had glimpses of Xanthian works, spires and walls rearing above the jungle. These were not the white colonnaded buildings of Tauros or the timbered halls of Conahur—of black stone they were, with pointed towers climbing crazily skyward. Once a great sea serpent reared its head, spouted water, and writhed away. All creatures save man could sense the presence of wizardry and refused to go near it. Night fell, an abyss of night broken only by faint glimmers of sea-fire under the carpeting weed. Men stood uneasy watch in full armor, peering blindly into the somber immensity. It was hot, hot and silent. Near midnight the lookout shouted from the masthead: "Xanthi to larboard!" "Silence, you fool!" called Imazu. "Want them to hear us?" The patrol was a faint swirl and streaking of phosphorescence, blacker shadows against the night. It was coming nearer. "Have they spotted us?" wondered Corun. "No," breathed Chryseis. "But they're close enough for their mounts—" There was a great snorting and splashing out in the murk. The cetaraea were refusing to go into the circle of Shorzon's spell. Voices lifted, an unhuman croaking. The erinye, the only animal who did not seem to mind witchcraft, snarled in saw-edged tones, eyes a green blaze against the night. Presently the squad turned and slipped away. "They know something is wrong, and they've gone for help," said Corun. "We'll have a fight on our hands before long." He stretched his big body, suddenly eager for action. This waiting was more than he could stand. The ship drove on. Corun and Chryseis napped on the deck; it was too stiflingly hot below. The long night wore away. In the misty gray of morning, they saw a dark mass advancing from the west. Corun's sword rasped out of the sheath. It was a long, double-edged blade such as they used in Conahur, and it was thirsty. "Get inside, Chryseis," he said tightly. "Get inside yourself," she answered. There was a lilt in her voice like a little girl's. He felt her quiver with joyous expectation. The ghostly outlines of the ship wavered, thickened, faded again, flickered back toward solidity. Suddenly they had sight; the vessel lay real around them; they saw each other in helm and corselet, face looking into tautened face. "They have a wizard along—he broke Shorzon's spell," said the Conahurian. "We looked for that," answered Chryseis evenly. "But as long as Shorzon keeps fighting him, there will be a roiling of magic around us such that none of their beasts will approach." She stood beside him, slim and boyish in polished cuirass and plumed helmet, shortsword belted to her waist and a bow in one hand. Her nostrils quivered, her eyes shone, and she laughed aloud. "We'll drive them off," she said. "We'll send them home like beaten iaganaths." Imazu blew the war-horn, wild brazen echoes screaming over the sea. His men drew in the oars, pulled on their armor, and stood along the rails, waiting. "But did we come here to fight them?" asked Corun. "No," said Chryseis. "But we've known all along that we'd have to give them a taste of our might before they'd talk to us." The Xanthian lancers were milling about half a league away, as if in conference. Suddenly someone blew a harsh-toned horn and Corun saw half the troop slide from the saddle into the water. "So—they'll swim at us," he muttered. ~ The attack came from all sides, converging on the ship in a rush of foam. As the Xanthi neared, Corun saw their remembered lineaments and felt the old clutch of panic. _They weren't human._ With the fluked tail, one of them had twice the length of a man. The webbed hind feet, on which they walked ashore, were held close to the body; the strangely human hands carried weapons. They swam half under water, the dorsal fins rising over. Their necks were long, with gills near the blunt-snouted heads; their grinning mouths showed gleaming fangs. The eyes were big, dark, alive with cold intelligence. They bore no armor, but scales the color of beaten gold covered back and sides and tail. They came in at furious speed, churning the sea behind them. Chryseis' voice rose to a wild shriek. "Perias! Perias—kill!" The erinye howled and unfolded his leather-webbed wings. Like a hurled spear he streaked into the air, rushed down on the nearest Xanthian like a thunderbolt—claws, teeth, barbed tail, a blinding fury of blood and death, ripping flesh as if it were parchment. The ship's ballista _chunked_ and balls of the ever-burning Achaeran fire were hurled out to fall blazing among the enemy. Chryseis' bow hummed beside Corun, a Xanthian went under with an arrow in his throat—the air was thick with shafts as the crew fired. Still the Xanthi rushed on, ducking up and down, near impossible to hit. The first of them came up to the hull and sank their clawed fingers into the wood. The sailors thrust downward with pikes, howling in fear-maddened rage. The man near Corun went down with a hurled javelin through him. At once a huge golden form was slithering over the rail, onto the deck. The sword in his hand flashed, another Umlotuan's weapon was knocked spinning from his hand and the reptile hewed him down. Corun sprang to do battle. The swords clashed together with a shock that jarred the man backward. Corun spread his feet and smote out. His blade whirled down to strike the shoulder, gash the chest, and drive the hissing monster back. With a rising cold fury, Corun followed it up. _That_ for the long inquisition—_that_ for being a horror out of the sea bottom—_that_ for threatening Chryseis! The Xanthian writhed with a belly ripped open. Still he wouldn't die—he flopped and struck from the deck. Corun evaded the sweeping tail and cut off the creature's head. They were pouring onto the ship through gaps in the line. Chryseis stood on the foredeck in a line of defending men, her bow singing death. Battle snarled about the mast, men against monsters, sword and halberd and ax belling in cloven bone. A giant's blow bowled Corun off his feet, the tail of a Xanthian. He rolled over and thrust upward as the Sea Demon sprang on him. The sword went through the heart. Hissing and snapping, his foe toppled on him. He heaved the struggling body away and sprang back to his stance. "To me!" bellowed Imazu. "To me, men!" He stood wielding a huge battle ax by the mast, striking at the beasts that raged around him, lopping heads and arms and tails like a woodman. The scattered humans rallied and began to fight their way toward him, step by bloody step. Perias the erinye was everywhere, a flying fury, ripping and biting and smashing with wing-blows. Corun loomed huge over the men who fought beside him, the sword shrieking and thundering in his hands. Imazu stood stolidly against the mast, smashing at all comers. A rush of Xanthi broke past him and surged against the foredeck. The defenders beat them off, Chryseis thrusting as savagely with her sword as any man, and they reeled back against the masthead warriors to be cut down. A Xanthian sprang at Corun, wielding a long-shafted ax that shivered the sword in his hand. The Conahurian struck back, his blade darting past the monster's guard to stab through the throat. The Xanthian staggered. Corun wrenched the blade loose and brought it down again to sing in the reptile skull. Before he could pull it loose, another was on him. Corun ducked under the spear he carried and closed his hands around the slippery sides. The clawed feet raked his legs. He lifted the thing and hurled it into another with bone-shattering force. One of them threshed wildly, neck broken—the other bounded at Corun. The man yanked his sword free and it whistled against the golden head. ~ Back and forth the struggle swayed, crashing of metal and howling of warriors. And the Xanthi were driven to the rails—they could not stand against the rallying human line in the narrow confines of the ship. "Kill them!" roared Imazu. "Kill the misbegotten snakes!" Suddenly the Xanthi were slipping overboard, swimming for their mounts beyond the zone of magic. Perias followed, harrying them, pulling them half out of the water to rip their throats out. The ship was wet, streaming with human red and reptile yellow blood. Dead and wounded littered the decks. Corun saw the Xanthi cavalry retreating out of sight. "We've won," he gasped. "We've won—" "No—wait—" Chryseis inclined her head sharply, seeming to listen, then darted past him to open a hatch. Light streamed down into the hold. It was filling—the bilge was rising. "I thought so," she said grimly. "They're below us, chopping into the hull." "We'll see about that," said Corun, and unbuckled his cuirass. "All who can swim, after me!" "No—no, they'll kill you—" "Come on!" rapped Imazu, letting his own breastplate clang to the deck. Corun sprang overboard. He was wearing nothing but a kilt now, and had a spear in one hand and a dirk in his teeth. Fear was gone, washed out by the red tides of battle. There was only a bleak, terrible triumph in him. Men _had_ beaten the Sea Demons! Underwater, it was green and dim. He swam down, down, brushing the hull, pulling himself along the length of the keel. There were half a dozen shapes clustered near the waist, working with axes. He pushed against the keel and darted at them, holding the spear like a lance. The keen point stabbed into the belly of one monster. The others turned, their eyes terrible in the gloom. Corun took the dirk in his hand, got a grip on the next nearest, and stabbed. Claws ripped his flanks and back. His lungs were bursting, there was a roaring in his head and darkness before his eyes. He stabbed blindly, furiously. Suddenly the struggling form let go. Corun broke the surface and gasped in a lungful of air. A Sea Demon leaped up beside him. At once the erinye was on him. The Xanthian screamed as he was torn apart. Corun dove back under water. The other seamen were down there, fighting for their lives. They outnumbered the Xanthi, but the monsters were in their native element. Blood streaked the water, blinding them all. It was a strange, horrible battle for survival. In the end, Corun and Imazu and the others—except for four—were hauled back aboard. "We drove them off," said the pirate wearily. "Oh, my dear—my dearest dear—" Chryseis, who had laughed in battle, was sobbing on his breast. Shorzon was on deck, looking over the scene. "We did well," he said. "We stood them off, killed about thirty, and only lost fifteen men." "At that rate," said Corun, "it won't take them long to clear our decks." "I don't think they will try again," said Shorzon. He went over to a captured Xanthian. The Sea Demon had had a foot chopped off in the battle and been pinned to the deck by a pike, but he still lived and rasped defiance at them. If allowed to live, he would grow new members—the monsters were tougher than they had a right to be. "Hark, you," said Shorzon in the Xanthian tongue, which he had learned with astonishing ease. "We come on a mission of peace, with an offer that your king will be pleased to hear. You have seen only a small part of our powers. It is not beyond us to sail to your palace and bring it crumbling to earth." Corun wondered how much was bluff. The old sorcerer might really be able to do it. In any case—he had nerve! "What can you things offer us?" asked the Xanthian. "That is only for the king to hear," said Shorzon coldly. "He will not thank you for molesting us. Now we will let you go to bear word back to your rulers. Tell them we are coming whether they will or no, but that we come in friendship if they will but show it. After all, if they wish to kill us it can be just as easily done—if at all—after they have heard us out. Now go!" Imazu pulled the pike loose and the yellow-bleeding Xanthian writhed overboard. "I do not think we will be bothered again," said Shorzon calmly. "Not before we get to the black palace." "You may be right," admitted Corun. "You gave them a good argument by their standards." "Friends?" muttered Imazu. "Friends with those things? As soon expect the erinye to lie down by the bovan, _I_ think." "Come," said Chryseis impatiently. "We have to repair the leak and clean the decks and get under way again. It is a long trip yet to the black palace." She turned to Corun and her eyes were dark flames. "How you fought!" she whispered. "How you fought, beloved!" # VI The castle stood atop one of the high gray cliffs which walled in a little bay. Beyond the shore, the island climbed steeply toward a gaunt mountain bare of jungle. The sea rolled sullenly against the rocks under a low gloomy sky thickening with the approach of night. The _Briseia_ rowed slowly into the bay, twenty men at the oars and the rest standing nervous guard by the rails. On either side, the Xanthi cavalry hemmed them in, lancers astride the swimming cetaraea with eyes watchful on the humans, and behind them three great sea snakes under direction of their sorcerers followed ominously. Imazu shivered. "If they came at us now," he muttered, "we wouldn't last long." "We'd give them a fight!" said Corun. "They will receive us," declared Shorzon. The ship grounded on the shallows near the beach. The sailors hesitated. To pull her ashore would be to expose themselves almost helplessly to attack. "Go on, jump to it!" snapped Imazu, and the men shipped their oars and sheathed their weapons, waded into the bay and dragged the vessel up on the strand. The chiefs of the Xanthi stood waiting for them. There were perhaps fifty of the reptiles, huge golden forms wrapped in dark flowing robes on which glittered ropes of jewels. A few wore tall miters and carried hooked staffs of office. Like statues they stood, waiting, and the sailors shivered. Shorzon, Chryseis, Corun, and Imazu walked up toward them with all the slow dignity they could summon. The Conahurian's eyes sought the huge wrinkled form of Tsathu, king of the Xanthi. The monster's gaze brightened on him and the fanged mouth opened in a bass croak: "So you have returned to us. You may not leave this time." "Your majesty's hospitality overwhelms me," said Corun ironically. A stooped old Xanthian beside the king plucked his sleeve and hissed rapidly: "I told you, sire, I told you he would come back with the ruin of worlds in his train. Cut them all down now, before the fates strike. Kill them while there is time!" "There will be time," said Tsathu. His unblinking eyes locked with Shorzon's and suddenly the twilight shimmered and trembled, the nerves of men shook and out in the water the sea-beasts snorted with panic. For a long moment that silent duel of wizardry quivered in the air, and then it faded and the unreality receded into the background of dusk. Slowly the Xanthian monarch nodded, as if satisfied to find an opponent he could not overcome. "I am Shorzon of Achaera," said the man, "and I would speak with the chiefs of the Xanthi." "You may do so," replied the reptile. "Come up to the castle and we will quarter your folk." At Imazu's order, the sailors began unloading the gifts that had been brought: weapons, vessels and ornaments of precious metals set with jewels, rare tapestries and incenses. Tsathu hardly glanced at them. "Follow me," he said curtly. "All your people." "I'd hoped at least to leave a guard on the ship," murmured Imazu to Corun. "Would have done little good if they really wanted to seize her," whispered the Conahurian. It did not seem as if Tsathu could have heard them, but he turned and his bass boom rolled over the mumbling surf: "That is right. You may as well relax your petty precautions. They will avail nothing." ~ In a long file, they went up a narrow trail toward the black palace. The Xanthian rulers went first, with deliberately paced dignity, thereafter the human captains, their men, and a silent troop of armed reptile soldiery. _Hemmed in_, thought Corun grimly. _If they want to start shooting_— Chryseis' hand clasped his, a warm grip in the misty gloom. He responded gratefully. She came right behind him, her other hand on the nervous and growling erinye. The castle loomed ahead, blacker than the night that was gathering, the gigantic walls climbing sheer toward the sky, the spear-like towers half lost in the swirling fog. There was always fog here, Corun remembered, mist and rain and shadow; it was never full day on the island. He sniffed the dank sea-smell that blew from the gaping portals and bristled in recollection. They entered the cavernous doorway and went down a high narrow corridor which seemed to stretch on forever. Its bare stone walls were wet and green-slimed, tendrils of mist drifted under the invisibly high ceiling, and he heard the hooting and muttering of unknown voices somewhere in the murk. The only light was a dim bluish radiance from fungoid balls growing on the walls, a cold unhealthy shadowless illumination in which the white humans looked like drowned corpses. Looking behind, Corun could barely make out the frightened faces of the Umlotuans, huddled close together and gripping their weapons with futile strength. The Xanthi glided noiselessly through the mumbling gloom, tall spectral forms with faint golden light streaming from their damp scales. It seemed as if there were other presences in the castle too, things flitting just beyond sight, hiding in lightless corners and fluttering between the streamers of fog. Always, it seemed, there were watching eyes, watching and waiting in the dark. They came into a cavernous antechamber whose walls were lost in the dripping twilight. Tsathu's voice boomed hollowly between the chill immensities of it: "Follow those who will show you to your quarters." Silent Xanthi slipped between the human ranks, herding them with spears—the sailors one way, their chiefs another. "Where are you taking the men?" asked Imazu with an anger sharpened by fear. "Where are you keeping them?" The echoes flew from wall to wall, jeering him—_keeping them, keeping them, them, them_— "They go below the castle," said a Xanthian. "You will have more suitable rooms." _Our men down in the old dungeons_—Corun's hand whitened on the hilt of his sword. But it was useless to protest, unless they wanted to start a battle now. The four human leaders were taken down another whispering, echoing tunnel of a corridor, up a long ramp that seemed to wind inside one of the towers, and into a circular room in whose walls were six doors. There the guards left them, fading back down the impenetrable night of the ramp. ~ The rooms were furnished with grotesque ornateness—huge hideously carved beds and tables, scaled tapestries and rugs, shells and jewels set in the mold-covered walls. Narrow slits of windows opened on the wet night. Darkness and mist hid Corun's view of the ground, but the faintness of the surf told them they must be dizzyingly high up. "Ill is this," he said. "A few guards on that ramp can bottle us up here forever. And they need only lock the dungeon gates to have our men imprisoned below." "We will treat with them. Before long they will be our allies," said Shorzon. His hooded eyes were on Chryseis. It was with a sudden shock that Corun remembered. Days and nights of bliss, and then the violence of battle and the tension of approach, had driven from his mind the fact that he had never been told what the witch-pair was really here for. It was _their_ voyage, not his, and what real good could have brought them to this place of evil? He shoved his big body forward, a tawny giant in the foggy chill of the central room. "It is near time I was told something of what you intend," he said. "I have guided you and taught you and battled at your side, and I'll not be kept blindfolded any longer." "You will be told what I tell you—no more," said Shorzon haughtily. "You have me to thank for your miserable life—let that be enough." "You can thank me that you're not being eaten by fish at the bottom of the sea right now," snapped Corun. "By Breannach Brannor, I've had enough of this!" He stood with his back against the wall, sweeping them with ice-blue eyes. Shorzon stood black and ominous, wrath in the smoldering, sunken eyes. Chryseis shrank back a little from both of them, but Perias the erinye growled and flattened his belly to the floor and stared greenly at Corun. Imazu shifted from foot to foot, his wide blue face twisted with indecision. "I can strike you dead where you stand," warned Shorzon. "I can become a monster that will rip you to rags." "Try it!" snarled Corun. "Just try it!" Chryseis slipped between them and the huge dark eyes were bright with tears. "Are we not in enough danger now, four humans against a land of walking beasts, without falling at each other's throats? I think it is the witchcraft of Tsathu working on us, dividing us—fight _him_!" She swayed against the Conahurian. "Corun," she breathed. "Corun, my dearest of all—you shall know, you shall be told everything as soon as we dare. But don't you see—you haven't the skill to protect yourself and your knowledge against the Xanthian magic?" _Or against your magic, beloved._ She laughed softly and drew him after her, into one of the rooms. "Come, Corun. We are all weary now, it is time to rest. Come, my dear. Tomorrow—" # VII Day crept past in a blindness of rain. Twice Xanthians brought them food, and once Corun and Imazu ventured down the ramp to find their way barred by spear-bearing reptiles. For the rest they were alone. It ate at the nerves like an acid. Shorzon sat stiff, unmoving on a couch, eyes clouded with thought; his gaunt body could have been that of a Khemrian mummy. Imazu squatted unhappily, carving one of the intricate trinkets with whose making sailors pass dreamy hours. Corun paced like a caged beast, throttled rage mounting in him. Even Perias grew restless and took to padding up and down the antechamber, passing Corun on the way. The man could not help a half smile. He was growing almost fond of the erinye and his honest malevolence, after the intriguing of humans and Xanthi. Only Chryseis remained calm. She lay curled on her bed like a big beautiful animal, the long silken hair tumbling darkly past her shoulders, a veiled smile on her red lips. And so the day wore on. It was toward evening that they heard slow footfalls and looked out to see a party of Xanthi coming up the ramp. It was an awesome sight, the huge golden forms moving with deliberation and pride under the shimmering robes that flowed about them. Some were warriors, with saw-edged pikes flashing in their hands, but the one who spoke was plainly a palace official. "Greeting from Tsathu, king of the Demon Sea, to Shorzon of Achaera," the voice boomed. "You are to feast with the lords of the Xanthi tonight." "I am honored," bowed the sorcerer. "The woman Chryseis will come with me, for she is equal with me." "That is permitted," said the Xanthian gravely. "And we, I suppose, wait here," muttered Corun rebelliously. "It won't be for long," smiled Chryseis softly. "After tonight, I think it will be safe to tell you what you wish to know." She had donned banqueting dress carried up with her from the ship, a clinging robe of the light-rippling silk of Hiung-nu, a scarlet cloak that was like a rush of flame from her slim bare shoulders, barbarically massive bracelets and necklaces, a single fire-ruby burning at her white throat. Pearls and silver glittered like dewdrops in her night-black hair. The loveliness of her caught at Corun's throat. He could only stare with dumb longing as she went after Shorzon and the Xanthi. She turned to wave at him. Her whisper twined around his heart: "Goodnight, beloved." When they were gone, the erinye padding after them, Imazu gave Corun a rueful look and said, "So now we are out of the story." "Not yet," answered the Conahurian, still a little dazed. "Oh, yes, oh, yes. Surely you do not think that we plain sailormen will be asked for our opinions? No, Corun, we are only pieces on Shorzon's board. We've done our part, and now he will put us back in the box." "Chryseis said—" Imazu shook his scarred bald head sadly. "Surely you don't believe a word that black witch utters?" Corun half drew his sword. "I told you before that I'd hear no word against Chryseis," he said thinly. "As you will. It doesn't matter, anyway. But be honest, Corun. Strike me down if you will, it doesn't matter now, but try to think. I've known Chryseis longer than you, and I've never known anyone to change their habits overnight—for anyone." "She said—" "Oh, I think she likes you, in her own way. You make as handsome and useful a pet as that erinye of hers. But whatever else she is after, it is something for which she would give more than the world and not have a second thought about it." Corun paced unhappily. "I don't trust Shorzon," he admitted. "I trust him as I would a mad pherax. And anything Tsathu plans is—evil." He glared down the cavernous mouth of the ramp. "If I could only hear what they say!" "What chance of that? We're under guard, you know." "Aye, so. But—" Struck with a sudden thought, Corun went over to the window. The rain had ceased outside, but a solid wall of fog and night barred vision. It was breathlessly hot, and he heard the low muttering of thunder in the hidden sky. ~ There were vines growing on the wall, tendrils as thick as a man's leg. The broad leaves hung down over the sill, wet with rain and fog. "I remember the layout of the castle," he said slowly. "It's a warren of tunnels and corridors, but I could find my way to the feasting hall." "If they caught you, it would be death," said Imazu uneasily. Corun's grin was bleak. "It will most likely be death anyway," he said. "I think I'll try." "I'm not as spry as I once was, but—" "No, no, Imazu, you had best wait here. Then if anyone comes prying and sees you, he'll think we're both here—maybe." Corun slipped off tunic and sandals, leaving only his kilt. He hung his sword across his back, put a knife in his belt, and turned toward the window. "It may be all wrong," he said. "I should trust Chryseis—and I do, Imazu, but they might easily overpower her. And anything is better than this waiting like beasts in a trap." "The gods be with you, then," said Imazu huskily. He shook a horny fist. "To hell with Shorzon! I've been his thrall too long. I'm with you, friend." "Thanks." Corun swung out the window. "Good luck to both—to all of us, Imazu." The fog wrapped around his eyes like a hood. He could barely see the shadowy wall, and he groped with fingers and toes for the vines. One slip, one break, and he would be spattered to red ruin in the courtyard below. Down and down and down—Twigs clawed at him. The branches were slick in his hands, buried under a smother of leaves. His muscles began to ache with the strain. Several times he slipped and saved himself with a desperate clawing grip. Something moaned in the night, under the deepening growl of thunder. He clung to the wall and strained his eyes down. A breath of wind parted the fog briefly into ragged streamers through which winked the savage light of a bolt of lightning, high in the murky sky. Down below was the courtyard. He saw the metallic gleam of scales, guards pacing between the walls. Slowly, he edged his way across the outjutting tower to the main wall of the castle. Slantwise, he crept over its surface until a slit of blackness loomed before him, another window. He had to squeeze to get through, the stone scraping his skin. For a moment he stood inside, breathing heavily, the drawn sword in his hand. There was a corridor stretching beyond this room, on into a darkness lit by the ghostly blue fungus-glow. He saw and heard nothing of the Xanthi, but something scuttled across the floor and crouched in a shadowed corner, watching him. On noiseless bare feet, he ran down the hall. Fog eddied and curled in the tenebrous length of it, he heard the dripping of water and once a shuddering scream ripped the dank air. He thought he remembered where he was in that labyrinth—left here, and there would be another ramp going down— A huge golden form loomed around the corner. Before the jaws could open to shout, Corun's sword hissed in a vicious arc and the Xanthian's head leaped from his shoulders. He kicked the flopping body behind a door and sped on his way, panting. Halfway down the ramp, a narrow entrance gaped, one of the tunnels that riddled the building through its massive walls. Corun slithered down its lightless wet length. It should open on the great chamber and— Black against the dim blue light of the exit, a motionless form was squatting. Corun groaned inwardly. They had a guard against intruders, then. Best to go back now—no! He snarled soundlessly and bounded forward, clutching the sword in one hand and reaching out with the other. Fingers rasping across the scaly hide, he hooked the thing's neck into the crook of his elbow and yanked the heavy body back into the tunnel with one enormous wrench. Blind in the darkness, he stabbed into the mouth, driving the point of his sword through flesh and bone into the brain. The dying monster's claws raked him as he crouched over the body. He reflected grimly that no matter how benevolent the Xanthi might be, he would die for murder if they ever caught him. But he had no great fear of their suddenly becoming tender toward mankind. The bulk of the reptile race was peaceable, actually, but their rulers were relentless. The tunnel opened on a small balcony halfway up the rearing chamber wall. Corun lay on his belly, peering down over the edge. ~ They sat at a long table, the lords of the Demon Sea, and he felt a dim surprise at seeing that they were almost through eating. Had his nightmare journey taken that long? They were talking, and the sound drifted up to his ears. At the head of the table, Tsathu and his councillors sat on a long ornate couch ablaze with beaten gold. Shorzon and Chryseis were reclining nearby, sipping the bitter yellow wine of the Xanthi. It was strange to hear the hideous hissing and croaking of the reptile language coming from Chryseis' lovely throat. "—interesting, I am sure," said the king. "More than that—more than that!" It seemed to Corun that he could almost see the terrible fire in Shorzon's eyes. The wizard leaned forward, shaking with intensity. "You can do it. The Xanthi can conquer Achaera with ease. Your sea cavalry and serpents can smash their ships, your devil-powder can burst their walls into the air, your legions can overrun their land, your wizardry blind and craze them. And the terror you will inspire will force the people to do our bidding." "Possibly you overrate us," said Tsathu. "It is true that we have great numbers and a strong army, but do not forget that the Xanthi are actually a more peaceful race than man. Your kind is hard and savage, murdering even each other, making war simply for loot or glory or no real reason at all. Until the king-race arose, the Xanthi dwelt quietly on the sea bottom and a few small islands, without wish to harm anyone. "They have not even the natural capacity for magic possessed, however undeveloped, by all humans. As a result they are much more susceptible to it than men. Thus, when the king-race was born with such powers, they were soon able to control all their people and make themselves the absolute masters of the Xanthi. But we, kings and wizards and lords of the Demon Sea, are all one interbred clan. Without us, the Xanthi power would collapse; they would go back to what they were. "Even Xanthi science is all of our making. _We_, the king-race, developed the devil-powder and all that we have ever made is stored in the dungeons of this very building—enough to blow it into the sky." ~ Tsathu made a grimace which might have been a sardonic smile. "Do not read weakness into that admission," he said. "Even though all the lords who make Xanthian might are gathered in this one room, that power is still immeasurably greater than you can imagine. To show you how helpless you are—your men are locked into the dungeons and your geas has been lifted from their minds." "Impossible!" gasped Shorzon. "A geas cannot be lifted—" "But it can. What is it but a compulsion implanted in the brain, so deeply as to supersede all other habits? One mind cannot erase that imposed pattern, but several minds working in concert can do so, and that I and my councillors have done. As of today, your folk are free in soul, hating you for what you made them. You are alone." The great scaled forms edged closer, menacingly. Corun's fist clenched about his sword. If they harmed Chryseis— But she said cooly: "It does not matter. Our men were simply to bring us here, nothing else. We can dispense with them. What matters is our plan to impose magic control over Achaera." "And I cannot yet see what benefit the Xanthi would get of it," said Tsathu impatiently. "Our powers of darkness are so much greater than yours already that—" "Let us not use words meant to impress the ignorant among ourselves," said Chryseis scornfully. "Every sorcerer knows there is nothing of heaven or hell about magic. It is but the imposition of a pattern on other minds. It creates, by control of the senses, illusions of lycanthropy or whatever else is desired, or it binds the subject by the unbreakable compulsion of a geas. But it is no more than that—one mind reaching through space to create what impressions it wills on another mind. Your devil-powder, or an ordinary sword or ax or fist, is more dangerous—if the fools only knew." Corun's breath hissed between his teeth. If—if that—O gods, if _that_ was the secret of the magicians—! "As you will," said Tsathu indifferently. "What matters is that there are more of our minds than your two, and thus we can beat down any attempt you may make against us. So it comes back to the question, why should we help you seize and hold Achaera? What will we gain?" "I should say nothing of its great wealth," said Shorzon. "But it is true, as you say, that many minds working together are immeasurably more powerful than one—more powerful, even, than the sum of all those minds working separately. I have worked with as many as a dozen slaves, having them concentrate with me, so that I could draw their mind-force through my own brain and use it as my own, and the results have amazed me. Now if the entire population of Achaera were forced to help us, all at one time—" The Xanthi's eyes glittered and a low murmur rose among them. Shorzon went on, rapidly: "It would be power over the world. Nothing could stand before that massed mental force. With us, skilled sorcerers, to direct, and the soldiers of Xanthi to compel obedience, we could lay a geas on whole nations without even having to be near them. We could span immeasurable gulfs of space and contact minds on those other worlds which philosophers think exist beyond the upper clouds. We could, by thus heightening our own mental powers, think out the very problems of existence, find the deepest secrets of nature, forces beside which your devil-powder would be a spark. Drawing life-energy from other bodies, we would never grow old, we would live forever. "Tsathu—lords of Xanthi—I offer you a chance to become gods!" ~ The stillness was broken only by the muttering and whispering of the Xanthi among themselves. Mist drifted through the raw wet night of the hall. The walls seemed to waver, shift and blur like smoke. "Why could we not do this in our own nation?" asked Tsathu. "Because, as you yourself said, the Xanthi do not have the latent mental powers of humans—save for you few who are the masters. It must be mankind who is controlled, with the commoners of your race as overseers." "And why could we not kill you and do this ourselves?" "Because you do not understand humans. The differences are too great. You could never control human thoughts as Chryseis or I could." Another Xanthian spoke: "But do you realize what this will do to the human race? Your Achaerans will become mindless machines under such control. Drained of life-energy, they will age and die like animals. I doubt that any will live ten seasons." "What of that?" shrugged Chryseis. "There are other nations nearby to draw on—Conahur, Norriki, Khemri, ultimately the world. We will have centuries, remember—we will never die!" "And you do not care for your own race at all?" "It will no longer be our race," said Shorzon. "We will be gods, thinking and living and wielding such powers as they—as we ourselves right now—could never dream. Why, do what you will with our men here, to start. What does it matter?" "But do not harm the yellow-haired man from Conahur," said Chryseis sharply. "He's mine—forever." Tsathu sat thinking, like the statue of a Khemrian beast-god cast in shining gold. Slowly, at last, he nodded, and an eerie sigh ran down the long table as the lords of the Xanthi hissed agreement. "It will be done," said Tsathu. Corun stumbled back down the tunnel, reckless of discovery, blind and deaf with madness that roared in his skull. Chryseis—Chryseis—Chryseis— It was not the horror of the scheme, the ruin that it would bring even if it failed, the revelation of how immeasurably powerful were the forces leagued against man. He could have stood that, and braced himself to fight it as long as there was breath in his lungs. But Chryseis— _She_ had been part of it. She had helped plan it, had coldly condemned her whole race to oblivion. She had lied to him, cheated him, betrayed him, used him, and now she wanted him for a toy, an immortal puppet—Witch! Witch! Witch! Less human than the erinye at her feet, than the Xanthi themselves, mad with a cold madness such as he had never thought could be—_Chryseis, Chryseis, Chryseis, I loved you. With all my heart, I loved you._ There was no hope in him, no longing for anything but the fullest revenge he could take before they hewed him to the ground. Had the old Xanthian wizard foretold he would bring death? Aye, by the mad cruel gods who ruled men's destinies, he would! He reached the corridor and began to run. # VIII Down a long curving ramp that led into a pit of blackness—the dungeons could not be far, they lay this way— He hugged himself into the shadows as a troop of guards went by. They were talking in their hoarse croaking language, and did not peer into the corners of the labyrinth. When they were past, Corun sped on his way. The stone walls became rough damp tunnels, hewed out of the living rock under the castle. He groped through a blackness relieved only by the occasional dull glow of fungi. The darkness hissed and rustled with movements; he caught the glimmer of three red eyes watching, and something slithered over his bare feet. A far faint scream quivered down the hollow length of passages. It had shaken him when he was here before, but now— What mattered? What was important, save to kill as many of the monsters as he could before they overwhelmed him? The tunnel opened on a great cave whose floor was a pool of oily black water. As he skirted its rim along a narrow slippery ledge, something stirred, a misshapen giant thing darker than the night. It roared hollowly and swam toward him. A wave of foul odor came with it, catching Corun's throat in a sick dizziness. He swayed on the edge of the pool and the swimmer began to crawl out of it toward him. Corun saw its teeth gleam wetly in the vague blue light, but there were no eyes—it was blind. He retreated along the ledge toward the farther exit. The ground trembled under the bulk of the creature. Its jaws clashed shut behind him as he leaped free. Racing down the tunnel, he heard the bellowing of it like dull thunder through the reeking gloom. It wouldn't follow far, but that way of return would be barred to him. No matter, no matter. He burst out into another open space. It was lit by a dim flickering fire over which crouched three armed Xanthi. Beyond, the red light glimmered on an iron-barred doorway, and behind that there were figures stirring. Men! Corun bounded across the floor, the sword shrieking in his hand. It whirled down to crash through the skull-bones of one guard. Before he could free it, the other two were on him. He ducked a murderous pike thrust and slipped close to the wielder, stabbing upward with his dagger. The Xanthian screamed and hugged Corun close to himself, fastening his jaws in the man's shoulder. Corun slashed wildly, ripping open the throat. They tumbled to the ground, locked in each other's arms, raging like beasts. Corun's knife glanced off the Xanthian's ribs and he felt the steel snap over. He got both hands into the clamped jaws, heedless of the fangs, and wrenched. The jawbone cracked as he forced the reptile's mouth open. He rolled from beneath the still feebly struggling creature and glared around for the third. That one lay in a hacked ruin against the cell; he had backed up too close to the bars, and the men inside still had their weapons. ~ Gasping, Corun climbed to his feet. An eager baying of fierce voices rolled out from the cell; men gripped the bars and howled in maddened glee. "Corun—Captain Corun—get us out of here—let us out to rip Shorzon's guts loose—Aaarrrgh!" The Conahurian lurched over to a dead Xanthian at whose waist hung a bundle of keys. His hands shook as he tried them in the lock. When he got the door open, the men were out in a single tide. He leaned heavily on an Umlotuan's arm. "What happened to you?" he asked. "The devils led us down here and then closed the door on us," snarled the blue man. "Later a group of them in rich dress came down—and suddenly we saw what a slavery we'd been in to Shorzon, suddenly it no longer seemed that obedience to him was the only possible thing—Mwanzi, let me at his throat!" "You may have that chance," said the pirate. He felt strength returning; he stood erect and faced them in the flickering fire-light. Their eyes gleamed back at him out of the shadows, fierce as the metal of their weapons. "Listen," he said. "We might be able to fight our way out of here, but we'd never escape across the Demon Sea. But I know a way to destroy this whole cursed house and every being in it. If you'll follow me—" "Aye!" The shout filled the cavern with savage thunder. They shook their weapons in the air, gleam of red-lit steel out of trembling darkness. "Aye!" Corun picked up his sword and trotted down the nearest passageway. He was bleeding, he saw vaguely, but he felt little pain from it—he was beyond that now. The thing was to find the devil-powder. Tsathu had said it was somewhere down here. They went along tunnel after winding tunnel, losing all sense of direction in the wet hollow dark. Corun had a sudden nightmare feeling that they might wander down here forever, blundering from cave to empty cave while eternity grayed. "Where are we going?" asked someone impatiently. "Where are Xanthi to fight?" "I don't know," snapped Corun. They came suddenly into another broad cavern, beyond which was another barred door. Four Xanthi stood guard in front of it. They never had a chance—the air was suddenly full of hurled weapons, and they were buried under a pile of edged steel. Corun searched the bodies but found no keys. In the murk beyond, he could dimly see boxes and barrels reaching into fathomless distances, but the door was held fast. Of course—Tsathu would never trust his men-at-arms with entrance to the devil-powder. The corsair snarled and grabbed a bar with both hands. "Pull, men of Umlotu!" he shouted. "Pull!" They swarmed close, thirty-odd big blue men with the strength of hate in them, clutching the cell bars, grabbing each other's waists, heaving with a force that shrieked through the iron. "Pull!" The lock burst and they staggered back as the door swung wide. Instantly Corun was inside, ripping open a box and laughing aloud to see the black grains that filled it. For a wild moment he thought of plunging a brand into the powder and going up in flame and thunder with the castle. Coldness returned—he checked himself and looked around for fuses. His followers would not have permitted him to commit a suicide that involved them. And after all—the longer he lived, the more enemies he'd have a chance to cut down personally. "I've heard talk of this stuff," said one of the men nervously. "Is it true that setting fire to it releases a demon?" "Aye." Corun found the long rope-like fuses coiled in a box. He knotted several together and put one end into the powder. The ignition of one container would quickly set off the rest—and the cavern was huge, and filled with many shiploads of sleeping hell. "If we can fight our way to our ship, and get clear before the fire reaches the powder—" began the Umlotuan. "We can try that, I suppose," said Corun. He estimated the burning time of his fuse from memories of the use he'd seen the Xanthi make of the devil-powder. Yes, there would be a fair allowance for escape, though he doubted that they would ever reach the strand alive. He touched a stick from the fire to the end of the fuse. It began to sputter, a red spark creeping along it toward the open box. "Let's go!" shouted Corun. They pounded along the tunnel, heedless of direction. There should be an upward-leading ramp somewhere—ah! There it was! Up its length they raced, past levels of the dungeons toward the main floor of the castle. At the end, there was a brighter blue light than they had seen below. Up—up! Up—and out! ~ The chamber was enormous, a pillared immensity reaching to a ceiling hidden in sheer height; rugs and tapestries of the scaled Xanthian weave were strewn about, and their heavy, intricately carved furniture filled it. At the far end stood a towering canopied throne, on which sat a huge golden form. Other shapes stood around it, and there were pikemen lining the walls at rigid attention. Through the haze of mist and twilight, Corun saw the black robe of Shorzon and the flame-colored cloak of Chryseis. He shrieked an oath and plunged for them. A horn screamed and the guards sprang from the walls to form a line before the throne. The humans shocked against the Xanthi with a fury that clamored through the building. Swords and axes began to fly. Corun hewed at the nearest grinning reptile face, felt the sword sink in and roared the war-cry of Conahur. He spitted the monster on his blade, lifted it, and pitchforked it into the ranks of the guards. Tsathu bellowed and rose to meet him. Suddenly the Xanthian king was not there; it was a tentacled thing from the sea bottom that filled the room, a thing whose bloated dark body reared to the ceiling. Someone screamed—fear locked the battlers into motionlessness. "Magic!" It was a sneering rattle in Corun's throat. He sprang into the very body of the sea creature. He felt the shock of striking its solid form, the rasp of its hide against him, the overwhelming poisonous stench of it. One tentacle closed around him. He felt his ribs snapping and the air popping from his burst lungs. It wasn't real, his mind gasped through the whirling agony. It wasn't real! He plowed grimly ahead, blind in the illusion that swirled around him, striking, striking. Dimly, through the roaring in his nerves, he felt his blade hit something solid. He bellowed in savage glee and smote again, again, and again. The smashing pressure lifted. He sobbed air into himself and looked with streaming eyes as the giant form dissolved into smoke, into mist, into empty air. It was Tsathu writhing in pain at his feet, Tsathu with his head nearly chopped off. It was only another dying Xanthian. Corun leaped up onto the throne and looked over the room. The guards and the sailors were still standing in shaken silence. "Kill them!" roared the pirate. "Strike them down!" Battle closed again with a snarl and a clang of steel. Corun glared around after other Xanthi of the sorcerer breed. There were none in sight; they must prudently have fled into another part of the castle. Well—let them! But other Xanthi were swarming into the chamber, battle horns were hooting and the guttural reptile voices crying a summons. If the humans were not to be broken by sheer numbers, they'd have to fight their way out soon.... And down in the dungeons a single red spark was eating its way toward a box of black powder. Corun jumped down again to the floor. His sword leaped sideways, cut a Xanthian spine across, bit the tail from another. "To me!" he bawled. "Over here, men of Umlotu!" The blues heard him and rallied, gathering into compact knots that slashed their way toward where his dripping sword whined and thundered. He never stopped striking; he drove the reptiles before him until they edged away from his advance. The men formed into one group and Corun led it across the floor in a dash for the looming doorway. A red thought flashed across his brain: Where were Shorzon and Chryseis? The Xanthi scattered before the desperate human rush. The men came out into a remembered hallway—it led to the outside, Corun recalled. By Breannach Brannor, they might escape yet! "Corun! Corun, you sea-devil! I knew it was your doing!" The Conahurian turned to see Imazu bounding toward him with a bloody ax in one hand. Imazu—thank all the gods, Imazu was free! "I heard a noise of fighting, and the tower guards went off toward it," gasped the Umlotuan captain. "So I came too. On the way I met Shorzon and Chryseis." "What of them?" breathed Corun. The blue warrior smiled savagely and flung a red thing down at Corun's feet. "There's Shorzon's scheming head. My woman is free!" "Chryseis—" Imazu leaned on his ax, panting. "She launched her erinye at me. I ducked into a room and slammed the door in its face, then came here through another entrance." Chryseis was loose—"We've got to get clear," said Corun. "The devil-powder is going to go off any time now." The Xanthi were rallying. They came at the humans in another rush. Corun and Imazu and their best men filled the corridor with a haze of steel, backing down toward the outer portal. It was a crazy blur of struggle, hewing at faces that wavered out of night, slapping down thrusts and reaching for the life of the enemy. Men fell, and others took their places in the line. Down the corridor they retreated, fighting to get free, and they left a trail of dead. The end of the passage loomed ahead. And the monstrous iron door was swinging shut. Chryseis stood in the entrance. A wild storm-wind outside sent her cloak flapping about her, red wings beating in the lightning-shot darkness about the devil's rage of the goddess face. "Stay here!" she screamed. "Stay here and be cut down, you triple traitor!" The nearest Umlotuan sprang at her. The door clashed shut in his face—they heard the great bolt slam down outside. They were boxed in the end of the hall, and the Xanthi need only shoot them down with arrows. Down in the dungeons, the fuse burned to its end. A sheet of flame sprang up in the opened box of powder, reaching for the stacks around it. # IX The first explosion came as a muffled roar. Corun felt the floor tremble under his feet. Men and Xanthi stood motionless, looking at each other with widening eyes in which a common doom arose. So it ended. Shorzon and Tsathu and their wizard cohorts would be gone, but Chryseis, mad, lovely Chryseis, was loose, and the gods knew what hell she could brew among the leaderless Xanthi. The walls groaned as another boom echoed down their length. Well, death came to every man, and he had not done so badly. Corun began to realize how weary he was; he was bleeding from wounds and breath was raw in his lungs. The Umlotuans hammered on the door in panic. But the twenty or fewer survivors could never break it down. The devil-powder roared. The floor heaved sickeningly under Corun's feet. He heard the crash of collapsing masonry. Wait—wait—one chance! One chance, by the gods! "Be ready to run out when the walls topple," he shouted. "We'll have a little time—" The Xanthi were fleeing in terror. The humans stood alone, waiting while the explosions rolled and banged around them. Cracks zigzagged across the walls, dust choked the dank air. _Crash!_ Corun saw the nearer wall swaying, toppling. The floor lifted and buckled and he fell to the lurching ground. All the world was an insanity of racket and ruin. The lintel caved in, the portal sagged. Corun leaped for the opening like a pouncing erinye. The men swarmed with it, out through the widening hole while the roof came down behind them. Someone screamed, a faint lost sound in the grinding fury of sundering stone. Rocks were flying—Corun saw one of them crack a man's head like a melon. Wildly he ran as the outer facade came down. There was a madness of storm outside, wind screaming to fill the sky, driving solid sheets of rain and hail before it. The incessant blinding lightning glared in a cold shadowless brilliance, the bawling thunder drowned the roar of exploding devil-powder. They fought out through the courtyard, past the deserted outer gate. There came a blast which seemed to crack the sky. Corun was knocked down as by a giant's fist. He lay in the mud and saw a pillar of flame lift toward the heavens with the castle fountaining up on its wings. Thunder roared over the earth, shouting to the storm that raged in the heavens. Corun picked himself up and leaned dizzily against a tree stripped clean by the blast. Rain slanted across the ground, churning the mud beneath his feet, the livid lightning-glare blazing above. Vaguely, through ringing, deafened ears, he heard the wild clamor of the sea. Looking down the cataract which the upward trail had become, he saw the _Briseia_ rocking in the wind where she lay on the beach. He gestured to Imazu, who staggered up to join him. His voice was barely audible over the shouting wind: "Take the men down there. We can't sail in this storm, but make the ship fast, stand guard over her. If I'm not back when the storm is done, start for home." "Where are you going?" cried the Umlotuan. "I'll be back—maybe. Stay with the ship!" Corun turned and slogged across the ground toward the jungle. ~ Weariness was gone. He was like a machine running without thought or pain until it burned out. Chryseis would have fled toward high ground, he thought dully. Behind him, Imazu started forward, then checked himself. Something of the ultimate loneliness that was in Corun must have come to the Umlotuan. It was not a mission on which any other man might go. And they had to save the ship. He gestured to his few remaining men and they began the slow climb down to the beach. The castle was a heap of shattered rock, still moving convulsively as the last few boxes of devil-powder exploded. The rain boiled down over it, churning through the fragments. Lightning flamed in the berserk heavens. Corun pushed through underbrush that clutched at his feet and clawed at his skin. The sword was still hanging loosely in one hand, nicked and blunted with battle. He went on mechanically, scarcely noticing the wind-whipped trees that barred his way. It came to him that he was fighting for Khroman, the thalassocrat of Achaera, ruler by right of conquest over Conahur. But there were worse things than foreign rule, if it was human, and one of the greater evils had fled toward the mountain. Presently he came out on the bare rocks above the fringe of jungle growth. The rain hammered at him, driven by a wind that screamed like a maddened beast. Thunder boomed and rolled overhead, a roar of doom answering the thud of his heart. The water rushed over his ankles, foaming down toward the sea. She stood waiting for him atop a high bare hill. Her cloak was drawn tightly about her slender body, but the wind caught at it, whipped and tore it. Her rain-wet hair blew wild. "Corun," she called under the gale. "Corun." "I am coming," he said, not caring if she heard him or not. He struggled up to where she stood limned against the sheeted fire in heaven. They faced each other while the storm raged around them. "Corun—" She read death in his eyes as he lifted the sword. Her form blurred, the outlines of a monster grew to his eyes. He laughed bitterly. "I know what your magic is," he said. "You saw me kill Tsathu." She was human again, human and lovely, a light-footed spirit of the hurricane. Her face was etched white in the lightning-glare. "Perias!" she screamed. The erinye crept forth, belly to the ground, tail lashing. Hell glared out of the ice-green eyes. Corun braced himself, sword in hand. Perias sprang—not straight at the man, but into the air. His wings caught the wind, whirling him aloft. Twisting in mid-flight, he arrowed down. Corun struck at him. The erinye dodged the blow and one buffeting wingtip caught the man's wrist. The sword fell from Corun's hand. At once the erinye was on him. Corun fell under that smashing attack. The erinye's fangs gleamed above his throat, the claws sank into his muscles. He flung up an arm and the teeth crunched on it, grinding at the bone. Corun wrapped his legs in a scissor-lock around the gaunt body, pressing himself too close for the clawed hind feet to disembowel him. His free hand reached out, gouging—he felt an eyeball tear loose, and the erinye opened his mouth in a thin scream. Corun pulled his torn arm free. He struck with a balled fist at the devil-beast and felt his knuckles break under the impact. But bone snapped. Perias' jaw hung suddenly loose. The erinye sprang back and Corun lurched to hands and knees. Perias edged closer, stiff-legged. Corun stumbled erect and Perias charged. One great wing smashed out, brought the man toppling back to earth. Perias leaped for his exposed belly. Corun lashed out with both feet. The thud was dull and hollow under the racketing thunder. Perias tumbled back and Corun sprang on him. The barbed tail slashed, laying Corun's thigh open. He fell atop the struggling beast and got his free hand on the throat. The mighty wings threshed, half lifting man and erinye. Corun pulled himself over on the writhing back. He locked legs around the body, arms around the neck, and heaved. The erinye yowled. His wings clashed together with skull-cracking force, barely missing the head of the man who hugged his back. His tail raked against Corun's back, seeking the vitals. Corun gave another yank. He felt the supple spine bending. Heave! Perias lifted a brassy scream. The strange dry sound of snapping vertebrae crackled out. Corun rolled away from the threshing form. Perias gasped, lifted his broken head, and looked with filming green eyes at Chryseis where she stood unmoving against the white fire of the sky. Slowly, painfully, he dragged himself toward her. Breath rattled in and out of his blood-filled lungs. "Perias—" Chryseis bent over to touch the great head. The erinye sighed. His rough tongue licked her feet. Then he shuddered and lay still. "Perias." Corun climbed to his feet and stood shaking. There was no strength left in him—it was running out through a dozen yawning wounds. The ground whirled and tilted crazily about him. He saw her standing against the sky and slowly, slowly, he came toward her. Chryseis picked up a stone and threw it. It seemed to take an immense time, arcing toward him. Some dim corner of his buckling consciousness realized that it would knock him out, that she could then kill him with the sword and escape into the hills. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered. The stone crashed against his skull and the world exploded into darkness. # X He woke up, slowly and painfully, and lay for a long time in a state of half-awareness, remembering only confused fragments of battle and despair. When he opened his eyes, he saw that the storm was dying. Lightning was wan in the sky, and thunder mumbled farewell. The wind had fallen, the rain fell slow and heavy down on him. He saw her bending over him. The long wet hair tumbled past her face to fall on his breast. He was wrapped in her cloak, and she had ripped bandages from her robe for his hurts. He tried to move, and could only stir feebly. She laid a hand on his cheek. "Don't," she whispered. "Just lie there, Corun." His head was on her lap, he realized dimly. His eyes questioned her. She laughed, softly under the falling rain. "Don't you see?" she said. "Didn't you think of it? Shorzon's geas was put on me as a child. I was always under his will. Even when he was dead, it was strong enough to drive me along his road. "But I love you, Corun. I will always love you. My love warred with Shorzon's will even as I tried to kill you. And when I saw you lying there helpless, after such a fight as no man has ever waged since the gods walked the earth— "I tried to stab you. And I couldn't. Shorzon's geas was broken." Her hands stroked his hair. "You aren't too badly hurt, Corun. I'll get you down to the ship. With my witch's powers, we can win through any Xanthi who try to stop us—not that I think they will, with their leaders destroyed. We can get safely to Achaera." She sighed. "I will see that you escape my father's power, Corun. If you will return to the pirate life, I will follow you." He shook his head. "No," he whispered. "No, I will take service under Khroman, if he will have me." "He will," she vowed softly. "He needs strong men. And someday you can be thalassocrat of the empire—" It wasn't so bad, thought Corun drowsily. Khroman was a good sort. A highly placed Conahurian could gradually ease the burdens of his people until they had full equality with Achaera in a united and peaceful domain. The menace of the Xanthi was ended. To be on the safe side, Achaera had better make them tributary; an expedition which he, Corun, could lead. After that, there would be enough to keep a man busy. As well as the loveliest and best of women for wife. He slept. He did not waken when Imazu led a squad up in search of him. Chryseis laid a finger on her lips and a flash of understanding passed between her and the captain. He nodded, smiling, and clasped her hand with sudden warmth. They bore the sleeping warrior back through the rain, down to the waiting ship. THE END
237	--- title: Wolfshead author: Robert E. Howard tags: Fiction, Short Story, Horror, Werewolves word count: 8301 ... # Wolfsead > "Then the eery wolf-yell rose to the skies, and the natives broke and fled. Wild shrieks, not of rage, but of terror." Fear? your pardon, Messieurs, but the meaning of fear you do not know. No, I hold to my statement. You are soldiers, adventurers. You have known the charges of regiments of dragoons, the frenzy of wind-lashed seas. But fear, real hair-raising, horror-crawling fear, you have not known. I myself have known such fear; but until the legions of darkness swirl from hell's gate and the world flames to ruin, will never such fear again be known to men: Hark, I will tell you the tale; for it was many years ago and half across the world; and none of you will ever see the man of whom I tell you, or seeing, know. Return, then, with me across the years to a day when I, a reckless young cavalier, stepped from the small boat that had landed me from the ship floating in the harbor, cursed the mud that littered the crude wharf, and strode up the landing toward the castle, in answer to the invitation of an old friend, Dom Vincente da Lusto. Dom Vincente was a strange, far-sighted man—a strong man, one who saw visions beyond the ken of his time. In his veins, perhaps, ran the blood of those old Phoenicians who, the priests tell us, ruled the seas and built cities in far lands, in the dim ages. His plan of fortune was strange and yet successful; few men would have thought of it; fewer could have succeeded. For his estate was upon the western coast of that dark, mystic continent, that baffler of explorers—Africa. There by a small bay had he cleared away the sullen jungle, built his castle and his storehouses, and with ruthless hand had he wrested the riches of the land. Four ships he had: three smaller craft and one great galleon. These plied between his domains and the cities of Spain, Portugal, France, and even England, laden with rare woods, ivory, slaves; the thousand strange riches that Dom Vincente had gained by trade and by conquest. Aye, a wild venture, a wilder commerce. And yet might he have shaped an empire from the dark land, had it not been for the rat-faced Carlos, his nephew—but I run ahead of my tale. ~ Look, Messieurs, I draw a map on the table, thus, with finger dipped in wine. Here lay the small, shallow harbor, and here the wide wharves. A landing ran thus, up the slight slope with hutlike warehouses on each side, and here it stopped at a wide, shallow moat. Over it went a narrow drawbridge and then one was confronted with a high palisade of logs set in the ground. This extended entirely around the castle. The castle itself was built on the model of another, earlier age; being more for strength than beauty. Built of stone brought from a great distance; years of labor and a thousand negroes toiling beneath the lash had reared its walls, and now, completed, it offered an almost impregnable appearance. Such was the intention of its builders, for Barbary pirates ranged the coasts, and the horror of a native uprising lurked ever near. A space of about a half-mile on every side of the castle was kept cleared away and roads had been built through the marshy land. All this had required an immense amount of labor, but manpower was plentiful. A present to a chief, and he furnished all that was needed. And Portuguese know how to make men work! Less than three hundred yards to the east of the castle ran a wide, shallow river, which emptied into the harbor. The name has entirely slipt my mind. It was a heathenish title and I could never lay my tongue to it. I found that I was not the only friend invited to the castle. It seems that once a year or some such matter, Dom Vincente brought a host of jolly companions to his lonely estate and made merry for some weeks, to make up for the work and solitude of the rest of the year. In fact, it was nearly night, and a great banquet was in progress when I entered. I was acclaimed with great delight, greeted boisterously by friends and introduced to such strangers as were there. Entirely too weary to take much part in the revelry, I ate, drank quietly, listened to the toasts and songs, and studied the feasters. Dom Vincente, of course, I knew, as I had been intimate with him for years; also his pretty niece, Ysabel, who was one reason I had accepted his invitation to come to that stinking wilderness. Her second cousin, Carlos, I knew and disliked—a sly, mincing fellow with a face like a mink's. Then there was my old friend, Luigi Verenza, an Italian; and his flirt of a sister, Marcita, making eyes at the men as usual. Then there was a short, stocky German who called himself Baron von Schiller; and Jean Desmarte, an out-at-the-elbows nobleman of Gascony; and Don Florenzo de Seville, a lean, dark, silent man, who called himself a Spaniard and wore a rapier nearly as long as himself. There were others, men and women, but it was long ago and all their names and faces I do not remember. But there was one man whose face somehow drew my gaze as an alchemist's magnet draws steel. He was a leanly built man of slightly more than medium height, dressed plainly, almost austerely, and he wore a sword almost as long as the Spaniard's. But it was neither his clothes nor his sword which attracted my attention. It was his face. A refined, high-bred face, it was furrowed deep with lines that gave it a weary, haggard expression. Tiny scars flecked jaw and forehead as if torn by savage claws; I could have sworn the narrow gray eyes had a fleeting, haunted look in their expression at times. I leaned over to that flirt, Marcita, and asked the name of the man, as it had slipt my mind that we had been introduced. "De Montour, from Normandy," she answered. "A strange man. I don't think I like him." ~ "Then he resists your snares, my little enchantress?" I murmured; long friendship making me as immune from her anger as from her wiles. But she chose not to be angry and answered coyly, glancing from under demurely lowered lashes. I watched de Montour much, feeling somehow a strange fascination. He ate lightly, drank much, seldom spoke, and then only to answer questions. Presently, toasts making the rounds, I noticed his companions urging him to rise and give a health. At first he refused, then rose, upon their repeated urgings, and stood silent for a moment, goblet raised. He seemed to dominate, to overawe the group of revelers. Then with a mocking, savage laugh, he lifted the goblet above his head. "To Solomon," he exclaimed, "who bound all devils! And thrice cursed be he for that some escaped!" A toast and a curse in one! It was drunk silently, and with many sidelong, doubting glances. ~ That night I retired early, weary of the long sea voyage and my head spinning from the strength of the wine,—of which Dom Vincente kept such great stores. My room was near the top of the castle and looked out toward the forests of the south and the river. The room was furnished in crude, barbaric splendor, as was all the rest of the castle. Going to the window, I gazed out at the arquebusier pacing the castle grounds just inside the palisade; at the cleared space lying unsightly and barren in the moonlight; at the forest beyond; at the silent river. From the native quarters close to the river bank came the weird twanging of some rude lute, sounding a barbaric melody. In the dark shadows of the forest some uncanny night-bird lifted a mocking voice. A thousand minor notes sounded—birds, and beasts, and the devil knows what else! Some great jungle cat began a hair-lifting yowling. I shrugged my shoulders and turned from the windows. Surely devils lurked in those somber depths. There came a knock at my door and I opened it, to, admit de Montour. He strode to the window and gazed at the moon, which rode resplendent and glorious. "The moon is almost full, is it not, Monsieur?" he remarked, turning to me. I nodded, and I could have sworn that he shuddered. "Your pardon, Monsieur. I will not annoy you further." He turned to go, but at the door turned and retraced his steps. "Monsieur," he almost whispered, with a fierce intensity, "whatever you do, be sure you bar and bolt your door tonight!" Then he was gone, leaving me to stare after him bewilderedly. I dozed off to sleep, the distant shouts of the revelers in my ears, and though I was weary, or perhaps because of it, I slept lightly. While I never really awoke until morning, sounds and noises seemed to drift to me through my veil of slumber, and once it seemed that something was prying and shoving against the bolted door. ~ As is to be supposed, most of the guests were in a beastly humor the following day and remained in their rooms most of the morning or else straggled down late. Besides Dom Vincente there were really only three of the masculine members sober: de Montour; the Spaniard, de Seville (as he called himself); and myself. The Spaniard never touched wine, and though de Montour consumed incredible quantities of it, it never affected him in any way. The ladies greeted us most graciously. "S'truth, Signor," remarked that minx Marcita, giving me her hand with a gracious air that was like to make me snicker, "I am glad to see there are gentlemen among us who care more for our company than for the wine cup; for most of them are most surprizingly befuddled this morning." Then with a most outrageous turning of her wondrous eyes, "Methinks someone was too drunk to be discreet last night—or not drunk enough. For unless my poor senses deceive me much, someone came fumbling at my door late in the night." "Ha!" I exclaimed in quick anger, "some——!" "No. Hush." She glanced about as if to see that we were alone, then: "Is it not strange that Signor de Montour, before he retired last night, instructed me to fasten my door firmly?" "Strange," I murmured, but did not tell her that he had told me the same thing. "And is it not strange, Pierre, that though Signor de Montour left the banquet hall even before you did, yet he has the appearance of one who has been up all night?" I shrugged. A woman's fancies are often strange. "Tonight," she said roguishly, "I will leave my door unbolted and see whom I catch." "You will do no such thing." She showed her little teeth in a contemptuous smile and displayed a small, wicked dagger. "Listen, imp. De Montour gave me the same warning he did you. Whatever he knew, whoever prowled the halls last night, the object was more apt murder than amorous adventure. Keep you your doors bolted. The lady Ysabel shares your room, does she not?" "Not she. And I send my woman to the slave quarters at night," she murmured, gazing mischievously at me from beneath drooping eyelids. "One would think you a girl of no character from your talk," I told her, with the frankness of youth and of long friendship. "Walk with care, young lady, else I tell your brother to spank you." And I walked away to pay my respects to Ysabel. The Portuguese girl was the very opposite of Marcita, being a shy, modest young thing, not so beautiful as the Italian, but exquisitely pretty in an appealing, almost childish air. I once had thoughts—— Hi ho! To be young and foolish! Your pardon, Messieurs. An old man's mind wanders. It was of de Montour that I meant to tell you—de Montour and Dom Vincente's mink-faced cousin. A band of armed natives were thronged about the gates, kept at a distance by the Portuguese soldiers. Among them were some score of young men and women all naked, chained neck to neck. Slaves they were, captured by some warlike tribe and brought for sale. Dom Vincente looked them over personally. Followed a long haggling and bartering, of which I quickly wearied and turned away, wondering that a man of Dom Vincente's rank could so demean himself as to stoop to trade. But I strolled back when one of the natives of the village near by came up and interrupted the sale with a long harangue to Dom Vincente. While they talked de Montour came up, and presently Dom Vincente turned to us and said, "One of the woodcutters of the village was torn to pieces by a leopard or some such beast last night. A strong young man and unmarried." "A leopard? Did they, see it?" suddenly asked de Montour, and when Dom Vincente said no, that it came and went in the night, de Montour lifted a trembling hand and drew it across his forehead, as if to brush away cold sweat. "Look you, Pierre," quoth Dom Vincente, "I have here a slave who, wonder of wonders, desires to be your man. Though the devil only knows why." He led up a slim young Jakri, a mere youth, whose main asset seemed a merry grin. "He is yours," said Dom Vincente. "He is goodly trained and will make a fine servant. And look ye, a slave is of an advantage over a servant, for all he requires is food and a loincloth or so with a touch of the whip to keep him in his place." It was not long before. I learned why Gola wished to be "my man," choosing me among all the rest. It was because of my hair. Like many dandies of that day, I wore it long and curled, the strands falling to my shoulders. As it happened, I was the only man of the party who so wore my hair, and Gola would sit and gaze at it in silent admiration for hours at a time, or until, growing nervous under his unblinking scrutiny, I would boot him forth. ~ It was that night that a brooding animosity, hardly apparent, between Baron von Schiller and Jean Desmarte broke out into a flame. As usual, woman was the cause. Marcita carried on a most outrageous flirtation with both of them. That was not wise. Desmarte was a wild young fool. Von Schiller was a lustful beast. But when, Messieurs, did woman ever use wisdom? Their hate flamed to a murderous fury when the German sought to kiss Marcita. Swords were clashing in an instant. But before Dom Vincente could thunder a command to halt, Luigi was between the combatants, and had beaten their swords down, hurling them back viciously. "Signori," said he softly, but with a fierce intensity, "is it the part of high-bred signori to fight over my sister? Ha, by the toe-nails of Satan, for the toss of a coin I would call you both out! You, Marcita, go to your chamber, instantly, nor leave until I give you permission." And she went, for, independent though she was, none cared to face the slim, effeminate-appearing youth when a tigerish snarl curled his lips, a murderous gleam lightened his dark eyes. Apologies were made, but from the glances the two rivals threw at each other, we knew that the quarrel was not forgotten and would blaze forth again at the slightest pretext. Late that night I woke suddenly with a strange, eery feeling of horror. Why, I could not say. I rose, saw that the door was firmly bolted, and seeing Gola asleep on the floor, kicked him awake irritably. And just as he got up, hastily, rubbing himself, the silence was broken by a wild scream, a scream that rang through the castle and brought a startled shout from the arquebusier pacing the palisade; a scream from the mouth of a girl, frenzied with terror. Gola squawked and dived behind the divan. I jerked the door open and raced down the dark corridor. Dashing down a winding stair, I caromed into someone at the bottom and we tumbled headlong. He gasped something and I recognized the voice of Jean Desmarte. I hauled him to his feet, and raced along, he following; the screams had ceased, but the whole castle was in an uproar, voices shouting, the clank of weapons, lights flashing up, Dom Vincente's voice shouting for the soldiers, the noise of armed men rushing through the rooms and falling over each other. With all the confusion, Desmarte, the Spaniard, and I reached Marcita's room just as Luigi darted inside and snatched his sister into his arms. Others rushed in, carrying lights and weapons, shouting, demanding to know what was occurring. The girl lay quietly in her brother's arms, her dark hair loose and rippling over her shoulders, her dainty night-garments torn to shreds and exposing her lovely body. Long scratches showed upon her arms, breasts and shoulders. Presently, she opened her eyes, shuddered, then shrieked wildly and clung frantically to Luigi, begging him not to let something take her. "The door!" she whimpered. "I left it unbarred. And something crept into my room through the darkness. I struck at it with my dagger and it hurled me to the floor, tearing, tearing at me. Then I fainted." "Where is von Schiller?" asked the Spaniard, a fierce glint in his dark eyes. Every man glanced at his neighbor. All the guests were there except the German. I noted de Montour gazing at the terrified girl, his face more haggard than usual. And I thought it strange that he wore no weapon. "Aye, von Schiller!" exclaimed Desmarte fiercely. And half of us followed Dom Vincente out into the corridor. We began a vengeful search through the castle, and in a small, dark hallway we found von Schiller. On his face he lay, in a crimson, ever widening stain. "This is the work of some native!" exclaimed Desmarte, face aghast. "Nonsense," bellowed Dom Vincente. "No native from the outside could pass the soldiers. All slaves, von Schiller's among them, were barred and bolted in the slave quarters, except Gola, who sleeps in Pierre's room, and Ysabel's woman." "But who else could have done this deed?" exclaimed Desmarte in a fury. "You!" I said abruptly; "else why ran you so swiftly away from the room of Marcita?" "Curse you, you lie!" he shouted, and his swift-drawn sword leaped for my breast; but quick as he was, the Spaniard was quicker. Desmarte's rapier clattered against the wall and Desmarte stood like a statue, the Spaniard's motionless point just touching his throat. "Bind him," said the Spaniard without passion. "Put down your blade, Don Florenzo," commanded Dom Vincente, striding forward and dominating the scene. "Signor Desmarte, you are one of my best friends, but I am the only law here and duty must be done. Give your word that you will not seek to escape." "I give it," replied the Gascon calmly. "I acted hastily. I apologize. I was not intentionally running away, but the halls and corridors of this cursed castle confuse me." Of us all, probably but one man believed him. "Messieurs!" De Montour stepped forward. "This youth is not guilty. Turn the German over." Two soldiers did as he asked. De Montour shuddered, pointing. The rest of us glanced once, then recoiled in horror. "Could man have done that thing?" "With a dagger——" began someone. "No dagger makes wounds like that," said the Spaniard. "The German was torn to pieces by the talons of some frightful beast." We glanced about us, half expecting some hideous monster to leap upon us from the shadows. We searched that castle; every foot, every inch of it. And we found no trace of any beast. Dawn was breaking when I returned to my room, to find that Gola had barred himself in; and it took me nearly a half-hour to convince him to let me in. Having smacked him soundly and berated him for his cowardice, I told him what had taken place, as he could understand French and could speak a weird mixture which he proudly called French. His mouth gaped and only the whites of his eyes showed as the tale reached its climax. "Ju ju!" he whispered fearsomely. "Fetish man!" Suddenly an idea came to me. I had heard vague tales, little more than hints of legends, of the devilish leopard cult that existed on the West Coast. No white man had ever seen one of its votaries, but Dom Vincente had told us tales of beast-men, disguised in skins of leopards, who stole through the midnight jungle and slew and devoured. A ghastly thrill traveled up and down my spine, and in an instant I had Gola in a grasp which made him veil. "Was that a leopard-man?" I hissed, shaking him viciously. "Massa, massa!" he gasped. "Me good boy! Ju ju man get! More besser no tell!" "You'll tell me!" I gritted, renewing my endeavors, until, his hands waving feeble protests, he promised to tell me what he knew. "No leopard-man!" he whispered, and his eyes grew big with supernatural fear. "Moon, he full, woodcutter find, him heap clawed. Find "nother woodcutter. Big Massa (Dom Vincente) say, "leopard." No leopard. But leopard-man, he come to kill. Something kill leopard-man! Heap claw! Hai, hai! Moon full again. Something come in lonely hut; claw um woman, claw um pick'nin. Man find um claw up. Big Massa say "leopard." Full moon again, and woodcutter find, heap clawed. Now come in castle. No leopard. But always footmarks of a man!" I gave a startled, incredulous exclamation. It was true, Gola averred. Always the footprints of a man led away from the scene of the murder. Then why did the natives not tell the Big Massa that he might hunt down the fiend? Here Gala assumed a crafty expression and whispered in my ear. The footprints were of a man who wore shoes! Even assuming that Gola was lying, I felt a thrill of unexplainable horror. Who, then, did the natives believe was doing these frightful murders? And he answered: Dom Vincente! By this time, Messieurs, my mind was in a whirl. What was the meaning of all this? Who slew the German and sought to ravish Marcita? And as I reviewed the crime, it appeared to me that murder rather than rape was the object of the attack. Why did de Montour warn us, and then appear to have knowledge of the crime, telling us that Desmarte was innocent and then proving it? It was all beyond me. The tale of the slaughter got among the natives, in spite of all we could do, and they appeared restless and nervous, and thrice that day Dom Vincente had a black lashed for insolence. A brooding atmosphere pervaded the castle. I considered going to Dom Vincente with Gola's tale, but decided to wait awhile. ~ The women kept their chambers that day, the men were restless and moody. Dom Vincente announced that the sentries would be doubled and some would patrol the corridors of the castle itself. I found myself musing cynically that if Gola's suspicions were true, sentries would be of little good. I am not, Messieurs, a man to brook such a situation with patience. And I was young then. So as we drank before retiring, I flung my goblet on the table and angrily announced that in spite of man, beast or devil, I slept that night with doors flung wide. And I tramped angrily to my chamber. Again, as on the first night, de Montour came. And his face was as a man who has looked into the gaping gates of hell. "I have come," he said, "to ask you—nay, Monsieur, to implore you—to reconsider your rash determination." I shook my head impatiently. "You are resolved? Yes? Then I ask you do to this for me, that after I enter my chamber, you will bolt my doors from the outside." I did as he asked, and then made my way back to my chamber, my mind in a maze of wonderment. I had sent Gola to the slave quarters, and I laid rapier and dagger close at hand. Nor did I go to bed, but crouched in a great chair, in the darkness. Then I had much ado to keep from sleeping. To keep myself awake, I fell to musing on the strange words of de Montour. He seemed to be laboring under great excitement; his eyes hinted of ghastly mysteries known to him alone. And yet his face was not that of a wicked man. Suddenly the notion took me to go to his chamber and talk with him. Walking those dark passages was a shuddersome task, but eventually I stood before de Montour's door. I called softly. Silence. I reached out a hand and felt splintered fragments of wood. Hastily I struck flint and steel which I carried, and the flaming tinder showed the great oaken door sagging on its mighty hinges; showed a door smashed and splintered from the inside. And the chamber of de Montour was unoccupied. Some instinct prompted me to hurry back to my room, swiftly but silently, shoeless feet treading softly. And as I neared the door, I was aware of something in the darkness before me. Something which crept in from a side corridor and glided stealthily along. In a wild panic of fear I leaped, striking wildly and aimlessly in the darkness. My clenched fist encountered a human head, and something went down with a crash. Again I struck a light; a man lay senseless on the floor, and he was de Montour. I thrust a candle into a niche in the Wall, and just then de Montour's eyes opened and he rose uncertainly. "You!" I exclaimed, hardly knowing what I said. "You, of all men!" He merely nodded. "You killed von Schiller?" "Yes." I recoiled with a gasp of horror. "Listen." He raised his hand. "Take your rapier and run me through. No man will touch you." "No," I exclaimed. "I can not." "Then, quick," he said hurriedly, "get into your chamber and bolt the door. Haste! It will return!" "What will return?" I asked, with a thrill of horror. "If it will harm me, it will harm you. Come into the chamber with me." "No, no!" he fairly shrieked, springing back from my outstretched arm. "Haste, haste! It left me for an instant, but it will return." Then in a low-pitched voice of indescribable horror: "It is returning. It is here now!" And I felt a something, a formless, shapeless presence near. A thing of frightfulness. De Montour was standing, legs braced, arms thrown back, fists clenched. The muscles bulged beneath his skin, his eyes widened and narrowed, the veins stood out upon his forehead as if in great physical effort. As I looked, to my horror, out of nothing, a shapeless, nameless something took vague form! Like a shadow it moved upon de Montour. It was hovering about him! Good God, it was merging, becoming one with the man! De Montour swayed; a great gasp escaped him. The dim thing vanished. De Montour wavered. Then he turned toward me, and may God grant that I never look on a face like that again! It was a hideous, a bestial face. The eyes gleamed with a frightful ferocity; the snarling lips were drawn back from gleaming teeth, which to my startled gaze appeared more like bestial fangs than human teeth. Silently the thing (I can not call it a human) slunk toward me. Gasping with horror I sprang back and through the door, just as the thing launched itself through the air, with a sinuous motion which even then made me think of a leaping wolf. I slammed the door, holding it against the frightful thing which hurled itself again and again against it. Finally it desisted and I heard it slink stealthily off down the corridor. Faint and exhausted I sat down, waiting, listening. Through the open window wafted the breeze, bearing all the scents of Africa, the spicy and the foul. From the native village came the sound of a native drum. Other drums answered farther up the river and back in the bush. Then from somewhere in the jungle, horridly incongruous, sounded the long, high-pitched call of a timber wolf. My soul revolted. ~ Dawn brought a tale of terrified villagers, of a Negro woman torn by some fiend of the night, barely escaping. And to de Montour I went. On the way I met Dom Vincente: He was perplexed and angry. "Some hellish thing is at work in this castle," he said. "Last night, though I have said naught of it to anyone, something leaped upon the back of one of the arquebusiers, tore the leather jerkin from his shoulders and pursued him to the barbican. More, someone locked de Montour into his room last night, and he was forced to smash the door to get out." He strode on, muttering to himself, and I proceeded down the stairs, more puzzled than ever. De Montour sat upon a stool, gazing out the window. An indescribable air of weariness was about him. His long hair was uncombed and tousled, his garments were tattered. With a shudder I saw faint crimson stains upon his hands, and noted that the nails were torn and broken. He looked up as I came in, and waved me to a seat. His face was worn and haggard, but was that of a man. After a moment's silence, he spoke. "I will tell you my strange tale. Never before has it passed my lips, and why I tell you, knowing that you will not believe me, I can not say." And then I listened to what was surely the wildest, the most fantastic, the weirdest tale ever heard by man. "Years ago," said de Montour, "I was upon a military mission in northern France. Alone, I was forced to pass through the fiend haunted woodlands of Villefère. In those frightful forests I was beset by an inhuman, a ghastly thing—a werewolf. Beneath a midnight moon we fought, and slew it. Now this is the truth: that if a werewolf is slain in the half-form of a man, its ghost will haunt its slayer through eternity. But if it is slain as a wolf, hell gapes to receive it. The true werewolf is not (as many think) a man who may take the form of a wolf, but a wolf who takes the form of a man! "Now listen, my friend, and I will tell you of the wisdom, the hellish knowledge that is mine, gained through many a frightful deed, imparted to me amid the ghastly shadows of midnight forests where fiends and half-beasts roamed. "In the beginning, the world was strange, misshapen. Grotesque beasts wandered through its jungles. Driven from another world, ancient demons and fiends came in great numbers and settled upon this newer, younger world. Long the forces of good and evil warred. "A strange beast, known as man, wandered among the other beasts, and since good or bad must have a concrete form ere either accomplishes its desire, the spirits of good entered man. The fiends entered other beasts, reptiles and birds; and long and fiercely waged the age-old battle. But man conquered. The great dragons and serpents were slain and with them the demons. Finally, Solomon, wise beyond the ken of man, made great war upon them, and by virtue of his wisdom, slew, seized and bound. But there were some which were the fiercest, the boldest, and though Solomon drove them out he could not conquer them. Those had taken the form of wolves. As the ages passed, wolf and demon became merged. No longer could the fiend leave the body of the wolf at will. In many instances, the savagery of the wolf overcame the subtlety of the demon and enslaved him, so the wolf became again only a beast, a fierce, cunning beast, but merely a beast. But of the werewolves, there are many, even yet. "And during the time of the full moon, the wolf may take the form, or the half-form of a man. When the moon hovers at her zenith, however, the wolf-spirit again takes ascendency and the werewolf becomes a true wolf once more. But if it is slain in the form of a man, then the spirit is free to haunt its slayer through the ages. "Harken now. I had thought to have slain the thing after it had changed to its true shape. But I slew it an instant too soon. The moon, though it approached the zenith, had not yet reached it, nor had the thing taken on fully the wolf-form." "Of this I knew nothing and went my way. But when the neat time approached for the full moon, I began to be aware of a strange, malicious influence. An atmosphere of horror hovered in the air and I was aware of inexplicable, uncanny impulses. "One night in a small village in the center of a great forest, the influence came upon me with full power. It was night, and the moon, nearly full, was rising over the forest. And between the moon and me, I saw, floating in the upper air, ghostly and barely discernible, the outline of a wolf's head! "I remember little of what happened thereafter. I remember, dimly, clambering into the silent street, remember struggling, resisting briefly, vainly, and the rest is a crimson maze, until I came to myself the next morning and found my garments and hands caked and stained crimson; and heard the horrified chattering of the villagers, telling of a pair of clandestine lovers, slaughtered in a ghastly manner, scarcely outside the village, torn to pieces as if by wild beasts, as if by wolves. "From that village I fled aghast, but I fled not alone. In the day I could not feel the drive of my fearful captor, but when night fell and the moon rose, I ranged the silent forest, a frightful-thing, a slayer of humans, a fiend in a man's body. "God, the battles I have fought! But always it overcame me and drove me ravening after some new victim. But after the moon had passed its fullness, the thing's power over me ceased suddenly. Nor did it return until three nights before the moon was full again. "Since then I have roamed the world—fleeing, fleeing, seeking to escape. Always the thing follows, taking possession of my body when the moon is full. Gods, the frightful deeds I have done! "I would have slain myself long ago, but I dare not. For the soul of a suicide is accurst, and my soul would be forever hunted through the flames of hell. And harken, most frightful of all, my slain body would for ever roam the earth, moved and inhabited by the soul of the werewolf! Can any thought be more ghastly? "And I seem immune to the weapons of man. Swords have pierced me, daggers have hacked me. I am covered with scars. Yet never have they struck me down. In Germany they bound and led me to the block. There would I have willingly placed my head, but the thing came upon me, and breaking my bonds, I slew and fled. Up and down the world I have wandered, leaving horror and slaughter in my trail. Chains, cells, can not hold me. The thing is fastened to me through all eternity. "In desperation I accepted Dom Vincente's invitation, for look you, none knows of my frightful double life, since no one could recognize me in the clutch of the demon; and few, seeing me, live to tell of it. "My hands are red, my soul doomed to everlasting flames, my mind is torn with remorse for my crimes. And yet I can do nothing to help myself. Surely, Pierre, no man ever knew the hell that I have known. "Yes, I slew von Schiller, and I sought to destroy the girl, Marcita. Why I did not, I can not say, for I have slain both women and men. "Now, if you will, take your sword and slay me, and with my last breath I will give you the good God's blessing. No? "You know now my tale and you see before you a man, fiend-haunted for all eternity." ~ My mind was spinning with wonderment as I left the room of de Montour. What to do, I knew not. It seemed likely that he would yet murder us all, and yet I could not bring myself to tell Dom Vincente all. From the bottom of my soul I pitied de Montour. So I kept my peace, and in the days that followed I made occasion to seek him out and converse with him. A real friendship sprang up between us. About this time that black devil, Gola, began to wear an air of suppressed excitement, as if he knew something he wished desperately to tell, but would not or else dared not. So the days passed in feasting, drinking and hunting, until one night de Montour came to my chamber and pointed silently at the moon which was just rising. "Look ye," he said, "I have a plan. I will give it out that I am going into the jungle for hunting and will go forth, apparently for several days. But at night I will return to the castle, and you must lock me into the dungeon which is used as a storeroom." This we did, and I managed to slip down twice a day and carry food and drink to my friend. He insisted on remaining in the dungeon even in the day, for though the fiend had never exerted its influence over him in the daytime, and he believed it powerless then, yet he would take no chances. It was during this time that I began to notice that Dom Vincente's mink-faced cousin, Carlos, was forcing his attentions upon Ysabel, who was his second cousin, and who seemed to resent those attentions. Myself, I would have challenged him for a duel for the toss of a coin, for I despised him, but it was really none of my affair. However, it seemed that Ysabel feared him. My friend Luigi, by the way, had become enamored of the dainty Portuguese girl, and was making swift love to her daily. And de Montour sat in his cell and reviewed his ghastly deeds until he battered the bars with his bare hands. And Don Florenzo wandered about the castle grounds like a dour Mephistopheles. And the other guests rode and quarreled and drank. And Gola slithered about, eyeing me if if always on the point of imparting momentous information. What wonder if my nerves became rasped to the shrieking point? Each day the natives grew surlier and more and more sullen and intractable. ~ One night, not long before the full of the moon, I entered the dungeon where de Montour sat. He looked up quickly. "You dare much, coming to me in the night." I shrugged my shoulders, seating myself. A small barred window let in the night scents and sounds of Africa. "Hark to the native drums," I said. "For the past week they have sounded almost incessantly." De Montour assented. "The natives are restless. Methinks "tis deviltry they are planning. Have you noticed that Carlos is much among them?" "No," I answered, "but "tis like there will be a break between him and Luigi. Luigi is paying court to Ysabel." So we talked, when suddenly de Montour became silent and moody, answering only in monosyllables. The moon rose and peered in at the barred windows. De Montour's face was illuminated by its beams. And then the hand of horror grasped me. On the wall behind de Montour appeared a shadow, a shadow clearly defined of a wolf's head! At the same instant de Montour felt its influence. With a shriek he bounded from his stool. He pointed fiercely, and as with trembling hands I slammed and bolted the door behind me, I felt him hurl his weight against it. As I fled up the stairway I heard a wild raving and battering at the iron-bound door. But with all the werewolf's might the great door held. As I entered my room, Gola dashed in and gasped out the tale he had been keeping for days. I listened, incredulously, and then dashed forth to find Dom Vincente. I was told that Carlos had asked him to accompany him to the village to arrange a sale of slaves. My informer was Don Florenzo of Seville, and when I gave him a brief outline of Gola's tale; he accompanied me. Together we dashed through the castle gate, flinging a word to the guards, and down the landing toward the village. Dom Vincente, Dom Vincente, walk with care, keep sword loosened in its sheath! Fool, fool, to walk in the night with Carlos, the traitor! ~ They were nearing the village when we caught up with them. "Dom Vincente!" I exclaimed; "return instantly to the castle. Carlos is selling you into the hands of the natives! Gola has told me that he lusts for your wealth and for Ysabel! A terrified native babbled to him of booted footprints near the places where the woodcutters were murdered, and Carlos has made the blacks believe that the slayer was you! Tonight the natives were to rise and slay every man in the castle except Carlos! Do you not believe me, Dom Vincente?" "Is this the truth, Carlos?" asked Dom Vincente, in amaze. Carlos laughed mockingly. "The fool speaks truth," he said, "but it accomplishes you nothing. Ho!" He shouted as he leaped for Dom Vincente. Steel flashed in the moonlight and the Spaniard's sword was through Carlos ere he could move. And the shadows rose about us. Then it was back to back, sword and dagger, three men against a hundred. Spears flashed, and a fiendish yell went up from savage throats. I spitted three natives in as many thrusts and then went down from a stunning swing from a warclub, and an instant later Dom Vincente fell upon me, with a spear in one arm and another through the leg. Don Florenzo was standing above us, sword leaping like a live thing, when a charge of the arquebusiers swept the river bank clear and we were borne into the castle. The black hordes came with a rush, spears flashing like a wave of steel, a thunderous roar of savagery going up to the skies. Time and again they swept up the slopes, bounding the moat, until they were swarming over the palisades. And time and again the fire of the hundred-odd defenders hurled them back. They had set fire to the plundered warehouses, and their light vied with the light of the moon. Just across the river there was a larger storehouse, and about this hordes of the natives gathered, tearing it apart for plunder. "Would that they would drop a torch upon it," said Dom Vincente, "for naught is stored therein save some thousand pounds of gunpowder. I dared not store the treacherous stuff this side of the river. All the tribes of the river and coast have gathered for our slaughter and all my ships are upon the seas. We may hold out awhile, but eventually they will swarm the palisade and put us to the slaughter." I hastened to the dungeon wherein de Montour sat. Outside the door I called to him and he bade me enter in voice which told me the fiend had left him for an instant. "The blacks have risen," I told him. "I guessed as much. How goes the battle?" I gave him the details of the betrayal and the fight, and mentioned the powder-house across the river. He sprang to his feet. "Now by my hag-ridden soul!" he exclaimed. "I will fling the dice once more with hell! Swift, let me out of the castle! I will essay to swim the river and set off yon powder!" "It is insanity!" I exclaimed. "A thousand blacks lurk between the palisades and the river, and thrice that number beyond! The river itself swarms with crocodiles!" "I will attempt it!" he answered, a great light in his face. "If I can reach it, some thousand natives will lighten the siege; if I am slain, then my soul is free and mayhap will gain some forgiveness for that I gave my life to atone for my crimes." Then, "Haste," he exclaimed, "for the demon is returning! Already I feel his influence! Haste ye!" For the castle gates we sped, and as de Montour ran he gasped as a man in a terrific battle. At the gate he pitched headlong, then rose, to spring through it. Wild yells greeted him from the natives. The arquebusiers shouted curses at him and at me. Peering down from the top of the palisades I saw him turn from side to side uncertainly. A score of natives were rushing recklessly forward, spears raised. Then the eery wolf-yell rose to the skies, and de Montour bounded forward. Aghast, the natives paused, and before a man of them could move he was among them. Wild shrieks, not of rage, but of terror. In amazement the arquebusiers held their fire. Straight through the group of blacks de Montour charged, and when they broke and fled, three of them fled not. A dozen steps de Montour took in pursuit; then stopped stock-still. A moment he stood so while spears flew about him, then turned and ran swiftly in the direction of the river. A few steps from the river another band of blacks barred his way. In the flaming light of the burning houses the scene was clearly illuminated. A thrown spear tore through de Montour's shoulder. Without pausing in his stride he tore it forth and drove it through a native, leaping over his body to get among the others. They could not face the fiend-driven white man. With shrieks they fled, and de Montour, bounding upon the back of one, brought him down. Then he rose, staggered and sprang to the river bank. An instant he paused there and then vanished in the shadows. "Name of the devil!" gasped Dom Vincente at my shoulder. "What manner of man is that? Was that de Montour?" I nodded. The wild yells of the natives rose above the crackle of the arquebus fire. They were massed thick about the great warehouse across the river. "They plan a great rush," said Dom Vincente. "They will swarm clear over the palisade, methinks. Ha!" A crash that seemed to rip the skies apart! A burst of flame that mounted to the stars! The castle rocked with the explosion. Then silence, as the smoke, drifting away, showed only a great crater where the warehouse had stood. I could tell of how Dom Vincente led a charge, crippled as he was, out of the castle gate and, down the slope, to fall upon the terrified blacks who had escaped the explosion. I could tell of the slaughter, of the victory and the pursuit of the fleeing natives. I could tell, too, Messieurs, of how I became separated from the band and of how I wandered far into the jungle, unable to find my way back to the coast. I could tell how I was captured by a wandering band of slave raiders, and of how I escaped. But such is not my intention. In itself it would make a long tale; and it is of de Montour that I am speaking. ~ I thought much of the things that had passed and wondered if indeed de Montour reached the storehouse to blow it to the skies or whether it was but the deed of chance. That a man could swim that reptile-swarming river, fiend-driven though he was, seemed impossible. And if he blew up the storehouse, he must have gone up with it. So one night I pushed my way wearily through the jungle and sighted the coast, and close to the shore a small, tumbledown hut of thatch. To it I went, thinking to sleep therein if insects and reptiles would allow. I entered the doorway and then stopped short. Upon a makeshift stool sat a man. He looked up as I entered and the rays of the moon fell across his face. I started back with a ghastly thrill of horror. It was de Montour, and the moon was full! Then as I stood, unable to flee, he rose and came toward me. And his face, though haggard as of a man who has looked into hell, was the face of a sane man. "Come in, my friend," he said, and there was a great peace in his voice. "Come in and fear me not. The fiend has left me forever." "But tell me, how conquered you?" I exclaimed as I grasped his hand. "I fought a frightful battle, as I ran to the river," he answered, "for the fiend had me in its grasp and drove me to fall upon the natives. But for the first time my soul and mind gained ascendency for an instant, an instant just long enough to hold me to my purpose. And I believe the good saints came to my aid, for I was giving my life to save life. "I leaped into the river and swam, and in an instant the crocodiles were swarming about me. "Again in the clutch of the fiend I fought them, there in the river. Then suddenly the thing left me. "I climbed from the river and fired the warehouse. The explosion hurled me hundreds of feet, and for days I wandered witless through the jungle. "But the full moon came, and came again, and I felt not the influence of the fiend. "I am free, free!" And a wondrous note of exultation, nay, exaltation, thrilled his words: "My soul is free. Incredible as it seems, the demon lies drowned upon the bed of the river, or else inhabits the body of one of the savage reptiles that swim the ways of the Niger." THE END
238	--- author: Fritz Leiber tags: Science fiction, Short stories, Traffic fatalities, Fiction title: X Marks the Pedwalk summary: ' "X Marks the Pedwalk" by Fritz Leiber is a futuristic science fiction short story written during the early to mid-20th century. The story explores the tensions and violent conflicts between two factions: pedestrians and motorists in a society where the two groups live in starkly divided urban environments. The narrative delves into themes of societal division and the absurdity of extreme ideologies, examining how innovation can disrupt social order and provoke instability. The storyline begins with a violent incident involving a little old lady and a motorist, setting off a chain of events that escalates into civil strife. As both sides retaliate, organized violence arises within the Slum Ring and the Suburbs, revealing the entrenched animosity between the pedestrians, who are considered the underclass, and the affluent motorists. Amid chaotic skirmishes, representatives from both sides convene to negotiate a truce, resulting in the comically absurd "Wheel-Foot Articles of Agreement." These new regulations, meant to curb hostilities, highlight the ridiculousness of their situation while exposing the increasing absurdity in their society''s norms and expectations. Throughout the book, Leiber''s satirical tone and vivid imagery encapsulate the surreal landscape of a society divided by technology and ideology. ' word_count: 1568 fiction_type: Short Story ... # X Marks the Pedwalk This is how it all began—the terrible civil strife that devastates our world! Based in material in Ch. 7—"First Clashes of the Wheeled and Footed Sects"—of Vol. 3 of Burger's monumental _History of Traffic_, published by the Foundation for Twenty-Second Century Studies. The raggedy little old lady with the big shopping bag was in the exact center of the crosswalk when she became aware of the big black car bearing down on her. Behind the thick bullet-proof glass its seven occupants had a misty look, like men in a diving bell. She saw there was no longer time to beat the car to either curb. Veering remorselessly, it would catch her in the gutter. Useless to attempt a feint and double-back, such as any venturesome child executed a dozen times a day. Her reflexes were too slow. Polite vacuous laughter came from the car's loudspeaker over the engine's mounting roar. From her fellow pedestrians lining the curbs came a sigh of horror. The little old lady dipped into her shopping bag and came up with a big blue-black automatic. She held it in both fists, riding the recoils like a rodeo cowboy on a bucking bronco. Aiming at the base of the windshield, just as a big-game hunter aims at the vulnerable spine of a charging water buffalo over the horny armor of its lowered head, the little old lady squeezed off three shots before the car chewed her down. From the right-hand curb a young woman in a wheelchair shrieked an obscenity at the car's occupants. Smythe-de Winter, the driver, wasn't happy. The little old lady's last shot had taken two members of his car pool. Bursting through the laminated glass, the steel-jacketed slug had traversed the neck of Phipps-McHeath and buried itself in the skull of Horvendile-Harker. Braking viciously, Smythe-de Winter rammed the car over the right-hand curb. Pedestrians scattered into entries and narrow arcades, among them a youth bounding high on crutches. But Smythe-de Winter got the girl in the wheelchair. Then he drove rapidly out of the Slum Ring into the Suburbs, a shred of rattan swinging from the flange of his right fore mudguard for a trophy. Despite the two-for-two casualty list, he felt angry and depressed. The secure, predictable world around him seemed to be crumbling. ~ While his companions softly keened a dirge to Horvy and Phipps and quietly mopped up their blood, he frowned and shook his head. "They oughtn't to let old ladies carry magnums," he murmured. Witherspoon-Hobbs nodded agreement across the front-seat corpse. "They oughtn't to let "em carry anything. God, how I hate Feet," he muttered, looking down at his shrunken legs. "Wheels forever!" he softly cheered. The incident had immediate repercussions throughout the city. At the combined wake of the little old lady and the girl in the wheelchair, a fiery-tongued speaker inveighed against the White-Walled Fascists of Suburbia, telling to his hearers, the fabled wonders of old Los Angeles, where pedestrians were sacrosanct, even outside crosswalks. He called for a hobnail march across the nearest lawn-bowling alleys and perambulator-traversed golf courses of the motorists. At the Sunnyside Crematorium, to which the bodies of Phipps and Horvy had been conveyed, an equally impassioned and rather more grammatical orator reminded his listeners of the legendary justice of old Chicago, where pedestrians were forbidden to carry small arms and anyone with one foot off the sidewalk was fair prey. He broadly hinted that a holocaust, primed if necessary with a few tankfuls of gasoline, was the only cure for the Slums. Bands of skinny youths came loping at dusk out of the Slum Ring into the innermost sections of the larger doughnut of the Suburbs slashing defenseless tires, shooting expensive watchdogs and scrawling filthy words on the pristine panels of matrons' runabouts which never ventured more than six blocks from home. Simultaneously squadrons of young suburban motorcycles and scooterites roared through the outermost precincts of the Slum Ring, harrying children off sidewalks, tossing stink-bombs through second-story tenement windows and defacing hovel-fronts with sprays of black paint. Incident—a thrown brick, a cut corner, monster tacks in the portico of the Auto Club—were even reported from the center of the city, traditionally neutral territory. The Government hurriedly acted, suspending all traffic between the Center and the Suburbs and establishing a 24-hour curfew in the Slum Ring. Government agents moved only by centipede-car and pogo-hopper to underline the point that they favored neither contending side. The day of enforced non-movement for Feet and Wheels was spent in furtive vengeful preparations. Behind locked garage doors, machine-guns that fired through the nose ornament were mounted under hoods, illegal scythe blades were welded to oversize hubcaps and the stainless steel edges of flange fenders were honed to razor sharpness. While nervous National Guardsmen hopped about the deserted sidewalks of the Slum Ring, grim-faced men and women wearing black armbands moved through the webwork of secret tunnels and hidden doors, distributing heavy-caliber small arms and spike-studded paving blocks, piling cobblestones on strategic roof-tops and sapping upward from the secret tunnels to create car-traps. Children got ready to soap intersections after dark. The Committee of Pedestrian Safety, sometimes known as Robespierre's Rats, prepared to release its two carefully hoarded anti-tank guns. ~ At nightfall, under the tireless urging of the Government, representatives of the Pedestrians and the Motorists met on a huge safety island at the boundary of the Slum Ring and the Suburbs. Underlings began a noisy dispute as to whether Smythe-de Winter had failed to give a courtesy honk before charging, whether the little old lady had opened fire before the car had come within honking distance, how many wheels of Smythe-de's car had been on the sidewalk when he hit the girl in the wheelchair and so on. After a little while the High Pedestrian and the Chief Motorist exchanged cautious winks and drew aside. The red writhing of a hundred kerosene flares and the mystic yellow pulsing of a thousand firefly lamps mounted on yellow sawhorses ranged around the safety island illumined two tragic, strained faces. "A word before we get down to business," the Chief Motorist whispered. "What's the current S.Q. of your adults?" "Forty-one and dropping," the High Pedestrian replied, his eyes fearfully searching from side to side for eavesdroppers. "I can hardly get aides who are halfway _compos mentis_." "Our own Sanity Quotient is thirty-seven," the Chief Motorist revealed. He shrugged helplessly.... "The wheels inside my people's heads are slowing down. I do not think they will be speeded up in my lifetime." "They say Government's only fifty-two," the other said with a matching shrug. "Well, I suppose we must scrape out one more compromise," the one suggested hollowly, "though I must confess there are times when I think we're all the figments of a paranoid's dream." Two hours of concentrated deliberations produced the new Wheel-Foot Articles of Agreement. Among other points, pedestrian handguns were limited to a slightly lower muzzle velocity and to .38 caliber and under, while motorists were required to give three honks at one block distance before charging a pedestrian in a crosswalk. Two wheels over the curb changed a traffic kill from third-degree manslaughter to petty homicide. Blind pedestrians were permitted to carry hand grenades. Immediately the Government went to work. The new Wheel-Foot Articles were loudspeakered and posted. Detachments of police and psychiatric social hoppers centipedaled and pogoed through the Slum Ring, seizing outsize weapons and giving tranquilizing jet-injections to the unruly. Teams of hypnotherapists and mechanics scuttled from home to home in the Suburbs and from garage to garage, in-chanting a conformist serenity and stripping illegal armament from cars. On the advice of a rogue psychiatrist, who said it would channel off aggressions, a display of bull-fighting was announced, but this had to be canceled when a strong protest was lodged by the Decency League, which had a large mixed Wheel-Foot membership. At dawn, curfew was lifted in the Slum Ring and traffic reopened between the Suburbs and the Center. After a few uneasy moments it became apparent that the _status quo_ had been restored. ~ Smythe-de Winter tooled his gleaming black machine along the Ring. A thick steel bolt with a large steel washer on either side neatly filled the hole the little old lady's slug had made in the windshield. A brick bounced off the roof. Bullets pattered against the side windows. Smythe-de ran a handkerchief around his neck under his collar and smiled. A block ahead children were darting into the street, cat-calling and thumbing their noses. Behind one of them limped a fat dog with a spiked collar. Smythe-de suddenly gunned his motor. He didn't hit any of the children, but he got the dog. A flashing light on the dash showed him the right front tire was losing pressure. Must have hit the collar as well! He thumbed the matching emergency-air button and the flashing stopped. He turned toward Witherspoon-Hobbs and said with thoughtful satisfaction, "I like a normal orderly world, where you always have a little success, but not champagne-heady; a little failure, but just enough to brace you." Witherspoon-Hobbs was squinting at the next crosswalk. Its center was discolored by a brownish stain ribbon-tracked by tires. "That's where you bagged the little old lady, Smythe-de," he remarked. "I'll say this for her now: she had spirit." "Yes, that's where I bagged her," Smythe-de agreed flatly. He remembered wistfully the witchlike face growing rapidly larger, her jerking shoulders in black bombazine, the wild white-circled eyes. He suddenly found himself feeling that this was a very dull day. THE END

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