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Title: The Lock and Key Library
       Classic Mystery and Detective Stories

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</pre>


<p> </p>

<p>THE LOCK AND KEY LIBRARY</p>

<p>CLASSIC MYSTERY AND DETECTIVE STORIES</p>

<p>EDITED BY JULIAN HAWTHORNE</p>

<p><br>
 MODERN ENGLISH</p>

<p>Table of Contents</p>

<p><br>
 RUDYARD KIPLING (1865-)</p>

<p>My Own True Ghost Story</p>

<p>The Sending of Dana Da</p>

<p>In the House of Suddhoo</p>

<p>His Wedded Wife</p>

<p><br>
 A. CONAN DOYLE (1859-)</p>

<p>A Case of Identity</p>

<p>A Scandal in Bohemia</p>

<p>The Red-Headed League</p>

<p><br>
 EGERTON CASTLE (1858-)</p>

<p>The Baron's Quarry</p>

<p><br>
 STANLEY J. WEYMAN (1855-)</p>

<p>The Fowl in the Pot</p>

<p><br>
 ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON (1850-94)</p>

<p>The Pavilion on the Links</p>

<p><br>
 WILKIE COLLINS (1824-89)</p>

<p>The Dream Woman</p>

<p><br>
 ANONYMOUS</p>

<p>The Lost Duchess</p>

<p>The Minor Canon</p>

<p>The Pipe</p>

<p>The Puzzle</p>

<p>The Great Valdez Sapphire</p>

<p> </p>

<h1>Modern English Mystery Stories</h1>

<h3><br>
 Rudyard Kipling</h3>

<h3> </h3>

<h2>My Own True Ghost Story</h2>

<p><br>
 As I came through the Desert thus it was--<br>
 As I came through the Desert.<br>
 The City of Dreadful Night.</p>

<p><br>
 Somewhere in the Other World, where there are books and
pictures<br>
 and plays and shop windows to look at, and thousands of men
who<br>
 spend their lives in building up all four, lives a gentleman
who<br>
 writes real stories about the real insides of people; and his
name<br>
 is Mr. Walter Besant. But he will insist upon treating his
ghosts--<br>
 he has published half a workshopful of them--with levity. He<br>
 makes his ghost-seers talk familiarly, and, in some cases,
flirt<br>
 outrageously, with the phantoms. You may treat anything, from
a<br>
 Viceroy to a Vernacular Paper, with levity; but you must
behave<br>
 reverently toward a ghost, and particularly an Indian one.</p>

<p><br>
 There are, in this land, ghosts who take the form of fat,
cold,<br>
 pobby corpses, and hide in trees near the roadside till a
traveler<br>
 passes. Then they drop upon his neck and remain. There are
also<br>
 terrible ghosts of women who have died in child-bed. These
wander<br>
 along the pathways at dusk, or hide in the crops near a
village,<br>
 and call seductively. But to answer their call is death in
this<br>
 world and the next. Their feet are turned backward that all
sober<br>
 men may recognize them. There are ghosts of little children
who<br>
 have been thrown into wells. These haunt well curbs and the<br>
 fringes of jungles, and wail under the stars, or catch women by
the<br>
 wrist and beg to be taken up and carried. These and the
corpse<br>
 ghosts, however, are only vernacular articles and do not
attack<br>
 Sahibs. No native ghost has yet been authentically reported
to<br>
 have frightened an Englishman; but many English ghosts have
scared<br>
 the life out of both white and black.</p>

<p>Nearly every other Station owns a ghost. There are said to be
two<br>
 at Simla, not counting the woman who blows the bellows at
Syree<br>
 dak-bungalow on the Old Road; Mussoorie has a house haunted of
a<br>
 very lively Thing; a White Lady is supposed to do
night-watchman<br>
 round a house in Lahore; Dalhousie says that one of her
houses<br>
 "repeats" on autumn evenings all the incidents of a horrible
horse-<br>
 and-precipice accident; Murree has a merry ghost, and, now that
she<br>
 has been swept by cholera, will have room for a sorrowful
one;<br>
 there are Officers' Quarters in Mian Mir whose doors open
without<br>
 reason, and whose furniture is guaranteed to creak, not with
the<br>
 heat of June but with the weight of Invisibles who come to
lounge<br>
 in the chairs; Peshawur possesses houses that none will
willingly<br>
 rent; and there is something--not fever--wrong with a big
bungalow<br>
 in Allahabad. The older Provinces simply bristle with
haunted<br>
 houses, and march phantom armies along their main
thoroughfares.</p>

<p>Some of the dak-bungalows on the Grand Trunk Road have handy
little<br>
 cemeteries in their compound--witnesses to the "changes and
chances<br>
 of this mortal life" in the days when men drove from Calcutta
to<br>
 the Northwest. These bungalows are objectionable places to put
up<br>
 in. They are generally very old, always dirty, while the
khansamah<br>
 is as ancient as the bungalow. He either chatters senilely,
or<br>
 falls into the long trances of age. In both moods he is
useless.<br>
 If you get angry with him, he refers to some Sahib dead and
buried<br>
 these thirty years, and says that when he was in that
Sahib's<br>
 service not a khansamah in the Province could touch him. Then
he<br>
 jabbers and mows and trembles and fidgets among the dishes, and
you<br>
 repent of your irritation.</p>

<p>In these dak-bungalows, ghosts are most likely to be found,
and<br>
 when found, they should be made a note of. Not long ago it was
my<br>
 business to live in dak-bungalows. I never inhabited the
same<br>
 house for three nights running, and grew to be learned in
the<br>
 breed. I lived in Government-built ones with red brick walls
and<br>
 rail ceilings, an inventory of the furniture posted in every
room,<br>
 and an excited snake at the threshold to give welcome. I lived
in<br>
 "converted" ones--old houses officiating as
dak-bungalows--where<br>
 nothing was in its proper place and there wasn't even a fowl
for<br>
 dinner. I lived in second-hand palaces where the wind blew
through<br>
 open-work marble tracery just as uncomfortably as through a
broken<br>
 pane. I lived in dak-bungalows where the last entry in the<br>
 visitors' book was fifteen months old, and where they slashed
off<br>
 the curry-kid's head with a sword. It was my good luck to meet
all<br>
 sorts of men, from sober traveling missionaries and
deserters<br>
 flying from British Regiments, to drunken loafers who threw
whisky<br>
 bottles at all who passed; and my still greater good fortune
just<br>
 to escape a maternity case. Seeing that a fair proportion of
the<br>
 tragedy of our lives out here acted itself in dak-bungalows,
I<br>
 wondered that I had met no ghosts. A ghost that would
voluntarily<br>
 hang about a dak-bungalow would be mad of course; but so many
men<br>
 have died mad in dak-bungalows that there must be a fair
percentage<br>
 of lunatic ghosts.</p>

<p>In due time I found my ghost, or ghosts rather, for there were
two<br>
 of them. Up till that hour I had sympathized with Mr.
Besant's<br>
 method of handling them, as shown in "The Strange Case of
Mr.<br>
 Lucraft and Other Stories." I am now in the Opposition.</p>

<p>We will call the bungalow Katmal dak-bungalow. But THAT was
the<br>
 smallest part of the horror. A man with a sensitive hide has
no<br>
 right to sleep in dak-bungalows. He should marry. Katmal
dak-<br>
 bungalow was old and rotten and unrepaired. The floor was of
worn<br>
 brick, the walls were filthy, and the windows were nearly
black<br>
 with grime. It stood on a bypath largely used by native
Sub-Deputy<br>
 Assistants of all kinds, from Finance to Forests; but real
Sahibs<br>
 were rare. The khansamah, who was nearly bent double with old
age,<br>
 said so.</p>

<p>When I arrived, there was a fitful, undecided rain on the face
of<br>
 the land, accompanied by a restless wind, and every gust made
a<br>
 noise like the rattling of dry bones in the stiff toddy
palms<br>
 outside. The khansamah completely lost his head on my arrival.
He<br>
 had served a Sahib once. Did I know that Sahib? He gave me
the<br>
 name of a well-known man who has been buried for more than a<br>
 quarter of a century, and showed me an ancient daguerreotype
of<br>
 that man in his prehistoric youth. I had seen a steel engraving
of<br>
 him at the head of a double volume of Memoirs a month before,
and I<br>
 felt ancient beyond telling.</p>

<p>The day shut in and the khansamah went to get me food. He did
not<br>
 go through the pretense of calling it "khana"--man's victuals.
He<br>
 said "ratub," and that means, among other things,
"grub"--dog's<br>
 rations. There was no insult in his choice of the term. He
had<br>
 forgotten the other word, I suppose.</p>

<p>While he was cutting up the dead bodies of animals, I
settled<br>
 myself down, after exploring the dak-bungalow. There were
three<br>
 rooms, beside my own, which was a corner kennel, each giving
into<br>
 the other through dingy white doors fastened with long iron
bars.<br>
 The bungalow was a very solid one, but the partition walls of
the<br>
 rooms were almost jerry-built in their flimsiness. Every step
or<br>
 bang of a trunk echoed from my room down the other three, and
every<br>
 footfall came back tremulously from the far walls. For this
reason<br>
 I shut the door. There were no lamps--only candles in long
glass<br>
 shades. An oil wick was set in the bathroom.</p>

<p>For bleak, unadulterated misery that dak-bungalow was the
worst of<br>
 the many that I had ever set foot in. There was no fireplace,
and<br>
 the windows would not open; so a brazier of charcoal would
have<br>
 been useless. The rain and the wind splashed and gurgled and<br>
 moaned round the house, and the toddy palms rattled and
roared.<br>
 Half a dozen jackals went through the compound singing, and a
hyena<br>
 stood afar off and mocked them. A hyena would convince a
Sadducee<br>
 of the Resurrection of the Dead--the worst sort of Dead. Then
came<br>
 the ratub--a curious meal, half native and half English in<br>
 composition--with the old khansamah babbling behind my chair
about<br>
 dead and gone English people, and the wind-blown candles
playing<br>
 shadow-bo-peep with the bed and the mosquito-curtains. It was
just<br>
 the sort of dinner and evening to make a man think of every
single<br>
 one of his past sins, and of all the others that he intended
to<br>
 commit if he lived.</p>

<p>Sleep, for several hundred reasons, was not easy. The lamp in
the<br>
 bath-room threw the most absurd shadows into the room, and the
wind<br>
 was beginning to talk nonsense.</p>

<p>Just when the reasons were drowsy with blood-sucking I heard
the<br>
 regular--"Let--us--take--and--heave--him--over" grunt of
doolie-<br>
 bearers in the compound. First one doolie came in, then a
second,<br>
 and then a third. I heard the doolies dumped on the ground,
and<br>
 the shutter in front of my door shook. "That's some one trying
to<br>
 come in," I said. But no one spoke, and I persuaded myself that
it<br>
 was the gusty wind. The shutter of the room next to mine was<br>
 attacked, flung back, and the inner door opened. "That's some
Sub-<br>
 Deputy Assistant," I said, "and he has brought his friends
with<br>
 him. Now they'll talk and spit and smoke for an hour."</p>

<p>But there were no voices and no footsteps. No one was putting
his<br>
 luggage into the next room. The door shut, and I thanked<br>
 Providence that I was to be left in peace. But I was curious
to<br>
 know where the doolies had gone. I got out of bed and looked
into<br>
 the darkness. There was never a sign of a doolie. Just as I
was<br>
 getting into bed again, I heard, in the next room, the sound
that<br>
 no man in his senses can possibly mistake--the whir of a
billiard<br>
 ball down the length of the slates when the striker is
stringing<br>
 for break. No other sound is like it. A minute afterwards
there<br>
 was another whir, and I got into bed. I was not
frightened--indeed<br>
 I was not. I was very curious to know what had become of the<br>
 doolies. I jumped into bed for that reason.</p>

<p><br>
 Next minute I heard the double click of a cannon and my hair
sat<br>
 up. It is a mistake to say that hair stands up. The skin of
the<br>
 head tightens and you can feel a faint, prickly, bristling all
over<br>
 the scalp. That is the hair sitting up.</p>

<p>There was a whir and a click, and both sounds could only have
been<br>
 made by one thing--a billiard ball. I argued the matter out
at<br>
 great length with myself; and the more I argued the less
probable<br>
 it seemed that one bed, one table, and two chairs--all the<br>
 furniture of the room next to mine--could so exactly duplicate
the<br>
 sounds of a game of billiards. After another cannon, a
three-<br>
 cushion one to judge by the whir, I argued no more. I had found
my<br>
 ghost and would have given worlds to have escaped from that
dak-<br>
 bungalow. I listened, and with each listen the game grew
clearer.<br>
 There was whir on whir and click on click. Sometimes there was
a<br>
 double click and a whir and another click. Beyond any sort
of<br>
 doubt, people were playing billiards in the next room. And
the<br>
 next room was not big enough to hold a billiard table!</p>

<p>Between the pauses of the wind I heard the game go
forward--stroke<br>
 after stroke. I tried to believe that I could not hear voices;
but<br>
 that attempt was a failure.</p>

<p>Do you know what fear is? Not ordinary fear of insult, injury
or<br>
 death, but abject, quivering dread of something that you
cannot<br>
 see--fear that dries the inside of the mouth and half of the<br>
 throat--fear that makes you sweat on the palms of the hands,
and<br>
 gulp in order to keep the uvula at work? This is a fine
Fear--a<br>
 great cowardice, and must be felt to be appreciated. The
very<br>
 improbability of billiards in a dak-bungalow proved the reality
of<br>
 the thing. No man--drunk or sober--could imagine a game at<br>
 billiards, or invent the spitting crack of a "screw-cannon."</p>

<p>A severe course of dak-bungalows has this disadvantage--it
breeds<br>
 infinite credulity. If a man said to a confirmed
dak-bungalow-<br>
 haunter:--"There is a corpse in the next room, and there's a
mad<br>
 girl in the next but one, and the woman and man on that camel
have<br>
 just eloped from a place sixty miles away," the hearer would
not<br>
 disbelieve because he would know that nothing is too wild,<br>
 grotesque, or horrible to happen in a dak-bungalow.</p>

<p>This credulity, unfortunately, extends to ghosts. A
rational<br>
 person fresh from his own house would have turned on his side
and<br>
 slept. I did not. So surely as I was given up as a bad carcass
by<br>
 the scores of things in the bed because the bulk of my blood was
in<br>
 my heart, so surely did I hear every stroke of a long game
at<br>
 billiards played in the echoing room behind the iron-barred
door.<br>
 My dominant fear was that the players might want a marker. It
was<br>
 an absurd fear; because creatures who could play in the dark
would<br>
 be above such superfluities. I only know that that was my
terror;<br>
 and it was real.</p>

<p>After a long, long while the game stopped, and the door
banged. I<br>
 slept because I was dead tired. Otherwise I should have
preferred<br>
 to have kept awake. Not for everything in Asia would I have<br>
 dropped the door-bar and peered into the dark of the next
room.</p>

<p>When the morning came, I considered that I had done well
and<br>
 wisely, and inquired for the means of departure.</p>

<p>"By the way, khansamah," I said, "what were those three
doolies<br>
 doing in my compound in the night?"</p>

<p>"There were no doolies," said the khansamah.</p>

<p>I went into the next room and the daylight streamed through
the<br>
 open door. I was immensely brave. I would, at that hour,
have<br>
 played Black Pool with the owner of the big Black Pool down
below.</p>

<p>"Has this place always been a dak-bungalow?" I asked.</p>

<p>"No," said the khansamah. "Ten or twenty years ago, I have<br>
 forgotten how long, it was a billiard room."</p>

<p>"A how much?"</p>

<p>"A billiard room for the Sahibs who built the Railway. I
was<br>
 khansamah then in the big house where all the Railway-Sahibs
lived,<br>
 and I used to come across with brandy-shrab. These three
rooms<br>
 were all one, and they held a big table on which the Sahibs
played<br>
 every evening. But the Sahibs are all dead now, and the
Railway<br>
 runs, you say, nearly to Kabul."</p>

<p>"Do you remember anything about the Sahibs?"</p>

<p>"It is long ago, but I remember that one Sahib, a fat man
and<br>
 always angry, was playing here one night, and he said to
me:--<br>
 'Mangal Khan, brandy-pani do,' and I filled the glass, and he
bent<br>
 over the table to strike, and his head fell lower and lower till
it<br>
 hit the table, and his spectacles came off, and when we--the
Sahibs<br>
 and I myself--ran to lift him he was dead. I helped to carry
him<br>
 out. Aha, he was a strong Sahib! But he is dead and I, old
Mangal<br>
 Khan, am still living, by your favor."</p>

<p>That was more than enough! I had my ghost--a firsthand,<br>
 authenticated article. I would write to the Society for
Psychical<br>
 Research--I would paralyze the Empire with the news! But I
would,<br>
 first of all, put eighty miles of assessed crop land between
myself<br>
 and that dak-bungalow before nightfall. The Society might
send<br>
 their regular agent to investigate later on.</p>

<p>I went into my own room and prepared to pack after noting down
the<br>
 facts of the case. As I smoked I heard the game begin
again,--with<br>
 a miss in balk this time, for the whir was a short one.</p>

<p>The door was open and I could see into the room.
Click--c1ick!<br>
 That was a cannon. I entered the room without fear, for there
was<br>
 sunlight within and a fresh breeze without. The unseen game
was<br>
 going on at a tremendous rate. And well it might, when a
restless<br>
 little rat was running to and fro inside the dingy
ceiling-cloth,<br>
 and a piece of loose window-sash was making fifty breaks off
the<br>
 window-bolt as it shook in the breeze!</p>

<p>Impossible to mistake the sound of billiard balls! Impossible
to<br>
 mistake the whir of a ball over the slate! But I was to be<br>
 excused. Even when I shut my enlightened eyes the sound was<br>
 marvelously like that of a fast game.</p>

<p>Entered angrily the faithful partner of my sorrows, Kadir
Baksh.</p>

<p>"This bungalow is very bad and low-caste! No wonder the
Presence<br>
 was disturbed and is speckled. Three sets of doolie-bearers
came<br>
 to the bungalow late last night when I was sleeping outside,
and<br>
 said that it was their custom to rest in the rooms set apart
for<br>
 the English people! What honor has the khansamah? They tried
to<br>
 enter, but I told them to go. No wonder, if these Oorias have
been<br>
 here, that the Presence is sorely spotted. It is shame, and
the<br>
 work of a dirty man!"</p>

<p>Kadir Baksh did not say that he had taken from each gang two
annas<br>
 for rent in advance, and then, beyond my earshot, had beaten
them<br>
 with the big green umbrella whose use I could never before
divine.<br>
 But Kadir Baksh has no notions of morality.</p>

<p>There was an interview with the khansamah, but as he promptly
lost<br>
 his head, wrath gave place to pity, and pity led to a long<br>
 conversation, in the course of which he put the fat
Engineer-<br>
 Sahib's tragic death in three separate stations--two of them
fifty<br>
 miles away. The third shift was to Calcutta, and there the
Sahib<br>
 died while driving a dogcart.</p>

<p>If I had encouraged him the khansamah would have wandered
all<br>
 through Bengal with his corpse.</p>

<p>I did not go away as soon as I intended. I stayed for the
night,<br>
 while the wind and the rat and the sash and the window-bolt
played<br>
 a ding-dong "hundred and fifty up." Then the wind ran out and
the<br>
 billiards stopped, and I felt that I had ruined my one
genuine,<br>
 hall-marked ghost story.</p>

<p>Had I only stopped at the proper time, I could have made
ANYTHING<br>
 out of it.</p>

<p>That was the bitterest thought of all!</p>

<p> </p>

<h2>THE SENDING OF DANA DA</h2>

<p><br>
 When the Devil rides on your chest, remember the chamar.<br>
 --Native Proverb.</p>

<p><br>
 Once upon a time some people in India made a new heaven and a
new<br>
 earth out of broken teacups, a missing brooch or two, and a
hair<br>
 brush. These were hidden under bushes, or stuffed into holes
in<br>
 the hillside, and an entire civil service of subordinate gods
used<br>
 to find or mend them again; and everyone said: "There are
more<br>
 things in heaven and earth than are dreamed of in our
philosophy."<br>
 Several other things happened also, but the religion never
seemed<br>
 to get much beyond its first manifestations; though it added
an<br>
 air-line postal dak, and orchestral effects in order to keep<br>
 abreast of the times, and stall off competition.</p>

<p><br>
 This religion was too elastic for ordinary use. It stretched<br>
 itself and embraced pieces of everything that medicine men of
all<br>
 ages have manufactured. It approved and stole from
Freemasonry;<br>
 looted the Latter-day Rosicrucians of half their pet words;
took<br>
 any fragments of Egyptian philosophy that it found in the<br>
 Encyclopaedia Britannica; annexed as many of the Vedas as had
been<br>
 translated into French or English, and talked of all the
rest;<br>
 built in the German versions of what is left of the Zend
Avesta;<br>
 encouraged white, gray, and black magic, including
Spiritualism,<br>
 palmistry, fortune-telling by cards, hot chestnuts,
double-kerneled<br>
 nuts and tallow droppings; would have adopted Voodoo and Oboe
had<br>
 it known anything about them, and showed itself, in every way,
one<br>
 of the most accommodating arrangements that had ever been
invented<br>
 since the birth of the sea.</p>

<p>When it was in thorough working order, with all the machinery
down<br>
 to the subscriptions complete, Dana Da came from nowhere,
with<br>
 nothing in his hands, and wrote a chapter in its history which
has<br>
 hitherto been unpublished. He said that his first name was
Dana,<br>
 and his second was Da. Now, setting aside Dana of the New
York<br>
 Sun, Dana is a Bhil name, and Da fits no native of India unless
you<br>
 accept the Bengali De as the original spelling. Da is Lap or<br>
 Finnish; and Dana Da was neither Finn, Chin, Bhil, Bengali,
Lap,<br>
 Nair, Gond, Romaney, Magh, Bokhariot, Kurd, Armenian,
Levantine,<br>
 Jew, Persian, Punjabi, Madrasi, Parsee, nor anything else known
to<br>
 ethnologists. He was simply Dana Da, and declined to give
further<br>
 information. For the sake of brevity, and as roughly
indicating<br>
 his origin, he was called "The Native." He might have been
the<br>
 original Old Man of the Mountains, who is said to be the
only<br>
 authorized head of the Teacup Creed. Some, people said that
he<br>
 was; but Dana Da used to smile and deny any connection with
the<br>
 cult; explaining that he was an "independent experimenter."</p>

<p>As I have said, he came from nowhere, with his hands behind
his<br>
 back, and studied the creed for three weeks; sitting at the feet
of<br>
 those best competent to explain its mysteries. Then he
laughed<br>
 aloud and went away, but the laugh might have been either of<br>
 devotion or derision.</p>

<p>When he returned he was without money, but his pride was
unabated.<br>
 He declared that he knew more about the things in heaven and
earth<br>
 than those who taught him, and for this contumacy was
abandoned<br>
 altogether.</p>

<p>His next appearance in public life was at a big cantonment in
Upper<br>
 India, and he was then telling fortunes with the help of
three<br>
 leaden dice, a very dirty old cloth, and a little tin box of
opium<br>
 pills. He told better fortunes when he was allowed half a
bottle<br>
 of whisky; but the things which he invented on the opium were
quite<br>
 worth the money. He was in reduced circumstances. Among
other<br>
 people's he told the fortune of an Englishman who had once
been<br>
 interested in the Simla creed, but who, later on, had married
and<br>
 forgotten all his old knowledge in the study of babies and<br>
 Exchange. The Englishman allowed Dana Da to tell a fortune
for<br>
 charity's sake, and gave him five rupees, a dinner, and some
old<br>
 clothes. When he had eaten, Dana Da professed gratitude, and
asked<br>
 if there were anything he could do for his host--in the
esoteric<br>
 line.</p>

<p>"Is there anyone that you love?" said Dana Da. The
Englishman<br>
 loved his wife, but had no desire to drag her name into the<br>
 conversation. He therefore shook his head.</p>

<p>"Is there anyone that you hate?" said Dana Da. The Englishman
said<br>
 that there were several men whom he hated deeply.</p>

<p>"Very good," said Dana Da, upon whom the whisky and the opium
were<br>
 beginning to tell. "Only give me their names, and I will
dispatch<br>
 a Sending to them and kill them."</p>

<p>Now a Sending is a horrible arrangement, first invented, they
say,<br>
 in Iceland. It is a thing sent by a wizard, and may take any
form,<br>
 but most generally wanders about the land in the shape of a
little<br>
 purple cloud till it finds the sendee, and him it kills by
changing<br>
 into the form of a horse, or a cat, or a man without a face. It
is<br>
 not strictly a native patent, though chamars can, if
irritated,<br>
 dispatch a Sending which sits on the breast of their enemy by
night<br>
 and nearly kills him. Very few natives care to irritate
chamars<br>
 for this reason.</p>

<p>"Let me dispatch a Sending," said Dana Da; "I am nearly dead
now<br>
 with want, and drink, and opium; but I should like to kill a
man<br>
 before I die. I can send a Sending anywhere you choose, and in
any<br>
 form except in the shape of a man."</p>

<p>The Englishman had no friends that he wished to kill, but
partly to<br>
 soothe Dana Da, whose eyes were rolling, and partly to see
what<br>
 would be done, he asked whether a modified Sending could not
be<br>
 arranged for--such a Sending as should make a man's life a
burden<br>
 to him, and yet do him no harm. If this were possible, he
notified<br>
 his willingness to give Dana Da ten rupees for the job.</p>

<p>"I am not what I was once," said Dana Da, "and I must take
the<br>
 money because I am poor. To what Englishman shall I send
it?"</p>

<p>"Send a Sending to Lone Sahib," said the Englishman, naming a
man<br>
 who had been most bitter in rebuking him for his apostasy from
the<br>
 Teacup Creed. Dana Da laughed and nodded.</p>

<p>"I could have chosen no better man myself," said he. "I will
see<br>
 that he finds the Sending about his path and about his bed."</p>

<p>He lay down on the hearthrug, turned up the whites of his
eyes,<br>
 shivered all over, and began to snort. This was magic, or
opium,<br>
 or the Sending, or all three. When he opened his eyes he
vowed<br>
 that the Sending had started upon the warpath, and was at
that<br>
 moment flying up to the town where Lone Sahib lives.</p>

<p>"Give me my ten rupees," said Dana Da, wearily, "and write a
letter<br>
 to Lone Sahib, telling him, and all who believe with him, that
you<br>
 and a friend are using a power greater than theirs. They will
see<br>
 that you are speaking the truth."</p>

<p>He departed unsteadily, with the promise of some more rupees
if<br>
 anything came of the Sending.</p>

<p>The Englishman sent a letter to Lone Sahib, couched in what
he<br>
 remembered of the terminology of the creed. He wrote: "I also,
in<br>
 the days of what you held to be my backsliding, have
obtained<br>
 enlightenment, and with enlightenment has come power." Then
he<br>
 grew so deeply mysterious that the recipient of the letter
could<br>
 make neither head nor tail of it, and was proportionately<br>
 impressed; for he fancied that his friend had become a
"fifth<br>
 rounder." When a man is a "fifth rounder" he can do more
than<br>
 Slade and Houdin combined.</p>

<p>Lone Sahib read the letter in five different fashions, and
was<br>
 beginning a sixth interpretation, when his bearer dashed in
with<br>
 the news that there was a cat on the bed. Now, if there was
one<br>
 thing that Lone Sahib hated more than another it was a cat.
He<br>
 rated the bearer for not turning it out of the house. The
bearer<br>
 said that he was afraid. All the doors of the bedroom had
been<br>
 shut throughout the morning, and no real cat could possibly
have<br>
 entered the room. He would prefer not to meddle with the
creature.</p>

<p>Lone Sahib entered the room gingerly, and there, on the pillow
of<br>
 his bed, sprawled and whimpered a wee white kitten, not a
jumpsome,<br>
 frisky little beast, but a sluglike crawler with its eyes
barely<br>
 opened and its paws lacking strength or direction--a kitten
that<br>
 ought to have been in a basket with its mamma. Lone Sahib
caught<br>
 it by the scruff of its neck, handed it over to the sweeper to
be<br>
 drowned, and fined the bearer four annas.</p>

<p>That evening, as he was reading in his room, he fancied that
he saw<br>
 something moving about on the hearthrug, outside the circle
of<br>
 light from his reading lamp. When the thing began to myowl,
he<br>
 realized that it was a kitten--a wee white kitten, nearly blind
and<br>
 very miserable. He was seriously angry, and spoke bitterly to
his<br>
 bearer, who said that there was no kitten in the room when
he<br>
 brought in the lamp, and real kittens of tender age generally
had<br>
 mother cats in attendance.</p>

<p>"If the Presence will go out into the veranda and listen,"
said the<br>
 bearer, "he will hear no cats. How, therefore, can the kitten
on<br>
 the bed and the kitten on the hearthrug be real kittens?"</p>

<p>Lone Sahib went out to listen, and the bearer followed him,
but<br>
 there was no sound of Rachel mewing for her children. He
returned<br>
 to his room, having hurled the kitten down the hillside, and
wrote<br>
 out the incidents of the day for the benefit of his
coreligionists.<br>
 Those people were so absolutely free from superstition that
they<br>
 ascribed anything a little out of the common to agencies. As
it<br>
 was their business to know all about the agencies, they were
on<br>
 terms of almost indecent familiarity with manifestations of
every<br>
 kind. Their letters dropped from the
ceiling--un-stamped--and<br>
 spirits used to squatter up and down their staircases all
night.<br>
 But they had never come into contact with kittens. Lone
Sahib<br>
 wrote out the facts, noting the hour and the minute, as
every<br>
 psychical observer is bound to do, and appending the
Englishman's<br>
 letter because it was the most mysterious document and might
have<br>
 had a bearing upon anything in this world or the next. An
outsider<br>
 would have translated all the tangle thus: "Look out! You
laughed<br>
 at me once, and now I am going to make you sit up."</p>

<p>Lone Sahib's coreligionists found that meaning in it; but
their<br>
 translation was refined and full of four-syllable words. They
held<br>
 a sederunt, and were filled with tremulous joy, for, in spite
of<br>
 their familiarity with all the other worlds and cycles, they had
a<br>
 very human awe of things sent from ghostland. They met in
Lone<br>
 Sahib's room in shrouded and sepulchral gloom, and their
conclave<br>
 was broken up by a clinking among the photo frames on the<br>
 mantelpiece. A wee white kitten, nearly blind, was looping
and<br>
 writhing itself between the clock and the candlesticks. That<br>
 stopped all investigations or doubtings. Here was the<br>
 manifestation in the flesh. It was, so far as could be seen,<br>
 devoid of purpose, but it was a manifestation of undoubted<br>
 authenticity.</p>

<p>They drafted a round robin to the Englishman, the backslider
of old<br>
 days, adjuring him in the interests of the creed to explain
whether<br>
 there was any connection between the embodiment of some
Egyptian<br>
 god or other (I have forgotten the name) and his
communication.<br>
 They called the kitten Ra, or Toth, or Shem, or Noah, or
something;<br>
 and when Lone Sahib confessed that the first one had, at his
most<br>
 misguided instance, been drowned by the sweeper, they said<br>
 consolingly that in his next life he would be a "bounder," and
not<br>
 even a "rounder" of the lowest grade. These words may not be
quite<br>
 correct, but they express the sense of the house accurately.</p>

<p>When the Englishman received the round robin--it came by
post--he<br>
 was startled and bewildered. He sent into the bazaar for Dana
Da,<br>
 who read the letter and laughed. "That is my Sending," said
he.<br>
 "I told you I would work well. Now give me another ten
rupees."</p>

<p>"But what in the world is this gibberish about Egyptian
gods?"<br>
 asked the Englishman.</p>

<p>"Cats," said Dana Da, with a hiccough, for he had discovered
the<br>
 Englishman's whisky bottle. "Cats and cats and cats! Never
was<br>
 such a Sending. A hundred of cats. Now give me ten more
rupees<br>
 and write as I dictate."</p>

<p>Dana Da's letter was a curiosity. It bore the Englishman's<br>
 signature, and hinted at cats--at a Sending of cats. The
mere<br>
 words on paper were creepy and uncanny to behold.</p>

<p>"What have you done, though?" said the Englishman; "I am as
much in<br>
 the dark as ever. Do you mean to say that you can actually
send<br>
 this absurd Sending you talk about?"</p>

<p>"Judge for yourself," said Dana Da. "What does that letter
mean?<br>
 In a little time they will all be at my feet and yours, and I,
oh,<br>
 glory! will be drugged or drunk all day long."</p>

<p>Dana Da knew his people.</p>

<p>When a man who hates cats wakes up in the morning and finds
a<br>
 little squirming kitten on his breast, or puts his hand into
his<br>
 ulster pocket and finds a little half-dead kitten where his
gloves<br>
 should be, or opens his trunk and finds a vile kitten among
his<br>
 dress shirts, or goes for a long ride with his mackintosh
strapped<br>
 on his saddle-bow and shakes a little sprawling kitten from
its<br>
 folds when he opens it, or goes out to dinner and finds a
little<br>
 blind kitten under his chair, or stays at home and finds a
writhing<br>
 kitten under the quilt, or wriggling among his boots, or
hanging,<br>
 head downward, in his tobacco jar, or being mangled by his
terrier<br>
 in the veranda--when such a man finds one kitten, neither more
nor<br>
 less, once a day in a place where no kitten rightly could or
should<br>
 be, he is naturally upset. When he dare not murder his daily
trove<br>
 because he believes it to be a manifestation, an emissary,
an<br>
 embodiment, and half a dozen other things all out of the
regular<br>
 course of nature, he is more than upset. He is actually<br>
 distressed. Some of Lone Sahib's coreligionists thought that
he<br>
 was a highly favored individual; but many said that if he
had<br>
 treated the first kitten with proper respect--as suited a
Toth-Ra<br>
 Tum-Sennacherib Embodiment--all his trouble would have been<br>
 averted. They compared him to the Ancient Mariner, but none
the<br>
 less they were proud of him and proud of the Englishman who
had<br>
 sent the manifestation. They did not call it a Sending
because<br>
 Icelandic magic was not in their programme.</p>

<p>After sixteen kittens--that is to say, after one fortnight,
for<br>
 there were three kittens on the first day to impress the fact
of<br>
 the Sending, the whole camp was uplifted by a letter--it
came<br>
 flying through a window--from the Old Man of the
Mountains--the<br>
 head of all the creed--explaining the manifestation in the
most<br>
 beautiful language and soaking up all the credit of it for
himself.<br>
 The Englishman, said the letter, was not there at all. He was
a<br>
 backslider without power or asceticism, who couldn't even raise
a<br>
 table by force of volition, much less project an army of
kittens<br>
 through space. The entire arrangement, said the letter, was<br>
 strictly orthodox, worked and sanctioned by the highest
authorities<br>
 within the pale of the creed. There was great joy at this,
for<br>
 some of the weaker brethren seeing that an outsider who had
been<br>
 working on independent lines could create kittens, whereas
their<br>
 own rulers had never gone beyond crockery--and broken at
that--were<br>
 showing a desire to break line on their own trail. In fact,
there<br>
 was the promise of a schism. A second round robin was drafted
to<br>
 the Englishman, beginning: "Oh, Scoffer," and ending with a<br>
 selection of curses from the rites of Mizraim and Memphis and
the<br>
 Commination of Jugana; who was a "fifth rounder," upon whose
name<br>
 an upstart "third rounder" once traded. A papal excommunication
is<br>
 a billet-doux compared to the Commination of Jugana. The<br>
 Englishman had been proved under the hand and seal of the Old
Man<br>
 of the Mountains to have appropriated virtue and pretended to
have<br>
 power which, in reality, belonged only to the supreme head.<br>
 Naturally the round robin did not spare him.</p>

<p>He handed the letter to Dana Da to translate into decent
English.<br>
 The effect on Dana Da was curious. At first he was furiously<br>
 angry, and then he laughed for five minutes.</p>

<p>"I had thought," he said, "that they would have come to me.
In<br>
 another week I would have shown that I sent the Sending, and
they<br>
 would have discrowned the Old Man of the Mountains who has
sent<br>
 this Sending of mine. Do you do nothing. The time has come for
me<br>
 to act. Write as I dictate, and I will put them to shame.
But<br>
 give me ten more rupees."</p>

<p>At Dana Da's dictation the Englishman wrote nothing less than
a<br>
 formal challenge to the Old Man of the Mountains. It wound
up:<br>
 "And if this manifestation be from your hand, then let it go<br>
 forward; but if it be from my hand, I will that the Sending
shall<br>
 cease in two days' time. On that day there shall be twelve
kittens<br>
 and thenceforward none at all. The people shall judge between
us."<br>
 This was signed by Dana Da, who added pentacles and pentagrams,
and<br>
 a crux ansata, and half a dozen swastikas, and a Triple Tau to
his<br>
 name, just to show that he was all he laid claim to be.</p>

<p>The challenge was read out to the gentlemen and ladies, and
they<br>
 remembered then that Dana Da had laughed at them some years
ago.<br>
 It was officially announced that the Old Man of the Mountains
would<br>
 treat the matter with contempt; Dana Da being an independent<br>
 investigator without a single "round" at the back of him. But
this<br>
 did not soothe his people. They wanted to see a fight. They
were<br>
 very human for all their spirituality. Lone Sahib, who was
really<br>
 being worn out with kittens, submitted meekly to his fate. He
felt<br>
 that he was being "kittened to prove the power of Dana Da," as
the<br>
 poet says.</p>

<p>When the stated day dawned, the shower of kittens began. Some
were<br>
 white and some were tabby, and all were about the same
loathsome<br>
 age. Three were on his hearth-rug, three in his bathroom, and
the<br>
 other six turned up at intervals among the visitors who came to
see<br>
 the prophecy break down. Never was a more satisfactory
Sending.<br>
 On the next day there were no kittens, and the next day and all
the<br>
 other days were kittenless and quiet. The people murmured
and<br>
 looked to the Old Man of the Mountains for an explanation. A<br>
 letter, written on a palm leaf, dropped from the ceiling,
but<br>
 everyone except Lone Sahib felt that letters were not what
the<br>
 occasion demanded. There should have been cats, there should
have<br>
 been cats--full-grown ones. The letter proved conclusively
that<br>
 there had been a hitch in the psychic current which, colliding
with<br>
 a dual identity, had interfered with the percipient activity
all<br>
 along the main line. The kittens were still going on, but owing
to<br>
 some failure in the developing fluid, they were not
materialized.<br>
 The air was thick with letters for a few days afterwards.
Unseen<br>
 hands played Gluck and Beethoven on finger-bowls and clock
shades;<br>
 but all men felt that psychic life was a mockery without<br>
 materialized kittens. Even Lone Sahib shouted with the majority
on<br>
 this head. Dana Da's letters were very insulting, and if he
had<br>
 then offered to lead a new departure, there is no knowing
what<br>
 might not have happened.</p>

<p>But Dana Da was dying of whisky and opium in the Englishman's
go-<br>
 down, and had small heart for new creeds.</p>

<p>"They have been put to shame," said he. "Never was such a
Sending.<br>
 It has killed me."</p>

<p>"Nonsense," said the Englishman, "you are going to die, Dana
Da,<br>
 and that sort of stuff must be left behind. I'll admit that
you<br>
 have made some queer things come about. Tell me honestly, now,
how<br>
 was it done?"</p>

<p>"Give me ten more rupees," said Dana Da, faintly, "and if I
die<br>
 before I spend them, bury them with me." The silver was
counted<br>
 out while Dana Da was fighting with death. His hand closed
upon<br>
 the money and he smiled a grim smile.</p>

<p>"Bend low," he whispered. The Englishman bent.</p>

<p>"Bunnia--mission school--expelled--box-wallah
(peddler)--Ceylon<br>
 pearl merchant--all mine English education--outcasted, and made
up<br>
 name Dana Da--England with American thought-reading man
and--and--<br>
 you gave me ten rupees several times--I gave the Sahib's
bearer<br>
 two-eight a month for cats--little, little cats. I wrote, and
he<br>
 put them about--very clever man. Very few kittens now in the<br>
 bazaar. Ask Lone Sahib's sweeper's wife."</p>

<p>So saying, Dana Da gasped and passed away into a land where,
if all<br>
 be true, there are no materializations and the making of new
creeds<br>
 is discouraged.</p>

<p>But consider the gorgeous simplicity of it all!</p>

<p> </p>

<h2>IN THE HOUSE OF SUDDHOO</h2>

<p><br>
 A stone's throw out on either hand<br>
 From that well-ordered road we tread,<br>
 And all the world is wild and strange;<br>
 Churel and ghoul and Djinn and sprite<br>
 Shall bear us company to-night,<br>
 For we have reached the Oldest Land<br>
 Wherein the Powers of Darkness range.</p>

<p>From the Dusk to the Dawn.</p>

<p><br>
 The house of Suddhoo, near the Taksali Gate, is two-storied,
with<br>
 four carved windows of old brown wood, and a flat roof. You
may<br>
 recognize it by five red hand-prints arranged like the Five
of<br>
 Diamonds on the whitewash between the upper windows. Bhagwan
Dass,<br>
 the bunnia, and a man who says he gets his living by
seal-cutting,<br>
 live in the lower story with a troop of wives, servants,
friends,<br>
 and retainers. The two upper rooms used to be occupied by
Janoo<br>
 and Azizun and a little black-and-tan terrier that was stolen
from<br>
 an Englishman's house and given to Janoo by a soldier.
To-day,<br>
 only Janoo lives in the upper rooms. Suddhoo sleeps on the
roof<br>
 generally, except when he sleeps in the street. He used to go
to<br>
 Peshawar in the cold weather to visit his son, who sells<br>
 curiosities near the Edwardes' Gate, and then he slept under a
real<br>
 mud roof. Suddhoo is a great friend of mine, because his cousin
had<br>
 a son who secured, thanks to my recommendation, the post of
head-<br>
 messenger to a big firm in the Station. Suddhoo says that God
will<br>
 make me a Lieutenant-Governor one of these days. I daresay
his<br>
 prophecy will come true. He is very, very old, with white hair
and<br>
 no teeth worth showing, and he has outlived his
wits--outlived<br>
 nearly everything except his fondness for his son at
Peshawar.<br>
 Janoo and Azizun are Kashmiris, Ladies of the City, and theirs
was<br>
 an ancient and more or less honorable profession; but Azizun
has<br>
 since married a medical student from the North-West and has
settled<br>
 down to a most respectable life somewhere near Bareilly.
Bhagwan<br>
 Dass is an extortionate and an adulterator. He is very rich.
The<br>
 man who is supposed to get his living by seal-cutting pretends
to<br>
 be very poor. This lets you know as much as is necessary of
the<br>
 four principal tenants in the house of Suddhoo. Then there is
Me,<br>
 of course; but I am only the chorus that comes in at the end
to<br>
 explain things. So I do not count.</p>

<p><br>
 Suddhoo was not clever. The man who pretended to cut seals was
the<br>
 cleverest of them all--Bhagwan Dass only knew how to
lie--except<br>
 Janoo. She was also beautiful, but that was her own affair.</p>

<p>Suddhoo's son at Peshawar was attacked by pleurisy, and old
Suddhoo<br>
 was troubled. The seal-cutter man heard of Suddhoo's anxiety
and<br>
 made capital out of it. He was abreast of the times. He got
a<br>
 friend in Peshawar to telegraph daily accounts of the son's
health.<br>
 And here the story begins.</p>

<p>Suddhoo's cousin's son told me, one evening, that Suddhoo
wanted to<br>
 see me; that he was too old and feeble to come personally, and
that<br>
 I should be conferring an everlasting honor on the House of
Suddhoo<br>
 if I went to him. I went; but I think, seeing how well-off
Suddhoo<br>
 was then, that he might have sent something better than an
ekka,<br>
 which jolted fearfully, to haul out a future Lieutenant-Governor
to<br>
 the City on a muggy April evening. The ekka did not run
quickly.<br>
 It was full dark when we pulled up opposite the door of
Ranjit<br>
 Singh's Tomb near the main gate of the Fort. Here was Suddhoo
and<br>
 he said that, by reason of my condescension, it was
absolutely<br>
 certain that I should become a Lieutenant-Governor while my
hair<br>
 was yet black. Then we talked about the weather and the state
of<br>
 my health, and the wheat crops, for fifteen minutes, in the
Huzuri<br>
 Bagh, under the stars.</p>

<p>Suddhoo came to the point at last. He said that Janoo had told
him<br>
 that there was an order of the Sirkar against magic, because it
was<br>
 feared that magic might one day kill the Empress of India. I<br>
 didn't know anything about the state of the law; but I fancied
that<br>
 something interesting was going to happen. I said that so far
from<br>
 magic being discouraged by the Government it was highly
commended.<br>
 The greatest officials of the State practiced it themselves.
(If<br>
 the Financial Statement isn't magic, I don't know what is.)
Then,<br>
 to encourage him further, I said that, if there was any
jadoo<br>
 afoot, I had not the least objection to giving it my
countenance<br>
 and sanction, and to seeing that it was clean jadoo--white
magic,<br>
 as distinguished from the unclean jadoo which kills folk. It
took<br>
 a long time before Suddhoo admitted that this was just what he
had<br>
 asked me to come for. Then he told me, in jerks and quavers,
that<br>
 the man who said he cut seals was a sorcerer of the cleanest
kind;<br>
 that every day he gave Suddhoo news of the sick son in
Peshawar<br>
 more quickly than the lightning could fly, and that this news
was<br>
 always corroborated by the letters. Further, that he had
told<br>
 Suddhoo how a great danger was threatening his son, which could
be<br>
 removed by clean jadoo; and, of course, heavy payment. I began
to<br>
 see how the land lay, and told Suddhoo that I also understood
a<br>
 little jadoo in the Western line, and would go to his house to
see<br>
 that everything was done decently and in order. We set off<br>
 together; and on the way Suddhoo told me he had paid the
seal-<br>
 cutter between one hundred and two hundred rupees already; and
the<br>
 jadoo of that night would cost two hundred more. Which was
cheap,<br>
 he said, considering the greatness of his son's danger; but I
do<br>
 not think he meant it.</p>

<p>The lights were all cloaked in the front of the house when
we<br>
 arrived. I could hear awful noises from behind the
seal-cutter's<br>
 shop-front, as if some one were groaning his soul out.
Suddhoo<br>
 shook all over, and while we groped our way upstairs told me
that<br>
 the jadoo had begun. Janoo and Azizun met us at the
stair-head,<br>
 and told us that the jadoo-work was coming off in their
rooms,<br>
 because there was more space there. Janoo is a lady of a<br>
 freethinking turn of mind. She whispered that the jadoo was
an<br>
 invention to get money out of Suddhoo, and that the
seal-cutter<br>
 would go to a hot place when he died. Suddhoo was nearly
crying<br>
 with fear and old age. He kept walking up and down the room in
the<br>
 half light, repeating his son's name over and over again,
and<br>
 asking Azizun if the seal-cutter ought not to make a reduction
in<br>
 the case of his own landlord. Janoo pulled me over to the shadow
in<br>
 the recess of the carved bow- windows. The boards were up, and
the<br>
 rooms were only lit by one tiny lamp. There was no chance of
my<br>
 being seen if I stayed still.</p>

<p>Presently, the groans below ceased, and we heard steps on
the<br>
 staircase. That was the seal-cutter. He stopped outside the
door<br>
 as the terrier barked and Azizun fumbled at the chain, and he
told<br>
 Suddhoo to blow out the lamp. This left the place in jet
darkness,<br>
 except for the red glow from the two huqas that belonged to
Janoo<br>
 and Azizun. The seal-cutter came in, and I heard Suddhoo
throw<br>
 himself down on the floor and groan. Azizun caught her breath,
and<br>
 Janoo backed to one of the beds with a shudder. There was a
clink<br>
 of something metallic, and then shot up a pale blue-green
flame<br>
 near the ground. The light was just enough to show Azizun,
pressed<br>
 against one corner of the room with the terrier between her
knees;<br>
 Janoo, with her hands clasped, leaning forward as she sat on
the<br>
 bed; Suddhoo, face down, quivering, and the seal-cutter.</p>

<p>I hope I may never see another man like that seal-cutter. He
was<br>
 stripped to the waist, with a wreath of white jasmine as thick
as<br>
 my wrist round his forehead, a salmon-colored loin-cloth round
his<br>
 middle, and a steel bangle on each ankle. This was not awe-<br>
 inspiring. It was the face of the man that turned me cold. It
was<br>
 blue-gray in the first place. In the second, the eyes were
rolled<br>
 back till you could only see the whites of them; and, in the
third,<br>
 the face was the face of a demon--a ghoul--anything you
please<br>
 except of the sleek, oily old ruffian who sat in the day-time
over<br>
 his turning-lathe downstairs. He was lying on his stomach,
with<br>
 his arms turned and crossed behind him, as if he had been
thrown<br>
 down pinioned. His head and neck were the only parts of him
off<br>
 the floor. They were nearly at right angles to the body, like
the<br>
 head of a cobra at spring. It was ghastly. In the centre of
the<br>
 room, on the bare earth floor, stood a big, deep, brass basin,
with<br>
 a pale blue-green light floating in the centre like a
night-light.<br>
 Round that basin the man on the floor wriggled himself three
times.<br>
 How he did it I do not know. I could see the muscles ripple
along<br>
 his spine and fall smooth again; but I could not see any
other<br>
 motion. The head seemed the only thing alive about him, except
that<br>
 slow curl and uncurl of the laboring back-muscles. Janoo from
the<br>
 bed was breathing seventy to the minute; Azizun held her
hands<br>
 before her eyes; and old Suddhoo, fingering at the dirt that
had<br>
 got into his white beard, was crying to himself. The horror of
it<br>
 was that the creeping, crawly thing made no sound--only
crawled!<br>
 And, remember, this lasted for ten minutes, while the
terrier<br>
 whined, and Azizun shuddered, and Janoo gasped, and Suddhoo
cried.</p>

<p>I felt the hair lift at the back of my head, and my heart
thump<br>
 like a thermantidote paddle. Luckily, the seal-cutter
betrayed<br>
 himself by his most impressive trick and made me calm again.
After<br>
 he had finished that unspeakable triple crawl, he stretched
his<br>
 head away from the floor as high as he could, and sent out a jet
of<br>
 fire from his nostrils. Now, I knew how fire-spouting is
done--I<br>
 can do it myself--so I felt at ease. The business was a fraud.
If<br>
 he had only kept to that crawl without trying to raise the
effect,<br>
 goodness knows what I might not have thought. Both the girls<br>
 shrieked at the jet of fire and the head dropped, chin down, on
the<br>
 floor with a thud; the whole body lying then like a corpse with
its<br>
 arms trussed. There was a pause of five full minutes after
this,<br>
 and the blue- green flame died down. Janoo stooped to settle
one<br>
 of her anklets, while Azizun turned her face to the wall and
took<br>
 the terrier in her arms. Suddhoo put out an arm mechanically
to<br>
 Janoo's huqa, and she slid it across the floor with her
foot.<br>
 Directly above the body and on the wall, were a couple of
flaming<br>
 portraits, in stamped paper frames, of the Queen and the Prince
of<br>
 Wales. They looked down on the performance, and, to my
thinking,<br>
 seemed to heighten the grotesqueness of it all.</p>

<p>Just when the silence was getting unendurable, the body turned
over<br>
 and rolled away from the basin to the side of the room, where
it<br>
 lay stomach up. There was a faint "plop" from the
basin--exactly<br>
 like the noise a fish makes when it takes a fly--and the
green<br>
 light in the centre revived.</p>

<p>I looked at the basin, and saw, bobbing in the water, the
dried,<br>
 shrivelled, black head of a native baby--open eyes, open mouth
and<br>
 shaved scalp. It was worse, being so very sudden, than the<br>
 crawling exhibition. We had no time to say anything before
it<br>
 began to speak.</p>

<p>Read Poe's account of the voice that came from the mesmerized
dying<br>
 man, and you will realize less than one-half of the horror of
that<br>
 head's voice.</p>

<p>There was an interval of a second or two between each word,
and a<br>
 sort of "ring, ring, ring," in the note of the voice, like
the<br>
 timbre of a bell. It pealed slowly, as if talking to itself,
for<br>
 several minutes before I got rid of my cold sweat. Then the<br>
 blessed solution struck me. I looked at the body lying near
the<br>
 doorway, and saw, just where the hollow of the throat joins on
the<br>
 shoulders, a muscle that had nothing to do with any man's
regular<br>
 breathing, twitching away steadily. The whole thing was a
careful<br>
 reproduction of the Egyptian teraphin that one read about
sometimes<br>
 and the voice was as clever and as appalling a piece of<br>
 ventriloquism as one could wish to hear. All this time the
head<br>
 was "lip-lip-lapping" against the side of the basin, and
speaking.<br>
 It told Suddhoo, on his face again whining, of his son's
illness<br>
 and of the state of the illness up to the evening of that
very<br>
 night. I always shall respect the seal-cutter for keeping so<br>
 faithfully to the time of the Peshawar telegrams. It went on
to<br>
 say that skilled doctors were night and day watching over the
man's<br>
 life; and that he would eventually recover if the fee to the
potent<br>
 sorcerer, whose servant was the head in the basin, were
doubled.</p>

<p>Here the mistake from the artistic point of view came in. To
ask<br>
 for twice your stipulated fee in a voice that Lazarus might
have<br>
 used when he rose from the dead, is absurd. Janoo, who is really
a<br>
 woman of masculine intellect, saw this as quickly as I did.
I<br>
 heard her say "Asli nahin! Fareib!" scornfully under her
breath;<br>
 and just as she said so, the light in the basin died out, the
head<br>
 stopped talking, and we heard the room door creak on its
hinges.<br>
 Then Janoo struck a match, lit the lamp, and we saw that
head,<br>
 basin, and seal- cutter were gone. Suddhoo was wringing his
hands<br>
 and explaining to any one who cared to listen, that, if his
chances<br>
 of eternal salvation depended on it, he could not raise another
two<br>
 hundred rupees. Azizun was nearly in hysterics in the
corner;<br>
 while Janoo sat down composedly on one of the beds to discuss
the<br>
 probabilities of the whole thing being a bunao, or
"make-up."</p>

<p>I explained as much as I knew of the seal-cutter's way of
jadoo;<br>
 but her argument was much more simple:--"The magic that is
always<br>
 demanding gifts is no true magic," said she. "My mother told
me<br>
 that the only potent love-spells are those which are told you
for<br>
 love. This seal-cutter man is a liar and a devil. I dare not<br>
 tell, do anything, or get anything done, because I am in debt
to<br>
 Bhagwan Dass the bunnia for two gold rings and a heavy anklet.
I<br>
 must get my food from his shop. The seal-cutter is the friend
of<br>
 Bhagwan Dass, and he would poison my food. A fool's jadoo has
been<br>
 going on for ten days, and has cost Suddhoo many rupees each
night.<br>
 The seal-cutter used black hens and lemons and mantras before.
He<br>
 never showed us anything like this till to-night. Azizun is
a<br>
 fool, and will be a pur dahnashin soon. Suddhoo has lost his<br>
 strength and his wits. See now! I had hoped to get from
Suddhoo<br>
 many rupees while he lived, and many more after his death;
and<br>
 behold, he is spending everything on that offspring of a devil
and<br>
 a she-ass, the seal- cutter!"</p>

<p>Here I said:--"But what induced Suddhoo to drag me into
the<br>
 business? Of course I can speak to the seal-cutter, and he
shall<br>
 refund. The whole thing is child's talk--shame--and
senseless."</p>

<p>"Suddhoo IS an old child," said Janoo. "He has lived on the
roofs<br>
 these seventy years and is as senseless as a milch-goat. He<br>
 brought you here to assure himself that he was not breaking any
law<br>
 of the Sirkar, whose salt he ate many years ago. He worships
the<br>
 dust off the feet of the seal-cutter, and that cow-devourer
has<br>
 forbidden him to go and see his son. What does Suddhoo know
of<br>
 your laws or the lightning-post? I have to watch his money
going<br>
 day by day to that lying beast below."</p>

<p>Janoo stamped her foot on the floor and nearly cried with
vexation;<br>
 while Suddhoo was whimpering under a blanket in the corner,
and<br>
 Azizun was trying to guide the pipe-stem to his foolish old
mouth.</p>

<p>. . . . . . . . .</p>

<p>Now the case stands thus. Unthinkingly, I have laid myself
open to<br>
 the charge of aiding and abetting the seal-cutter in
obtaining<br>
 money under false pretences, which is forbidden by Section 420
of<br>
 the Indian Penal Code. I am helpless in the matter for these<br>
 reasons, I cannot inform the Police. What witnesses would
support<br>
 my statements? Janoo refuses flatly, Azizun is a veiled
woman<br>
 somewhere near Bareilly--lost in this big India of ours. I
cannot<br>
 again take the law into my own hands, and speak to the
seal-cutter;<br>
 for certain am I that, not only would Suddhoo disbelieve me,
but<br>
 this step would end in the poisoning of Janoo, who is bound
hand<br>
 and foot by her debt to the bunnia. Suddhoo is an old dotard;
and<br>
 whenever we meet mumbles my idiotic joke that the Sirkar
rather<br>
 patronizes the Black Art than otherwise. His son is well now;
but<br>
 Suddhoo is completely under the influence of the seal-cutter,
by<br>
 whose advice he regulates the affairs of his life. Janoo
watches<br>
 daily the money that she hoped to wheedle out of Suddhoo taken
by<br>
 the seal-cutter, and becomes daily more furious and sullen.</p>

<p>She will never tell, because she dare not; but, unless
something<br>
 happens to prevent her, I am afraid that the seal-cutter will
die<br>
 of cholera--the white arsenic kind--about the middle of May.
And<br>
 thus I shall have to be privy to a murder in the House of
Suddhoo.</p>

<p> </p>

<h2><br>
 HIS WEDDED WIFE.</h2>

<p><br>
 Cry "Murder!" in the market-place, and each<br>
 Will turn upon his neighbor anxious eyes<br>
 That ask:--"Art thou the man?" We hunted Cain,<br>
 Some centuries ago, across the world,<br>
 That bred the fear our own misdeeds maintain<br>
 To-day.</p>

<p>Vibart's Moralities.</p>

<p><br>
 Shakespeare says something about worms, or it may be giants
or<br>
 beetles, turning if you tread on them too severely. The
safest<br>
 plan is never to tread on a worm--not even on the last new<br>
 subaltern from Home, with his buttons hardly out of their
tissue<br>
 paper, and the red of sappy English beef in his cheeks. This
is<br>
 the story of the worm that turned. For the sake of brevity,
we<br>
 will call Henry Augustus Ramsay Faizanne, "The Worm," although
he<br>
 really was an exceedingly pretty boy, without a hair on his
face,<br>
 and with a waist like a girl's when he came out to the
Second<br>
 "Shikarris" and was made unhappy in several ways. The
"Shikarris"<br>
 are a high-caste regiment, and you must be able to do things
well--<br>
 play a banjo or ride more than a little, or sing, or act--to get
on<br>
 with them.</p>

<p><br>
 The Worm did nothing except fall off his pony, and knock chips
out<br>
 of gate-posts with his trap. Even that became monotonous after
a<br>
 time. He objected to whist, cut the cloth at billiards, sang
out<br>
 of tune, kept very much to himself, and wrote to his Mamma
and<br>
 sisters at Home. Four of these five things were vices which
the<br>
 "Shikarris" objected to and set themselves to eradicate. Every
one<br>
 knows how subalterns are, by brother subalterns, softened and
not<br>
 permitted to be ferocious. It is good and wholesome, and does
no<br>
 one any harm, unless tempers are lost; and then there is
trouble.<br>
 There was a man once--but that is another story.</p>

<p>The "Shikarris" shikarred The Worm very much, and he bore<br>
 everything without winking. He was so good and so anxious to<br>
 learn, and flushed so pink, that his education was cut short,
and<br>
 he was left to his own devices by every one except the
Senior<br>
 Subaltern, who continued to make life a burden to The Worm.
The<br>
 Senior Subaltern meant no harm; but his chaff was coarse, and
he<br>
 didn't quite understand where to stop. He had been waiting
too<br>
 long for his company; and that always sours a man. Also he was
in<br>
 love, which made him worse.</p>

<p>One day, after he had borrowed The Worm's trap for a lady who
never<br>
 existed, had used it himself all the afternoon, had sent a note
to<br>
 The Worm purporting to come from the lady, and was telling the
Mess<br>
 all about it, The Worm rose in his place and said, in his
quiet,<br>
 ladylike voice: "That was a very pretty sell; but I'll lay you
a<br>
 month's pay to a month's pay when you get your step, that I work
a<br>
 sell on you that you'll remember for the rest of your days, and
the<br>
 Regiment after you when you're dead or broke." The Worm
wasn't<br>
 angry in the least, and the rest of the Mess shouted. Then
the<br>
 Senior Subaltern looked at The Worm from the boots upwards,
and<br>
 down again, and said, "Done, Baby." The Worm took the rest of
the<br>
 Mess to witness that the bet had been taken, and retired into
a<br>
 book with a sweet smile.</p>

<p>Two months passed, and the Senior Subaltern still educated
The<br>
 Worm, who began to move about a little more as the hot weather
came<br>
 on. I have said that the Senior Subaltern was in love. The<br>
 curious thing is that a girl was in love with the Senior
Subaltern.<br>
 Though the Colonel said awful things, and the Majors snorted,
and<br>
 married Captains looked unutterable wisdom, and the juniors<br>
 scoffed, those two were engaged.</p>

<p>The Senior Subaltern was so pleased with getting his Company
and<br>
 his acceptance at the same time that he forgot to bother The
Worm.<br>
 The girl was a pretty girl, and had money of her own. She does
not<br>
 come into this story at all.</p>

<p>One night, at the beginning of the hot weather, all the
Mess,<br>
 except The Worm, who had gone to his own room to write Home<br>
 letters, were sitting on the platform outside the Mess House.
The<br>
 Band had finished playing, but no one wanted to go in. And
the<br>
 Captains' wives were there also. The folly of a man in love
is<br>
 unlimited. The Senior Subaltern had been holding forth on
the<br>
 merits of the girl he was engaged to, and the ladies were
purring<br>
 approval, while the men yawned, when there was a rustle of
skirts<br>
 in the dark, and a tired, faint voice lifted itself:</p>

<p>"Where's my husband?"</p>

<p>I do not wish in the least to reflect on the morality of
the<br>
 "Shikarris;" but it is on record that four men jumped up as if
they<br>
 had been shot. Three of them were married men. Perhaps they
were<br>
 afraid that their wives had come from Home unbeknownst. The
fourth<br>
 said that he had acted on the impulse of the moment. He
explained<br>
 this afterwards.</p>

<p>Then the voice cried:--"Oh, Lionel!" Lionel was the Senior<br>
 Subaltern's name. A woman came into the little circle of light
by<br>
 the candles on the peg-tables, stretching out her hands to the
dark<br>
 where the Senior Subaltern was, and sobbing. We rose to our
feet,<br>
 feeling that things were going to happen and ready to believe
the<br>
 worst. In this bad, small world of ours, one knows so little
of<br>
 the life of the next man--which, after all, is entirely his
own<br>
 concern-- that one is not surprised when a crash comes.
Anything<br>
 might turn up any day for any one. Perhaps the Senior
Subaltern<br>
 had been trapped in his youth. Men are crippled that way<br>
 occasionally. We didn't know; we wanted to hear; and the
Captains'<br>
 wives were as anxious as we. If he HAD been trapped, he was to
be<br>
 excused; for the woman from nowhere, in the dusty shoes, and
gray<br>
 travelling dress, was very lovely, with black hair and great
eyes<br>
 full of tears. She was tall, with a fine figure, and her voice
had<br>
 a running sob in it pitiful to hear. As soon as the Senior<br>
 Subaltern stood up, she threw her arms round his neck, and
called<br>
 him "my darling," and said she could not bear waiting alone
in<br>
 England, and his letters were so short and cold, and she was his
to<br>
 the end of the world, and would he forgive her. This did not
sound<br>
 quite like a lady's way of speaking. It was too
demonstrative.</p>

<p>Things seemed black indeed, and the Captains' wives peered
under<br>
 their eyebrows at the Senior Subaltern, and the Colonel's face
set<br>
 like the Day of Judgment framed in gray bristles, and no one
spoke<br>
 for a while.</p>

<p>Next the Colonel said, very shortly:--"Well, Sir?" and the
woman<br>
 sobbed afresh. The Senior Subaltern was half choked with the
arms<br>
 round his neck, but he gasped out:--"It's a d----d lie! I
never<br>
 had a wife in my life!" "Don't swear," said the Colonel.
"Come<br>
 into the Mess. We must sift this clear somehow," and he sighed
to<br>
 himself, for he believed in his "Shikarris," did the
Colonel.</p>

<p>We trooped into the ante-room, under the full lights, and
there we<br>
 saw how beautiful the woman was. She stood up in the middle of
us<br>
 all, sometimes choking with crying, then hard and proud, and
then<br>
 holding out her arms to the Senior Subaltern. It was like
the<br>
 fourth act of a tragedy. She told us how the Senior Subaltern
had<br>
 married her when he was Home on leave eighteen months before;
and<br>
 she seemed to know all that we knew, and more too, of his
people<br>
 and his past life. He was white and ashy gray, trying now
and<br>
 again to break into the torrent of her words; and we, noting
how<br>
 lovely she was and what a criminal he looked, esteemed him a
beast<br>
 of the worst kind. We felt sorry for him, though.</p>

<p>I shall never forget the indictment of the Senior Subaltern by
his<br>
 wife. Nor will he. It was so sudden, rushing out of the
dark,<br>
 unannounced, into our dull lives. The Captains' wives stood
back;<br>
 but their eyes were alight, and you could see that they had
already<br>
 convicted and sentenced the Senior Subaltern. The Colonel
seemed<br>
 five years older. One Major was shading his eyes with his hand
and<br>
 watching the woman from underneath it. Another was chewing
his<br>
 moustache and smiling quietly as if he were witnessing a
play.<br>
 Full in the open space in the centre, by the whist-tables,
the<br>
 Senior Subaltern's terrier was hunting for fleas. I remember
all<br>
 this as clearly as though a photograph were in my hand. I
remember<br>
 the look of horror on the Senior Subaltern's face. It was
rather<br>
 like seeing a man hanged; but much more interesting. Finally,
the<br>
 woman wound up by saying that the Senior Subaltern carried a
double<br>
 F. M. in tattoo on his left shoulder. We all knew that, and to
our<br>
 innocent minds it seemed to clinch the matter. But one of
the<br>
 Bachelor Majors said very politely:--"I presume that your
marriage<br>
 certificate would be more to the purpose?"</p>

<p>That roused the woman. She stood up and sneered at the
Senior<br>
 Subaltern for a cur, and abused the Major and the Colonel and
all<br>
 the rest. Then she wept, and then she pulled a paper from
her<br>
 breast, saying imperially:--"Take that! And let my
husband--my<br>
 lawfully wedded husband--read it aloud--if he dare!"</p>

<p>There was a hush, and the men looked into each other's eyes as
the<br>
 Senior Subaltern came forward in a dazed and dizzy way, and
took<br>
 the paper. We were wondering as we stared, whether there was<br>
 anything against any one of us that might turn up later on.
The<br>
 Senior Subaltern's throat was dry; but, as he ran his eye over
the<br>
 paper, he broke out into a hoarse cackle of relief, and said to
the<br>
 woman:--"You young blackguard!"</p>

<p>But the woman had fled through a door, and on the paper
was<br>
 written:--"This is to certify that I, The Worm, have paid in
full<br>
 my debts to the Senior Subaltern, and, further, that the
Senior<br>
 Subaltern is my debtor, by agreement on the 23d of February, as
by<br>
 the Mess attested, to the extent of one month's Captain's pay,
in<br>
 the lawful currency of the India Empire."</p>

<p>Then a deputation set off for The Worm's quarters and found
him,<br>
 betwixt and between, unlacing his stays, with the hat, wig,
serge<br>
 dress, etc., on the bed. He came over as he was, and the<br>
 "Shikarris" shouted till the Gunners' Mess sent over to know
if<br>
 they might have a share of the fun. I think we were all,
except<br>
 the Colonel and the Senior Subaltern, a little disappointed
that<br>
 the scandal had come to nothing. But that is human nature.
There<br>
 could be no two words about The Worm's acting. It leaned as
near<br>
 to a nasty tragedy as anything this side of a joke can. When
most<br>
 of the Subalterns sat upon him with sofa-cushions to find out
why<br>
 he had not said that acting was his strong point, he answered
very<br>
 quietly:--"I don't think you ever asked me. I used to act at
Home<br>
 with my sisters." But no acting with girls could account for
The<br>
 Worm's display that night. Personally, I think it was in bad<br>
 taste. Besides being dangerous. There is no sort of use in
playing<br>
 with fire, even for fun.</p>

<p>The "Shikarris" made him President of the Regimental Dramatic
Club;<br>
 and, when the Senior Subaltern paid up his debt, which he did
at<br>
 once, The Worm sank the money in scenery and dresses. He was
a<br>
 good Worm; and the "Shikarris" are proud of him. The only
drawback<br>
 is that he has been christened "Mrs. Senior Subaltern;" and
as<br>
 there are now two Mrs. Senior Subalterns in the Station, this
is<br>
 sometimes confusing to strangers.</p>

<p>Later on, I will tell you of a case something like, this, but
with<br>
 all the jest left out and nothing in it but real trouble.</p>

<p> </p>

<h3>A. Conan Doyle</h3>

<h2>A Case of Identity</h2>

<p><br>
 "My dear fellow," said Sherlock Holmes, as we sat on either side
of<br>
 the fire in his lodgings at Baker Street, "life is
infinitely<br>
 stranger than anything which the mind of man can invent. We
would<br>
 not dare to conceive the things which are really mere
commonplaces<br>
 of existence. If we could fly out of that window hand in
hand,<br>
 hover over this great city, gently remove the roofs, and peep in
at<br>
 the queer things which are going on, the strange coincidences,
the<br>
 plannings, the cross-purposes, the wonderful chains of
events,<br>
 working through generations, and leading to the most outre
results,<br>
 it would make all fiction, with its conventionalities and
foreseen<br>
 conclusions, most stale and unprofitable."</p>

<p><br>
 "And yet I am not convinced of it," I answered. "The cases
which<br>
 come to light in the papers are, as a rule, bald enough, and
vulgar<br>
 enough. We have in our police reports realism pushed to its<br>
 extreme limits, and yet the result is, it must be confessed,<br>
 neither fascinating nor artistic."</p>

<p>"A certain selection and discretion must be used in producing
a<br>
 realistic effect," remarked Holmes. "This is wanting in the
police<br>
 report, where more stress is laid perhaps upon the platitudes
of<br>
 the magistrate than upon the details, which to an observer
contain<br>
 the vital essence of the whole matter. Depend upon it, there
is<br>
 nothing so unnatural as the commonplace."</p>

<p>I smiled and shook my head. "I can quite understand your
thinking<br>
 so," I said. "Of course, in your position of unofficial
adviser<br>
 and helper to everybody who is absolutely puzzled, throughout
three<br>
 continents, you are brought in contact with all that is strange
and<br>
 bizarre. But here,"--I picked up the morning paper from the<br>
 ground--"let us put it to a practical test. Here is the
first<br>
 heading upon which I come. 'A husband's cruelty to his
wife.'<br>
 There is half a column of print, but I know without reading it
that<br>
 it is all perfectly familiar to me. There is, of course, the
other<br>
 woman, the drink, the push, the blow, the bruise, the
unsympathetic<br>
 sister or landlady. The crudest of writers could invent
nothing<br>
 more crude."</p>

<p>"Indeed your example is an unfortunate one for your argument,"
said<br>
 Holmes, taking the paper, and glancing his eye down it. "This
is<br>
 the Dundas separation case, and, as it happens, I was engaged
in<br>
 clearing up some small points in connection with it. The
husband<br>
 was a teetotaler, there was no other woman, and the conduct<br>
 complained of was that he had drifted into the habit of winding
up<br>
 every meal by taking out his false teeth and hurling them at
his<br>
 wife, which you will allow is not an action likely to occur to
the<br>
 imagination of the average story teller. Take a pinch of
snuff,<br>
 doctor, and acknowledge that I have scored over you in your<br>
 example."</p>

<p>He held out his snuffbox of old gold, with a great amethyst in
the<br>
 center of the lid. Its splendor was in such contrast to his
homely<br>
 ways and simple life that I could not help commenting upon
it.</p>

<p>"Ah!" said he, "I forgot that I had not seen you for some
weeks.<br>
 It is a little souvenir from the King of Bohemia, in return for
my<br>
 assistance in the case of the Irene Adler papers."</p>

<p>"And the ring?" I asked, glancing at a remarkable brilliant
which<br>
 sparkled upon his finger.</p>

<p>"It was from the reigning family of Holland, though the matter
in<br>
 which I served them was of such delicacy that I cannot confide
it<br>
 even to you, who have been good enough to chronicle one or two
of<br>
 my little problems."</p>

<p>"And have you any on hand just now?" I asked with
interest.</p>

<p>"Some ten or twelve, but none which present any features
of<br>
 interest. They are important, you understand, without being<br>
 interesting. Indeed I have found that it is usually in
unimportant<br>
 matters that there is a field for the observation, and for
the<br>
 quick analysis of cause and effect which gives the charm to
an<br>
 investigation. The larger crimes are apt to be the simpler,
for<br>
 the bigger the crime, the more obvious, as a rule, is the
motive.<br>
 In these cases, save for one rather intricate matter which has
been<br>
 referred to me from Marseilles, there is nothing which presents
any<br>
 features of interest. It is possible, however, that I may
have<br>
 something better before very many minutes are over, for this is
one<br>
 of my clients, or I am much mistaken."</p>

<p>He had risen from his chair, and was standing between the
parted<br>
 blinds, gazing down into the dull, neutral-tinted London
street.<br>
 Looking over his shoulder, I saw that on the pavement
opposite<br>
 there stood a large woman with a heavy fur boa round her neck,
and<br>
 a large curling red feather in a broad-brimmed hat which was
tilted<br>
 in a coquettish Duchess-of-Devonshire fashion over her ear.</p>

<p>From under this great panoply she peeped up in a nervous,<br>
 hesitating fashion at our windows, while her body oscillated<br>
 backward and forward, and her fingers fidgeted with her
glove<br>
 buttons. Suddenly, with a plunge, as of the swimmer who leaves
the<br>
 bank, she hurried across the road, and we heard the sharp clang
of<br>
 the bell.</p>

<p>"I have seen those symptoms before," said Holmes, throwing
his<br>
 cigarette into the fire. "Oscillation upon the pavement
always<br>
 means an affaire de coeur. She would like advice, but is not
sure<br>
 that the matter is not too delicate for communication. And
yet<br>
 even here we may discriminate. When a woman has been
seriously<br>
 wronged by a man, she no longer oscillates, and the usual
symptom<br>
 is a broken bell wire. Here we may take it that there is a
love<br>
 matter, but that the maiden is not so much angry as perplexed
or<br>
 grieved. But here she comes in person to resolve our
doubts."</p>

<p>As he spoke, there was a tap at the door, and the boy in
buttons<br>
 entered to announce Miss Mary Sutherland, while the lady
herself<br>
 loomed behind his small black figure like a full-sailed
merchantman<br>
 behind a tiny pilot boat. Sherlock Holmes welcomed her with
the<br>
 easy courtesy for which he was remarkable, and having closed
the<br>
 door, and bowed her into an armchair, he looked her over in
the<br>
 minute and yet abstracted fashion which was peculiar to him.</p>

<p>"Do you not find," he said, "that with your short sight it is
a<br>
 little trying to do so much typewriting?"</p>

<p>"I did at first," she answered, "but now I know where the
letters<br>
 are without looking." Then, suddenly realizing the full purport
of<br>
 his words, she gave a violent start, and looked up with fear
and<br>
 astonishment upon her broad, good-humored face. "You've
heard<br>
 about me, Mr. Holmes," she cried, "else how could you know
all<br>
 that?"</p>

<p>"Never mind," said Holmes, laughing, "it is my business to
know<br>
 things. Perhaps I have trained myself to see what others
overlook.<br>
 If not, why should you come to consult me?"</p>

<p>"I came to you, sir, because I heard of you from Mrs.
Etherege,<br>
 whose husband you found so easily when the police and everyone
had<br>
 given him up for dead. Oh, Mr. Holmes, I wish you would do as
much<br>
 for me. I'm not rich, but still I have a hundred a year in my
own<br>
 right, besides the little that I make by the machine, and I
would<br>
 give it all to know what has become of Mr. Hosmer Angel."</p>

<p>"Why did you come away to consult me in such a hurry?"
asked<br>
 Sherlock Holmes, with his finger tips together, and his eyes to
the<br>
 ceiling.</p>

<p>Again a startled look came over the somewhat vacuous face of
Miss<br>
 Mary Sutherland. "Yes, I did bang out of the house," she
said,<br>
 "for it made me angry to see the easy way in which Mr.
Windibank--<br>
 that is, my father--took it all. He would not go to the
police,<br>
 and he would not go to you, and so at last, as he would do
nothing,<br>
 and kept on saying that there was no harm done, it made me mad,
and<br>
 I just on with my things and came right away to you."</p>

<p>"Your father?" said Holmes. "Your stepfather, surely, since
the<br>
 name is different."</p>

<p>"Yes, my stepfather. I call him father, though it sounds
funny,<br>
 too, for he is only five years and two months older than
myself."</p>

<p>"And your mother is alive?"</p>

<p>"Oh, yes; mother is alive and well. I wasn't best pleased,
Mr.<br>
 Holmes, when she married again so soon after father's death, and
a<br>
 man who was nearly fifteen years younger than herself. Father
was<br>
 a plumber in the Tottenham Court Road, and he left a tidy
business<br>
 behind him, which mother carried on with Mr. Hardy, the
foreman;<br>
 but when Mr. Windibank came he made her sell the business, for
he<br>
 was very superior, being a traveler in wines. They got four<br>
 thousand seven hundred for the good-will and interest, which
wasn't<br>
 near as much as father could have got if he had been alive."</p>

<p>I had expected to see Sherlock Holmes impatient under this
rambling<br>
 and inconsequential narrative, but, on the contrary, he had<br>
 listened with the greatest concentration of attention.</p>

<p>"Your own little income," he asked, "does it come out of
the<br>
 business?"</p>

<p>"Oh, no, sir. It is quite separate, and was left me by my
Uncle<br>
 Ned in Auckland. It is in New Zealand stock, paying four and
half<br>
 per cent. Two thousand five hundred pounds was the amount, but
I<br>
 can only touch the interest."</p>

<p>"You interest me extremely," said Holmes. "And since you draw
so<br>
 large a sum as a hundred a year, with what you earn into the<br>
 bargain, you no doubt travel a little, and indulge yourself
in<br>
 every way. I believe that a single lady can get on very
nicely<br>
 upon an income of about sixty pounds."</p>

<p>"I could do with much less than that, Mr. Holmes, but you<br>
 understand that as long as I live at home I don't wish to be
a<br>
 burden to them, and so they have the use of the money just while
I<br>
 am staying with them. Of course that is only just for the
time.<br>
 Mr. Windibank draws my interest every quarter, and pays it over
to<br>
 mother, and I find that I can do pretty well with what I earn
at<br>
 typewriting. It brings me twopence a sheet, and I can often
do<br>
 from fifteen to twenty sheets in a day."</p>

<p>"You have made your position very clear to me," said Holmes.
"This<br>
 is my friend, Doctor Watson, before whom you can speak as freely
as<br>
 before myself. Kindly tell us now all about your connection
with<br>
 Mr. Hosmer Angel."</p>

<p>A flush stole over Miss Sutherland's face, and she picked
nervously<br>
 at the fringe of her jacket. "I met him first at the
gasfitters'<br>
 ball," she said. "They used to send father tickets when he
was<br>
 alive, and then afterwards they remembered us, and sent them
to<br>
 mother. Mr. Windibank did not wish us to go. He never did wish
us<br>
 to go anywhere. He would get quite mad if I wanted so much as
to<br>
 join a Sunday School treat. But this time I was set on going,
and<br>
 I would go, for what right had he to prevent? He said the
folk<br>
 were not fit for us to know, when all father's friends were to
be<br>
 there. And he said that I had nothing fit to wear, when I had
my<br>
 purple plush that I had never so much as taken out of the
drawer.<br>
 At last, when nothing else would do, he went off to France upon
the<br>
 business of the firm; but we went, mother and I, with Mr.
Hardy,<br>
 who used to be our foreman, and it was there I met Mr.
Hosmer<br>
 Angel."</p>

<p><br>
 "I suppose," said Holmes, "that when Mr. Windibank came back
from<br>
 France, he was very annoyed at your having gone to the
ball?"</p>

<p>"Oh, well, he was very good about it. He laughed, I remember,
and<br>
 shrugged his shoulders, and said there was no use denying
anything<br>
 to a woman, for she would have her way."</p>

<p>"I see. Then at the gasfitters' ball you met, as I understand,
a<br>
 gentleman called Mr. Hosmer Angel?"</p>

<p>"Yes, sir. I met him that night, and he called next day to ask
if<br>
 we had got home all safe, and after that we met him--that is
to<br>
 say, Mr. Holmes, I met him twice for walks, but after that
father<br>
 came back again, and Mr. Hosmer Angel could not come to the
house<br>
 any more."</p>

<p>"No?"</p>

<p>"Well, you know, father didn't like anything of the sort.
He<br>
 wouldn't have any visitors if he could help it, and he used to
say<br>
 that a woman should be happy in her own family circle. But
then,<br>
 as I used to say to mother, a woman wants her own circle to
begin<br>
 with, and I had not got mine yet."</p>

<p>"But how about Mr. Hosmer Angel? Did he make no attempt to
see<br>
 you?"</p>

<p>"Well, father was going off to France again in a week, and
Hosmer<br>
 wrote and said that it would be safer and better not to see
each<br>
 other until he had gone. We could write in the meantime, and
he<br>
 used to write every day. I took the letters in the morning,
so<br>
 there was no need for father to know."</p>

<p>"Were you engaged to the gentleman at this time?"</p>

<p>"Oh, yes, Mr. Holmes. We were engaged after the first walk
that we<br>
 took. Hosmer--Mr. Angel--was a cashier in an office in
Leadenhall<br>
 Street--and--"</p>

<p>"What office?"</p>

<p>"That's the worst of it, Mr. Holmes; I don't know."</p>

<p>"Where did he live, then?"</p>

<p>"He slept on the premises."</p>

<p>"And you don't know his address?"</p>

<p>"No--except that it was Leadenhall Street."</p>

<p>"Where did you address your letters, then?"</p>

<p>"To the Leadenhall Street Post Office, to be left till called
for.<br>
 He said that if they were sent to the office he would be chaffed
by<br>
 all the other clerks about having letters from a lady, so I
offered<br>
 to typewrite them, like he did his, but he wouldn't have that,
for<br>
 he said that when I wrote them they seemed to come from me,
but<br>
 when they were typewritten he always felt that the machine had
come<br>
 between us. That will just show you how fond he was of me,
Mr.<br>
 Holmes, and the little things that he would think of."</p>

<p>"It was most suggestive," said Holmes. "It has long been an
axiom<br>
 of mine that the little things are infinitely the most
important.<br>
 Can you remember any other little things about Mr. Hosmer
Angel?"</p>

<p>"He was a very shy man, Mr. Holmes. He would rather walk with
me<br>
 in the evening than in the daylight, for he said that he hated
to<br>
 be conspicuous. Very retiring and gentlemanly he was. Even
his<br>
 voice was gentle. He'd had the quinsy and swollen glands when
he<br>
 was young, he told me, and it had left him with a weak throat
and a<br>
 hesitating, whispering fashion of speech. He was always well<br>
 dressed, very neat and plain, but his eyes were weak, just as
mine<br>
 are, and he wore tinted glasses against the glare."</p>

<p>"Well, and what happened when Mr. Windibank, your
stepfather,<br>
 returned to France?"</p>

<p>"Mr. Hosmer Angel came to the house again, and proposed that
we<br>
 should marry before father came back. He was in dreadful
earnest,<br>
 and made me swear, with my hands on the Testament, that
whatever<br>
 happened I would always be true to him. Mother said he was
quite<br>
 right to make me swear, and that it was a sign of his
passion.<br>
 Mother was all in his favor from the first, and was even fonder
of<br>
 him than I was. Then, when they talked of marrying within
the<br>
 week, I began to ask about father; but they both said never to
mind<br>
 about father, but just to tell him afterwards and mother said
she<br>
 would make it all right with him. I didn't quite like that,
Mr.<br>
 Holmes. It seemed funny that I should ask his leave, as he
was<br>
 only a few years older than me; but I didn't want to do anything
on<br>
 the sly, so I wrote to father at Bordeaux, where the company
has<br>
 its French offices, but the letter came back to me on the
very<br>
 morning of the wedding."</p>

<p>"It missed him, then?"</p>

<p>"Yes, sir, for he had started to England just before it
arrived."</p>

<p>"Ha! that was unfortunate. Your wedding was arranged, then,
for<br>
 the Friday. Was it to be in church?"</p>

<p>"Yes, sir, but very quietly. It was to be at St. Saviour's,
near<br>
 King's Cross, and we were to have breakfast afterwards at the
St.<br>
 Pancras Hotel. Hosmer came for us in a hansom, but as there
were<br>
 two of us, he put us both into it, and stepped himself into a
four-<br>
 wheeler, which happened to be the only other cab in the street.
We<br>
 got to the church first, and when the four-wheeler drove up
we<br>
 waited for him to step out, but he never did, and when the
cabman<br>
 got down from the box and looked, there was no one there!
The<br>
 cabman said that he could not imagine what had become of him,
for<br>
 he had seen him get in with his own eyes. That was last
Friday,<br>
 Mr. Holmes, and I have never seen or heard anything since then
to<br>
 throw any light upon what became of him."</p>

<p>"It seems to me that you have been very shamefully treated,"
said<br>
 Holmes.</p>

<p>"Oh, no, sir! He was too good and kind to leave me so. Why,
all<br>
 the morning he was saying to me that, whatever happened, I was
to<br>
 be true; and that even if something quite unforeseen occurred
to<br>
 separate us, I was always to remember that I was pledged to
him,<br>
 and that he would claim his pledge sooner or later. It
seemed<br>
 strange talk for a wedding morning, but what has happened
since<br>
 gives a meaning to it."</p>

<p>"Most certainly it does. Your own opinion is, then, that
some<br>
 unforeseen catastrophe has occurred to him?"</p>

<p>"Yes, sir. I believe that he foresaw some danger, or else he
would<br>
 not have talked so. And then I think that what he foresaw<br>
 happened."</p>

<p>"But you have no notion as to what it could have been?"</p>

<p>"None."</p>

<p>"One more question. How did your mother take the matter?"</p>

<p>"She was angry, and said that I was never to speak of the
matter<br>
 again."</p>

<p>"And your father? Did you tell him?"</p>

<p>"Yes, and he seemed to think, with me, that something had
happened,<br>
 and that I should hear of Hosmer again. As he said, what
interest<br>
 could anyone have in bringing me to the door of the church,
and<br>
 then leaving me? Now, if he had borrowed my money, or if he
had<br>
 married me and got my money settled on him, there might be
some<br>
 reason; but Hosmer was very independent about money, and
never<br>
 would look at a shilling of mine. And yet what could have<br>
 happened? And why could he not write? Oh! it drives me half
mad<br>
 to think of, and I can't sleep a wink at night." She pulled
a<br>
 little handkerchief out of her muff, and began to sob heavily
into<br>
 it.</p>

<p>"I shall glance into the case for you," said Holmes, rising,
"and I<br>
 have no doubt that we shall reach some definite result. Let
the<br>
 weight of the matter rest upon me now, and do not let your
mind<br>
 dwell upon it further. Above all, try to let Mr. Hosmer
Angel<br>
 vanish from your memory, as he has done from your life."</p>

<p>"Then you don't think I'll see him again?"</p>

<p>"I fear not."</p>

<p>"Then what has happened to him?"</p>

<p>"You will leave that question in my hands. I should like
an<br>
 accurate description of him, and any letters of his which you
can<br>
 spare."</p>

<p>"I advertised for him in last Saturday's Chronicle," said
she.<br>
 "Here is the slip, and here are four letters from him."</p>

<p>"Thank you. And your address?"</p>

<p>"No. 31 Lyon Place, Camberwell."</p>

<p>"Mr. Angel's address you never had, I understand. Where is
your<br>
 father's place of business?"</p>

<p>"He travels for Westhouse &amp; Marbank, the great claret
importers of<br>
 Fenchurch Street."</p>

<p>"Thank you. You have made your statement very clearly. You
will<br>
 leave the papers here, and remember the advice which I have
given<br>
 you. Let the whole incident be a sealed book, and do not allow
it<br>
 to affect your life."</p>

<p>"You are very kind, Mr. Holmes, but I cannot do that. I shall
be<br>
 true to Hosmer. He shall find me ready when he comes back."</p>

<p>For all the preposterous hat and the vacuous face, there
was<br>
 something noble in the simple faith of our visitor which
compelled<br>
 our respect. She laid her little bundle of papers upon the
table,<br>
 and went her way, with a promise to come again whenever she
might<br>
 be summoned.</p>

<p>Sherlock Holmes sat silent for a few minutes with his finger
tips<br>
 still pressed together, his legs stretched out in front of him,
and<br>
 his gaze directed upward to the ceiling. Then he took down
from<br>
 the rack the old and oily clay pipe, which was to him as a<br>
 counselor, and, having lighted it, he leaned back in his
chair,<br>
 with thick blue cloud wreaths spinning up from him, and a look
of<br>
 infinite languor in his face.</p>

<p>"Quite an interesting study, that maiden," he observed. "I
found<br>
 her more interesting than her little problem, which, by the way,
is<br>
 rather a trite one. You will find parallel cases, if you
consult<br>
 my index, in Andover in '77, and there was something of the sort
at<br>
 The Hague last year. Old as is the idea, however, there were
one<br>
 or two details which were new to me. But the maiden herself
was<br>
 most instructive."</p>

<p>"You appeared to read a good deal upon her which was quite<br>
 invisible to me," I remarked.</p>

<p>"Not invisible, but unnoticed, Watson. You did not know where
to<br>
 look, and so you missed all that was important. I can never
bring<br>
 you to realize the importance of sleeves, the suggestiveness
of<br>
 thumb nails, or the great issues that may hang from a boot
lace.<br>
 Now, what did you gather from that woman's appearance?
Describe<br>
 it."</p>

<p>"Well, she had a slate-colored, broad-brimmed straw hat, with
a<br>
 feather of a brickish red. Her jacket was black, with black
beads<br>
 sewed upon it and a fringe of little black jet ornaments.
Her<br>
 dress was brown, rather darker than coffee color, with a
little<br>
 purple plush at the neck and sleeves. Her gloves were grayish,
and<br>
 were worn through at the right forefinger. Her boots I
didn't<br>
 observe. She had small round, hanging gold earrings, and a
general<br>
 air of being fairly well-to-do, in a vulgar, comfortable,
easygoing<br>
 way."</p>

<p>Sherlock Holmes clapped his hands softly together and
chuckled.</p>

<p>"'Pon my word, Watson, you are coming along wonderfully. You
have<br>
 really done very well indeed. It is true that you have
missed<br>
 everything of importance, but you have hit upon the method, and
you<br>
 have a quick eye for color. Never trust to general impressions,
my<br>
 boy, but concentrate yourself upon details. My first glance
is<br>
 always at a woman's sleeve. In a man it is perhaps better first
to<br>
 take the knee of the trouser. As you observe, this woman had
plush<br>
 upon her sleeve, which is a most useful material for showing<br>
 traces. The double line a little above the wrist, where the<br>
 typewritist presses against the table, was beautifully
defined.<br>
 The sewing machine, of the hand type, leaves a similar mark,
but<br>
 only on the left arm, and on the side of it farthest from
the<br>
 thumb, instead of being right across the broadest part, as
this<br>
 was. I then glanced at her face, and observing the dint of a<br>
 pince-nez at either side of her nose, I ventured a remark
upon<br>
 short sight and typewriting, which seemed to surprise her."</p>

<p>"It surprised me."</p>

<p>"But, surely, it was very obvious. I was then much surprised
and<br>
 interested on glancing down to observe that, though the boots
which<br>
 she was wearing were not unlike each other, they were really
odd<br>
 ones, the one having a slightly decorated toe cap and the other
a<br>
 plain one. One was buttoned only in the two lower buttons out
of<br>
 five, and the other at the first, third, and fifth. Now, when
you<br>
 see that a young lady, otherwise neatly dressed, has come away
from<br>
 home with odd boots, half-buttoned, it is no great deduction to
say<br>
 that she came away in a hurry."</p>

<p><br>
 "And what else?" I asked, keenly interested, as I always was, by
my<br>
 friend's incisive reasoning.</p>

<p>"I noted, in passing, that she had written a note before
leaving<br>
 home, but after being fully dressed. You observed that her
right<br>
 glove was torn at the forefinger, but you did not, apparently,
see<br>
 that both glove and finger were stained with violet ink. She
had<br>
 written in a hurry, and dipped her pen too deep. It must have
been<br>
 this morning, or the mark would not remain clear upon the
finger.<br>
 All this is amusing, though rather elementary, but I must go
back<br>
 to business, Watson. Would you mind reading me the
advertised<br>
 description of Mr. Hosmer Angel?"</p>

<p>I held the little printed slip to the light. "Missing," it
said,<br>
 "on the morning of the fourteenth, a gentleman named Hosmer
Angel.<br>
 About five feet seven inches in height; strongly built,
sallow<br>
 complexion, black hair, a little bald in the center, bushy
black<br>
 side-whiskers and mustache; tinted glasses; slight infirmity
of<br>
 speech. Was dressed, when last seen, in black frock-coat
faced<br>
 with silk, black waistcoat, gold Albert chain, and gray
Harris<br>
 tweed trousers, with brown gaiters over elastic-sided boots.
Known<br>
 to have been employed in an office in Leadenhall Street.
Anybody<br>
 bringing," etc., etc.</p>

<p>"That will do," said Holmes. "As to the letters," he
continued,<br>
 glancing over them, "they are very commonplace. Absolutely no
clew<br>
 in them to Mr. Angel, save that he quotes Balzac once. There
is<br>
 one remarkable point, however, which will no doubt strike
you."</p>

<p>"They are typewritten," I remarked.</p>

<p>"Not only that, but the signature is typewritten. Look at the
neat<br>
 little 'Hosmer Angel' at the bottom. There is a date, you see,
but<br>
 no superscription except Leadenhall Street, which is rather
vague.<br>
 The point about the signature is very suggestive--in fact, we
may<br>
 call it conclusive."</p>

<p>"Of what?"</p>

<p>"My dear fellow, is it possible you do not see how strongly
it<br>
 bears upon the case?"</p>

<p>"I cannot say that I do, unless it were that he wished to be
able<br>
 to deny his signature if an action for breach of promise
were<br>
 instituted."</p>

<p>"No, that was not the point. However, I shall write two
letters<br>
 which should settle the matter. One is to a firm in the City,
the<br>
 other is to the young lady's stepfather, Mr. Windibank, asking
him<br>
 whether he could meet us here at six o'clock to-morrow evening.
It<br>
 is just as well that we should do business with the male
relatives.<br>
 And now, doctor, we can do nothing until the answers to
those<br>
 letters come, so we may put our little problem upon the shelf
for<br>
 the interim."</p>

<p>I had had so many reasons to believe in my friend's subtle
powers<br>
 of reasoning, and extraordinary energy in action, that I felt
that<br>
 he must have some solid grounds for the assured and easy
demeanor<br>
 with which he treated the singular mystery which he had been
called<br>
 upon to fathom. Once only had I known him to fail, in the case
of<br>
 the King of Bohemia and the Irene Adler photograph, but when
I<br>
 looked back to the weird business of the "Sign of the Four,"
and<br>
 the extraordinary circumstances connected with the "Study in<br>
 Scarlet," I felt that it would be a strange tangle indeed which
he<br>
 could not unravel.</p>

<p>I left him then, still puffing at his black clay pipe, with
the<br>
 conviction that when I came again on the next evening I would
find<br>
 that he held in his hands all the clews which would lead up to
the<br>
 identity of the disappearing bridegroom of Miss Mary
Sutherland.</p>

<p>A professional case of great gravity was engaging my own
attention<br>
 at the time, and the whole of next day I was busy at the bedside
of<br>
 the sufferer. It was not until close upon six o'clock that I
found<br>
 myself free, and was able to spring into a hansom and drive
to<br>
 Baker Street, half afraid that I might be too late to assist at
the<br>
 denouement of the little mystery. I found Sherlock Holmes
alone,<br>
 however, half asleep, with his long, thin form curled up in
the<br>
 recesses of his armchair. A formidable array of bottles and
test-<br>
 tubes, with the pungent, cleanly smell of hydrochloric acid,
told<br>
 me that he had spent his day in the chemical work which was so
dear<br>
 to him.</p>

<p>"Well, have you solved it?" I asked as I entered.</p>

<p>"Yes. It was the bisulphate of baryta."</p>

<p>"No, no; the mystery!" I cried.</p>

<p>"Oh, that! I thought of the salt that I have been working
upon.<br>
 There was never any mystery in the matter, though, as I said<br>
 yesterday, some of the details are of interest. The only
drawback<br>
 is that there is no law, I fear, that can touch the
scoundrel."</p>

<p>"Who was he, then, and what was his object in deserting
Miss<br>
 Sutherland?"</p>

<p>The question was hardly out of my mouth, and Holmes had not
yet<br>
 opened his lips to reply, when we heard a heavy footfall in
the<br>
 passage, and a tap at the door.</p>

<p>"This is the girl's stepfather, Mr. James Windibank," said
Holmes.<br>
 "He has written to me to say that he would be here at six.
Come<br>
 in!"</p>

<p>The man who entered was a sturdy, middle-sized fellow, some
thirty<br>
 years of age, clean shaven, and sallow-skinned, with a
bland,<br>
 insinuating manner, and a pair of wonderfully sharp and
penetrating<br>
 gray eyes. He shot a questioning glance at each of us, placed
his<br>
 shiny top hat upon the sideboard, and, with a slight bow,
sidled<br>
 down into the nearest chair.</p>

<p>"Good evening, Mr. James Windibank," said Holmes. "I think
this<br>
 typewritten letter is from you, in which you made an
appointment<br>
 with me for six o'clock?"</p>

<p>"Yes, sir. I am afraid that I am a little late, but I am not
quite<br>
 my own master, you know. I am sorry that Miss Sutherland has<br>
 troubled you about this little matter, for I think it is far
better<br>
 not to wash linen of the sort in public. It was quite against
my<br>
 wishes that she came, but she is a very excitable, impulsive
girl,<br>
 as you may have noticed, and she is not easily controlled when
she<br>
 has made up her mind on a point. Of course, I did not mind you
so<br>
 much, as you are not connected with the official police, but it
is<br>
 not pleasant to have a family misfortune like this noised
abroad.<br>
 Besides, it is a useless expense, for how could you possibly
find<br>
 this Hosmer Angel?"</p>

<p>"On the contrary," said Holmes, quietly, "I have every reason
to<br>
 believe that I will succeed in discovering Mr. Hosmer
Angel."</p>

<p>Mr. Windibank gave a violent start, and dropped his gloves. "I
am<br>
 delighted to hear it," he said.</p>

<p>"It is a curious thing," remarked Holmes, "that a typewriter
has<br>
 really quite as much individuality as a man's handwriting.
Unless<br>
 they are quite new no two of them write exactly alike. Some<br>
 letters get more worn than others, and some wear only on one
side.<br>
 Now, you remark in this note of yours, Mr. Windibank, that in
every<br>
 case there is some little slurring over the e, and a slight
defect<br>
 in the tail of the r. There are fourteen other
characteristics,<br>
 but those are the more obvious."</p>

<p>"We do all our correspondence with this machine at the office,
and<br>
 no doubt it is a little worn," our visitor answered,
glancing<br>
 keenly at Holmes with his bright little eyes.</p>

<p>"And now I will show you what is really a very interesting
study,<br>
 Mr. Windibank," Holmes continued. "I think of writing
another<br>
 little monograph some of these days on the typewriter and
its<br>
 relation to crime. It is a subject to which I have devoted
some<br>
 little attention. I have here four letters which purport to
come<br>
 from the missing man. They are all typewritten. In each case,
not<br>
 only are the e's slurred and the r's tailless, but you will<br>
 observe, if you care to use my magnifying lens, that the
fourteen<br>
 other characteristics to which I have alluded are there as
well."</p>

<p>Mr. Windibank sprung out of his chair, and picked up his hat.
"I<br>
 cannot waste time over this sort of fantastic talk, Mr. Holmes,"
he<br>
 said. "If you can catch the man, catch him, and let me know
when<br>
 you have done it."</p>

<p>"Certainly," said Holmes, stepping over and turning the key in
the<br>
 door. "I let you know, then, that I have caught him!"</p>

<p>"What! where?" shouted Mr. Windibank, turning white to his
lips,<br>
 and glancing about him like a rat in a trap.</p>

<p>"Oh, it won't do--really it won't," said Holmes, suavely.
"There<br>
 is no possible getting out of it, Mr. Windibank. It is quite
too<br>
 transparent, and it was a very bad compliment when you said that
it<br>
 was impossible for me to solve so simple a question. That's
right!<br>
 Sit down, and let us talk it over."</p>

<p>Our visitor collapsed into a chair, with a ghastly face, and
a<br>
 glitter of moisture on his brow. "It--it's not actionable,"
he<br>
 stammered.</p>

<p>"I am very much afraid that it is not; but between
ourselves,<br>
 Windibank, it was as cruel, and selfish, and heartless a trick
in a<br>
 petty way as ever came before me. Now, let me just run over
the<br>
 course of events, and you will contradict me if I go wrong."</p>

<p>The man sat huddled up in his chair, with his head sunk upon
his<br>
 breast, like one who is utterly crushed. Holmes stuck his feet
up<br>
 on the corner of the mantelpiece, and, leaning back with his
hands<br>
 in his pockets, began talking, rather to himself, as it
seemed,<br>
 than to us.</p>

<p>"The man married a woman very much older than himself for
her<br>
 money," said he, "and he enjoyed the use of the money of the<br>
 daughter as long as she lived with them. It was a
considerable<br>
 sum, for people in their position, and the loss of it would
have<br>
 made a serious difference. It was worth an effort to preserve
it.<br>
 The daughter was of a good, amiable disposition, but
affectionate<br>
 and warmhearted in her ways, so that it was evident that with
her<br>
 fair personal advantages, and her little income, she would not
be<br>
 allowed to remain single long. Now her marriage would mean,
of<br>
 course, the loss of a hundred a year, so what does her
stepfather<br>
 do to prevent it? He takes the obvious course of keeping her
at<br>
 home, and forbidding her to seek the company of people of her
own<br>
 age. But soon he found that that would not answer forever.
She<br>
 became restive, insisted upon her rights, and finally announced
her<br>
 positive intention of going to a certain ball. What does her<br>
 clever stepfather do then? He conceives an idea more creditable
to<br>
 his head than to his heart. With the connivance and assistance
of<br>
 his wife, he disguised himself, covered those keen eyes with
tinted<br>
 glasses, masked the face with a mustache and a pair of bushy<br>
 whiskers, sunk that clear voice into an insinuating whisper,
and<br>
 doubly secure on account of the girl's short sight, he appears
as<br>
 Mr. Hosmer Angel, and keeps off other lovers by making love<br>
 himself."</p>

<p>"It was only a joke at first," groaned our visitor. "We
never<br>
 thought that she would have been so carried away."</p>

<p>"Very likely not. However that may be, the young lady was
very<br>
 decidedly carried away, and having quite made up her mind that
her<br>
 stepfather was in France, the suspicion of treachery never for
an<br>
 instant entered her mind. She was flattered by the
gentleman's<br>
 attentions, and the effect was increased by the loudly
expressed<br>
 admiration of her mother. Then Mr. Angel began to call, for it
was<br>
 obvious that the matter should be pushed as far as if would go,
if<br>
 a real effect were to be produced. There were meetings, and
an<br>
 engagement, which would finally secure the girl's affections
from<br>
 turning toward anyone else. But the deception could not be kept
up<br>
 forever. These pretended journeys to France were rather
cumbrous.<br>
 The thing to do was clearly to bring the business to an end in
such<br>
 a dramatic manner that it would leave a permanent impression
upon<br>
 the young lady's mind, and prevent her from looking upon any
other<br>
 suitor for some time to come. Hence those vows of fidelity
exacted<br>
 upon a Testament, and hence also the allusions to a possibility
of<br>
 something happening on the very morning of the wedding.
James<br>
 Windibank wished Miss Sutherland to be so bound to Hosmer
Angel,<br>
 and so uncertain as to his fate, that for ten years to come, at
any<br>
 rate, she would not listen to another man. As far as the
church<br>
 door he brought her, and then, as he could go no farther, he<br>
 conveniently vanished away by the old trick of stepping in at
one<br>
 door of a four-wheeler and out at the other. I think that that
was<br>
 the chain of events, Mr. Windibank!"</p>

<br>
Our visitor had recovered something of his assurance while
Holmes<br>
had been talking, and he rose from his chair now with a cold
sneer<br>
upon his pale face.

<p>"It may be so, or it may not, Mr. Holmes," said he; "but if
you are<br>
 so very sharp you ought to be sharp enough to know that it is
you<br>
 who are breaking the law now, and not me. I have done
nothing<br>
 actionable from the first, but as long as you keep that door
locked<br>
 you lay yourself open to an action for assault and illegal<br>
 constraint."</p>

<p>"The law cannot, as you say, touch you," said Holmes,
unlocking and<br>
 throwing open the door, "yet there never was a man who
deserved<br>
 punishment more. If the young lady has a brother or a friend,
he<br>
 ought to lay a whip across your shoulders. By Jove!" he
continued,<br>
 flushing up at the sight of the bitter sneer upon the man's
face,<br>
 "it is not part of my duties to my client, but here's a
hunting<br>
 crop handy, and I think I shall just treat myself to--" He
took<br>
 two swift steps to the whip, but before he could grasp it there
was<br>
 a wild clatter of steps upon the stairs, the heavy hall door<br>
 banged, and from the window we could see Mr. James Windibank<br>
 running at the top of his speed down the road.</p>

<p>"There's a cold-blooded scoundrel!" said Holmes, laughing as
he<br>
 threw himself down into his chair once more. "That fellow
will<br>
 rise from crime to crime until he does something very bad and
ends<br>
 on a gallows. The case has, in some respects, been not
entirely<br>
 devoid of interest."</p>

<p>"I cannot now entirely see all the steps of your reasoning,"
I<br>
 remarked.</p>

<p>"Well, of course it was obvious from the first that this Mr.
Hosmer<br>
 Angel must have some strong object for his curious conduct, and
it<br>
 was equally clear that the only man who really profited by
the<br>
 incident, as far as we could see, was the stepfather. Then
the<br>
 fact that the two men were never together, but that the one
always<br>
 appeared when the other was away, was suggestive. So were
the<br>
 tinted spectacles and the curious voice, which both hinted at
a<br>
 disguise, as did the bushy whiskers. My suspicions were all<br>
 confirmed by his peculiar action in typewriting his
signature,<br>
 which, of course, inferred that his handwriting was so familiar
to<br>
 her that she would recognize even the smallest sample of it.
You<br>
 see all these isolated facts, together with many minor ones,
all<br>
 pointed in the same direction."</p>

<p>"And how did you verify them?"</p>

<p>"Having once spotted my man, it was easy to get corroboration.
I<br>
 knew the firm for which this man worked. Having taken the
printed<br>
 description, I eliminated everything from it which could be
the<br>
 result of a disguise,--the whiskers, the glasses, the
voice,--and I<br>
 sent it to the firm with a request that they would inform me<br>
 whether it answered to the description of any of their
travelers.<br>
 I had already noticed the peculiarities of the typewriter, and
I<br>
 wrote to the man himself at his business address, asking him if
he<br>
 would come here. As I expected, his reply was typewritten,
and<br>
 revealed the same trivial but characteristic defects. The
same<br>
 post brought me a letter from Westhouse &amp; Marbank, of
Fenchurch<br>
 Street, to say that the description tallied in every respect
with<br>
 that of their employee, James Windibank. Voila tout!"</p>

<p>"And Miss Sutherland?"</p>

<p>"If I tell her she will not believe me. You may remember the
old<br>
 Persian saying, 'There is danger for him who taketh the tiger
cub,<br>
 and danger also for whoso snatcheth a delusion from a
woman.'<br>
 There is as much sense in Hafiz as in Horace, and as much
knowledge<br>
 of the world."</p>

<p> </p>

<h2>A Scandal in Bohemia</h2>

<h3>I</h3>

<p><br>
 To Sherlock Holmes she is always THE woman. I have seldom
heard<br>
 him mention her under any other name. In his eyes she eclipses
and<br>
 predominates the whole of her sex. It was not that he felt
any<br>
 emotion akin to love for Irene Adler. All emotions, and that
one<br>
 particularly, were abhorrent to his cold, precise but
admirably<br>
 balanced mind. He was, I take it, the most perfect reasoning
and<br>
 observing machine that the world has seen; but as a lover, he
would<br>
 have placed himself in a false position. He never spoke of
the<br>
 softer passions, save with a gibe and a sneer. They were
admirable<br>
 things for the observer--excellent for drawing the veil from
men's<br>
 motives and actions. But for the trained reasoner to admit
such<br>
 intrusions into his own delicate and finely adjusted
temperament<br>
 was to introduce a distracting factor which might throw a
doubt<br>
 upon all his mental results. Grit in a sensitive instrument, or
a<br>
 crack in one of his own high-power lenses, would not be more<br>
 disturbing that a strong emotion in a nature such as his. And
yet<br>
 there was but one woman to him, and that woman was the late
Irene<br>
 Adler, of dubious and questionable memory.</p>

<p><br>
 I had seen little of Holmes lately. My marriage had drifted
us<br>
 away from each other. My own complete happiness, and the
home-<br>
 centered interests which rise up around the man who first
finds<br>
 himself master of his own establishment, were sufficient to
absorb<br>
 all my attention; while Holmes, who loathed every form of
society<br>
 with his whole Bohemian soul, remained in our lodgings in
Baker<br>
 Street, buried among his old books, and alternating from week
to<br>
 week between cocaine and ambition, the drowsiness of the drug
and<br>
 the fierce energy of his own keen nature. He was still, as
ever,<br>
 deeply attracted by the study of crime, and occupied his
immense<br>
 faculties and extraordinary powers of observation in following
out<br>
 those clews, and clearing up those mysteries, which had been<br>
 abandoned as hopeless by the official police. From time to time
I<br>
 heard some vague account of his doings; of his summons to Odessa
in<br>
 the case of the Trepoff murder, of his clearing up of the
singular<br>
 tragedy of the Atkinson brothers at Trincomalee, and finally of
the<br>
 mission which he had accomplished so delicately and
successfully<br>
 for the reigning family of Holland. Beyond these signs of
his<br>
 activity, however, which I merely shared with all the readers
of<br>
 the daily press, I knew little of my former friend and
companion.</p>

<p>One night--it was on the 20th of March, 1888--I was returning
from<br>
 a journey to a patient (for I had now returned to civil
practice),<br>
 when my way led me through Baker Street. As I passed the
well-<br>
 remembered door, which must always be associated in my mind with
my<br>
 wooing, and with the dark incidents of the Study in Scarlet, I
was<br>
 seized with a keen desire to see Holmes again, and to know how
he<br>
 was employing his extraordinary powers. His rooms were
brilliantly<br>
 lighted, and even as I looked up, I saw his tall, spare figure
pass<br>
 twice in a dark silhouette against the blind. He was pacing
the<br>
 room swiftly, eagerly, with his head sunk upon his chest, and
his<br>
 hands clasped behind him. To me, who knew his every mood and<br>
 habit, his attitude and manner told their own story. He was
at<br>
 work again. He had risen out of his drug-created dreams, and
was<br>
 hot upon the scent of some new problem. I rang the bell, and
was<br>
 shown up to the chamber which had formerly been in part my
own.</p>

<p>His manner was not effusive. It seldom was; but he was glad,
I<br>
 think, to see me. With hardly a word spoken, but with a
kindly<br>
 eye, he waved me to an armchair, threw across his case of
cigars,<br>
 and indicated a spirit case and a gasogene in the corner. Then
he<br>
 stood before the fire, and looked me over in his singular<br>
 introspective fashion.</p>

<p>"Wedlock suits you," he remarked. "I think, Watson, that you
have<br>
 put on seven and a half pounds since I saw you."</p>

<p>"Seven," I answered.</p>

<p>"Indeed, I should have thought a little more. Just a trifle
more,<br>
 I fancy, Watson. And in practice again, I observe. You did
not<br>
 tell me that you intended to go into harness."</p>

<p>"Then how do you know?"</p>

<p>"I see it, I deduce it. How do I know that you have been
getting<br>
 yourself very wet lately, and that you have a most clumsy
and<br>
 careless servant girl?"</p>

<p>"My dear Holmes," said I, "this is too much. You would
certainly<br>
 have been burned had you lived a few centuries ago. It is
true<br>
 that I had a country walk on Thursday and came home in a
dreadful<br>
 mess; but as I have changed my clothes, I can't imagine how
you<br>
 deduce it. As to Mary Jane, she is incorrigible, and my wife
has<br>
 given her notice; but there again I fail to see how you work
it<br>
 out."</p>

<p>He chuckled to himself and rubbed his long nervous hands
together.</p>

<p>"It is simplicity itself," said he, "my eyes tell me that on
the<br>
 inside of your left shoe, just where the firelight strikes it,
the<br>
 leather is scored by six almost parallel cuts. Obviously they
have<br>
 been caused by some one who has very carelessly scraped round
the<br>
 edges of the sole in order to remove crusted mud from it.
Hence,<br>
 you see, my double deduction that you had been out in vile
weather,<br>
 and that you had a particularly malignant boot-slicking specimen
of<br>
 the London slavey. As to your practice, if a gentleman walks
into<br>
 my rooms, smelling of iodoform, with a black mark of nitrate
of<br>
 silver upon his right forefinger, and a bulge on the side of
his<br>
 top hat to show where he has secreted his stethoscope, I must
be<br>
 dull indeed if I do not pronounce him to be an active member of
the<br>
 medical profession."</p>

<p>I could not help laughing at the ease with which he explained
his<br>
 process of deduction. "When I hear you give your reasons," I<br>
 remarked, "the thing always appears to me so ridiculously
simple<br>
 that I could easily do it myself, though at each successive<br>
 instance of your reasoning I am baffled, until you explain
your<br>
 process. And yet, I believe that my eyes are as good as
yours."</p>

<p>"Quite so," he answered, lighting a cigarette, and throwing
himself<br>
 down into an armchair. "You see, but you do not observe. The<br>
 distinction is clear. For example, you have frequently seen
the<br>
 steps which lead up from the hall to this room."</p>

<p>"Frequently."</p>

<p>"How often?"</p>

<p>"Well, some hundreds of times."</p>

<p>"Then how many are there?"</p>

<p>"How many? I don't know."</p>

<p>"Quite so! You have not observed. And yet you have seen. That
is<br>
 just my point. Now, I know there are seventeen steps, because
I<br>
 have both seen and observed. By the way, since you are
interested<br>
 in these little problems, and since you are good enough to<br>
 chronicle one or two of my trifling experiences, you may be<br>
 interested in this." He threw over a sheet of thick
pink-tinted<br>
 note paper which had been lying open upon the table. "It came
by<br>
 the last post," said he. "Read it aloud."</p>

<p>The note was undated, and without either signature or
address.</p>

<p>"There will call upon you to-night, at a quarter to eight
o'clock,"<br>
 it said, "a gentleman who desires to consult you upon a matter
of<br>
 the very deepest moment. Your recent services to one of the
royal<br>
 houses of Europe have shown that you are one who may safely
be<br>
 trusted with matters which are of an importance which can hardly
be<br>
 exaggerated. This account of you we have from all quarters<br>
 received. Be in your chamber, then, at that hour, and do not
take<br>
 it amiss if your visitor wears a mask."</p>

<p>"This is indeed a mystery," I remarked. "What do you imagine
that<br>
 it means?"</p>

<p>"I have no data yet. It is a capital mistake to theorize
before<br>
 one has data. Insensibly one begins to twist facts to suit<br>
 theories, instead of theories to suit facts. But the note
itself--<br>
 what do you deduce from it?"</p>

<p>I carefully examined the writing, and the paper upon which it
was<br>
 written.</p>

<p>"The man who wrote it was presumably well to do," I
remarked,<br>
 endeavoring to imitate my companion's processes. "Such paper
could<br>
 not be bought under half a crown a packet. It is peculiarly
strong<br>
 and stiff."</p>

<p>"Peculiar--that is the very word," said Holmes. "It is not
an<br>
 English paper at all. Hold it up to the light."</p>

<p>I did so, and saw a large E with a small g, a P and a large G
with<br>
 a small t woven into the texture of the paper.</p>

<p>"What do you make of that?" asked Holmes.</p>

<p>"The name of the maker, no doubt; or his monogram,
rather."</p>

<p>"Not all. The G with the small t stands for 'Gesellschaft,'
which<br>
 is the German for 'Company.' It is a customary contraction
like<br>
 our 'Co.' P, of course, stands for 'Papier.' Now for the Eg.
Let<br>
 us glance at our 'Continental Gazetteer." He took down a
heavy<br>
 brown volume from his shelves. "Eglow, Eglonitz--here we
are,<br>
 Egria. It is in a German-speaking country--in Bohemia, not
far<br>
 from Carlsbad. 'Remarkable as being the scene of the death
of<br>
 Wallenstein, and for its numerous glass factories and paper
mills.'<br>
 Ha! ha! my boy, what do you make of that?" His eyes sparkled,
and<br>
 he sent up a great blue triumphant cloud from his cigarette.</p>

<p>"The paper was made in Bohemia," I said.</p>

<p>"Precisely. And the man who wrote the note is a German. Do
you<br>
 note the peculiar construction of the sentence--'This account
of<br>
 you we have from all quarters received'? A Frenchman or
Russian<br>
 could not have written that. It is the German who is so<br>
 uncourteous to his verbs. It only remains, therefore, to
discover<br>
 what is wanted by this German who writes upon Bohemian paper,
and<br>
 prefers wearing a mask to showing his face. And here he comes,
if<br>
 I am not mistaken, to resolve all our doubts."</p>

<p>As he spoke there was the sharp sound of horses' hoofs and
grating<br>
 wheels against the curb, followed by a sharp pull at the
bell.<br>
 Holmes whistled.</p>

<p>"A pair, by the sound," said he. "Yes," he continued, glancing
out<br>
 of the window. "A nice little brougham and a pair of beauties.
A<br>
 hundred and fifty guineas apiece. There's money in this
case,<br>
 Watson, if there is nothing else."</p>

<p>"I think I had better go, Holmes."</p>

<p>"Not a bit, doctor. Stay where you are. I am lost without
my<br>
 Boswell. And this promises to be interesting. It would be a
pity<br>
 to miss it."</p>

<p>"But your client--"</p>

<p>"Never mind him. I may want your help, and so may he. Here
he<br>
 comes. Sit down in that armchair, doctor, and give us your
best<br>
 attention."</p>

<p>A slow and heavy step, which had been heard upon the stairs
and in<br>
 the passage, paused immediately outside the door. Then there was
a<br>
 loud and authoritative tap.</p>

<p>"Come in!" said Holmes.</p>

<p>A man entered who could hardly have been less than six feet
six<br>
 inches in height, with the chest and limbs of a Hercules.
His<br>
 dress was rich with a richness which would, in England, be
looked<br>
 upon as akin to bad taste. Heavy bands of astrakhan were
slashed<br>
 across the sleeves and front of his double-breasted coat, while
the<br>
 deep blue cloak which was thrown over his shoulders was lined
with<br>
 flame-colored silk, and secured at the neck with a brooch
which<br>
 consisted of a single flaming beryl. Boots which extended
halfway<br>
 up his calves, and which were trimmed at the tops with rich
brown<br>
 fur, completed the impression of barbaric opulence which was<br>
 suggested by his whole appearance. He carried a broad-brimmed
hat<br>
 in his hand, while he wore across the upper part of his
face,<br>
 extending down past the cheek-bones, a black visard mask, which
he<br>
 had apparently adjusted that very moment, for his hand was
still<br>
 raised to it as he entered. From the lower part of the face
he<br>
 appeared to be a man of strong character, with a thick,
hanging<br>
 lip, and a long, straight chin, suggestive of resolution pushed
to<br>
 the length of obstinacy.</p>

<p>"You had my note?" he asked, with a deep, harsh voice and
a<br>
 strongly marked German accent. "I told you that I would call."
He<br>
 looked from one to the other of us, as if uncertain which to<br>
 address.</p>

<p><br>
 "Pray take a seat," said Holmes. "This is my friend and
colleague,<br>
 Doctor Watson, who is occasionally good enough to help me in
my<br>
 cases. Whom have I the honor to address?"</p>

<p>"You may address me as the Count von Kramm, a Bohemian
nobleman. I<br>
 understand that this gentleman, your friend, is a man of honor
and<br>
 discretion, whom I may trust with a matter of the most
extreme<br>
 importance. If not, I should much prefer to communicate with
you<br>
 alone."</p>

<p>I rose to go, but Holmes caught me by the wrist and pushed me
back<br>
 into my chair. "It is both, or none," said he. "You may say<br>
 before this gentleman anything which you may say to me."</p>

<p>The count shrugged his broad shoulders. "Then I must begin,"
said<br>
 he, "by binding you both to absolute secrecy for two years; at
the<br>
 end of that time the matter will be of no importance. At
present<br>
 it is not too much to say that it is of such weight that it
may<br>
 have an influence upon European history."</p>

<p>"I promise," said Holmes.</p>

<p>"And I."</p>

<p>"You will excuse this mask," continued our strange visitor.
"The<br>
 august person who employs me wishes his agent to be unknown to
you,<br>
 and I may confess at once that the title by which I have
just<br>
 called myself is not exactly my own."</p>

<p>"I was aware of it," said Holmes, dryly.</p>

<p>"The circumstances are of great delicacy, and every precaution
has<br>
 to be taken to quench what might grow to be an immense scandal,
and<br>
 seriously compromise one of the reigning families of Europe.
To<br>
 speak plainly, the matter implicates the great House of
Ormstein,<br>
 hereditary kings of Bohemia."</p>

<p>"I was also aware of that," murmured Holmes, settling himself
down<br>
 in his armchair, and closing his eyes.</p>

<p>Our visitor glanced with some apparent surprise at the
languid,<br>
 lounging figure of the man who had been, no doubt, depicted to
him<br>
 as the most incisive reasoner and most energetic agent in
Europe.<br>
 Holmes slowly reopened his eyes and looked impatiently at
his<br>
 gigantic client.</p>

<p>"If your majesty would condescend to state your case," he
remarked,<br>
 "I should be better able to advise you."</p>

<p>The man sprung from his chair, and paced up and down the room
in<br>
 uncontrollable agitation. Then, with a gesture of desperation,
he<br>
 tore the mask from his face and hurled it upon the ground.</p>

<p>"You are right," he cried, "I am the king. Why should I
attempt to<br>
 conceal it?"</p>

<p>"Why, indeed?" murmured Holmes. "Your majesty had not
spoken<br>
 before I was aware that I was addressing Wilhelm Gottsreich<br>
 Sigismond von Ormstein, Grand Duke of Cassel-Felstein, and<br>
 hereditary King of Bohemia."</p>

<p>"But you can understand," said our strange visitor, sitting
down<br>
 once more and passing his hand over his high, white forehead,
"you<br>
 can understand that I am not accustomed to doing such business
in<br>
 my own person. Yet the matter was so delicate that I could
not<br>
 confide it to an agent without putting myself in his power. I
have<br>
 come incognito from Prague for the purpose of consulting
you."</p>

<p>"Then, pray consult," said Holmes, shutting his eyes once
more.</p>

<p>"The facts are briefly these: Some five years ago, during a
lengthy<br>
 visit to Warsaw, I made the acquaintance of the well-known<br>
 adventuress Irene Adler. The name is no doubt familiar to
you."</p>

<p>"Kindly look her up in my index, doctor," murmured Holmes,
without<br>
 opening his eyes. For many years he had adopted a system for<br>
 docketing all paragraphs concerning men and things, so that it
was<br>
 difficult to name a subject or a person on which he could not
at<br>
 once furnish information. In this case I found her biography<br>
 sandwiched in between that of a Hebrew rabbi and that of a
staff<br>
 commander who had written a monograph upon the deep-sea
fishes.</p>

<p>"Let me see!" said Holmes. "Hum! Born in New Jersey in the
year<br>
 1858. Contralto--hum! La Scala--hum! Prima donna Imperial
Opera<br>
 of Warsaw--yes! Retired from operatic stage--ha! Living in<br>
 London--quite so! Your majesty, as I understand, became
entangled<br>
 with this young person, wrote her some compromising letters, and
is<br>
 now desirous of getting those letters back."</p>

<p>"Precisely so. But how--"</p>

<p>"Was there a secret marriage?"</p>

<p>"None."</p>

<p>"No legal papers or certificates?"</p>

<p>"None."</p>

<p>"Then I fail to follow your majesty. If this young person
should<br>
 produce her letters for blackmailing or other purposes, how is
she<br>
 to prove their authenticity?"</p>

<p>"There is the writing."</p>

<p>"Pooh-pooh! Forgery."</p>

<p>"My private note paper."</p>

<p>"Stolen."</p>

<p>"My own seal."</p>

<p>"Imitated."</p>

<p>"My photograph."</p>

<p>"Bought."</p>

<p>"We were both in the photograph."</p>

<p>"Oh, dear! That is very bad. Your majesty has indeed committed
an<br>
 indiscretion."</p>

<p>"I was mad--insane."</p>

<p>"You have compromised yourself seriously."</p>

<p>"I was only crown prince then. I was young. I am but thirty
now."</p>

<p>"It must be recovered."</p>

<p>"We have tried and failed."</p>

<p>"Your majesty must pay. It must be bought."</p>

<p>"She will not sell."</p>

<p>"Stolen, then."</p>

<p>"Five attempts have been made. Twice burglars in my pay
ransacked<br>
 her house. Once we diverted her luggage when she traveled.
Twice<br>
 she has been waylaid. There has been no result."</p>

<p>"No sign of it?"</p>

<p>"Absolutely none."</p>

<p>Holmes laughed. "It is quite a pretty little problem," said
he.</p>

<p>"But a very serious one to me," returned the king,
reproachfully.</p>

<p>"Very, indeed. And what does she propose to do with the<br>
 photograph?"</p>

<p>"To ruin me."</p>

<p>"But how?"</p>

<p>"I am about to be married."</p>

<p>"So I have heard."</p>

<p>"To Clotilde Lothman von Saxe-Meiningen, second daughter of
the<br>
 King of Scandinavia. You may know the strict principles of
her<br>
 family. She is herself the very soul of delicacy. A shadow of
a<br>
 doubt as to my conduct would bring the matter to an end."</p>

<p>"And Irene Adler?"</p>

<p>"Threatens to send them the photograph. And she will do it.
I<br>
 know that she will do it. You do not know her, but she has a
soul<br>
 of steel. She has the face of the most beautiful of women and
the<br>
 mind of the most resolute of men. Rather than I should marry<br>
 another woman, there are no lengths to which she would not
go--<br>
 none."</p>

<p>"You are sure she has not sent it yet?"</p>

<p>"I am sure."</p>

<p>"And why?"</p>

<p>"Because she has said that she would send it on the day when
the<br>
 betrothal was publicly proclaimed. That will be next
Monday."</p>

<p>"Oh, then we have three days yet," said Holmes, with a yawn.
"That<br>
 is very fortunate, as I have one or two matters of importance
to<br>
 look into just at present. Your majesty will, of course, stay
in<br>
 London for the present?"</p>

<p>"Certainly. You will find me at the Langham, under the name of
the<br>
 Count von Kramm."</p>

<p>"Then I shall drop you a line to let you know how we
progress."</p>

<p>"Pray do so; I shall be all anxiety."</p>

<p>"Then, as to money?"</p>

<p>"You have carte blanche."</p>

<p>"Absolutely?"</p>

<p>"I tell you that I would give one of the provinces of my
kingdom to<br>
 have that photograph."</p>

<p>"And for present expenses?"</p>

<p>The king took a heavy chamois-leather bag from under his
cloak, and<br>
 laid it on the table.</p>

<p>"There are three hundred pounds in gold, and seven hundred
in<br>
 notes," he said.</p>

<p>Holmes scribbled a receipt upon a sheet of his notebook, and
handed<br>
 it to him.</p>

<p>"And mademoiselle's address?" he asked.</p>

<p>"Is Briony Lodge, Serpentine Avenue, St. John's Wood."</p>

<p>Holmes took a note of it. "One other question," said he,<br>
 thoughtfully. "Was the photograph a cabinet?"</p>

<p>"It was."</p>

<p>"Then, good-night, your majesty, and I trust that we shall
soon<br>
 have some good news for you. And good-night, Watson," he added,
as<br>
 the wheels of the royal brougham rolled down the street. "If
you<br>
 will be good enough to call to-morrow afternoon, at three
o'clock,<br>
 I should like to chat this little matter over with you."</p>

<h3><br>
 II</h3>

<p><br>
 At three o'clock precisely I was at Baker Street, but Holmes
had<br>
 not yet returned. The landlady informed me that he had left
the<br>
 house shortly after eight o'clock in the morning. I sat down<br>
 beside the fire, however, with the intention of awaiting
him,<br>
 however long he might be. I was already deeply interested in
his<br>
 inquiry, for, though it was surrounded by none of the grim
and<br>
 strange features which were associated with the two crimes which
I<br>
 have already recorded, still, the nature of the case and the<br>
 exalted station of his client gave it a character of its
own.<br>
 Indeed, apart from the nature of the investigation which my
friend<br>
 had on hand, there was something in his masterly grasp of a<br>
 situation, and his keen, incisive reasoning, which made it a<br>
 pleasure to me to study his system of work, and to follow
the<br>
 quick, subtle methods by which he disentangled the most<br>
 inextricable mysteries. So accustomed was I to his
invariable<br>
 success that the very possibility of his failing had ceased
to<br>
 enter into my head.</p>

<p><br>
 It was close upon four before the door opened, and a
drunken-<br>
 looking groom, ill-kempt and side-whiskered, with an inflamed
face<br>
 and disreputable clothes, walked into the room. Accustomed as
I<br>
 was to my friend's amazing powers in the use of disguises, I had
to<br>
 look three times before I was certain that it was indeed he.
With<br>
 a nod he vanished into the bedroom, whence he emerged in
five<br>
 minutes tweed-suited and respectable, as of old. Putting his
hands<br>
 into his pockets, he stretched out his legs in front of the
fire,<br>
 and laughed heartily for some minutes.</p>

<p>"Well, really!" he cried, and then he choked, and laughed
again<br>
 until he was obliged to lie back, limp and helpless, in the
chair.</p>

<p>"What is it?"</p>

<p>"It's quite too funny. I am sure you could never guess how
I<br>
 employed my morning, or what I ended by doing."</p>

<p>"I can't imagine. I suppose that you have been watching
the<br>
 habits, and, perhaps, the house, of Miss Irene Adler."</p>

<p>"Quite so, but the sequel was rather unusual. I will tell
you,<br>
 however. I left the house a little after eight o'clock this<br>
 morning in the character of a groom out of work. There is a<br>
 wonderful sympathy and freemasonry among horsey men. Be one
of<br>
 them, and you will know all that there is to know. I soon
found<br>
 Briony Lodge. It is a bijou villa, with a garden at the back,
but<br>
 built out in the front right up to the road, two stories.
Chubb<br>
 lock to the door. Large sitting room on the right side, well<br>
 furnished, with long windows almost to the floor, and those<br>
 preposterous English window fasteners which a child could
open.<br>
 Behind there was nothing remarkable, save that the passage
window<br>
 could be reached from the top of the coach-house. I walked
round<br>
 it and examined it closely from every point of view, but
without<br>
 noting anything else of interest.</p>

<p>"I then lounged down the street, and found, as I expected,
that<br>
 there was a mews in a lane which runs down by one wall of
the<br>
 garden. I lent the hostlers a hand in rubbing down their
horses,<br>
 and I received in exchange two-pence, a glass of half and half,
two<br>
 fills of shag tobacco, and as much information as I could
desire<br>
 about Miss Adler, to say nothing of half a dozen other people
in<br>
 the neighborhood, in whom I was not in the least interested,
but<br>
 whose biographies I was compelled to listen to."</p>

<p>"And what of Irene Adler?" I asked.</p>

<p>"Oh, she has turned all the men's heads down in that part. She
is<br>
 the daintiest thing under a bonnet on this planet. So say
the<br>
 Serpentine Mews, to a man. She lives quietly, sings at
concerts,<br>
 drives out at five every day, and returns at seven sharp for<br>
 dinner. Seldom goes out at other times, except when she
sings.<br>
 Has only one male visitor, but a good deal of him. He is
dark,<br>
 handsome, and dashing; never calls less than once a day, and
often<br>
 twice. He is a Mr. Godfrey Norton of the Inner Temple. See
the<br>
 advantages of a cabman as a confidant. They had driven him home
a<br>
 dozen times from Serpentine Mews, and knew all about him. When
I<br>
 had listened to all that they had to tell, I began to walk up
and<br>
 down near Briony Lodge once more, and to think over my plan
of<br>
 campaign.</p>

<p>"This Godfrey Norton was evidently an important factor in
the<br>
 matter. He was a lawyer. That sounded ominous. What was the<br>
 relation between them, and what the object of his repeated
visits?<br>
 Was she his client, his friend, or his mistress? If the
former,<br>
 she had probably transferred the photograph to his keeping. If
the<br>
 latter, it was less likely. On the issue of this question
depended<br>
 whether I should continue my work at Briony Lodge, or turn
my<br>
 attention to the gentleman's chambers in the Temple. It was
a<br>
 delicate point, and it widened the field of my inquiry. I
fear<br>
 that I bore you with these details, but I have to let you see
my<br>
 little difficulties, if you are to understand the
situation."</p>

<p>"I am following you closely," I answered.</p>

<p>"I was still balancing the matter in my mind, when a hansom
cab<br>
 drove up to Briony Lodge, and a gentleman sprung out. He was
a<br>
 remarkably handsome man, dark, aquiline, and
mustached--evidently<br>
 the man of whom I had heard. He appeared to be in a great
hurry,<br>
 shouted to the cabman to wait, and brushed past the maid who
opened<br>
 the door, with the air of a man who was thoroughly at home.</p>

<p>"He was in the house about half an hour, and I could catch
glimpses<br>
 of him in the windows of the sitting room, pacing up and
down,<br>
 talking excitedly and waving his arms. Of her I could see
nothing.<br>
 Presently he emerged, looking even more flurried than before.
As<br>
 he stepped up to the cab, he pulled a gold watch from his
pocket<br>
 and looked at it earnestly. 'Drive like the devil!' he
shouted,<br>
 'first to Gross &amp; Hankey's in Regent Street, and then to the
Church<br>
 of St. Monica in the Edgeware Road. Half a guinea if you do it
in<br>
 twenty minutes!'</p>

<p>"Away they went, and I was just wondering whether I should not
do<br>
 well to follow them, when up the lane came a neat little
landau,<br>
 the coachman with his coat only half buttoned, and his tie
under<br>
 his ear, while all the tags of his harness were sticking out of
the<br>
 buckles. It hadn't pulled up before she shot out of the hall
door<br>
 and into it. I only caught a glimpse of her at the moment, but
she<br>
 was a lovely woman, with a face that a man might die for.</p>

<p>"'The Church of St. Monica, John,' she cried; 'and half a
sovereign<br>
 if you reach it in twenty minutes.'</p>

<p>"This was quite too good to lose, Watson. I was just
balancing<br>
 whether I should run for it, or whether I should perch behind
her<br>
 landau, when a cab came through the street. The driver
looked<br>
 twice at such a shabby fare; but I jumped in before he could<br>
 object. 'The Church of St. Monica,' said I, 'and half a
sovereign<br>
 if you reach it in twenty minutes.' It was twenty-five minutes
to<br>
 twelve, and of course it was clear enough what was in the
wind.</p>

<p>"My cabby drove fast. I don't think I ever drove faster, but
the<br>
 others were there before us. The cab and landau with their<br>
 steaming horses were in front of the door when I arrived. I
paid<br>
 the man, and hurried into the church. There was not a soul
there<br>
 save the two whom I had followed, and a surpliced clergyman,
who<br>
 seemed to be expostulating with them. They were all three
standing<br>
 in a knot in front of the altar. I lounged up the side aisle
like<br>
 any other idler who has dropped into a church. Suddenly, to
my<br>
 surprise, the three at the altar faced round to me, and
Godfrey<br>
 Norton came running as hard as he could toward me.</p>

<p>"'Thank God!' he cried. 'You'll do. Come! Come!'</p>

<p>"'What then?' I asked.</p>

<p>"'Come, man, come; only three minutes, or it won't be
legal.'</p>

<p>"I was half dragged up to the altar, and, before I knew where
I<br>
 was, I found myself mumbling responses which were whispered in
my<br>
 ear, and vouching for things of which I knew nothing, and
generally<br>
 assisting in the secure tying up of Irene Adler, spinster,
to<br>
 Godfrey Norton, bachelor. It was all done in an instant, and
there<br>
 was the gentleman thanking me on the one side and the lady on
the<br>
 other, while the clergyman beamed on me in front. It was the
most<br>
 preposterous position in which I ever found myself in my life,
and<br>
 it was the thought of it that started me laughing just now.
It<br>
 seems that there had been some informality about their
license;<br>
 that the clergyman absolutely refused to marry them without
a<br>
 witness of some sort, and that my lucky appearance saved the<br>
 bridegroom from having to sally out into the streets in search
of a<br>
 best man. The bride gave me a sovereign, and I mean to wear it
on<br>
 my watch chain in memory of the occasion."</p>

<p>"This is a very unexpected turn of affairs," said I; "and
what<br>
 then?"</p>

<p>"Well, I found my plans very seriously menaced. It looked as
if<br>
 the pair might take an immediate departure, and so necessitate
very<br>
 prompt and energetic measures on my part. At the church
door,<br>
 however, they separated, he driving back to the Temple, and she
to<br>
 her own house. 'I shall drive out in the park at five as
usual,'<br>
 she said, as she left him. I heard no more. They drove away
in<br>
 different directions, and I went off to make my own
arrangements."</p>

<p>"Which are?"</p>

<p>"Some cold beef and a glass of beer," he answered, ringing
the<br>
 bell. "I have been too busy to think of food, and I am likely
to<br>
 be busier still this evening. By the way, doctor, I shall
want<br>
 your cooperation."</p>

<p>"I shall be delighted."</p>

<p>"You don't mind breaking the law?"</p>

<p>"Not in the least."</p>

<p>"Nor running a chance of arrest?"</p>

<p>"Not in a good cause."</p>

<p>"Oh, the cause is excellent!"</p>

<p>"Then I am your man."</p>

<p>"I was sure that I might rely on you."</p>

<p>"But what is it you wish?"</p>

<p>"When Mrs. Turner has brought in the tray I will make it clear
to<br>
 you. Now," he said, as he turned hungrily on the simple fare
that<br>
 our landlady had provided, "I must discuss it while I eat, for
I<br>
 have not much time. It is nearly five now. In two hours we
must<br>
 be on the scene of action. Miss Irene, or Madame, rather,
returns<br>
 from her drive at seven. We must be at Briony Lodge to meet
her."</p>

<p>"And what then?"</p>

<p>"You must leave that to me. I have already arranged what is
to<br>
 occur. There is only one point on which I must insist. You
must<br>
 not interfere, come what may. You understand?"</p>

<p>"I am to be neutral?"</p>

<p>"To do nothing whatever. There will probably be some small<br>
 unpleasantness. Do not join in it. It will end in my being<br>
 conveyed into the house. Four or five minutes afterwards the<br>
 sitting-room window will open. You are to station yourself
close<br>
 to that open window."</p>

<p>"Yes."</p>

<p>"You are to watch me, for I will be visible to you."</p>

<p>"Yes."</p>

<p>"And when I raise my hand--so--you will throw into the room
what I<br>
 give you to throw, and will, at the same time, raise the cry
of<br>
 fire. You quite follow me?"</p>

<p>"Entirely."</p>

<p>"It is nothing very formidable," he said, taking a long,
cigar-<br>
 shaped roll from his pocket. "It is an ordinary plumber's
smoke-<br>
 rocket, fitted with a cap at either end, to make it
self-lighting.<br>
 Your task is confined to that. When you raise your cry of fire,
it<br>
 will be taken up by quite a number of people. You may then walk
to<br>
 the end of the street, and I will rejoin you in ten minutes.
I<br>
 hope that I have made myself clear?"</p>

<p>"I am to remain neutral, to get near the window, to watch you,
and,<br>
 at the signal, to throw in this object, then to raise the cry
of<br>
 fire and to wait you at the corner of the street."</p>

<p>"Precisely."</p>

<p>"Then you may entirely rely on me."</p>

<p>"That is excellent. I think, perhaps, it is almost time that
I<br>
 prepared for the new role I have to play."</p>

<p>He disappeared into his bedroom, and returned in a few minutes
in<br>
 the character of an amiable and simple-minded Nonconformist<br>
 clergyman. His broad, black hat, his baggy trousers, his
white<br>
 tie, his sympathetic smile, and general look of peering and<br>
 benevolent curiosity were such as Mr. John Hare alone could
have<br>
 equaled. It was not merely that Holmes changed his costume.
His<br>
 expression, his manner, his very soul seemed to vary with
every<br>
 fresh part that he assumed. The stage lost a fine actor, even
as<br>
 science lost an acute reasoner, when he became a specialist
in<br>
 crime.</p>

<p>It was a quarter past six when we left Baker Street, and it
still<br>
 wanted ten minutes to the hour when we found ourselves in<br>
 Serpentine Avenue. It was already dusk, and the lamps were
just<br>
 being lighted as we paced up and down in front of Briony
Lodge,<br>
 waiting for the coming of its occupant. The house was just such
as<br>
 I had pictured it from Sherlock Holmes's succinct description,
but<br>
 the locality appeared to be less private than I expected. On
the<br>
 contrary, for a small street in a quiet neighborhood, it was<br>
 remarkably animated. There was a group of shabbily dressed
men<br>
 smoking and laughing in a corner, a scissors grinder with
his<br>
 wheel, two guardsmen who were flirting with a nurse girl,
and<br>
 several well-dressed young men who were lounging up and down
with<br>
 cigars in their mouths.</p>

<p>"You see," remarked Holmes, as we paced to and fro in front of
the<br>
 house, "this marriage rather simplifies matters. The
photograph<br>
 becomes a double-edged weapon now. The chances are that she
would<br>
 be as averse to its being seen by Mr. Godfrey Norton as our
client<br>
 is to its coming to the eyes of his princess. Now the question
is--<br>
 where are we to find the photograph?"</p>

<p>"Where, indeed?"</p>

<p>"It is most unlikely that she carries it about with her. It
is<br>
 cabinet size. Too large for easy concealment about a woman's<br>
 dress. She knows that the king is capable of having her
waylaid<br>
 and searched. Two attempts of the sort have already been made.
We<br>
 may take it, then, that she does not carry it about with
her."</p>

<p>"Where, then?"</p>

<p>"Her banker or her lawyer. There is that double possibility.
But<br>
 I am inclined to think neither. Women are naturally secretive,
and<br>
 they like to do their own secreting. Why should she hand it
over<br>
 to anyone else? She could trust her own guardianship, but
she<br>
 could not tell what indirect or political influence might be<br>
 brought to bear upon a business man. Besides, remember that
she<br>
 had resolved to use it within a few days. It must be where she
can<br>
 lay her hands upon it. It must be in her own house."</p>

<p>"But it has twice been burglarized."</p>

<p>"Pshaw! They did not know how to look."</p>

<p>"But how will you look?"</p>

<p>"I will not look."</p>

<p>"What then?"</p>

<p>"I will get her to show me."</p>

<p>"But she will refuse."</p>

<p>"She will not be able to. But I hear the rumble of wheels. It
is<br>
 her carriage. Now carry out my orders to the letter."</p>

<p>As he spoke, the gleam of the sidelights of a carriage came
round<br>
 the curve of the avenue. It was a smart little landau which<br>
 rattled up to the door of Briony Lodge. As it pulled up one of
the<br>
 loafing men at the corner dashed forward to open the door in
the<br>
 hope of earning a copper, but was elbowed away by another
loafer<br>
 who had rushed up with the same intention. A fierce quarrel
broke<br>
 out which was increased by the two guardsmen, who took sides
with<br>
 one of the loungers, and by the scissors grinder, who was
equally<br>
 hot upon the other side. A blow was struck, and in an instant
the<br>
 lady, who had stepped from her carriage, was the center of a
little<br>
 knot of struggling men who struck savagely at each other with
their<br>
 fists and sticks. Holmes dashed into the crowd to protect
the<br>
 lady; but, just as he reached her, he gave a cry and dropped to
the<br>
 ground, with the blood running freely down his face. At his
fall<br>
 the guardsmen took to their heels in one direction and the
loungers<br>
 in the other, while a number of better-dressed people who
had<br>
 watched the scuffle without taking part in it crowded in to
help<br>
 the lady and to attend to the injured man. Irene Adler, as I
will<br>
 still call her, had hurried up the steps; but she stood at the
top,<br>
 with her superb figure outlined against the lights of the
ball,<br>
 looking back into the street.</p>

<p><br>
 "Is the poor gentleman much hurt?" she asked.</p>

<p>"He is dead," cried several voices.</p>

<p>"No, no, there's life in him," shouted another. "But he'll be
gone<br>
 before you can get him to the hospital."</p>

<p>"He's a brave fellow," said a woman. "They would have had
the<br>
 lady's purse and watch if it hadn't been for him. They were
a<br>
 gang, and a rough one, too. Ah! he's breathing now."</p>

<p>"He can't lie in the street. May we bring him in, marm?"</p>

<p>"Surely. Bring him into the sitting room. There is a
comfortable<br>
 sofa. This way, please." Slowly and solemnly he was borne
into<br>
 Briony Lodge, and laid out in the principal room, while I
still<br>
 observed the proceedings from my post by the window. The lamps
had<br>
 been lighted, but the blinds had not been drawn, so that I
could<br>
 see Holmes as he lay upon the couch. I do not know whether he
was<br>
 seized with compunction at that moment for the part he was
playing,<br>
 but I know that I never felt more heartily ashamed of myself in
my<br>
 life than when I saw the beautiful creature against whom I
was<br>
 conspiring, or the grace and kindliness with which she waited
upon<br>
 the injured man. And yet it would be the blackest treachery
to<br>
 Holmes to draw back now from the part which he had intrusted to
me.<br>
 I hardened my heart, and took the smoke-rocket from under my<br>
 ulster. After all, I thought, we are not injuring her. We are
but<br>
 preventing her from injuring another.</p>

<p>Holmes had sat upon the couch, and I saw him motion like a man
who<br>
 is in need of air. A maid rushed across and threw open the
window.<br>
 At the same instant I saw him raise his hand, and at the signal
I<br>
 tossed my rocket into the room with a cry of "Fire!" The word
was<br>
 no sooner out of my mouth than the whole crowd of spectators,
well<br>
 dressed and ill--gentlemen, hostlers, and servant maids--joined
in<br>
 a general shriek of "Fire!" Thick clouds of smoke curled
through<br>
 the room, and out at the open window. I caught a glimpse of<br>
 rushing figures, and a moment later the voice of Holmes from
within<br>
 assuring them that it was a false alarm. Slipping through
the<br>
 shouting crowd, I made my way to the corner of the street, and
in<br>
 ten minutes was rejoiced to find my friend's arm in mine, and
to<br>
 get away from the scene of uproar. He walked swiftly and in<br>
 silence for some few minutes, until we had turned down one of
the<br>
 quiet streets which led toward the Edgeware Road.</p>

<p>"You did it very nicely, doctor," he remarked. "Nothing could
have<br>
 been better. It is all right."</p>

<p>"You have the photograph?"</p>

<p>"I know where it is."</p>

<p>"And how did you find out?"</p>

<p>"She showed me, as I told you that she would."</p>

<p>"I am still in the dark."</p>

<p>"I do not wish to make a mystery," said he, laughing. "The
matter<br>
 was perfectly simple. You, of course, saw that everyone in
the<br>
 street was an accomplice. They were all engaged for the
evening."</p>

<p>"I guessed as much."</p>

<p>"Then, when the row broke out, I had a little moist red paint
in<br>
 the palm of my hand. I rushed forward, fell down, clapped my
hand<br>
 to my face, and became a piteous spectacle. It is an old
trick."</p>

<p>"That also I could fathom."</p>

<p>"Then they carried me in. She was bound to have me in. What
else<br>
 could she do? And into her sitting room, which was the very
room<br>
 which I suspected. It lay between that and her bedroom, and I
was<br>
 determined to see which. They laid me on a couch, I motioned
for<br>
 air, they were compelled to open the window, and you had
your<br>
 chance."</p>

<p>"How did that help you?"</p>

<p>"It was all-important. When a woman thinks that her house is
on<br>
 fire, her instinct is at once to rush to the thing which she
values<br>
 most. It is a perfectly overpowering impulse, and I have more
than<br>
 once taken advantage of it. In the case of the Darlington<br>
 Substitution Scandal it was of use to me, and also in the
Arnsworth<br>
 Castle business. A married woman grabs at her baby--an
unmarried<br>
 one reaches for her jewel box. Now it was clear to me that
our<br>
 lady of to-day had nothing in the house more precious to her
than<br>
 what we are in quest of. She would rush to secure it. The
alarm<br>
 of fire was admirably done. The smoke and shouting were enough
to<br>
 shake nerves of steel. She responded beautifully. The
photograph<br>
 is in a recess behind a sliding panel just above the right
bell-<br>
 pull. She was there in an instant, and I caught a glimpse of it
as<br>
 she drew it out. When I cried out that it was a false alarm,
she<br>
 replaced it, glanced at the rocket, rushed from the room, and
I<br>
 have not seen her since. I rose, and, making my excuses,
escaped<br>
 from the house. I hesitated whether to attempt to secure the<br>
 photograph at once; but the coachman had come in, and as he
was<br>
 watching me narrowly, it seemed safer to wait. A little
over-<br>
 precipitance may ruin all."</p>

<p>"And now?" I asked.</p>

<p>"Our quest is practically finished. I shall call with the king
to-<br>
 morrow, and with you, if you care to come with us. We will
be<br>
 shown into the sitting room to wait for the lady, but it is<br>
 probable that when she comes she may find neither us nor the<br>
 photograph. It might be a satisfaction to his majesty to regain
it<br>
 with his own hands."</p>

<p>"And when will you call?"</p>

<p>"At eight in the morning. She will not be up, so that we
shall<br>
 have a clear field. Besides, we must be prompt, for this
marriage<br>
 may mean a complete change in her life and habits. I must wire
to<br>
 the king without delay."</p>

<p>We had reached Baker Street, and had stopped at the door. He
was<br>
 searching his pockets for the key, when some one passing
said:</p>

<p>"Good night, Mister Sherlock Holmes."</p>

<p>There were several people on the pavement at the time, but
the<br>
 greeting appeared to come from a slim youth in an ulster who
had<br>
 hurried by.</p>

<p>"I've heard that voice before," said Holmes, staring down the
dimly<br>
 lighted street. "Now, I wonder who the deuce that could have<br>
 been?"</p>

<h3><br>
 III</h3>

<p><br>
 I slept at Baker Street that night, and we were engaged upon
our<br>
 toast and coffee in the morning, when the King of Bohemia
rushed<br>
 into the room.</p>

<p>"You have really got it?" he cried, grasping Sherlock Holmes
by<br>
 either shoulder, and looking eagerly into his face.</p>

<p>"Not yet."</p>

<p>"But you have hopes?"</p>

<p>"I have hopes."</p>

<p>"Then come. I am all impatience to be gone."</p>

<p>"We must have a cab."</p>

<p>"No, my brougham is waiting."</p>

<p>"Then that will simplify matters." We descended, and started
off<br>
 once more for Briony Lodge.</p>

<p><br>
 "Irene Adler is married," remarked Holmes.</p>

<p>"Married! When?"</p>

<p>"Yesterday."</p>

<p>"But to whom?"</p>

<p>"To an English lawyer named Norton."</p>

<p>"But she could not love him."</p>

<p>"I am in hopes that she does."</p>

<p>"And why in hopes?"</p>

<p>"Because it would spare your majesty all fear of future
annoyance.<br>
 If the lady loves her husband, she does not love your majesty.
If<br>
 she does not love your majesty, there is no reason why she
should<br>
 interfere with your majesty's plan."</p>

<p>"It is true. And yet-- Well, I wish she had been of my own<br>
 station. What a queen she would have made!" He relapsed into
a<br>
 moody silence, which was not broken until we drew up in
Serpentine<br>
 Avenue.</p>

<p>The door of Briony Lodge was open, and an elderly woman stood
upon<br>
 the steps. She watched us with a sardonic eye as we stepped
from<br>
 the brougham.</p>

<p>"Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I believe?" said she.</p>

<p>"I am Mr. Holmes," answered my companion, looking at her with
a<br>
 questioning and rather startled gaze.</p>

<p>"Indeed! My mistress told me that you were likely to call.
She<br>
 left this morning, with her husband, by the 5:15 train from
Charing<br>
 Cross, for the Continent."</p>

<p>"What!" Sherlock Holmes staggered back, white with chagrin
and<br>
 surprise.</p>

<p>"Do you mean that she has left England?"</p>

<p>"Never to return."</p>

<p>"And the papers?" asked the king hoarsely. "All is lost!"</p>

<p>"We shall see." He pushed past the servant, and rushed into
the<br>
 drawing-room, followed by the king and myself. The furniture
was<br>
 scattered about in every direction, with dismantled shelves,
and<br>
 open drawers, as if the lady had hurriedly ransacked them
before<br>
 her flight. Holmes rushed at the bell-pull, tore back a
small<br>
 sliding shutter, and plunging in his hand, pulled out a
photograph<br>
 and a letter. The photograph was of Irene Adler herself in
evening<br>
 dress; the letter was superscribed to "Sherlock Holmes, Esq. To
be<br>
 left till called for." My friend tore it open, and we all
three<br>
 read it together. It was dated at midnight of the preceding
night,<br>
 and ran in this way:</p>

<p><br>
 "MY DEAR MR. SHERLOCK HOLMES,--You really did it very well.
You<br>
 took me in completely. Until after the alarm of the fire, I
had<br>
 not a suspicion. But then, when I found how I had betrayed
myself,<br>
 I began to think. I had been warned against you months ago. I
had<br>
 been told that if the king employed an agent, it would certainly
be<br>
 you. And your address had been given me. Yet, with all this,
you<br>
 made me reveal what you wanted to know. Even after I became<br>
 suspicious, I found it hard to think evil of such a dear, kind
old<br>
 clergyman. But, you know, I have been trained as an actress<br>
 myself. Male costume is nothing new to me. I often take
advantage<br>
 of the freedom which it gives. I sent John, the coachman, to
watch<br>
 you, ran upstairs, got into my walking clothes, as I call them,
and<br>
 came down just as you departed.</p>

<p>"Well, I followed you to the door, and so made sure that I
was<br>
 really an object of interest to the celebrated Mr. Sherlock
Holmes.<br>
 Then I, rather imprudently, wished you good night, and started
for<br>
 the Temple to see my husband.</p>

<p>"We both thought the best resource was flight when pursued by
so<br>
 formidable an antagonist; so you will find the nest empty when
you<br>
 call to-morrow. As to the photograph, your client may rest
in<br>
 peace. I love and am loved by a better man than he. The king
may<br>
 do what he will without hindrance from one whom he has
cruelly<br>
 wronged. I keep it only to safeguard myself, and preserve a
weapon<br>
 which will always secure me from any steps which he might take
in<br>
 the future. I leave a photograph which he might care to
possess;<br>
 and I remain, dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes, very truly yours,</p>

<p>"IRENE NORTON, nee ADLER."</p>

<p><br>
 "What a woman--oh, what a woman!" cried the King of Bohemia,
when<br>
 we had all three read this epistle. "Did I not tell you how
quick<br>
 and resolute she was? Would she not have made an admirable
queen?<br>
 Is it not a pity that she was not on my level?"</p>

<p>"From what I have seen of the lady, she seems indeed to be on
a<br>
 very different level to your majesty," said Holmes coldly. "I
am<br>
 sorry that I have not been able to bring your majesty's business
to<br>
 a more successful conclusion."</p>

<p>"On the contrary, my dear sir," cried the king, "nothing could
be<br>
 more successful. I know that her word is inviolate. The<br>
 photograph is now as safe as if it were in the fire."</p>

<p>"I am glad to hear your majesty say so."</p>

<p>"I am immensely indebted to you. Pray tell me in what way I
can<br>
 reward you. This ring--" He slipped an emerald snake ring
from<br>
 his finger, and held it out upon the palm of his hand.</p>

<p>"Your majesty has something which I should value even more
highly,"<br>
 said Holmes.</p>

<p>"You have but to name it."</p>

<p>"This photograph!"</p>

<p>The king stared at him in amazement.</p>

<p>"Irene's photograph!" he cried. "Certainly, if you wish
it."</p>

<p>"I thank your majesty. Then there is no more to be done in
the<br>
 matter. I have the honor to wish you a very good morning."
He<br>
 bowed, and turning away without observing the hand which the
king<br>
 had stretched out to him, he set off in my company for his<br>
 chambers.</p>

<p>And that was how a great scandal threatened to affect the
kingdom<br>
 of Bohemia, and how the best plans of Mr. Sherlock Holmes
were<br>
 beaten by a woman's wit. He used to make merry over the
cleverness<br>
 of women, but I have not heard him do it of late. And when
he<br>
 speaks of Irene Adler, or when he refers to her photograph, it
is<br>
 always under the honorable title of THE woman.</p>

<p> </p>

<h2>The Red-Headed League</h2>

<p><br>
 I had called upon my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, one day in
the<br>
 autumn of last year, and found him in deep conversation with a
very<br>
 stout, florid-faced elderly gentleman, with fiery red hair.
With<br>
 an apology for my intrusion, I was about to withdraw, when
Holmes<br>
 pulled me abruptly into the room and closed the door behind
me.</p>

<p><br>
 "You could not possibly have come at a better time, my dear<br>
 Watson," he said, cordially.</p>

<p>"I was afraid that you were engaged."</p>

<p>"So I am. Very much so."</p>

<p>"Then I can wait in the next room."</p>

<p>"Not at all. This gentleman, Mr. Wilson, has been my partner
and<br>
 helper in many of my most successful cases, and I have no
doubt<br>
 that he will be of the utmost use to me in yours also."</p>

<p>The stout gentleman half rose from his chair and gave a bob
of<br>
 greeting, with a quick little questioning glance from his
small,<br>
 fat-encircled eyes.</p>

<p>"Try the settee," said Holmes, relapsing into his armchair,
and<br>
 putting his finger tips together, as was his custom when in<br>
 judicial moods. "I know, my dear Watson, that you share my love
of<br>
 all that is bizarre and outside the conventions and humdrum
routine<br>
 of everyday life. You have shown your relish for it by the<br>
 enthusiasm which has prompted you to chronicle, and, if you
will<br>
 excuse my saying so, somewhat to embellish so many of my own
little<br>
 adventures."</p>

<p>"Your cases have indeed been of the greatest interest to me,"
I<br>
 observed.</p>

<p>"You will remember that I remarked the other day, just before
we<br>
 went into the very simple problem presented by Miss Mary<br>
 Sutherland, that for strange effects and extraordinary
combinations<br>
 we must go to life itself, which is always far more daring than
any<br>
 effort of the imagination."</p>

<p>"A proposition which I took the liberty of doubting."</p>

<p>"You did, doctor, but none the less you must come round to my
view,<br>
 for otherwise I shall keep on piling fact upon fact on you,
until<br>
 your reason breaks down under them and acknowledge me to be
right.<br>
 Now, Mr. Jabez Wilson here has been good enough to call upon
me<br>
 this morning, and to begin a narrative which promises to be one
of<br>
 the most singular which I have listened to for some time. You
have<br>
 heard me remark that the strangest and most unique things are
very<br>
 often connected not with the larger but with the smaller
crimes,<br>
 and occasionally, indeed, where there is room for doubt whether
any<br>
 positive crime has been committed. As far as I have heard, it
is<br>
 impossible for me to say whether the present case is an instance
of<br>
 crime or not, but the course of events is certainly among the
most<br>
 singular that I have ever listened to. Perhaps, Mr. Wilson,
you<br>
 would have the great kindness to recommence your narrative. I
ask<br>
 you, not merely because my friend, Dr. Watson, has not heard
the<br>
 opening part, but also because the peculiar nature of the
story<br>
 makes me anxious to have every possible detail from your lips.
As<br>
 a rule, when I have heard some slight indication of the course
of<br>
 events I am able to guide myself by the thousands of other
similar<br>
 cases which occur to my memory. In the present instance I am<br>
 forced to admit that the facts are, to the best of my
belief,<br>
 unique."</p>

<p>The portly client puffed out his chest with an appearance of
some<br>
 little pride, and pulled a dirty and wrinkled newspaper from
the<br>
 inside pocket of his greatcoat. As he glanced down the<br>
 advertisement column, with his head thrust forward, and the
paper<br>
 flattened out upon his knee, I took a good look at the man,
and<br>
 endeavored, after the fashion of my companion, to read the<br>
 indications which might be presented by his dress or
appearance.</p>

<p>I did not gain very much, however, by my inspection. Our
visitor<br>
 bore every mark of being an average commonplace British
tradesman,<br>
 obese, pompous, and slow. He wore rather baggy gray
shepherd's<br>
 check trousers, a not over-clean black frock coat, unbuttoned
in<br>
 the front, and a drab waistcoat with a heavy brassy Albert
chain,<br>
 and a square pierced bit of metal dangling down as an ornament.
A<br>
 frayed top hat and a faded brown overcoat with a wrinkled
velvet<br>
 collar lay upon a chair beside him. Altogether, look as I
would,<br>
 there was nothing remarkable about the man save his blazing
red<br>
 head and the expression of extreme chagrin and discontent upon
his<br>
 features.</p>

<p>Sherlock Holmes's quick eye took in my occupation, and he
shook his<br>
 head with a smile as he noticed my questioning glances.
"Beyond<br>
 the obvious facts that he has at some time done manual labor,
that<br>
 he takes snuff, that he is a Freemason, that he has been in
China,<br>
 and that he has done a considerable amount of writing lately, I
can<br>
 deduce nothing else."</p>

<p>Mr. Jabez Wilson started up in his chair, with his forefinger
upon<br>
 the paper, but his eyes upon my companion.</p>

<p>How, in the name of good fortune, did you know all that,
Mr.<br>
 Holmes?" he asked. "How did you know, for example, that I
did<br>
 manual labor? It's as true as gospel, for I began as a
ship's<br>
 carpenter."</p>

<p>"Your hands, my dear sir. Your right hand is quite a size
larger<br>
 than your left. You have worked with it and the muscles are
more<br>
 developed."</p>

<p>"Well, the snuff, then, and the Freemasonry?"</p>

<p>"I won't insult your intelligence by telling you how I read
that,<br>
 especially as, rather against the strict rules of your order,
you<br>
 use an arc and compass breastpin."</p>

<p>"Ah, of course, I forgot that. But the writing?"</p>

<p>"What else can be indicated by that right cuff so very shiny
for<br>
 five inches, and the left one with the smooth patch near the
elbow<br>
 where you rest it upon the desk."</p>

<p>"Well, but China?"</p>

<p>"The fish which you have tattooed immediately above your
wrist<br>
 could only have been done in China. I have made a small study
of<br>
 tattoo marks, and have even contributed to the literature of
the<br>
 subject. That trick of staining the fishes' scales of a
delicate<br>
 pink is quite peculiar to China. When, in addition, I see a<br>
 Chinese coin hanging from your watch chain, the matter becomes
even<br>
 more simple."</p>

<p>Mr. Jabez Wilson laughed heavily. "Well, I never!" said he.
"I<br>
 thought at first that you had done something clever, but I see
that<br>
 there was nothing in it after all."</p>

<p>"I begin to think, Watson," said Holmes, "that I make a
mistake in<br>
 explaining. 'Omne ignotom pro magnifico,' you know, and my
poor<br>
 little reputation, such as it is, will suffer shipwreck if I am
so<br>
 candid. Can you not find the advertisement, Mr. Wilson?"</p>

<p>"Yes, I have got it now," he answered, with his thick, red
finger<br>
 planted halfway down the column. "Here it is. This is what
began<br>
 it all. You just read it for yourself, sir."</p>

<p>I took the paper from him and read as follows:</p>

<p><br>
 "TO THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE: On account of the bequest of the
late<br>
 Ezekiah Hopkins, of Lebanon, Pa., U. S. A., there is now
another<br>
 vacancy open which entitles a member of the League to a salary
of<br>
 four pounds a week for purely nominal services. All red-headed
men<br>
 who are sound in body and mind and above the age of
twenty-one<br>
 years are eligible. Apply in person on Monday, at eleven
o'clock,<br>
 to Duncan Ross, at the offices of the League, 7 Pope's Court,
Fleet<br>
 Street."</p>

<p><br>
 "What on earth does this mean?" I ejaculated, after I had
twice<br>
 read over the extraordinary announcement.</p>

<p>Holmes chuckled and wriggled in his chair, as was his habit
when in<br>
 high spirits. "It is a little off the beaten track, isn't
it?"<br>
 said he. "And now, Mr. Wilson, off you go at scratch, and tell
us<br>
 all about yourself, your household, and the effect which
this<br>
 advertisement had upon your fortunes. You will first make a
note,<br>
 doctor, of the paper and the date."</p>

<p>"It is The Morning Chronicle of April 27, 1890. Just two
months<br>
 ago."</p>

<p>"Very good. Now, Mr. Wilson."</p>

<p>"Well, it is just as I have been telling you, Mr. Sherlock
Holmes,"<br>
 said Jabez Wilson, mopping his forehead, "I have a small<br>
 pawnbroker's business at Saxe-Coburg Square, near the City.
It's<br>
 not a very large affair, and of late years it has not done
more<br>
 than just give me a living. I used to be able to keep two<br>
 assistants, but now I only keep one; and I would have a job to
pay<br>
 him but that he is willing to come for half wages, so as to
learn<br>
 the business."</p>

<p>"What is the name of this obliging youth?" asked Sherlock
Holmes.</p>

<p>"His name is Vincent Spaulding, and he's not such a youth
either.<br>
 It's hard to say his age. I should not wish a smarter
assistant,<br>
 Mr. Holmes; and I know very well that he could better himself,
and<br>
 earn twice what I am able to give him. But, after all, if he
is<br>
 satisfied, why should I put ideas in his head?"</p>

<p>"Why, indeed? You seem most fortunate in having an employee
who<br>
 comes under the full market price. It is not a common
experience<br>
 among employers in this age. I don't know that your assistant
is<br>
 not as remarkable as your advertisement."</p>

<p>"Oh, he has his faults, too," said Mr. Wilson. "Never was such
a<br>
 fellow for photography. Snapping away with a camera when he
ought<br>
 to be improving his mind, and then diving down into the cellar
like<br>
 a rabbit into its hole to develop his pictures. That is his
main<br>
 fault; but, on the whole, he's a good worker. There's no vice
in<br>
 him."</p>

<p>"He is still with you, I presume?"</p>

<p>"Yes, sir. He and a girl of fourteen, who does a bit of
simple<br>
 cooking, and keeps the place clean--that's all I have in the
house,<br>
 for I am a widower, and never had any family. We live very<br>
 quietly, sir, the three of us; and we keep a roof over our
heads,<br>
 and pay our debts, if we do nothing more.</p>

<p>"The first thing that put us out was that advertisement.<br>
 Spaulding, he came down into the office just this day eight
weeks,<br>
 with this very paper in his hand, and he says:</p>

<p>"'I wish to the Lord, Mr. Wilson, that I was a redheaded
man.'</p>

<p>"'Why that?' I asks.</p>

<p>"'Why,' says he, 'here's another vacancy on the League of the
Red-<br>
 headed Men. It's worth quite a little fortune to any man who
gets<br>
 it, and I understand that there are more vacancies than there
are<br>
 men, so that the trustees are at their wits' end what to do
with<br>
 the money. If my hair would only change color here's a nice
little<br>
 crib all ready for me to step into.'</p>

<p>"'Why, what is it, then?' I asked. You see, Mr. Holmes, I am
a<br>
 very stay-at-home man, and, as my business came to me instead of
my<br>
 having to go to it, I was often weeks on end without putting
my<br>
 foot over the door mat. In that way I didn't know much of what
was<br>
 going on outside, and I was always glad of a bit of news.</p>

<p>"'Have you never heard of the League of the Red-headed Men?'
he<br>
 asked, with his eyes open.</p>

<p>"'Never.'</p>

<p>"'Why, I wonder at that, for you are eligible yourself for one
of<br>
 the vacancies.'</p>

<p>"'And what are they worth?' I asked.</p>

<p>"'Oh, merely a couple of hundred a year, but the work is
slight,<br>
 and it need not interfere very much with one's other
occupations.'</p>

<p>"Well, you can easily think that that made me prick up my
ears, for<br>
 the business has not been over good for some years, and an
extra<br>
 couple of hundred would have been very handy.</p>

<p>"'Tell me all about it,' said I.</p>

<p>"'Well,' said he, showing me the advertisement, 'you can see
for<br>
 yourself that the League has a vacancy, and there is the
address<br>
 where you should apply for particulars. As far as I can make
out,<br>
 the League was founded by an American millionaire, Ezekiah
Hopkins,<br>
 who was very peculiar in his ways. He was himself red-headed,
and<br>
 he had a great sympathy for all red-headed men; so, when he
died,<br>
 it was found that he had left his enormous fortune in the hands
of<br>
 trustees, with instructions to apply the interest to the
providing<br>
 of easy berths to men whose hair is of that color. From all I
hear<br>
 it is splendid pay, and very little to do.'</p>

<p>"'But,' said I, 'there would be millions of red-headed men
who<br>
 would apply.'</p>

<p>"'Not so many as you might think,' he answered. 'You see it
is<br>
 really confined to Londoners, and to grown men. This American
had<br>
 started from London when he was young, and he wanted to do the
old<br>
 town a good turn. Then, again, I have heard it is of no use
your<br>
 applying if your hair is light red, or dark red, or anything
but<br>
 real, bright, blazing, fiery red. Now, if you cared to apply,
Mr.<br>
 Wilson, you would just walk in; but perhaps it would hardly
be<br>
 worth your while to put yourself out of the way for the sake of
a<br>
 few hundred pounds.'</p>

<p>"Now it is a fact, gentlemen, as you may see for yourselves,
that<br>
 my hair is of a very full and rich tint, so that it seemed to
me<br>
 that, if there was to be any competition in the matter, I stood
as<br>
 good a chance as any man that I had ever met. Vincent
Spaulding<br>
 seemed to know so much about it that I thought he might
prove<br>
 useful, so I just ordered him to put up the shutters for the
day,<br>
 and to come right away with me. He was very willing to have
a<br>
 holiday, so we shut the business up, and started off for the<br>
 address that was given us in the advertisement.</p>

<p>"I never hope to see such a sight as that again, Mr. Holmes.
From<br>
 north, south, east, and west every man who had a shade of red
in<br>
 his hair had tramped into the City to answer the
advertisement.<br>
 Fleet Street was choked with red-headed folk, and Pope's
Court<br>
 looked like a coster's orange barrow. I should not have
thought<br>
 there were so many in the whole country as were brought together
by<br>
 that single advertisement. Every shade of color they
were--straw,<br>
 lemon, orange, brick, Irish setter, liver, clay; but, as
Spaulding<br>
 said, there were not many who had the real vivid
flame-colored<br>
 tint. When I saw how many were waiting, I would have given it
up<br>
 in despair; but Spaulding would not hear of it. How he did it
I<br>
 could not imagine, but he pushed and pulled and butted until he
got<br>
 me through the crowd, and right up to the steps which led to
the<br>
 office. There was a double stream upon the stair, some going up
in<br>
 hope, and some coming back dejected; but we wedged in as well as
we<br>
 could, and soon found ourselves in the office."</p>

<p>"Your experience has been a most entertaining one,"
remarked<br>
 Holmes, as his client paused and refreshed his memory with a
huge<br>
 pinch of snuff. "Pray continue your very interesting
statement."</p>

<p>"There was nothing in the office but a couple of wooden chairs
and<br>
 a deal table, behind which sat a small man, with a head that
was<br>
 even redder than mine. He said a few words to each candidate as
he<br>
 came up, and then he always managed to find some fault in
them<br>
 which would disqualify them. Getting a vacancy did not seem to
be<br>
 such a very easy matter after all. However, when our turn
came,<br>
 the little man was much more favorable to me than to any of
the<br>
 others, and he closed the door as we entered, so that he might
have<br>
 a private word with us.</p>

<p>"'This is Mr. Jabez Wilson,' said my assistant, 'and he is
willing<br>
 to fill a vacancy in the League.'</p>

<p>"'And he is admirably suited for it,' the other answered. 'He
has<br>
 every requirement. I cannot recall when I have seen anything
so<br>
 fine.' He took a step backward, cocked his head on one side,
and<br>
 gazed at my hair until I felt quite bashful. Then suddenly
he<br>
 plunged forward, wrung my hand, and congratulated me warmly on
my<br>
 success.</p>

<p>"'It would be injustice to hesitate,' said he. 'You will,
however,<br>
 I am sure, excuse me for taking an obvious precaution.' With
that<br>
 he seized my hair in both his hands, and tugged until I yelled
with<br>
 the pain. 'There is water in your eyes,' said he, as he
released<br>
 me. 'I perceive that all is as it should be. But we have to
be<br>
 careful, for we have twice been deceived by wigs and once by
paint.<br>
 I could tell you tales of cobbler's wax which would disgust
you<br>
 with human nature.' He stepped over to the window and
shouted<br>
 through it at the top of his voice that the vacancy was filled.
A<br>
 groan of disappointment came up from below, and the folk all<br>
 trooped away in different directions, until there was not a
red<br>
 head to be seen except my own and that of the manager.</p>

<p>"'My name,' said he, 'is Mr. Duncan Ross, and I am myself one
of<br>
 the pensioners upon the fund left by our noble benefactor. Are
you<br>
 a married man, Mr. Wilson? Have you a family?'</p>

<p>"I answered that I had not.</p>

<p>"His face fell immediately.</p>

<p>"'Dear me!' he said, gravely, 'that is very serious indeed! I
am<br>
 sorry to hear you say that. The fund was, of course, for the<br>
 propagation and spread of the red heads as well as for their<br>
 maintenance. It is exceedingly unfortunate that you should be
a<br>
 bachelor.'</p>

<p>"My face lengthened at this, Mr. Holmes, for I thought that I
was<br>
 not to have the vacancy after all; but, after thinking it over
for<br>
 a few minutes, he said that it would be all right.</p>

<p>"'In the case of another,' said he, 'the objection might be
fatal,<br>
 but we must stretch a point in favor of a man with such a head
of<br>
 hair as yours. When shall you be able to enter upon your new<br>
 duties?'</p>

<p>"'Well, it is a little awkward, for I have a business
already,'<br>
 said I.</p>

<p>"'Oh, never mind about that, Mr. Wilson!' said Vincent
Spaulding.<br>
 'I shall be able to look after that for you.'</p>

<p>"'What would be the hours?' I asked.</p>

<p>"'Ten to two.'</p>

<p>"Now a pawnbroker's business is mostly done of an evening,
Mr.<br>
 Holmes, especially Thursday and Friday evenings, which is
just<br>
 before pay day; so it would suit me very well to earn a little
in<br>
 the mornings. Besides, I knew that my assistant was a good
man,<br>
 and that he would see to anything that turned up.</p>

<p>"'That would suit me very well,' said I. 'And the pay?'</p>

<p>"'Is four pounds a week.'</p>

<p>"'And the work?'</p>

<p>"'Is purely nominal.'</p>

<p>"'What do you call purely nominal?'</p>

<p>"'Well, you have to be in the office, or at least in the
building,<br>
 the whole time. If you leave, you forfeit your whole
position<br>
 forever. The will is very clear upon that point. You don't
comply<br>
 with the conditions if you budge from the office during that
time.'</p>

<p>"'It's only four hours a day, and I should not think of
leaving,'<br>
 said I.</p>

<p>"'No excuse will avail,' said Mr. Duncan Ross, 'neither
sickness,<br>
 nor business, nor anything else. There you must stay, or you
lose<br>
 your billet.'</p>

<p>"'And the work?'</p>

<p>"'Is to copy out the "Encyclopaedia Britannica." There is
the<br>
 first volume of it in that press. You must find your own
ink,<br>
 pens, and blotting paper, but we provide this table and
chair.<br>
 Will you be ready to-morrow?'</p>

<p><br>
 "'Certainly,' I answered.</p>

<p>"'Then, good-by, Mr. Jabez Wilson, and let me congratulate you
once<br>
 more on the important position which you have been fortunate
enough<br>
 to gain.' He bowed me out of the room, and I went home with
my<br>
 assistant hardly knowing what to say or do, I was so pleased at
my<br>
 own good fortune.</p>

<p>"Well, I thought over the matter all day, and by evening I was
in<br>
 low spirits again; for I had quite persuaded myself that the
whole<br>
 affair must be some great hoax or fraud, though what its
object<br>
 might be I could not imagine. It seemed altogether past
belief<br>
 that anyone could make such a will, or that they would pay such
a<br>
 sum for doing anything so simple as copying out the
'Encyclopaedia<br>
 Britannica.' Vincent Spaulding did what he could to cheer me
up,<br>
 but by bed time I had reasoned myself out of the whole
thing.<br>
 However, in the morning I determined to have a look at it
anyhow,<br>
 so I bought a penny bottle of ink, and with a quill pen and
seven<br>
 sheets of foolscap paper I started off for Pope's Court.</p>

<p>"Well, to my surprise and delight everything was as right
as<br>
 possible. The table was set out ready for me, and Mr. Duncan
Ross<br>
 was there to see that I got fairly to work. He started me off
upon<br>
 the letter A, and then he left me; but he would drop in from
time<br>
 to time to see that all was right with me. At two o'clock he
bade<br>
 me good-day, complimented me upon the amount that I had
written,<br>
 and locked the door of the office after me.</p>

<p>"This went on day after day, Mr. Holmes, and on Saturday
the<br>
 manager came in and planked down four golden sovereigns for
my<br>
 week's work. It was the same next week, and the same the
week<br>
 after. Every morning I was there at ten, and every afternoon
I<br>
 left at two. By degrees Mr. Duncan Ross took to coming in
only<br>
 once of a morning, and then, after a time, he did not come in
at<br>
 all. Still, of course. I never dared to leave the room for
an<br>
 instant, for I was not sure when he might come, and the billet
was<br>
 such a good one, and suited me so well, that I would not risk
the<br>
 loss of it.</p>

<p>"Eight weeks passed away like this, and I had written about
Abbots,<br>
 and Archery, and Armor, and Architecture, and Attica, and
hoped<br>
 with diligence that I might get on to the Bs before very long.
It<br>
 cost me something in foolscap, and I had pretty nearly filled
a<br>
 shelf with my writings. And then suddenly the whole business
came<br>
 to an end."</p>

<p>"To an end?"</p>

<p>"Yes, sir. And no later than this morning. I went to my work
as<br>
 usual at ten o'clock, but the door was shut and locked, with
a<br>
 little square of cardboard hammered onto the middle of the
panel<br>
 with a tack. Here it is, and you can read for yourself."</p>

<p>He held up a piece of white cardboard, about the size of a
sheet of<br>
 note paper. It read in this fashion:</p>

<p><br>
 "THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE IS DISSOLVED.</p>

<p>Oct. 9, 1890."</p>

<p><br>
 Sherlock Holmes and I surveyed this curt announcement and
the<br>
 rueful face behind it, until the comical side of the affair
so<br>
 completely overtopped every consideration that we both burst
out<br>
 into a roar of laughter.</p>

<p>"I cannot see that there is anything very funny," cried our
client,<br>
 flushing up to the roots of his flaming head. "If you can do<br>
 nothing better than laugh at me, I can go elsewhere."</p>

<p>"No, no," cried Holmes, shoving him back into the chair from
which<br>
 he had half risen. "I really wouldn't miss your case for the<br>
 world. It is most refreshingly unusual. But there is, if you
will<br>
 excuse my saying so, something just a little funny about it.
Pray<br>
 what steps did you take when you found the card upon the
door?"</p>

<p>"I was staggered, sir. I did not know what to do. Then I
called<br>
 at the offices round, but none of them seemed to know
anything<br>
 about it. Finally, I went to the landlord, who is an
accountant<br>
 living on the ground floor, and I asked him if he could tell
me<br>
 what had become of the Red-headed League. He said that he
had<br>
 never heard of any such body. Then I asked him who Mr. Duncan
Ross<br>
 was. He answered that the name was new to him.</p>

<p>"'Well,' said I, 'the gentleman at No. 4.'</p>

<p>"'What, the red-headed man?'</p>

<p>"'Yes.'</p>

<p>"'Oh,' said he, 'his name was William Morris. He was a
solicitor,<br>
 and was using my room as a temporary convenience until his
new<br>
 premises were ready. He moved out yesterday.'</p>

<p>"'Where could I find him?'</p>

<p>"'Oh, at his new offices. He did tell me the address. Yes,
17<br>
 King Edward Street, near St. Paul's.'</p>

<p>"I started off, Mr. Holmes, but when I got to that address it
was a<br>
 manufactory of artificial knee-caps, and no one in it had
ever<br>
 heard of either Mr. William Morris or Mr. Duncan Ross."</p>

<p>"And what did you do then?" asked Holmes.</p>

<p>"I went home to Saxe-Coburg Square, and I took the advice of
my<br>
 assistant. But he could not help me in any way. He could only
say<br>
 that if I waited I should hear by post. But that was not
quite<br>
 good enough, Mr. Holmes. I did not wish to lose such a place<br>
 without a struggle, so, as I had heard that you were good enough
to<br>
 give advice to poor folk who were in need of it, I came right
away<br>
 to you."</p>

<p>"And you did very wisely," said Holmes. "Your case is an<br>
 exceedingly remarkable one, and I shall be happy to look into
it.<br>
 From what you have told me I think that it is possible that
graver<br>
 issues hang from it than might at first sight appear."</p>

<p>"Grave enough!" said Mr. Jabez Wilson. "Why, I have lost
four<br>
 pound a week."</p>

<p>"As far as you are personally concerned," remarked Holmes, "I
do<br>
 not see that you have any grievance against this
extraordinary<br>
 league. On the contrary, you are, as I understand, richer by
some<br>
 thirty pounds, to say nothing of the minute knowledge which
you<br>
 have gained on every subject which comes under the letter A.
You<br>
 have lost nothing by them."</p>

<p>"No, sir. But I want to find out about them, and who they are,
and<br>
 what their object was in playing this prank--if it was a
prank--<br>
 upon me. It was a pretty expensive joke for them, for it cost
them<br>
 two-and-thirty pounds."</p>

<p>"We shall endeavor to clear up these points for you. And,
first,<br>
 one or two questions, Mr. Wilson. This assistant of yours
who<br>
 first called your attention to the advertisement--how long had
he<br>
 been with you?"</p>

<p>"About a month then."</p>

<p>"How did he come?"</p>

<p>"In answer to an advertisement."</p>

<p>"Was he the only applicant?"</p>

<p>"No, I had a dozen."</p>

<p>"Why did you pick him?"</p>

<p>"Because he was handy and would come cheap."</p>

<p>"At half wages, in fact."</p>

<p>"Yes."</p>

<p>"What is he like, this Vincent Spaulding?"</p>

<p>"Small, stout-built, very quick in his ways, no hair on his
face,<br>
 though he's not short of thirty. Has a white splash of acid
upon<br>
 his forehead."</p>

<p>Holmes sat up in his chair in considerable excitement. I
thought<br>
 as much," said he. "Have you ever observed that his ears are<br>
 pierced for earrings?"</p>

<p>"Yes, sir. He told me that a gypsy had done it for him when he
was<br>
 a lad."</p>

<p>"Hum!" said Holmes, sinking back in deep thought. "He is
still<br>
 with you?"</p>

<p>"Oh, yes, sir; I have only just left him."</p>

<p>"And has your business been attended to in your absence?"</p>

<p>"Nothing to complain of, sir. There's never very much to do of
a<br>
 morning."</p>

<p>"That will do, Mr. Wilson. I shall be happy to give you an
opinion<br>
 upon the subject in the course of a day or two. To-day is<br>
 Saturday, and I hope that by Monday we may come to a
conclusion."</p>

<p>"Well, Watson," said Holmes, when our visitor had left us,
"what do<br>
 you make of it all?"</p>

<p>"I make nothing of it," I answered frankly. "It is a most<br>
 mysterious business."</p>

<p>"As a rule," said Holmes, "the more bizarre a thing is the
less<br>
 mysterious it proves to be. It is your commonplace,
featureless<br>
 crimes which are really puzzling, just as a commonplace face is
the<br>
 most difficult to identify. But I must be prompt over this<br>
 matter."</p>

<p>"What are you going to do, then?" I asked.</p>

<p>"To smoke," he answered. "It is quite a three-pipe problem,
and I<br>
 beg that you won't speak to me for fifty minutes." He curled<br>
 himself up in his chair, with his thin knees drawn up to his<br>
 hawklike nose, and there he sat with his eyes closed and his
black<br>
 clay pipe thrusting out like the bill of some strange bird. I
had<br>
 come to the conclusion that he had dropped asleep, and indeed
was<br>
 nodding myself, when he suddenly sprang out of his chair with
the<br>
 gesture of a man who has made up his mind, and put his pipe
down<br>
 upon the mantelpiece.</p>

<p>"Sarasate plays at St. James's Hall this afternoon," he
remarked.<br>
 "What do you think, Watson? Could your patients spare you for
a<br>
 few hours?"</p>

<p>"I have nothing to do to-day. My practice is never very<br>
 absorbing."</p>

<p>"Then put on your hat and come. I am going through the City
first,<br>
 and we can have some lunch on the way. I observe that there is
a<br>
 good deal of German music on the programme, which is rather more
to<br>
 my taste than Italian or French. It is introspective, and I
want<br>
 to introspect. Come along!"</p>

<p>We traveled by the Underground as far as Aldersgate; and a
short<br>
 walk took us to Saxe-Coburg Square, the scene of the singular
story<br>
 which we had listened to in the morning. It was a poky,
little,<br>
 shabby-genteel place, where four lines of dingy, two-storied
brick<br>
 houses looked out into a small railed-in inclosure, where a lawn
of<br>
 weedy grass, and a few clumps of faded laurel bushes made a
hard<br>
 fight against a smoke-laden and uncongenial atmosphere. Three
gilt<br>
 balls and a brown board with JABEZ WILSON in white letters, upon
a<br>
 corner house, announced the place where our red-headed
client<br>
 carried on his business. Sherlock Holmes stopped in front of
it<br>
 with his head on one side, and looked it all over, with his
eyes<br>
 shining brightly between puckered lids. Then he walked slowly
up<br>
 the street, and then down again to the corner, still looking
keenly<br>
 at the houses. Finally he returned to the pawnbroker's and,
having<br>
 thumped vigorously upon the pavement with his stick two or
three<br>
 times, he went up to the door and knocked. It was instantly
opened<br>
 by a bright-looking, clean-shaven young fellow, who asked him
to<br>
 step in.</p>

<p>"Thank you," said Holmes, "I only wished to ask you how you
would<br>
 go from here to the Strand."</p>

<p>"Third right, fourth left," answered the assistant,
promptly,<br>
 closing the door.</p>

<p>"Smart fellow, that," observed Holmes as we walked away. "He
is,<br>
 in my judgment, the fourth smartest man in London, and for
daring I<br>
 am not sure that he has not a claim to be third. I have
known<br>
 something of him before."</p>

<p>"Evidently," said I, "Mr. Wilson's assistant counts for a good
deal<br>
 in this mystery of the Red-headed League. I am sure that you<br>
 inquired your way merely in order that you might see him."</p>

<p>"Not him."</p>

<p>"What then?"</p>

<p>"The knees of his trousers."</p>

<p>"And what did you see?"</p>

<p>"What I expected to see."</p>

<p>"Why did you beat the pavement?"</p>

<p>"My dear doctor, this is a time for observation, not for talk.
We<br>
 are spies in an enemy's country. We know something of
Saxe-Coburg<br>
 Square. Let us now explore the parts which lie behind it."</p>

<p>The road in which we found ourselves as we turned round the
corner<br>
 from the retired Saxe-Coburg Square presented as great a
contrast<br>
 to it as the front of a picture does to the back. It was one
of<br>
 the main arteries which convey the traffic of the City to the
north<br>
 and west. The roadway was blocked with the immense stream of<br>
 commerce flowing in a double tide inward and outward, while
the<br>
 footpaths were black with the hurrying swarm of pedestrians.
It<br>
 was difficult to realize, as we looked at the line of fine
shops<br>
 and stately business premises, that they really abutted on
the<br>
 other side upon the faded and stagnant square which we had
just<br>
 quitted.</p>

<p>"Let me see," said Holmes, standing at the corner, and
glancing<br>
 along the line, "I should like just to remember the order of
the<br>
 houses here. It is a hobby of mine to have an exact knowledge
of<br>
 London. There is Mortimer's, the tobacconist; the little
newspaper<br>
 shop, the Coburg branch of the City and Suburban Bank, the<br>
 Vegetarian Restaurant, and McFarlane's carriage-building
depot.<br>
 That carries us right on to the other block. And now,
doctor,<br>
 we've done our work, so it's time we had some play. A sandwich
and<br>
 a cup of coffee, and then off to violin-land, where all is<br>
 sweetness, and delicacy, and harmony, and there are no
red-headed<br>
 clients to vex us with their conundrums."</p>

<p>My friend was an enthusiastic musician, being himself not only
a<br>
 very capable performer, but a composer of no ordinary merit.
All<br>
 the afternoon he sat in the stalls wrapped in the most
perfect<br>
 happiness, gently waving his long thin fingers in time to
the<br>
 music, while his gently smiling face and his languid, dreamy
eyes<br>
 were as unlike those of Holmes the sleuth-hound, Holmes the<br>
 relentless, keen-witted, ready-handed criminal agent, as it
was<br>
 possible to conceive. In his singular character the dual
nature<br>
 alternately asserted itself, and his extreme exactness and<br>
 astuteness represented, as I have often thought, the
reaction<br>
 against the poetic and contemplative mood which occasionally<br>
 predominated in him. The swing of his nature took him from
extreme<br>
 languor to devouring energy; and, as I knew well, he was never
so<br>
 truly formidable as when, for days on end, he had been lounging
in<br>
 his armchair amid his improvisations and his black-letter
editions.<br>
 Then it was that the lust of the chase would suddenly come
upon<br>
 him, and that his brilliant reasoning power would rise to the
level<br>
 of intuition, until those who were unacquainted with his
methods<br>
 would look askance at him as on a man whose knowledge was not
that<br>
 of other mortals. When I saw him that afternoon so enwrapped
in<br>
 the music at St. James's Hall, I felt that an evil time might
be<br>
 coming upon those whom he had set himself to hunt down.</p>

<p>"You want to go home, no doubt, doctor," he remarked, as
we<br>
 emerged.</p>

<p>"Yes, it would be as well."</p>

<p>"And I have some business to do which will take some hours.
This<br>
 business at Saxe-Coburg Square is serious."</p>

<p>"Why serious?"</p>

<p>"A considerable crime is in contemplation. I have every reason
to<br>
 believe that we shall be in time to stop it. But to-day
being<br>
 Saturday rather complicates matters. I shall want your help
to-<br>
 night."</p>

<p>"At what time?"</p>

<p>"Ten will be early enough."</p>

<p>I shall be at Baker Street at ten."</p>

<p>"Very well. And, I say, doctor! there may be some little
danger,<br>
 so kindly put your army revolver in your pocket." He waved
his<br>
 hand, turned on his heel, and disappeared in an instant among
the<br>
 crowd.</p>

<p>I trust that I am not more dense than my neighbors, but I
was<br>
 always oppressed with a sense of my own stupidity in my
dealings<br>
 with Sherlock Holmes. Here I had heard what he had heard, I
had<br>
 seen what he had seen, and yet from his words it was evident
that<br>
 he saw clearly not only what had happened, but what was about
to<br>
 happen, while to me the whole business was still confused
and<br>
 grotesque. As I drove home to my house in Kensington I
thought<br>
 over it all, from the extraordinary story of the red-headed
copier<br>
 of the "Encyclopaedia" down to the visit to Saxe-Coburg Square,
and<br>
 the ominous words with which he had parted from me. What was
this<br>
 nocturnal expedition, and why should I go armed? Where were
we<br>
 going, and what were we to do? I had the hint from Holmes
that<br>
 this smooth-faced pawnbroker's assistant was a formidable
man--a<br>
 man who might play a deep game. I tried to puzzle it out, but
gave<br>
 it up in despair, and set the matter aside until night should
bring<br>
 an explanation.</p>

<p>It was a quarter-past nine when I started from home and made
my way<br>
 across the Park, and so through Oxford Street to Baker Street.
Two<br>
 hansoms were standing at the door, and, as I entered the
passage, I<br>
 heard the sound of voices from above. On entering his room,
I<br>
 found Holmes in animated conversation with two men, one of whom
I<br>
 recognized as Peter Jones, the official police agent; while
the<br>
 other was a long, thin, sad-faced man, with a very shiny hat
and<br>
 oppressively respectable frock coat.</p>

<p>"Ha! our party is complete," said Holmes, buttoning up his
pea-<br>
 jacket, and taking his heavy hunting crop from the rack.
"Watson,<br>
 I think you know Mr. Jones, of Scotland Yard? Let me introduce
you<br>
 to Mr. Merryweather, who is to be our companion in
to-night's<br>
 adventure."</p>

<p>"We're hunting in couples again, doctor, you see," said Jones,
in<br>
 his consequential way. "Our friend here is a wonderful man
for<br>
 starting a chase. All he wants is an old dog to help him do
the<br>
 running down."</p>

<p>"I hope a wild goose may not prove to be the end of our
chase,"<br>
 observed Mr. Merryweather gloomily.</p>

<p>"You may place considerable confidence in Mr. Holmes, sir,"
said<br>
 the police agent loftily. "He has his own little methods,
which<br>
 are, if he won't mind my saying so, just a little too
theoretical<br>
 and fantastic, but he has the makings of a detective in him. It
is<br>
 not too much to say that once or twice, as in that business of
the<br>
 Sholto murder and the Agra treasure, he has been more nearly<br>
 correct than the official force."</p>

<p>"Oh, if you say so, Mr. Jones, it is all right!" said the
stranger,<br>
 with deference. "Still, I confess that I miss my rubber. It
is<br>
 the first Saturday night for seven-and-twenty years that I have
not<br>
 had my rubber."</p>

<p>"I think you will find," said Sherlock Holmes, "that you will
play<br>
 for a higher stake to-night than you have ever done yet, and
that<br>
 the play will be more exciting. For you, Mr. Merryweather,
the<br>
 stake will be some thirty thousand pounds; and for you, Jones,
it<br>
 will be the man upon whom you wish to lay your hands."</p>

<p>"John Clay, the murderer, thief, smasher, and forger. He's a
young<br>
 man, Mr. Merryweather, but he is at the head of his profession,
and<br>
 I would rather have my bracelets on him than on any criminal
in<br>
 London. He's a remarkable man, is young John Clay. His<br>
 grandfather was a Royal Duke, and he himself has been to Eton
and<br>
 Oxford. His brain is as cunning as his fingers, and though we
meet<br>
 signs of him at every turn, we never know where to find the
man<br>
 himself. He'll crack a crib in Scotland one week, and be
raising<br>
 money to build an orphanage in Cornwall the next. I've been on
his<br>
 track for years, and have never set eyes on him yet."</p>

<p>"I hope that I may have the pleasure of introducing you
to-night.<br>
 I've had one or two little turns also with Mr. John Clay, and
I<br>
 agree with you that he is at the head of his profession. It
is<br>
 past ten, however, and quite time that we started. If you two
will<br>
 take the first hansom, Watson and I will follow in the
second."</p>

<p>Sherlock Holmes was not very communicative during the long
drive,<br>
 and lay back in the cab humming the tunes which he had heard in
the<br>
 afternoon. We rattled through an endless labyrinth of gaslit<br>
 streets until we emerged into Farringdon Street.</p>

<p>"We are close there now," my friend remarked. "This fellow<br>
 Merryweather is a bank director and personally interested in
the<br>
 matter. I thought it as well to have Jones with us also. He
is<br>
 not a bad fellow, though an absolute imbecile in his
profession.<br>
 He has one positive virtue. He is as brave as a bulldog, and
as<br>
 tenacious as a lobster if he gets his claws upon anyone. Here
we<br>
 are, and they are waiting for us."</p>

<p>We had reached the same crowded thoroughfare in which we had
found<br>
 ourselves in the morning. Our cabs were dismissed, and
following<br>
 the guidance of Mr. Merryweather, we passed down a narrow
passage,<br>
 and through a side door which he opened for us. Within there was
a<br>
 small corridor, which ended in a very massive iron gate. This
also<br>
 was opened, and led down a flight of winding stone steps,
which<br>
 terminated at another formidable gate. Mr. Merryweather stopped
to<br>
 light a lantern, and then conducted us down a dark,
earth-smelling<br>
 passage, and so, after opening a third door, into a huge vault
or<br>
 cellar, which was piled all round with crates and massive
boxes.</p>

<p>"You are not very vulnerable from above," Holmes remarked, as
he<br>
 held up the lantern and gazed about him.</p>

<p>"Nor from below," said Mr. Merryweather, striking his stick
upon<br>
 the flags which lined the floor. "Why, dear me, it sounds
quite<br>
 hollow!" he remarked, looking up in surprise.</p>

<p>"I must really ask you to be a little more quiet," said
Holmes<br>
 severely. "You have already imperiled the whole success of
our<br>
 expedition. Might I beg that you would have the goodness to
sit<br>
 down upon one of those boxes, and not to interfere?"</p>

<p>The solemn Mr. Merryweather perched himself upon a crate, with
a<br>
 very injured expression upon his face, while Holmes fell upon
his<br>
 knees upon the floor, and, with the lantern and a magnifying
lens,<br>
 began to examine minutely the cracks between the stones. A
few<br>
 seconds sufficed to satisfy him, for he sprang to his feet
again,<br>
 and put his glass in his pocket.</p>

<p>"We have at least an hour before us," he remarked, "for they
can<br>
 hardly take any steps until the good pawnbroker is safely in
bed.<br>
 Then they will not lose a minute, for the sooner they do their
work<br>
 the longer time they will have for their escape. We are at<br>
 present, doctor--as no doubt you have divined--in the cellar of
the<br>
 City branch of one of the principal London banks. Mr.
Merryweather<br>
 is the chairman of directors, and he will explain to you that
there<br>
 are reasons why the more daring criminals of London should take
a<br>
 considerable interest in this cellar at present."</p>

<p><br>
 "It is our French gold," whispered the director. "We have
had<br>
 several warnings that an attempt might be made upon it."</p>

<p>"Your French gold?"</p>

<p>"Yes. We had occasion some months ago to strengthen our
resources,<br>
 and borrowed, for that purpose, thirty thousand napoleons from
the<br>
 Bank of France. It has become known that we have never had<br>
 occasion to unpack the money, and that it is still lying in
our<br>
 cellar. The crate upon which I sit contains two thousand
napoleons<br>
 packed between layers of lead foil. Our reserve of bullion is
much<br>
 larger at present than is usually kept in a single branch
office,<br>
 and the directors have had misgivings upon the subject."</p>

<p>"Which were very well justified," observed Holmes. "And now it
is<br>
 time that we arranged our little plans. I expect that within
an<br>
 hour matters will come to a head. In the meantime, Mr.<br>
 Merryweather, we must put the screen over that dark
lantern."</p>

<p>"And sit in the dark?"</p>

<p>"I am afraid so. I had brought a pack of cards in my pocket,
and I<br>
 thought that, as we were a partie carree, you might have
your<br>
 rubber after all. But I see that the enemy's preparations
have<br>
 gone so far that we cannot risk the presence of a light.
And,<br>
 first of all, we must choose our positions. These are daring
men,<br>
 and, though we shall take them at a disadvantage, they may do
us<br>
 some harm, unless we are careful. I shall stand behind this
crate,<br>
 and do you conceal yourself behind those. Then, when I flash
a<br>
 light upon them, close in swiftly. If they fire, Watson, have
no<br>
 compunction about shooting them down."</p>

<p>I placed my revolver, cocked, upon the top of the wooden
case<br>
 behind which I crouched. Holmes shot the slide across the front
of<br>
 his lantern, and left us in pitch darkness--such an absolute<br>
 darkness as I have never before experienced. The smell of
hot<br>
 metal remained to assure us that the light was still there,
ready<br>
 to flash out at a moment's notice. To me, with my nerves worked
up<br>
 to a pitch of expectancy, there was something depressing and<br>
 subduing in the sudden gloom, and in the cold, dank air of
the<br>
 vault.</p>

<p>"They have but one retreat," whispered Holmes. "That is
back<br>
 through the house into Saxe-Coburg Square. I hope that you
have<br>
 done what I asked you, Jones?"</p>

<p>"I have an inspector and two officers waiting at the front
door."</p>

<p>"Then we have stopped all the holes. And now we must be silent
and<br>
 wait."</p>

<p>What a time it seemed! From comparing notes afterwards, it was
but<br>
 an hour and a quarter, yet it appeared to me that the night
must<br>
 have almost gone, and the dawn be breaking above us. My limbs
were<br>
 weary and stiff, for I feared to change my position, yet my
nerves<br>
 were worked up to the highest pitch of tension, and my hearing
was<br>
 so acute that I could not only hear the gentle breathing of
my<br>
 companions, but I could distinguish the deeper, heavier inbreath
of<br>
 the bulky Jones from the thin, sighing note of the bank
director.<br>
 From my position I could look over the case in the direction of
the<br>
 floor. Suddenly my eyes caught the glint of a light.</p>

<p>At first it was but a lurid spark upon the stone pavement.
Then it<br>
 lengthened out until it became a yellow line, and then, without
any<br>
 warning or sound, a gash seemed to open and a hand appeared,
a<br>
 white, almost womanly hand, which felt about in the center of
the<br>
 little area of light. For a minute or more the hand, with
its<br>
 writhing fingers, protruded out of the floor. Then it was<br>
 withdrawn as suddenly as it appeared, and all was dark again
save<br>
 the single lurid spark, which marked a chink between the
stones.</p>

<p>Its disappearance, however, was but momentary. With a
rending,<br>
 tearing sound, one of the broad white stones turned over upon
its<br>
 side, and left a square, gaping hole, through which streamed
the<br>
 light of a lantern. Over the edge there peeped a clean-cut,
boyish<br>
 face, which looked keenly about it, and then, with a hand on
either<br>
 side of the aperture, drew itself shoulder-high and
waist-high,<br>
 until one knee rested upon the edge. In another instant he
stood<br>
 at the side of the hole, and was hauling after him a
companion,<br>
 lithe and small like himself, with a pale face and a shock of
very<br>
 red hair.</p>

<p>"It's all clear," he whispered. "Have you the chisel and the
bags?<br>
 Great Scott! Jump, Archie, jump, and I'll swing for it!"</p>

<p>Sherlock Holmes had sprung out and seized the intruder by
the<br>
 collar. The other dived down the hole, and I heard the sound
of<br>
 rending cloth as Jones clutched at his skirts. The light
flashed<br>
 upon the barrel of a revolver, but Holmes's hunting crop came
down<br>
 on the man's wrist, and the pistol clinked upon the stone
floor.</p>

<p>"It's no use, John Clay," said Holmes blandly, "you have no
chance<br>
 at all."</p>

<p>"So I see," the other answered, with the utmost coolness. "I
fancy<br>
 that my pal is all right, though I see you have got his
coat-<br>
 tails."</p>

<p>"There are three men waiting for him at the door," said
Holmes.</p>

<p>"Oh, indeed. You seem to have done the thing very completely.
I<br>
 must compliment you."</p>

<p>"And I you," Holmes answered. "Your red-headed idea was very
new<br>
 and effective."</p>

<p>"You'll see your pal again presently," said Jones. "He's
quicker<br>
 at climbing down holes than I am. Just hold out while I fix
the<br>
 derbies."</p>

<p>"I beg that you will not touch me with your filthy hands,"
remarked<br>
 our prisoner, as the handcuffs clattered upon his wrists. "You
may<br>
 not be aware that I have royal blood in my veins. Have the<br>
 goodness also, when you address me, always to say 'sir' and<br>
 'please.'"</p>

<p>"All right," said Jones, with a stare and a snigger. "Well,
would<br>
 you please, sir, march upstairs where we can get a cab to
carry<br>
 your highness to the police station?"</p>

<p>"That is better," said John Clay serenely. He made a sweeping
bow<br>
 to the three of us, and walked quietly off in the custody of
the<br>
 detective.</p>

<p>"Really, Mr. Holmes," said Mr. Merryweather, as we followed
them<br>
 from the cellar, "I do not know how the bank can thank you or
repay<br>
 you. There is no doubt that you have detected and defeated in
the<br>
 most complete manner one of the most determined attempts at
bank<br>
 robbery that have ever come within my experience."</p>

<p>"I have had one or two little scores of my own to settle with
Mr.<br>
 John Clay," said Holmes. "I have been at some small expense
over<br>
 this matter, which I shall expect the bank to refund, but
beyond<br>
 that I am amply repaid by having had an experience which is in
many<br>
 ways unique, and by hearing the very remarkable narrative of
the<br>
 Red-headed League."</p>

<p><br>
 "You see, Watson," he explained, in the early hours of the
morning,<br>
 as we sat over a glass of whisky and soda in Baker Street, "it
was<br>
 perfectly obvious from the first that the only possible object
of<br>
 this rather fantastic business of the advertisement of the
League,<br>
 and the copying of the 'Encyclopaedia,' must be to get this
not<br>
 over-bright pawnbroker out of the way for a number of hours
every<br>
 day. It was a curious way of managing it, but really it would
be<br>
 difficult to suggest a better. The method was no doubt
suggested<br>
 to Clay's ingenious mind by the color of his accomplice's
hair.<br>
 The four pounds a week was a lure which must draw him, and what
was<br>
 it to them, who were playing for thousands? They put in the<br>
 advertisement, one rogue has the temporary office, the other
rogue<br>
 incites the man to apply for it, and together they manage to
secure<br>
 his absence every morning in the week. From the time that I
heard<br>
 of the assistant having come for half wages, it was obvious to
me<br>
 that he had some strong motive for securing the situation."</p>

<p>"But how could you guess what the motive was?"</p>

<p>"Had there been women in the house, I should have suspected a
mere<br>
 vulgar intrigue. That, however, was out of the question. The<br>
 man's business was a small one, and there was nothing in his
house<br>
 which could account for such elaborate preparations, and such
an<br>
 expenditure as they were at. It must then be something out of
the<br>
 house. What could it be? I thought of the assistant's
fondness<br>
 for photography, and his trick of vanishing into the cellar.
The<br>
 cellar! There was the end of this tangled clew. Then I made<br>
 inquiries as to this mysterious assistant, and found that I had
to<br>
 deal with one of the coolest and most daring criminals in
London.<br>
 He was doing something in the cellar--something which took
many<br>
 hours a day for months on end. What could it be, once more?
I<br>
 could think of nothing save that he was running a tunnel to
some<br>
 other building.</p>

<p>"So far I had got when we went to visit the scene of action.
I<br>
 surprised you by beating upon the pavement with my stick. I
was<br>
 ascertaining whether the cellar stretched out in front or
behind.<br>
 It was not in front. Then I rang the bell, and, as I hoped,
the<br>
 assistant answered it. We have had some skirmishes, but we
had<br>
 never set eyes upon each other before. I hardly looked at
his<br>
 face. His knees were what I wished to see. You must yourself
have<br>
 remarked how worn, wrinkled, and stained they were. They spoke
of<br>
 those hours of burrowing. The only remaining point was what
they<br>
 were burrowing for. I walked round the corner, saw that the
City<br>
 and Suburban Bank abutted on our friend's premises, and felt
that I<br>
 had solved my problem. When you drove home after the concert
I<br>
 called upon Scotland Yard, and upon the chairman of the bank<br>
 directors, with the result that you have seen."</p>

<p>"And how could you tell that they would make their attempt
to-<br>
 night?" I asked.</p>

<p>"Well, when they closed their League offices that was a sign
that<br>
 they cared no longer about Mr. Jabez Wilson's presence; in
other<br>
 words, that they had completed their tunnel. But it was
essential<br>
 that they should use it soon, as it might be discovered, or
the<br>
 bullion might be removed. Saturday would suit them better than
any<br>
 other day, as it would give them two days for their escape.
For<br>
 all these reasons I expected them to come to-night."</p>

<p>"You reasoned it out beautifully," I exclaimed, in
unfeigned<br>
 admiration. "It is so long a chain, and yet every link rings<br>
 true."</p>

<p>"It saved me from ennui," he answered, yawning. "Alas! I
already<br>
 feel it closing in upon me. My life is spent in one long effort
to<br>
 escape from the commonplaces of existence. These little
problems<br>
 help me to do so."</p>

<p>"And you are a benefactor of the race," said I. He shrugged
his<br>
 shoulders. "Well, perhaps, after all, it is of some little
use,"<br>
 he remarked. "'L'homme c'est rien--l'oeuvre c'est tout,' as<br>
 Gustave Flaubert wrote to Georges Sands."</p>

<p> </p>

<h3><br>
 Egerton Castle</h3>

<h2>The Baron's Quarry</h2>

<p><br>
 "Oh, no, I assure you, you are not boring Mr. Marshfield,"
said<br>
 this personage himself in his gentle voice--that curious voice
that<br>
 could flow on for hours, promulgating profound and startling<br>
 theories on every department of human knowledge or
conducting<br>
 paradoxical arguments without a single inflection or pause
of<br>
 hesitation. "I am, on the contrary, much interested in your<br>
 hunting talk. To paraphrase a well-worn quotation somewhat
widely,<br>
 nihil humanum a me alienum est. Even hunting stories may
have<br>
 their point of biological interest; the philologist
sometimes<br>
 pricks his ear to the jargon of the chase; moreover, I am
not<br>
 incapable of appreciating the subject matter itself. This seems
to<br>
 excite some derision. I admit I am not much of a sportsman to
look<br>
 at, nor, indeed, by instinct, yet I have had some
out-of-the-way<br>
 experiences in that line--generally when intent on other
pursuits.<br>
 I doubt, for instance, if even you, Major Travers,
notwithstanding<br>
 your well-known exploits against man and beast,
notwithstanding<br>
 that doubtful smile of yours, could match the strangeness of
a<br>
 certain hunting adventure in which I played an important
part."</p>

<p><br>
 The speaker's small, deep-set, black eyes, that never warmed
to<br>
 anything more human than a purely speculative scientific
interest<br>
 in his surroundings, here wandered round the skeptical yet<br>
 expectant circle with bland amusement. He stretched out his<br>
 bloodless fingers for another of his host's superfine cigars
and<br>
 proceeded, with only such interruptions as were occasioned by
the<br>
 lighting and careful smoking of the latter.</p>

<p>"I was returning home after my prolonged stay in
Petersburg,<br>
 intending to linger on my way and test with mine own ears
certain<br>
 among the many dialects of Eastern Europe--anent which there is
a<br>
 symmetrical little cluster of philological knotty points it is
my<br>
 modest intention one day to unravel. However, that is neither
here<br>
 nor there. On the road to Hungary I bethought myself
opportunely<br>
 of proving the once pressingly offered hospitality of the
Baron<br>
 Kossowski.</p>

<p>"You may have met the man, Major Travers; he was a
tremendous<br>
 sportsman, if you like. I first came across him at McNeil's
place<br>
 in remote Ireland. Now, being in Bukowina, within measurable<br>
 distance of his Carpathian abode, and curious to see a Polish
lord<br>
 at home, I remembered his invitation. It was already of long<br>
 standing, but it had been warm, born in fact of a sudden fit
of<br>
 enthusiasm for me"--here a half-mocking smile quivered an
instant<br>
 under the speaker's black mustache--"which, as it was<br>
 characteristic, I may as well tell you about.</p>

<p>"It was on the day of, or, rather, to be accurate, on the day
after<br>
 my arrival, toward the small hours of the morning, in the
smoking<br>
 room at Rathdrum. Our host was peacefully snoring over his
empty<br>
 pipe and his seventh glass of whisky, also empty. The rest of
the<br>
 men had slunk off to bed. The baron, who all unknown to
himself<br>
 had been a subject of most interesting observation to me the
whole<br>
 evening, being now practically alone with me, condescended to
turn<br>
 an eye, as wide awake as a fox's, albeit slightly bloodshot,
upon<br>
 the contemptible white-faced person who had preferred spending
the<br>
 raw hours over his papers, within the radius of a glorious
fire's<br>
 warmth, to creeping slyly over treacherous quagmires in the
pursuit<br>
 of timid bog creatures (snipe shooting had been the order of
the<br>
 day)--the baron, I say, became aware of my existence and
entered<br>
 into conversation with me.</p>

<p>"He would no doubt have been much surprised could he have
known<br>
 that he was already mapped out, craniologically and<br>
 physiognomically, catalogued with care and neatly laid by in
his<br>
 proper ethnological box, in my private type museum; that, as I
sat<br>
 and examined him from my different coigns of vantage in library,
in<br>
 dining and smoking room that evening, not a look of his, not
a<br>
 gesture went forth but had significance for me.</p>

<p>"You, I had thought, with your broad shoulders and deep chest;
your<br>
 massive head that should have gone with a tall stature, not
with<br>
 those short sturdy limbs; with your thick red hair, that
should<br>
 have been black for that matter, as should your wide-set
yellow<br>
 eyes--you would be a real puzzle to one who did not recognize
in<br>
 you equal mixtures of the fair, stalwart and muscular Slav with
the<br>
 bilious-sanguine, thick-set, wiry Turanian. Your pedigree would
no<br>
 doubt bear me out: there is as much of the Magyar as of the Pole
in<br>
 your anatomy. Athlete, and yet a tangle of nerves; a
ferocious<br>
 brute at bottom, I dare say, for your broad forehead inclines
to<br>
 flatness; under your bristling beard your jaw must protrude,
and<br>
 the base of your skull is ominously thick. And, with all
that,<br>
 capable of ideal transports: when that girl played and sang
to-<br>
 night I saw the swelling of your eyelid veins, and how that
small,<br>
 tenacious, claw-like hand of yours twitched! You would be a
fine<br>
 leader of men--but God help the wretches in your power!</p>

<p>"So had I mused upon him. Yet I confess that when we came
in<br>
 closer contact with each other, even I was not proof against
the<br>
 singular courtesy of his manner and his unaccountable
personal<br>
 charm.</p>

<p>"Our conversation soon grew interesting; to me as a matter
of<br>
 course, and evidently to him also. A few general words led
to<br>
 interchange of remarks upon the country we were both visitors
in<br>
 and so to national characteristics--Pole and Irishman have not
a<br>
 few in common, both in their nature and history. An
observation<br>
 which he made, not without a certain flash in his light eyes and
a<br>
 transient uncovering of the teeth, on the Irish type of
female<br>
 beauty suddenly suggested to me a stanza of an ancient
Polish<br>
 ballad, very full of milk-and-blood imagery, of alternating<br>
 ferocity and voluptuousness. This I quoted to the astounded<br>
 foreigner in the vernacular, and this it was that metamorphosed
his<br>
 mere perfection of civility into sudden warmth, and, in
fact,<br>
 procured me the invitation in question.</p>

<p>"When I left Rathdrum the baron's last words to me were that
if I<br>
 ever thought of visiting his country otherwise than in books,
he<br>
 held me bound to make Yany, his Galician seat, my headquarters
of<br>
 study.</p>

<p>"From Czernowicz, therefore, where I stopped some time, I
wrote,<br>
 received in due time a few lines of prettily worded reply,
and<br>
 ultimately entered my sled in the nearest town to, yet at a
most<br>
 forbidding distance from, Yany, and started on my journey
thither.</p>

<p>"The undertaking meant many long hours of undulation and
skidding<br>
 over the November snow, to the somniferous bell jangle of my
dirty<br>
 little horses, the only impression of interest being a weird
gypsy<br>
 concert I came in for at a miserable drinking-booth half buried
in<br>
 the snow where we halted for the refreshment of man and
beast.<br>
 Here, I remember, I discovered a very definite connection
between<br>
 the characteristic run of the tsimbol, the peculiar bite of
the<br>
 Zigeuner's bow on his fiddle-string, and some distinctive points
of<br>
 Turanian tongues. In other countries, in Spain, for instance,
your<br>
 gypsy speaks differently on his instrument. But, oddly
enough,<br>
 when I later attempted to put this observation on paper I
could<br>
 find no word to express it."</p>

<p>A few of our company evinced signs of sleepiness, but most of
us<br>
 who knew Marshfield, and that he could, unless he had
something<br>
 novel to say, be as silent and retiring as he now evinced signs
of<br>
 being copious, awaited further developments with patience. He
has<br>
 his own deliberate way of speaking, which he evidently
enjoys<br>
 greatly, though it be occasionally trying to his listeners.</p>

<p>"On the afternoon of my second day's drive, the snow, which
till<br>
 then had fallen fine and continuous, ceased, and my Jehu,
suddenly<br>
 interrupting himself in the midst of some exciting wolf story
quite<br>
 in keeping with the time of year and the wild surroundings,
pointed<br>
 to a distant spot against the gray sky to the northwest,
between<br>
 two wood-covered folds of ground--the first eastern spurs of
the<br>
 great Carpathian chain.</p>

<p>"'There stands Yany,' said he. I looked at my far-off goal
with<br>
 interest. As we drew nearer, the sinking sun, just dipping
behind<br>
 the hills, tinged the now distinct frontage with a cold
copper-like<br>
 gleam, but it was only for a minute; the next the building
became<br>
 nothing more to the eye than a black irregular silhouette
against<br>
 the crimson sky.</p>

<p>"Before we entered the long, steep avenue of poplars, the
early<br>
 winter darkness was upon us, rendered all the more depressing
by<br>
 gray mists which gave a ghostly aspect to such objects as the
sheen<br>
 of the snow rendered visible. Once or twice there were
feeble<br>
 flashes of light looming in iridescent halos as we passed
little<br>
 clusters of hovels, but for which I should have been induced
to<br>
 fancy that the great Hof stood alone in the wilderness, such
was<br>
 the deathly stillness around. But even as the tall, square<br>
 building rose before us above the vapor, yellow lighted in
various<br>
 stories, and mighty in height and breadth, there broke upon my
ear<br>
 a deep-mouthed, menacing bay, which gave at once almost
alarming<br>
 reality to the eerie surroundings. 'His lordship's boar and
wolf<br>
 hounds,' quoth my charioteer calmly, unmindful of the
regular<br>
 pandemonium of howls and barks which ensued as he skillfully
turned<br>
 his horses through the gateway and flogged the tired beasts into
a<br>
 sort of shambling canter that we might land with glory before
the<br>
 house door: a weakness common, I believe, to drivers of all<br>
 nations.</p>

<p>"I alighted in the court of honor, and while awaiting an
answer to<br>
 my tug at the bell, stood, broken with fatigue, depressed,
chilled<br>
 and aching, questioning the wisdom of my proceedings and the
amount<br>
 of comfort, physical and moral, that was likely to await me in
a<br>
 tete-a-tete visit with a well-mannered savage in his own
home.</p>

<p>"The unkempt tribe of stable retainers who began to gather
round me<br>
 and my rough vehicle in the gloom, with their evil-smelling<br>
 sheepskins and their resigned, battered visages, were not<br>
 calculated to reassure me. Yet when the door opened, there stood
a<br>
 smart chasseur and a solemn major-domo who might but just
have<br>
 stepped out of Mayfair; and there was displayed a spreading
vista<br>
 of warm, deep-colored halls, with here a statue and there a
stuffed<br>
 bear, and under foot pile carpets strewn with rarest skins.</p>

<p>"Marveling, yet comforted withal, I followed the solemn
butler, who<br>
 received me with the deference due to an expected guest and<br>
 expressed the master's regret for his enforced absence till
dinner<br>
 time. I traversed vast rooms, each more sumptuous than the
last,<br>
 feeling the strangeness of the contrast between the outer<br>
 desolation and this sybaritic excess of luxury growing ever
more<br>
 strongly upon me; caught a glimpse of a picture gallery,
where<br>
 peculiar yet admirably executed latter-day French pictures
hung<br>
 side by side with ferocious boar hunts of Snyder and such kin;
and,<br>
 at length, was ushered into a most cheerful room, modern to
excess<br>
 in its comfortable promise, where, in addition to the tall
stove<br>
 necessary for warmth, there burned on an open hearth a
vastly<br>
 pleasant fire of resinous logs, and where, on a low table,
awaited<br>
 me a dainty service of fragrant Russian tea.</p>

<p>"My impression of utter novelty seemed somehow enhanced by
this<br>
 unexpected refinement in the heart of the solitudes and in such
a<br>
 rugged shell, and yet, when I came to reflect, it was only<br>
 characteristic of my cosmopolitan host. But another surprise
was<br>
 in store for me.</p>

<p>"When I had recovered bodily warmth and mental equilibrium in
my<br>
 downy armchair, before the roaring logs, and during the
delicious<br>
 absorption of my second glass of tea, I turned my attention to
the<br>
 French valet, evidently the baron's own man, who was deftly<br>
 unpacking my portmanteau, and who, unless my practiced eye
deceived<br>
 me, asked for nothing better than to entertain me with
agreeable<br>
 conversation the while.</p>

<p>"'Your master is out, then?' quoth I, knowing that the most
trivial<br>
 remark would suffice to start him.</p>

<p>"True, Monseigneur was out; he was desolated in despair (this
with<br>
 the national amiable and imaginative instinct); 'but it was<br>
 doubtless important business. M. le Baron had the visit of
his<br>
 factor during the midday meal; had left the table hurriedly,
and<br>
 had not been seen since. Madame la Baronne had been a little<br>
 suffering, but she would receive monsieur!'</p>

<p>"'Madame!' exclaimed I, astounded, 'is your master then
married?--<br>
 since when?'--visions of a fair Tartar, fit mate for my
baron,<br>
 immediately springing somewhat alluringly before my mental
vision.<br>
 But the answer dispelled the picturesque fancy.</p>

<p>"'Oh, yes,' said the man, with a somewhat peculiar
expression.<br>
 Yes, Monseigneur is married. Did Monsieur not know? And yet
it<br>
 was from England that Monseigneur brought back his wife.'</p>

<p>"'An Englishwoman!'</p>

<p>"My first thought was one of pity; an Englishwoman alone in
this<br>
 wilderness--two days' drive from even a railway station--and at
the<br>
 mercy of Kossowski! But the next minute I reversed my
judgment.<br>
 Probably she adored her rufous lord, took his veneer of
courtesy--a<br>
 veneer of the most exquisite polish, I grant you, but
perilously<br>
 thin--for the very perfection of chivalry. Or perchance it was
his<br>
 inner savageness itself that charmed her; the most refined
women<br>
 often amaze one by the fascination which the preponderance of
the<br>
 brute in the opposite sex seems to have for them.</p>

<p>"I was anxious to hear more.</p>

<p>"'Is it not dull for the lady here at this time of the
year?'</p>

<p>"The valet raised his shoulders with a gesture of despair that
was<br>
 almost passionate.</p>

<p>"Dull! Ah, monsieur could not conceive to himself the dullness
of<br>
 it. That poor Madame la Baronne! not even a little child to
keep<br>
 her company on the long, long days when there was nothing but
snow<br>
 in the heaven and on the earth and the howling of the wind and
the<br>
 dogs to cheer her. At the beginning, indeed, it had been<br>
 different; when the master first brought home his bride the
house<br>
 was gay enough. It was all redecorated and refurnished to
receive<br>
 her (monsieur should have seen it before, a mere
rendezvous-de-<br>
 chasse--for the matter of that so were all the country houses
in<br>
 these parts). Ah, that was the good time! There were visits
month<br>
 after month; parties, sleighing, dancing, trips to St.
Petersburg<br>
 and Vienna. But this year it seemed they were to have nothing
but<br>
 boars and wolves. How madame could stand it--well, it was not
for<br>
 him to speak--and heaving a deep sigh he delicately inserted
my<br>
 white tie round my collar, and with a flourish twisted it into
an<br>
 irreproachable bow beneath my chin. I did not think it right
to<br>
 cross-examine the willing talker any further, especially as,<br>
 despite his last asseveration, there were evidently volumes
he<br>
 still wished to pour forth; but I confess that, as I made my
way<br>
 slowly out of my room along the noiseless length of passage, I
was<br>
 conscious of an unwonted, not to say vulgar, curiosity
concerning<br>
 the woman who had captivated such a man as the Baron
Kossowski.</p>

<p>"In a fit of speculative abstraction I must have taken the
wrong<br>
 turning, for I presently found myself in a long, narrow passage.
I<br>
 did not remember. I was retracing my steps when there came
the<br>
 sound of rapid footfalls upon stone flags; a little door flew
open<br>
 in the wall close to me, and a small, thick-set man, huddled in
the<br>
 rough sheepskin of the Galician peasant, with a mangy fur cap
on<br>
 his head, nearly ran headlong into my arms. I was about<br>
 condescendingly to interpellate him in my best Polish, when
I<br>
 caught the gleam of an angry yellow eye and noted the bristle of
a<br>
 red beard--Kossowski!</p>

<p>"Amazed, I fell back a step in silence. With a growl like
an<br>
 uncouth animal disturbed, he drew his filthy cap over his brow
with<br>
 a savage gesture and pursued his way down the corridor at a sort
of<br>
 wild-boar trot.</p>

<p>"This first meeting between host and guest was so odd, so<br>
 incongruous, that it afforded me plenty of food for a fresh line
of<br>
 conjecture as I traced my way back to the picture gallery, and
from<br>
 thence successfully to the drawing-room, which, as the door
was<br>
 ajar, I could not this time mistake.</p>

<p>"It was large and lofty and dimly lit by shaded lamps; through
the<br>
 rosy gloom I could at first only just make out a slender figure
by<br>
 the hearth; but as I advanced, this was resolved into a
singularly<br>
 graceful woman in clinging, fur-trimmed velvet gown, who, with
one<br>
 hand resting on the high mantelpiece, the other banging
listlessly<br>
 by her side, stood gazing down at the crumbling wood fire as if
in<br>
 a dream.</p>

<p>"My friends are kind enough to say that I have a catlike
tread; I<br>
 know not how that may be; at any rate the carpet I was walking
upon<br>
 was thick enough to smother a heavier footfall: not until I
was<br>
 quite close to her did my hostess become aware of my
presence.<br>
 Then she started violently and looked over her shoulder at me
with<br>
 dilating eyes. Evidently a nervous creature, I saw the pulse
in<br>
 her throat, strained by her attitude, flutter like a
terrified<br>
 bird.</p>

<p>"The next instant she had stretched out her hand with sweet
English<br>
 words of welcome, and the face, which I had been comparing in
my<br>
 mind to that of Guido's Cenci, became transformed by the arch
and<br>
 exquisite smile of a Greuse. For more than two years I had had
no<br>
 intercourse with any of my nationality. I could conceive the
sound<br>
 of his native tongue under such circumstances moving a man in
a<br>
 curious unexpected fashion.</p>

<p>"I babbled some commonplace reply, after which there was
silence<br>
 while we stood opposite each other, she looking at me
expectantly.<br>
 At length, with a sigh checked by a smile and an overtone of<br>
 sadness in a voice that yet tried to be sprightly:</p>

<p>"'Am I then so changed, Mr. Marshfield?' she asked. And all
at<br>
 once I knew her: the girl whose nightingale throat had redeemed
the<br>
 desolation of the evenings at Rathdrum, whose sunny beauty
had<br>
 seemed (even to my celebrated cold-blooded aestheticism) worthy
to<br>
 haunt a man's dreams. Yes, there was the subtle curve of the<br>
 waist, the warm line of throat, the dainty foot, the slender
tip-<br>
 tilted fingers--witty fingers, as I had classified them--which
I<br>
 now shook like a true Briton, instead of availing myself of
the<br>
 privilege the country gave me, and kissing her slender
wrist.</p>

<p>"But she was changed; and I told her so with
unconventional<br>
 frankness, studying her closely as I spoke.</p>

<p>"'I am afraid,' I said gravely, 'that this place does not
agree<br>
 with you.'</p>

<p>"She shrank from my scrutiny with a nervous movement and
flushed to<br>
 the roots of her red-brown hair. Then she answered coldly that
I<br>
 was wrong, that she was in excellent health, but that she could
not<br>
 expect any more than other people to preserve perennial youth
(I<br>
 rapidly calculated she might be two-and-twenty), though,
indeed,<br>
 with a little forced laugh, it was scarcely flattering to hear
one<br>
 had altered out of all recognition. Then, without allowing me
time<br>
 to reply, she plunged into a general topic of conversation
which,<br>
 as I should have been obtuse indeed not to take the hint, I did
my<br>
 best to keep up.</p>

<p><br>
 "But while she talked of Vienna and Warsaw, of her distant<br>
 neighbors, and last year's visitors, it was evident that her
mind<br>
 was elsewhere; her eye wandered, she lost the thread of her<br>
 discourse, answered me at random, and smiled her piteous
smile<br>
 incongruously.</p>

<p>"However lonely she might be in her solitary splendor, the
company<br>
 of a countryman was evidently no such welcome diversion.</p>

<p>"After a little while she seemed to feel herself that she
was<br>
 lacking in cordiality, and, bringing her absent gaze to bear
upon<br>
 me with a puzzled strained look: 'I fear you will find it
very<br>
 dull,' she said, 'my husband is so wrapped up this winter in
his<br>
 country life and his sport. You are the first visitor we have
had.<br>
 There is nothing but guns and horses here, and you do not care
for<br>
 these things.'</p>

<p>"The door creaked behind us; and the baron entered, in
faultless<br>
 evening dress. Before she turned toward him I was sharp enough
to<br>
 catch again the upleaping of a quick dread in her eyes, not even
so<br>
 much dread perhaps, I thought afterwards, as horror--the horror
we<br>
 notice in some animals at the nearing of a beast of prey. It
was<br>
 gone in a second, and she was smiling. But it was a
revelation.</p>

<p>"Perhaps he beat her in Russian fashion, and she, as an<br>
 Englishwoman, was narrow-minded enough to resent this; or
perhaps,<br>
 merely, I had the misfortune to arrive during a matrimonial<br>
 misunderstanding.</p>

<p>"The baron would not give me leisure to reflect; he was so
very<br>
 effusive in his greeting--not a hint of our previous
meeting--<br>
 unlike my hostess, all in all to me; eager to listen, to
reply;<br>
 almost affectionate, full of references to old times and
genial<br>
 allusions. No doubt when he chose he could be the most charming
of<br>
 men; there were moments when, looking at him in his quiet smile
and<br>
 restrained gesture, the almost exaggerated politeness of his
manner<br>
 to his wife, whose fingers he had kissed with pretty,
old-fashioned<br>
 gallantry upon his entrance, I asked myself, Could that
encounter<br>
 in the passage have been a dream? Could that savage in the<br>
 sheepskin be my courteous entertainer?</p>

<p>"'Just as I came in, did I hear my wife say there was nothing
for<br>
 you to do in this place?' he said presently to me. Then,
turning<br>
 to her:</p>

<p>"'You do not seem to know Mr. Marshfield. Wherever he can
open<br>
 his eyes there is for him something to see which might not
interest<br>
 other men. He will find things in my library which I have no<br>
 notion of. He will discover objects for scientific observation
in<br>
 all the members of my household, not only in the
good-looking<br>
 maids--though he could, I have no doubt, tell their points as
I<br>
 could those of a horse. We have maidens here of several
distinct<br>
 races, Marshfield. We have also witches, and Jew leeches, and
holy<br>
 daft people. In any case, Yany, with all its dependencies,<br>
 material, male and female, are at your disposal, for what you
can<br>
 make out of them.</p>

<p>"'It is good,' he went on gayly, 'that you should happen to
have<br>
 this happy disposition, for I fear that, no later than
to-morrow, I<br>
 may have to absent myself from home. I have heard that there
are<br>
 news of wolves--they threaten to be a greater pest than usual
this<br>
 winter, but I am going to drive them on quite a new plan, and
it<br>
 will go hard with me if I don't come even with them. Well for
you,<br>
 by the way, Marshfield, that you did not pass within their
scent<br>
 today.' Then, musingly: 'I should not give much for the life of
a<br>
 traveler who happened to wander in these parts just now.' Here
he<br>
 interrupted himself hastily and went over to his wife, who had
sunk<br>
 back on her chair, livid, seemingly on the point of
swooning.</p>

<p>"His gaze was devouring; so might a man look at the woman
he<br>
 adored, in his anxiety.</p>

<p>"'What! faint, Violet, alarmed!' His voice was subdued, yet
there<br>
 was an unmistakable thrill of emotion in it.</p>

<p>"'Pshaw!' thought I to myself, 'the man is a model
husband.'</p>

<p>"She clinched her hands, and by sheer force of will seemed to
pull<br>
 herself together. These nervous women have often an
unexpected<br>
 fund of strength.</p>

<p>"'Come, that is well,' said the baron with a flickering smile;
'Mr.<br>
 Marshfield will think you but badly acclimatized to Poland if
a<br>
 little wolf scare can upset you. My dear wife is so
soft-hearted,'<br>
 he went on to me, 'that she is capable of making herself quite
ill<br>
 over the sad fate that might have, but has not, overcome you.
Or,<br>
 perhaps,' he added, in a still gentler voice, 'her fear is that
I<br>
 may expose myself to danger for the public weal.'</p>

<p>"She turned her head away, but I saw her set her teeth as if
to<br>
 choke a sob. The baron chuckled in his throat and seemed to<br>
 luxuriate in the pleasant thought.</p>

<p>"At this moment folding doors were thrown open, and supper
was<br>
 announced. I offered my arm, she rose and took it in
silence.<br>
 This silence she maintained during the first part of the
meal,<br>
 despite her husband's brilliant conversation and almost
uproarious<br>
 spirits. But by and by a bright color mounted to her cheeks
and<br>
 luster to her eyes. I suppose you will think me horribly<br>
 unpoetical if I add that she drank several glasses of champagne
one<br>
 after the other, a fact which perhaps may account for the
change.</p>

<p>"At any rate she spoke and laughed and looked lovely, and I
did not<br>
 wonder that the baron could hardly keep his eyes off her.
But<br>
 whether it was her wifely anxiety or not--it was evident her
mind<br>
 was not at ease through it all, and I fancied that her
brightness<br>
 was feverish, her merriment slightly hysterical.</p>

<p>"After supper--an exquisite one it was--we adjourned together,
in<br>
 foreign fashion, to the drawing-room; the baron threw himself
into<br>
 a chair and, somewhat with the air of a pasha, demanded music.
He<br>
 was flushed; the veins of his forehead were swollen and stood
out<br>
 like cords; the wine drunk at table was potent: even through
my<br>
 phlegmatic frame it ran hotly.</p>

<p>"She hesitated a moment or two, then docilely sat down to
the<br>
 piano. That she could sing I have already made clear: how
she<br>
 could sing, with what pathos, passion, as well as perfect art,
I<br>
 had never realized before.</p>

<p>"When the song was ended she remained for a while, with eyes
lost<br>
 in distance, very still, save for her quick breathing. It
was<br>
 clear she was moved by the music; indeed she must have thrown
her<br>
 whole soul into it.</p>

<p>"At first we, the audience, paid her the rare compliment
of<br>
 silence. Then the baron broke forth into loud applause.
'Brava,<br>
 brava! that was really said con amore. A delicious love
song,<br>
 delicious--but French! You must sing one of our Slav melodies
for<br>
 Marshfield before you allow us to go and smoke.'</p>

<p>"She started from her reverie with a flush, and after a
pause<br>
 struck slowly a few simple chords, then began one of those<br>
 strangely sweet, yet intensely pathetic Russian airs, which
give<br>
 one a curious revelation of the profound, endless melancholy<br>
 lurking in the national mind.</p>

<p>"'What do you think of it?' asked the baron of me when it
ceased.</p>

<p>"'What I have always thought of such music--it is that of
a<br>
 hopeless people; poetical, crushed, and resigned.'</p>

<p>"He gave a loud laugh. 'Hear the analyst, the
psychologue--why,<br>
 man, it is a love song! Is it possible that we, uncivilized,
are<br>
 truer realists than our hypercultured Western neighbors? Have
we<br>
 gone to the root of the matter, in our simple way?'</p>

<p>"The baroness got up abruptly. She looked white and spent;
there<br>
 were bister circles round her eyes.</p>

<p>"'I am tired,' she said, with dry lips. 'You will excuse me,
Mr.<br>
 Marshfield, I must really go to bed.'</p>

<p>"'Go to bed, go to bed,' cried her husband gayly. Then,
quoting in<br>
 Russian from the song she had just sung: 'Sleep, my little
soft<br>
 white dove: my little innocent tender lamb!' She hurried from
the<br>
 room. The baron laughed again, and, taking me familiarly by
the<br>
 arm, led me to his own set of apartments for the promised
smoke.<br>
 He ensconced me in an armchair, placed cigars of every
description<br>
 and a Turkish pipe ready to my hand, and a little table on
which<br>
 stood cut-glass flasks and beakers in tempting array.</p>

<p>"After I had selected my cigar with some precautions, I
glanced at<br>
 him over a careless remark, and was startled to see a sudden<br>
 alteration in his whole look and attitude.</p>

<p>"'You will forgive me, Marshfield,' he said, as he caught my
eye,<br>
 speaking with spasmodic politeness. 'It is more than probable
that<br>
 I shall have to set out upon this chase I spoke of to-night, and
I<br>
 must now go and change my clothes, that I may be ready to start
at<br>
 any moment. This is the hour when it is most likely these
hell<br>
 beasts are to be got at. You have all you want, I hope,'<br>
 interrupting an outbreak of ferocity by an effort after his
former<br>
 courtesy.</p>

<p>"It was curious to watch the man of the world struggling with
the<br>
 primitive man.</p>

<p>"'But, baron,' said I, 'I do not at all see the fun of
sticking at<br>
 home like this. You know my passion for witnessing everything
new,<br>
 strange, and outlandish. You will surely not refuse me such
an<br>
 opportunity for observation as a midnight wolf raid. I will do
my<br>
 best not to be in the way if you will take me with you.'</p>

<p>"At first it seemed as if he had some difficulty in realizing
the<br>
 drift of my words, he was so engrossed by some inner thought.
But<br>
 as I repeated them, he gave vent to a loud cachinnation.</p>

<p>"'By heaven! I like your spirit,' he exclaimed, clapping
me<br>
 strongly on the shoulder. 'Of course you shall come. You
shall,'<br>
 he repeated, 'and I promise you a sight, a hunt such as you
never<br>
 heard or dreamed of--you will be able to tell them in England
the<br>
 sort of thing we can do here in that line--such wolves are
rare<br>
 quarry,' he added, looking slyly at me, 'and I have a new plan
for<br>
 getting at them.'</p>

<p>"There was a long pause, and then there rose in the stillness
the<br>
 unearthly howling of the baron's hounds, a cheerful sound
which<br>
 only their owner's somewhat loud converse of the evening had
kept<br>
 from becoming excessively obtrusive.</p>

<p>"'Hark at them--the beauties!' cried he, showing his short,
strong<br>
 teeth, pointed like a dog's in a wide grin of anticipative
delight.<br>
 'They have been kept on pretty short commons, poor things!
They<br>
 are hungry. By the way, Marshfield, you can sit tight to a
horse,<br>
 I trust? If you were to roll off, you know, these splendid<br>
 fellows--they would chop you up in a second. They would chop
you<br>
 up,' he repeated unctuously, 'snap, crunch, gobble, and there
would<br>
 be an end of you!'</p>

<p>"'If I could not ride a decent horse without being thrown,'
I<br>
 retorted, a little stung by his manner, 'after my recent
three<br>
 months' torture with the Guard Cossacks, I should indeed be
a<br>
 hopeless subject. Do not think of frightening me from the
exploit,<br>
 but say frankly if my company would be displeasing.'</p>

<p>"'Tut!' he said, waving his hand impatiently, 'it is your
affair.<br>
 I have warned you. Go and get ready if you want to come.
Time<br>
 presses.'</p>

<p>"I was determined to be of the fray; my blood was up. I
have<br>
 hinted that the baron's Tokay had stirred it.</p>

<p>"I went to my room and hurriedly donned clothes more suitable
for<br>
 rough night work. My last care was to slip into my pockets a
brace<br>
 of double-barreled pistols which formed part of my traveling
kit.<br>
 When I returned I found the baron already booted and spurred;
this<br>
 without metaphor. He was stretched full length on the divan,
and<br>
 did not speak as I came in, or even look at me. Chewing an
unlit<br>
 cigar, with eyes fixed on the ceiling, he was evidently
following<br>
 some absorbing train of ideas.</p>

<p>"The silence was profound; time went by; it grew oppressive;
at<br>
 length, wearied out, I fell, over my chibouque, into a doze
filled<br>
 with puzzling visions, out of which I was awakened with a
start.<br>
 My companion had sprung up, very lightly, to his feet. In
his<br>
 throat was an odd, half-suppressed cry, grewsome to hear. He
stood<br>
 on tiptoe, with eyes fixed, as though looking through the wall,
and<br>
 I distinctly saw his ears point in the intensity of his
listening.</p>

<p>"After a moment, with hasty, noiseless energy, and without
the<br>
 slightest ceremony, he blew the lamps out, drew back the
heavy<br>
 curtains and threw the tall window wide open. A rush of icy
air,<br>
 and the bright rays of the moon--gibbous, I remember, in her
third<br>
 quarter--filled the room. Outside the mist had condensed, and
the<br>
 view was unrestricted over the white plains at the foot of
the<br>
 hill.</p>

<p>"The baron stood motionless in the open window, callous to the
cold<br>
 in which, after a minute, I could hardly keep my teeth from<br>
 chattering, his head bent forward, still listening. I
listened<br>
 too, with 'all my ears,' but could not catch a sound; indeed
the<br>
 silence over the great expanse of snow might have been
called<br>
 awful; even the dogs were mute.</p>

<p>"Presently, far, far away, came a faint tinkle of bells; so
faint,<br>
 at first, that I thought it was but fancy, then distincter. It
was<br>
 even more eerie than the silence, I thought, though I knew it
could<br>
 come but from some passing sleigh. All at once that ceased,
and<br>
 again my duller senses could perceive nothing, though I saw by
my<br>
 host's craning neck that he was more on the alert than ever.
But<br>
 at last I too heard once more, this time not bells, but as it
were<br>
 the tread of horses muffled by the snow, intermittent and dull,
yet<br>
 drawing nearer. And then in the inner silence of the great
house<br>
 it seemed to me I caught the noise of closing doors; but here
the<br>
 hounds, as if suddenly becoming alive to some disturbance,
raised<br>
 the same fearsome concert of yells and barks with which they
had<br>
 greeted my arrival, and listening became useless.</p>

<p>"I had risen to my feet. My host, turning from the window,
seized<br>
 my shoulder with a fierce grip, and bade me 'hold my noise'; for
a<br>
 second or two I stood motionless under his iron talons, then
he<br>
 released me with an exultant whisper: "Now for our chase!" and
made<br>
 for the door with a spring. Hastily gulping down a mouthful
of<br>
 arrack from one of the bottles on the table, I followed him,
and,<br>
 guided by the sound of his footsteps before me, groped my
way<br>
 through passages as black as Erebus.</p>

<p>"After a time, which seemed a long one, a small door was flung
open<br>
 in front, and I saw Kossowski glide into the moonlit courtyard
and<br>
 cross the square. When I too came out he was disappearing into
the<br>
 gaping darkness of the open stable door, and there I overtook
him.</p>

<p>"A man who seemed to have been sleeping in a corner jumped up
at<br>
 our entrance, and led out a horse ready saddled. In obedience to
a<br>
 gruff order from his master, as the latter mounted, he then
brought<br>
 forward another which he had evidently thought to ride himself
and<br>
 held the stirrup for me.</p>

<p>"We came delicately forth, and the Cossack hurriedly barred
the<br>
 great door behind us. I caught a glimpse of his worn, scarred
face<br>
 by the moonlight, as he peeped after us for a second before<br>
 shutting himself in; it was stricken with terror.</p>

<p>"The baron trotted briskly toward the kennels, from whence
there<br>
 was now issuing a truly infernal clangor, and, as my steed
followed<br>
 suit of his own accord, I could see how he proceeded dexterously
to<br>
 unbolt the gates without dismounting, while the beasts
within<br>
 dashed themselves against them and tore the ground in their fury
of<br>
 impatience.</p>

<p>"He smiled, as he swung back the barriers at last, and his<br>
 'beauties' came forth. Seven or eight monstrous brutes, hounds
of<br>
 a kind unknown to me: fulvous and sleek of coat, tall on
their<br>
 legs, square-headed, long-tailed, deep-chested; with terrible
jaws<br>
 slobbering in eagerness. They leaped around and up at us, much
to<br>
 our horses' distaste. Kossowski, still smiling, lashed at
them<br>
 unsparingly with his hunting whip, and they responded, not
with<br>
 yells of pain, but with snarls of fury.</p>

<p>"Managing his restless steed and his cruel whip with
consummate<br>
 ease, my host drove the unruly crew before him out of the<br>
 precincts, then halted and bent down from his saddle to
examine<br>
 some slight prints in the snow which led, not the way I had
come,<br>
 but toward what seemed another avenue. In a second or two
the<br>
 hounds were gathered round this spot, their great snake-like
tails<br>
 quivering, nose to earth, yelping with excitement. I had some
ado<br>
 to manage my horse, and my eyesight was far from being as keen
as<br>
 the baron's, but I had then no doubt he had come already upon
wolf<br>
 tracks, and I shuddered mentally, thinking of the sleigh
bells.</p>

<p>"Suddenly Kossowski raised himself from his strained
position;<br>
 under his low fur cap his face, with its fixed smile, looked<br>
 scarcely human in the white light: and then we broke into a
hand<br>
 canter just as the hounds dashed, in a compact body, along
the<br>
 trail.</p>

<p>"But we had not gone more than a few hundred yards before
they<br>
 began to falter, then straggled, stopped and ran back and
about<br>
 with dismal cries. It was clear to me they had lost the scent.
My<br>
 companion reined in his horse, and mine, luckily a
well-trained<br>
 brute, halted of himself.</p>

<p>"We had reached a bend in a broad avenue of firs and larches,
and<br>
 just where we stood, and where the hounds ever returned and
met<br>
 nose to nose in frantic conclave, the snow was trampled and
soiled,<br>
 and a little farther on planed in a great sweep, as if by a
turning<br>
 sleigh. Beyond was a double-furrowed track of skaits and
regular<br>
 hoof prints leading far away.</p>

<p>"Before I had time to reflect upon the bearing of this
unexpected<br>
 interruption, Kossowski, as if suddenly possessed by a devil,
fell<br>
 upon the hounds with his whip, flogging them upon the new
track,<br>
 uttering the while the most savage cries I have ever heard
issue<br>
 from human throat. The disappointed beasts were nothing loath
to<br>
 seize upon another trail; after a second of hesitation they
had<br>
 understood, and were off upon it at a tearing pace, we after
them<br>
 at the best speed of our horses.</p>

<p>"Some unformed idea that we were going to escort, or
rescue,<br>
 benighted travelers flickered dimly in my mind as I galloped<br>
 through the night air; but when I managed to approach my
companion<br>
 and called out to him for explanation, he only turned half
round<br>
 and grinned at me.</p>

<p>"Before us lay now the white plain, scintillating under the
high<br>
 moon's rays. That light is deceptive; I could be sure of
nothing<br>
 upon the wide expanse but of the dark, leaping figures of
the<br>
 hounds already spread out in a straggling line, some right
ahead,<br>
 others just in front of us. In a short time also the icy
wind,<br>
 cutting my face mercilessly as we increased our pace, well
nigh<br>
 blinded me with tears of cold.</p>

<p>"I can hardly realize how long this pursuit after an unseen
prey<br>
 lasted; I can only remember that I was getting rather faint
with<br>
 fatigue, and ignominiously held on to my pommel, when all of
a<br>
 sudden the black outline of a sleigh merged into sight in front
of<br>
 us.</p>

<p>"I rubbed my smarting eyes with my benumbed hand; we were
gaining<br>
 upon it second by second; two of those hell hounds of the
baron's<br>
 were already within a few leaps of it.</p>

<p>"Soon I was able to make out two figures, one standing up
and<br>
 urging the horses on with whip and voice, the other clinging to
the<br>
 back seat and looking toward us in an attitude of terror. A
great<br>
 fear crept into my half-frozen brain--were we not bringing
deadly<br>
 danger instead of help to these travelers? Great God! did
the<br>
 baron mean to use them as a bait for his new method of wolf<br>
 hunting?</p>

<p>"I would have turned upon Kossowski with a cry of
expostulation or<br>
 warning, but he, urging on his hounds as he galloped on
their<br>
 flank, howling and gesticulating like a veritable Hun, passed me
by<br>
 like a flash--and all at once I knew."</p>

<p>Marshfield paused for a moment and sent his pale smile round
upon<br>
 his listeners, who now showed no signs of sleepiness; he
knocked<br>
 the ash from his cigar, twisted the latter round in his mouth,
and<br>
 added dryly:</p>

<p>"And I confess it seemed to me a little strong even for a
baron in<br>
 the Carpathians. The travelers were our quarry. But the
reason<br>
 why the Lord of Yany had turned man-hunter I was yet to
learn.<br>
 Just then I had to direct my energies to frustrating his plans.
I<br>
 used my spurs mercilessly. While I drew up even with him I saw
the<br>
 two figures in the sleigh change places; he who had hitherto
driven<br>
 now faced back, while his companion took the reins; there was
the<br>
 pale blue sheen of a revolver barrel under the moonlight,
followed<br>
 by a yellow flash, and the nearest hound rolled over in the
snow.</p>

<p>"With an oath the baron twisted round in his saddle to call up
and<br>
 urge on the remainder. My horse had taken fright at the report
and<br>
 dashed irresistibly forward, bringing me at once almost level
with<br>
 the fugitives, and the next instant the revolver was turned<br>
 menacingly toward me. There was no time to explain; my pistol
was<br>
 already drawn, and as another of the brutes bounded up,
almost<br>
 under my horse's feet, I loosed it upon him. I must have let
off<br>
 both barrels at once, for the weapon flew out of my hand, but
the<br>
 hound's back was broken. I presume the traveler understood; at
any<br>
 rate, he did not fire at me.</p>

<p>"In moments of intense excitement like these, strangely
enough, the<br>
 mind is extraordinarily open to impressions. I shall never
forget<br>
 that man's countenance in the sledge, as he stood upright
and<br>
 defied us in his mortal danger; it was young, very handsome,
the<br>
 features not distorted, but set into a sort of desperate,
stony<br>
 calm, and I knew it, beyond all doubt, for that of an
Englishman.<br>
 And then I saw his companion--it was the baron's wife. And I<br>
 understood why the bells had been removed.</p>

<p>"It takes a long time to say this; it only required an instant
to<br>
 see it. The loud explosion of my pistol had hardly ceased to
ring<br>
 before the baron, with a fearful imprecation, was upon me.
First<br>
 he lashed at me with his whip as we tore along side by side,
and<br>
 then I saw him wind the reins round his off arm and bend over,
and<br>
 I felt his angry fingers close tightly on my right foot. The
next<br>
 instant I should have been lifted out of my saddle, but there
came<br>
 another shot from the sledge. The baron's horse plunged and<br>
 stumbled, and the baron, hanging on to my foot with a fierce
grip,<br>
 was wrenched from his seat. His horse, however, was up again<br>
 immediately, and I was released, and then I caught a
confused<br>
 glimpse of the frightened and wounded animal galloping wildly
away<br>
 to the right, leaving a black track of blood behind him in
the<br>
 snow, his master, entangled in the reins, running with
incredible<br>
 swiftness by his side and endeavoring to vault back into the<br>
 saddle.</p>

<p>"And now came to pass a terrible thing which, in his savage
plans,<br>
 my host had doubtless never anticipated.</p>

<p>"One of the hounds that had during this short check recovered
lost<br>
 ground, coming across this hot trail of blood, turned away from
his<br>
 course, and with a joyous yell darted after the running man.
In<br>
 another instant the remainder of the pack was upon the new
scent.</p>

<p>"As soon as I could stop my horse, I tried to turn him in
the<br>
 direction the new chase had taken, but just then, through the
night<br>
 air, over the receding sound of the horse's scamper and the
sobbing<br>
 of the pack in full cry, there came a long scream, and after
that a<br>
 sickening silence. And I knew that somewhere yonder, under
the<br>
 beautiful moonlight, the Baron Kossowski was being devoured by
his<br>
 starving dogs.</p>

<p>"I looked round, with the sweat on my face, vaguely, for some
human<br>
 being to share the horror of the moment, and I saw, gliding
away,<br>
 far away in the white distance, the black silhouette of the<br>
 sledge."</p>

<p>"Well?" said we, in divers tones of impatience, curiosity,
or<br>
 horror, according to our divers temperaments, as the speaker<br>
 uncrossed his legs and gazed at us in mild triumph, with all
the<br>
 air of having said his say, and satisfactorily proved his
point.</p>

<p>"Well," repeated he, "what more do you want to know? It
will<br>
 interest you but slightly, I am sure, to hear how I found my
way<br>
 back to the Hof; or how I told as much as I deemed prudent of
the<br>
 evening's grewsome work to the baron's servants, who, by the
way,<br>
 to my amazement, displayed the profoundest and most
unmistakable<br>
 sorrow at the tidings, and sallied forth (at their head the
Cossack<br>
 who had seen us depart) to seek for his remains. Excuse the<br>
 unpleasantness of the remark: I fear the dogs must have left
very<br>
 little of him, he had dieted them so carefully. However, since
it<br>
 was to have been a case of 'chop, crunch, and gobble,' as the
baron<br>
 had it, I preferred that that particular fate should have
overtaken<br>
 him rather than me--or, for that matter, either of those two<br>
 country people of ours in the sledge.</p>

<p>"Nor am I going to inflict upon you," continued Marshfield,
after<br>
 draining his glass, "a full account of my impressions when I
found<br>
 myself once more in that immense, deserted, and stricken house,
so<br>
 luxuriously prepared for the mistress who had fled from it; how
I<br>
 philosophized over all this, according to my wont; the
conjectures<br>
 I made as to the first acts of the drama; the untold sufferings
my<br>
 countrywoman must have endured from the moment her husband
first<br>
 grew jealous till she determined on this desperate step; as to
how<br>
 and when she had met her lover, how they communicated, and how
the<br>
 baron had discovered the intended flitting in time to concoct
his<br>
 characteristic revenge.</p>

<p>"One thing you may be sure of, I had no mind to remain at Yany
an<br>
 hour longer than necessary. I even contrived to get well clear
of<br>
 the neighborhood before the lady's absence was discovered.
Luckily<br>
 for me--or I might have been taxed with connivance, though
indeed<br>
 the simple household did not seem to know what suspicion was,
and<br>
 accepted my account with childlike credence--very typical, and
very<br>
 convenient to me at the same time."</p>

<p>"But how do you know," said one of us, "that the man was her
lover?<br>
 He might have been her brother or some other relative."</p>

<p>"That," said Marshfield, with his little flat laugh, "I happen
to<br>
 have ascertained--and, curiously enough, only a few weeks ago.
It<br>
 was at the play, between the acts, from my comfortable seat
(the<br>
 first row in the pit). I was looking leisurely round the
house<br>
 when I caught sight of a woman, in a box close by, whose head
was<br>
 turned from me, and who presented the somewhat unusual spectacle
of<br>
 a young neck and shoulders of the most exquisite
contour--and<br>
 perfectly gray hair; and not dull gray, but rather of a
pleasing<br>
 tint like frosted silver. This aroused my curiosity. I brought
my<br>
 glasses to a focus on her and waited patiently till she
turned<br>
 round. Then I recognized the Baroness Kassowski, and I no
longer<br>
 wondered at the young hair being white.</p>

<p><br>
 "Yet she looked placid and happy; strangely so, it seemed to
me,<br>
 under the sudden reviving in my memory of such scenes as I have
now<br>
 described. But presently I understood further: beside her,
in<br>
 close attendance, was the man of the sledge, a handsome fellow
with<br>
 much of a military air about him.</p>

<p>"During the course of the evening, as I watched, I saw a
friend of<br>
 mine come into the box, and at the end I slipped out into
the<br>
 passage to catch him as he came out.</p>

<p>"'Who is the woman with the white hair?' I asked. Then, in
the<br>
 fragmentary style approved of by ultra-fashionable young
men--this<br>
 earnest-languid mode of speech presents curious similarities in
all<br>
 languages--he told me: 'Most charming couple in
London--awfully<br>
 pretty, wasn't she?--he had been in the Guards--attache at
Vienna<br>
 once--they adored each other. White hair, devilish queer,
wasn't<br>
 it? Suited her, somehow. And then she had been married to a<br>
 Russian, or something, somewhere in the wilds, and their
names<br>
 were--' But do you know," said Marshfield, interrupting
himself,<br>
 "I think I had better let you find that out for yourselves, if
you<br>
 care."</p>

<p> </p>

<p> </p>

<h3>Stanley J. Weyman</h3>

<h2>The Fowl in the Pot</h2>

<h4>An Episode Adapted from the Memoirs of Maximilian de Bethune,
Duke<br>
 of Sully</h4>

<p><br>
 What I am going to relate may seem to some merely to be curious
and<br>
 on a party with the diverting story of M. Boisrose, which I
have<br>
 set down in an earlier part of my memoirs. But among the
calumnies<br>
 of those who have never ceased to attack me since the death of
the<br>
 late king, the statement that I kept from his majesty things
which<br>
 should have reached his ears has always had a prominent
place,<br>
 though a thousand times refuted by my friends, and those who
from<br>
 an intimate acquaintance with events could judge how faithfully
I<br>
 labored to deserve the confidence with which my master honored
me.<br>
 Therefore, I take it in hand to show by an example, trifling
in<br>
 itself, the full knowledge of affairs which the king had, and
to<br>
 prove that in many matters, which were never permitted to
become<br>
 known to the idlers of the court, he took a personal share,
worthy<br>
 as much of Haroun as of Alexander.</p>

<p><br>
 It was my custom, before I entered upon those negotiations with
the<br>
 Prince of Conde which terminated in the recovery of the estate
of<br>
 Villebon, where I now principally reside, to spend a part of
the<br>
 autumn and winter at Rosny. On these occasions I was in the
habit<br>
 of leaving Paris with a considerable train of Swiss, pages,
valets,<br>
 and grooms, together with the maids of honor and waiting women
of<br>
 the duchess. We halted to take dinner at Poissy, and
generally<br>
 contrived to reach Rosny toward nightfall, so as to sup by
the<br>
 light of flambeaux in a manner enjoyable enough, though devoid
of<br>
 that state which I have ever maintained, and enjoined upon
my<br>
 children, as at once the privilege and burden of rank.</p>

<p>At the time of which I am speaking I had for my favorite
charger<br>
 the sorrel horse which the Duke of Mercoeur presented to me with
a<br>
 view to my good offices at the time of the king's entry into
Paris;<br>
 and which I honestly transferred to his majesty in accordance
with<br>
 a principle laid down in another place. The king insisted on<br>
 returning it to me, and for several years I rode it on these
annual<br>
 visits to Rosny. What was more remarkable was that on each
of<br>
 these occasions it cast a shoe about the middle of the
afternoon,<br>
 and always when we were within a short league of the village
of<br>
 Aubergenville. Though I never had with me less than half a
score<br>
 of led horses, I had such an affection for the sorrel that I<br>
 preferred to wait until it was shod, rather than accommodate
myself<br>
 to a nag of less easy paces; and would allow my household to<br>
 precede me, staying behind myself with at most a guard or two,
my<br>
 valet, and a page.</p>

<p>The forge at Aubergenville was kept by a smith of some skill,
a<br>
 cheerful fellow, whom I always remembered to reward, considering
my<br>
 own position rather than his services, with a gold livre. His
joy<br>
 at receiving what was to him the income of a year was great,
and<br>
 never failed to reimburse me; in addition to which I took
some<br>
 pleasure in unbending, and learning from this simple peasant
and<br>
 loyal man, what the taxpayers were saying of me and my
reforms--a<br>
 duty I always felt I owed to the king my master.</p>

<p>As a man of breeding it would ill become me to set down the
homely<br>
 truths I thus learned. The conversations of the vulgar are
little<br>
 suited to a nobleman's memoirs; but in this I distinguish
between<br>
 the Duke of Sully and the king's minister, and it is in the
latter<br>
 capacity that I relate what passed on these diverting
occasions.<br>
 "Ho, Simon," I would say, encouraging the poor man as he
came<br>
 bowing and trembling before me, "how goes it, my friend?"</p>

<p>"Badly," he would answer, "very badly until your lordship came
this<br>
 way."</p>

<p>"And how is that, little man?"</p>

<p>"Oh, it is the roads," he always replied, shaking his bald
head as<br>
 he began to set about his business. "The roads since your
lordship<br>
 became surveyor-general are so good that not one horse in a
hundred<br>
 casts a shoe; and then there are so few highwaymen now that not
one<br>
 robber's plates do I replace in a twelvemonth. There is where
it<br>
 is."</p>

<p>At this I was highly delighted.</p>

<p>"Still, since I began to pass this way times have not been so
bad<br>
 with you, Simon," I would answer.</p>

<p>Thereto he had one invariable reply.</p>

<p>"No; thanks to Ste. Genevieve and your lordship, whom we call
in<br>
 this village the poor man's friend, I have a fowl in the
pot."</p>

<p>This phrase so pleased me that I repeated it to the king.
It<br>
 tickled his fancy also, and for some years it was a very
common<br>
 remark of that good and great ruler, that he hoped to live to
see<br>
 every peasant with a fowl in his pot.</p>

<p>"But why," I remember I once asked this honest fellow--it was
on<br>
 the last occasion of the sorrel falling lame there--"do you
thank<br>
 Ste. Genevieve?"</p>

<p>"She is my patron saint," he answered.</p>

<p>"Then you are a Parisian?"</p>

<p>"Your lordship is always right."</p>

<p>"But does her saintship do you any good?" I asked
curiously.</p>

<p>"Certainly, by your lordship's leave. My wife prays to her and
she<br>
 loosens the nails in the sorrel's shoes."</p>

<p>"In fact she pays off an old grudge," I answered, "for there
was a<br>
 time when Paris liked me little; but hark ye, master smith, I
am<br>
 not sure that this is not an act of treason to conspire with
Madame<br>
 Genevieve against the comfort of the king's minister. What
think<br>
 you, you rascal; can you pass the justice elm without a
shiver?"</p>

<p>This threw the simple fellow into a great fear, which the
sight of<br>
 the livre of gold speedily converted into joy as stupendous.<br>
 Leaving him still staring at his fortune I rode away; but when
we<br>
 had gone some little distance, the aspect of his face, when
I<br>
 charged him with treason, or my own unassisted
discrimination<br>
 suggested a clew to the phenomenon.</p>

<p>"La Trape," I said to my valet--the same who was with me at
Cahors--<br>
 "what is the name of the innkeeper at Poissy, at whose house
we<br>
 are accustomed to dine?"</p>

<p>"Andrew, may it please your lordship."</p>

<p>"Andrew! I thought so!" I exclaimed, smiting my thigh. "Simon
and<br>
 Andrew his brother! Answer, knave, and, if you have permitted
me<br>
 to be robbed these many times, tremble for your ears. Is he
not<br>
 brother to the smith at Aubergenville who has just shod my
horse?"</p>

<p>La Trape professed to be ignorant on this point, but a groom
who<br>
 had stayed behind with me, having sought my permission to
speak,<br>
 said it was so, adding that Master Andrew had risen in the
world<br>
 through large dealings in hay, which he was wont to take daily
into<br>
 Paris and sell, and that he did not now acknowledge or see
anything<br>
 of his brother the smith, though it was believed that he
retained a<br>
 sneaking liking for him.</p>

<p>On receiving this confirmation of my suspicions, my vanity as
well<br>
 as my sense of justice led me to act with the promptitude which
I<br>
 have exhibited in greater emergencies. I rated La Trape for
his<br>
 carelessness of my interests in permitting this deception to
be<br>
 practiced on me; and the main body of my attendants being now
in<br>
 sight, I ordered him to take two Swiss and arrest both
brothers<br>
 without delay. It wanted yet three hours of sunset, and I
judged<br>
 that, by hard riding, they might reach Rosny with their
prisoners<br>
 before bedtime.</p>

<p>I spent some time while still on the road in considering
what<br>
 punishment I should inflict on the culprits; and finally laid
aside<br>
 the purpose I had at first conceived of putting them to
death--an<br>
 infliction they had richly deserved--in favor of a plan which
I<br>
 thought might offer me some amusement. For the execution of this
I<br>
 depended upon Maignan, my equerry, who was a man of lively<br>
 imagination, being the same who had of his own motion arranged
and<br>
 carried out the triumphal procession, in which I was borne to
Rosny<br>
 after the battle of Ivry. Before I sat down to supper I gave
him<br>
 his directions; and as I had expected, news was brought to me
while<br>
 I was at table that the prisoners had arrived.</p>

<p>Thereupon I informed the duchess and the company generally,
for, as<br>
 was usual, a number of my country neighbors had come to
compliment<br>
 me on my return, that there was some sport of a rare kind on
foot;<br>
 and we adjourned, Maignan, followed by four pages bearing
lights,<br>
 leading the way to that end of the terrace which abuts on
the<br>
 linden avenue. Here, a score of grooms holding torches aloft
had<br>
 been arranged in a circle so that the impromptu theater thus<br>
 formed, which Maignan had ordered with much taste, was as light
as<br>
 in the day. On a sloping bank at one end seats had been placed
for<br>
 those who had supped at my table, while the rest of the
company<br>
 found such places of vantage as they could; their number,
indeed,<br>
 amounting, with my household, to two hundred persons. In the<br>
 center of the open space a small forge fire had been kindled,
the<br>
 red glow of which added much to the strangeness of the scene;
and<br>
 on the anvil beside it were ranged a number of horses' and
donkeys'<br>
 shoes, with a full complement of the tools used by smiths.
All<br>
 being ready I gave the word to bring in the prisoners, and
escorted<br>
 by La Trape and six of my guards, they were marched into the
arena.<br>
 In their pale and terrified faces, and the shaking limbs
which<br>
 could scarce support them to their appointed stations, I read
both<br>
 the consciousness of guilt and the apprehension of immediate
death;<br>
 it was plain that they expected nothing less. I was very
willing<br>
 to play with their fears, and for some time looked at them
in<br>
 silence, while all wondered with lively curiosity what would
ensue.<br>
 I then addressed them gravely, telling the innkeeper that I
knew<br>
 well he had loosened each year a shoe of my horse, in order
that<br>
 his brother might profit by the job of replacing it; and went on
to<br>
 reprove the smith for the ingratitude which had led him to
return<br>
 my bounty by the conception of so knavish a trick.</p>

<p>Upon this they confessed their guilt, and flinging themselves
upon<br>
 their knees with many tears and prayers begged for mercy.
This,<br>
 after a decent interval, I permitted myself to grant. "Your
lives,<br>
 which are forfeited, shall be spared," I pronounced. "But
punished<br>
 you must be. I therefore ordain that Simon, the smith, at
once<br>
 fit, nail, and properly secure a pair of iron shoes to
Andrew's<br>
 heels, and that then Andrew, who by that time will have picked
up<br>
 something of the smith's art, do the same to Simon. So will
you<br>
 both learn to avoid such shoeing tricks for the future."</p>

<p>It may well be imagined that a judgment so whimsical, and so
justly<br>
 adapted to the offense, charmed all save the culprits; and in
a<br>
 hundred ways the pleasure of those present was evinced, to such
a<br>
 degree, indeed, that Maignan had some difficulty in
restoring<br>
 silence and gravity to the assemblage. This done, however,
Master<br>
 Andrew was taken in hand and his wooden shoes removed. The
tools<br>
 of his trade were placed before the smith, who cast glances
so<br>
 piteous, first at his brother's feet and then at the shoes on
the<br>
 anvil, as again gave rise to a prodigious amount of merriment,
my<br>
 pages in particular well-nigh forgetting my presence, and
rolling<br>
 about in a manner unpardonable at another time. However, I
rebuked<br>
 them sharply, and was about to order the sentence to be
carried<br>
 into effect, when the remembrance of the many pleasant
simplicities<br>
 which the smith had uttered to me, acting upon a natural<br>
 disposition to mercy, which the most calumnious of my enemies
have<br>
 never questioned, induced me to give the prisoners a chance
of<br>
 escape. "Listen," I said, "Simon and Andrew. Your sentence
has<br>
 been pronounced, and will certainly be executed unless you
can<br>
 avail yourself of the condition I now offer. You shall have
three<br>
 minutes; if in that time either of you can make a good joke,
he<br>
 shall go free. If not, let a man attend to the bellows, La
Trape!"</p>

<p>This added a fresh satisfaction to my neighbors, who were
well<br>
 assured now that I had not promised them a novel
entertainment<br>
 without good grounds; for the grimaces of the two knaves
thus<br>
 bidden to jest if they would save their skins, were so
diverting<br>
 they would have made a nun laugh. They looked at me with
their<br>
 eyes as wide as plates, and for the whole of the time of
grace<br>
 never a word could they utter save howls for mercy. "Simon,"
I<br>
 said gravely, when the time was up, "have you a joke? No.
Andrew,<br>
 my friend, have you a joke? No. Then--"</p>

<p>I was going on to order the sentence to be carried out, when
the<br>
 innkeeper flung himself again upon his knees, and cried out
loudly--<br>
 as much to my astonishment as to the regret of the bystanders,
who<br>
 were bent on seeing so strange a shoeing feat--"One word, my
lord;<br>
 I can give you no joke, but I can do a service, an eminent
service<br>
 to the king. I can disclose a conspiracy!"</p>

<p>I was somewhat taken aback by this sudden and public
announcement.<br>
 But I had been too long in the king's employment not to have<br>
 remarked how strangely things are brought to light. On hearing
the<br>
 man's words therefore--which were followed by a stricken
silence--I<br>
 looked sharply at the faces of such of those present as it
was<br>
 possible to suspect, but failed to observe any sign of confusion
or<br>
 dismay, or anything more particular than so abrupt a statement
was<br>
 calculated to produce. Doubting much whether the man was not<br>
 playing with me, I addressed him sternly, warning him to
beware,<br>
 lest in his anxiety to save his heels by falsely accusing
others,<br>
 he should lose his head. For that if his conspiracy should
prove<br>
 to be an invention of his own, I should certainly consider it
my<br>
 duty to hang him forthwith.</p>

<p>He heard me out, but nevertheless persisted in his story,
adding<br>
 desperately, "It is a plot, my lord, to assassinate you and
the<br>
 king on the same day."</p>

<p>This statement struck me a blow; for I had good reason to know
that<br>
 at that time the king had alienated many by his infatuation
for<br>
 Madame de Verneuil; while I had always to reckon firstly with
all<br>
 who hated him, and secondly with all whom my pursuit of his<br>
 interests injured, either in reality or appearance. I
therefore<br>
 immediately directed that the prisoners should be led in
close<br>
 custody to the chamber adjoining my private closet, and taking
the<br>
 precaution to call my guards about me, since I knew not what<br>
 attempt despair might not breed, I withdrew myself, making
such<br>
 apologies to the company as the nature of the case
permitted.</p>

<p>I ordered Simon the smith to be first brought to me, and in
the<br>
 presence of Maignan only, I severely examined him as to his<br>
 knowledge of any conspiracy. He denied, however, that he had
ever<br>
 heard of the matters referred to by his brother, and persisted
so<br>
 firmly in the denial that I was inclined to believe him. In
the<br>
 end he was taken out and Andrew was brought in. The
innkeeper's<br>
 demeanor was such as I have often observed in intriguers
brought<br>
 suddenly to book. He averred the existence of the conspiracy,
and<br>
 that its objects were those which he had stated. He also
offered<br>
 to give up his associates, but conditioned that he should do
this<br>
 in his own way; undertaking to conduct me and one other
person--but<br>
 no more, lest the alarm should be given--to a place in Paris on
the<br>
 following night, where we could hear the plotters state their
plans<br>
 and designs. In this way only, he urged, could proof positive
be<br>
 obtained.</p>

<p>I was much startled by this proposal, and inclined to think it
a<br>
 trap; but further consideration dispelled my fears. The
innkeeper<br>
 had held no parley with anyone save his guards and myself since
his<br>
 arrest, and could neither have warned his accomplices, nor<br>
 acquainted them with any design the execution of which
should<br>
 depend on his confession to me. I therefore accepted his
terms--<br>
 with a private reservation that I should have help at
hand--and<br>
 before daybreak next morning left Rosny, which I had only seen
by<br>
 torchlight, with my prisoner and a select body of Swiss. We<br>
 entered Paris in the afternoon in three parties, with as
little<br>
 parade as possible, and went straight to the Arsenal, whence,
as<br>
 soon as evening fell, I hurried with only two armed attendants
to<br>
 the Louvre.</p>

<p>A return so sudden and unexpected was as great a surprise to
the<br>
 court as to the king, and I was not slow to mark with an
inward<br>
 smile the discomposure which appeared very clearly, on the faces
of<br>
 several, as the crowd in the chamber fell back for me to
approach<br>
 my master. I was careful, however, to remember that this
might<br>
 arise from other causes than guilt. The king received me with
his<br>
 wonted affection; and divining at once that I must have
something<br>
 important to communicate, withdrew with me to the farther end
of<br>
 the chamber, where we were out of earshot of the court. I
there<br>
 related the story to his majesty, keeping back nothing.</p>

<p>He shook his head, saying merely: "The fish to escape the
frying<br>
 pan, grand master, will jump into the fire. And human nature,
save<br>
 in the case of you and me, who can trust one another, is
very<br>
 fishy."</p>

<p>I was touched by this gracious compliment, but not convinced.
"You<br>
 have not seen the man, sire," I said, "and I have had that<br>
 advantage."</p>

<p>"And believe him?"</p>

<p>"In part," I answered with caution. "So far at least as to
be<br>
 assured that he thinks to save his skin, which he will only do
if<br>
 he be telling the truth. May I beg you, sire," I added
hastily,<br>
 seeing the direction of his glance, "not to look so fixedly at
the<br>
 Duke of Epernon? He grows uneasy."</p>

<p>"Conscience makes--you know the rest."</p>

<p>"Nay, sire, with submission," I replied, "I will answer for
him; if<br>
 he be not driven by fear to do something reckless."</p>

<p>"Good! I take your warranty, Duke of Sully," the king said,
with<br>
 the easy grace which came so natural to him. "But now in
this<br>
 matter what would you have me do?"</p>

<p>"Double your guards, sire, for to-night--that is all. I
will<br>
 answer for the Bastile and the Arsenal; and holding these we
hold<br>
 Paris."</p>

<p>But thereupon I found that the king had come to a decision,
which I<br>
 felt it to be my duty to combat with all my influence. He
had<br>
 conceived the idea of being the one to accompany me to the<br>
 rendezvous. "I am tired of the dice," he complained, "and sick
of<br>
 tennis, at which I know everybody's strength. Madame de
Verneuil<br>
 is at Fontainebleau, the queen is unwell. Ah, Sully, I would
the<br>
 old days were back when we had Nerac for our Paris, and knew
the<br>
 saddle better than the armchair!"</p>

<p>"A king must think of his people," I reminded him.</p>

<p>"The fowl in the pot? To be sure. So I will--to-morrow,"
he<br>
 replied. And in the end he would be obeyed. I took my leave
of<br>
 him as if for the night, and retired, leaving him at play with
the<br>
 Duke of Epernon. But an hour later, toward eight o'clock,
his<br>
 majesty, who had made an excuse to withdraw to his closet, met
me<br>
 outside the eastern gate of the Louvre.</p>

<p>He was masked, and attended only by Coquet, his master of
the<br>
 household. I too wore a mask and was esquired by Maignan,
under<br>
 whose orders were four Swiss--whom I had chosen because they
were<br>
 unable to speak French--guarding the prisoner Andrew. I bade<br>
 Maignan follow the innkeeper's directions, and we proceeded in
two<br>
 parties through the streets on the left bank of the river, past
the<br>
 Chatelet and Bastile, until we reached an obscure street near
the<br>
 water, so narrow that the decrepit wooden houses shut out
well-nigh<br>
 all view of the sky. Here the prisoner halted and called upon
me<br>
 to fulfill the terms of my agreement. I bade Maignan therefore
to<br>
 keep with the Swiss at a distance of fifty paces, but to come
up<br>
 should I whistle or otherwise give the alarm; and myself with
the<br>
 king and Andrew proceeded onward in the deep shadow of the
houses.<br>
 I kept my hand on my pistol, which I had previously shown to
the<br>
 prisoner, intimating that on the first sign of treachery I
should<br>
 blow out his brains. However, despite precaution, I felt<br>
 uncomfortable to the last degree. I blamed myself severely
for<br>
 allowing the king to expose himself and the country to this<br>
 unnecessary danger; while the meanness of the locality, the
fetid<br>
 air, the darkness of the night, which was wet and tempestuous,
and<br>
 the uncertainty of the event lowered my spirits, and made
every<br>
 splash in the kennel and stumble on the reeking, slippery<br>
 pavements--matters over which the king grew merry--seem no
light<br>
 troubles to me.</p>

<p>Arriving at a house, which, if we might judge in the
darkness,<br>
 seemed to be of rather greater pretensions than its fellows,
our<br>
 guide stopped, and whispered to us to mount some steps to a
raised<br>
 wooden gallery, which intervened between the lane and the
doorway.<br>
 On this, besides the door, a couple of unglazed windows looked
out.<br>
 The shutter of one was ajar, and showed us a large, bare
room,<br>
 lighted by a couple of rushlights. Directing us to place
ourselves<br>
 close to this shutter, the innkeeper knocked at the door in
a<br>
 peculiar fashion, and almost immediately entered, going at
once<br>
 into the lighted room. Peering cautiously through the window
we<br>
 were surprised to find that the only person within, save the<br>
 newcomer, was a young woman, who, crouching over a smoldering
fire,<br>
 was crooning a lullaby while she attended to a large black
pot.</p>

<p>"Good evening, mistress!" said the innkeeper, advancing to the
fire<br>
 with a fair show of nonchalance.</p>

<p>"Good evening, Master Andrew," the girl replied, looking up
and<br>
 nodding, but showing no sign of surprise at his appearance.<br>
 "Martin is away, but he may return at any moment."</p>

<p>"Is he still of the same mind?"</p>

<p>"Quite."</p>

<p>"And what of Sully? Is he to die then?" he asked.</p>

<p>"They have decided he must," the girl answered gloomily. It
may be<br>
 believed that I listened with all my ears, while the king by
a<br>
 nudge in my side seemed to rally me on the destiny so coolly<br>
 arranged for me. "Martin says it is no good killing the
other<br>
 unless he goes too--they have been so long together. But it
vexes<br>
 me sadly, Master Andrew," she added with a sudden break in
her<br>
 voice. "Sadly it vexes me. I could not sleep last night for<br>
 thinking of it, and the risk Martin runs. And I shall sleep
less<br>
 when it is done."</p>

<p>"Pooh-pooh!" said that rascally innkeeper. "Think less about
it.<br>
 Things will grow worse and worse if they are let live. The
King<br>
 has done harm enough already. And he grows old besides."</p>

<p>"That is true!" said the girl. "And no doubt the sooner he is
put<br>
 out of the way the better. He is changed sadly. I do not say
a<br>
 word for him. Let him die. It is killing Sully that troubles
me--<br>
 that and the risk Martin runs."</p>

<p>At this I took the liberty of gently touching the king. He<br>
 answered by an amused grimace; then by a motion of his hand
he<br>
 enjoined silence. We stooped still farther forward so as better
to<br>
 command the room. The girl was rocking herself to and fro in<br>
 evident distress of mind. "If we killed the King," she
continued,<br>
 "Martin declares we should be no better off, as long as
Sully<br>
 lives. Both or neither, he says. But I do not know. I cannot<br>
 bear to think of it. It was a sad day when we brought
Epernon<br>
 here, Master Andrew; and one I fear we shall rue as long as
we<br>
 live."</p>

<p>It was now the king's turn to be moved. He grasped my wrist
so<br>
 forcibly that I restrained a cry with difficulty. "Epernon!"
he<br>
 whispered harshly in my ear. "They are Epernon's tools! Where
is<br>
 your guaranty now, Rosny?"</p>

<p>I confess that I trembled. I knew well that the king,
particular<br>
 in small courtesies, never forgot to call his servants by
their<br>
 correct titles, save in two cases; when he indicated by the
seeming<br>
 error, as once in Marshal Biron's affair, his intention to
promote<br>
 or degrade them; or when he was moved to the depths of his
nature<br>
 and fell into an old habit. I did not dare to reply, but
listened<br>
 greedily for more information.</p>

<p>"When is it to be done?" asked the innkeeper, sinking his
voice and<br>
 glancing round, as if he would call especial attention to
this.</p>

<p>"That depends upon Master la Riviere," the girl answered.
"To-<br>
 morrow night, I understand, if Master la Riviere can have the
stuff<br>
 ready."</p>

<p>I met the king's eyes. They shone fiercely in the faint
light,<br>
 which issuing from the window fell on him. Of all things he
hated<br>
 treachery most, and La Riviere was his first body physician, and
at<br>
 this very time, as I well knew, was treating him for a
slight<br>
 derangement which the king had brought upon himself by his<br>
 imprudence. This doctor had formerly been in the employment of
the<br>
 Bouillon family, who had surrendered his services to the
king.<br>
 Neither I nor his majesty had trusted the Duke of Bouillon for
the<br>
 last year past, so that we were not surprised by this hint that
he<br>
 was privy to the design.</p>

<p><br>
 Despite our anxiety not to miss a word, an approaching step
warned<br>
 us at this moment to draw back. More than once before we had
done<br>
 so to escape the notice of a wayfarer passing up and down.
But<br>
 this time I had a difficulty in inducing the king to adopt
the<br>
 precaution. Yet it was well that I succeeded, for the person
who<br>
 came stumbling along toward us did not pass, but, mounting
the<br>
 steps, walked by within touch of us and entered the house.</p>

<p>"The plot thickens," muttered the king. "Who is this?"</p>

<p>At the moment he asked I was racking my brain to remember. I
have<br>
 a good eye and a fair recollection for faces, and this was one
I<br>
 had seen several times. The features were so familiar that I<br>
 suspected the man of being a courtier in disguise, and I ran
over<br>
 the names of several persons whom I knew to be Bouillon's
secret<br>
 agents. But he was none of these, and obeying the king's
gesture,<br>
 I bent myself again to the task of listening.</p>

<p>The girl looked up on the man's entrance, but did not rise.
"You<br>
 are late, Martin," she said.</p>

<p>"A little," the newcomer answered. "How do you do, Master
Andrew?<br>
 What cheer? What, still vexing, mistress?" he added
contemptuously<br>
 to the girl. "You have too soft a heart for this business!"</p>

<p>She sighed, but made no answer.</p>

<p>"You have made up your mind to it, I hear?" said the
innkeeper.</p>

<p>"That is it. Needs must when the devil drives!" replied the
man<br>
 jauntily. He had a downcast, reckless, luckless air, yet in
his<br>
 face I thought I still saw traces of a better spirit.</p>

<p>"The devil in this case was Epernon," quoth Andrew.</p>

<p>"Aye, curse him! I would I had cut his dainty throat before
he<br>
 crossed my threshold," cried the desperado. "But there, it is
too<br>
 late to say that now. What has to be done, has to be done."</p>

<p>"How are you going about it? Poison, the mistress says."</p>

<p>"Yes; but if I had my way," the man growled fiercely, "I would
out<br>
 one of these nights and cut the dogs' throats in the
kennel!"</p>

<p>"You could never escape, Martin!" the girl cried, rising
in<br>
 excitement. "It would be hopeless. It would merely be
throwing<br>
 away your own life."</p>

<p>"Well, it is not to be done that way, so there is an end of
it,"<br>
 quoth the man wearily. "Give me my supper. The devil take
the<br>
 king and Sully too! He will soon have them."</p>

<p>On this Master Andrew rose, and I took his movement toward the
door<br>
 for a signal for us to retire. He came out at once, shutting
the<br>
 door behind him as he bade the pair within a loud good night.
He<br>
 found us standing in the street waiting for him and forthwith
fell<br>
 on his knees in the mud and looked up at me, the
perspiration<br>
 standing thick on his white face. "My lord," he cried hoarsely,
"I<br>
 have earned my pardon!"</p>

<p>"If you go on," I said encouragingly, "as you have begun, have
no<br>
 fear." Without more ado I whistled up the Swiss and bade
Maignan<br>
 go with them and arrest the man and woman with as little<br>
 disturbance as possible. While this was being done we waited<br>
 without, keeping a sharp eye upon the informer, whose terror,
I<br>
 noted with suspicion, seemed to be in no degree diminished. He
did<br>
 not, however, try to escape, and Maignan presently came to tell
us<br>
 that he had executed the arrest without difficulty or
resistance.</p>

<p>The importance of arriving at the truth before Epernon and
the<br>
 greater conspirators should take the alarm was so vividly
present<br>
 to the minds of the king and myself, that we did not hesitate
to<br>
 examine the prisoners in their house, rather than hazard the
delay<br>
 and observation which their removal to a more fit place must<br>
 occasion. Accordingly, taking the precaution to post Coquet in
the<br>
 street outside, and to plant a burly Swiss in the doorway, the
king<br>
 and I entered. I removed my mask as I did so, being aware of
the<br>
 necessity of gaining the prisoners' confidence, but I begged
the<br>
 king to retain his. As I had expected, the man immediately<br>
 recognized me and fell on his knees, a nearer view confirming
the<br>
 notion I had previously entertained that his features were
familiar<br>
 to me, though I could not remember his name. I thought this a
good<br>
 starting-point for my examination, and bidding Maignan withdraw,
I<br>
 assumed an air of mildness and asked the fellow his name.</p>

<p>"Martin, only, please your lordship," he answered; adding,
"once I<br>
 sold you two dogs, sir, for the chase, and to your lady a
lapdog<br>
 called Ninette no larger than her hand."</p>

<p>I remembered the knave, then, as a fashionable dog dealer, who
had<br>
 been much about the court in the reign of Henry the Third
and<br>
 later; and I saw at once how convenient a tool he might be
made,<br>
 since he could be seen in converse with people of all ranks
without<br>
 arousing suspicion. The man's face as he spoke expressed so
much<br>
 fear and surprise that I determined to try what I had often
found<br>
 successful in the case of greater criminals, to squeeze him for
a<br>
 confession while still excited by his arrest, and before he
should<br>
 have had time to consider what his chances of support at the
hands<br>
 of his confederates might be. I charged him therefore solemnly
to<br>
 tell the whole truth as he hoped for the king's mercy. He
heard<br>
 me, gazing at me piteously; but his only answer, to my
surprise,<br>
 was that he had nothing to confess.</p>

<p>"Come, come," I replied sternly, "this will avail you nothing;
if<br>
 you do not speak quickly, rogue, and to the point, we shall
find<br>
 means to compel you. Who counseled you to attempt his
majesty's<br>
 life?"</p>

<p>On this he stared so stupidly at me, and exclaimed with so
real an<br>
 appearance of horror: "How? I attempt the king's life? God<br>
 forbid!" that I doubted that we had before us a more
dangerous<br>
 rascal than I had thought, and I hastened to bring him to
the<br>
 point.</p>

<p>"What, then," I cried, frowning, "of the stuff Master la
Riviere is<br>
 to give you to take the king's life to-morrow night? Oh, we
know<br>
 something, I assure you; bethink you quickly, and find your
tongue<br>
 if you would have an easy death."</p>

<p>I expected to see his self-control break down at this proof of
our<br>
 knowledge of his design, but he only stared at me with the
same<br>
 look of bewilderment. I was about to bid them bring in the<br>
 informer that I might see the two front to front, when the
female<br>
 prisoner, who had hitherto stood beside her companion in
such<br>
 distress and terror as might be expected in a woman of that
class,<br>
 suddenly stopped her tears and lamentations. It occurred to
me<br>
 that she might make a better witness. I turned to her, but when
I<br>
 would have questioned her she broke into a wild scream of<br>
 hysterical laughter.</p>

<p>From that I remember that I learned nothing, though it
greatly<br>
 annoyed me. But there was one present who did--the king. He
laid<br>
 his hand on my shoulder, gripping it with a force that I read as
a<br>
 command to be silent.</p>

<p>"Where," he said to the man, "do you keep the King and Sully
and<br>
 Epernon, my friend?"</p>

<p>"The King and Sully--with the lordship's leave," said the
man<br>
 quickly, with a frightened glance at me--"are in the kennels at
the<br>
 back of the house, but it is not safe to go near them. The King
is<br>
 raving mad, and--and the other dog is sickening. Epernon we had
to<br>
 kill a month back. He brought the disease here, and I have
had<br>
 such losses through him as have nearly ruined me, please
your<br>
 lordship."</p>

<p>"Get up--get up, man!" cried the king, and tearing off his
mask he<br>
 stamped up and down the room, so torn by paroxysms of laughter
that<br>
 he choked himself when again and again he attempted to
speak.</p>

<p>I too now saw the mistake, but I could not at first see it in
the<br>
 same light. Commanding myself as well as I could, I ordered one
of<br>
 the Swiss to fetch in the innkeeper, but to admit no one
else.</p>

<p>The knave fell on his knees as soon as he saw me, his
cheeks<br>
 shaking like a jelly.</p>

<p>"Mercy, mercy!" was all he could say.</p>

<p>"You have dared to play with me?" I whispered.</p>

<p>"You bade me joke," he sobbed, "you bade me."</p>

<p>I was about to say that it would be his last joke in this
world--<br>
 for my anger was fully aroused--when the king intervened.</p>

<p>"Nay," he said, laying his hand softly on my shoulder. "It
has<br>
 been the most glorious jest. I would not have missed it for
a<br>
 kingdom. I command you, Sully, to forgive him."</p>

<p>Thereupon his majesty strictly charged the three that they
should<br>
 not on peril of their lives mention the circumstances to
anyone.<br>
 Nor to the best of my belief did they do so, being so
shrewdly<br>
 scared when they recognized the king that I verily think they
never<br>
 afterwards so much as spoke of the affair to one another. My<br>
 master further gave me on his own part his most gracious
promise<br>
 that he would not disclose the matter even to Madame de Verneuil
or<br>
 the queen, and upon these representations he induced me freely
to<br>
 forgive the innkeeper. So ended this conspiracy, on the
diverting<br>
 details of which I may seem to have dwelt longer than I should;
but<br>
 alas! in twenty-one years of power I investigated many, and
this<br>
 one only can I regard with satisfaction. The rest were so
many<br>
 warnings and predictions of the fate which, despite all my care
and<br>
 fidelity, was in store for the great and good master I
served.</p>

<p> </p>

<p> </p>

<h3>Robert Louis Stevenson</h3>

<h2>The Pavilion on the Links</h2>

<h3><br>
 I</h3>

<p><br>
 I was a great solitary when I was young. I made it my pride
to<br>
 keep aloof and suffice for my own entertainment; and I may say
that<br>
 I had neither friends nor acquaintances until I met that friend
who<br>
 became my wife and the mother of my children. With one man
only<br>
 was I on private terms; this was R. Northmour, Esquire, of
Graden<br>
 Easter, in Scotland. We had met at college; and though there
was<br>
 not much liking between us, nor even much intimacy, we were
so<br>
 nearly of a humor that we could associate with ease to both.<br>
 Misanthropes, we believed ourselves to be; but I have thought
since<br>
 that we were only sulky fellows. It was scarcely a
companionship,<br>
 but a coexistence in unsociability. Northmour's exceptional<br>
 violence of temper made it no easy affair for him to keep the
peace<br>
 with anyone but me; and as he respected my silent ways, and let
me<br>
 come and go as I pleased, I could tolerate his presence
without<br>
 concern. I think we called each other friends.</p>

<p><br>
 When Northmour took his degree and I decided to leave the<br>
 university without one, he invited me on a long visit to
Graden<br>
 Easter; and it was thus that I first became acquainted with
the<br>
 scene of my adventures. The mansion house of Graden stood in
a<br>
 bleak stretch of country some three miles from the shore of
the<br>
 German Ocean. It was as large as a barrack; and as it had
been<br>
 built of a soft stone, liable to consume in the eager air of
the<br>
 seaside, it was damp and draughty within and half ruinous
without.<br>
 It was impossible for two young men to lodge with comfort in
such a<br>
 dwelling. But there stood in the northern part of the estate, in
a<br>
 wilderness of links and blowing sand hills, and between a<br>
 plantation and the sea, a small pavilion or belvedere, of
modern<br>
 design, which was exactly suited to our wants; and in this<br>
 hermitage, speaking little, reading much, and rarely
associating<br>
 except at meals, Northmour and I spent four tempestuous
winter<br>
 months. I might have stayed longer; but one March night
there<br>
 sprung up between us a dispute, which rendered my departure<br>
 necessary. Northmour spoke hotly, I remember, and I suppose I
must<br>
 have made some tart rejoinder. He leaped from his chair and<br>
 grappled me; I had to fight, without exaggeration, for my life;
and<br>
 it was only with a great effort that I mastered him, for he
was<br>
 near as strong in body as myself, and seemed filled with the
devil.<br>
 The next morning, we met on our usual terms; but I judged it
more<br>
 delicate to withdraw; nor did he attempt to dissuade me.</p>

<p>It was nine years before I revisited the neighborhood. I
traveled<br>
 at that time with a tilt-cart, a tent, and a cooking stove,<br>
 tramping all day beside the wagon, and at night, whenever it
was<br>
 possible, gypsying in a cove of the hills, or by the side of
a<br>
 wood. I believe I visited in this manner most of the wild
and<br>
 desolate regions both in England and Scotland; and, as I had<br>
 neither friends nor relations, I was troubled with no<br>
 correspondence, and had nothing in the nature of
headquarters,<br>
 unless it was the office of my solicitors, from whom I drew
my<br>
 income twice a year. It was a life in which I delighted; and
I<br>
 fully thought to have grown old upon the march, and at last died
in<br>
 a ditch.</p>

<p>It was my whole business to find desolate corners, where I
could<br>
 camp without the fear of interruption; and hence, being in
another<br>
 part of the same shire, I bethought me suddenly of the Pavilion
on<br>
 the Links. No thoroughfare passed within three miles of it.
The<br>
 nearest town, and that was but a fisher village, was at a
distance<br>
 of six or seven. For ten miles of length, and from a depth
varying<br>
 from three miles to half a mile, this belt of barren country
lay<br>
 along the sea. The beach, which was the natural approach, was
full<br>
 of quicksands. Indeed I may say there is hardly a better place
of<br>
 concealment in the United Kingdom. I determined to pass a week
in<br>
 the Sea-Wood of Graden Easter, and making a long stage, reached
it<br>
 about sundown on a wild September day.</p>

<p>The country, I have said, was mixed sand hill and links,
LINKS<br>
 being a Scottish name for sand which has ceased drifting and
become<br>
 more or less solidly covered with turf. The pavilion stood on
an<br>
 even space: a little behind it, the wood began in a hedge of
elders<br>
 huddled together by the wind; in front, a few tumbled sand
hills<br>
 stood between it and the sea. An outcropping of rock had formed
a<br>
 bastion for the sand, so that there was here a promontory in
the<br>
 coast line between two shallow bays; and just beyond the tides,
the<br>
 rock again cropped out and formed an islet of small dimensions
but<br>
 strikingly designed. The quicksands were of great extent at
low<br>
 water, and had an infamous reputation in the country. Close
in<br>
 shore, between the islet and the promontory, it was said they
would<br>
 swallow a man in four minutes and a half; but there may have
been<br>
 little ground for this precision. The district was alive
with<br>
 rabbits, and haunted by gulls which made a continual piping
about<br>
 the pavilion. On summer days the outlook was bright and even<br>
 gladsome; but at sundown in September, with a high wind, and
a<br>
 heavy surf rolling in close along the links, the place told
of<br>
 nothing but dead mariners and sea disaster. A ship beating
to<br>
 windward on the horizon, and a huge truncheon of wreck half
buried<br>
 in the sands at my feet, completed the innuendo of the
scene.</p>

<p>The pavilion--it had been built by the last proprietor,
Northmour's<br>
 uncle, a silly and prodigal virtuoso--presented little signs
of<br>
 age. It was two stories in height, Italian in design,
surrounded<br>
 by a patch of garden in which nothing had prospered but a
few<br>
 coarse flowers; and looked, with its shuttered windows, not like
a<br>
 house that had been deserted, but like one that had never
been<br>
 tenanted by man. Northmour was plainly from home; whether,
as<br>
 usual, sulking in the cabin of his yacht, or in one of his
fitful<br>
 and extravagant appearances in the world of society, I had,
of<br>
 course, no means of guessing. The place had an air of
solitude<br>
 that daunted even a solitary like myself; the wind cried in
the<br>
 chimneys with a strange and wailing note; and it was with a
sense<br>
 of escape, as if I were going indoors, that I turned away
and,<br>
 driving my cart before me, entered the skirts of the wood.</p>

<p>The Sea-Wood of Graden had been planted to shelter the
cultivated<br>
 fields behind, and check the encroachments of the blowing sand.
As<br>
 you advanced into it from coastward, elders were succeeded by
other<br>
 hardy shrubs; but the timber was all stunted and bushy; it led
a<br>
 life of conflict; the trees were accustomed to swing there
all<br>
 night long in fierce winter tempests; and even in early spring,
the<br>
 leaves were already flying, and autumn was beginning, in
this<br>
 exposed plantation. Inland the ground rose into a little
hill,<br>
 which, along with the islet, served as a sailing mark for
seamen.<br>
 When the hill was open of the islet to the north, vessels must
bear<br>
 well to the eastward to clear Graden Ness and the Graden
Bullers.<br>
 In the lower ground, a streamlet ran among the trees, and,
being<br>
 dammed with dead leaves and clay of its own carrying, spread
out<br>
 every here and there, and lay in stagnant pools. One or two
ruined<br>
 cottages were dotted about the wood; and, according to
Northmour,<br>
 these were ecclesiastical foundations, and in their time had<br>
 sheltered pious hermits.</p>

<p>I found a den, or small hollow, where there was a spring of
pure<br>
 water; and there, clearing away the brambles, I pitched the
tent,<br>
 and made a fire to cook my supper. My horse I picketed farther
in<br>
 the wood where there was a patch of sward. The banks of the
den<br>
 not only concealed the light of my fire, but sheltered me from
the<br>
 wind, which was cold as well as high.</p>

<p>The life I was leading made me both hardy and frugal. I
never<br>
 drank but water, and rarely eat anything more costly than
oatmeal;<br>
 and I required so little sleep, that, although I rose with the
peep<br>
 of day, I would often lie long awake in the dark or starry
watches<br>
 of the night. Thus in Graden Sea-Wood, although I fell
thankfully<br>
 asleep by eight in the evening I was awake again before eleven
with<br>
 a full possession of my faculties, and no sense of drowsiness
or<br>
 fatigue. I rose and sat by the fire, watching the trees and
clouds<br>
 tumultuously tossing and fleeing overhead, and hearkening to
the<br>
 wind and the rollers along the shore; till at length, growing
weary<br>
 of inaction, I quitted the den, and strolled toward the borders
of<br>
 the wood. A young moon, buried in mist, gave a faint
illumination<br>
 to my steps; and the light grew brighter as I walked forth into
the<br>
 links. At the same moment, the wind, smelling salt of the
open<br>
 ocean and carrying particles of sand, struck me with its
full<br>
 force, so that I had to bow my head.</p>

<p>When I raised it again to look about me, I was aware of a
light in<br>
 the pavilion. It was not stationary; but passed from one window
to<br>
 another, as though some one were reviewing the different
apartments<br>
 with a lamp or candle. I watched it for some seconds in
great<br>
 surprise. When I had arrived in the afternoon the house had
been<br>
 plainly deserted; now it was as plainly occupied. It was my
first<br>
 idea that a gang of thieves might have broken in and be now<br>
 ransacking Northmour's cupboards, which were many and not
ill<br>
 supplied. But what should bring thieves at Graden Easter?
And,<br>
 again, all the shutters had been thrown open, and it would
have<br>
 been more in the character of such gentry to close them. I<br>
 dismissed the notion, and fell back upon another. Northmour<br>
 himself must have arrived, and was now airing and inspecting
the<br>
 pavilion.</p>

<p>I have said that there was no real affection between this man
and<br>
 me; but, had I loved him like a brother, I was then so much more
in<br>
 love with solitude that I should none the less have shunned
his<br>
 company. As it was, I turned and ran for it; and it was with<br>
 genuine satisfaction that I found myself safely back beside
the<br>
 fire. I had escaped an acquaintance; I should have one more
night<br>
 in comfort. In the morning, I might either slip away before<br>
 Northmour was abroad, or pay him as short a visit as I
chose.</p>

<p>But when morning came, I thought the situation so diverting
that I<br>
 forgot my shyness. Northmour was at my mercy; I arranged a
good<br>
 practical jest, though I knew well that my neighbor was not the
man<br>
 to jest with in security; and, chuckling beforehand over its<br>
 success, took my place among the elders at the edge of the
wood,<br>
 whence I could command the door of the pavilion. The shutters
were<br>
 all once more closed, which I remember thinking odd; and the
house,<br>
 with its white walls and green venetians, looked spruce and<br>
 habitable in the morning light. Hour after hour passed, and
still<br>
 no sign of Northmour. I knew him for a sluggard in the
morning;<br>
 but, as it drew on toward noon, I lost my patience. To say
the<br>
 truth, I had promised myself to break my fast in the pavilion,
and<br>
 hunger began to prick me sharply. It was a pity to let the<br>
 opportunity go by without some cause for mirth; but the
grosser<br>
 appetite prevailed, and I relinquished my jest with regret,
and<br>
 sallied from the wood.</p>

<p>The appearance of the house affected me, as I drew near;
with<br>
 disquietude. It seemed unchanged since last evening; and I
had<br>
 expected it, I scarce knew why, to wear some external signs
of<br>
 habitation. But no: the windows were all closely shuttered,
the<br>
 chimneys breathed no smoke, and the front door itself was
closely<br>
 padlocked. Northmour, therefore, had entered by the back; this
was<br>
 the natural, and indeed, the necessary conclusion; and you
may<br>
 judge of my surprise when, on turning the house, I found the
back<br>
 door similarly secured.</p>

<p>My mind at once reverted to the original theory of thieves;
and I<br>
 blamed myself sharply for my last night's inaction. I examined
all<br>
 the windows on the lower story, but none of them had been
tampered<br>
 with; I tried the padlocks, but they were both secure. It
thus<br>
 became a problem how the thieves, if thieves they were, had
managed<br>
 to enter the house. They must have got, I reasoned, upon the
roof<br>
 of the outhouse where Northmour used to keep his
photographic<br>
 battery; and from thence, either by the window of the study or
that<br>
 of my old bedroom, completed their burglarious entry.</p>

<p>I followed what I supposed was their example; and, getting on
the<br>
 roof, tried the shutters of each room. Both were secure; but I
was<br>
 not to be beaten; and, with a little force, one of them flew
open,<br>
 grazing, as it did so, the back of my hand. I remember, I put
the<br>
 wound to my mouth, and stood for perhaps half a minute licking
it<br>
 like a dog, and mechanically gazing behind me over the waste
links<br>
 and the sea; and, in that space of time, my eye made note of
a<br>
 large schooner yacht some miles to the north-east. Then I threw
up<br>
 the window and climbed in.</p>

<p>I went over the house, and nothing can express my
mystification.<br>
 There was no sign of disorder, but, on the contrary, the rooms
were<br>
 unusually clean and pleasant. I found fires laid, ready for<br>
 lighting; three bedrooms prepared with a luxury quite foreign
to<br>
 Northmour's habits, and with water in the ewers and the beds
turned<br>
 down; a table set for three in the dining-room; and an ample
supply<br>
 of cold meats, game, and vegetables on the pantry shelves.
There<br>
 were guests expected, that was plain; but why guests, when<br>
 Northmour hated society? And, above all, why was the house
thus<br>
 stealthily prepared at dead of night? and why were the
shutters<br>
 closed and the doors padlocked?</p>

<p>I effaced all traces of my visit, and came forth from the
window<br>
 feeling sobered and concerned.</p>

<p>The schooner yacht was still in the same place; and it flashed
for<br>
 a moment through my mind that this might be the Red Earl
bringing<br>
 the owner of the pavilion and his guests. But the vessel's
head<br>
 was set the other way.</p>

<h3><br>
 II</h3>

<p><br>
 I returned to the den to cook myself a meal, of which I stood
in<br>
 great need, as well as to care for my horse, whom I had
somewhat<br>
 neglected in the morning. From time to time I went down to
the<br>
 edge of the wood; but there was no change in the pavilion, and
not<br>
 a human creature was seen all day upon the links. The schooner
in<br>
 the offing was the one touch of life within my range of
vision.<br>
 She, apparently with no set object, stood off and on or lay
to,<br>
 hour after hour; but as the evening deepened, she drew
steadily<br>
 nearer. I became more convinced that she carried Northmour and
his<br>
 friends, and that they would probably come ashore after dark;
not<br>
 only because that was of a piece with the secrecy of the<br>
 preparations, but because the tide would not have flowed<br>
 sufficiently before eleven to cover Graden Floe and the other
sea<br>
 quags that fortified the shore against invaders.</p>

<p><br>
 All day the wind had been going down, and the sea along with
it;<br>
 but there was a return towards sunset of the heavy weather of
the<br>
 day before. The night set in pitch dark. The wind came off
the<br>
 sea in squalls, like the firing of a battery of cannon; now
and<br>
 then there was a flaw of rain, and the surf rolled heavier with
the<br>
 rising tide. I was down at my observatory among the elders, when
a<br>
 light was run up to the masthead of the schooner, and showed
she<br>
 was closer in than when I had last seen her by the dying
daylight.<br>
 I concluded that this must be a signal to Northmour's associates
on<br>
 shore; and, stepping forth into the links, looked around me
for<br>
 something in response.</p>

<p>A small footpath ran along the margin of the wood, and formed
the<br>
 most direct communication between the pavilion and the
mansion-<br>
 house; and, as I cast my eyes to that side, I saw a spark of
light,<br>
 not a quarter of a mile away, and rapidly approaching. From
its<br>
 uneven course it appeared to be the light of a lantern carried
by a<br>
 person who followed the windings of the path, and was often<br>
 staggered and taken aback by the more violent squalls. I
concealed<br>
 myself once more among the elders, and waited eagerly for
the<br>
 newcomer's advance. It proved to be a woman; and, as she
passed<br>
 within half a rod of my ambush, I was able to recognise the<br>
 features. The deaf and silent old dame, who had nursed
Northmour<br>
 in his childhood, was his associate in this underhand
affair.</p>

<p>I followed her at a little distance, taking advantage of
the<br>
 innumerable heights and hollows, concealed by the darkness,
and<br>
 favored not only by the nurse's deafness, but by the uproar of
the<br>
 wind and surf. She entered the pavilion, and, going at once to
the<br>
 upper story, opened and set a light in one of the windows
that<br>
 looked toward the sea. Immediately afterwards the light at
the<br>
 schooner's masthead was run down and extinguished. Its purpose
had<br>
 been attained, and those on board were sure that they were<br>
 expected. The old woman resumed her preparations; although
the<br>
 other shutters remained closed, I could see a glimmer going to
and<br>
 fro about the house; and a gush of sparks from one chimney
after<br>
 another soon told me that the fires were being kindled.</p>

<p>Northmour and his guests, I was now persuaded, would come
ashore as<br>
 soon as there was water on the floe. It was a wild night for
boat<br>
 service; and I felt some alarm mingle with my curiosity as I<br>
 reflected on the danger of the landing. My old acquaintance,
it<br>
 was true, was the most eccentric of men; but the present<br>
 eccentricity was both disquieting and lugubrious to consider.
A<br>
 variety of feelings thus led me toward the beach, where I lay
flat<br>
 on my face in a hollow within six feet of the track that led to
the<br>
 pavilion. Thence, I should have the satisfaction of
recognizing<br>
 the arrivals, and, if they should prove to be acquaintances,<br>
 greeting them as soon as they landed.</p>

<p>Some time before eleven, while the tide was still dangerously
low,<br>
 a boat's lantern appeared close in shore; and, my attention
being<br>
 thus awakened, I could perceive another still far to
seaward,<br>
 violently tossed, and sometimes hidden by the billows. The<br>
 weather, which was getting dirtier as the night went on, and
the<br>
 perilous situation of the yacht upon a lee shore, had
probably<br>
 driven them to attempt a landing at the earliest possible
moment.</p>

<p>A little afterwards, four yachtsmen carrying a very heavy
chest,<br>
 and guided by a fifth with a lantern, passed close in front of
me<br>
 as I lay, and were admitted to the pavilion by the nurse.
They<br>
 returned to the beach, and passed me a third time with
another<br>
 chest, larger but apparently not so heavy as the first. A
third<br>
 time they made the transit; and on this occasion one of the<br>
 yachtsmen carried a leather portmanteau, and the others a
lady's<br>
 trunk and carriage bag. My curiosity was sharply excited. If
a<br>
 woman were among the guests of Northmour, it would show a change
in<br>
 his habits, and an apostasy from his pet theories of life,
well<br>
 calculated to fill me with surprise. When he and I dwelt
there<br>
 together, the pavilion had been a temple of misogyny. And now,
one<br>
 of the detested sex was to be installed under its roof. I<br>
 remembered one or two particulars, a few notes of daintiness
and<br>
 almost of coquetry which had struck me the day before as I
surveyed<br>
 the preparations in the house; their purpose was now clear, and
I<br>
 thought myself dull not to have perceived it from the first.</p>

<p>While I was thus reflecting, a second lantern drew near me
from the<br>
 beach. It was carried by a yachtsman whom I had not yet seen,
and<br>
 who was conducting two other persons to the pavilion. These
two<br>
 persons were unquestionably the guests for whom the house was
made<br>
 ready; and, straining eye and ear, I set myself to watch them
as<br>
 they passed. One was an unusually tall man, in a traveling
hat<br>
 slouched over his eyes, and a highland cape closely buttoned
and<br>
 turned up so as to conceal his face. You could make out no more
of<br>
 him than that he was, as I have said, unusually tall, and
walked<br>
 feebly with a heavy stoop. By his side, and either clinging to
him<br>
 or giving him support--I could not make out which--was a
young,<br>
 tall, and slender figure of a woman. She was extremely pale;
but<br>
 in the light of the lantern her face was so marred by strong
and<br>
 changing shadows, that she might equally well have been as ugly
as<br>
 sin or as beautiful as I afterwards found her to be.</p>

<p>When they were just abreast of me, the girl made some remark
which<br>
 was drowned by the noise of the wind.</p>

<p>"Hush!" said her companion; and there was something in the
tone<br>
 with which the word was uttered that thrilled and rather shook
my<br>
 spirits. It seemed to breathe from a bosom laboring under
the<br>
 deadliest terror; I have never heard another syllable so<br>
 expressive; and I still hear it again when I am feverish at
night,<br>
 and my mind runs upon old times. The man turned toward the girl
as<br>
 he spoke; I had a glimpse of much red beard and a nose which
seemed<br>
 to have been broken in youth; and his light eyes seemed shining
in<br>
 his face with some strong and unpleasant emotion.</p>

<p>But these two passed on and were admitted in their turn to
the<br>
 pavilion.</p>

<p>One by one, or in groups, the seamen returned to the beach.
The<br>
 wind brought me the sound of a rough voice crying, "Shove
off!"<br>
 Then, after a pause, another lantern drew near. It was
Northmour<br>
 alone.</p>

<p>My wife and I, a man and a woman, have often agreed to wonder
how a<br>
 person could be, at the same time, so handsome and so repulsive
as<br>
 Northmour. He had the appearance of a finished gentleman; his
face<br>
 bore every mark of intelligence and courage; but you had only
to<br>
 look at him, even in his most amiable moment, to see that he
had<br>
 the temper of a slaver captain. I never knew a character that
was<br>
 both explosive and revengeful to the same degree; he combined
the<br>
 vivacity of the south with the sustained and deadly hatreds of
the<br>
 north; and both traits were plainly written on his face, which
was<br>
 a sort of danger signal. In person, he was tall, strong, and<br>
 active; his hair and complexion very dark; his features
handsomely<br>
 designed, but spoiled by a menacing expression.</p>

<p>At that moment he was somewhat paler than by nature; he wore
a<br>
 heavy frown; and his lips worked, and he looked sharply round
him<br>
 as he walked, like a man besieged with apprehensions. And yet
I<br>
 thought he had a look of triumph underlying all, as though he
had<br>
 already done much, and was near the end of an achievement.</p>

<p>Partly from a scruple of delicacy--which I dare say came too
late--<br>
 partly from the pleasure of startling an acquaintance, I desired
to<br>
 make my presence known to him without delay.</p>

<p>I got suddenly to my feet, and stepped forward.</p>

<p>"Northmour!" said I.</p>

<p>I have never had so shocking a surprise in all my days. He
leaped<br>
 on me without a word; something shone in his hand; and he
struck<br>
 for my heart with a dagger. At the same moment I knocked him
head<br>
 over heels. Whether it was my quickness, or his own uncertainty,
I<br>
 know not; but the blade only grazed my shoulder, while the hilt
and<br>
 his fist struck me violently on the mouth.</p>

<p>I fled, but not far. I had often and often observed the<br>
 capabilities of the sand hills for protracted ambush or
stealthy<br>
 advances and retreats; and, not ten yards from the scene of
the<br>
 scuffle, plumped down again upon the grass. The lantern had
fallen<br>
 and gone out. But what was my astonishment to see Northmour
slip<br>
 at a bound into the pavilion, and hear him bar the door behind
him<br>
 with a clang of iron!</p>

<p>He had not pursued me. He had run away. Northmour, whom I
knew<br>
 for the most implacable and daring of men, had run away! I
could<br>
 scarce believe my reason; and yet in this strange business,
where<br>
 all was incredible, there was nothing to make a work about in
an<br>
 incredibility more or less. For why was the pavilion
secretly<br>
 prepared? Why had Northmour landed with his guests at dead
of<br>
 night, in half a gale of wind, and with the floe scarce
covered?<br>
 Why had he sought to kill me? Had he not recognized my voice?
I<br>
 wondered. And, above all, how had he come to have a dagger
ready<br>
 in his hand? A dagger, or even a sharp knife, seemed out of<br>
 keeping with the age in which we lived; and a gentleman
landing<br>
 from his yacht on the shore of his own estate, even although it
was<br>
 at night and with some mysterious circumstances, does not
usually,<br>
 as a matter of fact, walk thus prepared for deadly onslaught.
The<br>
 more I reflected, the further I felt at sea. I recapitulated
the<br>
 elements of mystery, counting them on my fingers: the
pavilion<br>
 secretly prepared for guests; the guests landed at the risk
of<br>
 their lives and to the imminent peril of the yacht; the guests,
or<br>
 at least one of them, in undisguised and seemingly causeless<br>
 terror; Northmour with a naked weapon; Northmour stabbing his
most<br>
 intimate acquaintance at a word; last, and not least
strange,<br>
 Northmour fleeing from the man whom he had sought to murder,
and<br>
 barricading himself, like a hunted creature, behind the door of
the<br>
 pavilion. Here were at least six separate causes for extreme<br>
 surprise; each part and parcel with the others, and forming
all<br>
 together one consistent story. I felt almost ashamed to believe
my<br>
 own senses.</p>

<p>As I thus stood, transfixed with wonder, I began to grow
painfully<br>
 conscious of the injuries I had received in the scuffle;
skulked<br>
 round among the sand hills; and, by a devious path, regained
the<br>
 shelter of the wood. On the way, the old nurse passed again
within<br>
 several yards of me, still carrying her lantern, on the
return<br>
 journey to the mansion house of Graden. This made a seventh<br>
 suspicious feature in the case. Northmour and his guests, it<br>
 appeared, were to cook and do the cleaning for themselves,
while<br>
 the old woman continued to inhabit the big empty barrack among
the<br>
 policies. There must surely be great cause for secrecy, when
so<br>
 many inconveniences were confronted to preserve it.</p>

<p>So thinking, I made my way to the den. For greater security,
I<br>
 trod out the embers of the fire, and lighted my lantern to
examine<br>
 the wound upon my shoulder. It was a trifling hurt, although
it<br>
 bled somewhat freely, and I dressed it as well as I could (for
its<br>
 position made it difficult to reach) with some rag and cold
water<br>
 from the spring. While I was thus busied, I mentally declared
war<br>
 against Northmour and his mystery. I am not an angry man by<br>
 nature, and I believe there was more curiosity than resentment
in<br>
 my heart. But war I certainly declared; and, by way of<br>
 preparation, I got out my revolver, and, having drawn the
charges,<br>
 cleaned and reloaded it with scrupulous care. Next I became<br>
 preoccupied about my horse. It might break loose, or fall to<br>
 neighing, and so betray my camp in the Sea-Wood. I determined
to<br>
 rid myself of its neighborhood; and long before dawn I was
leading<br>
 it over the links in the direction of the fisher village.</p>

<h3><br>
 III</h3>

<p><br>
 For two days I skulked round the pavilion, profiting by the
uneven<br>
 surface of the links. I became an adept in the necessary
tactics.<br>
 These low hillocks and shallow dells, running one into
another,<br>
 became a kind of cloak of darkness for my inthralling, but
perhaps<br>
 dishonorable, pursuit.</p>

<p>Yet, in spite of this advantage, I could learn but little
of<br>
 Northmour or his guests.</p>

<p>Fresh provisions were brought under cover of darkness by the
old<br>
 woman from the mansion house. Northmour, and the young lady,<br>
 sometimes together, but more often singly, would walk for an
hour<br>
 or two at a time on the beach beside the quicksand. I could
not<br>
 but conclude that this promenade was chosen with an eye to
secrecy;<br>
 for the spot was open only to seaward. But it suited me not
less<br>
 excellently; the highest and most accidented of the sand
hills<br>
 immediately adjoined; and from these, lying flat in a hollow,
I<br>
 could overlook Northmour or the young lady as they walked.</p>

<p><br>
 The tall man seemed to have disappeared. Not only did he
never<br>
 cross the threshold, but he never so much as showed face at
a<br>
 window; or, at least, not so far as I could see; for I dared
not<br>
 creep forward beyond a certain distance in the day, since the
upper<br>
 floors commanded the bottoms of the links; and at night, when
I<br>
 could venture further, the lower windows were barricaded as if
to<br>
 stand a siege. Sometimes I thought the tall man must be
confined<br>
 to bed, for I remembered the feebleness of his gait; and
sometimes<br>
 I thought he must have gone clear away, and that Northmour and
the<br>
 young lady remained alone together in the pavilion. The idea,
even<br>
 then, displeased me.</p>

<p>Whether or not this pair were man and wife, I had seen
abundant<br>
 reason to doubt the friendliness of their relation. Although
I<br>
 could hear nothing of what they said, and rarely so much as
glean a<br>
 decided expression on the face of either, there was a
distance,<br>
 almost a stiffness, in their bearing which showed them to be
either<br>
 unfamiliar or at enmity. The girl walked faster when she was
with<br>
 Northmour than when she was alone; and I conceived that any<br>
 inclination between a man and a woman would rather delay
than<br>
 accelerate the step. Moreover, she kept a good yard free of
him,<br>
 and trailed her umbrella, as if it were a barrier, on the
side<br>
 between them. Northmour kept sidling closer; and, as the
girl<br>
 retired from his advance, their course lay at a sort of
diagonal<br>
 across the beach, and would have landed them in the surf had
it<br>
 been long enough continued. But, when this was imminent, the
girl<br>
 would unostentatiously change sides and put Northmour between
her<br>
 and the sea. I watched these maneuvers, for my part, with
high<br>
 enjoyment and approval, and chuckled to myself at every
move.</p>

<p>On the morning of the third day, she walked alone for some
time,<br>
 and I perceived, to my great concern, that she was more than
once<br>
 in tears. You will see that my heart was already interested
more<br>
 than I supposed. She had a firm yet airy motion of the body,
and<br>
 carried her head with unimaginable grace; every step was a thing
to<br>
 look at, and she seemed in my eyes to breathe sweetness and<br>
 distinction.</p>

<p>The day was so agreeable, being calm and sunshiny, with a
tranquil<br>
 sea, and yet with a healthful piquancy and vigor in the air,
that,<br>
 contrary to custom, she was tempted forth a second time to
walk.<br>
 On this occasion she was accompanied by Northmour, and they
had<br>
 been but a short while on the beach, when I saw him take
forcible<br>
 possession of her hand. She struggled, and uttered a cry that
was<br>
 almost a scream. I sprung to my feet, unmindful of my
strange<br>
 position; but, ere I had taken a step, I saw Northmour
bareheaded<br>
 and bowing very low, as if to apologize; and dropped again at
once<br>
 into my ambush. A few words were interchanged; and then,
with<br>
 another bow, he left the beach to return to the pavilion. He<br>
 passed not far from me, and I could see him, flushed and
lowering,<br>
 and cutting savagely with his cane among the grass. It was
not<br>
 without satisfaction that I recognized my own handiwork in a
great<br>
 cut under his right eye, and a considerable discoloration round
the<br>
 socket.</p>

<p>For some time the girl remained where he had left her, looking
out<br>
 past the islet and over the bright sea. Then with a start, as
one<br>
 who throws off preoccupation and puts energy again upon its
mettle,<br>
 she broke into a rapid and decisive walk. She also was much<br>
 incensed by what had passed. She had forgotten where she was.
And<br>
 I beheld her walk straight into the borders of the quicksand
where<br>
 it is most abrupt and dangerous. Two or three steps farther
and<br>
 her life would have been in serious jeopardy, when I slid down
the<br>
 face of the sand hill, which is there precipitous, and,
running<br>
 halfway forward, called to her to stop.</p>

<p>She did so, and turned round. There was not a tremor of fear
in<br>
 her behavior, and she marched directly up to me like a queen.
I<br>
 was barefoot, and clad like a common sailor, save for an
Egyptian<br>
 scarf round my waist; and she probably took me at first for
some<br>
 one from the fisher village, straying after bait. As for her,
when<br>
 I thus saw her face to face, her eyes set steadily and
imperiously<br>
 upon mine, I was filled with admiration and astonishment,
and<br>
 thought her even more beautiful than I had looked to find her.
Nor<br>
 could I think enough of one who, acting with so much boldness,
yet<br>
 preserved a maidenly air that was both quaint and engaging; for
my<br>
 wife kept an old-fashioned precision of manner through all
her<br>
 admirable life--an excellent thing in woman, since it sets
another<br>
 value on her sweet familiarities.</p>

<p>"What does this mean?" she asked.</p>

<p>"You were walking," I told her, "directly into Graden
Floe."</p>

<p>"You do not belong to these parts," she said again. "You
speak<br>
 like an educated man."</p>

<p>"I believe I have a right to that name," said I, "although in
this<br>
 disguise."</p>

<p>But her woman's eye had already detected the sash.</p>

<p>"Oh!" she said; "your sash betrays you."</p>

<p>"You have said the word BETRAY," I resumed. "May I ask you not
to<br>
 betray me? I was obliged to disclose myself in your interest;
but<br>
 if Northmour learned my presence it might be worse than<br>
 disagreeable for me."</p>

<p>"Do you know," she asked, "to whom you are speaking?"</p>

<p>"Not to Mr. Northmour's wife?" I asked, by way of answer.</p>

<p>She shook her head. All this while she was studying my face
with<br>
 an embarrassing intentness. Then she broke out--</p>

<p>"You have an honest face. Be honest like your face, sir, and
tell<br>
 me what you want and what you are afraid of. Do you think I
could<br>
 hurt you? I believe you have far more power to injure me! And
yet<br>
 you do not look unkind. What do you mean--you, a
gentleman--by<br>
 skulking like a spy about this desolate place? Tell me," she
said,<br>
 "who is it you hate?"</p>

<p>"I hate no one," I answered; "and I fear no one face to face.
My<br>
 name is Cassilis--Frank Cassilis. I lead the life of a
vagabond<br>
 for my own good pleasure. I am one of Northmour's oldest
friends;<br>
 and three nights ago, when I addressed him on these links,
he<br>
 stabbed me in the shoulder with a knife."</p>

<p>"It was you!" she said.</p>

<p>"Why he did so," I continued, disregarding the interruption,
"is<br>
 more than I can guess, and more than I care to know. I have
not<br>
 many friends, nor am I very susceptible to friendship; but no
man<br>
 shall drive me from a place by terror. I had camped in the
Graden<br>
 Sea-Wood ere he came; I camp in it still. If you think I mean
harm<br>
 to you or yours, madame, the remedy is in your hand. Tell him
that<br>
 my camp is in the Hemlock Den, and tonight he can stab me in
safety<br>
 while I sleep."</p>

<p>With this I doffed my cap to her, and scrambled up once more
among<br>
 the sand hills. I do not know why, but I felt a prodigious
sense<br>
 of injustice, and felt like a hero and a martyr; while as a
matter<br>
 of fact, I had not a word to say in my defense, nor so much as
one<br>
 plausible reason to offer for my conduct. I had stayed at
Graden<br>
 out of a curiosity natural enough, but undignified; and
though<br>
 there was another motive growing in along with the first, it
was<br>
 not one which, at that period, I could have properly explained
to<br>
 the lady of my heart.</p>

<p>Certainly, that night, I thought of no one else; and, though
her<br>
 whole conduct and position seemed suspicious, I could not find
it<br>
 in my heart to entertain a doubt of her integrity. I could
have<br>
 staked my life that she was clear of blame, and, though all
was<br>
 dark at the present, that the explanation of the mystery would
show<br>
 her part in these events to be both right and needful. It
was<br>
 true, let me cudgel my imagination as I pleased, that I
could<br>
 invent no theory of her relations to Northmour; but I felt none
the<br>
 less sure of my conclusion because it was founded on instinct
in<br>
 place of reason, and, as I may say, went to sleep that night
with<br>
 the thought of her under my pillow.</p>

<p>Next day she came out about the same hour alone, and, as soon
as<br>
 the sand hills concealed her from the pavilion, drew nearer to
the<br>
 edge, and called me by name in guarded tones. I was astonished
to<br>
 observe that she was deadly pale, and seemingly under the
influence<br>
 of strong emotion.</p>

<p>"Mr. Cassilis!" she cried; "Mr. Cassilis!"</p>

<p>I appeared at once, and leaped down upon the beach. A
remarkable<br>
 air of relief overspread her countenance as soon as she saw
me.</p>

<p>"Oh!" she cried, with a hoarse sound, like one whose bosom had
been<br>
 lightened of a weight. And then, "Thank God you are still
safe!"<br>
 she added; "I knew, if you were, you would be here." (Was not
this<br>
 strange? So swiftly and wisely does Nature prepare our hearts
for<br>
 these great lifelong intimacies, that both my wife and I had
been<br>
 given a presentiment on this the second day of our acquaintance.
I<br>
 had even then hoped that she would seek me; she had felt sure
that<br>
 she would find me.) "Do not," she went on swiftly, "do not stay
in<br>
 this place. Promise me that you will sleep no longer in that
wood.<br>
 You do not know how I suffer; all last night I could not sleep
for<br>
 thinking of your peril."</p>

<p>"Peril!" I repeated. "Peril from whom? From Northmour?"</p>

<p>"Not so," she said. "Did you think I would tell him after what
you<br>
 said?"</p>

<p>"Not from Northmour?" I repeated. "Then how? From whom? I
see<br>
 none to be afraid of."</p>

<p>"You must not ask me," was her reply, "for I am not free to
tell<br>
 you. Only believe me, and go hence--believe me, and go away<br>
 quickly, quickly, for your life!"</p>

<p>An appeal to his alarm is never a good plan to rid oneself of
a<br>
 spirited young man. My obstinacy was but increased by what
she<br>
 said, and I made it a point of honor to remain. And her
solicitude<br>
 for my safety still more confirmed me in the resolve.</p>

<p>"You must not think me inquisitive, madame," I replied; "but,
if<br>
 Graden is so dangerous a place, you yourself perhaps remain here
at<br>
 some risk."</p>

<p>She only looked at me reproachfully.</p>

<p>"You and your father--" I resumed; but she interrupted me
almost<br>
 with a gasp.</p>

<p>"My father! How do you know that?" she cried.</p>

<p>"I saw you together when you landed," was my answer; and I do
not<br>
 know why, but it seemed satisfactory to both of us, as indeed
it<br>
 was truth. "But," I continued, "you need have no fear from me.
I<br>
 see you have some reason to be secret, and, you may believe
me,<br>
 your secret is as safe with me as if I were in Graden Floe. I
have<br>
 scarce spoken to anyone for years; my horse is my only
companion,<br>
 and even he, poor beast, is not beside me. You see, then, you
may<br>
 count on me for silence. So tell me the truth, my dear young
lady,<br>
 are you not in danger?"</p>

<p>"Mr. Northmour says you are an honorable man," she returned,
"and I<br>
 believe it when I see you. I will tell you so much; you are
right;<br>
 we are in dreadful, dreadful danger, and you share it by
remaining<br>
 where you are."</p>

<p>"Ah!" said I; "you have heard of me from Northmour? And he
gives<br>
 me a good character?"</p>

<p>"I asked him about you last night," was her reply. "I
pretended,"<br>
 she hesitated, "I pretended to have met you long ago, and spoken
to<br>
 you of him. It was not true; but I could not help myself
without<br>
 betraying you, and you had put me in a difficulty. He praised
you<br>
 highly."</p>

<p>"And--you may permit me one question--does this danger come
from<br>
 Northmour?" I asked.</p>

<p>"From Mr. Northmour?" she cried. "Oh, no, he stays with us
to<br>
 share it."</p>

<p>"While you propose that I should run away?" I said. "You do
not<br>
 rate me very high."</p>

<p>"Why should you stay?" she asked. "You are no friend of
ours."</p>

<p>I know not what came over me, for I had not been conscious of
a<br>
 similar weakness since I was a child, but I was so mortified
by<br>
 this retort that my eyes pricked and filled with tears, as I<br>
 continued to gaze upon her face.</p>

<p>"No, no," she said, in a changed voice; "I did not mean the
words<br>
 unkindly."</p>

<p>"It was I who offended," I said; and I held out my hand with a
look<br>
 of appeal that somehow touched her, for she gave me hers at
once,<br>
 and even eagerly. I held it for awhile in mine, and gazed into
her<br>
 eyes. It was she who first tore her hand away, and, forgetting
all<br>
 about her request and the promise she had sought to extort, ran
at<br>
 the top of her speed, and without turning, till she was out
of<br>
 sight. And then I knew that I loved her, and thought in my
glad<br>
 heart that she--she herself--was not indifferent to my suit.
Many<br>
 a time she has denied it in after days, but it was with a
smiling<br>
 and not a serious denial. For my part, I am sure our hands
would<br>
 not have lain so closely in each other if she had not begun to
melt<br>
 to me already. And, when all is said, it is no great
contention,<br>
 since, by her own avowal, she began to love me on the
morrow.</p>

<p>And yet on the morrow very little took place. She came and
called<br>
 me down as on the day before, upbraided me for lingering at
Graden,<br>
 and, when she found I was still obdurate, began to ask me
more<br>
 particularly as to my arrival. I told her by what series of<br>
 accidents I had come to witness their disembarkation, and how I
had<br>
 determined to remain, partly from the interest which had
been<br>
 awakened in me by Northmour's guests, and partly because of his
own<br>
 murderous attack. As to the former, I fear I was disingenuous,
and<br>
 led her to regard herself as having been an attraction to me
from<br>
 the first moment that I saw her on the links. It relieves my
heart<br>
 to make this confession even now, when my wife is with God,
and<br>
 already knows all things, and the honesty of my purpose even
in<br>
 this; for while she lived, although it often pricked my
conscience,<br>
 I had never the hardihood to undeceive her. Even a little
secret,<br>
 in such a married life as ours, is like the rose leaf which
kept<br>
 the princess from her sleep.</p>

<p>From this the talk branched into other subjects, and I told
her<br>
 much about my lonely and wandering existence; she, for her
part,<br>
 giving ear, and saying little. Although we spoke very
naturally,<br>
 and latterly on topics that might seem indifferent, we were
both<br>
 sweetly agitated. Too soon it was time for her to go; and we<br>
 separated, as if by mutual consent, without shaking hands, for
both<br>
 knew that, between us, it was no idle ceremony.</p>

<p>The next, and that was the fourth day of our acquaintance, we
met<br>
 in the same spot, but early in the morning, with much
familiarity<br>
 and yet much timidity on either side. While she had once
more<br>
 spoken about my danger--and that, I understood, was her excuse
for<br>
 coming--I, who had prepared a great deal of talk during the
night,<br>
 began to tell her how highly I valued her kind interest, and how
no<br>
 one had ever cared to hear about my life, nor had I ever cared
to<br>
 relate it, before yesterday. Suddenly she interrupted me,
saying<br>
 with vehemence--</p>

<p>"And yet, if you knew who I was, you would not so much as
speak to<br>
 me!"</p>

<p>I told her such a thought was madness, and, little as we had
met, I<br>
 counted her already a dear friend; but my protestations seemed
only<br>
 to make her more desperate.</p>

<p>"My father is in hiding!" she cried.</p>

<p>"My dear," I said, forgetting for the first time to add
"young<br>
 lady," "what do I care? If I were in hiding twenty times
over,<br>
 would it make one thought of change in you?"</p>

<p>"Ah, but the cause!" she cried, "the cause! It is"--she
faltered<br>
 for a second--"it is disgraceful to us!"</p>

<h3><br>
 IV</h3>

<p><br>
 This was my wife's story, as I drew it from her among tears
and<br>
 sobs. Her name was Clara Huddlestone: it sounded very beautiful
in<br>
 my ears; but not so beautiful as that other name of Clara
Cassilis,<br>
 which she wore during the longer and, I thank God, the
happier<br>
 portion of her life. Her father, Bernard Huddlestone, had been
a<br>
 private banker in a very large way of business. Many years
before,<br>
 his affairs becoming disordered, he had been led to try
dangerous,<br>
 and at last criminal, expedients to retrieve himself from
ruin.<br>
 All was in vain; he became more and more cruelly involved,
and<br>
 found his honor lost at the same moment with his fortune.
About<br>
 this period, Northmour had been courting his daughter with
great<br>
 assiduity, though with small encouragement; and to him, knowing
him<br>
 thus disposed in his favor, Bernard Huddlestone turned for help
in<br>
 his extremity. It was not merely ruin and dishonor, nor merely
a<br>
 legal condemnation, that the unhappy man had brought upon his
head.<br>
 It seems he could have gone to prison with a light heart. What
he<br>
 feared, what kept him awake at night or recalled him from
slumber<br>
 into frenzy, was some secret, sudden, and unlawful attempt upon
his<br>
 life. Hence, he desired to bury his existence and escape to one
of<br>
 the islands in the South Pacific, and it was in Northmour's
yacht,<br>
 the "Red Earl," that he designed to go. The yacht picked them
up<br>
 clandestinely upon the coast of Wales, and had once more
deposited<br>
 them at Graden, till she could be refitted and provisioned for
the<br>
 longer voyage. Nor could Clara doubt that her hand had been<br>
 stipulated as the price of passage. For, although Northmour
was<br>
 neither unkind, nor even discourteous, he had shown himself
in<br>
 several instances somewhat overbold in speech and manner.</p>

<p><br>
 I listened, I need not say, with fixed attention, and put
many<br>
 questions as to the more mysterious part. It was in vain. She
had<br>
 no clear idea of what the blow was, nor of how it was expected
to<br>
 fall. Her father's alarm was unfeigned and physically
prostrating,<br>
 and he had thought more than once of making an unconditional<br>
 surrender to the police. But the scheme was finally abandoned,
for<br>
 he was convinced that not even the strength of our English
prisons<br>
 could shelter him from his pursuers. He had had many affairs
in<br>
 Italy, and with Italians resident in London, in the latter years
of<br>
 his business; and these last, as Clara fancied, were somehow<br>
 connected with the doom that threatened him. He had shown
great<br>
 terror at the presence of an Italian seaman on board the
"Red<br>
 Earl," and had bitterly and repeatedly accused Northmour in<br>
 consequence. The latter had protested that Beppo (that was
the<br>
 seaman's name) was a capital fellow, and could be trusted to
the<br>
 death; but Mr. Huddlestone had continued ever since to declare
that<br>
 all was lost, that it was only a question of days, and that
Beppo<br>
 would be the ruin of him yet.</p>

<p>I regarded the whole story as the hallucination of a mind
shaken by<br>
 calamity. He had suffered heavy loss by his Italian
transactions;<br>
 and hence the sight of an Italian was hateful to him, and
the<br>
 principal part in his nightmare would naturally enough be played
by<br>
 one of that nation.</p>

<p>"What your father wants," I said, "is a good doctor and
some<br>
 calming medicine."</p>

<p>"But Mr. Northmour?" objected Clara. "He is untroubled by
losses,<br>
 and yet he shares in this terror."</p>

<p>I could not help laughing at what I considered her
simplicity.</p>

<p>"My dear," said I, "you have told me yourself what reward he
has to<br>
 look for. All is fair in love, you must remember; and if
Northmour<br>
 foments your father's terrors, it is not at all because he
is<br>
 afraid of any Italian man, but simply because he is infatuated
with<br>
 a charming English woman."</p>

<p>She reminded me of his attack upon myself on the night of
the<br>
 disembarkation, and this I was unable to explain. In short,
and<br>
 from one thing to another, it was agreed between us that I
should<br>
 set out at once for the fisher village, Graden Wester, as it
was<br>
 called, look up all the newspapers I could find, and see for
myself<br>
 if there seemed any basis of fact for these continued alarms.
The<br>
 next morning, at the same hour and place, I was to make my
report<br>
 to Clara. She said no more on that occasion about my
departure;<br>
 nor, indeed, did she make it a secret that she clung to the
thought<br>
 of my proximity as something helpful and pleasant; and, for
my<br>
 part, I could not have left her, if she had gone upon her knees
to<br>
 ask it.</p>

<p>I reached Graden Wester before ten in the forenoon; for in
those<br>
 days I was an excellent pedestrian, and the distance, as I think
I<br>
 have said, was little over seven miles; fine walking all the
way<br>
 upon the springy turf. The village is one of the bleakest on
that<br>
 coast, which is saying much: there is a church in the hollow;
a<br>
 miserable haven in the rocks, where many boats have been lost
as<br>
 they returned from fishing; two or three score of stone
houses<br>
 arranged along the beach and in two streets, one leading from
the<br>
 harbor, and another striking out from it at right angles; and,
at<br>
 the corner of these two, a very dark and cheerless tavern, by
way<br>
 of principal hotel.</p>

<p>I had dressed myself somewhat more suitably to my station in
life,<br>
 and at once called upon the minister in his little manse beside
the<br>
 graveyard. He knew me, although it was more than nine years
since<br>
 we had met; and when I told him that I had been long upon a
walking<br>
 tour, and was behind with the news, readily lent me an armful
of<br>
 newspapers, dating from a month back to the day before. With
these<br>
 I sought the tavern, and, ordering some breakfast, sat down
to<br>
 study the "Huddlestone Failure."</p>

<p>It had been, it appeared, a very flagrant case. Thousands
of<br>
 persons were reduced to poverty; and one in particular had
blown<br>
 out his brains as soon as payment was suspended. It was strange
to<br>
 myself that, while I read these details, I continued rather
to<br>
 sympathize with Mr. Huddlestone than with his victims; so
complete<br>
 already was the empire of my love for my wife. A price was<br>
 naturally set upon the banker's head; and, as the case was<br>
 inexcusable and the public indignation thoroughly aroused,
the<br>
 unusual figure of 750 pounds was offered for his capture. He
was<br>
 reported to have large sums of money in his possession. One
day,<br>
 he had been heard of in Spain; the next, there was sure<br>
 intelligence that he was still lurking between Manchester
and<br>
 Liverpool, or along the border of Wales; and the day after,
a<br>
 telegram would announce his arrival in Cuba or Yucatan. But in
all<br>
 this there was no word of an Italian, nor any sign of
mystery.</p>

<p>In the very last paper, however, there was one item not so
clear.<br>
 The accountants who were charged to verify the failure had,
it<br>
 seemed, come upon the traces of a very large number of
thousands,<br>
 which figured for some time in the transactions of the house
of<br>
 Huddlestone; but which came from nowhere, and disappeared in
the<br>
 same mysterious fashion. It was only once referred to by name,
and<br>
 then under the initials "X. X."; but it had plainly been
floated<br>
 for the first time into the business at a period of great<br>
 depression some six years ago. The name of a distinguished
royal<br>
 personage had been mentioned by rumor in connection with this
sum.<br>
 "The cowardly desperado"--such, I remember, was the
editorial<br>
 expression--was supposed to have escaped with a large part of
this<br>
 mysterious fund still in his possession.</p>

<p>I was still brooding over the fact, and trying to torture it
into<br>
 some connection with Mr. Huddlestone's danger, when a man
entered<br>
 the tavern and asked for some bread and cheese with a
decided<br>
 foreign accent.</p>

<p>"Siete Italiano?" said I.</p>

<p>"Si, Signor," was his reply.</p>

<p>I said it was unusually far north to find one of his
compatriots;<br>
 at which he shrugged his shoulders, and replied that a man would
go<br>
 anywhere to find work. What work he could hope to find at
Graden<br>
 Wester, I was totally unable to conceive; and the incident
struck<br>
 so unpleasantly upon my mind, that I asked the landlord, while
he<br>
 was counting me some change, whether he had ever before seen
an<br>
 Italian in the village. He said he had once seen some
Norwegians,<br>
 who had been shipwrecked on the other side of Graden Ness
and<br>
 rescued by the lifeboat from Cauldhaven.</p>

<p>"No!" said I; "but an Italian, like the man who has just had
bread<br>
 and cheese."</p>

<p>"What?" cried he, "yon black-avised fellow wi' the teeth? Was
he<br>
 an I-talian? Weel, yon's the first that ever I saw, an' I dare
say<br>
 he's like to be the last."</p>

<p>Even as he was speaking, I raised my eyes, and, casting a
glance<br>
 into the street, beheld three men in earnest conversation
together,<br>
 and not thirty yards away. One of them was my recent companion
in<br>
 the tavern parlor; the other two, by their handsome sallow
features<br>
 and soft hats, should evidently belong to the same race. A
crowd<br>
 of village children stood around them, gesticulating and
talking<br>
 gibberish in imitation. The trio looked singularly foreign to
the<br>
 bleak dirty street in which they were standing and the dark
gray<br>
 heaven that overspread them; and I confess my incredulity
received<br>
 at that moment a shock from which it never recovered. I
might<br>
 reason with myself as I pleased, but I could not argue down
the<br>
 effect of what I had seen, and I began to share in the
Italian<br>
 terror.</p>

<p>It was already drawing toward the close of the day before I
had<br>
 returned the newspapers to the manse, and got well forward on
to<br>
 the links on my way home. I shall never forget that walk. It
grew<br>
 very cold and boisterous; the wind sung in the short grass about
my<br>
 feet; thin rain showers came running on the gusts; and an
immense<br>
 mountain range of clouds began to arise out of the bosom of
the<br>
 sea. It would be hard to imagine a more dismal evening; and<br>
 whether it was from these external influences, or because my
nerves<br>
 were already affected by what I had heard and seen, my
thoughts<br>
 were as gloomy as the weather.</p>

<p>The upper windows of the pavilion commanded a considerable
spread<br>
 of links in the direction of Graden Wester. To avoid
observation,<br>
 it was necessary to hug the beach until I had gained cover from
the<br>
 higher sand hills on the little headland, when I might
strike<br>
 across, through the hollows, for the margin of the wood. The
sun<br>
 was about setting; the tide was low, and all the quicksands<br>
 uncovered; and I was moving along, lost in unpleasant thought,
when<br>
 I was suddenly thunderstruck to perceive the prints of human
feet.<br>
 They ran parallel to my own course, but low down upon the
beach,<br>
 instead of along the border of the turf; and, when I examined
them,<br>
 I saw at once, by the size and coarseness of the impression,
that<br>
 it was a stranger to me and to those of the pavilion who had<br>
 recently passed that way. Not only so; but from the
recklessness<br>
 of the course which he had followed, steering near to the
most<br>
 formidable portions of the sand, he was evidently a stranger to
the<br>
 country and to the ill-repute of Graden beach.</p>

<p>Step by step I followed the prints; until, a quarter of a
mile<br>
 farther, I beheld them die away into the southeastern boundary
of<br>
 Graden Floe. There, whoever he was, the miserable man had<br>
 perished. One or two gulls, who had, perhaps, seen him
disappear,<br>
 wheeled over his sepulcher with their usual melancholy piping.
The<br>
 sun had broken through the clouds by a last effort, and colored
the<br>
 wide level of quicksands with a dusky purple. I stood for
some<br>
 time gazing at the spot, chilled and disheartened by my own<br>
 reflections, and with a strong and commanding consciousness
of<br>
 death. I remember wondering how long the tragedy had taken,
and<br>
 whether his screams had been audible at the pavilion. And
then,<br>
 making a strong resolution, I was about to tear myself away,
when a<br>
 gust fiercer than usual fell upon this quarter of the beach, and
I<br>
 saw, now whirling high in air, now skimming lightly across
the<br>
 surface of the sands, a soft, black, felt hat, somewhat conical
in<br>
 shape, such as I had remarked already on the heads of the
Italians.</p>

<p>I believe, but I am not sure, that I uttered a cry. The wind
was<br>
 driving the hat shoreward, and I ran round the border of the
floe<br>
 to be ready against its arrival. The gust fell, dropping the
hat<br>
 for awhile upon the quicksand, and then, once more
freshening,<br>
 landed it a few yards from where I stood. I seized it with
the<br>
 interest you may imagine. It had seen some service; indeed, it
was<br>
 rustier than either of those I had seen that day upon the
street.<br>
 The lining was red, stamped with the name of the maker, which
I<br>
 have forgotten, and that of the place of manufacture,
Venedig.<br>
 This (it is not yet forgotten) was the name given by the
Austrians<br>
 to the beautiful city of Venice, then, and for long after, a
part<br>
 of their dominions.</p>

<p>The shock was complete. I saw imaginary Italians upon every
side;<br>
 and for the first, and, I may say, for the last time in my<br>
 experience, became overpowered by what is called a panic terror.
I<br>
 knew nothing, that is, to be afraid of, and yet I admit that I
was<br>
 heartily afraid; and it was with sensible reluctance that I<br>
 returned to my exposed and solitary camp in the Sea-Wood.</p>

<p>There I eat some cold porridge which had been left over from
the<br>
 night before, for I was disinclined to make a fire; and,
feeling<br>
 strengthened and reassured, dismissed all these fanciful
terrors<br>
 from my mind, and lay down to sleep with composure.</p>

<p>How long I may have slept it is impossible for me to guess;
but I<br>
 was awakened at last by a sudden, blinding flash of light into
my<br>
 face. It woke me like a blow. In an instant I was upon my
knees.<br>
 But the light had gone as suddenly as it came. The darkness
was<br>
 intense. And, as it was blowing great guns from the sea, and<br>
 pouring with rain, the noises of the storm effectually
concealed<br>
 all others.</p>

<p>It was, I dare say, half a minute before I regained my
self-<br>
 possession. But for two circumstances, I should have thought I
had<br>
 been awakened by some new and vivid form of nightmare. First,
the<br>
 flap of my tent, which I had shut carefully when I retired, was
now<br>
 unfastened; and, second, I could still perceive, with a
sharpness<br>
 that excluded any theory of hallucination, the smell of hot
metal<br>
 and of burning oil. The conclusion was obvious. I had been<br>
 awakened by some one flashing a bull's-eye lantern in my face.
It<br>
 had been but a flash, and away. He had seen my face, and
then<br>
 gone. I asked myself the object of so strange a proceeding,
and<br>
 the answer came pat. The man, whoever he was, had thought to<br>
 recognize me, and he had not. There was another question<br>
 unresolved; and to this, I may say, I feared to give an answer;
if<br>
 he had recognized me, what would he have done?</p>

<p>My fears were immediately diverted from myself, for I saw that
I<br>
 had been visited in a mistake; and I became persuaded that
some<br>
 dreadful danger threatened the pavilion. It required some nerve
to<br>
 issue forth into the black and intricate thicket which
surrounded<br>
 and overhung the den; but I groped my way to the links,
drenched<br>
 with rain, beaten upon and deafened by the gusts, and fearing
at<br>
 every step to lay my hand upon some lurking adversary. The<br>
 darkness was so complete that I might have been surrounded by
an<br>
 army and yet none the wiser, and the uproar of the gale so
loud<br>
 that my hearing was as useless as my sight.</p>

<p>For the rest of that night, which seemed interminably long,
I<br>
 patrolled the vicinity of the pavilion, without seeing a
living<br>
 creature or hearing any noise but the concert of the wind, the
sea,<br>
 and the rain. A light in the upper story filtered through a
cranny<br>
 of the shutter, and kept me company till the approach of
dawn.</p>

<h3><br>
 V</h3>

<p><br>
 With the first peep of day, I retired from the open to my old
lair<br>
 among the sand hills, there to await the coming of my wife.
The<br>
 morning was gray, wild, and melancholy; the wind moderated
before<br>
 sunrise, and then went about, and blew in puffs from the shore;
the<br>
 sea began to go down, but the rain still fell without mercy.
Over<br>
 all the wilderness of links there was not a creature to be
seen.<br>
 Yet I felt sure the neighborhood was alive with skulking foes.
The<br>
 light that had been so suddenly and surprisingly flashed upon
my<br>
 face as I lay sleeping, and the hat that had been blown ashore
by<br>
 the wind from over Graden Floe, were two speaking signals of
the<br>
 peril that environed Clara and the party in the pavilion.</p>

<p><br>
 It was, perhaps, half-past seven, or nearer eight, before I saw
the<br>
 door open, and that dear figure come toward me in the rain. I
was<br>
 waiting for her on the beach before she had crossed the sand
hills.</p>

<p>"I have had such trouble to come!" she cried. "They did not
wish<br>
 me to go walking in the rain."</p>

<p>"Clara," I said, "you are not frightened!"</p>

<p>"No," said she, with a simplicity that filled my heart
with<br>
 confidence. For my wife was the bravest as well as the best
of<br>
 women; in my experience, I have not found the two go always<br>
 together, but with her they did; and she combined the extreme
of<br>
 fortitude with the most endearing and beautiful virtues.</p>

<p>I told her what had happened; and, though her cheek grew
visibly<br>
 paler, she retained perfect control over her senses.</p>

<p>"You see now that I am safe," said I, in conclusion. "They do
not<br>
 mean to harm me; for, had they chosen, I was a dead man last<br>
 night."</p>

<p>She laid her hand upon my arm.</p>

<p>"And I had no presentiment!" she cried.</p>

<p>Her accent thrilled me with delight. I put my arm about her,
and<br>
 strained her to my side; and, before either of us was aware,
her<br>
 hands were on my shoulders and my lips upon her mouth. Yet up
to<br>
 that moment no word of love had passed between us. To this day
I<br>
 remember the touch of her cheek, which was wet and cold with
the<br>
 rain; and many a time since, when she has been washing her face,
I<br>
 have kissed it again for the sake of that morning on the
beach.<br>
 Now that she is taken from me, and I finish my pilgrimage alone,
I<br>
 recall our old loving kindnesses and the deep honesty and
affection<br>
 which united us, and my present loss seems but a trifle in<br>
 comparison.</p>

<p>We may have thus stood for some seconds--for time passes
quickly<br>
 with lovers--before we were startled by a peal of laughter close
at<br>
 hand. It was not natural mirth, but seemed to be affected in
order<br>
 to conceal an angrier feeling. We both turned, though I still
kept<br>
 my left arm about Clara's waist; nor did she seek to
withdraw<br>
 herself; and there, a few paces off upon the beach, stood<br>
 Northmour, his head lowered, his hands behind his back, his<br>
 nostrils white with passion.</p>

<p>"Ah! Cassilis!" he said, as I disclosed my face.</p>

<p>"That same," said I; for I was not at all put about.</p>

<p>"And so, Miss Huddlestone," he continued slowly but savagely,
"this<br>
 is how you keep your faith to your father and to me? This is
the<br>
 value you set upon your father's life? And you are so
infatuated<br>
 with this young gentleman that you must brave ruin, and
decency,<br>
 and common human caution--"</p>

<p>"Miss Huddlestone--" I was beginning to interrupt him, when
he, in<br>
 his turn, cut in brutally--</p>

<p>"You hold your tongue," said he; "I am speaking to that
girl."</p>

<p>"That girl, as you call her, is my wife," said I; and my wife
only<br>
 leaned a little nearer, so that I knew she had affirmed my
words.</p>

<p>"Your what?" he cried. "You lie!"</p>

<p>"Northmour," I said, "we all know you have a bad temper, and I
am<br>
 the last man to be irritated by words. For all that, I
propose<br>
 that you speak lower, for I am convinced that we are not
alone."</p>

<p>He looked round him, and it was plain my remark had in some
degree<br>
 sobered his passion. "What do you mean?" he asked.</p>

<p>I only said one word: "Italians."</p>

<p>He swore a round oath, and looked at us, from one to the
other.</p>

<p>"Mr. Cassilis knows all that I know," said my wife.</p>

<p>"What I want to know," he broke out, "is where the devil
Mr.<br>
 Cassilis comes from, and what the devil Mr. Cassilis is doing
here.<br>
 You say you are married; that I do not believe. If you were,<br>
 Graden Floe would soon divorce you; four minutes and a half,<br>
 Cassilis. I keep my private cemetery for my friends."</p>

<p>"It took somewhat longer," said I, "for that Italian."</p>

<p>He looked at me for a moment half daunted, and then,
almost<br>
 civilly, asked me to tell my story. "You have too much the<br>
 advantage of me, Cassilis," he added. I complied of course; and
he<br>
 listened, with several ejaculations, while I told him how I
had<br>
 come to Graden: that it was I whom he had tried to murder on
the<br>
 night of landing; and what I had subsequently seen and heard of
the<br>
 Italians.</p>

<p>"Well," said he, when I had done, "it is here at last; there
is no<br>
 mistake about that. And what, may I ask, do you propose to
do?"</p>

<p>"I propose to stay with you and lend a hand," said I.</p>

<p>"You are a brave man," he returned, with a peculiar
intonation.</p>

<p>"I am not afraid," said I.</p>

<p>"And so," he continued, "I am to understand that you two
are<br>
 married? And you stand up to it before my face, Miss
Huddlestone?"</p>

<p>"We are not yet married," said Clara; "but we shall be as soon
as<br>
 we can."</p>

<p>"Bravo!" cried Northmour. "And the bargain? D--n it, you're
not a<br>
 fool, young woman; I may call a spade a spade with you. How
about<br>
 the bargain? You know as well as I do what your father's
life<br>
 depends upon. I have only to put my hands under my coat tails
and<br>
 walk away, and his throat would be cut before the evening."</p>

<p>"Yes, Mr. Northmour," returned Clara, with great spirit; "but
that<br>
 is what you will never do. You made a bargain that was unworthy
of<br>
 a gentleman; but you are a gentleman for all that, and you
will<br>
 never desert a man whom you have begun to help."</p>

<p>"Aha!" said he. "You think I will give my yacht for nothing?
You<br>
 think I will risk my life and liberty for love of the old<br>
 gentleman; and then, I suppose, he best man at the wedding, to
wind<br>
 up? Well," he added, with an odd smile, "perhaps you are not<br>
 altogether wrong. But ask Cassilis here. HE knows me. Am I a
man<br>
 to trust? Am I safe and scrupulous? Am I kind?"</p>

<p>"I know you talk a great deal, and sometimes, I think,
very<br>
 foolishly," replied Clara, "but I know you are a gentleman, and
I<br>
 am not the least afraid."</p>

<p>He looked at her with a peculiar approval and admiration;
then,<br>
 turning to me, "Do you think I would give her up without a<br>
 struggle, Frank?" said he. "I tell you plainly, you look out.
The<br>
 next time we come to blows--"</p>

<p>"Will make the third," I interrupted, smiling.</p>

<p>"Aye, true; so it will," he said. "I had forgotten. Well,
the<br>
 third time's lucky."</p>

<p>"The third time, you mean, you will have the crew of the 'Red
Earl'<br>
 to help," I said.</p>

<p>"Do you hear him?" he asked, turning to my wife.</p>

<p>"I hear two men speaking like cowards," said she. "I
should<br>
 despise myself either to think or speak like that. And neither
of<br>
 you believe one word that you are saying, which makes it the
more<br>
 wicked and silly."</p>

<p>"She's a trump!" cried Northmour. "But she's not yet Mrs.<br>
 Cassilis. I say no more. The present is not for me."</p>

<p>Then my wife surprised me.</p>

<p>"I leave you here," she said suddenly. "My father has been
too<br>
 long alone. But remember this: you are to be friends, for you
are<br>
 both good friends to me."</p>

<p>She has since told me her reason for this step. As long as
she<br>
 remained, she declares that we two would have continued to
quarrel;<br>
 and I suppose that she was right, for when she was gone we fell
at<br>
 once into a sort of confidentiality.</p>

<p>Northmour stared after her as she went away over the sand
hill.</p>

<p>"She is the only woman in the world!" he exclaimed with an
oath.<br>
 "Look at her action."</p>

<p>I, for my part, leaped at this opportunity for a little
further<br>
 light.</p>

<p>"See here, Northmour," said I; "we are all in a tight place,
are we<br>
 not?"</p>

<p>"I believe you, my boy," he answered, looking me in the eyes,
and<br>
 with great emphasis. "We have all hell upon us, that's the
truth.<br>
 You may believe me or not, but I'm afraid of my life."</p>

<p>"Tell me one thing," said I. "What are they after, these
Italians?<br>
 What do they want with Mr. Huddlestone?"</p>

<p>"Don't you know?" he cried. "The black old scamp had
carbonari<br>
 funds on a deposit--two hundred and eighty thousand; and of
course<br>
 he gambled it away on stocks. There was to have been a
revolution<br>
 in the Tridentino, or Parma; but the revolution is off, and
the<br>
 whole wasp's nest is after Huddlestone. We shall all be lucky
if<br>
 we can save our skins."</p>

<p>"The carbonari!" I exclaimed; "God help him indeed!"</p>

<p>"Amen!" said Northmour. "And now, look here: I have said that
we<br>
 are in a fix; and, frankly, I shall be glad of your help. If
I<br>
 can't save Huddlestone, I want at least to save the girl. Come
and<br>
 stay in the pavilion; and, there's my hand on it, I shall act
as<br>
 your friend until the old man is either clear or dead. But,"
he<br>
 added, "once that is settled, you become my rival once again,
and I<br>
 warn you--mind yourself."</p>

<p>"Done!" said I; and we shook hands.</p>

<p>"And now let us go directly to the fort," said Northmour; and
he<br>
 began to lead the way through the rain.</p>

<h3><br>
 VI</h3>

<p><br>
 We were admitted to the pavilion by Clara, and I was surprised
by<br>
 the completeness and security of the defenses. A barricade
of<br>
 great strength, and yet easy to displace, supported the door<br>
 against any violence from without; and the shutters of the
dining-<br>
 room, into which I was led directly, and which was feebly<br>
 illuminated by a lamp, were even more elaborately fortified.
The<br>
 panels were strengthened by bars and crossbars; and these, in
their<br>
 turn, were kept in position by a system of braces and struts,
some<br>
 abutting on the floor, some on the roof, and others, in
fine,<br>
 against the opposite wall of the apartment. It was at once a
solid<br>
 and well-designed piece of carpentry; and I did not seek to
conceal<br>
 my admiration.</p>

<p><br>
 "I am the engineer," said Northmour. "You remember the planks
in<br>
 the garden? Behold them?"</p>

<p>"I did not know you had so many talents," said I.</p>

<p>"Are you armed?" he continued, pointing to an array of guns
and<br>
 pistols, all in admirable order, which stood in line against
the<br>
 wall or were displayed upon the sideboard.</p>

<p>"Thank you," I returned; "I have gone armed since our last<br>
 encounter. But, to tell you the truth, I have had nothing to
eat<br>
 since early yesterday evening."</p>

<p>Northmour produced some cold meat, to which I eagerly set
myself,<br>
 and a bottle of good Burgundy, by which, wet as I was, I did
not<br>
 scruple to profit. I have always been an extreme temperance man
on<br>
 principle; but it is useless to push principle to excess, and
on<br>
 this occasion I believe that I finished three quarters of
the<br>
 bottle. As I eat, I still continued to admire the preparations
for<br>
 defense.</p>

<p>"We could stand a siege," I said at length.</p>

<p>"Ye--es," drawled Northmour; "a very little one, perhaps. It
is<br>
 not so much the strength of the pavilion I misdoubt; it is
the<br>
 double danger that kills me. If we get to shooting, wild as
the<br>
 country is, some one is sure to hear it, and then--why then
it's<br>
 the same thing, only different, as they say: caged by law,
or<br>
 killed by carbonari. There's the choice. It is a devilish
bad<br>
 thing to have the law against you in this world, and so I tell
the<br>
 old gentleman upstairs. He is quite of my way of thinking."</p>

<p>"Speaking of that," said I, "what kind of person is he?"</p>

<p>"Oh, he!" cried the other; "he's a rancid fellow, as far as
he<br>
 goes. I should like to have his neck wrung to-morrow by all
the<br>
 devils in Italy. I am not in this affair for him. You take me?
I<br>
 made a bargain for missy's hand, and I mean to have it too."</p>

<p>"That, by the way," said I. "I understand. But how will
Mr.<br>
 Huddlestone take my intrusion?"</p>

<p>"Leave that to Clara," returned Northmour.</p>

<p>I could have struck him in the face for his coarse
familiarity; but<br>
 I respected the truce, as, I am bound to say, did Northmour, and
so<br>
 long as the danger continued not a cloud arose in our relation.
I<br>
 bear him this testimony with the most unfeigned satisfaction;
nor<br>
 am I without pride when I look back upon my own behavior.
For<br>
 surely no two men were ever left in a position so invidious
and<br>
 irritating.</p>

<p>As soon as I had done eating, we proceeded to inspect the
lower<br>
 floor. Window by window we tried the different supports, now
and<br>
 then making an inconsiderable change; and the strokes of the
hammer<br>
 sounded with startling loudness through the house. I proposed,
I<br>
 remember, to make loopholes; but he told me they were already
made<br>
 in the windows of the upper story. It was an anxious
business,<br>
 this inspection, and left me down-hearted. There were two
doors<br>
 and five windows to protect, and, counting Clara, only four of
us<br>
 to defend them against an unknown number of foes. I
communicated<br>
 my doubts to Northmour, who assured me, with unmoved
composure,<br>
 that he entirely shared them.</p>

<p>"Before morning," said he, "we shall all be butchered and
buried in<br>
 Graden Floe. For me, that is written."</p>

<p>I could not help shuddering at the mention of the quicksand,
but<br>
 reminded Northmour that our enemies had spared me in the
wood.</p>

<p>"Do not flatter yourself," said he. "Then you were not in the
same<br>
 boat with the old gentleman; now you are. It's the floe for all
of<br>
 us, mark my words."</p>

<p>I trembled for Clara; and just then her dear voice was
heard<br>
 calling us to come upstairs. Northmour showed me the way,
and,<br>
 when he had reached the landing, knocked at the door of what
used<br>
 to be called My Uncle's Bedroom, as the founder of the pavilion
had<br>
 designed it especially for himself.</p>

<p>"Come in, Northmour; come in, dear Mr. Cassilis," said a voice
from<br>
 within.</p>

<p>Pushing open the door, Northmour admitted me before him into
the<br>
 apartment. As I came in I could see the daughter slipping out
by<br>
 the side door into the study, which had been prepared as her<br>
 bedroom. In the bed, which was drawn back against the wall,<br>
 instead of standing, as I had last seen it, boldly across
the<br>
 window, sat Bernard Huddlestone, the defaulting banker. Little
as<br>
 I had seen of him by the shifting light of the lantern on
the<br>
 links, I had no difficulty in recognizing him for the same. He
had<br>
 a long and sallow countenance, surrounded by a long red beard
and<br>
 side-whiskers. His broken nose and high cheek-hones gave him<br>
 somewhat the air of a Kalmuck, and his light eyes shone with
the<br>
 excitement of a high fever. He wore a skull-cap of black silk;
a<br>
 huge Bible lay open before him on the bed, with a pair of
gold<br>
 spectacles in the place, and a pile of other books lay on the
stand<br>
 by his side. The green curtains lent a cadaverous shade to
his<br>
 cheek; and, as he sat propped on pillows, his great stature
was<br>
 painfully hunched, and his head protruded till it overhung
his<br>
 knees. I believe if he had not died otherwise, he must have
fallen<br>
 a victim to consumption in the course of but a very few
weeks.</p>

<p>He held out to me a hand, long, thin, and disagreeably
hairy.</p>

<p>"Come in, come in, Mr. Cassilis," said he. "Another
protector--<br>
 ahem!--another protector. Always welcome as a friend of my<br>
 daughter's, Mr. Cassilis. How they have rallied about me, my<br>
 daughter's friends! May God in heaven bless and reward them
for<br>
 it!"</p>

<p>I gave him my hand, of course, because I could not help it;
but the<br>
 sympathy I had been prepared to feel for Clara's father was<br>
 immediately soured by his appearance, and the wheedling,
unreal<br>
 tones in which he spoke.</p>

<p>"Cassilis is a good man," said Northmour; "worth ten."</p>

<p>"So I hear," cried Mr. Huddlestone eagerly; "so my girl tells
me.<br>
 Ah, Mr. Cassilis, my sin has found me out, you see! I am very
low,<br>
 very low; but I hope equally penitent. We must all come to
the<br>
 throne of grace at last, Mr. Cassilis. For my part, I come
late<br>
 indeed; but with unfeigned humility, I trust."</p>

<p>"Fiddle-de-dee!" said Northmour roughly.</p>

<p>"No, no, dear Northmour!" cried the banker. "You must not
say<br>
 that; you must not try to shake me. You forget, my dear, good
boy,<br>
 you forget I may be called this very night before my Maker."</p>

<p>His excitement was pitiful to behold; and I felt myself
grow<br>
 indignant with Northmour, whose infidel opinions I well knew,
and<br>
 heartily despised, as he continued to taunt the poor sinner out
of<br>
 his humor of repentance.</p>

<p>"Pooh, my dear Huddlestone!" said he. "You do yourself
injustice.<br>
 You are a man of the world inside and out, and were up to all
kinds<br>
 of mischief before I was born. Your conscience is tanned
like<br>
 South American leather--only you forgot to tan your liver,
and<br>
 that, if you will believe me, is the seat of the annoyance."</p>

<p>"Rogue, rogue! bad boy!" said Mr. Huddlestone, shaking his
finger.<br>
 "I am no precisian, if you come to that; I always hated a<br>
 precisian; but I never lost hold of something better through
it<br>
 all. I have been a bad boy, Mr. Cassilis; I do not seek to
deny<br>
 that; but it was after my wife's death, and you know, with a<br>
 widower, it's a different thing: sinful--I won't say no; but
there<br>
 is a gradation, we shall hope. And talking of that-- Hark!"
he<br>
 broke out suddenly, his hand raised, his fingers spread, his
face<br>
 racked with interest and terror. "Only the rain, bless God!"
he<br>
 added, after a pause, and with indescribable relief.</p>

<p>For some seconds he lay back among the pillows like a man near
to<br>
 fainting; then he gathered himself together, and, in
somewhat<br>
 tremulous tones, began once more to thank me for the share I
was<br>
 prepared to take in his defense.</p>

<p>"One question, sir," said I, when he had paused. "Is it true
that<br>
 you have money with you?"</p>

<p>He seemed annoyed by the question, but admitted with
reluctance<br>
 that he had a little.</p>

<p>"Well," I continued, "it is their money they are after, is it
not?<br>
 Why not give it up to them?"</p>

<p>"Ah!" replied he, shaking his head, "I have tried that
already, Mr.<br>
 Cassilis; and alas! that it should be so, but it is blood
they<br>
 want."</p>

<p>"Huddlestone, that's a little less than fair," said
Northmour.<br>
 "You should mention that what you offered them was upward of
two<br>
 hundred thousand short. The deficit is worth a reference; it
is<br>
 for what they call a cool sum, Frank. Then, you see, the
fellows<br>
 reason in their clear Italian way; and it seems to them, as
indeed<br>
 it seems to me, that they may just as well have both while
they're<br>
 about it--money and blood together, by George, and no more
trouble<br>
 for the extra pleasure."</p>

<p>"Is it in the pavilion?" I asked.</p>

<p>"It is; and I wish it were in the bottom of the sea instead,"
said<br>
 Northmour; and then suddenly--"What are you making faces at
me<br>
 for?" he cried to Mr. Huddlestone, on whom I had
unconsciously<br>
 turned my back. "Do you think Cassilis would sell you?"</p>

<p>Mr. Huddlestone protested that nothing had been further from
his<br>
 mind.</p>

<p>"It is a good thing," retorted Northmour in his ugliest
manner.<br>
 "You might end by wearying us. What were you going to say?"
he<br>
 added, turning to me.</p>

<p>"I was going to propose an occupation for the afternoon," said
I.<br>
 "Let us carry that money out, piece by piece, and lay it
down<br>
 before the pavilion door. If the carbonari come, why, it's
theirs<br>
 at any rate."</p>

<p>"No, no," cried Mr. Huddlestone; "it does not, it cannot,
belong to<br>
 them! It should be distributed pro rata among all my
creditors."</p>

<p>"Come now, Huddlestone," said Northmour, "none of that."</p>

<p>"Well, but my daughter," moaned the wretched man. "Your
daughter<br>
 will do well enough. Here are two suitors, Cassilis and I,
neither<br>
 of us beggars, between whom she has to choose. And as for<br>
 yourself, to make an end of arguments, you have no right to
a<br>
 farthing, and, unless I'm much mistaken, you are going to
die."</p>

<p>It was certainly very cruelly said; but Mr. Huddlestone was a
man<br>
 who attracted little sympathy; and, although I saw him wince
and<br>
 shudder, I mentally indorsed the rebuke; nay, I added a<br>
 contribution of my own.</p>

<p>"Northmour and I," I said, "are willing enough to help you to
save<br>
 your life, but not to escape with stolen property."</p>

<p>He struggled for awhile with himself, as though he were on
the<br>
 point of giving way to anger, but prudence had the best of
the<br>
 controversy.</p>

<p>"My dear boys," he said, "do with me or my money what you
will. I<br>
 leave all in your hands. Let me compose myself."</p>

<p>And so we left him, gladly enough I am sure.</p>

<p>The last that I saw, he had once more taken up his great
Bible, and<br>
 with tremulous hands was adjusting his spectacles to read.</p>

<h3><br>
 VII</h3>

<p><br>
 The recollection of that afternoon will always be graven on
my<br>
 mind. Northmour and I were persuaded that an attack was
imminent;<br>
 and if it had been in our power to alter in any way the order
of<br>
 events, that power would have been used to precipitate rather
than<br>
 delay the critical moment. The worst was to be anticipated; yet
we<br>
 could conceive no extremity so miserable as the suspense we
were<br>
 now suffering. I have never been an eager, though always a
great,<br>
 reader; but I never knew books so insipid as those which I took
up<br>
 and cast aside that afternoon in the pavilion. Even talk
became<br>
 impossible, as the hours went on. One or other was always<br>
 listening for some sound, or peering from an upstairs window
over<br>
 the links. And yet not a sign indicated the presence of our
foes.</p>

<p><br>
 We debated over and over again my proposal with regard to
the<br>
 money; and had we been in complete possession of our faculties,
I<br>
 am sure we should have condemned it as unwise; but we were<br>
 flustered with alarm, grasped at a straw, and determined,
although<br>
 it was as much as advertising Mr. Huddlestone's presence in
the<br>
 pavilion, to carry my proposal into effect.</p>

<p>The sum was part in specie, part in bank paper, and part
in<br>
 circular notes payable to the name of James Gregory. We took
it<br>
 out, counted it, inclosed it once more in a dispatch box
belonging<br>
 to Northmour, and prepared a letter in Italian which he tied to
the<br>
 handle. It was signed by both of us under oath, and declared
that<br>
 this was all the money which had escaped the failure of the
house<br>
 of Huddlestone. This was, perhaps, the maddest action ever<br>
 perpetrated by two persons professing to be sane. Had the
dispatch<br>
 box fallen into other hands than those for which it was
intended,<br>
 we stood criminally convicted on our own written testimony; but,
as<br>
 I have said, we were neither of us in a condition to judge
soberly,<br>
 and had a thirst for action that drove us to do something, right
or<br>
 wrong, rather than endure the agony of waiting. Moreover, as
we<br>
 were both convinced that the hollows of the links were alive
with<br>
 hidden spies upon our movements, we hoped that our appearance
with<br>
 the box might lead to a parley, and, perhaps, a compromise.</p>

<p>It was nearly three when we issued from the pavilion. The rain
had<br>
 taken off; the sun shone quite cheerfully. I had never seen
the<br>
 gulls fly so close about the house or approach so fearlessly
to<br>
 human beings. On the very doorstep one flapped heavily past
our<br>
 heads, and uttered its wild cry in my very ear.</p>

<p>"There is an omen for you," said Northmour, who like all<br>
 freethinkers was much under the influence of superstition.
"They<br>
 think we are already dead."</p>

<p>I made some light rejoinder, but it was with half my heart;
for the<br>
 circumstance had impressed me.</p>

<p>A yard or two before the gate, on a patch of smooth turf, we
set<br>
 down the dispatch box; and Northmour waved a white
handkerchief<br>
 over his head. Nothing replied. We raised our voices, and
cried<br>
 aloud in Italian that we were there as ambassadors to arrange
the<br>
 quarrel, but the stillness remained unbroken save by the
seagulls<br>
 and the surf. I had a weight at my heart when we desisted; and
I<br>
 saw that even Northmour was unusually pale. He looked over
his<br>
 shoulder nervously, as though he feared that some one had
crept<br>
 between him and the pavilion door.</p>

<p>"By God," he said in a whisper, "this is too much for me!"</p>

<p>I replied in the same key: "Suppose there should be none,
after<br>
 all!"</p>

<p>"Look there," he returned, nodding with his head, as though he
had<br>
 been afraid to point.</p>

<p>I glanced in the direction indicated; and there, from the
northern<br>
 quarter of the Sea-Wood, beheld a thin column of smoke
rising<br>
 steadily against the now cloudless sky.</p>

<p>"Northmour," I said (we still continued to talk in whispers),
"it<br>
 is not possible to endure this suspense. I prefer death
fifty<br>
 times over. Stay you here to watch the pavilion; I will go
forward<br>
 and make sure, if I have to walk right into their camp."</p>

<p>He looked once again all round him with puckered eyes, and
then<br>
 nodded assentingly to my proposal.</p>

<p>My heart heat like a sledge hammer as I set out walking
rapidly in<br>
 the direction of the smoke; and, though up to that moment I
had<br>
 felt chill and shivering, I was suddenly conscious of a glow
of<br>
 heat all over my body. The ground in this direction was very<br>
 uneven; a hundred men might have lain hidden in as many
square<br>
 yards about my path. But I who had not practiced the business
in<br>
 vain, chose such routes as cut at the very root of
concealment,<br>
 and, by keeping along the most convenient ridges, commanded
several<br>
 hollows at a time. It was not long before I was rewarded for
my<br>
 caution. Coming suddenly on to a mound somewhat more elevated
than<br>
 the surrounding hummocks, I saw, not thirty yards away, a man
bent<br>
 almost double, and running as fast as his attitude permitted,
along<br>
 the bottom of a gully. I had dislodged one of the spies from
his<br>
 ambush. As soon as I sighted him, I called loudly both in
English<br>
 and Italian; and he, seeing concealment was no longer
possible,<br>
 straightened himself out, leaped from the gully, and made off
as<br>
 straight as an arrow for the borders of the wood. It was none
of<br>
 my business to pursue; I had learned what I wanted--that we
were<br>
 beleaguered and watched in the pavilion; and I returned at
once,<br>
 and walked as nearly as possible in my old footsteps, to
where<br>
 Northmour awaited me beside the dispatch box. He was even
paler<br>
 than when I had left him, and his voice shook a little.</p>

<p>"Could you see what he was like?" he asked.</p>

<p>"He kept his back turned," I replied.</p>

<p>"Let us get into the house, Frank. I don't think I'm a coward,
but<br>
 I can stand no more of this," he whispered.</p>

<p>All was still and sunshiny about the pavilion, as we turned
to<br>
 reenter it; even the gulls had flown in a wider circuit, and
were<br>
 seen flickering along the beach and sand hills; and this
loneliness<br>
 terrified me more than a regiment under arms. It was not until
the<br>
 door was barricaded that I could draw a full inspiration and<br>
 relieve the weight that lay upon my bosom. Northmour and I<br>
 exchanged a steady glance; and I suppose each made his own<br>
 reflections on the white and startled aspect of the other.</p>

<p>"You were right," I said. "All is over. Shake hands, old man,
for<br>
 the last time."</p>

<p>"Yes," replied he, "I will shake hands; for, as sure as I am
here,<br>
 I bear no malice. But, remember, if, by some impossible
accident,<br>
 we should give the slip to these blackguards, I'll take the
upper<br>
 hand of you by fair or foul."</p>

<p>"Oh," said I, "you weary me!"</p>

<p>He seemed hurt, and walked away in silence to the foot of
the<br>
 stairs, where he paused.</p>

<p>"You do not understand," said he. "I am not a swindler, and
I<br>
 guard myself; that is all. I may weary you or not, Mr. Cassilis,
I<br>
 do not care a rush; I speak for my own satisfaction, and not
for<br>
 your amusement. You had better go upstairs and court the girl;
for<br>
 my part, I stay here."</p>

<p>"And I stay with you," I returned. "Do you think I would steal
a<br>
 march, even with your permission?"</p>

<p>"Frank," he said, smiling, "it's a pity you are an ass, for
you<br>
 have the makings of a man. I think I must be fey to-day; you<br>
 cannot irritate me even when you try. Do you know," he
continued<br>
 softly, "I think we are the two most miserable men in England,
you<br>
 and I? we have got on to thirty without wife or child, or so
much<br>
 as a shop to look after--poor, pitiful, lost devils, both! And
now<br>
 we clash about a girl! As if there were not several millions
in<br>
 the United Kingdom! Ah, Frank, Frank, the one who loses his
throw,<br>
 be it you or me, he has my pity! It were better for him--how
does<br>
 the Bible say?--that a millstone were hanged about his neck and
he<br>
 were cast into the depth of the sea. Let us take a drink,"
he<br>
 concluded suddenly, but without any levity of tone.</p>

<p>I was touched by his words, and consented. He sat down on
the<br>
 table in the dining-room, and held up the glass of sherry to
his<br>
 eye.</p>

<p>"If you beat me, Frank," he said, "I shall take to drink.
What<br>
 will you do, if it goes the other way?"</p>

<p>"God knows," I returned.</p>

<p>"Well," said he, "here is a toast in the meantime: 'Italia<br>
 irredenta!'"</p>

<p>The remainder of the day was passed in the same dreadful
tedium and<br>
 suspense. I laid the table for dinner, while Northmour and
Clara<br>
 prepared the meal together in the kitchen. I could hear their
talk<br>
 as I went to and fro, and was surprised to find it ran all the
time<br>
 upon myself. Northmour again bracketed us together, and
rallied<br>
 Clara on a choice of husbands; but he continued to speak of me
with<br>
 some feeling, and uttered nothing to my prejudice unless he<br>
 included himself in the condemnation. This awakened a sense
of<br>
 gratitude in my heart, which combined with the immediateness of
our<br>
 peril to fill my eyes with tears. After all, I thought--and<br>
 perhaps the thought was laughably vain--we were here three
very<br>
 noble human beings to perish in defense of a thieving
banker.</p>

<p>Before we sat down to table, I looked forth from an
upstairs<br>
 window. The day was beginning to decline; the links were
utterly<br>
 deserted; the dispatch box still lay untouched where we had left
it<br>
 hours before.</p>

<p>Mr. Huddlestone, in a long yellow dressing gown, took one end
of<br>
 the table, Clara the other; while Northmour and I faced each
other<br>
 from the sides. The lamp was brightly trimmed; the wine was
good;<br>
 the viands, although mostly cold, excellent of their sort.
We<br>
 seemed to have agreed tacitly; all reference to the
impending<br>
 catastrophe was carefully avoided; and, considering our
tragic<br>
 circumstances, we made a merrier party than could have been<br>
 expected. From time to time, it is true, Northmour or I would
rise<br>
 from table and make a round of the defenses; and, on each of
these<br>
 occasions, Mr. Huddlestone was recalled to a sense of his
tragic<br>
 predicament, glanced up with ghastly eyes, and bore for an
instant<br>
 on his countenance the stamp of terror. But he hastened to
empty<br>
 his glass, wiped his forehead with his handkerchief, and
joined<br>
 again in the conversation.</p>

<p>I was astonished at the wit and information he displayed.
Mr.<br>
 Huddlestone's was certainly no ordinary character; he had read
and<br>
 observed for himself; his gifts were sound; and, though I
could<br>
 never have learned to love the man, I began to understand
his<br>
 success in business, and the great respect in which he had
been<br>
 held before his failure. He had, above all, the talent of
society;<br>
 and though I never heard him speak but on this one and most<br>
 unfavorable occasion, I set him down among the most
brilliant<br>
 conversationalists I ever met.</p>

<p>He was relating with great gusto, and seemingly no feeling
of<br>
 shame, the maneuvers of a scoundrelly commission merchant whom
he<br>
 had known and studied in his youth, and we were all listening
with<br>
 an odd mixture of mirth and embarrassment, when our little
party<br>
 was brought abruptly to an end in the most startling manner.</p>

<p>A noise like that of a wet finger on the window pane
interrupted<br>
 Mr. Huddlestone's tale; and in an instant we were all four as
white<br>
 as paper, and sat tongue-tied and motionless round the
table.</p>

<p>"A snail," I said at last; for I had heard that these animals
make<br>
 a noise somewhat similar in character.</p>

<p>"Snail be d--d!" said Northmour. "Hush!"</p>

<p>The same sound was repeated twice at regular intervals; and
then a<br>
 formidable voice shouted through the shutters the Italian
word,<br>
 "Traditore!"</p>

<p>Mr. Huddlestone threw his head in the air; his eyelids
quivered;<br>
 next moment he fell insensible below the table. Northmour and
I<br>
 had each run to the armory and seized a gun. Clara was on her
feet<br>
 with her hand at her throat.</p>

<p>So we stood waiting, for we thought the hour of attack was<br>
 certainly come; but second passed after second, and all but
the<br>
 surf remained silent in the neighborhood of the pavilion.</p>

<p>"Quick," said Northmour; "upstairs with him before they
come."</p>

<h3><br>
 VIII</h3>

<p><br>
 Somehow or other, by hook and crook, and between the three of
us,<br>
 we got Bernard Huddlestone bundled upstairs and laid upon the
bed<br>
 in My Uncle's Room. During the whole process, which was
rough<br>
 enough, he gave no sign of consciousness, and he remained, as
we<br>
 had thrown him, without changing the position of a finger.
His<br>
 daughter opened his shirt and began to wet his head and
bosom;<br>
 while Northmour and I ran to the window. The weather
continued<br>
 clear; the moon, which was now about full, had risen and shed
a<br>
 very clear light upon the links; yet, strain our eyes as we
might,<br>
 we could distinguish nothing moving. A few dark spots, more
or<br>
 less, on the uneven expanse were not to be identified; they
might<br>
 be crouching men, they might be shadows; it was impossible to
be<br>
 sure.</p>

<p><br>
 "Thank God," said Northmour, "Aggie is not coming to-night."</p>

<p>Aggie was the name of the old nurse; he had not thought of
her<br>
 until now; but that he should think of her at all was a trait
that<br>
 surprised me in the man.</p>

<p>We were again reduced to waiting. Northmour went to the
fireplace<br>
 and spread his hands before the red embers, as if he were cold.
I<br>
 followed him mechanically with my eyes, and in so doing turned
my<br>
 back upon the window. At that moment a very faint report was<br>
 audible from without, and a ball shivered a pane of glass,
and<br>
 buried itself in the shutter two inches from my head. I
heard<br>
 Clara scream; and though I whipped instantly out of range and
into<br>
 a corner, she was there, so to speak, before me, beseeching to
know<br>
 if I were hurt. I felt that I could stand to be shot at every
day<br>
 and all day long, with such remarks of solicitude for a reward;
and<br>
 I continued to reassure her, with the tenderest caresses and
in<br>
 complete forgetfulness of our situation, till the voice of<br>
 Northmour recalled me to myself.</p>

<p>"An air gun," he said. "They wish to make no noise."</p>

<p>I put Clara aside, and looked at him. He was standing with
his<br>
 back to the fire and his hands clasped behind him; and I knew
by<br>
 the black look on his face, that passion was boiling within. I
had<br>
 seen just such a look before he attacked me, that March night,
in<br>
 the adjoining chamber; and, though I could make every allowance
for<br>
 his anger, I confess I trembled for the consequences. He
gazed<br>
 straight before him; but he could see us with the tail of his
eye,<br>
 and his temper kept rising like a gale of wind. With regular<br>
 battle awaiting us outside, this prospect of an internecine
strife<br>
 within the walls began to daunt me.</p>

<p>Suddenly, as I was thus closely watching his expression
and<br>
 prepared against the worst, I saw a change, a flash, a look
of<br>
 relief, upon his face. He took up the lamp which stood beside
him<br>
 on the table, and turned to us with an air of some
excitement.</p>

<p>"There is one point that we must know," said he. "Are they
going<br>
 to butcher the lot of us, or only Huddlestone? Did they take
you<br>
 for him, or fire at you for your own beaux yeux?"</p>

<p>"They took me for him, for certain," I replied. "I am near
as<br>
 tall, and my head is fair."</p>

<p>"I am going to make sure," returned Northmour; and he stepped
up to<br>
 the window, holding the lamp above his head, and stood
there,<br>
 quietly affronting death, for half a minute.</p>

<p>Clara sought to rush forward and pull him from the place of
danger;<br>
 but I had the pardonable selfishness to hold her back by
force.</p>

<p>"Yes," said Northmour, turning coolly from the window, "it's
only<br>
 Huddlestone they want."</p>

<p>"Oh, Mr. Northmour!" cried Clara; but found no more to add;
the<br>
 temerity she had just witnessed seeming beyond the reach of
words.</p>

<p>He, on his part, looked at me, cocking his head, with a fire
of<br>
 triumph in his eyes; and I understood at once that he had
thus<br>
 hazarded his life, merely to attract Clara's notice, and depose
me<br>
 from my position as the hero of the hour. He snapped his
fingers.</p>

<p>"The fire is only beginning," said he. "When they warm up to
their<br>
 work, they won't be so particular."</p>

<p>A voice was now heard hailing us from the entrance. From
the<br>
 window we could see the figure of a man in the moonlight; he
stood<br>
 motionless, his face uplifted to ours, and a rag of something
white<br>
 on his extended arm; and as we looked right down upon him,
though<br>
 he was a good many yards distant on the links, we could see
the<br>
 moonlight glitter on his eyes.</p>

<p>He opened his lips again, and spoke for some minutes on end,
in a<br>
 key so loud that he might have been heard in every corner of
the<br>
 pavilion, and as far away as the borders of the wood. It was
the<br>
 same voice that had already shouted, "Traditore!" through
the<br>
 shutters of the dining-room; this time it made a complete and
clear<br>
 statement. If the traitor "Oddlestone" were given up, all
others<br>
 should be spared; if not, no one should escape to tell the
tale.</p>

<p>"Well, Huddlestone, what do you say to that?" asked
Northmour,<br>
 turning to the bed.</p>

<p>Up to that moment the banker had given no sign of life, and I,
at<br>
 least, had supposed him to be still lying in a faint; but he<br>
 replied at once, and in such tones as I have never heard
elsewhere,<br>
 save from a delirious patient, adjured and besought us not
to<br>
 desert him. It was the most hideous and abject performance that
my<br>
 imagination can conceive.</p>

<p>"Enough," cried Northmour; and then he threw open the
window,<br>
 leaned out into the night, and in a tone of exultation, and with
a<br>
 total forgetfulness of what was due to the presence of a
lady,<br>
 poured out upon the ambassador a string of the most
abominable<br>
 raillery both in English and Italian, and bade him be gone where
he<br>
 had come from. I believe that nothing so delighted Northmour
at<br>
 that moment as the thought that we must all infallibly
perish<br>
 before the night was out.</p>

<p>Meantime, the Italian put his flag of truce into his pocket,
and<br>
 disappeared, at a leisurely pace, among the sand hills.</p>

<p>"They make honorable war," said Northmour. "They are all
gentlemen<br>
 and soldiers. For the credit of the thing, I wish we could
change<br>
 sides--you and I, Frank, and you, too, missy, my darling--and
leave<br>
 that being on the bed to some one else. Tut! Don't look
shocked!<br>
 We are all going post to what they call eternity, and may as
well<br>
 be above board while there's time. As far as I am concerned, if
I<br>
 could first strangle Huddlestone and then get Clara in my arms,
I<br>
 could die with some pride and satisfaction. And as it is, by
God,<br>
 I'll have a kiss!"</p>

<p>Before I could do anything to interfere, he had rudely
embraced and<br>
 repeatedly kissed the resisting girl. Next moment I had pulled
him<br>
 away with fury, and flung him heavily against the wall. He
laughed<br>
 loud and long, and I feared his wits had given way under the<br>
 strain; for even in the best of days he had been a sparing and
a<br>
 quiet laugher.</p>

<p>"Now, Frank," said he, when his mirth was somewhat appeased,
"it's<br>
 your turn. Here's my hand. Good-bye, farewell!" Then, seeing
me<br>
 stand rigid and indignant, and holding Clara to my side--"Man!"
he<br>
 broke out, "are you angry? Did you think we were going to die
with<br>
 all the airs and graces of society? I took a kiss; I'm glad I
did<br>
 it; and now you can take another if you like, and square
accounts."</p>

<p>I turned from him with a feeling of contempt which I did not
seek<br>
 to dissemble.</p>

<p>"As you please," said he. "You've been a prig in life; a
prig<br>
 you'll die."</p>

<p>And with that he sat down in a chair, a rifle over his knee,
and<br>
 amused himself with snapping the lock; but I could see that
his<br>
 ebullition of light spirits (the only one I ever knew him to<br>
 display) had already come to an end, and was succeeded by a
sullen,<br>
 scowling humor.</p>

<p>All this time our assailants might have been entering the
house,<br>
 and we been none the wiser; we had in truth almost forgotten
the<br>
 danger that so imminently overhung our days. But just then
Mr.<br>
 Huddlestone uttered a cry, and leaped from the bed.</p>

<p>I asked him what was wrong.</p>

<p>"Fire!" he cried. "They have set the house on fire!"</p>

<p>Northmour was on his feet in an instant, and he and I ran
through<br>
 the door of communication with the study. The room was
illuminated<br>
 by a red and angry light. Almost at the moment of our entrance,
a<br>
 tower of flame arose in front of the window, and, with a
tingling<br>
 report, a pane fell inward on the carpet. They had set fire to
the<br>
 lean-to outhouse, where Northmour used to nurse his
negatives.</p>

<p>"Hot work," said Northmour. "Let us try in your old room."</p>

<p>We ran thither in a breath, threw up the casement, and
looked<br>
 forth. Along the whole back wall of the pavilion piles of fuel
had<br>
 been arranged and kindled; and it is probable they had been<br>
 drenched with mineral oil, for, in spite of the morning's
rain,<br>
 they all burned bravely. The fire had taken a firm hold already
on<br>
 the outhouse, which blazed higher and higher every moment; the
back<br>
 door was in the center of a red-hot bonfire; the eaves we
could<br>
 see, as we looked upward, were already smoldering, for the
roof<br>
 overhung, and was supported by considerable beams of wood. At
the<br>
 same time, hot, pungent, and choking volumes of smoke began to
fill<br>
 the house. There was not a human being to be seen to right
or<br>
 left.</p>

<p>"Ah, well!" said Northmour, "here's the end, thank God!"</p>

<p>And we returned to My Uncle's Room. Mr. Huddlestone was
putting on<br>
 his boots, still violently trembling, but with an air of<br>
 determination such as I had not hitherto observed. Clara
stood<br>
 close by him, with her cloak in both hands ready to throw about
her<br>
 shoulders, and a strange look in her eyes, as if she were
half<br>
 hopeful, half doubtful of her father.</p>

<p>"Well, boys and girls," said Northmour, "how about a sally?
The<br>
 oven is heating; it is not good to stay here and be baked; and,
for<br>
 my part, I want to come to my hands with them, and be done."</p>

<p>"There's nothing else left," I replied.</p>

<p>And both Clara and Mr. Huddlestone, though with a very
different<br>
 intonation, added, "Nothing."</p>

<p>As we went downstairs the heat was excessive, and the roaring
of<br>
 the fire filled our ears; and we had scarce reached the
passage<br>
 before the stairs window fell in, a branch of flame shot<br>
 brandishing through the aperture, and the interior of the
pavilion<br>
 became lighted up with that dreadful and fluctuating glare. At
the<br>
 same moment we heard the fall of something heavy and inelastic
in<br>
 the upper story. The whole pavilion, it was plain, had gone
alight<br>
 like a box of matches, and now not only flamed sky high to land
and<br>
 sea, but threatened with every moment to crumble and fall in
about<br>
 our ears.</p>

<p>Northmour and I cocked our revolvers. Mr. Huddlestone, who
had<br>
 already refused a firearm, put us behind him with a manner
of<br>
 command.</p>

<p>"Let Clara open the door," said he. "So, if they fire a
volley,<br>
 she will be protected. And in the meantime stand behind me. I
am<br>
 the scapegoat; my sins have found me out."</p>

<p>I heard him, as I stood breathless by his shoulder, with my
pistol<br>
 ready, pattering off prayers in a tremulous, rapid whisper; and,
I<br>
 confess, horrid as the thought may seem, I despised him for<br>
 thinking of supplications in a moment so critical and
thrilling.<br>
 In the meantime, Clara, who was dead white but still possessed
her<br>
 faculties, had displaced the barricade from the front door.<br>
 Another moment, and she had pulled it open. Firelight and<br>
 moonlight illuminated the links with confused and changeful
luster,<br>
 and far away against the sky we could see a long trail of
glowing<br>
 smoke.</p>

<p>Mr. Huddlestone, filled for the moment with a strength greater
than<br>
 his own, struck Northmour and myself a back-hander in the
chest;<br>
 and while we were thus for the moment incapacitated from
action,<br>
 lifting his arms above his head like one about to dive, he
ran<br>
 straight forward out of the pavilion.</p>

<p>"Here am I!" he cried--"Huddlestone! Kill me, and spare
the<br>
 others!"</p>

<p>His sudden appearance daunted, I suppose, our hidden enemies;
for<br>
 Northmour and I had time to recover, to seize Clara between us,
one<br>
 by each arm, and to rush forth to his assistance, ere
anything<br>
 further had taken place. But scarce had we passed the
threshold<br>
 when there came near a dozen reports and flashes from every<br>
 direction among the hollows of the links. Mr. Huddlestone<br>
 staggered, uttered a weird and freezing cry, threw up his arms
over<br>
 his head, and fell backward on the turf.</p>

<p>"Traditore! Traditore!" cried the invisible avengers.</p>

<p>And just then a part of the roof of the pavilion fell in, so
rapid<br>
 was the progress of the fire. A loud, vague, and horrible
noise<br>
 accompanied the collapse, and a vast volume of flame went
soaring<br>
 up to heaven. It must have been visible at that moment from
twenty<br>
 miles out at sea, from the shore at Graden Wester, and far
inland<br>
 from the peak of Graystiel, the most eastern summit of the
Caulder<br>
 Hills. Bernard Huddlestone, although God knows what were his<br>
 obsequies, had a fine pyre at the moment of his death.</p>

<h3><br>
 IX</h3>

<p><br>
 I should have the greatest difficulty to tell you what
followed<br>
 next after this tragic circumstance. It is all to me, as I
look<br>
 back upon it, mixed, strenuous, and ineffectual, like the
struggles<br>
 of a sleeper in a nightmare. Clara, I remember, uttered a
broken<br>
 sigh and would have fallen forward to earth, had not Northmour
and<br>
 I supported her insensible body. I do not think we were
attacked:<br>
 I do not remember even to have seen an assailant; and I believe
we<br>
 deserted Mr. Huddlestone without a glance. I only remember
running<br>
 like a man in a panic, now carrying Clara altogether in my
own<br>
 arms, now sharing her weight with Northmour, now scuffling<br>
 confusedly for the possession of that dear burden. Why we
should<br>
 have made for my camp in the Hemlock Den, or how we reached it,
are<br>
 points lost forever to my recollection. The first moment at
which<br>
 I became definitely sure, Clara had been suffered to fall
against<br>
 the outside of my little tent, Northmour and I were tumbling<br>
 together on the ground, and he, with contained ferocity, was<br>
 striking for my head with the butt of his revolver. He had
already<br>
 twice wounded me on the scalp; and it is to the consequent loss
of<br>
 blood that I am tempted to attribute the sudden clearness of
my<br>
 mind.</p>

<p><br>
 I caught him by the wrist.</p>

<p>"Northmour," I remember saying, "you can kill me afterwards.
Let<br>
 us first attend to Clara."</p>

<p>He was at that moment uppermost. Scarcely had the words passed
my<br>
 lips, when he had leaped to his feet and ran toward the tent;
and<br>
 the next moment, he was straining Clara to his heart and
covering<br>
 her unconscious hands and face with his caresses.</p>

<p>"Shame!" I cried. "Shame to you, Northmour!"</p>

<p>And, giddy though I still was, I struck him repeatedly upon
the<br>
 head and shoulders.</p>

<p>He relinquished his grasp, and faced me in the broken
moonlight.</p>

<p>"I had you under, and I let you go," said he; "and now you
strike<br>
 me! Coward!"</p>

<p>"You are the coward," I retorted. "Did she wish your kisses
while<br>
 she was still sensible of what you wanted? Not she! And now
she<br>
 may be dying; and you waste this precious time, and abuse
her<br>
 helplessness. Stand aside, and let me help her."</p>

<p>He confronted me for a moment, white and menacing; then
suddenly he<br>
 stepped aside.</p>

<p>"Help her then," said he.</p>

<p>I threw myself on my knees beside her, and loosened, as well
as I<br>
 was able, her dress and corset; but while I was thus engaged,
a<br>
 grasp descended on my shoulder.</p>

<p>"Keep your hands off her," said Northmour, fiercely. "Do you
think<br>
 I have no blood in my veins?"</p>

<p>"Northmour," I cried, "if you will neither help her yourself,
nor<br>
 let me do so, do you know that I shall have to kill you?"</p>

<p>"That is better!" he cried. "Let her die also, where's the
harm?<br>
 Step aside from that girl! and stand up to fight."</p>

<p>"You will observe," said I, half rising, "that I have not
kissed<br>
 her yet."</p>

<p>"I dare you to," he cried.</p>

<p>I do not know what possessed me; it was one of the things I am
most<br>
 ashamed of in my life, though, as my wife used to say, I knew
that<br>
 my kisses would be always welcome were she dead or living; down
I<br>
 fell again upon my knees, parted the hair from her forehead,
and,<br>
 with the dearest respect, laid my lips for a moment on that
cold<br>
 brow. It was such a caress as a father might have given; it
was<br>
 such a one as was not unbecoming from a man soon to die to a
woman<br>
 already dead.</p>

<p>"And now," said I, "I am at your service, Mr. Northmour."</p>

<p>But I saw, to my surprise, that he had turned his back upon
me.</p>

<p>"Do you hear?" I asked.</p>

<p>"Yes," said he, "I do. If you wish to fight, I am ready. If
not,<br>
 go on and save Clara. All is one to me."</p>

<p>I did not wait to be twice bidden; but, stooping again over
Clara,<br>
 continued my efforts to revive her. She still lay white and<br>
 lifeless; I began to fear that her sweet spirit had indeed
fled<br>
 beyond recall, and horror and a sense of utter desolation
seized<br>
 upon my heart. I called her by name with the most endearing<br>
 inflections; I chafed and beat her hands; now I laid her head
low,<br>
 now supported it against my knee; but all seemed to be in vain,
and<br>
 the lids still lay heavy on her eyes.</p>

<p>"Northmour," I said, "there is my hat. For God's sake bring
some<br>
 water from the spring."</p>

<p>Almost in a moment he was by my side with the water.</p>

<p>"I have brought it in my own," he said. "You do not grudge me
the<br>
 privilege?"</p>

<p>"Northmour," I was beginning to say, as I laved her head
and<br>
 breast; but he interrupted me savagely.</p>

<p>"Oh, you hush up!" he said. "The best thing you can do is to
say<br>
 nothing."</p>

<p>I had certainly no desire to talk, my mind being swallowed up
in<br>
 concern for my dear love and her condition; so I continued
in<br>
 silence to do my best toward her recovery, and, when the hat
was<br>
 empty, returned it to him, with one word--"More." He had,
perhaps,<br>
 gone several times upon this errand, when Clara reopened her
eyes.</p>

<p>"Now," said he, "since she is better, you can spare me, can
you<br>
 not? I wish you a good night, Mr. Cassilis."</p>

<p>And with that he was gone among the thicket. I made a fire,
for I<br>
 had now no fear of the Italians, who had even spared all the
little<br>
 possessions left in my encampment; and, broken as she was by
the<br>
 excitement and the hideous catastrophe of the evening, I
managed,<br>
 in one way or another--by persuasion, encouragement, warmth,
and<br>
 such simple remedies as I could lay my hand on--to bring her
back<br>
 to some composure of mind and strength of body.</p>

<p>Day had already come, when a sharp "Hist!" sounded from
the<br>
 thicket. I started from the ground; but the voice of Northmour
was<br>
 heard adding, in the most tranquil tones: "Come here, Cassilis,
and<br>
 alone; I want to show you something."</p>

<p>I consulted Clara with my eyes, and, receiving her tacit<br>
 permission, left her alone, and clambered out of the den. At
some<br>
 distance off I saw Northmour leaning against an elder; and, as
soon<br>
 as he perceived me, he began walking seaward. I had almost<br>
 overtaken him as he reached the outskirts of the wood.</p>

<p>"Look," said he, pausing.</p>

<p>A couple of steps more brought me out of the foliage. The
light of<br>
 the morning lay cold and clear over that well-known scene.
The<br>
 pavilion was but a blackened wreck; the roof had fallen in, one
of<br>
 the gables had fallen out; and, far and near, the face of the
links<br>
 was cicatrized with little patches of burned furze. Thick
smoke<br>
 still went straight upward in the windless air of the morning,
and<br>
 a great pile of ardent cinders filled the bare walls of the
house,<br>
 like coals in an open grate. Close by the islet a schooner
yacht<br>
 lay to, and a well-manned boat was pulling vigorously for
the<br>
 shore.</p>

<p>"The 'Red Earl'!" I cried. "The 'Red Earl' twelve hours too
late!"</p>

<p>"Feel in your pocket, Frank. Are you armed?" asked
Northmour.</p>

<p>I obeyed him, and I think I must have become deadly pale.
My<br>
 revolver had been taken from me.</p>

<p>"You see, I have you in my power," he continued. "I disarmed
you<br>
 last night while you were nursing Clara; but this
morning--here--<br>
 take your pistol. No thanks!" he cried, holding up his hand.
"I<br>
 do not like them; that is the only way you can annoy me
now."</p>

<p>He began to walk forward across the links to meet the boat,
and I<br>
 followed a step or two behind. In front of the pavilion I
paused<br>
 to see where Mr. Huddlestone had fallen; but there was no sign
of<br>
 him, nor so much as a trace of blood.</p>

<p>"Graden Floe," said Northmour.</p>

<p>He continued to advance till we had come to the head of the
beach.</p>

<p>"No farther, please," said he. "Would you like to take her
to<br>
 Graden House?"</p>

<p>"Thank you," replied I; "I shall try to get her to the
minister at<br>
 Graden Wester."</p>

<p>The prow of the boat here grated on the beach, and a sailor
jumped<br>
 ashore with a line in his hand.</p>

<p>"Wait a minute, lads!" cried Northmour; and then lower and to
my<br>
 private ear, "You had better say nothing of all this to her,"
he<br>
 added.</p>

<p>"On the contrary!" I broke out, "she shall know everything
that I<br>
 can tell."</p>

<p>"You do not understand," he returned, with an air of great
dignity.<br>
 "It will be nothing to her; she expects it of me. Good-by!"
he<br>
 added, with a nod.</p>

<p>I offered him my hand.</p>

<p>"Excuse me," said he. "It's small, I know; but I can't push
things<br>
 quite so far as that. I don't wish any sentimental business,
to<br>
 sit by your hearth a white-haired wanderer, and all that.
Quite<br>
 the contrary: I hope to God I shall never again clap eyes on
either<br>
 one of you."</p>

<p>"Well, God bless you, Northmour!" I said heartily.</p>

<p>"Oh, yes," he returned.</p>

<p>He walked down the beach; and the man who was ashore gave him
an<br>
 arm on board, and then shoved off and leaped into the bows
himself.<br>
 Northmour took the tiller; the boat rose to the waves, and the
oars<br>
 between the tholepins sounded crisp and measured in the
morning<br>
 air.</p>

<p>They were not yet half way to the "Red Earl," and I was
still<br>
 watching their progress, when the sun rose out of the sea.</p>

<p>One word more, and my story is done. Years after, Northmour
was<br>
 killed fighting under the colors of Garibaldi for the liberation
of<br>
 the Tyrol.</p>

<p> </p>

<h3>Wilkie Collins</h3>

<h2><br>
 The Dream Woman</h2>

<h3>A Mystery in Four Narratives</h3>

<h4><br>
 THE FIRST NARRATIVE</h4>

<h4>INTRODUCTORY STATEMENT OF THE FACTS BY PERCY FAIRBANK</h4>

<h3><br>
 I</h3>

<p><br>
 "Hullo, there! Hostler! Hullo-o-o!"</p>

<p>"My dear! why don't you look for the bell?"</p>

<p>"I HAVE looked--there is no bell."</p>

<p>"And nobody in the yard. How very extraordinary! Call
again,<br>
 dear."</p>

<p>"Hostler! Hullo, there! Hostler-r-r!"</p>

<p><br>
 My second call echoes through empty space, and rouses
nobody--<br>
 produces, in short, no visible result. I am at the end of my<br>
 resources--I don't know what to say or what to do next. Here
I<br>
 stand in the solitary inn yard of a strange town, with two
horses<br>
 to hold, and a lady to take care of. By way of adding to my<br>
 responsibilities, it so happens that one of the horses is
dead<br>
 lame, and that the lady is my wife.</p>

<p>Who am I?--you will ask.</p>

<p>There is plenty of time to answer the question. Nothing
happens;<br>
 and nobody appears to receive us. Let me introduce myself and
my<br>
 wife.</p>

<p>I am Percy Fairbank--English gentleman--age (let us say)
forty--no<br>
 profession--moderate politics--middle height--fair
complexion--easy<br>
 character--plenty of money.</p>

<p>My wife is a French lady. She was Mademoiselle Clotilde
Delorge--<br>
 when I was first presented to her at her father's house in
France.<br>
 I fell in love with her--I really don't know why. It might
have<br>
 been because I was perfectly idle, and had nothing else to do
at<br>
 the time. Or it might have been because all my friends said
she<br>
 was the very last woman whom I ought to think of marrying. On
the<br>
 surface, I must own, there is nothing in common between Mrs.<br>
 Fairbank and me. She is tall; she is dark; she is nervous,<br>
 excitable, romantic; in all her opinions she proceeds to
extremes.<br>
 What could such a woman see in me? what could I see in her? I
know<br>
 no more than you do. In some mysterious manner we exactly
suit<br>
 each other. We have been man and wife for ten years, and our
only<br>
 regret is, that we have no children. I don't know what YOU
may<br>
 think; I call that--upon the whole--a happy marriage.</p>

<p>So much for ourselves. The next question is--what has brought
us<br>
 into the inn yard? and why am I obliged to turn groom, and hold
the<br>
 horses?</p>

<p>We live for the most part in France--at the country house in
which<br>
 my wife and I first met. Occasionally, by way of variety, we
pay<br>
 visits to my friends in England. We are paying one of those
visits<br>
 now. Our host is an old college friend of mine, possessed of
a<br>
 fine estate in Somersetshire; and we have arrived at his
house--<br>
 called Farleigh Hall--toward the close of the hunting
season.</p>

<p>On the day of which I am now writing--destined to be a
memorable<br>
 day in our calendar--the hounds meet at Farleigh Hall. Mrs.<br>
 Fairbank and I are mounted on two of the best horses in my
friend's<br>
 stables. We are quite unworthy of that distinction; for we
know<br>
 nothing and care nothing about hunting. On the other hand,
we<br>
 delight in riding, and we enjoy the breezy Spring morning and
the<br>
 fair and fertile English landscape surrounding us on every
side.<br>
 While the hunt prospers, we follow the hunt. But when a
check<br>
 occurs--when time passes and patience is sorely tried; when
the<br>
 bewildered dogs run hither and thither, and strong language
falls<br>
 from the lips of exasperated sportsmen--we fail to take any
further<br>
 interest in the proceedings. We turn our horses' heads in
the<br>
 direction of a grassy lane, delightfully shaded by trees. We
trot<br>
 merrily along the lane, and find ourselves on an open common.
We<br>
 gallop across the common, and follow the windings of a second
lane.<br>
 We cross a brook, we pass through a village, we emerge into<br>
 pastoral solitude among the hills. The horses toss their
heads,<br>
 and neigh to each other, and enjoy it as much as we do. The
hunt<br>
 is forgotten. We are as happy as a couple of children; we
are<br>
 actually singing a French song--when in one moment our
merriment<br>
 comes to an end. My wife's horse sets one of his forefeet on
a<br>
 loose stone, and stumbles. His rider's ready hand saves him
from<br>
 falling. But, at the first attempt he makes to go on, the
sad<br>
 truth shows itself--a tendon is strained; the horse is lame.</p>

<p>What is to be done? We are strangers in a lonely part of
the<br>
 country. Look where we may, we see no signs of a human
habitation.<br>
 There is nothing for it but to take the bridle road up the
hill,<br>
 and try what we can discover on the other side. I transfer
the<br>
 saddles, and mount my wife on my own horse. He is not used
to<br>
 carry a lady; he misses the familiar pressure of a man's legs
on<br>
 either side of him; he fidgets, and starts, and kicks up the
dust.<br>
 I follow on foot, at a respectful distance from his heels,
leading<br>
 the lame horse. Is there a more miserable object on the face
of<br>
 creation than a lame horse? I have seen lame men and lame dogs
who<br>
 were cheerful creatures; but I never yet saw a lame horse
who<br>
 didn't look heartbroken over his own misfortune.</p>

<p>For half an hour my wife capers and curvets sideways along
the<br>
 bridle road. I trudge on behind her; and the heartbroken
horse<br>
 halts behind me. Hard by the top of the hill, our melancholy<br>
 procession passes a Somersetshire peasant at work in a field.
I<br>
 summon the man to approach us; and the man looks at me
stolidly,<br>
 from the middle of the field, without stirring a step. I ask
at<br>
 the top of my voice how far it is to Farleigh Hall. The<br>
 Somersetshire peasant answers at the top of HIS voice:</p>

<p>"Vourteen mile. Gi' oi a drap o' zyder."</p>

<p>I translate (for my wife's benefit) from the Somersetshire
language<br>
 into the English language. We are fourteen miles from
Farleigh<br>
 Hall; and our friend in the field desires to be rewarded,
for<br>
 giving us that information, with a drop of cider. There is
the<br>
 peasant, painted by himself! Quite a bit of character, my
dear!<br>
 Quite a bit of character!</p>

<p>Mrs. Fairbank doesn't view the study of agricultural human
nature<br>
 with my relish. Her fidgety horse will not allow her a
moment's<br>
 repose; she is beginning to lose her temper.</p>

<p>"We can't go fourteen miles in this way," she says. "Where is
the<br>
 nearest inn? Ask that brute in the field!"</p>

<p>I take a shilling from my pocket and hold it up in the sun.
The<br>
 shilling exercises magnetic virtues. The shilling draws the<br>
 peasant slowly toward me from the middle of the field. I
inform<br>
 him that we want to put up the horses and to hire a carriage
to<br>
 take us back to Farleigh Hall. Where can we do that? The
peasant<br>
 answers (with his eye on the shilling):</p>

<p>"At Oonderbridge, to be zure." (At Underbridge, to be
sure.)</p>

<p>"Is it far to Underbridge?"</p>

<p>The peasant repeats, "Var to Oonderbridge?"--and laughs at
the<br>
 question. "Hoo-hoo-hoo!" (Underbridge is evidently close
by--if<br>
 we could only find it.) "Will you show us the way, my man?"
"Will<br>
 you gi' oi a drap of zyder?" I courteously bend my head, and
point<br>
 to the shilling. The agricultural intelligence exerts itself.
The<br>
 peasant joins our melancholy procession. My wife is a fine
woman,<br>
 but he never once looks at my wife--and, more extraordinary
still,<br>
 he never even looks at the horses. His eyes are with his
mind--and<br>
 his mind is on the shilling.</p>

<p>We reach the top of the hill--and, behold on the other
side,<br>
 nestling in a valley, the shrine of our pilgrimage, the town
of<br>
 Underbridge! Here our guide claims his shilling, and leaves us
to<br>
 find out the inn for ourselves. I am constitutionally a
polite<br>
 man. I say "Good morning" at parting. The guide looks at me
with<br>
 the shilling between his teeth to make sure that it is a good
one.<br>
 "Marnin!" he says savagely--and turns his back on us, as if we
had<br>
 offended him. A curious product, this, of the growth of<br>
 civilization. If I didn't see a church spire at Underbridge,
I<br>
 might suppose that we had lost ourselves on a savage island.</p>

<h3><br>
 II</h3>

<p><br>
 Arriving at the town, we had no difficulty in finding the inn.
The<br>
 town is composed of one desolate street; and midway in that
street<br>
 stands the inn--an ancient stone building sadly out of repair.
The<br>
 painting on the sign-board is obliterated. The shutters over
the<br>
 long range of front windows are all closed. A cock and his
hens<br>
 are the only living creatures at the door. Plainly, this is one
of<br>
 the old inns of the stage-coach period, ruined by the railway.
We<br>
 pass through the open arched doorway, and find no one to
welcome<br>
 us. We advance into the stable yard behind; I assist my wife
to<br>
 dismount--and there we are in the position already disclosed
to<br>
 view at the opening of this narrative. No bell to ring. No
human<br>
 creature to answer when I call. I stand helpless, with the
bridles<br>
 of the horses in my hand. Mrs. Fairbank saunters gracefully
down<br>
 the length of the yard and does--what all women do, when they
find<br>
 themselves in a strange place. She opens every door as she
passes<br>
 it, and peeps in. On my side, I have just recovered my breath,
I<br>
 am on the point of shouting for the hostler for the third and
last<br>
 time, when I hear Mrs. Fairbank suddenly call to me:</p>

<p><br>
 "Percy! come here!"</p>

<p>Her voice is eager and agitated. She has opened a last door at
the<br>
 end of the yard, and has started back from some sight which
has<br>
 suddenly met her view. I hitch the horses' bridles on a rusty
nail<br>
 in the wall near me, and join my wife. She has turned pale,
and<br>
 catches me nervously by the arm.</p>

<p>"Good heavens!" she cries; "look at that!"</p>

<p>I look--and what do I see? I see a dingy little stable,
containing<br>
 two stalls. In one stall a horse is munching his corn. In
the<br>
 other a man is lying asleep on the litter.</p>

<p>A worn, withered, woebegone man in a hostler's dress. His
hollow<br>
 wrinkled cheeks, his scanty grizzled hair, his dry yellow
skin,<br>
 tell their own tale of past sorrow or suffering. There is an<br>
 ominous frown on his eyebrows--there is a painful nervous<br>
 contraction on the side of his mouth. I hear him breathing<br>
 convulsively when I first look in; he shudders and sighs in
his<br>
 sleep. It is not a pleasant sight to see, and I turn round<br>
 instinctively to the bright sunlight in the yard. My wife turns
me<br>
 back again in the direction of the stable door.</p>

<p>"Wait!" she says. "Wait! he may do it again."</p>

<p>"Do what again?"</p>

<p>"He was talking in his sleep, Percy, when I first looked in.
He<br>
 was dreaming some dreadful dream. Hush! he's beginning
again."</p>

<p>I look and listen. The man stirs on his miserable bed. The
man<br>
 speaks in a quick, fierce whisper through his clinched
teeth.<br>
 "Wake up! Wake up, there! Murder!"</p>

<p>There is an interval of silence. He moves one lean arm
slowly<br>
 until it rests over his throat; he shudders, and turns on
his<br>
 straw; he raises his arm from his throat, and feebly stretches
it<br>
 out; his hand clutches at the straw on the side toward which he
has<br>
 turned; he seems to fancy that he is grasping at the edge of<br>
 something. I see his lips begin to move again; I step softly
into<br>
 the stable; my wife follows me, with her hand fast clasped in
mine.<br>
 We both bend over him. He is talking once more in his
sleep--<br>
 strange talk, mad talk, this time.</p>

<p>"Light gray eyes" (we hear him say), "and a droop in the
left<br>
 eyelid--flaxen hair, with a gold-yellow streak in it--all
right,<br>
 mother! fair, white arms with a down on them--little, lady's
hand,<br>
 with a reddish look round the fingernails--the knife--the
cursed<br>
 knife--first on one side, then on the other--aha, you
she-devil!<br>
 where is the knife?"</p>

<p>He stops and grows restless on a sudden. We see him writhing
on<br>
 the straw. He throws up both his hands and gasps hysterically
for<br>
 breath. His eyes open suddenly. For a moment they look at<br>
 nothing, with a vacant glitter in them--then they close again
in<br>
 deeper sleep. Is he dreaming still? Yes; but the dream seems
to<br>
 have taken a new course. When he speaks next, the tone is
altered;<br>
 the words are few--sadly and imploringly repeated over and
over<br>
 again. "Say you love me! I am so fond of YOU. Say you love
me!<br>
 say you love me!" He sinks into deeper and deeper sleep,
faintly<br>
 repeating those words. They die away on his lips. He speaks
no<br>
 more.</p>

<p>By this time Mrs. Fairbank has got over her terror; she is
devoured<br>
 by curiosity now. The miserable creature on the straw has
appealed<br>
 to the imaginative side of her character. Her illimitable
appetite<br>
 for romance hungers and thirsts for more. She shakes me<br>
 impatiently by the arm.</p>

<p>"Do you hear? There is a woman at the bottom of it, Percy!
There<br>
 is love and murder in it, Percy! Where are the people of the
inn?<br>
 Go into the yard, and call to them again."</p>

<p>My wife belongs, on her mother's side, to the South of France.
The<br>
 South of France breeds fine women with hot tempers. I say no
more.<br>
 Married men will understand my position. Single men may need to
be<br>
 told that there are occasions when we must not only love and
honor-<br>
 -we must also obey--our wives.</p>

<p>I turn to the door to obey MY wife, and find myself confronted
by a<br>
 stranger who has stolen on us unawares. The stranger is a
tiny,<br>
 sleepy, rosy old man, with a vacant pudding-face, and a
shining<br>
 bald head. He wears drab breeches and gaiters, and a
respectable<br>
 square-tailed ancient black coat. I feel instinctively that
here<br>
 is the landlord of the inn.</p>

<p>"Good morning, sir," says the rosy old man. "I'm a little hard
of<br>
 hearing. Was it you that was a-calling just now in the
yard?"</p>

<p>Before I can answer, my wife interposes. She insists (in a
shrill<br>
 voice, adapted to our host's hardness of hearing) on knowing
who<br>
 that unfortunate person is sleeping on the straw. "Where does
he<br>
 come from? Why does he say such dreadful things in his sleep?
Is<br>
 he married or single? Did he ever fall in love with a
murderess?<br>
 What sort of a looking woman was she? Did she really stab him
or<br>
 not? In short, dear Mr. Landlord, tell us the whole story!"</p>

<p>Dear Mr. Landlord waits drowsily until Mrs. Fairbank has
quite<br>
 done--then delivers himself of his reply as follows:</p>

<p>"His name's Francis Raven. He's an Independent Methodist. He
was<br>
 forty-five year old last birthday. And he's my hostler.
That's<br>
 his story."</p>

<p>My wife's hot southern temper finds its way to her foot,
and<br>
 expresses itself by a stamp on the stable yard.</p>

<p>The landlord turns himself sleepily round, and looks at the
horses.<br>
 "A fine pair of horses, them two in the yard. Do you want to
put<br>
 'em in my stables?" I reply in the affirmative by a nod. The<br>
 landlord, bent on making himself agreeable to my wife,
addresses<br>
 her once more. "I'm a-going to wake Francis Raven. He's an<br>
 Independent Methodist. He was forty-five year old last
birthday.<br>
 And he's my hostler. That's his story."</p>

<p>Having issued this second edition of his interesting
narrative, the<br>
 landlord enters the stable. We follow him to see how he will
wake<br>
 Francis Raven, and what will happen upon that. The stable
broom<br>
 stands in a corner; the landlord takes it--advances toward
the<br>
 sleeping hostler--and coolly stirs the man up with a broom as if
he<br>
 was a wild beast in a cage. Francis Raven starts to his feet
with<br>
 a cry of terror--looks at us wildly, with a horrid glare of<br>
 suspicion in his eyes--recovers himself the next moment--and<br>
 suddenly changes into a decent, quiet, respectable
serving-man.</p>

<p>"I beg your pardon, ma'am. I beg your pardon, sir."</p>

<p>The tone and manner in which he makes his apologies are both
above<br>
 his apparent station in life. I begin to catch the infection
of<br>
 Mrs. Fairbank's interest in this man. We both follow him out
into<br>
 the yard to see what he will do with the horses. The manner
in<br>
 which he lifts the injured leg of the lame horse tells me at
once<br>
 that he understands his business. Quickly and quietly, he
leads<br>
 the animal into an empty stable; quickly and quietly, he gets
a<br>
 bucket of hot water, and puts the lame horse's leg into it.
"The<br>
 warm water will reduce the swelling, sir. I will bandage the
leg<br>
 afterwards." All that he does is done intelligently; all that
he<br>
 says, he says to the purpose.</p>

<p>Nothing wild, nothing strange about him now. Is this the same
man<br>
 whom we heard talking in his sleep?--the same man who woke
with<br>
 that cry of terror and that horrid suspicion in his eyes? I<br>
 determine to try him with one or two questions.</p>

<h3><br>
 III</h3>

<p><br>
 "Not much to do here," I say to the hostler.</p>

<p>"Very little to do, sir," the hostler replies.</p>

<p>"Anybody staying in the house?"</p>

<p>"The house is quite empty, sir."</p>

<p>"I thought you were all dead. I could make nobody hear
me."</p>

<p>"The landlord is very deaf, sir, and the waiter is out on
an<br>
 errand."</p>

<p>"Yes; and YOU were fast asleep in the stable. Do you often
take a<br>
 nap in the daytime?"</p>

<p>The worn face of the hostler faintly flushes. His eyes look
away<br>
 from my eyes for the first time. Mrs. Fairbank furtively
pinches<br>
 my arm. Are we on the eve of a discovery at last? I repeat
my<br>
 question. The man has no civil alternative but to give me an<br>
 answer. The answer is given in these words:</p>

<p><br>
 "I was tired out, sir. You wouldn't have found me asleep in
the<br>
 daytime but for that."</p>

<p>"Tired out, eh? You had been hard at work, I suppose?"</p>

<p>"No, sir."</p>

<p>"What was it, then?"</p>

<p>He hesitates again, and answers unwillingly, "I was up all
night."</p>

<p>"Up all night? Anything going on in the town?"</p>

<p>"Nothing going on, sir."</p>

<p>"Anybody ill?"</p>

<p>"Nobody ill, sir."</p>

<p>That reply is the last. Try as I may, I can extract nothing
more<br>
 from him. He turns away and busies himself in attending to
the<br>
 horse's leg. I leave the stable to speak to the landlord about
the<br>
 carriage which is to take us back to Farleigh Hall. Mrs.
Fairbank<br>
 remains with the hostler, and favors me with a look at
parting.<br>
 The look says plainly, "I mean to find out why he was up all
night.<br>
 Leave him to Me."</p>

<p>The ordering of the carriage is easily accomplished. The
inn<br>
 possesses one horse and one chaise. The landlord has a story
to<br>
 tell of the horse, and a story to tell of the chaise. They<br>
 resemble the story of Francis Raven--with this exception, that
the<br>
 horse and chaise belong to no religious persuasion. "The
horse<br>
 will be nine year old next birthday. I've had the shay for
four-<br>
 and-twenty year. Mr. Max, of Underbridge, he bred the horse;
and<br>
 Mr. Pooley, of Yeovil, he built the shay. It's my horse and
my<br>
 shay. And that's THEIR story!" Having relieved his mind of
these<br>
 details, the landlord proceeds to put the harness on the horse.
By<br>
 way of assisting him, I drag the chaise into the yard. Just as
our<br>
 preparations are completed, Mrs. Fairbank appears. A moment or
two<br>
 later the hostler follows her out. He has bandaged the
horse's<br>
 leg, and is now ready to drive us to Farleigh Hall. I
observe<br>
 signs of agitation in his face and manner, which suggest that
my<br>
 wife has found her way into his confidence. I put the question
to<br>
 her privately in a corner of the yard. "Well? Have you found
out<br>
 why Francis Raven was up all night?"</p>

<p>Mrs. Fairbank has an eye to dramatic effect. Instead of
answering<br>
 plainly, Yes or No, she suspends the interest and excites
the<br>
 audience by putting a question on her side.</p>

<p>"What is the day of the month, dear?"</p>

<p>"The day of the month is the first of March."</p>

<p>"The first of March, Percy, is Francis Raven's birthday."</p>

<p>I try to look as if I was interested--and don't succeed.</p>

<p>"Francis was born," Mrs. Fairbank proceeds gravely, "at two
o'clock<br>
 in the morning."</p>

<p>I begin to wonder whether my wife's intellect is going the way
of<br>
 the landlord's intellect. "Is that all?" I ask.</p>

<p>"It is NOT all," Mrs. Fairbank answers. "Francis Raven sits up
on<br>
 the morning of his birthday because he is afraid to go to
bed."</p>

<p>"And why is he afraid to go to bed?"</p>

<p>"Because he is in peril of his life."</p>

<p>"On his birthday?"</p>

<p>"On his birthday. At two o'clock in the morning. As regularly
as<br>
 the birthday comes round."</p>

<p>There she stops. Has she discovered no more than that? No
more<br>
 thus far. I begin to feel really interested by this time. I
ask<br>
 eagerly what it means? Mrs. Fairbank points mysteriously to
the<br>
 chaise--with Francis Raven (hitherto our hostler, now our
coachman)<br>
 waiting for us to get in. The chaise has a seat for two in
front,<br>
 and a seat for one behind. My wife casts a warning look at me,
and<br>
 places herself on the seat in front.</p>

<p>The necessary consequence of this arrangement is that Mrs.
Fairhank<br>
 sits by the side of the driver during a journey of two hours
and<br>
 more. Need I state the result? It would be an insult to your<br>
 intelligence to state the result. Let me offer you my place in
the<br>
 chaise. And let Francis Raven tell his terrible story in his
own<br>
 words.</p>

<h4><br>
 THE SECOND NARRATIVE</h4>

<h4>THE HOSTLER'S STORY.--TOLD BY HIMSELF</h4>

<h3><br>
 IV</h3>

<p><br>
 It is now ten years ago since I got my first warning of the
great<br>
 trouble of my life in the Vision of a Dream.</p>

<p>I shall be better able to tell you about it if you will
please<br>
 suppose yourselves to be drinking tea along with us in our
little<br>
 cottage in Cambridgeshire, ten years since.</p>

<p><br>
 The time was the close of day, and there were three of us at
the<br>
 table, namely, my mother, myself, and my mother's sister,
Mrs.<br>
 Chance. These two were Scotchwomen by birth, and both were
widows.<br>
 There was no other resemblance between them that I can call
to<br>
 mind. My mother had lived all her life in England, and had no
more<br>
 of the Scotch brogue on her tongue than I have. My aunt Chance
had<br>
 never been out of Scotland until she came to keep house with
my<br>
 mother after her husband's death. And when SHE opened her lips
you<br>
 heard broad Scotch, I can tell you, if you ever heard it
yet!</p>

<p>As it fell out, there was a matter of some consequence in
debate<br>
 among us that evening. It was this: whether I should do well
or<br>
 not to take a long journey on foot the next morning.</p>

<p>Now the next morning happened to be the day before my
birthday; and<br>
 the purpose of the journey was to offer myself for a situation
as<br>
 groom at a great house in the neighboring county to ours.
The<br>
 place was reported as likely to fall vacant in about three
weeks'<br>
 time. I was as well fitted to fill it as any other man. In
the<br>
 prosperous days of our family, my father had been manager of
a<br>
 training stable, and he had kept me employed among the horses
from<br>
 my boyhood upward. Please to excuse my troubling you with
these<br>
 small matters. They all fit into my story farther on, as you
will<br>
 soon find out. My poor mother was dead against my leaving home
on<br>
 the morrow.</p>

<p>"You can never walk all the way there and all the way back
again by<br>
 to-morrow night," she says. "The end of it will be that you
will<br>
 sleep away from home on your birthday. You have never done
that<br>
 yet, Francis, since your father's death, I don't like your doing
it<br>
 now. Wait a day longer, my son--only one day."</p>

<p>For my own part, I was weary of being idle, and I couldn't
abide<br>
 the notion of delay. Even one day might make all the
difference.<br>
 Some other man might take time by the forelock, and get the
place.</p>

<p>"Consider how long I have been out of work," I says, "and
don't ask<br>
 me to put off the journey. I won't fail you, mother. I'll
get<br>
 back by to-morrow night, if I have to pay my last sixpence for
a<br>
 lift in a cart."</p>

<p>My mother shook her head. "I don't like it, Francis--I don't
like<br>
 it!" There was no moving her from that view. We argued and<br>
 argued, until we were both at a deadlock. It ended in our
agreeing<br>
 to refer the difference between us to my mother's sister,
Mrs.<br>
 Chance.</p>

<p>While we were trying hard to convince each other, my aunt
Chance<br>
 sat as dumb as a fish, stirring her tea and thinking her own<br>
 thoughts. When we made our appeal to her, she seemed as it were
to<br>
 wake up. "Ye baith refer it to my puir judgment?" she says, in
her<br>
 broad Scotch. We both answered Yes. Upon that my aunt Chance<br>
 first cleared the tea-table, and then pulled out from the pocket
of<br>
 her gown a pack of cards.</p>

<p>Don't run away, if you please, with the notion that this was
done<br>
 lightly, with a view to amuse my mother and me. My aunt
Chance<br>
 seriously believed that she could look into the future by
telling<br>
 fortunes on the cards. She did nothing herself without first<br>
 consulting the cards. She could give no more serious proof of
her<br>
 interest in my welfare than the proof which she was offering
now.<br>
 I don't say it profanely; I only mention the fact--the cards
had,<br>
 in some incomprehensible way, got themselves jumbled up
together<br>
 with her religious convictions. You meet with people nowadays
who<br>
 believe in spirits working by way of tables and chairs. On
the<br>
 same principle (if there IS any principle in it) my aunt
Chance<br>
 believed in Providence working by way of the cards.</p>

<p>"Whether YOU are right, Francie, or your mither--whether ye
will do<br>
 weel or ill, the morrow, to go or stay--the cairds will tell
it.<br>
 We are a' in the hands of Proavidence. The cairds will tell
it."</p>

<p>Hearing this, my mother turned her head aside, with something
of a<br>
 sour look in her face. Her sister's notions about the cards
were<br>
 little better than flat blasphemy to her mind. But she kept
her<br>
 opinion to herself. My aunt Chance, to own the truth, had<br>
 inherited, through her late husband, a pension of thirty pounds
a<br>
 year. This was an important contribution to our housekeeping,
and<br>
 we poor relations were bound to treat her with a certain
respect.<br>
 As for myself, if my poor father never did anything else for
me<br>
 before he fell into difficulties, he gave me a good education,
and<br>
 raised me (thank God) above superstitions of all sorts. However,
a<br>
 very little amused me in those days; and I waited to have my<br>
 fortune told, as patiently as if I believed in it too!</p>

<p>My aunt began her hocus pocus by throwing out all the cards in
the<br>
 pack under seven. She shuffled the rest with her left hand
for<br>
 luck; and then she gave them to me to cut. "Wi' yer left
hand,<br>
 Francie. Mind that! Pet your trust in Proavidence--but dinna<br>
 forget that your luck's in yer left hand!" A long and
roundabout<br>
 shifting of the cards followed, reducing them in number until
there<br>
 were just fifteen of them left, laid out neatly before my aunt
in a<br>
 half circle. The card which happened to lie outermost, at
the<br>
 right-hand end of the circle, was, according to rule in such
cases,<br>
 the card chosen to represent Me. By way of being appropriate to
my<br>
 situation as a poor groom out of employment, the card was--the
King<br>
 of Diamonds.</p>

<p>"I tak' up the King o' Diamants," says my aunt. "I count
seven<br>
 cairds fra' richt to left; and I humbly ask a blessing on
what<br>
 follows." My aunt shut her eyes as if she was saying grace
before<br>
 meat, and held up to me the seventh card. I called the
seventh<br>
 card--the Queen of Spades. My aunt opened her eyes again in
a<br>
 hurry, and cast a sly look my way. "The Queen o' Spades means
a<br>
 dairk woman. Ye'll be thinking in secret, Francie, of a
dairk<br>
 woman?"</p>

<p>When a man has been out of work for more than three months,
his<br>
 mind isn't troubled much with thinking of women--light or dark.
I<br>
 was thinking of the groom's place at the great house, and I
tried<br>
 to say so. My aunt Chance wouldn't listen. She treated my<br>
 interpretation with contempt. "Hoot-toot! there's the caird
in<br>
 your hand! If ye're no thinking of her the day, ye'll be
thinking<br>
 of her the morrow. Where's the harm of thinking of a dairk
woman!<br>
 I was ance a dairk woman myself, before my hair was gray. Haud
yer<br>
 peace, Francie, and watch the cairds."</p>

<p>I watched the cards as I was told. There were seven left on
the<br>
 table. My aunt removed two from one end of the row and two
from<br>
 the other, and desired me to call the two outermost of the
three<br>
 cards now left on the table. I called the Ace of Clubs and the
Ten<br>
 of Diamonds. My aunt Chance lifted her eyes to the ceiling with
a<br>
 look of devout gratitude which sorely tried my mother's
patience.<br>
 The Ace of Clubs and the Ten of Diamonds, taken together,<br>
 signified--first, good news (evidently the news of the
groom's<br>
 place); secondly, a journey that lay before me (pointing plainly
to<br>
 my journey to-morrow!); thirdly and lastly, a sum of money<br>
 (probably the groom's wages!) waiting to find its way into
my<br>
 pockets. Having told my fortune in these encouraging terms,
my<br>
 aunt declined to carry the experiment any further. "Eh, lad!
it's<br>
 a clean tempting o' Proavidence to ask mair o' the cairds than
the<br>
 cairds have tauld us noo. Gae yer ways to-morrow to the
great<br>
 hoose. A dairk woman will meet ye at the gate; and she'll have
a<br>
 hand in getting ye the groom's place, wi' a' the gratifications
and<br>
 pairquisites appertaining to the same. And, mebbe, when yer<br>
 poaket's full o' money, ye'll no' be forgetting yer aunt
Chance,<br>
 maintaining her ain unblemished widowhood--wi' Proavidence<br>
 assisting--on thratty punds a year!"</p>

<p>I promised to remember my aunt Chance (who had the defect, by
the<br>
 way, of being a terribly greedy person after money) on the
next<br>
 happy occasion when my poor empty pockets were to be filled
at<br>
 last. This done, I looked at my mother. She had agreed to
take<br>
 her sister for umpire between us, and her sister had given it in
my<br>
 favor. She raised no more objections. Silently, she got on
her<br>
 feet, and kissed me, and sighed bitterly--and so left the room.
My<br>
 aunt Chance shook her head. "I doubt, Francie, yer puir mither
has<br>
 but a heathen notion of the vairtue of the cairds!"</p>

<p>By daylight the next morning I set forth on my journey. I
looked<br>
 back at the cottage as I opened the garden gate. At one window
was<br>
 my mother, with her handkerchief to her eyes. At the other
stood<br>
 my aunt Chance, holding up the Queen of Spades by way of<br>
 encouraging me at starting. I waved my hands to both of them
in<br>
 token of farewell, and stepped out briskly into the road. It
was<br>
 then the last day of February. Be pleased to remember, in<br>
 connection with this, that the first of March was the day, and
two<br>
 o'clock in the morning the hour of my birth.</p>

<h3><br>
 V</h3>

<p><br>
 Now you know how I came to leave home. The next thing to tell
is,<br>
 what happened on the journey.</p>

<p>I reached the great house in reasonably good time considering
the<br>
 distance. At the very first trial of it, the prophecy of the
cards<br>
 turned out to be wrong. The person who met me at the lodge
gate<br>
 was not a dark woman--in fact, not a woman at all--but a boy.
He<br>
 directed me on the way to the servants' offices; and there
again<br>
 the cards were all wrong. I encountered, not one woman, but
three-<br>
 -and not one of the three was dark. I have stated that I am
not<br>
 superstitious, and I have told the truth. But I must own that
I<br>
 did feel a certain fluttering at the heart when I made my bow
to<br>
 the steward, and told him what business had brought me to
the<br>
 house. His answer completed the discomfiture of aunt
Chance's<br>
 fortune-telling. My ill-luck still pursued me. That very
morning<br>
 another man had applied for the groom's place, and had got
it.</p>

<p><br>
 I swallowed my disappointment as well as I could, and thanked
the<br>
 steward, and went to the inn in the village to get the rest
and<br>
 food which I sorely needed by this time.</p>

<p>Before starting on my homeward walk I made some inquiries at
the<br>
 inn, and ascertained that I might save a few miles, on my
return,<br>
 by following a new road. Furnished with full instructions,
several<br>
 times repeated, as to the various turnings I was to take, I
set<br>
 forth, and walked on till the evening with only one stoppage
for<br>
 bread and cheese. Just as it was getting toward dark, the
rain<br>
 came on and the wind began to rise; and I found myself, to
make<br>
 matters worse, in a part of the country with which I was
entirely<br>
 unacquainted, though I guessed myself to be some fifteen miles
from<br>
 home. The first house I found to inquire at, was a lonely
roadside<br>
 inn, standing on the outskirts of a thick wood. Solitary as
the<br>
 place looked, it was welcome to a lost man who was also
hungry,<br>
 thirsty, footsore, and wet. The landlord was civil and<br>
 respectable-looking; and the price he asked for a bed was<br>
 reasonable enough. I was grieved to disappoint my mother.
But<br>
 there was no conveyance to be had, and I could go no farther
afoot<br>
 that night. My weariness fairly forced me to stop at the
inn.</p>

<p>I may say for myself that I am a temperate man. My supper
simply<br>
 consisted of some rashers of bacon, a slice of home-made bread,
and<br>
 a pint of ale. I did not go to bed immediately after this
moderate<br>
 meal, but sat up with the landlord, talking about my bad
prospects<br>
 and my long run of ill-luck, and diverging from these topics to
the<br>
 subjects of horse-flesh and racing. Nothing was said, either
by<br>
 myself, my host, or the few laborers who strayed into the
tap-room,<br>
 which could, in the slightest degree, excite my mind, or set
my<br>
 fancy--which is only a small fancy at the best of
times--playing<br>
 tricks with my common sense.</p>

<p>At a little after eleven the house was closed. I went round
with<br>
 the landlord, and held the candle while the doors and lower
windows<br>
 were being secured. I noticed with surprise the strength of
the<br>
 bolts, bars, and iron-sheathed shutters.</p>

<p>"You see, we are rather lonely here," said the landlord. "We
never<br>
 have had any attempts to break in yet, but it's always as well
to<br>
 be on the safe side. When nobody is sleeping here, I am the
only<br>
 man in the house. My wife and daughter are timid, and the
servant<br>
 girl takes after her missuses. Another glass of ale, before
you<br>
 turn in?--No!--Well, how such a sober man as you comes to be out
of<br>
 a place is more than I can understand for one.--Here's where
you're<br>
 to sleep. You're the only lodger to-night, and I think you'll
say<br>
 my missus has done her best to make you comfortable. You're
quite<br>
 sure you won't have another glass of ale?--Very well. Good
night."</p>

<p>It was half-past eleven by the clock in the passage as we
went<br>
 upstairs to the bedroom. The window looked out on the wood at
the<br>
 back of the house.</p>

<p>I locked my door, set my candle on the chest of drawers,
and<br>
 wearily got me ready for bed. The bleak wind was still
blowing,<br>
 and the solemn, surging moan of it in the wood was very dreary
to<br>
 hear through the night silence. Feeling strangely wakeful, I<br>
 resolved to keep the candle alight until I began to grow
sleepy.<br>
 The truth is, I was not quite myself. I was depressed in mind
by<br>
 my disappointment of the morning; and I was worn out in body by
my<br>
 long walk. Between the two, I own I couldn't face the prospect
of<br>
 lying awake in the darkness, listening to the dismal moan of
the<br>
 wind in the wood.</p>

<p>Sleep stole on me before I was aware of it; my eyes closed,
and I<br>
 fell off to rest, without having so much as thought of<br>
 extinguishing the candle.</p>

<p>The next thing that I remember was a faint shivering that
ran<br>
 through me from head to foot, and a dreadful sinking pain at
my<br>
 heart, such as I had never felt before. The shivering only<br>
 disturbed my slumbers--the pain woke me instantly. In one moment
I<br>
 passed from a state of sleep to a state of wakefulness--my
eyes<br>
 wide open--my mind clear on a sudden as if by a miracle. The<br>
 candle had burned down nearly to the last morsel of tallow, but
the<br>
 unsnuffed wick had just fallen off, and the light was, for
the<br>
 moment, fair and full.</p>

<p>Between the foot of the bed and the closet door, I saw a
person in<br>
 my room. The person was a woman, standing looking at me, with
a<br>
 knife in her hand. It does no credit to my courage to confess
it--<br>
 but the truth IS the truth. I was struck speechless with
terror.<br>
 There I lay with my eyes on the woman; there the woman stood
(with<br>
 the knife in her hand) with HER eyes on ME.</p>

<p>She said not a word as we stared each other in the face; but
she<br>
 moved after a little--moved slowly toward the left-hand side of
the<br>
 bed.</p>

<p>The light fell full on her face. A fair, fine woman, with<br>
 yellowish flaxen hair, and light gray eyes, with a droop in
the<br>
 left eyelid. I noticed these things and fixed them in my
mind,<br>
 before she was quite round at the side of the bed. Without
saying<br>
 a word; without any change in the stony stillness of her
face;<br>
 without any noise following her footfall, she came closer
and<br>
 closer; stopped at the bed-head; and lifted the knife to stab
me.<br>
 I laid my arm over my throat to save it; but, as I saw the
blow<br>
 coming, I threw my hand across the bed to the right side,
and<br>
 jerked my body over that way, just as the knife came down,
like<br>
 lightning, within a hair's breadth of my shoulder.</p>

<p>My eyes fixed on her arm and her hand--she gave me time to
look at<br>
 them as she slowly drew the knife out of the bed. A white,
well-<br>
 shaped arm, with a pretty down lying lightly over the fair skin.
A<br>
 delicate lady's hand, with a pink flush round the finger
nails.</p>

<p>She drew the knife out, and passed back again slowly to the
foot of<br>
 the bed; she stopped there for a moment looking at me; then
she<br>
 came on without saying a word; without any change in the
stony<br>
 stillness of her face; without any noise following her
footfall--<br>
 came on to the side of the bed where I now lay.</p>

<p>Getting near me, she lifted the knife again, and I drew myself
away<br>
 to the left side. She struck, as before right into the
mattress,<br>
 with a swift downward action of her arm; and she missed me,
as<br>
 before; by a hair's breadth. This time my eyes wandered from
HER<br>
 to the knife. It was like the large clasp knives which
laboring<br>
 men use to cut their bread and bacon with. Her delicate
little<br>
 fingers did not hide more than two thirds of the handle; I
noticed<br>
 that it was made of buckhorn, clean and shining as the blade
was,<br>
 and looking like new.</p>

<p>For the second time she drew the knife out of the bed, and
suddenly<br>
 hid it away in the wide sleeve of her gown. That done, she
stopped<br>
 by the bedside watching me. For an instant I saw her standing
in<br>
 that position--then the wick of the spent candle fell over into
the<br>
 socket. The flame dwindled to a little blue point, and the
room<br>
 grew dark.</p>

<p>A moment, or less, if possible, passed so--and then the wick
flared<br>
 up, smokily, for the last time. My eyes were still looking for
her<br>
 over the right-hand side of the bed when the last flash of
light<br>
 came. Look as I might, I could see nothing. The woman with
the<br>
 knife was gone.</p>

<p>I began to get back to myself again. I could feel my heart<br>
 beating; I could hear the woeful moaning of the wind in the
wood; I<br>
 could leap up in bed, and give the alarm before she escaped
from<br>
 the house. "Murder! Wake up there! Murder!"</p>

<p>Nobody answered to the alarm. I rose and groped my way through
the<br>
 darkness to the door of the room. By that way she must have
got<br>
 in. By that way she must have gone out.</p>

<p>The door of the room was fast locked, exactly as I had left it
on<br>
 going to bed! I looked at the window. Fast locked too!</p>

<p>Hearing a voice outside, I opened the door. There was the<br>
 landlord, coming toward me along the passage, with his
burning<br>
 candle in one hand, and his gun in the other.</p>

<p>"What is it?" he says, looking at me in no very friendly
way.</p>

<p>I could only answer in a whisper, "A woman, with a knife in
her<br>
 hand. In my room. A fair, yellow-haired woman. She jabbed at
me<br>
 with the knife, twice over."</p>

<p>He lifted his candle, and looked at me steadily from head to
foot.<br>
 "She seems to have missed you--twice over."</p>

<p>"I dodged the knife as it came down. It struck the bed each
time.<br>
 Go in, and see."</p>

<p>The landlord took his candle into the bedroom immediately. In
less<br>
 than a minute he came out again into the passage in a
violent<br>
 passion.</p>

<p>"The devil fly away with you and your woman with the knife!
There<br>
 isn't a mark in the bedclothes anywhere. What do you mean by<br>
 coming into a man's place and frightening his family out of
their<br>
 wits by a dream?"</p>

<p>A dream? The woman who had tried to stab me, not a living
human<br>
 being like myself? I began to shake and shiver. The horrors
got<br>
 hold of me at the bare thought of it.</p>

<p>"I'll leave the house," I said. "Better be out on the road in
the<br>
 rain and dark, than back in that room, after what I've seen in
it.<br>
 Lend me the light to get my clothes by, and tell me what I'm
to<br>
 pay."</p>

<p>The landlord led the way back with his light into the
bedroom.<br>
 "Pay?" says he. "You'll find your score on the slate when you
go<br>
 downstairs. I wouldn't have taken you in for all the money
you've<br>
 got about you, if I had known your dreaming, screeching ways<br>
 beforehand. Look at the bed--where's the cut of a knife in
it?<br>
 Look at the window--is the lock bursted? Look at the door (which
I<br>
 heard you fasten yourself)--is it broke in? A murdering woman
with<br>
 a knife in my house! You ought to be ashamed of yourself!"</p>

<p>My eyes followed his hand as it pointed first to the bed--then
to<br>
 the window--then to the door. There was no gainsaying it. The
bed<br>
 sheet was as sound as on the day it was made. The window was
fast.<br>
 The door hung on its hinges as steady as ever. I huddled my<br>
 clothes on without speaking. We went downstairs together. I<br>
 looked at the clock in the bar-room. The time was twenty
minutes<br>
 past two in the morning. I paid my bill, and the landlord let
me<br>
 out. The rain had ceased; but the night was dark, and the wind
was<br>
 bleaker than ever. Little did the darkness, or the cold, or
the<br>
 doubt about the way home matter to ME. My mind was away from
all<br>
 these things. My mind was fixed on the vision in the
bedroom.<br>
 What had I seen trying to murder me? The creature of a dream?
Or<br>
 that other creature from the world beyond the grave, whom men
call<br>
 ghost? I could make nothing of it as I walked along in the
night;<br>
 I had made nothing by it by midday--when I stood at last,
after<br>
 many times missing my road, on the doorstep of home.</p>

<h3><br>
 VI</h3>

<p><br>
 My mother came out alone to welcome me back. There were no
secrets<br>
 between us two. I told her all that had happened, just as I
have<br>
 told it to you. She kept silence till I had done. And then
she<br>
 put a question to me.</p>

<p>"What time was it, Francis, when you saw the Woman in your
Dream?"</p>

<p>I had looked at the clock when I left the inn, and I had
noticed<br>
 that the hands pointed to twenty minutes past two. Allowing
for<br>
 the time consumed in speaking to the landlord, and in getting on
my<br>
 clothes, I answered that I must have first seen the Woman at
two<br>
 o'clock in the morning. In other words, I had not only seen her
on<br>
 my birthday, but at the hour of my birth.</p>

<p><br>
 My mother still kept silence. Lost in her own thoughts, she
took<br>
 me by the hand, and led me into the parlor. Her writing-desk
was<br>
 on the table by the fireplace. She opened it, and signed to me
to<br>
 take a chair by her side.</p>

<p>"My son! your memory is a bad one, and mine is fast failing
me.<br>
 Tell me again what the Woman looked like. I want her to be as
well<br>
 known to both of us, years hence, as she is now."</p>

<p>I obeyed; wondering what strange fancy might be working in
her<br>
 mind. I spoke; and she wrote the words as they fell from my
lips:</p>

<p>"Light gray eyes, with a droop in the left eyelid. Flaxen
hair,<br>
 with a golden-yellow streak in it. White arms, with a down
upon<br>
 them. Little, lady's hands, with a rosy-red look about the
finger<br>
 nails."</p>

<p>"Did you notice how she was dressed, Francis?"</p>

<p>"No, mother."</p>

<p>"Did you notice the knife?"</p>

<p>"Yes. A large clasp knife, with a buckhorn handle, as good
as<br>
 new."</p>

<p>My mother added the description of the knife. Also the
year,<br>
 month, day of the week, and hour of the day when the
Dream-Woman<br>
 appeared to me at the inn. That done, she locked up the paper
in<br>
 her desk.</p>

<p>"Not a word, Francis, to your aunt. Not a word to any living
soul.<br>
 Keep your Dream a secret between you and me."</p>

<p>The weeks passed, and the months passed. My mother never
returned<br>
 to the subject again. As for me, time, which wears out all
things,<br>
 wore out my remembrance of the Dream. Little by little, the
image<br>
 of the Woman grew dimmer and dimmer. Little by little, she
faded<br>
 out of my mind.</p>

<h3><br>
 VII</h3>

<p><br>
 The story of the warning is now told. Judge for yourself if it
was<br>
 a true warning or a false, when you hear what happened to me on
my<br>
 next birthday.</p>

<p>In the Summer time of the year, the Wheel of Fortune turned
the<br>
 right way for me at last. I was smoking my pipe one day, near
an<br>
 old stone quarry at the entrance to our village, when a
carriage<br>
 accident happened, which gave a new turn, as it were, to my lot
in<br>
 life. It was an accident of the commonest kind--not worth<br>
 mentioning at any length. A lady driving herself; a runaway
horse;<br>
 a cowardly man-servant in attendance, frightened out of his
wits;<br>
 and the stone quarry too near to be agreeable--that is what I
saw,<br>
 all in a few moments, between two whiffs of my pipe. I stopped
the<br>
 horse at the edge of the quarry, and got myself a little hurt
by<br>
 the shaft of the chaise. But that didn't matter. The lady<br>
 declared I had saved her life; and her husband, coming with her
to<br>
 our cottage the next day, took me into his service then and
there.<br>
 The lady happened to be of a dark complexion; and it may amuse
you<br>
 to hear that my aunt Chance instantly pitched on that
circumstance<br>
 as a means of saving the credit of the cards. Here was the
promise<br>
 of the Queen of Spades performed to the very letter, by means of
"a<br>
 dark woman," just as my aunt had told me. "In the time to
come,<br>
 Francis, beware o' pettin' yer ain blinded intairpretation on
the<br>
 cairds. Ye're ower ready, I trow, to murmur under dispensation
of<br>
 Proavidence that ye canna fathom--like the Eesraelites of
auld.<br>
 I'll say nae mair to ye. Mebbe when the mony's powering into
yer<br>
 poakets, ye'll no forget yer aunt Chance, left like a sparrow
on<br>
 the housetop, wi a sma' annuitee o' thratty punds a year."</p>

<p><br>
 I remained in my situation (at the West-end of London) until
the<br>
 Spring of the New Year. About that time, my master's health<br>
 failed. The doctors ordered him away to foreign parts, and
the<br>
 establishment was broken up. But the turn in my luck still
held<br>
 good. When I left my place, I left it--thanks to the generosity
of<br>
 my kind master--with a yearly allowance granted to me, in<br>
 remembrance of the day when I had saved my mistress's life.
For<br>
 the future, I could go back to service or not, as I pleased;
my<br>
 little income was enough to support my mother and myself.</p>

<p>My master and mistress left England toward the end of
February.<br>
 Certain matters of business to do for them detained me in
London<br>
 until the last day of the month. I was only able to leave for
our<br>
 village by the evening train, to keep my birthday with my mother
as<br>
 usual. It was bedtime when I got to the cottage; and I was
sorry<br>
 to find that she was far from well. To make matters worse, she
had<br>
 finished her bottle of medicine on the previous day, and had<br>
 omitted to get it replenished, as the doctor had strictly
directed.<br>
 He dispensed his own medicines, and I offered to go and knock
him<br>
 up. She refused to let me do this; and, after giving me my
supper,<br>
 sent me away to my bed.</p>

<p>I fell asleep for a little, and woke again. My mother's
bed-<br>
 chamber was next to mine. I heard my aunt Chance's heavy
footsteps<br>
 going to and fro in the room, and, suspecting something
wrong,<br>
 knocked at the door. My mother's pains had returned upon
her;<br>
 there was a serious necessity for relieving her sufferings
as<br>
 speedily as possible, I put on my clothes, and ran off, with
the<br>
 medicine bottle in my hand, to the other end of the village,
where<br>
 the doctor lived. The church clock chimed the quarter to two on
my<br>
 birthday just as I reached his house. One ring of the night
bell<br>
 brought him to his bedroom window to speak to me. He told me
to<br>
 wait, and he would let me in at the surgery door. I noticed,
while<br>
 I was waiting, that the night was wonderfully fair and warm for
the<br>
 time of year. The old stone quarry where the carriage accident
had<br>
 happened was within view. The moon in the clear heavens lit it
up<br>
 almost as bright as day.</p>

<p>In a minute or two the doctor let me into the surgery. I
closed<br>
 the door, noticing that he had left his room very lightly clad.
He<br>
 kindly pardoned my mother's neglect of his directions, and set
to<br>
 work at once at compounding the medicine. We were both intent
on<br>
 the bottle; he filling it, and I holding the light--when we
heard<br>
 the surgery door suddenly opened from the street.</p>

<h3><br>
 VIII</h3>

<p><br>
 Who could possibly be up and about in our quiet village at
the<br>
 second hour of the morning?</p>

<p>The person who opened the door appeared within range of the
light<br>
 of the candle. To complete our amazement, the person proved to
be<br>
 a woman! She walked up to the counter, and standing side by
side<br>
 with me, lifted her veil. At the moment when she showed her
face,<br>
 I heard the church clock strike two. She was a stranger to me,
and<br>
 a stranger to the doctor. She was also, beyond all comparison,
the<br>
 most beautiful woman I have ever seen in my life.</p>

<p>"I saw the light under the door," she said. "I want some<br>
 medicine."</p>

<p><br>
 She spoke quite composedly, as if there was nothing at all<br>
 extraordinary in her being out in the village at two in the<br>
 morning, and following me into the surgery to ask for
medicine!<br>
 The doctor stared at her as if he suspected his own eyes of<br>
 deceiving him. "Who are you?" be asked. "How do you come to
be<br>
 wandering about at this time in the morning?"</p>

<p>She paid no heed to his questions. She only told him coolly
what<br>
 she wanted. "I have got a bad toothache. I want a bottle of<br>
 laudanum."</p>

<p>The doctor recovered himself when she asked for the laudanum.
He<br>
 was on his own ground, you know, when it came to a matter of<br>
 laudanum; and he spoke to her smartly enough this time.</p>

<p>"Oh, you have got the toothache, have you? Let me look at
the<br>
 tooth."</p>

<p>She shook her bead, and laid a two-shilling piece on the
counter.<br>
 "I won't trouble you to look at the tooth," she said. "There
is<br>
 the money. Let me have the laudanum, if you please."</p>

<p>The doctor put the two-shilling piece back again in her hand.
"I<br>
 don't sell laudanum to strangers," he answered. "If you are in
any<br>
 distress of body or mind, that is another matter. I shall be
glad<br>
 to help you."</p>

<p>She put the money back in her pocket. "YOU can't help me,"
she<br>
 said, as quietly as ever. "Good morning."</p>

<p>With that, she opened the surgery door to go out again into
the<br>
 street. So far, I had not spoken a word on my side. I had
stood<br>
 with the candle in my hand (not knowing I was holding it)--with
my<br>
 eyes fixed on her, with my mind fixed on her like a man
bewitched.<br>
 Her looks betrayed, even more plainly than her words, her<br>
 resolution, in one way or another, to destroy herself. When
she<br>
 opened the door, in my alarm at what might happen I found the
use<br>
 of my tongue.</p>

<p>"Stop!" I cried out. "Wait for me. I want to speak to you
before<br>
 you go away." She lifted her eyes with a look of careless
surprise<br>
 and a mocking smile on her lips.</p>

<p>"What can YOU have to say to me?" She stopped, and laughed
to<br>
 herself. "Why not?" she said. "I have got nothing to do, and<br>
 nowhere to go." She turned back a step, and nodded to me.
"You're<br>
 a strange man--I think I'll humor you--I'll wait outside."
The<br>
 door of the surgery closed on her. She was gone.</p>

<p>I am ashamed to own what happened next. The only excuse for me
is<br>
 that I was really and truly a man bewitched. I turned me round
to<br>
 follow her out, without once thinking of my mother. The
doctor<br>
 stopped me.</p>

<p>"Don't forget the medicine," he said. "And if you will take
my<br>
 advice, don't trouble yourself about that woman. Rouse up
the<br>
 constable. It's his business to look after her--not yours."</p>

<p>I held out my hand for the medicine in silence: I was afraid
I<br>
 should fail in respect if I trusted myself to answer him. He
must<br>
 have seen, as I saw, that she wanted the laudanum to poison<br>
 herself. He had, to my mind, taken a very heartless view of
the<br>
 matter. I just thanked him when he gave me the medicine--and
went<br>
 out.</p>

<p>She was waiting for me as she had promised; walking slowly to
and<br>
 fro--a tall, graceful, solitary figure in the bright
moonbeams.<br>
 They shed over her fair complexion, her bright golden hair,
her<br>
 large gray eyes, just the light that suited them best. She
looked<br>
 hardly mortal when she first turned to speak to me.</p>

<p>"Well?" she said. "And what do you want?"</p>

<p>In spite of my pride, or my shyness, or my better
sense--whichever<br>
 it might be--all my heart went out to her in a moment. I
caught<br>
 hold of her by the hands, and owned what was in my thoughts,
as<br>
 freely as if I had known her for half a lifetime.</p>

<p>"You mean to destroy yourself," I said. "And I mean to prevent
you<br>
 from doing it. If I follow you about all night, I'll prevent
you<br>
 from doing it."</p>

<p>She laughed. "You saw yourself that he wouldn't sell me
the<br>
 laudanum. Do you really care whether I live or die?" She
squeezed<br>
 my hands gently as she put the question: her eyes searched
mine<br>
 with a languid, lingering look in them that ran through me
like<br>
 fire. My voice died away on my lips; I couldn't answer her.</p>

<p>She understood, without my answering. "You have given me a
fancy<br>
 for living, by speaking kindly to me," she said. "Kindness has
a<br>
 wonderful effect on women, and dogs, and other domestic
animals.<br>
 It is only men who are superior to kindness. Make your mind
easy--<br>
 I promise to take as much care of myself as if I was the
happiest<br>
 woman living! Don't let me keep you here, out of your bed.
Which<br>
 way are you going?"</p>

<p>Miserable wretch that I was, I had forgotten my mother--with
the<br>
 medicine in my hand! "I am going home," I said. "Where are
you<br>
 staying? At the inn?"</p>

<p>She laughed her bitter laugh, and pointed to the stone
quarry.<br>
 "There is MY inn for to-night," she said. "When I got tired
of<br>
 walking about, I rested there."</p>

<p>We walked on together, on my way home. I took the liberty
of<br>
 asking her if she had any friends.</p>

<p>"I thought I had one friend left," she said, "or you would
never<br>
 have met me in this place. It turns out I was wrong. My
friend's<br>
 door was closed in my face some hours since; my friend's
servants<br>
 threatened me with the police. I had nowhere else to go,
after<br>
 trying my luck in your neighborhood; and nothing left but my
two-<br>
 shilling piece and these rags on my back. What respectable<br>
 innkeeper would take ME into his house? I walked about,
wondering<br>
 how I could find my way out of the world without disfiguring<br>
 myself, and without suffering much pain. You have no river
in<br>
 these parts. I didn't see my way out of the world, till I
heard<br>
 you ringing at the doctor's house. I got a glimpse at the
bottles<br>
 in the surgery, when he let you in, and I thought of the
laudanum<br>
 directly. What were you doing there? Who is that medicine
for?<br>
 Your wife?"</p>

<p>"I am not married!"</p>

<p>She laughed again. "Not married! If I was a little better
dressed<br>
 there might be a chance for ME. Where do you live? Here?"</p>

<p>We had arrived, by this time, at my mother's door. She held
out<br>
 her hand to say good-by. Houseless and homeless as she was,
she<br>
 never asked me to give her a shelter for the night. It was
MY<br>
 proposal that she should rest, under my roof, unknown to my
mother<br>
 and my aunt. Our kitchen was built out at the back of the
cottage:<br>
 she might remain there unseen and unheard until the household
was<br>
 astir in the morning. I led her into the kitchen, and set a
chair<br>
 for her by the dying embers of the fire. I dare say I was to<br>
 blame--shamefully to blame, if you like. I only wonder what
YOU<br>
 would have done in my place. On your word of honor as a man,
would<br>
 YOU have let that beautiful creature wander back to the shelter
of<br>
 the stone quarry like a stray dog? God help the woman who is<br>
 foolish enough to trust and love you, if you would have done
that!</p>

<p>I left her by the fire, and went to my mother's room.</p>

<h3><br>
 IX</h3>

<p><br>
 If you have ever felt the heartache, you will know what I
suffered<br>
 in secret when my mother took my hand, and said, "I am
sorry,<br>
 Francis, that your night's rest has been disturbed through ME."
I<br>
 gave her the medicine; and I waited by her till the pains
abated.<br>
 My aunt Chance went back to her bed; and my mother and I were
left<br>
 alone. I noticed that her writing-desk, moved from its
customary<br>
 place, was on the bed by her side. She saw me looking at it.<br>
 "This is your birthday, Francis," she said. "Have you anything
to<br>
 tell me?" I had so completely forgotten my Dream, that I had
no<br>
 notion of what was passing in her mind when she said those
words.<br>
 For a moment there was a guilty fear in me that she
suspected<br>
 something. I turned away my face, and said, "No, mother; I
have<br>
 nothing to tell." She signed to me to stoop down over the
pillow<br>
 and kiss her. "God bless you, my love!" she said; and many
happy<br>
 returns of the day." She patted my hand, and closed her
weary<br>
 eyes, and, little by little, fell off peaceably into sleep.</p>

<p><br>
 I stole downstairs again. I think the good influence of my
mother<br>
 must have followed me down. At any rate, this is true: I
stopped<br>
 with my hand on the closed kitchen door, and said to myself:<br>
 "Suppose I leave the house, and leave the village, without
seeing<br>
 her or speaking to her more?"</p>

<p>Should I really have fled from temptation in this way, if I
had<br>
 been left to myself to decide? Who can tell? As things were,
I<br>
 was not left to decide. While my doubt was in my mind, she
heard<br>
 me, and opened the kitchen door. My eyes and her eyes met.
That<br>
 ended it.</p>

<p>We were together, unsuspected and undisturbed, for the next
two<br>
 hours. Time enough for her to reveal the secret of her
wasted<br>
 life. Time enough for her to take possession of me as her own,
to<br>
 do with me as she liked. It is needless to dwell here on the<br>
 misfortunes which had brought her low; they are misfortunes
too<br>
 common to interest anybody.</p>

<p>Her name was Alicia Warlock. She had been born and bred a
lady.<br>
 She had lost her station, her character, and her friends.
Virtue<br>
 shuddered at the sight of her; and Vice had got her for the rest
of<br>
 her days. Shocking and common, as I told you. It made no<br>
 difference to ME. I have said it already--I say it again--I was
a<br>
 man bewitched. Is there anything so very wonderful in that?
Just<br>
 remember who I was. Among the honest women in my own station
in<br>
 life, where could I have found the like of HER? Could THEY walk
as<br>
 she walked? and look as she looked? When THEY gave me a kiss,
did<br>
 their lips linger over it as hers did? Had THEY her skin,
her<br>
 laugh, her foot, her hand, her touch? SHE never had a speck
of<br>
 dirt on her: I tell you her flesh was a perfume. When she
embraced<br>
 me, her arms folded round me like the wings of angels; and
her<br>
 smile covered me softly with its light like the sun in heaven.
I<br>
 leave you to laugh at me, or to cry over me, just as your
temper<br>
 may incline. I am not trying to excuse myself--I am trying
to<br>
 explain. You are gentle-folks; what dazzled and maddened ME,
is<br>
 everyday experience to YOU. Fallen or not, angel or devil, it
came<br>
 to this--she was a lady; and I was a groom.</p>

<p>Before the house was astir, I got her away (by the workmen's
train)<br>
 to a large manufacturing town in our parts.</p>

<p>Here--with my savings in money to help her--she could get
her<br>
 outfit of decent clothes and her lodging among strangers who
asked<br>
 no questions so long as they were paid. Here--now on one
pretense<br>
 and now on another--I could visit her, and we could both
plan<br>
 together what our future lives were to be. I need not tell
you<br>
 that I stood pledged to make her my wife. A man in my
station<br>
 always marries a woman of her sort.</p>

<p>Do you wonder if I was happy at this time? I should have
been<br>
 perfectly happy but for one little drawback. It was this: I
was<br>
 never quite at my ease in the presence of my promised wife.</p>

<p>I don't mean that I was shy with her, or suspicious of her,
or<br>
 ashamed of her. The uneasiness I am speaking of was caused by
a<br>
 faint doubt in my mind whether I had not seen her somewhere,
before<br>
 the morning when we met at the doctor's house. Over and over<br>
 again, I found myself wondering whether her face did not remind
me<br>
 of some other face--what other I never could tell. This
strange<br>
 feeling, this one question that could never be answered, vexed
me<br>
 to a degree that you would hardly credit. It came between us
at<br>
 the strangest times--oftenest, however, at night, when the
candles<br>
 were lit. You have known what it is to try and remember a<br>
 forgotten name--and to fail, search as you may, to find it in
your<br>
 mind. That was my case. I failed to find my lost face, just
as<br>
 you failed to find your lost name.</p>

<p>In three weeks we had talked matters over, and had arranged
how I<br>
 was to make a clean breast of it at home. By Alicia's advice,
I<br>
 was to describe her as having been one of my fellow servants
during<br>
 the time I was employed under my kind master and mistress in<br>
 London. There was no fear now of my mother taking any harm
from<br>
 the shock of a great surprise. Her health had improved during
the<br>
 three weeks' interval. On the first evening when she was able
to<br>
 take her old place at tea time, I summoned my courage, and told
her<br>
 I was going to be married. The poor soul flung her arms round
my<br>
 neck, and burst out crying for joy. "Oh, Francis!" she says, "I
am<br>
 so glad you will have somebody to comfort you and care for you
when<br>
 I am gone!" As for my aunt Chance, you can anticipate what
SHE<br>
 did, without being told. Ah, me! If there had really been
any<br>
 prophetic virtue in the cards, what a terrible warning they
might<br>
 have given us that night! It was arranged that I was to bring
my<br>
 promised wife to dinner at the cottage on the next day.</p>

<h3><br>
 X</h3>

<p><br>
 I own I was proud of Alicia when I led her into our little
parlor<br>
 at the appointed time. She had never, to my mind, looked so<br>
 beautiful as she looked that day. I never noticed any other<br>
 woman's dress--I noticed hers as carefully as if I had been a
woman<br>
 myself! She wore a black silk gown, with plain collar and
cuffs,<br>
 and a modest lavender-colored bonnet, with one white rose in
it<br>
 placed at the side. My mother, dressed in her Sunday best,
rose<br>
 up, all in a flutter, to welcome her daughter-in-law that was
to<br>
 be. She walked forward a few steps, half smiling, half in
tears--<br>
 she looked Alicia full in the face--and suddenly stood still.
Her<br>
 cheeks turned white in an instant; her eyes stared in horror;
her<br>
 hands dropped helplessly at her sides. She staggered back,
and<br>
 fell into the arms of my aunt, standing behind her. It was
no<br>
 swoon--she kept her senses. Her eyes turned slowly from Alicia
to<br>
 me. "Francis," she said, "does that woman's face remind you
of<br>
 nothing?"</p>

<p><br>
 Before I could answer, she pointed to her writing-desk on the
table<br>
 at the fireside. "Bring it!" she cried, "bring it!"</p>

<p>At the same moment I felt Alicia's hand on my shoulder, and
saw<br>
 Alicia's face red with anger--and no wonder!</p>

<p>"What does this mean?" she asked. "Does your mother want to
insult<br>
 me?"</p>

<p>I said a few words to quiet her; what they were I don't
remember--I<br>
 was so confused and astonished at the time. Before I had done,
I<br>
 heard my mother behind me.</p>

<p>My aunt had fetched her desk. She had opened it; she had taken
a<br>
 paper from it. Step by step, helping herself along by the
wall,<br>
 she came nearer and nearer, with the paper in her hand. She
looked<br>
 at the paper--she looked in Alicia's face--she lifted the
long,<br>
 loose sleeve of her gown, and examined her hand and arm. I
saw<br>
 fear suddenly take the place of anger in Alicia's eyes. She
shook<br>
 herself free of my mother's grasp. "Mad!" she said to
herself,<br>
 "and Francis never told me!" With those words she ran out of
the<br>
 room.</p>

<p>I was hastening out after her, when my mother signed to me to
stop.<br>
 She read the words written on the paper. While they fell
slowly,<br>
 one by one, from her lips, she pointed toward the open door.</p>

<p>"Light gray eyes, with a droop in the left eyelid. Flaxen
hair,<br>
 with a gold-yellow streak in it. White arms, with a down
upon<br>
 them. Little, lady's hand, with a rosy-red look about the
finger<br>
 nails. The Dream Woman, Francis! The Dream Woman!"</p>

<p>Something darkened the parlor window as those words were
spoken. I<br>
 looked sidelong at the shadow. Alicia Warlock had come back!
She<br>
 was peering in at us over the low window blind. There was
the<br>
 fatal face which had first looked at me in the bedroom of
the<br>
 lonely inn. There, resting on the window blind, was the
lovely<br>
 little hand which had held the murderous knife. I HAD seen
her<br>
 before we met in the village. The Dream Woman! The Dream
Woman!</p>

<h3><br>
 XI</h3>

<p><br>
 I expect nobody to approve of what I have next to tell of
myself.<br>
 In three weeks from the day when my mother had identified her
with<br>
 the Woman of the Dream, I took Alicia Warlock to church, and
made<br>
 her my wife. I was a man bewitched. Again and again I say
it--I<br>
 was a man bewitched!</p>

<p>During the interval before my marriage, our little household
at the<br>
 cottage was broken up. My mother and my aunt quarreled. My<br>
 mother, believing in the Dream, entreated me to break off my<br>
 engagement. My aunt, believing in the cards, urged me to
marry.</p>

<p>This difference of opinion produced a dispute between them, in
the<br>
 course of which my aunt Chance--quite unconscious of having
any<br>
 superstitious feelings of her own--actually set out the cards
which<br>
 prophesied happiness to me in my married life, and asked my
mother<br>
 how anybody but "a blinded heathen could be fule enough,
after<br>
 seeing those cairds, to believe in a dream!" This was,
naturally,<br>
 too much for my mother's patience; hard words followed on
either<br>
 side; Mrs. Chance returned in dudgeon to her friends in
Scotland.<br>
 She left me a written statement of my future prospects, as
revealed<br>
 by the cards, and with it an address at which a post-office
order<br>
 would reach her. "The day was not that far off," she
remarked,<br>
 "when Francie might remember what he owed to his aunt
Chance,<br>
 maintaining her ain unbleemished widowhood on thratty punds
a<br>
 year."</p>

<p><br>
 Having refused to give her sanction to my marriage, my mother
also<br>
 refused to be present at the wedding, or to visit Alicia<br>
 afterwards. There was no anger at the bottom of this conduct
on<br>
 her part. Believing as she did in this Dream, she was simply
in<br>
 mortal fear of my wife. I understood this, and I made
allowances<br>
 for her. Not a cross word passed between us. My one happy<br>
 remembrance now--though I did disobey her in the matter of
my<br>
 marriage--is this: I loved and respected my good mother to
the<br>
 last.</p>

<p>As for my wife, she expressed no regret at the estrangement
between<br>
 her mother-in-law and herself. By common consent, we never
spoke<br>
 on that subject. We settled in the manufacturing town which I
have<br>
 already mentioned, and we kept a lodging-house. My kind master,
at<br>
 my request, granted me a lump sum in place of my annuity. This
put<br>
 us into a good house, decently furnished. For a while things
went<br>
 well enough. I may describe myself at this time of my life as
a<br>
 happy man.</p>

<p>My misfortunes began with a return of the complaint with which
my<br>
 mother had already suffered. The doctor confessed, when I
asked<br>
 him the question, that there was danger to be dreaded this
time.<br>
 Naturally, after hearing this, I was a good deal away at the<br>
 cottage. Naturally also, I left the business of looking after
the<br>
 house, in my absence, to my wife. Little by little, I found
her<br>
 beginning to alter toward me. While my back was turned, she
formed<br>
 acquaintances with people of the doubtful and dissipated sort.
One<br>
 day, I observed something in her manner which forced the
suspicion<br>
 on me that she had been drinking. Before the week was out,
my<br>
 suspicion was a certainty. From keeping company with
drunkards,<br>
 she had grown to be a drunkard herself.</p>

<p>I did all a man could do to reclaim her. Quite useless! She
had<br>
 never really returned the love I felt for her: I had no
influence;<br>
 I could do nothing. My mother, hearing of this last worse
trouble,<br>
 resolved to try what her influence could do. Ill as she was,
I<br>
 found her one day dressed to go out.</p>

<p>"I am not long for this world, Francis," she said. "I shall
not<br>
 feel easy on my deathbed, unless I have done my best to the last
to<br>
 make you happy. I mean to put my own fears and my own feelings
out<br>
 of the question, and go with you to your wife, and try what I
can<br>
 do to reclaim her. Take me home with you, Francis. Let me do
all<br>
 I can to help my son, before it is too late."</p>

<p>How could I disobey her? We took the railway to the town: it
was<br>
 only half an hour's ride. By one o'clock in the afternoon we<br>
 reached my house. It was our dinner hour, and Alicia was in
the<br>
 kitchen. I was able to take my mother quietly into the parlor
and<br>
 then to prepare my wife for the visit. She had drunk but little
at<br>
 that early hour; and, luckily, the devil in her was tamed for
the<br>
 time.</p>

<p>She followed me into the parlor, and the meeting passed off
better<br>
 than I had ventured to forecast; with this one drawback, that
my<br>
 mother--though she tried hard to control herself--shrank
from<br>
 looking my wife in the face when she spoke to her. It was a
relief<br>
 to me when Alicia began to prepare the table for dinner.</p>

<p>She laid the cloth, brought in the bread tray, and cut some
slices<br>
 for us from the loaf. Then she returned to the kitchen. At
that<br>
 moment, while I was still anxiously watching my mother, I
was<br>
 startled by seeing the same ghastly change pass over her face
which<br>
 had altered it in the morning when Alicia and she first met.<br>
 Before I could say a word, she started up with a look of
horror.</p>

<p>"Take me back!--home, home again, Francis! Come with me, and
never<br>
 go back more!"</p>

<p>I was afraid to ask for an explanation; I could only sign her
to be<br>
 silent, and help her quickly to the door. As we passed the
bread<br>
 tray on the table, she stopped and pointed to it.</p>

<p>"Did you see what your wife cut your bread with?" she
asked.</p>

<p>"No, mother; I was not noticing. What was it?"</p>

<p>"Look!"</p>

<p>I did look. A new clasp knife, with a buckhorn handle, lay
with<br>
 the loaf in the bread tray. I stretched out my hand to
possess<br>
 myself of it. At the same moment, there was a noise in the<br>
 kitchen, and my mother caught me by the arm.</p>

<p>"The knife of the Dream! Francis, I'm faint with fear--take
me<br>
 away before she comes back!"</p>

<p>I couldn't speak to comfort or even to answer her. Superior as
I<br>
 was to superstition, the discovery of the knife staggered me.
In<br>
 silence, I helped my mother out of the house; and took her
home.</p>

<p>I held out my hand to say good-by. She tried to stop me.</p>

<p>"Don't go back, Francis! don't go back!"</p>

<p>"I must get the knife, mother. I must go back by the next
train."<br>
 I held to that resolution. By the next train I went back.</p>

<h3><br>
 XII</h3>

<p><br>
 My wife had, of course, discovered our secret departure from
the<br>
 house. She had been drinking. She was in a fury of passion.
The<br>
 dinner in the kitchen was flung under the grate; the cloth was
off<br>
 the parlor table. Where was the knife?</p>

<p>I was foolish enough to ask for it. She refused to give it to
me.<br>
 In the course of the dispute between us which followed, I<br>
 discovered that there was a horrible story attached to the
knife.<br>
 It had been used in a murder--years since--and had been so<br>
 skillfully hidden that the authorities had been unable to
produce<br>
 it at the trial. By help of some of her disreputable friends,
my<br>
 wife had been able to purchase this relic of a bygone crime.
Her<br>
 perverted nature set some horrid unacknowledged value on the
knife.<br>
 Seeing there was no hope of getting it by fair means, I
determined<br>
 to search for it, later in the day, in secret. The search
was<br>
 unsuccessful. Night came on, and I left the house to walk
about<br>
 the streets. You will understand what a broken man I was by
this<br>
 time, when I tell you I was afraid to sleep in the same room
with<br>
 her!</p>

<p><br>
 Three weeks passed. Still she refused to give up the knife;
and<br>
 still that fear of sleeping in the same room with her possessed
me.<br>
 I walked about at night, or dozed in the parlor, or sat watching
by<br>
 my mother's bedside. Before the end of the first week in the
new<br>
 month, the worst misfortune of all befell me--my mother died.
It<br>
 wanted then but a short time to my birthday. She had longed
to<br>
 live till that day. I was present at her death. Her last words
in<br>
 this world were addressed to me. "Don't go back, my son--don't
go<br>
 back!"</p>

<p>I was obliged to go back, if it was only to watch my wife. In
the<br>
 last days of my mother's illness she had spitefully added a
sting<br>
 to my grief by declaring she would assert her right to attend
the<br>
 funeral. In spite of all that I could do or say, she held to
her<br>
 word. On the day appointed for the burial she forced
herself,<br>
 inflamed and shameless with drink, into my presence, and swore
she<br>
 would walk in the funeral procession to my mother's grave.</p>

<p>This last insult--after all I had gone through already--was
more<br>
 than I could endure. It maddened me. Try to make allowances for
a<br>
 man beside himself. I struck her.</p>

<p>The instant the blow was dealt, I repented it. She crouched
down,<br>
 silent, in a corner of the room, and eyed me steadily. It was
a<br>
 look that cooled my hot blood in an instant. There was no time
now<br>
 to think of making atonement. I could only risk the worst,
and<br>
 make sure of her till the funeral was over. I locked her into
her<br>
 bedroom.</p>

<p>When I came back, after laying my mother in the grave, I found
her<br>
 sitting by the bedside, very much altered in look and bearing,
with<br>
 a bundle on her lap. She faced me quietly; she spoke with a<br>
 curious stillness in her voice--strangely and unnaturally
composed<br>
 in look and manner.</p>

<p>"No man has ever struck me yet," she said. "My husband shall
have<br>
 no second opportunity. Set the door open, and let me go."</p>

<p>She passed me, and left the room. I saw her walk away up
the<br>
 street. Was she gone for good?</p>

<p>All that night I watched and waited. No footstep came near
the<br>
 house. The next night, overcome with fatigue, I lay down on
the<br>
 bed in my clothes, with the door locked, the key on the table,
and<br>
 the candle burning. My slumber was not disturbed. The third<br>
 night, the fourth, the fifth, the sixth, passed, and nothing<br>
 happened. I lay down on the seventh night, still suspicious
of<br>
 something happening; still in my clothes; still with the
door<br>
 locked, the key on the table, and the candle burning.</p>

<p>My rest was disturbed. I awoke twice, without any sensation
of<br>
 uneasiness. The third time, that horrid shivering of the night
at<br>
 the lonely inn, that awful sinking pain at the heart, came
back<br>
 again, and roused me in an instant. My eyes turned to the
left-<br>
 hand side of the bed. And there stood, looking at me--</p>

<p>The Dream Woman again? No! My wife. The living woman, with
the<br>
 face of the Dream--in the attitude of the Dream--the fair arm
up;<br>
 the knife clasped in the delicate white hand.</p>

<p>I sprang upon her on the instant; but not quickly enough to
stop<br>
 her from hiding the knife. Without a word from me, without a
cry<br>
 from her, I pinioned her in a chair. With one hand I felt up
her<br>
 sleeve; and there, where the Dream Woman had hidden the knife,
my<br>
 wife had hidden it--the knife with the buckhorn handle, that
looked<br>
 like new.</p>

<p>What I felt when I made that discovery I could not realize at
the<br>
 time, and I can't describe now. I took one steady look at her
with<br>
 the knife in my hand. "You meant to kill me?" I said.</p>

<p>"Yes," she answered; "I meant to kill you." She crossed her
arms<br>
 over her bosom, and stared me coolly in the face. "I shall do
it<br>
 yet," she said. "With that knife."</p>

<p>I don't know what possessed me--I swear to you I am no coward;
and<br>
 yet I acted like a coward. The horrors got hold of me. I
couldn't<br>
 look at her--I couldn't speak to her. I left her (with the
knife<br>
 in my hand), and went out into the night.</p>

<p>There was a bleak wind abroad, and the smell of rain was in
the<br>
 air. The church clocks chimed the quarter as I walked beyond
the<br>
 last house in the town. I asked the first policeman I met
what<br>
 hour that was, of which the quarter past had just struck.</p>

<p>The man looked at his watch, and answered, "Two o'clock." Two
in<br>
 the morning. What day of the month was this day that had
just<br>
 begun? I reckoned it up from the date of my mother's funeral.
The<br>
 horrid parallel between the dream and the reality was
complete--it<br>
 was my birthday!</p>

<p>Had I escaped the mortal peril which the dream foretold? or
had I<br>
 only received a second warning? As that doubt crossed my mind
I<br>
 stopped on my way out of the town. The air had revived me--I
felt<br>
 in some degree like my own self again. After a little thinking,
I<br>
 began to see plainly the mistake I had made in leaving my wife
free<br>
 to go where she liked and to do as she pleased.</p>

<p>I turned instantly, and made my way back to the house. It
was<br>
 still dark. I had left the candle burning in the bedchamber.
When<br>
 I looked up to the window of the room now, there was no light
in<br>
 it. I advanced to the house door. On going away, I remembered
to<br>
 have closed it; on trying it now, I found it open.</p>

<p>I waited outside, never losing sight of the house till
daylight.<br>
 Then I ventured indoors--listened, and heard nothing--looked
into<br>
 the kitchen, scullery, parlor, and found nothing--went up at
last<br>
 into the bedroom. It was empty.</p>

<p>A picklock lay on the floor, which told me how she had
gained<br>
 entrance in the night. And that was the one trace I could find
of<br>
 the Dream Woman.</p>

<h3><br>
 XIII</h3>

<p><br>
 I waited in the house till the town was astir for the day, and
then<br>
 I went to consult a lawyer. In the confused state of my mind
at<br>
 the time, I had one clear notion of what I meant to do: I
was<br>
 determined to sell my house and leave the neighborhood. There
were<br>
 obstacles in the way which I had not counted on. I was told I
had<br>
 creditors to satisfy before I could leave--I, who had given my
wife<br>
 the money to pay my bills regularly every week! Inquiry
showed<br>
 that she had embezzled every farthing of the money I had
intrusted<br>
 to her. I had no choice but to pay over again.</p>

<p><br>
 Placed in this awkward position, my first duty was to set
things<br>
 right, with the help of my lawyer. During my forced sojourn in
the<br>
 town I did two foolish things. And, as a consequence that<br>
 followed, I heard once more, and heard for the last time, of
my<br>
 wife.</p>

<p>In the first place, having got possession of the knife, I was
rash<br>
 enough to keep it in my pocket. In the second place, having<br>
 something of importance to say to my lawyer, at a late hour of
the<br>
 evening, I went to his house after dark--alone and on foot. I
got<br>
 there safely enough. Returning, I was seized on from behind by
two<br>
 men, dragged down a passage and robbed--not only of the
little<br>
 money I had about me, but also of the knife. It was the
lawyer's<br>
 opinion (as it was mine) that the thieves were among the<br>
 disreputable acquaintances formed by my wife, and that they,
had<br>
 attacked me at her instigation. To confirm this view I received
a<br>
 letter the next day, without date or address, written in
Alicia's<br>
 hand. The first line informed me that the knife was back again
in<br>
 her possession. The second line reminded me of the day when
I<br>
 struck her. The third line warned me that she would wash out
the<br>
 stain of that blow in my blood, and repeated the words, "I shall
do<br>
 it with the knife!"</p>

<p>These things happened a year ago. The law laid hands on the
men<br>
 who had robbed me; but from that time to this, the law has
failed<br>
 completely to find a trace of my wife.</p>

<p>My story is told. When I had paid the creditors and paid the
legal<br>
 expenses, I had barely five pounds left out of the sale of
my<br>
 house; and I had the world to begin over again. Some months
since--<br>
 drifting here and there--I found my way to Underbridge. The<br>
 landlord of the inn had known something of my father's family
in<br>
 times past. He gave me (all he had to give) my food, and
shelter<br>
 in the yard. Except on market days, there is nothing to do.
In<br>
 the coming winter the inn is to be shut up, and I shall have
to<br>
 shift for myself. My old master would help me if I applied to
him--<br>
 but I don't like to apply: he has done more for me already than
I<br>
 deserve. Besides, in another year who knows but my troubles
may<br>
 all be at an end? Next winter will bring me nigh to my next<br>
 birthday, and my next birthday may be the day of my death.
Yes!<br>
 it's true I sat up all last night; and I heard two in the
morning<br>
 strike: and nothing happened. Still, allowing for that, the
time<br>
 to come is a time I don't trust. My wife has got the
knife--my<br>
 wife is looking for me. I am above superstition, mind! I
don't<br>
 say I believe in dreams; I only say, Alicia Warlock is looking
for<br>
 me. It is possible I may be wrong. It is possible I may be
right.<br>
 Who can tell?</p>

<p> </p>

<h2>THE THIRD NARRATIVE</h2>

<h3>THE STORY CONTINUED BY PERCY FAIRBANK</h3>

<h3><br>
 XIV</h3>

<p><br>
 We took leave of Francis Raven at the door of Farleigh Hall,
with<br>
 the understanding that he might expect to hear from us
again.</p>

<p>The same night Mrs. Fairbank and I had a discussion in the<br>
 sanctuary of our own room. The topic was "The Hostler's
Story";<br>
 and the question in dispute between us turned on the measure
of<br>
 charitable duty that we owed to the hostler himself.</p>

<p>The view I took of the man's narrative was of the purely
matter-of-<br>
 fact kind. Francis Raven had, in my opinion, brooded over
the<br>
 misty connection between his strange dream and his vile wife,
until<br>
 his mind was in a state of partial delusion on that subject. I
was<br>
 quite willing to help him with a trifle of money, and to
recommend<br>
 him to the kindness of my lawyer, if he was really in any
danger<br>
 and wanted advice. There my idea of my duty toward this
afflicted<br>
 person began and ended.</p>

<p><br>
 Confronted with this sensible view of the matter, Mrs.
Fairbank's<br>
 romantic temperament rushed, as usual, into extremes. "I should
no<br>
 more think of losing sight of Francis Raven when his next
birthday<br>
 comes round," says my wife, "than I should think of laying down
a<br>
 good story with the last chapters unread. I am positively<br>
 determined, Percy, to take him back with us when we return
to<br>
 France, in the capacity of groom. What does one man more or
less<br>
 among the horses matter to people as rich as we are?" In
this<br>
 strain the partner of my joys and sorrows ran on, perfectly<br>
 impenetrable to everything that I could say on the side of
common<br>
 sense. Need I tell my married brethren how it ended? Of course
I<br>
 allowed my wife to irritate me, and spoke to her sharply.</p>

<p>Of course my wife turned her face away indignantly on the
conjugal<br>
 pillow, and burst into tears. Of course upon that, "Mr." made
his<br>
 excuses, and "Mrs." had her own way.</p>

<p>Before the week was out we rode over to Underbridge, and
duly<br>
 offered to Francis Raven a place in our service as
supernumerary<br>
 groom.</p>

<p>At first the poor fellow seemed hardly able to realize his
own<br>
 extraordinary good fortune. Recovering himself, he expressed
his<br>
 gratitude modestly and becomingly. Mrs. Fairbank's ready<br>
 sympathies overflowed, as usual, at her lips. She talked to
him<br>
 about our home in France, as if the worn, gray-headed hostler
had<br>
 been a child. "Such a dear old house, Francis; and such
pretty<br>
 gardens! Stables! Stables ten times as big as your stables
here--<br>
 quite a choice of rooms for you. You must learn the name of
our<br>
 house--Maison Rouge. Our nearest town is Metz. We are within
a<br>
 walk of the beautiful River Moselle. And when we want a change
we<br>
 have only to take the railway to the frontier, and find
ourselves<br>
 in Germany."</p>

<p>Listening, so far, with a very bewildered face, Francis
started and<br>
 changed color when my wife reached the end of her last
sentence.<br>
 "Germany?" he repeated.</p>

<p>"Yes. Does Germany remind you of anything?"</p>

<p>The hostler's eyes looked down sadly on the ground.
"Germany<br>
 reminds me of my wife," he replied.</p>

<p>"Indeed! How?"</p>

<p>"She once told me she had lived in Germany--long before I knew
her-<br>
 -in the time when she was a young girl."</p>

<p>"Was she living with relations or friends?"</p>

<p>"She was living as governess in a foreign family."</p>

<p>"In what part of Germany?"</p>

<p>"I don't remember, ma'am. I doubt if she told me."</p>

<p>"Did she tell you the name of the family?"</p>

<p>"Yes, ma'am. It was a foreign name, and it has slipped my
memory<br>
 long since. The head of the family was a wine grower in a
large<br>
 way of business--I remember that."</p>

<p>"Did you hear what sort of wine he grew? There are wine
growers in<br>
 our neighborhood. Was it Moselle wine?"</p>

<p>"I couldn't say, ma'am, I doubt if I ever heard."</p>

<p>There the conversation dropped. We engaged to communicate
with<br>
 Francis Raven before we left England, and took our leave. I
had<br>
 made arrangements to pay our round of visits to English
friends,<br>
 and to return to Maison Rouge in the summer. On the eve of<br>
 departure, certain difficulties in connection with the
management<br>
 of some landed property of mine in Ireland obliged us to alter
our<br>
 plans. Instead of getting back to our house in France in the<br>
 Summer, we only returned a week or two before Christmas.
Francis<br>
 Raven accompanied us, and was duly established, in the
nominal<br>
 capacity of stable keeper, among the servants at Maison
Rouge.</p>

<p>Before long, some of the objections to taking him into our<br>
 employment, which I had foreseen and had vainly mentioned to
my<br>
 wife, forced themselves on our attention in no very agreeable
form.<br>
 Francis Raven failed (as I had feared he would) to get on
smoothly<br>
 with his fellow-servants. They were all French; and not one
of<br>
 them understood English. Francis, on his side, was equally<br>
 ignorant of French. His reserved manners, his melancholy<br>
 temperament, his solitary ways--all told against him. Our
servants<br>
 called him "the English Bear." He grew widely known in the<br>
 neighborhood under his nickname. Quarrels took place, ending
once<br>
 or twice in blows. It became plain, even to Mrs. Fairbank
herself,<br>
 that some wise change must be made. While we were still<br>
 considering what the change was to be, the unfortunate hostler
was<br>
 thrown on our hands for some time to come by an accident in
the<br>
 stables. Still pursued by his proverbial ill-luck, the poor<br>
 wretch's leg was broken by a kick from a horse.</p>

<p>He was attended to by our own surgeon, in his comfortable
bedroom<br>
 at the stables. As the date of his birthday drew near, he
was<br>
 still confined to his bed.</p>

<p>Physically speaking, he was doing very well. Morally speaking,
the<br>
 surgeon was not satisfied. Francis Raven was suffering under
some<br>
 mysterious mental disturbance, which interfered seriously with
his<br>
 rest at night. Hearing this, I thought it my duty to tell
the<br>
 medical attendant what was preying on the patient's mind. As
a<br>
 practical man, he shared my opinion that the hostler was in a
state<br>
 of delusion on the subject of his Wife and his Dream.
"Curable<br>
 delusion, in my opinion," the surgeon added, "if the
experiment<br>
 could be fairly tried."</p>

<p>"How can it be tried?" I asked. Instead of replying, the
surgeon<br>
 put a question to me, on his side.</p>

<p>"Do you happen to know," he said, "that this year is Leap
Year?"</p>

<p>"Mrs. Fairbank reminded me of it yesterday," I answered.<br>
 "Otherwise I might NOT have known it."</p>

<p>"Do you think Francis Raven knows that this year is Leap
Year?"</p>

<p>(I began to see dimly what my friend was driving at.)</p>

<p>"It depends," I answered, "on whether he has got an
English<br>
 almanac. Suppose he has NOT got the almanac--what then?"</p>

<p>"In that case," pursued the surgeon, "Francis Raven is
innocent of<br>
 all suspicion that there is a twenty-ninth day in February
this<br>
 year. As a necessary consequence--what will he do? He will<br>
 anticipate the appearance of the Woman with the Knife, at two
in<br>
 the morning of the twenty-ninth of February, instead of the
first<br>
 of March. Let him suffer all his superstitious terrors on
the<br>
 wrong day. Leave him, on the day that is really his birthday,
to<br>
 pass a perfectly quiet night, and to be as sound asleep as
other<br>
 people at two in the morning. And then, when he wakes
comfortably<br>
 in time for his breakfast, shame him out of his delusion by
telling<br>
 him the truth."</p>

<p>I agreed to try the experiment. Leaving the surgeon to
caution<br>
 Mrs. Fairbank on the subject of Leap Year, I went to the stables
to<br>
 see Mr. Raven.</p>

<h3><br>
 XV</h3>

<p><br>
 The poor fellow was full of forebodings of the fate in store
for<br>
 him on the ominous first of March. He eagerly entreated me
to<br>
 order one of the men servants to sit up with him on the
birthday<br>
 morning. In granting his request, I asked him to tell me on
which<br>
 day of the week his birthday fell. He reckoned the days on
his<br>
 fingers; and proved his innocence of all suspicion that it was
Leap<br>
 Year, by fixing on the twenty-ninth of February, in the full<br>
 persuasion that it was the first of March. Pledged to try
the<br>
 surgeon's experiment, I left his error uncorrected, of course.
In<br>
 so doing, I took my first step blindfold toward the last act in
the<br>
 drama of the Hostler's Dream.</p>

<p><br>
 The next day brought with it a little domestic difficulty,
which<br>
 indirectly and strangely associated itself with the coming
end.</p>

<p>My wife received a letter, inviting us to assist in
celebrating the<br>
 "Silver Wedding" of two worthy German neighbors of ours--Mr.
and<br>
 Mrs. Beldheimer. Mr. Beldheimer was a large wine grower on
the<br>
 banks of the Moselle. His house was situated on the frontier
line<br>
 of France and Germany; and the distance from our house was<br>
 sufficiently considerable to make it necessary for us to
sleep<br>
 under our host's roof. Under these circumstances, if we
accepted<br>
 the invitation, a comparison of dates showed that we should be
away<br>
 from home on the morning of the first of March. Mrs.
Fairbank--<br>
 holding to her absurd resolution to see with her own eyes
what<br>
 might, or might not, happen to Francis Raven on his
birthday--<br>
 flatly declined to leave Maison Rouge. "It's easy to send an<br>
 excuse," she said, in her off-hand manner.</p>

<p>I failed, for my part, to see any easy way out of the
difficulty.<br>
 The celebration of a "Silver Wedding" in Germany is the
celebration<br>
 of twenty-five years of happy married life; and the host's
claim<br>
 upon the consideration of his friends on such an occasion is<br>
 something in the nature of a royal "command." After
considerable<br>
 discussion, finding my wife's obstinacy invincible, and
feeling<br>
 that the absence of both of us from the festival would
certainly<br>
 offend our friends, I left Mrs. Fairbank to make her excuses
for<br>
 herself, and directed her to accept the invitation so far as I
was<br>
 concerned. In so doing, I took my second step, blindfold,
toward<br>
 the last act in the drama of the Hostler's Dream.</p>

<p>A week elapsed; the last days of February were at hand.
Another<br>
 domestic difficulty happened; and, again, this event also proved
to<br>
 be strangely associated with the coming end.</p>

<p>My head groom at the stables was one Joseph Rigobert. He was
an<br>
 ill-conditioned fellow, inordinately vain of his personal<br>
 appearance, and by no means scrupulous in his conduct with
women.<br>
 His one virtue consisted of his fondness for horses, and in
the<br>
 care he took of the animals under his charge. In a word, he
was<br>
 too good a groom to be easily replaced, or he would have quitted
my<br>
 service long since. On the occasion of which I am now writing,
he<br>
 was reported to me by my steward as growing idle and disorderly
in<br>
 his habits. The principal offense alleged against him was, that
he<br>
 had been seen that day in the city of Metz, in the company of
a<br>
 woman (supposed to be an Englishwoman), whom he was entertaining
at<br>
 a tavern, when he ought to have been on his way back to
Maison<br>
 Rouge. The man's defense was that "the lady" (as he called
her)<br>
 was an English stranger, unacquainted with the ways of the
place,<br>
 and that he had only shown her where she could obtain some<br>
 refreshments at her own request. I administered the
necessary<br>
 reprimand, without troubling myself to inquire further into
the<br>
 matter. In failing to do this, I took my third step,
blindfold,<br>
 toward the last act in the drama of the Hostler's Dream.</p>

<p>On the evening of the twenty-eighth, I informed the servants
at the<br>
 stables that one of them must watch through the night by the<br>
 Englishman's bedside. Joseph Rigobert immediately volunteered
for<br>
 the duty--as a means, no doubt, of winning his way back to
my<br>
 favor. I accepted his proposal.</p>

<p>That day the surgeon dined with us. Toward midnight he and I
left<br>
 the smoking room, and repaired to Francis Raven's bedside.<br>
 Rigobert was at his post, with no very agreeable expression on
his<br>
 face. The Frenchman and the Englishman had evidently not got
on<br>
 well together so far. Francis Raven lay helpless on his bed,<br>
 waiting silently for two in the morning and the Dream Woman.</p>

<p>"I have come, Francis, to bid you good night," I said,
cheerfully.<br>
 "To-morrow morning I shall look in at breakfast time, before
I<br>
 leave home on a journey."</p>

<p>"Thank you for all your kindness, sir. You will not see me
alive<br>
 to-morrow morning. She will find me this time. Mark my
words--she<br>
 will find me this time."</p>

<p>"My good fellow! she couldn't find you in England. How in
the<br>
 world is she to find you in France?"</p>

<p>"It's borne in on my mind, sir, that she will find me here. At
two<br>
 in the morning on my birthday I shall see her again, and see
her<br>
 for the last time."</p>

<p>"Do you mean that she will kill you?"</p>

<p>"I mean that, sir, she will kill me--with the knife."</p>

<p>"And with Rigobert in the room to protect you?"</p>

<p>"I am a doomed man. Fifty Rigoberts couldn't protect me."</p>

<p>"And you wanted somebody to sit up with you?"</p>

<p>"Mere weakness, sir. I don't like to be left alone on my<br>
 deathbed."</p>

<p>I looked at the surgeon. If he had encouraged me, I should<br>
 certainly, out of sheer compassion, have confessed to Francis
Raven<br>
 the trick that we were playing him. The surgeon held to his<br>
 experiment; the surgeon's face plainly said--"No."</p>

<p>The next day (the twenty-ninth of February) was the day of
the<br>
 "Silver Wedding." The first thing in the morning, I went to<br>
 Francis Raven's room. Rigobert met me at the door.</p>

<p>"How has he passed the night?" I asked.</p>

<p>"Saying his prayers, and looking for ghosts," Rigobert
answered.<br>
 "A lunatic asylum is the only proper place for him."</p>

<p>I approached the bedside. "Well, Francis, here you are, safe
and<br>
 sound, in spite of what you said to me last night."</p>

<p>His eyes rested on mine with a vacant, wondering look.</p>

<p>"I don't understand it," he said.</p>

<p>"Did you see anything of your wife when the clock struck
two?"</p>

<p>"No, sir."</p>

<p>"Did anything happen?"</p>

<p>"Nothing happened, sir."</p>

<p>"Doesn't THIS satisfy you that you were wrong?"</p>

<p>His eyes still kept their vacant, wondering look. He only
repeated<br>
 the words he had spoken already: "I don't understand it."</p>

<p>I made a last attempt to cheer him. "Come, come, Francis! keep
a<br>
 good heart. You will be out of bed in a fortnight."</p>

<p>He shook his head on the pillow. "There's something wrong,"
he<br>
 said. "I don't expect you to believe me, sir. I only say
there's<br>
 something wrong--and time will show it."</p>

<p>I left the room. Half an hour later I started for Mr.
Beldheimer's<br>
 house; leaving the arrangements for the morning of the first
of<br>
 March in the hands of the doctor and my wife.</p>

<h3><br>
 XVI</h3>

<p><br>
 The one thing which principally struck me when I joined the
guests<br>
 at the "Silver Wedding" is also the one thing which it is
necessary<br>
 to mention here. On this joyful occasion a noticeable lady
present<br>
 was out of spirits. That lady was no other than the heroine of
the<br>
 festival, the mistress of the house!</p>

<p>In the course of the evening I spoke to Mr. Beldheimer's
eldest son<br>
 on the subject of his mother. As an old friend of the family,
I<br>
 had a claim on his confidence which the young man willingly<br>
 recognized.</p>

<p><br>
 "We have had a very disagreeable matter to deal with," he
said;<br>
 "and my mother has not recovered the painful impression left on
her<br>
 mind. Many years since, when my sisters were children, we had
an<br>
 English governess in the house. She left us, as we then<br>
 understood, to be married. We heard no more of her until a week
or<br>
 ten days since, when my mother received a letter, in which our
ex-<br>
 governess described herself as being in a condition of great<br>
 poverty and distress. After much hesitation she had
ventured--at<br>
 the suggestion of a lady who had been kind to her--to write to
her<br>
 former employers, and to appeal to their remembrance of old
times.<br>
 You know my mother she is not only the most kind-headed, but
the<br>
 most innocent of women--it is impossible to persuade her of
the<br>
 wickedness that there is in the world. She replied by return
of<br>
 post, inviting the governess to come here and see her, and<br>
 inclosing the money for her traveling expenses. When my
father<br>
 came home, and heard what had been done, he wrote at once to
his<br>
 agent in London to make inquiries, inclosing the address on
the<br>
 governess' letter. Before he could receive the agent's reply
the<br>
 governess arrived. She produced the worst possible impression
on<br>
 his mind. The agent's letter, arriving a few days later,
confirmed<br>
 his suspicions. Since we had lost sight of her, the woman had
led<br>
 a most disreputable life. My father spoke to her privately:
he<br>
 offered--on condition of her leaving the house--a sum of money
to<br>
 take her back to England. If she refused, the alternative would
be<br>
 an appeal to the authorities and a public scandal. She
accepted<br>
 the money, and left the house. On her way back to England
she<br>
 appears to have stopped at Metz. You will understand what sort
of<br>
 woman she is when I tell you that she was seen the other day in
a<br>
 tavern with your handsome groom, Joseph Rigobert."</p>

<p>While my informant was relating these circumstances, my memory
was<br>
 at work. I recalled what Francis Raven had vaguely told us of
his<br>
 wife's experience in former days as governess in a German
family.<br>
 A suspicion of the truth suddenly flashed across my mind.
"What<br>
 was the woman's name?" I asked.</p>

<p>Mr. Beldheimer's son answered: "Alicia Warlock."</p>

<p>I had but one idea when I heard that reply--to get back to my
house<br>
 without a moment's needless delay. It was then ten o'clock
at<br>
 night--the last train to Metz had left long since. I arranged
with<br>
 my young friend--after duly informing him of the
circumstances--<br>
 that I should go by the first train in the morning, instead
of<br>
 staying to breakfast with the other guests who slept in the
house.</p>

<p>At intervals during the night I wondered uneasily how things
were<br>
 going on at Maison Rouge. Again and again the same question<br>
 occurred to me, on my journey home in the early morning--the<br>
 morning of the first of March. As the event proved, but one
person<br>
 in my house knew what really happened at the stables on
Francis<br>
 Raven's birthday. Let Joseph Rigobert take my place as
narrator,<br>
 and tell the story of the end to You--as he told it, in times
past,<br>
 to his lawyer and to Me.</p>

<h2><br>
 FOURTH (AND LAST) NARRATIVE</h2>

<h3>STATEMENT OF JOSEPH RIGOBERT: ADDRESSED TO THE ADVOCATE
WHO<br>
 DEFENDED HIM AT HIS TRIAL</h3>

<p><br>
 RESPECTED SIR,--On the twenty-seventh of February I was sent,
on<br>
 business connected with the stables at Maison Rouge, to the city
of<br>
 Metz. On the public promenade I met a magnificent woman.<br>
 Complexion, blond. Nationality, English. We mutually admired
each<br>
 other; we fell into conversation. (She spoke French
perfectly--<br>
 with the English accent.) I offered refreshment; my proposal
was<br>
 accepted. We had a long and interesting interview--we
discovered<br>
 that we were made for each other. So far, Who is to blame?</p>

<p>Is it my fault that I am a handsome man--universally agreeable
as<br>
 such to the fair sex? Is it a criminal offense to be accessible
to<br>
 the amiable weakness of love? I ask again, Who is to blame?<br>
 Clearly, nature. Not the beautiful lady--not my humble self.</p>

<p><br>
 To resume. The most hard-hearted person living will
understand<br>
 that two beings made for each other could not possibly part
without<br>
 an appointment to meet again.</p>

<p>I made arrangements for the accommodation of the lady in
the<br>
 village near Maison Rouge. She consented to honor me with
her<br>
 company at supper, in my apartment at the stables, on the night
of<br>
 the twenty-ninth. The time fixed on was the time when the
other<br>
 servants were accustomed to retire--eleven o'clock.</p>

<p>Among the grooms attached to the stables was an Englishman,
laid up<br>
 with a broken leg. His name was Francis. His manners were<br>
 repulsive; he was ignorant of the French language. In the
kitchen<br>
 he went by the nickname of the "English Bear." Strange to say,
he<br>
 was a great favorite with my master and my mistress. They
even<br>
 humored certain superstitious terrors to which this
repulsive<br>
 person was subject--terrors into the nature of which I, as
an<br>
 advanced freethinker, never thought it worth my while to
inquire.</p>

<p>On the evening of the twenty-eighth the Englishman, being a
prey to<br>
 the terrors which I have mentioned, requested that one of
his<br>
 fellow-servants might sit up with him for that night only.
The<br>
 wish that he expressed was backed by Mr. Fairbank's
authority.<br>
 Having already incurred my master's displeasure--in what way,
a<br>
 proper sense of my own dignity forbids me to relate--I
volunteered<br>
 to watch by the bedside of the English Bear. My object was
to<br>
 satisfy Mr. Fairbank that I bore no malice, on my side, after
what<br>
 had occurred between us. The wretched Englishman passed a night
of<br>
 delirium. Not understanding his barbarous language, I could
only<br>
 gather from his gesture that he was in deadly fear of some
fancied<br>
 apparition at his bedside. From time to time, when this
madman<br>
 disturbed my slumbers, I quieted him by swearing at him. This
is<br>
 the shortest and best way of dealing with persons in his
condition.</p>

<p>On the morning of the twenty-ninth, Mr. Fairbank left us on
a<br>
 journey. Later in the day, to my unspeakable disgust, I found
that<br>
 I had not done with the Englishman yet. In Mr. Fairbank's
absence,<br>
 Mrs. Fairbank took an incomprehensible interest in the question
of<br>
 my delirious fellow-servant's repose at night. Again, one or
the<br>
 other of us was to watch at his bedside, and report it, if
anything<br>
 happened. Expecting my fair friend to supper, it was necessary
to<br>
 make sure that the other servants at the stables would be safe
in<br>
 their beds that night. Accordingly, I volunteered once more to
be<br>
 the man who kept watch. Mrs. Fairbank complimented me on my<br>
 humanity. I possess great command over my feelings. I
accepted<br>
 the compliment without a blush.</p>

<p>Twice, after nightfall, my mistress and the doctor (the
last<br>
 staying in the house in Mr. Fairbank's absence) came to make<br>
 inquiries. Once BEFORE the arrival of my fair friend--and
once<br>
 AFTER. On the second occasion (my apartment being next door to
the<br>
 Englishman's) I was obliged to hide my charming guest in the<br>
 harness room. She consented, with angelic resignation, to
immolate<br>
 her dignity to the servile necessities of my position. A
more<br>
 amiable woman (so far) I never met with!</p>

<p>After the second visit I was left free. It was then close
on<br>
 midnight. Up to that time there was nothing in the behavior of
the<br>
 mad Englishman to reward Mrs. Fairbank and the doctor for<br>
 presenting themselves at his bedside. He lay half awake,
half<br>
 asleep, with an odd wondering kind of look in his face. My<br>
 mistress at parting warned me to be particularly watchful of
him<br>
 toward two in the morning. The doctor (in case anything
happened)<br>
 left me a large hand bell to ring, which could easily be heard
at<br>
 the house.</p>

<p>Restored to the society of my fair friend, I spread the
supper<br>
 table. A pate, a sausage, and a few bottles of generous
Moselle<br>
 wine, composed our simple meal. When persons adore each other,
the<br>
 intoxicating illusion of Love transforms the simplest meal into
a<br>
 banquet. With immeasurable capacities for enjoyment, we sat
down<br>
 to table. At the very moment when I placed my fascinating<br>
 companion in a chair, the infamous Englishman in the next room
took<br>
 that occasion, of all others, to become restless and noisy
once<br>
 more. He struck with his stick on the floor; he cried out, in
a<br>
 delirious access of terror, "Rigobert! Rigobert!"</p>

<p>The sound of that lamentable voice, suddenly assailing our
ears,<br>
 terrified my fair friend. She lost all her charming color in
an<br>
 instant. "Good heavens!" she exclaimed. "Who is that in the
next<br>
 room?"</p>

<p>"A mad Englishman."</p>

<p>"An Englishman?"</p>

<p>"Compose yourself, my angel. I will quiet him." The
lamentable<br>
 voice called out on me again, "Rigobert! Rigobert!"</p>

<p>My fair friend caught me by the arm. "Who is he?" she
cried.<br>
 "What is his name?"</p>

<p>Something in her face struck me as she put that question. A
spasm<br>
 of jealousy shook me to the soul. "You know him?" I said.</p>

<p>"His name!" she vehemently repeated; "his name!"</p>

<p>"Francis," I answered.</p>

<p>"Francis--WHAT?"</p>

<p>I shrugged my shoulders. I could neither remember nor
pronounce<br>
 the barbarous English surname. I could only tell her it began
with<br>
 an "R."</p>

<p>She dropped back into the chair. Was she going to faint? No:
she<br>
 recovered, and more than recovered, her lost color. Her eyes<br>
 flashed superbly. What did it mean? Profoundly as I
understand<br>
 women in general, I was puzzled by THIS woman!</p>

<p>"You know him?" I repeated.</p>

<p>She laughed at me. "What nonsense! How should I know him? Go
and<br>
 quiet the wretch."</p>

<p>My looking-glass was near. One glance at it satisfied me that
no<br>
 woman in her senses could prefer the Englishman to Me. I
recovered<br>
 my self-respect. I hastened to the Englishman's bedside.</p>

<p>The moment I appeared he pointed eagerly toward my room.
He<br>
 overwhelmed me with a torrent of words in his own language. I
made<br>
 out, from his gestures and his looks, that he had, in some<br>
 incomprehensible manner, discovered the presence of my guest;
and,<br>
 stranger still, that he was scared by the idea of a person in
my<br>
 room. I endeavored to compose him on the system which I have<br>
 already mentioned--that is to say, I swore at him in MY
language.<br>
 The result not proving satisfactory, I own I shook my fist in
his<br>
 face, and left the bedchamber.</p>

<p>Returning to my fair friend, I found her walking backward
and<br>
 forward in a state of excitement wonderful to behold. She had
not<br>
 waited for me to fill her glass--she had begun the generous
Moselle<br>
 in my absence. I prevailed on her with difficulty to place
herself<br>
 at the table. Nothing would induce her to eat. "My appetite
is<br>
 gone," she said. "Give me wine."</p>

<p>The generous Moselle deserves its name--delicate on the
palate,<br>
 with prodigious "body." The strength of this fine wine produced
no<br>
 stupefying effect on my remarkable guest. It appeared to<br>
 strengthen and exhilarate her--nothing more. She always spoke
in<br>
 the same low tone, and always, turn the conversation as I
might,<br>
 brought it back with the same dexterity to the subject of
the<br>
 Englishman in the next room. In any other woman this
persistency<br>
 would have offended me. My lovely guest was irresistible; I<br>
 answered her questions with the docility of a child. She
possessed<br>
 all the amusing eccentricity of her nation. When I told her of
the<br>
 accident which confined the Englishman to his bed, she sprang
to<br>
 her feet. An extraordinary smile irradiated her countenance.
She<br>
 said, "Show me the horse who broke the Englishman's leg! I
must<br>
 see that horse!" I took her to the stables. She kissed the
horse-<br>
 -on my word of honor, she kissed the horse! That struck me.
I<br>
 said. "You DO know the man; and he has wronged you in some
way."<br>
 No! she would not admit it, even then. "I kiss all beautiful<br>
 animals," she said. "Haven't I kissed YOU?" With that
charming<br>
 explanation of her conduct, she ran back up the stairs. I
only<br>
 remained behind to lock the stable door again. When I
rejoined<br>
 her, I made a startling discovery. I caught her coming out of
the<br>
 Englishman's room.</p>

<p>"I was just going downstairs again to call you," she said.
"The<br>
 man in there is getting noisy once more."</p>

<p>The mad Englishman's voice assailed our ears once again.<br>
 "Rigobert! Rigobert!"</p>

<p>He was a frightful object to look at when I saw him this time.
His<br>
 eyes were staring wildly; the perspiration was pouring over
his<br>
 face. In a panic of terror he clasped his hands; he pointed up
to<br>
 heaven. By every sign and gesture that a man can make, he<br>
 entreated me not to leave him again. I really could not help<br>
 smiling. The idea of my staying with HIM, and leaving my
fair<br>
 friend by herself in the next room!</p>

<p>I turned to the door. When the mad wretch saw me leaving him
he<br>
 burst out into a screech of despair--so shrill that I feared
it<br>
 might awaken the sleeping servants.</p>

<p>My presence of mind in emergencies is proverbial among those
who<br>
 know me. I tore open the cupboard in which he kept his
linen--<br>
 seized a handful of his handkerchief's--gagged him with one
of<br>
 them, and secured his hands with the others. There was now
no<br>
 danger of his alarming the servants. After tying the last knot,
I<br>
 looked up.</p>

<p>The door between the Englishman's room and mine was open. My
fair<br>
 friend was standing on the threshold--watching HIM as he lay<br>
 helpless on the bed; watching ME as I tied the last knot.</p>

<p>"What are you doing there?" I asked. "Why did you open the
door?"</p>

<p>She stepped up to me, and whispered her answer in my ear, with
her<br>
 eyes all the time upon the man on the bed:</p>

<p>"I heard him scream."</p>

<p>"Well?"</p>

<p>"I thought you had killed him."</p>

<p>I drew back from her in horror. The suspicion of me which
her<br>
 words implied was sufficiently detestable in itself. But her<br>
 manner when she uttered the words was more revolting still. It
so<br>
 powerfully affected me that I started back from that
beautiful<br>
 creature as I might have recoiled from a reptile crawling over
my<br>
 flesh.</p>

<p>Before I had recovered myself sufficiently to reply, my nerves
were<br>
 assailed by another shock. I suddenly heard my mistress's
voice<br>
 calling to me from the stable yard.</p>

<p>There was no time to think--there was only time to act. The
one<br>
 thing needed was to keep Mrs. Fairbank from ascending the
stairs,<br>
 and discovering--not my lady guest only--but the Englishman
also,<br>
 gagged and bound on his bed. I instantly hurried to the yard.
As<br>
 I ran down the stairs I heard the stable clock strike the
quarter<br>
 to two in the morning.</p>

<p>My mistress was eager and agitated. The doctor (in attendance
on<br>
 her) was smiling to himself, like a man amused at his own
thoughts.</p>

<p>"Is Francis awake or asleep?" Mrs. Fairbank inquired.</p>

<p>"He has been a little restless, madam. But he is now quiet
again.<br>
 If he is not disturbed" (I added those words to prevent her
from<br>
 ascending the stairs), "he will soon fall off into a quiet
sleep."</p>

<p>"Has nothing happened since I was here last?"</p>

<p>"Nothing, madam."</p>

<p>The doctor lifted his eyebrows with a comical look of
distress.<br>
 "Alas, alas, Mrs. Fairbank!" he said. "Nothing has happened!
The<br>
 days of romance are over!"</p>

<p>"It is not two o'clock yet," my mistress answered, a
little<br>
 irritably.</p>

<p>The smell of the stables was strong on the morning air. She
put<br>
 her handkerchief to her nose and led the way out of the yard by
the<br>
 north entrance--the entrance communicating with the gardens and
the<br>
 house. I was ordered to follow her, along with the doctor.
Once<br>
 out of the smell of the stables she began to question me
again.<br>
 She was unwilling to believe that nothing had occurred in
her<br>
 absence. I invented the best answers I could think of on the
spur<br>
 of the moment; and the doctor stood by laughing. So the
minutes<br>
 passed till the clock struck two. Upon that, Mrs. Fairbank<br>
 announced her intention of personally visiting the Englishman
in<br>
 his room. To my great relief, the doctor interfered to stop
her<br>
 from doing this.</p>

<p>"You have heard that Francis is just falling asleep," he said.
"If<br>
 you enter his room you may disturb him. It is essential to
the<br>
 success of my experiment that he should have a good night's
rest,<br>
 and that he should own it himself, before I tell him the truth.
I<br>
 must request, madam, that you will not disturb the man.
Rigobert<br>
 will ring the alarm bell if anything happens."</p>

<p>My mistress was unwilling to yield. For the next five minutes,
at<br>
 least, there was a warm discussion between the two. In the
end<br>
 Mrs. Fairbank was obliged to give way--for the time. "In half
an<br>
 hour," she said, "Francis will either be sound asleep, or
awake<br>
 again. In half an hour I shall come back." She took the
doctor's<br>
 arm. They returned together to the house.</p>

<p>Left by myself, with half an hour before me, I resolved to
take the<br>
 Englishwoman back to the village--then, returning to the
stables,<br>
 to remove the gag and the bindings from Francis, and to let
him<br>
 screech to his heart's content. What would his alarming the
whole<br>
 establishment matter to ME after I had got rid of the
compromising<br>
 presence of my guest?</p>

<p>Returning to the yard I heard a sound like the creaking of an
open<br>
 door on its hinges. The gate of the north entrance I had
just<br>
 closed with my own hand. I went round to the west entrance, at
the<br>
 back of the stables. It opened on a field crossed by two
footpaths<br>
 in Mr. Fairbank's grounds. The nearest footpath led to the<br>
 village. The other led to the highroad and the river.</p>

<p>Arriving at the west entrance I found the door open--swinging
to<br>
 and fro slowly in the fresh morning breeze. I had myself
locked<br>
 and bolted that door after admitting my fair friend at
eleven<br>
 o'clock. A vague dread of something wrong stole its way into
my<br>
 mind. I hurried back to the stables.</p>

<p>I looked into my own room. It was empty. I went to the
harness<br>
 room. Not a sign of the woman was there. I returned to my
room,<br>
 and approached the door of the Englishman's bedchamber. Was
it<br>
 possible that she had remained there during my absence? An<br>
 unaccountable reluctance to open the door made me hesitate, with
my<br>
 hand on the lock. I listened. There was not a sound inside.
I<br>
 called softly. There was no answer. I drew back a step,
still<br>
 hesitating. I noticed something dark moving slowly in the
crevice<br>
 between the bottom of the door and the boarded floor. Snatching
up<br>
 the candle from the table, I held it low, and looked. The
dark,<br>
 slowly moving object was a stream of blood!</p>

<p><br>
 That horrid sight roused me. I opened the door. The
Englishman<br>
 lay on his bed--alone in the room. He was stabbed in two
places--<br>
 in the throat and in the heart. The weapon was left in the
second<br>
 wound. It was a knife of English manufacture, with a handle
of<br>
 buckhorn as good as new.</p>

<p>I instantly gave the alarm. Witnesses can speak to what
followed.<br>
 It is monstrous to suppose that I am guilty of the murder. I
admit<br>
 that I am capable of committing follies: but I shrink from the
bare<br>
 idea of a crime. Besides, I had no motive for killing the
man.<br>
 The woman murdered him in my absence. The woman escaped by
the<br>
 west entrance while I was talking to my mistress. I have no
more<br>
 to say. I swear to you what I have here written is a true<br>
 statement of all that happened on the morning of the first
of<br>
 March.</p>

<p>Accept, sir, the assurance of my sentiments of profound
gratitude<br>
 and respect.</p>

<p>JOSEPH RIGOBERT.</p>

<p> </p>

<h2><br>
 LAST LINES--ADDED BY PERCY FAIRBANK</h2>

<p><br>
 Tried for the murder of Francis Raven, Joseph Rigobert was
found<br>
 Not Guilty; the papers of the assassinated man presented
ample<br>
 evidence of the deadly animosity felt toward him by his
wife.</p>

<p>The investigations pursued on the morning when the crime
was<br>
 committed showed that the murderess, after leaving the stable,
had<br>
 taken the footpath which led to the river. The river was
dragged--<br>
 without result. It remains doubtful to this day whether she
died<br>
 by drowning or not. The one thing certain is--that Alicia
Warlock<br>
 was never seen again.</p>

<p><br>
 So--beginning in mystery, ending in mystery--the Dream Woman
passes<br>
 from your view. Ghost; demon; or living human creature--say
for<br>
 yourselves which she is. Or, knowing what unfathomed wonders
are<br>
 around you, what unfathomed wonders are IN you, let the wise
words<br>
 of the greatest of all poets be explanation enough:</p>

<blockquote>
<p><br>
 "We are such stuff<br>
 As dreams are made of, and our little life<br>
 Is rounded with a sleep."</p>
</blockquote>

<p>Anonymous</p>

<p> </p>

<h2>The Lost Duchess</h2>

<h3><br>
 I</h3>

<p><br>
 "Has the duchess returned?"</p>

<p>"No, your grace."</p>

<p>Knowles came farther into the room. He had a letter on a
salver.<br>
 When the duke had taken it, Knowles still lingered. The duke<br>
 glanced at him.</p>

<p><br>
 "Is an answer required?"</p>

<p>"No, your grace." Still Knowles lingered. "Something a
little<br>
 singular has happened. The carriage has returned without the<br>
 duchess, and the men say that they thought her grace was in
it."</p>

<p>"What do you mean?"</p>

<p>"I hardly understand myself, your grace. Perhaps you would
like to<br>
 see Barnes."</p>

<p>Barnes was the coachman.</p>

<p>"Send him up." When Knowles had gone, and he was alone, his
grace<br>
 showed signs of being slightly annoyed. He looked at his
watch.<br>
 "I told her she'd better be in by four. She says that she's
not<br>
 feeling well, and yet one would think that she was not aware of
the<br>
 fatigue entailed in having the prince come to dinner, and a mob
of<br>
 people to follow. I particularly wished her to lie down for
a<br>
 couple of hours."</p>

<p>Knowles ushered in not only Barnes, the coachman, but Moysey,
the<br>
 footman, too. Both these persons seemed to be ill at ease.
The<br>
 duke glanced at them sharply. In his voice there was a
suggestion<br>
 of impatience.</p>

<p>"What is the matter?"</p>

<p>Barnes explained as best he could.</p>

<p>"If you please, your grace, we waited for the duchess outside
Cane<br>
 and Wilson's, the drapers. The duchess came out, got into
the<br>
 carriage, and Moysey shut the door, and her grace said, 'Home!'
and<br>
 yet when we got home she wasn't there."</p>

<p>"She wasn't where?"</p>

<p>"Her grace wasn't in the carriage, your grace."</p>

<p>"What on earth do you mean?"</p>

<p>"Her grace did get into the carriage; you shut the door,
didn't<br>
 you?"</p>

<p>Barnes turned to Moysey. Moysey brought his hand up to his
brow in<br>
 a sort of military salute--he had been a soldier in the regiment
in<br>
 which, once upon a time, the duke had been a subaltern.</p>

<p>"She did. The duchess came out of the shop. She seemed rather
in<br>
 a hurry, I thought. She got into the carriage, and she said,<br>
 'Home, Moysey!' I shut the door, and Barnes drove straight
home.<br>
 We never stopped anywhere, and we never noticed nothing happen
on<br>
 the way; and yet when we got home the carriage was empty."</p>

<p>The duke started.</p>

<p>"Do you mean to tell me that the duchess got out of the
carriage<br>
 while you were driving full pelt through the streets without
saying<br>
 anything to you, and without you noticing it?"</p>

<p>"The carriage was empty when we got home, your grace."</p>

<p>"Was either of the doors open?"</p>

<p>"No, your grace."</p>

<p>"You fellows have been up to some infernal mischief. You have
made<br>
 a mess of it. You never picked up the duchess, and you're
trying<br>
 to palm this tale off on me to save yourselves."</p>

<p>Barnes was moved to adjuration:</p>

<p>"I'll take my Bible oath, your grace, that the duchess got
into the<br>
 carriage outside Cane and Wilson's."</p>

<p>Moysey seconded his colleague.</p>

<p>"I will swear to that, your grace. She got into that carriage,
and<br>
 I shut the door, and she said, 'Home, Moysey!'"</p>

<p>The duke looked as if he did not know what to make of the
story and<br>
 its tellers.</p>

<p>"What carriage did you have?"</p>

<p>"Her grace's brougham, your grace."</p>

<p>Knowles interposed:</p>

<p>"The brougham was ordered because I understood that the
duchess was<br>
 not feeling very well, and there's rather a high wind, your
grace."</p>

<p>The duke snapped at him:</p>

<p>"What has that to do with it? Are you suggesting that the
duchess<br>
 was more likely to jump out of a brougham while it was
dashing<br>
 through the streets than out of any other kind of vehicle?"</p>

<p>The duke's glance fell on the letter which Knowles had brought
him<br>
 when he first had entered. He had placed it on his writing
table.<br>
 Now he took it up. It was, addressed:</p>

<p><br>
 "To His Grace the Duke of Datchet.</p>

<p>Private!</p>

<p>VERY PRESSING! ! !"</p>

<p><br>
 The name was written in a fine, clear, almost feminine hand.
The<br>
 words in the left-hand corner of the envelope were written in
a<br>
 different hand. They were large and bold; almost as though
they<br>
 had been painted with the end of the penholder instead of
being<br>
 written with the pen. The envelope itself was of an unusual
size,<br>
 and bulged out as though it contained something else besides
a<br>
 letter.</p>

<p><br>
 The duke tore the envelope open. As he did so something fell
out<br>
 of it on to the writing table. It looked as though it was a
lock<br>
 of a woman's hair. As he glanced at it the duke seemed to be
a<br>
 trifle startled. The duke read the letter:</p>

<p><br>
 "Your grace will be so good as to bring five hundred pounds in
gold<br>
 to the Piccadilly end of the Burlington Arcade within an hour
of<br>
 the receipt of this. The Duchess of Datchet has been kidnaped.
An<br>
 imitation duchess got into the carriage, which was waiting
outside<br>
 Cane and Wilson's, and she alighted on the road. Unless your
grace<br>
 does as you are requested, the Duchess of Datchet's
left-hand<br>
 little finger will be at once cut off, and sent home in time
to<br>
 receive the prince to dinner. Other portions of her grace
will<br>
 follow. A lock of her grace's hair is inclosed with this as
an<br>
 earnest of our good intentions.</p>

<p>"BEFORE 5:30 P.M. your grace is requested to be at the
Piccadilly<br>
 end of the Burlington Arcade with five hundred pounds in gold.
You<br>
 will there be accosted by an individual in a white top hat,
and<br>
 with a gardenia in his buttonhole. You will be entirely at
liberty<br>
 to give him into custody, or to have him followed by the police,
in<br>
 which case the duchess's left arm, cut off at the shoulder, will
be<br>
 sent home for dinner--not to mention other extremely
possible<br>
 contingencies. But you are ADVISED to give the individual in<br>
 question the five hundred pounds in gold, because in that case
the<br>
 duchess herself will he home in time to receive the prince
to<br>
 dinner, and with one of the best stories with which to
entertain<br>
 your distinguished guests they ever heard.</p>

<p>"Remember! NOT LATER THAN 5:30, unless you wish to receive
her<br>
 grace's little finger."</p>

<p><br>
 The duke stared at this amazing epistle when he had read it
as<br>
 though he found it difficult to believe the evidence of his
eyes.<br>
 He was not a demonstrative person, as a rule, but this
little<br>
 communication astonished even him. He read it again. Then
his<br>
 hands dropped to his sides, and he swore.</p>

<p>He took up the lock of hair which had fallen out of the
envelope.<br>
 Was it possible that it could be his wife's, the duchess? Was
it<br>
 possible that a Duchess of Datchet could be kidnaped, in
broad<br>
 daylight, in the heart of London, and be sent home, as it were,
in<br>
 pieces? Had sacrilegious hands already been playing pranks
with<br>
 that great lady's hair? Certainly, THAT hair was so like HER
hair<br>
 that the mere resemblance made his grace's blood run cold.
He<br>
 turned on Messrs. Barnes and Moysey as though he would have
liked<br>
 to rend them.</p>

<p>"You scoundrels!"</p>

<p>He moved forward as though the intention had entered his
ducal<br>
 heart to knock his servants down. But, if that were so, he did
not<br>
 act quite up to his intention. Instead, he stretched out his
arm,<br>
 pointing at them as if he were an accusing spirit:</p>

<p>"Will you swear that it was the duchess who got into the
carriage<br>
 outside Cane and Wilson's?"</p>

<p>Barnes began to stammer:</p>

<p>"I'll swear, your grace, that I--I thought--"</p>

<p>The duke stormed an interruption:</p>

<p>"I don't ask what you thought. I ask you, will you swear it
was?"</p>

<p>The duke's anger was more than Barnes could face. He was
silent.<br>
 Moysey showed a larger courage.</p>

<p>"I could have sworn that it was at the time, your grace. But
now<br>
 it seems to me that it's a rummy go."</p>

<p>"A rummy go!" The peculiarity of the phrase did not seem to
strike<br>
 the duke just then--at least, he echoed it as if it didn't.
"You<br>
 call it a rummy go! Do you know that I am told in this letter
that<br>
 the woman who entered the carriage was not the duchess? What
you<br>
 were thinking about, or what case you will be able to make out
for<br>
 yourselves, you know better than I; but I can tell you
this--that<br>
 in an hour you will leave my service, and you may esteem
yourselves<br>
 fortunate if, to-night, you are not both of you sleeping in
jail."</p>

<p>One might almost have suspected that the words were spoken
in<br>
 irony. But before they could answer, another servant entered,
who<br>
 also brought a letter for the duke. When his grace's glance
fell<br>
 on it he uttered an exclamation. The writing on the envelope
was<br>
 the same writing that had been on the envelope which had
contained<br>
 the very singular communication--like it in all respects, down
to<br>
 the broomstick-end thickness of the "Private!" and "Very<br>
 pressing!!!" in the corner.</p>

<p>"Who brought this?" stormed the duke.</p>

<p>The servant appeared to be a little startled by the violence
of his<br>
 grace's manner.</p>

<p>"A lady--or, at least, your grace, she seemed to be a
lady."</p>

<p>"Where is she?"</p>

<p>"She came in a hansom, your grace. She gave me that letter,
and<br>
 said, 'Give that to the Duke of Datchet at once--without a
moment's<br>
 delay!' Then she got into the hansom again, and drove away."</p>

<p>"Why didn't you stop her?"</p>

<p>"Your grace!"</p>

<p>The man seemed surprised, as though the idea of stopping
chance<br>
 visitors to the ducal mansion vi et armis had not, until
that<br>
 moment, entered into his philosophy. The duke continued to
regard<br>
 the man as if he could say a good deal, if he chose. Then he<br>
 pointed to the door. His lips said nothing, but his gesture
much.<br>
 The servant vanished.</p>

<p>"Another hoax!" the duke said grimly, as he tore the envelope
open.</p>

<p>This time the envelope contained a sheet of paper, and in the
sheet<br>
 of paper another envelope. The duke unfolded the sheet of
paper.<br>
 On it some words were written. These:</p>

<p>"The duchess appears so particularly anxious to drop you a
line,<br>
 that one really hasn't the heart to refuse her.</p>

<p>"Her grace's communication--written amidst blinding
tears!--you<br>
 will find inclosed with this."</p>

<p>"Knowles," said the duke, in a voice which actually
trembled,<br>
 "Knowles, hoax or no hoax, I will be even with the gentleman
who<br>
 wrote that."</p>

<p>Handing the sheet of paper to Mr. Knowles, his grace turned
his<br>
 attention to the envelope which had been inclosed. It was a
small,<br>
 square envelope, of the finest quality, and it reeked with
perfume.<br>
 The duke's countenance assumed an added frown--he had no
fondness<br>
 for envelopes which were scented. In the center of the
envelope<br>
 were the words, "To the Duke of Datchet," written in the big,
bold,<br>
 sprawling hand which he knew so well.</p>

<p>"Mabel's writing," he said, half to himself, as, with
shaking<br>
 fingers, he tore the envelope open.</p>

<p>The sheet of paper which he took out was almost as stiff
as<br>
 cardboard. It, too, emitted what his grace deemed the
nauseous<br>
 odors of the perfumer's shop. On it was written this letter:</p>

<p><br>
 "MY DEAR HEREWARD--For Heaven's sake do what these people
require!<br>
 I don't know what has happened or where I am, but I am
nearly<br>
 distracted! They have already cut off some of my hair, and
they<br>
 tell me that, if you don't let them have five hundred pounds
in<br>
 gold by half-past five, they will cut off my little finger too.
I<br>
 would sooner die than lose my little finger--and--I don't know
what<br>
 else besides.</p>

<p>"By the token which I send you, and which has never, until
now,<br>
 been off my breast, I conjure you to help me.</p>

<p>"Hereward--HELP ME!"</p>

<p><br>
 When he read that letter the duke turned white--very white,
as<br>
 white as the paper on which it was written. He passed the
epistle<br>
 on to Knowles.</p>

<p>"I suppose that also is a hoax?"</p>

<p>Mr. Knowles was silent. He still yielded to his
constitutional<br>
 disrelish to commit himself. At last he asked:</p>

<p>"What is it that your grace proposes to do?"</p>

<p>The duke spoke with a bitterness which almost suggested a
personal<br>
 animosity toward the inoffensive Mr. Knowles.</p>

<p>"I propose, with your permission, to release the duchess from
the<br>
 custody of my estimable correspondent. I propose--always with
your<br>
 permission--to comply with his modest request, and to take him
his<br>
 five hundred pounds in gold." He paused, then continued in a
tone<br>
 which, coming from him, meant volumes: "Afterwards, I propose
to<br>
 cry quits with the concocter of this pretty little hoax, even if
it<br>
 costs me every penny I possess. He shall pay more for that
five<br>
 hundred pounds than he supposes."</p>

<h3><br>
 II</h3>

<p><br>
 The Duke of Datchet, coming out of the bank, lingered for a
moment<br>
 on the steps. In one hand he carried a canvas bag which
seemed<br>
 well weighted. On his countenance there was an expression which
to<br>
 a casual observer might have suggested that his grace was
not<br>
 completely at his ease. That casual observer happened to
come<br>
 strolling by. It took the form of Ivor Dacre.</p>

<p><br>
 Mr. Dacre looked the Duke of Datchet up and down in that
languid<br>
 way he has. He perceived the canvas bag. Then he remarked,<br>
 possibly intending to be facetious:</p>

<p>"Been robbing the bank? Shall I call a cart?"</p>

<p>Nobody minds what Ivor Dacre says. Besides, he is the duke's
own<br>
 cousin. Perhaps a little removed; still, there it is. So the
duke<br>
 smiled a sickly smile, as if Mr. Dacre's delicate wit had given
him<br>
 a passing touch of indigestion.</p>

<p>Mr. Dacre noticed that the duke looked sallow, so he gave
his<br>
 pretty sense of humor another airing.</p>

<p>"Kitchen boiler burst? When I saw the duchess just now I
wondered<br>
 if it had."</p>

<p>His grace distinctly started. He almost dropped the canvas
bag.</p>

<p>"You saw the duchess just now, Ivor! When?"</p>

<p>The duke was evidently moved. Mr. Dacre was stirred to
languid<br>
 curiosity. "I can't say I clocked it. Perhaps half an hour
ago;<br>
 perhaps a little more."</p>

<p>"Half an hour ago! Are you sure? Where did you see her?"</p>

<p>Mr. Dacre wondered. The Duchess of Datchet could scarcely
have<br>
 been eloping in broad daylight. Moreover, she had not yet
been<br>
 married a year. Everyone knew that she and the duke were still
as<br>
 fond of each other as if they were not man and wife. So,
although<br>
 the duke, for some cause or other, was evidently in an odd state
of<br>
 agitation, Mr. Dacre saw no reason why he should not make a
clean<br>
 breast of all he knew.</p>

<p>"She was going like blazes in a hansom cab."</p>

<p>"In a hansom cab? Where?"</p>

<p>"Down Waterloo Place."</p>

<p>"Was she alone?"</p>

<p>Mr. Dacre reflected. He glanced at the duke out of the corners
of<br>
 his eyes. His languid utterance became a positive drawl.</p>

<p>"I rather fancy that she wasn't."</p>

<p>"Who was with her?"</p>

<p>"My dear fellow, if you were to offer me the bank I couldn't
tell<br>
 you."</p>

<p>"Was it a man?"</p>

<p>Mr. Dacre's drawl became still more pronounced.</p>

<p>"I rather fancy that it was."</p>

<p>Mr. Dacre expected something. The duke was so excited. But he
by<br>
 no means expected what actually came.</p>

<p>"Ivor, she's been kidnaped!"</p>

<p>Mr. Dacre did what he had never been known to do before within
the<br>
 memory of man--he dropped his eyeglass.</p>

<p>"Datchet!"</p>

<p>"She has! Some scoundrel has decoyed her away, and trapped
her.<br>
 He's already sent me a lock of her hair, and he tells me that if
I<br>
 don't let him have five hundred pounds in gold by half-past
five<br>
 he'll let me have her little finger."</p>

<p>Mr. Dacre did not know what to make of his grace at all. He
was a<br>
 sober man--it COULDN'T be that! Mr. Dacre felt really
concerned.</p>

<p>"I'll call a cab, old man, and you'd better let me see you
home."</p>

<p>Mr. Dacre half raised his stick to hail a passing hansom. The
duke<br>
 caught him by the arm.</p>

<p>"You ass! What do you mean? I am telling you the simple
truth.<br>
 My wife's been kidnaped."</p>

<p>Mr. Dacre's countenance was a thing to be seen--and
remembered.</p>

<p>"Oh! I hadn't heard that there was much of that sort of thing
about<br>
 just now. They talk of poodles being kidnaped, but as for<br>
 duchesses-- You'd really better let me call that cab."</p>

<p>"Ivor, do you want me to kick you? Don't you see that to me
it's a<br>
 question of life and death? I've been in there to get the
money."<br>
 His grace motioned toward the bank. "I'm going to take it to
the<br>
 scoundrel who has my darling at his mercy. Let me but have
her<br>
 hand in mine again, and he shall continue to pay for every<br>
 sovereign with tears of blood until he dies."</p>

<p>"Look here, Datchet, I don't know if you're having a joke with
me,<br>
 or if you're not well--"</p>

<p>The duke stepped impatiently into the roadway.</p>

<p>"Ivor, you're a fool! Can't you tell jest from earnest,
health<br>
 from disease? I'm off! Are you coming with me? It would be
as<br>
 well that I should have a witness."</p>

<p>"Where are you off to?"</p>

<p>"To the other end of the Arcade."</p>

<p>"Who is the gentleman you expect to have the pleasure of
meeting<br>
 there?"</p>

<p>"How should I know?" The duke took a letter from his
pocket--it<br>
 was the letter which had just arrived. "The fellow is to wear
a<br>
 white top hat, and a gardenia in his buttonhole."</p>

<p>"What is it you have there?"</p>

<p>"It's the letter which brought the news--look for yourself and
see;<br>
 but, for God's sake, make haste!" His grace glanced at his
watch.<br>
 "It's already twenty after five."</p>

<p>"And do you mean to say that on the strength of a letter such
as<br>
 this you are going to hand over five hundred pounds to--"</p>

<p>The duke cut Mr. Dacre short.</p>

<p>"What are five hundred pounds to me? Besides, you don't know
all.<br>
 There is another letter. And I have heard from Mabel. But I
will<br>
 tell you all about it later. If you are coming, come!"</p>

<p>Folding up the letter, Mr. Dacre returned it to the duke.</p>

<p>"As you say, what are five hundred pounds to you? It's as
well<br>
 they are not as much to you as they are to me, or I'm
afraid--"</p>

<p>"Hang it, Ivor, do prose afterwards!"</p>

<p>The duke hurried across the road. Mr. Dacre hastened after
him.<br>
 As they entered the Arcade they passed a constable. Mr.
Dacre<br>
 touched his companion's arm.</p>

<p>"Don't you think we'd better ask our friend in blue to walk
behind<br>
 us? His neighborhood might be handy."</p>

<p>"Nonsense!" The duke stopped short. "Ivor, this is my affair,
not<br>
 yours. If you are not content to play the part of silent
witness,<br>
 be so good as to leave me."</p>

<p>"My dear Datchet, I'm entirely at your service. I can be
every<br>
 whit as insane as you, I do assure you."</p>

<p>Side by side they moved rapidly down the Burlington Arcade.
The<br>
 duke was obviously in a state of the extremest nervous
tension.<br>
 Mr. Dacre was equally obviously in a state of the most
supreme<br>
 enjoyment. People stared as they rushed past. The duke saw<br>
 nothing. Mr. Dacre saw everything, and smiled.</p>

<p>When they reached the Piccadilly end of the Arcade the duke
pulled<br>
 up. He looked about him. Mr. Dacre also looked about him.</p>

<p>"I see nothing of your white-hatted and
gardenia-buttonholed<br>
 friend," said Ivor.</p>

<p>The duke referred to his watch.</p>

<p>"It's not yet half-past five. I'm up to time."</p>

<p>Mr. Dacre held his stick in front of him and leaned on it.
He<br>
 indulged himself with a beatific smile.</p>

<p>"It strikes me, my dear Datchet, that you've been the victim
of one<br>
 of the finest things in hoaxes--"</p>

<p>"I hope I haven't kept you waiting."</p>

<p>The voice which interrupted Mr. Dacre came from the rear.
While<br>
 they were looking in front of them some one approached them
from<br>
 behind, apparently coming out of the shop which was at their
backs.</p>

<p>The speaker looked a gentleman. He sounded like one, too.<br>
 Costume, appearance, manner, were beyond reproach--even beyond
the<br>
 criticism of two such keen critics as were these. The
glorious<br>
 attire of a London dandy was surmounted with a beautiful white
top<br>
 hat. In his buttonhole was a magnificent gardenia.</p>

<p>In age the stranger was scarcely more than a boy, and a
sunny-<br>
 faced, handsome boy at that. His cheeks were hairless, his
eyes<br>
 were blue. His smile was not only innocent, it was bland.
Never<br>
 was there a more conspicuous illustration of that repose
which<br>
 stamps the caste of Vere de Vere.</p>

<p>The duke looked at him and glowered. Mr. Dacre looked at him
and<br>
 smiled.</p>

<p>"Who are you?" asked the duke.</p>

<p>"Ah--that is the question!" The newcomer's refined and
musical<br>
 voice breathed the very soul of affability. "I am an
individual<br>
 who is so unfortunate as to be in want of five hundred
pounds."</p>

<p>"Are you the scoundrel who sent me that infamous letter?"</p>

<p>The charming stranger never turned a hair.</p>

<p>"I am the scoundrel mentioned in that infamous letter who
wants to<br>
 accost you at the Piccadilly end of the Burlington Arcade
before<br>
 half-past five--as witness my white hat and my gardenia."</p>

<p>"Where's my wife?"</p>

<p>The stranger gently swung his stick in front of him with his
two<br>
 hands. He regarded the duke as a merry-hearted son might
regard<br>
 his father. The thing was beautiful!</p>

<p>"Her grace will be home almost as soon as you are--when you
have<br>
 given me the money which I perceive you have all ready for me
in<br>
 that scarcely elegant-looking canvas bag." He shrugged his<br>
 shoulders quite gracefully. "Unfortunately, in these matters
one<br>
 has no choice--one is forced to ask for gold."</p>

<p>"And suppose, instead of giving you what is in this canvas
bag, I<br>
 take you by the throat and choke the life right out of you?"</p>

<p>"Or suppose," amended Mr. Dacre, "that you do better, and
commend<br>
 this gentleman to the tender mercies of the first policeman
we<br>
 encounter."</p>

<p>The stranger turned to Mr. Dacre. He condescended to
become<br>
 conscious of his presence.</p>

<p>"Is this gentleman your grace's friend? Ah--Mr. Dacre, I
perceive!<br>
 I have the honor of knowing Mr. Dacre, though, possibly, I
am<br>
 unknown to him."</p>

<p>"You were--until this moment."</p>

<p>With an airy little laugh the stranger returned to the duke.
He<br>
 brushed an invisible speck of dust off the sleeve of his
coat.</p>

<p>"As has been intimated in that infamous letter, his grace is
at<br>
 perfect liberty to give me into custody--why not? Only"--he
said<br>
 it with his boyish smile--"if a particular communication is
not<br>
 received from me in certain quarters within a certain time
the<br>
 Duchess of Datchet's beautiful white arm will be hacked off at
the<br>
 shoulder."</p>

<p>"You hound!"</p>

<p>The duke would have taken the stranger by the throat, and have
done<br>
 his best to choke the life right out of him then and there, if
Mr.<br>
 Dacre had not intervened.</p>

<p>"Steady, old man!" Mr. Dacre turned to the stranger. "You
appear<br>
 to be a pretty sort of a scoundrel."</p>

<p>The stranger gave his shoulders that almost imperceptible
shrug.</p>

<p>"Oh, my dear Dacre, I am in want of money! I believe that
you<br>
 sometimes are in want of money, too."</p>

<p>Everybody knows that nobody knows where Ivor Dacre gets his
money<br>
 from, so the allusion must have tickled him immensely.</p>

<p>"You're a cool hand," he said.</p>

<p>"Some men are born that way."</p>

<p>"So I should imagine. Men like you must be born, not
made."</p>

<p>"Precisely--as you say!" The stranger turned, with his
graceful<br>
 smile, to the duke: "But are we not wasting precious time? I
can<br>
 assure your grace that, in this particular matter, moments are
of<br>
 value."</p>

<p>Mr. Dacre interposed before the duke could answer.</p>

<p>"If you take my strongly urged advice, Datchet, you will
summon<br>
 this constable who is now coming down the Arcade, and hand
this<br>
 gentleman over to his keeping. I do not think that you need
fear<br>
 that the duchess will lose her arm, or even her little
finger.<br>
 Scoundrels of this one's kidney are most amenable to reason
when<br>
 they have handcuffs on their wrists."</p>

<p>The duke plainly hesitated. He would--and he would not.
The<br>
 stranger, as he eyed him, seemed much amused.</p>

<p>"My dear duke, by all means act on Mr. Dacre's valuable
suggestion.<br>
 As I said before, why not? It would at least be interesting to
see<br>
 if the duchess does or does not lose her arm--almost as
interesting<br>
 to you as to Mr. Dacre. Those blackmailing, kidnaping
scoundrels<br>
 do use such empty menaces. Besides, you would have the pleasure
of<br>
 seeing me locked up. My imprisonment for life would recompense
you<br>
 even for the loss of her grace's arm. And five hundred pounds
is<br>
 such a sum to have to pay--merely for a wife! Why not,
therefore,<br>
 act on Mr. Dacre's suggestion? Here comes the constable."
The<br>
 constable referred to was advancing toward them--he was not a
dozen<br>
 yards away. "Let me beckon to him--I will with pleasure." He
took<br>
 out his watch--a gold chronograph repeater. "There are
scarcely<br>
 ten minutes left during which it will be possible for me to
send<br>
 the communication which I spoke of, so that it may arrive in
time.<br>
 As it will then be too late, and the instruments are already<br>
 prepared for the little operation which her grace is eagerly<br>
 anticipating, it would, perhaps, be as well, after all, that
you<br>
 should give me into charge. You would have saved your five
hundred<br>
 pounds, and you would, at any rate, have something in exchange
for<br>
 her grace's mutilated limb. Ah, here is the constable!
Officer!"</p>

<p>The stranger spoke with such a pleasant little air of easy<br>
 geniality that it was impossible to tell if he were in jest or
in<br>
 earnest. This fact impressed the duke much more than if he
had<br>
 gone in for a liberal indulgence of the--under the
circumstances--<br>
 orthodox melodramatic scowling. And, indeed, in the face of
his<br>
 own common sense, it impressed Mr. Ivor Dacre too.</p>

<p><br>
 This well-bred, well-groomed youth was just the being to
realize--<br>
 aux bouts des ongles--a modern type of the devil, the type
which<br>
 depicts him as a perfect gentleman, who keeps smiling all the
time.</p>

<p>The constable whom this audacious rogue had signaled
approached the<br>
 little group. He addressed the stranger:</p>

<p>"Do you want me, sir?"</p>

<p>"No, I do not want you. I think it is the Duke of
Datchet."</p>

<p>The constable, who knew the duke very well by sight, saluted
him as<br>
 he turned to receive instructions.</p>

<p>The duke looked white, even savage. There was not a pleasant
look<br>
 in his eyes and about his lips. He appeared to be endeavoring
to<br>
 put a great restraint upon himself. There was a momentary
silence.<br>
 Mr. Dacre made a movement as if to interpose. The duke caught
him<br>
 by the arm.</p>

<p>He spoke: "No, constable, I do not want you. This person
is<br>
 mistaken."</p>

<p>The constable looked as if he could not quite make out how
such a<br>
 mistake could have arisen, hesitated, then, with another salute,
he<br>
 moved away.</p>

<p>The stranger was still holding his watch in his hand.</p>

<p>"Only eight minutes," he said.</p>

<p>The duke seemed to experience some difficulty in giving
utterance<br>
 to what he had to say.</p>

<p>"If I give you this five hundred pounds, you--you--"</p>

<p>As the duke paused, as if at a loss for language which was
strong<br>
 enough to convey his meaning, the stranger laughed.</p>

<p>"Let us take the adjectives for granted. Besides, it is only
boys<br>
 who call each other names--men do things. If you give me the
five<br>
 hundred sovereigns, which you have in that bag, at once--in
five<br>
 minutes it will be too late--I will promise--I will not swear;
if<br>
 you do not credit my simple promise, you will not believe my
solemn<br>
 affirmation--I will promise that, possibly within an hour,<br>
 certainly within an hour and a half, the Duchess of Datchet
shall<br>
 return to you absolutely uninjured--except, of course, as you
are<br>
 already aware, with regard to a few of the hairs of her head.
I<br>
 will promise this on the understanding that you do not
yourself<br>
 attempt to see where I go, and that you will allow no one else
to<br>
 do so." This with a glance at Ivor Dacre. "I shall know at
once<br>
 if I am followed. If you entertain such intentions, you had<br>
 better, on all accounts, remain in possession of your five
hundred<br>
 pounds."</p>

<p>The duke eyed him very grimly.</p>

<p>"I entertain no such intentions--until the duchess
returns."</p>

<p>Again the stranger indulged in that musical laugh of his.</p>

<p>"Ah, until the duchess returns! Of course, then the bargain's
at<br>
 an end. When you are once more in the enjoyment of her
grace's<br>
 society, you will be at liberty to set all the dogs in Europe at
my<br>
 heels. I assure you I fully expect that you will do so--why
not?"<br>
 The duke raised the canvas bag. "My dear duke, ten thousand<br>
 thanks! You shall see her grace at Datchet House, 'pon my
honor,<br>
 probably within the hour."</p>

<p>"Well," commented Ivor Dacre, when the stranger had vanished,
with<br>
 the bag, into Piccadilly, and as the duke and himself moved
toward<br>
 Burlington Gardens, "if a gentleman is to be robbed, it is as
well<br>
 that he should have another gentleman rob him."</p>

<h3><br>
 III</h3>

<p><br>
 Mr. Dacre eyed his companion covertly as they progressed.
His<br>
 Grace of Datchet appeared to have some fresh cause for
uneasiness.<br>
 All at once he gave it utterance, in a tone of voice which
was<br>
 extremely somber:</p>

<p><br>
 "Ivor, do you think that scoundrel will dare to play me
false?"</p>

<p>"I think," murmured Mr. Dacre, "that he has dared to play
you<br>
 pretty false already."</p>

<p>"I don't mean that. But I mean how am I to know, now that he
has<br>
 his money, that he will still not keep Mabel in his
clutches?"</p>

<p>There came an echo from Mr. Dacre.</p>

<p>"Just so--how are you to know?"</p>

<p>"I believe that something of this sort has been done in
the<br>
 States."</p>

<p>"I thought that there they were content to kidnap them after
they<br>
 were dead. I was not aware that they had, as yet, got quite so
far<br>
 as the living."</p>

<p>"I believe that I have heard of something just like this."</p>

<p>"Possibly; they are giants over there."</p>

<p>"And in that case the scoundrels, when their demands were
met,<br>
 refused to keep to the letter of their bargain and asked for
more."</p>

<p>The duke stood still. He clinched his fists, and swore:</p>

<p>"Ivor, if that ---- villain doesn't keep his word, and Mabel
isn't<br>
 home within the hour, by ---- I shall go mad!"</p>

<p>"My dear Datchet"--Mr. Dacre loved strong language as little
as he<br>
 loved a scene--"let us trust to time and, a little, to your
white-<br>
 hatted and gardenia-buttonholed friend's word of honor. You
should<br>
 have thought of possible eventualities before you showed
your<br>
 confidence--really. Suppose, instead of going mad, we first of
all<br>
 go home?"</p>

<p>A hansom stood waiting for a fare at the end of the Arcade.
Mr.<br>
 Dacre had handed the duke into it before his grace had quite<br>
 realized that the vehicle was there.</p>

<p>"Tell the fellow to drive faster." That was what the duke
said<br>
 when the cab had started.</p>

<p>"My dear Datchet, the man's already driving his geerage off
its<br>
 legs. If a bobby catches sight of him he'll take his
number."</p>

<p>A moment later, a murmur from the duke:</p>

<p>"I don't know if you're aware that the prince is coming to
dinner?"</p>

<p>"I am perfectly aware of it."</p>

<p>"You take it uncommonly cool. How easy it is to bear our
brother's<br>
 burdens! Ivor, if Mabel doesn't turn up I shall feel like
murder."</p>

<p>"I sympathize with you, Datchet, with all my heart, though, I
may<br>
 observe, parenthetically, that I very far from realize the<br>
 situation even yet. Take my advice. If the duchess does not
show<br>
 quite as soon as we both of us desire, don't make a scene; just
let<br>
 me see what I can do."</p>

<p>Judging from the expression of his countenance, the duke
was<br>
 conscious of no overwhelming desire to witness an exhibition of
Mr.<br>
 Dacre's prowess.</p>

<p>When the cab reached Datchet House his grace dashed up the
steps<br>
 three at a time. The door flew open.</p>

<p>"Has the duchess returned?"</p>

<p>"Hereward!"</p>

<p>A voice floated downward from above. Some one came running
down<br>
 the stairs. It was her Grace of Datchet.</p>

<p>"Mabel!"</p>

<p>She actually rushed into the duke's extended arms. And he
kissed<br>
 her, and she kissed him--before the servants.</p>

<p>"So you're not quite dead?" she cried.</p>

<p>"I am almost," he said.</p>

<p>She drew herself a little away from him.</p>

<p>"Hereward, were you seriously hurt?"</p>

<p>"Do you suppose that I could have been otherwise than
seriously<br>
 hurt?"</p>

<p>"My darling! Was it a Pickford's van?"</p>

<p>The duke stared.</p>

<p>"A Pickford's van? I don't understand. But come in here.
Come<br>
 along, Ivor. Mabel, you don't see Ivor."</p>

<p>"How do you do, Mr. Dacre?"</p>

<p>Then the trio withdrew into a little anteroom; it was really
time.<br>
 Even then the pair conducted themselves as if Mr. Dacre had
been<br>
 nothing and no one. The duke took the lady's two hands in his.
He<br>
 eyed her fondly.</p>

<p>"So you are uninjured, with the exception of that lock of
hair.<br>
 Where did the villain take it from?"</p>

<p>The lady looked a little puzzled.</p>

<p>"What lock of hair?"</p>

<p>From an envelope which he took from his pocket the duke
produced a<br>
 shining tress. It was the lock of hair which had arrived in
the<br>
 first communication. "I will have it framed."</p>

<p>"You will have what framed?" The duchess glanced at what the
duke<br>
 was so tenderly caressing, almost, as it seemed, a little<br>
 dubiously. "Whatever is it you have there?"</p>

<p>"It is the lock of hair which that scoundrel sent me."
Something<br>
 in the lady's face caused him to ask a question:</p>

<p>"Didn't he tell you he had sent it to me?"</p>

<p>"Hereward!"</p>

<p>"Did the brute tell you that he meant to cut off your
little<br>
 finger?"</p>

<p>A very curious look came into the lady's face. She glanced at
the<br>
 duke as if she, all at once, was half afraid of him. She cast
at<br>
 Mr. Dacre what really seemed to be a look of inquiry. Her
voice<br>
 was tremulously anxious.</p>

<p>"Hereward, did--did the accident affect you mentally?"</p>

<p>"How could it not have affected me mentally? Do you think that
my<br>
 mental organization is of steel?"</p>

<p>"But you look so well."</p>

<p>"Of course I look well, now that I have you back again. Tell
me,<br>
 darling, did that hound actually threaten you with cutting off
your<br>
 arm? If he did, I shall feel half inclined to kill him yet."</p>

<p>The duchess seemed positively to shrink from her better half's
near<br>
 neighborhood.</p>

<p>"Hereward, was it a Pickford's van?"</p>

<p>The duke seemed puzzled. Well he might be.</p>

<p>"Was what a Pickford's van?"</p>

<p>The lady turned to Mr. Dacre. In her voice there was a ring
of<br>
 anguish.</p>

<p>"Mr. Dacre, tell me, was it a Pickford's van?" Ivor could
only<br>
 imitate his relative's repetition of her inquiry.</p>

<p>"I don't quite catch you--was what a Pickford's van?"</p>

<p>The duchess clasped her hands in front of her.</p>

<p>"What is it you are keeping from me? What is it you are trying
to<br>
 hide? I implore you to tell me the worst, whatever it may be!
Do<br>
 not keep me any longer in suspense; you do not know what I
already<br>
 have endured. Mr. Dacre, is my husband mad?"</p>

<p>One need scarcely observe that the lady's amazing appeal to
Mr.<br>
 Dacre as to her husband's sanity was received with something
like<br>
 surprise. As the duke continued to stare at her, a dreadful
fear<br>
 began to loom in his brain.</p>

<p>"My darling, your brain is unhinged!"</p>

<p>He advanced to take her two hands again in his; but, to
his<br>
 unmistakable distress, she shrank away from him.</p>

<p>"Hereward--don't touch me. How is it that I missed you? Why
did<br>
 you not wait until I came?"</p>

<p>"Wait until you came?"</p>

<p>The duke's bewilderment increased.</p>

<p>"Surely, if your injuries turned out, after all, to be slight,
that<br>
 was all the more reason why you should have waited, after
sending<br>
 for me like that."</p>

<p>"I sent for you--I?" The duke's tone was grave. "My
darling,<br>
 perhaps you had better come upstairs."</p>

<p>"Not until we have had an explanation. You must have known
that I<br>
 should come. Why did you not wait for me after you had sent
me<br>
 that?"</p>

<p>The duchess held out something to the duke. He took it. It was
a<br>
 card--his own visiting card. Something was written on the back
of<br>
 it. He read aloud what was written.</p>

<p>"'Mabel, come to me at once with the bearer. They tell me
that<br>
 they cannot take me home.' It looks like my own writing."</p>

<p>"Looks like it! It IS your writing."</p>

<p>"It looks like it--and written with a shaky pen."</p>

<p>"My dear child, one's hand would shake at such a moment as
that."</p>

<p>"Mabel, where did you get this?"</p>

<p>"It was brought to me in Cane and Wilson's."</p>

<p>"Who brought it?"</p>

<p>"Who brought it? Why, the man you sent."</p>

<p>"The man I sent!" A light burst upon the duke's brain. He
fell<br>
 back a pace. "It's the decoy!"</p>

<p>Her grace echoed the words:</p>

<p>"The decoy?"</p>

<p>"The scoundrel! To set a trap with such a bait! My poor
innocent<br>
 darling, did you think it came from me? Tell me, Mabel, where
did<br>
 he cut off your hair?"</p>

<p>"Cut off my hair?"</p>

<p>Her grace put her hand to her head as if to make sure that her
hair<br>
 was there.</p>

<p>"Where did he take you to?"</p>

<p>"He took me to Draper's Buildings."</p>

<p>"Draper's Buildings?"</p>

<p>"I have never been in the City before, but he told me it
was<br>
 Draper's Buildings. Isn't that near the Stock Exchange?"</p>

<p>"Near the Stock Exchange?"</p>

<p>It seemed rather a curious place to which to take a
kidnaped<br>
 victim. The man's audacity!</p>

<p>"He told me that you were coming out of the Stock Exchange
when a<br>
 van knocked you over. He said that he thought it was a
Pickford's<br>
 van--was it a Pickford's van?"</p>

<p>"No, it was not a Pickford's van. Mabel, were you in
Draper's<br>
 Buildings when you wrote that letter?"</p>

<p>"Wrote what letter?"</p>

<p>"Have you forgotten it already? I do not believe that there is
a<br>
 word in it which will not be branded on my brain until I
die."</p>

<p>"Hereward! What do you mean?"</p>

<p>"Surely you cannot have written me such a letter as that, and
then<br>
 have forgotten it already?"</p>

<p>He handed her the letter which had arrived in the second<br>
 communication. She glanced at it, askance. Then she took it
with<br>
 a little gasp.</p>

<p>"Hereward, if you don't mind, I think I'll take a chair." She
took<br>
 a chair. "Whatever--whatever's this?" As she read the letter
the<br>
 varying expressions which passed across her face were, in<br>
 themselves, a study in psychology. "Is it possible that you
can<br>
 imagine that, under any conceivable circumstances, I could
have<br>
 written such a letter as this?"</p>

<p><br>
 "Mabel!"</p>

<p>She rose to her feet with emphasis.</p>

<p>"Hereward, don't say that you thought this came from me!"</p>

<p>"Not from you?" He remembered Knowles's diplomatic reception
of<br>
 the epistle on its first appearance. "I suppose that you will
say<br>
 next that this is not a lock of your hair?"</p>

<p>"My dear child, what bee have you got in your bonnet? This a
lock<br>
 of my hair! Why, it's not in the least bit like my hair!"</p>

<p>Which was certainly inaccurate. As far as color was concerned
it<br>
 was an almost perfect match. The duke turned to Mr. Dacre.</p>

<p>"Ivor, I've had to go through a good deal this afternoon. If
I<br>
 have to go through much more, something will crack!" He
touched<br>
 his forehead. "I think it's my turn to take a chair." Not the
one<br>
 which the duchess had vacated, but one which faced it. He<br>
 stretched out his legs in front of him; he thrust his hands
into<br>
 his trousers pockets; he said, in a tone which was not gloomy
but<br>
 absolutely grewsome:</p>

<p>"Might I ask, Mabel, if you have been kidnaped?"</p>

<p>"Kidnaped?"</p>

<p>"The word I used was 'kidnaped.' But I will spell it if you
like.<br>
 Or I will get a dictionary, that you may see its meaning."</p>

<p>The duchess looked as if she was beginning to be not quite
sure if<br>
 she was awake or sleeping. She turned to Ivor.</p>

<p>"Mr. Dacre, has the accident affected Hereward's brain?"</p>

<p>The duke took the words out of his cousin's mouth.</p>

<p>"On that point, my dear, let me ease your mind. I don't know
if<br>
 you are under the impression that I should be the same shape
after<br>
 a Pickford's van had run over me as I was before; but, in any
case,<br>
 I have not been run over by a Pickford's van. So far as I am<br>
 concerned there has been no accident. Dismiss that delusion
from<br>
 your mind."</p>

<p>"Oh!"</p>

<p>"You appear surprised. One might even think that you were
sorry.<br>
 But may I now ask what you did when you arrived at Draper's<br>
 Buildings?"</p>

<p>"Did! I looked for you!"</p>

<p>"Indeed! And when you had looked in vain, what was the next
item<br>
 in your programme?"</p>

<p>The lady shrank still farther from him.</p>

<p>"Hereward, have you been having a jest at my expense? Can you
have<br>
 been so cruel?" Tears stood in her eyes.</p>

<p>Rising, the duke laid his hand upon her arm.</p>

<p>"Mabel, tell me--what did you do when you had looked for me
in<br>
 vain?"</p>

<p>"I looked for you upstairs and downstairs and everywhere. It
was<br>
 quite a large place, it took me ever such a time. I thought that
I<br>
 should go distracted. Nobody seemed to know anything about you,
or<br>
 even that there had been an accident at all--it was all offices.
I<br>
 couldn't make it out in the least, and the people didn't seem to
be<br>
 able to make me out either. So when I couldn't find you anywhere
I<br>
 came straight home again."</p>

<p>The duke was silent for a moment. Then with funereal gravity
he<br>
 turned to Mr. Dacre. He put to him this question:</p>

<p>"Ivor, what are you laughing at?"</p>

<p>Mr. Dacre drew his hand across his mouth with rather a
suspicious<br>
 gesture.</p>

<p>"My dear fellow, only a smile!"</p>

<p>The duchess looked from one to the other.</p>

<p>"What have you two been doing? What is the joke?"</p>

<p>With an air of preternatural solemnity the duke took two
letters<br>
 from the breast pocket of his coat.</p>

<p>"Mabel, you have already seen your letter. You have already
seen<br>
 the lock of your hair. Just look at this--and that."</p>

<p>He gave her the two very singular communications which had
arrived<br>
 in such a mysterious manner, and so quickly one after the
other.<br>
 She read them with wide-open eyes.</p>

<p>"Hereward! Wherever did these come from?"</p>

<p>The duke was standing with his legs apart, and his hands in
his<br>
 trousers pockets. "I would give--I would give another five
hundred<br>
 pounds to know. Shall I tell you, madam, what I have been
doing?<br>
 I have been presenting five hundred golden sovereigns to a
perfect<br>
 stranger, with a top hat, and a gardenia in his buttonhole."</p>

<p>"Whatever for?"</p>

<p>"If you have perused those documents which you have in your
hand,<br>
 you will have some faint idea. Ivor, when it's your funeral,
I'LL<br>
 smile. Mabel, Duchess of Datchet, it is beginning to dawn upon
the<br>
 vacuum which represents my brain that I've been the victim of
one<br>
 of the prettiest things in practical jokes that ever yet was<br>
 planned. When that fellow brought you that card at Cane and<br>
 Wilson's--which, I need scarcely tell you, never came from
me--some<br>
 one walked out of the front entrance who was so exactly like
you<br>
 that both Barnes and Moysey took her for you. Moysey showed
her<br>
 into the carriage, and Barnes drove her home. But when the<br>
 carriage reached home it was empty. Your double had got out
upon<br>
 the road."</p>

<p>The duchess uttered a sound which was half gasp, half
sigh.</p>

<p>"Hereward!"</p>

<p>"Barnes and Moysey, with beautiful and childlike innocence,
when<br>
 they found that they had brought the thing home empty, came<br>
 straightway and told me that YOU had jumped out of the
brougham<br>
 while it had been driving full pelt through the streets. While
I<br>
 was digesting that piece of information there came the first<br>
 epistle, with the lock of your hair. Before I had time to
digest<br>
 that there came the second epistle, with yours inside."</p>

<p>"It seems incredible!"</p>

<p>"It sounds incredible; but unfathomable is the folly of
man,<br>
 especially of a man who loves his wife." The duke crossed to
Mr.<br>
 Dacre. "I don't want, Ivor, to suggest anything in the way
of<br>
 bribery and corruption, but if you could keep this matter to<br>
 yourself, and not mention it to your friends, our white-hatted
and<br>
 gardenia-buttonholed acquaintance is welcome to his five
hundred<br>
 pounds, and--Mabel, what on earth are you laughing at?"</p>

<p>The duchess appeared, all at once, to be seized with<br>
 inextinguishable laughter.</p>

<p>"Hereward," she cried, "just think how that man must be
laughing at<br>
 you!"</p>

<p>And the Duke of Datchet thought of it.</p>

<p> </p>

<h2>The Minor Canon</h2>

<p><br>
 It was Monday, and in the afternoon, as I was walking along
the<br>
 High Street of Marchbury, I was met by a
distinguished-looking<br>
 person whom I had observed at the services in the cathedral on
the<br>
 previous day. Now it chanced on that Sunday that I was singing
the<br>
 service. Properly speaking, it was not my turn; but, as my
brother<br>
 minor canons were either away from Marchbury or ill in bed, I
was<br>
 the only one left to perform the necessary duty. The<br>
 distinguished-looking person was a tall, big man with a round
fat<br>
 face and small features. His eyes, his hair and mustache (his
face<br>
 was bare but for a small mustache) were quite black, and he had
a<br>
 very pleasant and genial expression. He wore a tall hat, set<br>
 rather jauntily on his head, and he was dressed in black with
a<br>
 long frock coat buttoned across the chest and fitting him close
to<br>
 the body. As he came, with a half saunter, half swagger, along
the<br>
 street, I knew him again at once by his appearance; and, as he
came<br>
 nearer, I saw from his manner that he was intending to stop
and<br>
 speak to me, for he slightly raised his hat and in a soft,<br>
 melodious voice with a colonial "twang" which was far from
being<br>
 disagreeable, and which, indeed, to my ear gave a certain<br>
 additional interest to his remarks, he saluted me with "Good
day,<br>
 sir!"</p>

<p><br>
 "Good day," I answered, with just a little reserve in my
tone.</p>

<p>"I hope, sir," he began, "you will excuse my stopping you in
the<br>
 street, but I wish to tell you how very much I enjoyed the music
at<br>
 your cathedral yesterday. I am an Australian, sir, and we have
no<br>
 such music in my country."</p>

<p>"I suppose not," I said.</p>

<p>"No, sir," he went on, "nothing nearly so fine. I am very fond
of<br>
 music, and as my business brought me in this direction, I
thought I<br>
 would stop at your city and take the opportunity of paying a
visit<br>
 to your grand cathedral. And I am delighted I came; so
pleased,<br>
 indeed, that I should like to leave some memorial of my
visit<br>
 behind me. I should like, sir, to do something for your
choir."</p>

<p>"I am sure it is very kind of you," I replied.</p>

<p>"Yes, I should certainly be glad if you could suggest to
me<br>
 something I might do in this way. As regards money, I may say
that<br>
 I have plenty of it. I am the owner of a most valuable
property.<br>
 My business relations extend throughout the world, and if I am
as<br>
 fortunate in the projects of the future as I have been in the
past,<br>
 I shall probably one day achieve the proud position of being
the<br>
 richest man in the world."</p>

<p>I did not like to undertake myself the responsibility of
advising<br>
 or suggesting, so I simply said:</p>

<p>"I cannot venture to say, offhand, what would be the most<br>
 acceptable way of showing your great kindness and generosity,
but I<br>
 should certainly recommend you to put yourself in
communication<br>
 with the dean."</p>

<p>"Thank you, sir," said my Australian friend, "I will do so.
And<br>
 now, sir," he continued, "let me say how much I admire your
voice.<br>
 It is, without exception, the very finest and clearest voice I
have<br>
 ever heard."</p>

<p>"Really," I answered, quite overcome with such unqualified
praise,<br>
 "really it is very good of you to say so."</p>

<p>"Ah, but I feel it, my dear sir. I have been round the world,
from<br>
 Sydney to Frisco, across the continent of America" (he called
it<br>
 Amerrker) "to New York City, then on to England, and to-morrow
I<br>
 shall leave your city to continue my travels. But in all my<br>
 experience I have never heard so grand a voice as your own."</p>

<p>This and a great deal more he said in the same strain,
which<br>
 modesty forbids me to reproduce.</p>

<p>Now I am not without some knowledge of the world outside the
close<br>
 of Marchbury Cathedral, and I could not listen to such a<br>
 "flattering tale" without having my suspicions aroused. Who
and<br>
 what is this man? thought I. I looked at him narrowly. At
first<br>
 the thought flashed across me that he might be a "swell
mobsman."<br>
 But no, his face was too good for that; besides, no man with
that<br>
 huge frame, that personality so marked and so easily
recognizable,<br>
 could be a swindler; he could not escape detection a single
hour.<br>
 I dismissed the ungenerous thought. Perhaps he is rich, as
he<br>
 says. We do hear of munificent donations by benevolent<br>
 millionaires now and then. What if this Australian, attracted
by<br>
 the glories of the old cathedral, should now appear as a deus
ex<br>
 machina to reendow the choir, or to found a musical
professoriate<br>
 in connection with the choir, appointing me the first occupant
of<br>
 the professorial chair?</p>

<p>These thoughts flashed across my mind in the momentary pause
of his<br>
 fluent tongue.</p>

<p>"As for yourself, sir," he began again, "I have something
to<br>
 propose which I trust may not prove unwelcome. But the
public<br>
 street is hardly a suitable place to discuss my proposal. May
I<br>
 call upon you this evening at your house in the close? I
know<br>
 which it is, for I happened to see you go into it yesterday
after<br>
 the morning service."</p>

<p>"I shall be very pleased to see you," I replied. "We are going
out<br>
 to dinner this evening, but I shall be at home and disengaged
till<br>
 about seven."</p>

<p>"Thank you very much. Then I shall do myself the pleasure
of<br>
 calling upon you about six o'clock. Till then, farewell!" A<br>
 graceful wave of the hand, and my unknown friend had
disappeared<br>
 round the corner of the street.</p>

<p>Now at last, I thought, something is going to happen in my<br>
 uneventful life--something to break the monotony of existence.
Of<br>
 course, he must have inquired my name--he could get that from
any<br>
 of the cathedral vergers--and, as he said, he had observed<br>
 whereabouts in the close I lived. What is he coming to see me
for?<br>
 I wondered. I spent the rest of the afternoon in making the<br>
 wildest surmises. I was castle-building in Spain at a
furious<br>
 rate. At one time I imagined that this faithful son of the
church--<br>
 as he appeared to me--was going to build and endow a grand<br>
 cathedral in Australia on condition that I should be appointed
dean<br>
 at a yearly stipend of, say, ten thousand pounds. Or perhaps,
I<br>
 said to myself, he will beg me to accept a sum of money--I
never<br>
 thought of it as less than a thousand pounds--as a slight<br>
 recognition of and tribute to my remarkable vocal ability.</p>

<p>I took a long, lonely walk into the country to correct
these<br>
 ridiculous fancies and to steady my mind, and when I reached
home<br>
 and had refreshed myself with a quiet cup of afternoon tea, I
felt<br>
 I was morally and physically prepared for my interview with
the<br>
 opulent stranger.</p>

<p>Punctually as the cathedral clock struck six there was a ring
at<br>
 the visitor's bell. In a moment or two my unknown friend was
shown<br>
 into the drawing-room, which he entered with the easy air of a
man<br>
 of the world. I noticed he was carrying a small black bag.</p>

<p>"How do you do again, Mr. Dale?" he said as though we were
old<br>
 acquaintances; "you see I have come sharp to my time."</p>

<p>"Yes," I answered, "and I am pleased to see you; do sit down."
He<br>
 sank into my best armchair, and placed his bag on the floor
beside<br>
 him.</p>

<p>"Since we met in the afternoon," he said, "I have written a
letter<br>
 to your dean, expressing the great pleasure I felt in listening
to<br>
 your choir, and at the same time I inclosed a five-pound
note,<br>
 which I begged him to divide among the choir boys and men,
from<br>
 Alexander Poulter, Esq., of Poulter's Pills. You have of
course<br>
 heard of the world-renowned Poulter's Pills. I am Poulter!"</p>

<p>Poulter of Poulter's Pills! My heart sank within me! A
five-pound<br>
 note! My airy castles were tottering!</p>

<p>"I also sent him a couple of hundred of my pamphlets, which I
said<br>
 I trusted he would be so kind as to distribute in the
close."</p>

<p>I was aghast!</p>

<p>"And now, with regard to the special object of my call, Mr.
Dale.<br>
 If you will allow me to say so, you are not making the most of
that<br>
 grand voice of yours; you are hidden under an ecclesiastical
bushel<br>
 here--lost to the world. You are wasting your vocal strength
and<br>
 sweetness on the desert air, so to speak. Why, if I may hazard
a<br>
 guess, I don't suppose you make five hundred a year here, at
the<br>
 outside?</p>

<p>I could say nothing.</p>

<p>"Well, now, I can put you into the way of making at least
three or<br>
 four times as much as that. Listen! I am Alexander Poulter,
of<br>
 Poulter's Pills. I have a proposal to make to you. The scheme
is<br>
 bound to succeed, but I want your help. Accept my proposal
and<br>
 your fortune's made. Did you ever hear Moody and Sankey?" he
asked<br>
 abruptly.</p>

<p>The man is an idiot, thought I; he is now fairly carried away
with<br>
 his particular mania. Will it last long? Shall I ring?</p>

<p>"Novelty, my dear sir," he went on, "is the rule of the day;
and<br>
 there must be novelty in advertising, as in everything else,
to<br>
 catch the public interest. So I intend to go on a tour,
lecturing<br>
 on the merits of Poulter's Pills in all the principal halls of
all<br>
 the principal towns all over the world. But I have been delayed
in<br>
 carrying out my idea till I could associate myself with a
gentleman<br>
 such as yourself. Will you join me? I should be the Moody of
the<br>
 tour; you would be its Sankey. I would speak my patter, and
you<br>
 would intersperse my orations with melodious ballads bearing
upon<br>
 the virtues of Poulter's Pills. The ballads are all ready!"</p>

<p>So saying, he opened that bag and drew forth from its
recesses<br>
 nothing more alarming than a thick roll of manuscript music.</p>

<p>"The verses are my own," he said, with a little touch of
pride;<br>
 "and as for the music, I thought it better to make use of
popular<br>
 melodies, so as to enable an audience to join in the chorus.
See,<br>
 here is one of the ballads: 'Darling, I am better now.' It<br>
 describes the woes of a fond lover, or rather his physical<br>
 ailments, until he went through a course of Poulter. Here's<br>
 another: 'I'm ninety-five! I'm ninety-five!' You catch the
drift<br>
 of that, of course--a healthy old age, secured by taking
Poulter's<br>
 Pills. Ah! what's this? 'Little sister's last request.' I
fancy<br>
 the idea of that is to beg the family never to be without
Poulter's<br>
 Pills. Here again: 'Then you'll remember me!' I'm afraid
that<br>
 title is not original; never mind, the song is. And here
is--but<br>
 there are many more, and I won't detain you with them now."
He<br>
 saw, perhaps, I was getting impatient. Thank Heaven, however,
he<br>
 was no escaped lunatic. I was safe!</p>

<p>"Mr. Poulter," said I, "I took you this afternoon for a<br>
 disinterested and philanthropic millionaire; you take me
for--for--<br>
 something different from what I am. We have both made
mistakes.<br>
 In a word, it is impossible for me to accept your offer!"</p>

<p>"Is that final?" asked Poulter.</p>

<p>"Certainly," said I.</p>

<p>Poulter gathered his manuscripts together and replaced them in
the<br>
 bag, and got up to leave the room.</p>

<p>"Good evening, Mr. Dale," he said mournfully, as I opened the
door<br>
 of the room. "Good evening"--he kept on talking till he was
fairly<br>
 out of the house--"mark my words, you'll be sorry--very
sorry--one<br>
 day that you did not fall in with my scheme. Offers like
mine<br>
 don't come every day, and you will one day regret having
refused<br>
 it."</p>

<p>With these words he left the house.</p>

<p>I had little appetite for my dinner that evening.</p>

<p> </p>

<h2>The Pipe</h2>

<p><br>
 "RANDOLPH CRESCENT, N. W.</p>

<p>MY DEAR PUGH--I hope you will like the pipe which I send with
this.<br>
 It is rather a curious example of a certain school of Indian<br>
 carving. And is a present from</p>

<p>"Yours truly, JOSEPH TRESS."</p>

<p><br>
 It was really very handsome of Tress--very handsome! The
more<br>
 especially as I was aware that to give presents was not exactly
in<br>
 Tress's line. The truth is that when I saw what manner of pipe
it<br>
 was I was amazed. It was contained in a sandalwood box, which
was<br>
 itself illustrated with some remarkable specimens of carving.
I<br>
 use the word "remarkable" advisedly, because, although the<br>
 workmanship was undoubtedly, in its way, artistic, the result
could<br>
 not be described as beautiful. The carver had thought proper
to<br>
 ornament the box with some of the ugliest figures I remember
to<br>
 have seen. They appeared to me to be devils. Or perhaps they
were<br>
 intended to represent deities appertaining to some
mythological<br>
 system with which, thank goodness, I am unacquainted. The
pipe<br>
 itself was worthy of the case in which it was contained. It was
of<br>
 meerschaum, with an amber mouthpiece. It was rather too large
for<br>
 ordinary smoking. But then, of course, one doesn't smoke a
pipe<br>
 like that. There are pipes in my collection which I should as
soon<br>
 think of smoking as I should of eating. Ask a china maniac to
let<br>
 you have afternoon tea out of his Old Chelsea, and you will
learn<br>
 some home truths as to the durability of human friendships.
The<br>
 glory of the pipe, as Tress had suggested, lay in its carving.
Not<br>
 that I claim that it was beautiful, any more than I make such
a<br>
 claim for the carving on the box, but, as Tress said in his
note,<br>
 it was curious.</p>

<p><br>
 The stem and the bowl were quite plain, but on the edge of the
bowl<br>
 was perched some kind of lizard. I told myself it was an
octopus<br>
 when I first saw it, but I have since had reason to believe that
it<br>
 was some almost unique member of the lizard tribe. The
creature<br>
 was represented as climbing over the edge of the bowl down
toward<br>
 the stem, and its legs, or feelers, or tentacula, or whatever
the<br>
 things are called, were, if I may use a vulgarism, sprawling
about<br>
 "all over the place." For instance, two or three of them
were<br>
 twined about the bowl, two or three of them were twisted round
the<br>
 stem, and one, a particularly horrible one, was uplifted in
the<br>
 air, so that if you put the pipe in your mouth the thing was<br>
 pointing straight at your nose.</p>

<p>Not the least agreeable feature about the creature was that it
was<br>
 hideously lifelike. It appeared to have been carved in amber,
but<br>
 some coloring matter must have been introduced, for inside
the<br>
 amber the creature was of a peculiarly ghastly green. The more
I<br>
 examined the pipe the more amazed I was at Tress's generosity.
He<br>
 and I are rival collectors. I am not going to say, in so
many<br>
 words, that his collection of pipes contains nothing but
rubbish,<br>
 because, as a matter of fact, he has two or three rather
decent<br>
 specimens. But to compare his collection to mine would be
absurd.<br>
 Tress is conscious of this, and he resents it. He resents it
to<br>
 such an extent that he has been known, at least on one occasion,
to<br>
 declare that one single pipe of his--I believe he alluded to
the<br>
 Brummagem relic preposterously attributed to Sir Walter
Raleigh--<br>
 was worth the whole of my collection put together. Although I
have<br>
 forgotten this, as I hope I always shall forgive remarks made
when<br>
 envious passions get the better of our nobler nature, even of
a<br>
 Joseph Tress, it is not to be supposed that I have forgotten
it.<br>
 He was, therefore, not at all the sort of person from whom I<br>
 expected to receive a present. And such a present! I do not<br>
 believe that he himself had a finer pipe in his collection. And
to<br>
 have given it to me! I had misjudged the man. I wondered where
he<br>
 had got it from. I had seen his pipes; I knew them off by
heart--<br>
 and some nice trumpery he has among them, too! but I had never
seen<br>
 THAT pipe before. The more I looked at it, the more my
amazement<br>
 grew. The beast perched upon the edge of the bowl was so
lifelike.<br>
 Its two bead-like eyes seemed to gleam at me with positively
human<br>
 intelligence. The pipe fascinated me to such an extent that
I<br>
 actually resolved to--smoke it!</p>

<p>I filled it with Perique. Ordinarily I use Birdseye, but on
those<br>
 very rare occasions on which I use a specimen I smoke Perique.
I<br>
 lit up with quite a small sensation of excitement. As I did so
I<br>
 kept my eyes perforce fixed upon the beast. The beast pointed
its<br>
 upraised tentacle directly at me. As I inhaled the pungent
tobacco<br>
 that tentacle impressed me with a feeling of actual
uncanniness.<br>
 It was broad daylight, and I was smoking in front of the
window,<br>
 yet to such an extent was I affected that it seemed to me that
the<br>
 tentacle was not only vibrating, which, owing to the peculiarity
of<br>
 its position, was quite within the range of probability, but<br>
 actually moving, elongating--stretching forward, that is,
farther<br>
 toward me, and toward the tip of my nose. So impressed was I
by<br>
 this idea that I took the pipe out of my mouth and minutely<br>
 examined the beast. Really, the delusion was excusable. So<br>
 cunningly had the artist wrought that he succeeded in producing
a<br>
 creature which, such was its uncanniness, I could only hope had
no<br>
 original in nature.</p>

<p>Replacing the pipe between my lips I took several whiffs.
Never<br>
 had smoking had such an effect on me before. Either the pipe,
or<br>
 the creature on it, exercised some singular fascination. I
seemed,<br>
 without an instant's warning, to be passing into some land
of<br>
 dreams. I saw the beast, which was perched upon the bowl,
writhe<br>
 and twist. I saw it lift itself bodily from the meerschaum.</p>

<h3><br>
 II</h3>

<p><br>
 "Feeling better now?"</p>

<p>I looked up. Joseph Tress was speaking.</p>

<p>"What's the matter? Have I been ill?"</p>

<p>"You appear to have been in some kind of swoon." Tress's tone
was<br>
 peculiar, even a little dry.</p>

<p><br>
 "Swoon! I never was guilty of such a thing in my life."</p>

<p>"Nor was I, until I smoked that pipe."</p>

<p>I sat up. The act of sitting up made me conscious of the fact
that<br>
 I had been lying down. Conscious, too, that I was feeling
more<br>
 than a little dazed. It seemed as though I was waking out of
some<br>
 strange, lethargic sleep--a kind of feeling which I have read
of<br>
 and heard about, but never before experienced.</p>

<p>"Where am I?"</p>

<p>"You're on the couch in your own room. You WERE on the floor;
but<br>
 I thought it would be better to pick you up and place you on
the<br>
 couch--though no one performed the same kind office to me when
I<br>
 was on the floor."</p>

<p>Again Tress's tone was distinctly dry.</p>

<p>"How came YOU here?"</p>

<p>"Ah, that's the question." He rubbed his chin--a habit of
his<br>
 which has annoyed me more than once before. "Do you think
you're<br>
 sufficiently recovered to enable you to understand a little
simple<br>
 explanation?" I stared at him, amazed. He went on stroking
his<br>
 chin. "The truth is that when I sent you the pipe I made a
slight<br>
 omission."</p>

<p>"An omission?"</p>

<p>"I omitted to advise you not to smoke it."</p>

<p>"And why?"</p>

<p>"Because--well, I've reason to believe the thing is
drugged."</p>

<p>"Drugged!"</p>

<p>"Or poisoned."</p>

<p>"Poisoned!" I was wide awake enough then. I jumped off the
couch<br>
 with a celerity which proved it.</p>

<p>"It is this way. I became its owner in rather a singular
manner."<br>
 He paused, as if for me to make a remark; but I was silent. "It
is<br>
 not often that I smoke a specimen, but, for some reason, I
did<br>
 smoke this. I commenced to smoke it, that is. How long I<br>
 continued to smoke it is more than I can say. It had on me
the<br>
 same peculiar effect which it appears to have had on you. When
I<br>
 recovered consciousness I was lying on the floor."</p>

<p>"On the floor?"</p>

<p>"On the floor. In about as uncomfortable a position as you
can<br>
 easily conceive. I was lying face downward, with my legs
bent<br>
 under me. I was never so surprised in my life as I was when
I<br>
 found myself WHERE I was. At first I supposed that I had had
a<br>
 stroke. But by degrees it dawned upon me that I didn't FEEL
as<br>
 though I had had a stroke." Tress, by the way, has been an
army<br>
 surgeon. "I was conscious of distinct nausea. Looking about,
I<br>
 saw the pipe. With me it had fallen on to the floor. I took
it<br>
 for granted, considering the delicacy of the carving, that the
fall<br>
 had broken it. But when I picked it up I found it quite
uninjured.<br>
 While I was examining it a thought flashed to my brain. Might
it<br>
 not be answerable for what had happened to me? Suppose, for<br>
 instance, it was drugged? I had heard of such things. Besides,
in<br>
 my case were present all the symptoms of drug poisoning,
though<br>
 what drug had been used I couldn't in the least conceive. I<br>
 resolved that I would give the pipe another trial."</p>

<p>"On yourself? or on another party, meaning me?"</p>

<p>"On myself, my dear Pugh--on myself! At that point of my<br>
 investigations I had not begun to think of you. I lit up and
had<br>
 another smoke."</p>

<p>"With what result?"</p>

<p>"Well, that depends on the standpoint from which you regard
the<br>
 thing. From one point of view the result was wholly
satisfactory--<br>
 I proved that the thing was drugged, and more."</p>

<p>"Did you have another fall?"</p>

<p>"I did. And something else besides."</p>

<p>"On that account, I presume, you resolved to pass the treasure
on<br>
 to me?"</p>

<p>"Partly on that account, and partly on another."</p>

<p>"On my word, I appreciate your generosity. You might have
labeled<br>
 the thing as poison."</p>

<p>"Exactly. But then you must remember how often you have told
me<br>
 that you NEVER smoke your specimens."</p>

<p>"That was no reason why you shouldn't have given me a hint
that the<br>
 thing was more dangerous than dynamite."</p>

<p>"That did occur to me afterwards. Therefore I called to supply
the<br>
 slight omission."</p>

<p>"SLIGHT omission, you call it! I wonder what you would have
called<br>
 it if you had found me dead."</p>

<p>"If I had known that you INTENDED smoking it I should not have
been<br>
 at all surprised if I had."</p>

<p>"Really, Tress, I appreciate your kindness more and more!
And<br>
 where is this example of your splendid benevolence? Have you<br>
 pocketed it, regretting your lapse into the unaccustomed paths
of<br>
 generosity? Or is it smashed to atoms?"</p>

<p>"Neither the one nor the other. You will find the pipe upon
the<br>
 table. I neither desire its restoration nor is it in any way<br>
 injured. It is merely an expression of personal opinion when I
say<br>
 that I don't believe that it COULD be injured. Of course,
having<br>
 discovered its deleterious properties, you will not want to
smoke<br>
 it again. You will therefore be able to enjoy the consciousness
of<br>
 being the possessor of what I honestly believe to be the
most<br>
 remarkable pipe in existence. Good day, Pugh."</p>

<p>He was gone before I could say a word. I immediately
concluded,<br>
 from the precipitancy of his flight, that the pipe WAS
injured.<br>
 But when I subjected it to close examination I could discover
no<br>
 signs of damage. While I was still eying it with jealous
scrutiny<br>
 the door reopened, and Tress came in again.</p>

<p>"By the way, Pugh, there is one thing I might mention,
especially<br>
 as I know it won't make any difference to you."</p>

<p>"That depends on what it is. If you have changed your mind,
and<br>
 want the pipe back again, I tell you frankly that it won't. In
my<br>
 opinion, a thing once given is given for good."</p>

<p>"Quite so; I don't want it back again. You may make your mind
easy<br>
 on that point. I merely wanted to tell you WHY I gave it
you."</p>

<p>"You have told me that already."</p>

<p>"Only partly, my dear Pugh--only partly. You don't suppose
I<br>
 should have given you such a pipe as that merely because it<br>
 happened to be drugged? Scarcely! I gave it you because I<br>
 discovered from indisputable evidence, and to my cost, that it
was<br>
 haunted."</p>

<p>"Haunted?"</p>

<p>"Yes, haunted. Good day."</p>

<p>He was gone again. I ran out of the room, and shouted after
him<br>
 down the stairs. He was already at the bottom of the flight.</p>

<p>"Tress! Come back! What do you mean by talking such
nonsense?"</p>

<p>"Of course it's only nonsense. We know that that sort of
thing<br>
 always is nonsense. But if you should have reason to suppose
that<br>
 there is something in it besides nonsense, you may think it
worth<br>
 your while to make inquiries of me, But I won't have that pipe
back<br>
 again in my possession on any terms--mind that!"</p>

<p>The bang of the front door told me that he had gone out into
the<br>
 street. I let him go. I laughed to myself as I reentered the<br>
 room. Haunted! That was not a bad idea of his. I saw the
whole<br>
 position at a glance. The truth of the matter was that he
did<br>
 regret his generosity, and he was ready to go any lengths if
he<br>
 could only succeed in cajoling me into restoring his gift. He
was<br>
 aware that I have views upon certain matters which are not
wholly<br>
 in accordance with those which are popularly supposed to be
the<br>
 views of the day, and particularly that on the question of what
are<br>
 commonly called supernatural visitations I have a standpoint of
my<br>
 own. Therefore, it was not a bad move on his part to try to
make<br>
 me believe that about the pipe on which he knew I had set my
heart<br>
 there was something which could not be accounted for by
ordinary<br>
 laws. Yet, as his own sense would have told him it would do, if
he<br>
 had only allowed himself to reflect for a moment, the move
failed.<br>
 Because I am not yet so far gone as to suppose that a pipe, a
thing<br>
 of meerschaum and of amber, in the sense in which I understand
the<br>
 word, COULD be haunted--a pipe, a mere pipe.</p>

<p>"Hollo! I thought the creature's legs were twined right round
the<br>
 bowl!"</p>

<p>I was holding the pipe in my hand, regarding it with the<br>
 affectionate eyes with which a connoisseur does regard a
curio,<br>
 when I was induced to make this exclamation. I was certainly
under<br>
 the impression that, when I first took the pipe out of the
box,<br>
 two, if not three of the feelers had been twined about the
bowl--<br>
 twined TIGHTLY, so that you could not see daylight between them
and<br>
 it. Now they were almost entirely detached, only the tips
touching<br>
 the meerschaum, and those particular feelers were gathered up
as<br>
 though the creature were in the act of taking a spring. Of
course<br>
 I was under a misapprehension: the feelers COULDN'T have
been<br>
 twined; a moment before I should have been ready to bet a
thousand<br>
 to one that they were. Still, one does make mistakes, and
very<br>
 egregious mistakes, at times. At the same time, I confess
that<br>
 when I saw that dreadful-looking animal poised on the extreme
edge<br>
 of the bowl, for all the world as though it were just going
to<br>
 spring at me, I was a little startled. I remembered that when
I<br>
 was smoking the pipe I did think I saw the uplifted tentacle<br>
 moving, as though it were reaching out to me. And I had a
clear<br>
 recollection that just as I had been sinking into that
strange<br>
 state of unconsciousness, I had been under the impression that
the<br>
 creature was writhing and twisting, as though it had
suddenly<br>
 become instinct with life. Under the circumstances, these<br>
 reflections were not pleasant. I wished Tress had not talked
that<br>
 nonsense about the thing being haunted. It was surely
sufficient<br>
 to know that it was drugged and poisonous, without anything
else.</p>

<p>I replaced it in the sandalwood box. I locked the box in a<br>
 cabinet. Quite apart from the question as to whether that pipe
was<br>
 or was not haunted, I know it haunted me. It was with me in
a<br>
 figurative--which was worse than actual--sense all the day.
Still<br>
 worse, it was with me all the night. It was with me in my
dreams.<br>
 Such dreams! Possibly I had not yet wholly recovered from
the<br>
 effects of that insidious drug, but, whether or no, it was
very<br>
 wrong of Tress to set my thoughts into such a channel. He
knows<br>
 that I am of a highly imaginative temperament, and that it
is<br>
 easier to get morbid thoughts into my mind than to get them
out<br>
 again. Before that night was through I wished very heartily that
I<br>
 had never seen the pipe! I woke from one nightmare to fall
into<br>
 another. One dreadful dream was with me all the time--of a<br>
 hideous, green reptile which advanced toward me out of some
awful<br>
 darkness, slowly, inch by inch, until it clutched me round
the<br>
 neck, and, gluing its lips to mine, sucked the life's blood out
of<br>
 my veins as it embraced me with a slimy kiss. Such dreams are
not<br>
 restful. I woke anything but refreshed when the morning came.
And<br>
 when I got up and dressed I felt that, on the whole, it
would<br>
 perhaps have been better if I never had gone to bed. My
nerves<br>
 were unstrung, and I had that generally tremulous feeling which
is,<br>
 I believe, an inseparable companion of the more advanced stages
of<br>
 dipsomania. I ate no breakfast. I am no breakfast eater as a<br>
 rule, but that morning I ate absolutely nothing.</p>

<p>"If this sort of thing is to continue, I will let Tress have
his<br>
 pipe again. He may have the laugh of me, but anything is
better<br>
 than this."</p>

<p>It was with almost funereal forebodings that I went to the
cabinet<br>
 in which I had placed the sandalwood box. But when I opened it
my<br>
 feelings of gloom partially vanished. Of what phantasies had
I<br>
 been guilty! It must have been an entire delusion on my part
to<br>
 have supposed that those tentacula had ever been twined about
the<br>
 bowl. The creature was in exactly the same position in which I
had<br>
 left it the day before--as, of course, I knew it would
be--poised,<br>
 as if about to spring. I was telling myself how foolish I had
been<br>
 to allow myself to dwell for a moment on Tress's words, when
Martin<br>
 Brasher was shown in.</p>

<p>Brasher is an old friend of mine. We have a common
ground--ghosts.<br>
 Only we approach them from different points of view. He takes
the<br>
 scientific--psychological--inquiry side. He is always anxious
to<br>
 hear of a ghost, so that he may have an opportunity of "showing
it<br>
 up."</p>

<p>"I've something in your line here," I observed, as he came
in.</p>

<p>"In my line? How so? I'M not pipe mad."</p>

<p>"No; but you're ghost mad. And this is a haunted pipe."</p>

<p>"A haunted pipe! I think you're rather more mad about ghosts,
my<br>
 dear Pugh, than I am."</p>

<p>Then I told him all about it. He was deeply interested,
especially<br>
 when I told him that the pipe was drugged. But when I
repeated<br>
 Tress's words about its being haunted, and mentioned my own<br>
 delusion about the creature moving, he took a more serious view
of<br>
 the case than I had expected he would do.</p>

<p>"I propose that we act on Tress's suggestion, and go and
make<br>
 inquiries of him."</p>

<p>"But you don't really think that there is anything in it?"</p>

<p>"On these subjects I never allow myself to think at all. There
are<br>
 Tress's words, and there is your story. It is agreed on all
hands<br>
 that the pipe has peculiar properties. It seems to me that
there<br>
 is a sufficient case here to merit inquiry."</p>

<p>He persuaded me. I went with him. The pipe, in the
sandalwood<br>
 box, went too. Tress received us with a grin--a grin which
was<br>
 accentuated when I placed the sandalwood box on the table.</p>

<p>"You understand," he said, "that a gift is a gift. On no
terms<br>
 will I consent to receive that pipe back in my possession."</p>

<p>I was rather nettled by his tone.</p>

<p>"You need be under no alarm. I have no intention of
suggesting<br>
 anything of the kind."</p>

<p>"Our business here," began Brasher--I must own that his manner
is a<br>
 little ponderous--"is of a scientific, I may say also, and at
the<br>
 same time, of a judicial nature. Our object is the Pursuit
of<br>
 Truth and the Advancement of Inquiry."</p>

<p>"Have you been trying another smoke?" inquired Tress, nodding
his<br>
 head toward me.</p>

<p>Before I had time to answer, Brasher went droning on:</p>

<p>"Our friend here tells me that you say this pipe is
haunted."</p>

<p>"I say it is haunted because it IS haunted."</p>

<p>I looked at Tress. I half suspected that he was poking fun at
us.<br>
 But he appeared to be serious enough.</p>

<p>"In these matters," remarked Brasher, as though he were
giving<br>
 utterance to a new and important truth, "there is a scientific
and<br>
 nonscientific method of inquiry. The scientific method is to
begin<br>
 at the beginning. May I ask how this pipe came into your<br>
 possession?"</p>

<p>Tress paused before he answered.</p>

<p>"You may ask." He paused again. "Oh, you certainly may ask.
But<br>
 it doesn't follow that I shall tell you."</p>

<p>"Surely your object, like ours, can be but the Spreading About
of<br>
 the Truth?"</p>

<p>"I don't see it at all. It is possible to imagine a case in
which<br>
 the spreading about of the truth might make me look a little<br>
 awkward."</p>

<p>"Indeed!" Brasher pursed up his lips. "Your words would
almost<br>
 lead one to suppose that there was something about your method
of<br>
 acquiring the pipe which you have good and weighty reasons
for<br>
 concealing."</p>

<p><br>
 "I don't know why I should conceal the thing from you. I
don't<br>
 suppose either of you is any better than I am. I don't mind<br>
 telling you how I got the pipe. I stole it."</p>

<p>"Stole it!"</p>

<p>Brasher seemed both amazed and shocked. But I, who had
previous<br>
 experience of Tress's methods of adding to his collection, was
not<br>
 at all surprised. Some of the pipes which he calls his, if
only<br>
 the whole truth about them were publicly known, would send him
to<br>
 jail.</p>

<p>"That's nothing!" he continued. "All collectors steal! The
eighth<br>
 commandment was not intended to apply to them. Why, Pugh there
has<br>
 'conveyed' three fourths of the pipes which he flatters himself
are<br>
 his."</p>

<p>I was so dumfoundered by the charge that it took my breath
away. I<br>
 sat in astounded silence. Tress went raving on:</p>

<p>"I was so shy of this particular pipe when I had obtained it,
that<br>
 I put it away for quite three months. When I took it out to have
a<br>
 look at it something about the thing so tickled me that I
resolved<br>
 to smoke it. Owing to peculiar circumstances attending the
manner<br>
 in which the thing came into my possession, and on which I need
not<br>
 dwell--you don't like to dwell on those sort of things, do
you,<br>
 Pugh?--I knew really nothing about the pipe. As was the case
with<br>
 Pugh, one peculiarity I learned from actual experience. It
was<br>
 also from actual experience that I learned that the thing
was--<br>
 well, I said haunted, but you may use any other word you
like."</p>

<p>"Tell us, as briefly as possible, what it was you really
did<br>
 discover."</p>

<p>"Take the pipe out of the box!" Brasher took the pipe out of
the<br>
 box and held it in his hand. "You see that creature on it.
Well,<br>
 when I first had it it was underneath the pipe."</p>

<p>"How do you mean that it was underneath the pipe?"</p>

<p>"It was bunched together underneath the stem, just at the end
of<br>
 the mouthpiece, in the same way in which a fly might be
suspended<br>
 from the ceiling. When I began to smoke the pipe I saw the<br>
 creature move."</p>

<p>"But I thought that unconsciousness immediately followed."</p>

<p>"It did follow, but not before I saw that the thing was
moving. It<br>
 was because I thought that I had been, in a way, a victim of<br>
 delirium that I tried the second smoke. Suspecting that the
thing<br>
 was drugged I swallowed what I believed would prove a
powerful<br>
 antidote. It enabled me to resist the influence of the
narcotic<br>
 much longer than before, and while I still retained my senses I
saw<br>
 the creature crawl along under the stem and over the bowl. It
was<br>
 that sight, I believe, as much as anything else, which sent
me<br>
 silly. When I came to I then and there decided to present the
pipe<br>
 to Pugh. There is one more thing I would remark. When the
pipe<br>
 left me the creature's legs were twined about the bowl. Now
they<br>
 are withdrawn. Possibly you, Pugh, are able to cap my story with
a<br>
 little one which is all your own."</p>

<p>"I certainly did imagine that I saw the creature move. But
I<br>
 supposed that while I was under the influence of the drug<br>
 imagination had played me a trick."</p>

<p>"Not a bit of it! Depend upon it, the beast is bewitched. Even
to<br>
 my eye it looks as though it were, and to a trained eye like
yours,<br>
 Pugh! You've been looking for the devil a long time, and
you've<br>
 got him at last."</p>

<p>"I--I wish you wouldn't make those remarks, Tress. They jar
on<br>
 me."</p>

<p>"I confess," interpolated Brasher--I noticed that he had put
the<br>
 pipe down on the table as though he were tired of holding
it--<br>
 "that, to MY thinking, such remarks are not appropriate. At
the<br>
 same time what you have told us is, I am bound to allow, a
little<br>
 curious. But of course what I require is ocular demonstration.
I<br>
 haven't seen the movement myself."</p>

<p>"No, but you very soon will do if you care to have a pull at
the<br>
 pipe on your own account. Do, Brasher, to oblige me! There's
a<br>
 dear!"</p>

<p>"It appears, then, that the movement is only observable when
the<br>
 pipe is smoked. We have at least arrived at step No. 1."</p>

<p>"Here's a match, Brasher! Light up, and we shall have arrived
at<br>
 step No. 2."</p>

<p>Tress lit a match and held it out to Brasher. Brasher
retreated<br>
 from its neighborhood.</p>

<p>"Thank you, Mr. Tress, I am no smoker, as you are aware. And
I<br>
 have no desire to acquire the art of smoking by means of a
poisoned<br>
 pipe."</p>

<p>Tress laughed. He blew out the match and threw it into the
grate.</p>

<p>"Then I tell you what I'll do--I'll have up Bob."</p>

<p>"Bob--why Bob?"</p>

<p>"Bob"--whose real name was Robert Haines, though I should
think he<br>
 must have forgotten the fact, so seldom was he addressed by
it--was<br>
 Tress's servant. He had been an old soldier, and had
accompanied<br>
 his master when he left the service. He was as depraved a<br>
 character as Tress himself. I am not sure even that he was
not<br>
 worse than his master. I shall never forget how he once
behaved<br>
 toward myself. He actually had the assurance to accuse me of<br>
 attempting to steal the Wardour Street relic which Tress
fondly<br>
 deludes himself was once the property of Sir Walter Raleigh.
The<br>
 truth is that I had slipped it with my handkerchief into my
pocket<br>
 in a fit of absence of mind. A man who could accuse ME of such
a<br>
 thing would be guilty of anything. I was therefore quite at
one<br>
 with Brasher when he asked what Bob could possibly be wanted
for.<br>
 Tress explained.</p>

<p>"I'll get him to smoke the pipe," he said.</p>

<p>Brasher and I exchanged glances, but we refrained from
speech.</p>

<p>"It won't do him any harm," said Tress.</p>

<p>"What--not a poisoned pipe?" asked Brasher.</p>

<p>"It's not poisoned--it's only drugged."</p>

<p>"ONLY drugged!"</p>

<p>"Nothing hurts Bob. He is like an ostrich. He has
digestive<br>
 organs which are peculiarly his own. It will only serve him as
it<br>
 served me--and Pugh--it will knock him over. It is all done in
the<br>
 Pursuit of Truth and for the Advancement of Inquiry."</p>

<p>I could see that Brasher did not altogether like the tone in
which<br>
 Tress repeated his words. As for me, it was not to be
supposed<br>
 that I should put myself out in a matter which in no way
concerned<br>
 me. If Tress chose to poison the man, it was his affair, not
mine.<br>
 He went to the door and shouted:</p>

<p>"Bob! Come here, you scoundrel!"</p>

<p>That is the way in which he speaks to him. No really
decent<br>
 servant would stand it. I shouldn't care to address Nalder,
my<br>
 servant, in such a way. He would give me notice on the spot.
Bob<br>
 came in. He is a great hulking fellow who is always on the
grin.<br>
 Tress had a decanter of brandy in his hand. He filled a
tumbler<br>
 with the neat spirit.</p>

<p>"Bob, what would you say to a glassful of brandy--the real
thing--<br>
 my boy?"</p>

<p>"Thank you, sir."</p>

<p>"And what would you say to a pull at a pipe when the brandy
is<br>
 drunk!"</p>

<p>"A pipe?" The fellow is sharp enough when he likes. I saw
him<br>
 look at the pipe upon the table, and then at us, and then a
gleam<br>
 of intelligence came into his eyes. "I'd do it for a dollar,
sir."</p>

<p>"A dollar, you thief?"</p>

<p>"I meant ten shillings, sir."</p>

<p>"Ten shillings, you brazen vagabond?"</p>

<p>"I should have said a pound."</p>

<p>"A pound! Was ever the like of that! Do I understand you to
ask a<br>
 pound for taking a pull at your master's pipe?"</p>

<p>"I'm thinking that I'll have to make it two."</p>

<p>"The deuce you are! Here, Pugh, lend me a pound."</p>

<p>"I'm afraid I've left my purse behind."</p>

<p>"Then lend me ten shillings--Ananias!"</p>

<p>"I doubt if I have more than five."</p>

<p>"Then give me the five. And, Brasher, lend me the other
fifteen."</p>

<p>Brasher lent him the fifteen. I doubt if we shall either of
us<br>
 ever see our money again. He handed the pound to Bob.</p>

<p>"Here's the brandy--drink it up!" Bob drank it without a
word,<br>
 draining the glass of every drop. "And here's the pipe."</p>

<p>"Is it poisoned, sir?"</p>

<p>"Poisoned, you villain! What do you mean?"</p>

<p>"It isn't the first time I've seen your tricks, sir--is it
now?<br>
 And you're not the one to give a pound for nothing at all. If
it<br>
 kills me you'll send my body to my mother--she'd like to know
that<br>
 I was dead."</p>

<p>"Send your body to your grandmother! You idiot, sit down
and<br>
 smoke!"</p>

<p>Bob sat down. Tress had filled the pipe, and handed it, with
a<br>
 lighted match, to Bob. The fellow declined the match. He
handled<br>
 the pipe very gingerly, turning it over and over, eying it with
all<br>
 his eyes.</p>

<p>"Thank you, sir--I'll light up myself if it's the same to you.
I<br>
 carry matches of my own. It's a beautiful pipe, entirely. I
never<br>
 see the like of it for ugliness. And what's the
slimy-looking<br>
 varmint that looks as though it would like to have my life? Is
it<br>
 living, or is it dead?"</p>

<p>"Come, we don't want to sit here all day, my man!"</p>

<p>"Well, sir, the look of this here pipe has quite upset my
stomach.<br>
 I'd like another drop of liquor, if it's the same to you."</p>

<p>"Another drop! Why, you've had a tumblerful already!
Here's<br>
 another tumblerful to put on top of that. You won't want the
pipe<br>
 to kill you--you'll be killed before you get to it."</p>

<p>"And isn't it better to die a natural death?"</p>

<p>Bob emptied the second tumbler of brandy as though it were
water.<br>
 I believe he would empty a hogshead without turning a hair!
Then<br>
 he gave another look at the pipe. Then, taking a match from
his<br>
 waistcoat pocket, he drew a long breath, as though he were<br>
 resigning himself to fate. Striking the match on the seat of
his<br>
 trousers, while, shaded by his hand, the flame was gathering<br>
 strength, he looked at each of us in turn. When he looked at
Tress<br>
 I distinctly saw him wink his eye. What my feelings would
have<br>
 been if a servant of mine had winked his eye at me I am unable
to<br>
 imagine! The match was applied to the tobacco, a puff of
smoke<br>
 came through his lips--the pipe was alight!</p>

<p>During this process of lighting the pipe we had sat--I do not
wish<br>
 to use exaggerated language, but we had sat and watched that<br>
 alcoholic scamp's proceedings as though we were witnessing
an<br>
 action which would leave its mark upon the age. When we saw
the<br>
 pipe was lighted we gave a simultaneous start. Brasher put
his<br>
 hands under his coat tails and gave a kind of hop. I raised
myself<br>
 a good six inches from my chair, and Tress rubbed his palms<br>
 together with a chuckle. Bob alone was calm.</p>

<p>"Now," cried Tress, "you'll see the devil moving."</p>

<p>Bob took the pipe from between his lips.</p>

<p>"See what?" he said.</p>

<p>"Bob, you rascal, put that pipe back into your mouth, and
smoke it<br>
 for your life!"</p>

<p>Bob was eying the pipe askance.</p>

<p>"I dare say, but what I want to know is whether this here
varmint's<br>
 dead or whether he isn't. I don't want to have him flying at
my<br>
 nose--and he looks vicious enough for anything."</p>

<p>"Give me back that pound, you thief, and get out of my house,
and<br>
 bundle."</p>

<p>"I ain't going to give you back no pound."</p>

<p>"Then smoke that pipe!"</p>

<p>"I am smoking it, ain't I?"</p>

<p>With the utmost deliberation Bob returned the pipe to his
mouth.<br>
 He emitted another whiff or two of smoke.</p>

<p>"Now--now!" cried Tress, all excitement, and wagging his hand
in<br>
 the air.</p>

<p>We gathered round. As we did so Bob again withdrew the
pipe.</p>

<p>"What is the meaning of all this here? I ain't going to have
you<br>
 playing none of your larks on me. I know there's something up,
but<br>
 I ain't going to throw my life away for twenty shillings--not
quite<br>
 I ain't."</p>

<p>Tress, whose temper is not at any time one of the best, was
seized<br>
 with quite a spasm of rage.</p>

<p>"As I live, my lad, if you try to cheat me by taking that pipe
from<br>
 between your lips until I tell you, you leave this room that<br>
 instant, never again to be a servant of mine."</p>

<p>I presume the fellow knew from long experience when his
master<br>
 meant what he said, and when he didn't. Without an attempt
at<br>
 remonstrance he replaced the pipe. He continued stolidly to
puff<br>
 away. Tress caught me by the arm.</p>

<p>"What did I tell you? There--there! That tentacle is
moving."</p>

<p>The uplifted tentacle WAS moving. It was doing what I had seen
it<br>
 do, as I supposed, in my distorted imagination--it was
reaching<br>
 forward. Undoubtedly Bob saw what it was doing; but, whether
in<br>
 obedience to his master's commands, or whether because the drug
was<br>
 already beginning to take effect, he made no movement to
withdraw<br>
 the pipe. He watched the slowly advancing tentacle, coming
closer<br>
 and closer toward his nose, with an expression of such
intense<br>
 horror on his countenance that it became quite shocking.
Farther<br>
 and farther the creature reached forward, until on a sudden,
with a<br>
 sort of jerk, the movement assumed a downward direction, and
the<br>
 tentacle was slowly lowered until the tip rested on the stem of
the<br>
 pipe. For a moment the creature remained motionless. I was<br>
 quieting my nerves with the reflection that this thing was but
some<br>
 trick of the carver's art, and that what we had seen we had seen
in<br>
 a sort of nightmare, when the whole hideous reptile was seized
with<br>
 what seemed to be a fit of convulsive shuddering. It seemed to
be<br>
 in agony. It trembled so violently that I expected to see it<br>
 loosen its hold of the stem and fall to the ground. I was<br>
 sufficiently master of myself to steal a glance at Bob. We had
had<br>
 an inkling of what might happen. He was wholly unprepared. As
he<br>
 saw that dreadful, human-looking creature, coming to life, as
it<br>
 seemed, within an inch or two of his nose, his eyes dilated
to<br>
 twice their usual size. I hoped, for his sake, that<br>
 unconsciousness would supervene, through the action of the
drug,<br>
 before through sheer fright his senses left him. Perhaps<br>
 mechanically he puffed steadily on.</p>

<p>The creature's shuddering became more violent. It appeared
to<br>
 swell before our eyes. Then, just as suddenly as it began,
the<br>
 shuddering ceased. There was another instant of quiescence.
Then<br>
 the creature began to crawl along the stem of the pipe! It
moved<br>
 with marvelous caution, the merest fraction of an inch at a
time.<br>
 But still it moved! Our eyes were riveted on it with a
fascination<br>
 which was absolutely nauseous. I am unpleasantly affected even
as<br>
 I think of it now. My dreams of the night before had been
nothing<br>
 to this.</p>

<p><br>
 Slowly, slowly, it went, nearer and nearer to the smoker's
nose.<br>
 Its mode of progression was in the highest degree unsightly.
It<br>
 glided, never, so far as I could see, removing its tentacles
from<br>
 the stem of the pipe. It slipped its hindmost feelers onward
until<br>
 they came up to those which were in advance. Then, in their
turn,<br>
 it advanced those which were in front. It seemed, too, to
move<br>
 with the utmost labor, shuddering as though it were in pain.</p>

<p>We were all, for our parts, speechless. I was momentarily
hoping<br>
 that the drug would take effect on Bob. Either his
constitution<br>
 enabled him to offer a strong resistance to narcotics, or else
the<br>
 large quantity of neat spirit which he had drunk acted--as
Tress<br>
 had malevolently intended that it should--as an antidote. It<br>
 seemed to me that he would NEVER succumb. On went the
creature--<br>
 on, and on, in its infinitesimal progression. I was spellbound.
I<br>
 would have given the world to scream, to have been able to utter
a<br>
 sound. I could do nothing else but watch.</p>

<p>The creature had reached the end of the stem. It had gained
the<br>
 amber mouthpiece. It was within an inch of the smoker's
nose.<br>
 Still on it went. It seemed to move with greater freedom on
the<br>
 amber. It increased its rate of progress. It was actually<br>
 touching the foremost feature on the smoker's countenance. I<br>
 expected to see it grip the wretched Bob, when it began to<br>
 oscillate from side to side. Its oscillations increased in<br>
 violence. It fell to the floor. That same instant the
narcotic<br>
 prevailed. Bob slipped sideways from the chair, the pipe
still<br>
 held tightly between his rigid jaws.</p>

<p>We were silent. There lay Bob. Close beside him lay the
creature.<br>
 A few more inches to the left, and he would have fallen on
and<br>
 squashed it flat. It had fallen on its back. Its feelers
were<br>
 extended upward. They were writhing and twisting and turning
in<br>
 the air.</p>

<p>Tress was the first to speak.</p>

<p>"I think a little brandy won't be amiss." Emptying the
remainder<br>
 of the brandy into a glass, he swallowed it at a draught. "Now
for<br>
 a closer examination of our friend." Taking a pair of tongs
from<br>
 the grate he nipped the creature between them. He deposited
it<br>
 upon the table. "I rather fancy that this is a case for<br>
 dissection."</p>

<p>He took a penknife from his waistcoat pocket. Opening the
large<br>
 blade, he thrust its point into the object on the table. Little
or<br>
 no resistance seemed to be offered to the passage of the blade,
but<br>
 as it was inserted the tentacula simultaneously began to writhe
and<br>
 twist. Tress withdrew the knife.</p>

<p>"I thought so!" He held the blade out for our inspection.
The<br>
 point was covered with some viscid-looking matter. "That's
blood!<br>
 The thing's alive!"</p>

<p>"Alive!"</p>

<p>"Alive! That's the secret of the whole performance!"</p>

<p>"But--"</p>

<p>"But me no buts, my Pugh! The mystery's exploded! One more
ghost<br>
 is lost to the world! The person from whom I OBTAINED that
pipe<br>
 was an Indian juggler--up to many tricks of the trade. He, or
some<br>
 one for him, got hold of this sweet thing in reptiles--and a<br>
 sweeter thing would, I imagine, be hard to find--and covered
it<br>
 with some preparation of, possibly, gum arabic. He allowed this
to<br>
 harden. Then he stuck the thing--still living, for those sort
of<br>
 gentry are hard to kill--to the pipe. The consequence was
that<br>
 when anyone lit up, the warmth was communicated to the
adhesive<br>
 agent--again some preparation of gum, no doubt--it moistened
it,<br>
 and the creature, with infinite difficulty, was able to move.
But<br>
 I am open to lay odds with any gentleman of sporting tastes
that<br>
 THIS time the creature's traveling days ARE done. It has given
me<br>
 rather a larger taste of the horrors than is good for my<br>
 digestion."</p>

<p>With the aid of the tongs he removed the creature from the
table.<br>
 He placed it on the hearth. Before Brasher or I had a notion
of<br>
 what it was he intended to do he covered it with a heavy
marble<br>
 paper weight. Then he stood upon the weight, and between the<br>
 marble and the hearth he ground the creature flat.</p>

<p>While the execution was still proceeding, Bob sat up upon
the<br>
 floor.</p>

<p>"Hollo!" he asked, "what's happened?"</p>

<p>"We've emptied the bottle, Bob," said Tress. "But there's
another<br>
 where that came from. Perhaps you could drink another
tumblerful,<br>
 my boy?"</p>

<p>Bob drank it!</p>

<h4><br>
 FOOTNOTE</h4>

<p>"Those gentry are hard to kill." Here is fact, not
fantasy.<br>
 Lizard yarns no less sensational than this Mystery Story can
be<br>
 found between the covers of solemn, zoological textbooks.</p>

<p>Reptiles, indeed, are far from finicky in the matters of
air,<br>
 space, and especially warmth. Frogs and other such sluggish-<br>
 blooded creatures have lived after being frozen fast in ice.
Their<br>
 blood is little warmer than air or water, enjoying no extra
casing<br>
 of fur or feathers.</p>

<p><br>
 Air and food seem held in light esteem by lizards. Their
blood<br>
 need not be highly oxygenated; it nourishes just as well
when<br>
 impure. In temperate climes lizards lie torpid and buried
all<br>
 winter; some species of the tropic deserts sleep peacefully
all<br>
 summer. Their anatomy includes no means for the continuous<br>
 introduction and expulsion of air; reptilian lungs are little
more<br>
 than closed sacs, without cell structure.</p>

<p>If any further zoological fact were needed to verify the
denouement<br>
 of "The Pipe," it might be the general statement that lizards
are<br>
 abnormal brutes anyhow. Consider the chameleons of unsettled
hue.<br>
 And what is one to think of an animal which, when captured by
the<br>
 tail, is able to make its escape by willfully shuffling off
that<br>
 appendage?--EDITOR.</p>

<p> </p>

<h2>The Puzzle</h2>

<h3>I</h3>

<p><br>
 Pugh came into my room holding something wrapped in a piece
of<br>
 brown paper.</p>

<p>"Tress, I have brought you something on which you may exercise
your<br>
 ingenuity." He began, with exasperating deliberation, to untie
the<br>
 string which bound his parcel; he is one of those persons who
would<br>
 not cut a knot to save their lives. The process occupied him
the<br>
 better part of a quarter of an hour. Then he held out the
contents<br>
 of the paper.</p>

<p><br>
 "What do you think of that?" he asked. I thought nothing of
it,<br>
 and I told him so. "I was prepared for that confession. I
have<br>
 noticed, Tress, that you generally do think nothing of an
article<br>
 which really deserves the attention of a truly thoughtful
mind.<br>
 Possibly, as you think so little of it, you will be able to
solve<br>
 the puzzle."</p>

<p>I took what he held out to me. It was an oblong box, perhaps
seven<br>
 inches long by three inches broad.</p>

<p>"Where's the puzzle?" I asked.</p>

<p>"If you will examine the lid of the box, you will see." I
turned<br>
 it over and over; it was difficult to see which was the lid.
Then<br>
 I perceived that on one side were printed these words:</p>

<blockquote>
<p><br>
 "PUZZLE: TO OPEN THE BOX"</p>
</blockquote>

<p><br>
 The words were so faintly printed that it was not surprising
that I<br>
 had not noticed them at first. Pugh explained.</p>

<p><br>
 "I observed that box on a tray outside a second-hand
furniture<br>
 shop. It struck my eye. I took it up. I examined it. I
inquired<br>
 of the proprietor of the shop in what the puzzle lay. He
replied<br>
 that that was more than he could tell me. He himself had
made<br>
 several attempts to open the box, and all of them had failed.
I<br>
 purchased it. I took it home. I have tried, and I have failed.
I<br>
 am aware, Tress, of how you pride yourself upon your ingenuity.
I<br>
 cannot doubt that, if you try, you will not fail."</p>

<p>While Pugh was prosing, I was examining the box. It was at
least<br>
 well made. It weighed certainly under two ounces. I struck
it<br>
 with my knuckles; it sounded hollow. There was no hinge;
nothing<br>
 of any kind to show that it ever had been opened, or, for
the<br>
 matter of that, that it ever could be opened. The more I
examined<br>
 the thing, the more it whetted my curiosity. That it could
be<br>
 opened, and in some ingenious manner, I made no doubt--but
how?</p>

<p>The box was not a new one. At a rough guess I should say that
it<br>
 had been a box for a good half century; there were certain signs
of<br>
 age about it which could not escape a practiced eye. Had it<br>
 remained unopened all that time? When opened, what would be
found<br>
 inside? It SOUNDED hollow; probably nothing at all--who
could<br>
 tell?</p>

<p>It was formed of small pieces of inlaid wood. Several woods
had<br>
 been used; some of them were strange to me. They were of
different<br>
 colors; it was pretty obvious that they must all of them have
been<br>
 hard woods. The pieces were of various shapes--hexagonal,<br>
 octagonal, triangular, square, oblong, and even circular.
The<br>
 process of inlaying them had been beautifully done. So nicely
had<br>
 the parts been joined that the lines of meeting were difficult
to<br>
 discover with the naked eye; they had been joined solid, so
to<br>
 speak. It was an excellent example of marquetry. I had been
over-<br>
 hasty in my deprecation; I owed as much to Pugh.</p>

<p>"This box of yours is better worth looking at than I first<br>
 supposed. Is it to be sold?"</p>

<p>"No, it is not to be sold. Nor"--he "fixed" me with his<br>
 spectacles--"is it to be given away. I have brought it to you
for<br>
 the simple purpose of ascertaining if you have ingenuity enough
to<br>
 open it."</p>

<p>"I will engage to open it in two seconds--with a hammer."</p>

<p>"I dare say. I will open it with a hammer. The thing is to
open<br>
 it without."</p>

<p>"Let me see." I began, with the aid of a microscope, to
examine<br>
 the box more closely. "I will give you one piece of
information,<br>
 Pugh. Unless I am mistaken, the secret lies in one of these
little<br>
 pieces of inlaid wood. You push it, or you press it, or
something,<br>
 and the whole affair flies open."</p>

<p>"Such was my own first conviction. I am not so sure of it now.
I<br>
 have pressed every separate piece of wood; I have tried to
move<br>
 each piece in every direction. No result has followed. My
theory<br>
 was a hidden spring."</p>

<p>"But there must be a hidden spring of some sort, unless you
are to<br>
 open it by a mere exercise of force. I suppose the box is
empty."</p>

<p>"I thought it was at first, but now I am not so sure of
that<br>
 either. It all depends on the position in which you hold it.
Hold<br>
 it in this position--like this--close to your ear. Have you
a<br>
 small hammer?" I took a small hammer. "Tap it softly, with
the<br>
 hammer. Don't you notice a sort of reverberation within?"</p>

<p>Pugh was right, there certainly was something within;
something<br>
 which seemed to echo back my tapping, almost as if it were a
living<br>
 thing. I mentioned this, to Pugh.</p>

<p>"But you don't think that there is something alive inside the
box?<br>
 There can't be. The box must be airtight, probably as much
air-<br>
 tight as an exhausted receiver."</p>

<p>"How do we know that? How can we tell that no minute
interstices<br>
 have been left for the express purpose of ventilation?" I<br>
 continued tapping with the hammer. I noticed one peculiarity,
that<br>
 it was only when I held the box in a particular position,
and<br>
 tapped at a certain spot, there came the answering taps from<br>
 within. "I tell you what it is, Pugh, what I hear is the<br>
 reverberation of some machinery."</p>

<p>"Do you think so?"</p>

<p>"I'm sure of it."</p>

<p>"Give the box to me." Pugh put the box to his ear. He
tapped.<br>
 "It sounds to me like the echoing tick, tick of some great
beetle;<br>
 like the sort of noise which a deathwatch makes, you know."</p>

<p>Trust Pugh to find a remarkable explanation for a simple fact;
if<br>
 the explanation leans toward the supernatural, so much the
more<br>
 satisfactory to Pugh. I knew better.</p>

<p>"The sound which you hear is merely the throbbing or the
trembling<br>
 of the mechanism with which it is intended that the box should
be<br>
 opened. The mechanism is placed just where you are tapping it
with<br>
 the hammer. Every tap causes it to jar."</p>

<p>"It sounds to me like the ticking of a deathwatch. However,
on<br>
 such subjects, Tress, I know what you are."</p>

<p>"My dear Pugh, give it an extra hard tap, and you will
see."</p>

<p>He gave it an extra hard tap. The moment he had done so,
he<br>
 started.</p>

<p>"I've done it now."</p>

<p>"What have you done?"</p>

<p>"Broken something, I fancy." He listened intently, with his
ear to<br>
 the box. "No--it seems all right. And yet I could have sworn
I<br>
 had damaged something; I heard it smash."</p>

<p>"Give me the box." He gave it me. In my turn, I listened.
I<br>
 shook the box. Pugh must have been mistaken. Nothing
rattled;<br>
 there was not a sound; the box was as empty as before. I gave
a<br>
 smart tap with the hammer, as Pugh had done. Then there
certainly<br>
 was a curious sound. To my ear, it sounded like the smashing
of<br>
 glass. "I wonder if there is anything fragile inside your
precious<br>
 puzzle, Pugh, and, if so, if we are shivering it by
degrees?"</p>

<h3><br>
 II</h3>

<p><br>
 "What IS that noise?"</p>

<p>I lay in bed in that curious condition which is between sleep
and<br>
 waking. When, at last, I KNEW that I was awake, I asked
myself<br>
 what it was that had woke me. Suddenly I became conscious
that<br>
 something was making itself audible in the silence of the
night.<br>
 For some seconds I lay and listened. Then I sat up in bed.</p>

<p><br>
 "What IS that noise?"</p>

<p>It was like the tick, tick of some large and unusually
clear-toned<br>
 clock. It might have been a clock, had it not been that the
sound<br>
 was varied, every half dozen ticks or so, by a sort of
stifled<br>
 screech, such as might have been uttered by some small creature
in<br>
 an extremity of anguish. I got out of bed; it was ridiculous
to<br>
 think of sleep during the continuation of that uncanny
shrieking.<br>
 I struck a light. The sound seemed to come from the
neighborhood<br>
 of my dressing-table. I went to the dressing-table, the
lighted<br>
 match in my hand, and, as I did so, my eyes fell on Pugh's<br>
 mysterious box. That same instant there issued, from the bowels
of<br>
 the box, a more uncomfortable screech than any I had
previously<br>
 heard. It took me so completely by surprise that I let the
match<br>
 fall from my hand to the floor. The room was in darkness. I<br>
 stood, I will not say trembling, listening--considering
their<br>
 volume--to the EERIEST shrieks I ever heard. All at once
they<br>
 ceased. Then came the tick, tick, tick again. I struck
another<br>
 match and lit the gas.</p>

<p>Pugh had left his puzzle box behind him. We had done all we
could,<br>
 together, to solve the puzzle. He had left it behind to see what
I<br>
 could do with it alone. So much had it engrossed my attention
that<br>
 I had even brought it into my bedroom, in order that I
might,<br>
 before retiring to rest, make a final attempt at the solution
of<br>
 the mystery. NOW what possessed the thing?</p>

<p>As I stood, and looked, and listened, one thing began to be
clear<br>
 to me, that some sort of machinery had been set in motion
inside<br>
 the box. How it had been set in motion was another matter.
But<br>
 the box had been subjected to so much handling, to such
pressing<br>
 and such hammering, that it was not strange if, after all, Pugh
or<br>
 I had unconsciously hit upon the spring which set the whole
thing<br>
 going. Possibly the mechanism had got so rusty that it had
refused<br>
 to act at once. It had hung fire, and only after some hours
had<br>
 something or other set the imprisoned motive power free.</p>

<p>But what about the screeching? Could there be some living
creature<br>
 concealed within the box? Was I listening to the cries of
some<br>
 small animal in agony? Momentary reflection suggested that
the<br>
 explanation of the one thing was the explanation of the
other.<br>
 Rust!--there was the mystery. The same rust which had
prevented<br>
 the mechanism from acting at once was causing the screeching
now.<br>
 The uncanny sounds were caused by nothing more nor less than
the<br>
 want of a drop or two of oil. Such an explanation would not
have<br>
 satisfied Pugh, it satisfied me.</p>

<p>Picking up the box, I placed it to my ear.</p>

<p>"I wonder how long this little performance is going to
continue.<br>
 And what is going to happen when it is good enough to cease?
I<br>
 hope"--an uncomfortable thought occurred to me--"I hope Pugh
hasn't<br>
 picked up some pleasant little novelty in the way of an
infernal<br>
 machine. It would be a first-rate joke if he and I had been<br>
 endeavoring to solve the puzzle of how to set it going."</p>

<p>I don't mind owning that as this reflection crossed my mind
I<br>
 replaced Pugh's puzzle on the dressing-table. The idea did
not<br>
 commend itself to me at all. The box evidently contained
some<br>
 curious mechanism. It might be more curious than
comfortable.<br>
 Possibly some agreeable little device in clockwork. The
tick,<br>
 tick, tick suggested clockwork which had been planned to go
a<br>
 certain time, and then--then, for all I knew, ignite an
explosive,<br>
 and--blow up. It would be a charming solution to the puzzle if
it<br>
 were to explode while I stood there, in my nightshirt, looking
on.<br>
 It is true that the box weighed very little. Probably, as I
have<br>
 said, the whole affair would not have turned the scale at a
couple<br>
 of ounces. But then its very lightness might have been part of
the<br>
 ingenious inventor's little game. There are explosives with
which<br>
 one can work a very satisfactory amount of damage with
considerably<br>
 less than a couple of ounces.</p>

<p>While I was hesitating--I own it!--whether I had not better
immerse<br>
 Pugh's puzzle in a can of water, or throw it out of the window,
or<br>
 call down Bob with a request to at once remove it to his
apartment,<br>
 both the tick, tick, tick, and the screeching ceased, and
all<br>
 within the box was still. If it WAS going to explode, it was
now<br>
 or never. Instinctively I moved in the direction of the
door.</p>

<p>I waited with a certain sense of anxiety. I waited in
vain.<br>
 Nothing happened, not even a renewal of the sound.</p>

<p>"I wish Pugh had kept his precious puzzle at home. This sort
of<br>
 thing tries one's nerves."</p>

<p>When I thought that I perceived that nothing seemed likely
to<br>
 happen, I returned to the neighborhood of the table. I looked
at<br>
 the box askance. I took it up gingerly. Something might go off
at<br>
 any moment for all I knew. It would be too much of a joke if<br>
 Pugh's precious puzzle exploded in my hand. I shook it
doubtfully;<br>
 nothing rattled. I held it to my ear. There was not a sound.<br>
 What had taken place? Had the clockwork run down, and was
the<br>
 machine arranged with such a diabolical ingenuity that a
certain<br>
 interval was required, after the clockwork had run down, before
an<br>
 explosion could occur? Or had rust caused the mechanism to
again<br>
 hang fire?</p>

<p>"After making all that commotion the thing might at least
come<br>
 open." I banged the box viciously against the corner of the
table.<br>
 I felt that I would almost rather that an explosion should
take<br>
 place than that nothing should occur. One does not care to
be<br>
 disturbed from one's sound slumber in the small hours of the<br>
 morning for a trifle.</p>

<p>"I've half a mind to get a hammer, and try, as they say in
the<br>
 cookery books, another way."</p>

<p>Unfortunately I had promised Pugh to abstain from using force.
I<br>
 might have shivered the box open with my hammer, and then
explained<br>
 that it had fallen, or got trod upon, or sat upon, or
something,<br>
 and so got shattered, only I was afraid that Pugh would not
believe<br>
 me. The man is himself such an untruthful man that he is in
a<br>
 chronic state of suspicion about the truthfulness of others.</p>

<p>"Well, if you're not going to blow up, or open, or something,
I'll<br>
 say good night."</p>

<p>I gave the box a final rap with my knuckles and a final
shake,<br>
 replaced it on the table, put out the gas, and returned to
bed.</p>

<p>I was just sinking again into slumber, when that box began
again.<br>
 It was true that Pugh had purchased the puzzle, but it was
evident<br>
 that the whole enjoyment of the purchase was destined to be
mine.<br>
 It was useless to think of sleep while that performance was
going<br>
 on. I sat up in bed once more.</p>

<p>"It strikes me that the puzzle consists in finding out how it
is<br>
 possible to go to sleep with Pugh's purchase in your bedroom.
This<br>
 is far better than the old-fashioned prescription of cats on
the<br>
 tiles."</p>

<p>It struck me the noise was distinctly louder than before;
this<br>
 applied both to the tick, tick, tick, and the screeching.</p>

<p>"Possibly," I told myself, as I relighted the gas, "the
explosion<br>
 is to come off this time."</p>

<p>I turned to look at the box. There could be no doubt about it;
the<br>
 noise was louder. And, if I could trust my eyes, the box was<br>
 moving--giving a series of little jumps. This might have been
an<br>
 optical delusion, but it seemed to me that at each tick the
box<br>
 gave a little bound. During the screeches--which sounded more
like<br>
 the cries of an animal in an agony of pain even than before--if
it<br>
 did not tilt itself first on one end, and then on another, I
shall<br>
 never be willing to trust the evidence of my own eyes again.
And<br>
 surely the box had increased in size; I could have sworn not
only<br>
 that it had increased, but that it was increasing, even as I
stood<br>
 there looking on. It had grown, and still was growing, both<br>
 broader, and longer, and deeper. Pugh, of course, would have<br>
 attributed it to supernatural agency; there never was a man
with<br>
 such a nose for a ghost. I could picture him occupying my<br>
 position, shivering in his nightshirt, as he beheld that
miracle<br>
 taking place before his eyes. The solution which at once
suggested<br>
 itself to me--and which would NEVER have suggested itself to
Pugh!--<br>
 was that the box was fashioned, as it were, in layers, and
that<br>
 the ingenious mechanism it contained was forcing the sides at
once<br>
 both upward and outward. I took it in my hand. I could feel<br>
 something striking against the bottom of the box, like the
tap,<br>
 tap, tapping of a tiny hammer.</p>

<p>"This is a pretty puzzle of Pugh's. He would say that that is
the<br>
 tapping of a deathwatch. For my part I have not much faith
in<br>
 deathwatches, et hoc genus omne, but it certainly is a
curious<br>
 tapping; I wonder what is going to happen next?"</p>

<p>Apparently nothing, except a continuation of those
mysterious<br>
 sounds. That the box had increased in size I had, and have,
no<br>
 doubt whatever. I should say that it had increased a good inch
in<br>
 every direction, at least half an inch while I had been looking
on.<br>
 But while I stood looking its growth was suddenly and
perceptibly<br>
 stayed; it ceased to move. Only the noise continued.</p>

<p>"I wonder how long it will be before anything worth happening
does<br>
 happen! I suppose something is going to happen; there can't be
all<br>
 this to-do for nothing. If it is anything in the infernal
machine<br>
 line, and there is going to be an explosion, I might as well
be<br>
 here to see it. I think I'll have a pipe."</p>

<p>I put on my dressing-gown. I lit my pipe. I sat and stared at
the<br>
 box. I dare say I sat there for quite twenty minutes when,
as<br>
 before, without any sort of warning, the sound was stilled.
Its<br>
 sudden cessation rather startled me.</p>

<p>"Has the mechanism again hung fire? Or, this time, is the<br>
 explosion coming off?" It did not come off; nothing came
off.<br>
 "Isn't the box even going to open?"</p>

<p>It did not open. There was simply silence all at once, and
that<br>
 was all. I sat there in expectation for some moments longer.
But<br>
 I sat for nothing. I rose. I took the box in my hand. I
shook<br>
 it.</p>

<p>"This puzzle IS a puzzle." I held the box first to one ear,
then<br>
 to the other. I gave it several sharp raps with my knuckles.<br>
 There was not an answering sound, not even the sort of<br>
 reverberation which Pugh and I had noticed at first. It
seemed<br>
 hollower than ever. It was as though the soul of the box was
dead.<br>
 "I suppose if I put you down, and extinguish the gas and return
to<br>
 bed, in about half an hour or so, just as I am dropping off
to<br>
 sleep, the performance will be recommenced. Perhaps the third
time<br>
 will be lucky."</p>

<p>But I was mistaken--there was no third time. When I returned
to<br>
 bed that time I returned to sleep, and I was allowed to
sleep;<br>
 there was no continuation of the performance, at least so far as
I<br>
 know. For no sooner was I once more between the sheets than I
was<br>
 seized with an irresistible drowsiness, a drowsiness which
so<br>
 mastered me that I--I imagine it must have been
instantly--sank<br>
 into slumber which lasted till long after day had dawned.
Whether<br>
 or not any more mysterious sounds issued from the bowels of
Pugh's<br>
 puzzle is more than I can tell. If they did, they did not
succeed<br>
 in rousing me.</p>

<p>And yet, when at last I did awake, I had a sort of
consciousness<br>
 that my waking had been caused by something strange. What it was
I<br>
 could not surmise. My own impression was that I had been
awakened<br>
 by the touch of a person's hand. But that impression must
have<br>
 been a mistaken one, because, as I could easily see by
looking<br>
 round the room, there was no one in the room to touch me.</p>

<p>It was broad daylight. I looked at my watch; it was nearly
eleven<br>
 o'clock. I am a pretty late sleeper as a rule, but I do not<br>
 usually sleep as late as that. That scoundrel Bob would let
me<br>
 sleep all day without thinking it necessary to call me. I was
just<br>
 about to spring out of bed with the intention of ringing the
bell<br>
 so that I might give Bob a piece of my mind for allowing me
to<br>
 sleep so late, when my glance fell on the dressing-table on
which,<br>
 the night before, I had placed Pugh's puzzle. It had gone!</p>

<p>Its absence so took me by surprise that I ran to the table. It
HAD<br>
 gone. But it had not gone far; it had gone to pieces! There
were<br>
 the pieces lying where the box had been. The puzzle had
solved<br>
 itself. The box was open, open with a vengeance, one might
say.<br>
 Like that unfortunate Humpty Dumpty, who, so the chroniclers
tell<br>
 us, sat on a wall, surely "all the king's horses and all the
king's<br>
 men" never could put Pugh's puzzle together again!</p>

<p>The marquetry had resolved itself into its component parts.
How<br>
 those parts had ever been joined was a mystery. They had been
laid<br>
 upon no foundation, as is the case with ordinary inlaid work.
The<br>
 several pieces of wood were not only of different shapes and
sizes,<br>
 but they were as thin as the thinnest veneer; yet the box had
been<br>
 formed by simply joining them together. The man who made that
box<br>
 must have been possessed of ingenuity worthy of a better
cause.</p>

<p>I perceived how the puzzle had been worked. The box had
contained<br>
 an arrangement of springs, which, on being released, had
expanded<br>
 themselves in different directions until their mere expansion
had<br>
 rent the box to pieces. There were the springs, lying amid
the<br>
 ruin they had caused.</p>

<p>There was something else amid that ruin besides those
springs;<br>
 there was a small piece of writing paper. I took it up. On
the<br>
 reverse side of it was written in a minute, crabbed hand: "A<br>
 Present For You." What was a present for me? I looked, and,
not<br>
 for the first time since I had caught sight of Pugh's
precious<br>
 puzzle, could scarcely believe my eyes.</p>

<p>There, poised between two upright wires, the bent ends of
which<br>
 held it aloft in the air, was either a piece of glass or--a<br>
 crystal. The scrap of writing paper had exactly covered it.
I<br>
 understood what it was, when Pugh and I had tapped with the
hammer,<br>
 had caused the answering taps to proceed from within. Our
taps<br>
 caused the wires to oscillate, and in these oscillations the<br>
 crystal, which they held suspended, had touched the side of
the<br>
 box.</p>

<p>I looked again at the piece of paper. "A Present For You."
Was<br>
 THIS the present--this crystal? I regarded it intently.</p>

<p>"It CAN'T be a diamond."</p>

<p>The idea was ridiculous, absurd. No man in his senses would
place<br>
 a diamond inside a twopenny-halfpenny puzzle box. The thing was
as<br>
 big as a walnut! And yet--I am a pretty good judge of
precious<br>
 stones--if it was not an uncut diamond it was the best imitation
I<br>
 had seen. I took it up. I examined it closely. The more
closely<br>
 I examined it, the more my wonder grew.</p>

<p>"It IS a diamond!"</p>

<p>And yet the idea was too preposterous for credence. Who
would<br>
 present a diamond as big as a walnut with a trumpery puzzle?<br>
 Besides, all the diamonds which the world contains of that size
are<br>
 almost as well known as the Koh-i-noor.</p>

<p>"If it is a diamond, it is worth--it is worth--Heaven only
knows<br>
 what it isn't worth if it's a diamond."</p>

<p>I regarded it through a strong pocket lens. As I did so I
could<br>
 not restrain an exclamation.</p>

<p>"The world to a China orange, it IS a diamond!"</p>

<p>The words had scarcely escaped my lips than there came a
tapping at<br>
 the door.</p>

<p>"Come in!" I cried, supposing it was Bob. It was not Bob, it
was<br>
 Pugh. Instinctively I put the lens and the crystal behind my
back.<br>
 At sight of me in my nightshirt Pugh began to shake his
head.</p>

<p>"What hours, Tress, what hours! Why, my dear Tress, I've<br>
 breakfasted, read the papers and my letters, came all the way
from<br>
 my house here, and you're not up!"</p>

<p>"Don't I look as though I were up?"</p>

<p>"Ah, Tress! Tress!" He approached the dressing-table. His
eye<br>
 fell upon the ruins. "What's this?"</p>

<p>"That's the solution to the puzzle."</p>

<p>"Have you--have you solved it fairly, Tress?"</p>

<p>"It has solved itself. Our handling, and tapping, and
hammering<br>
 must have freed the springs which the box contained, and during
the<br>
 night, while I slept, they have caused it to come open."</p>

<p>"While you slept? Dear me! How strange! And--what are
these?"</p>

<p>He had discovered the two upright wires on which the crystal
had<br>
 been poised.</p>

<p>"I suppose they're part of the puzzle."</p>

<p>"And was there anything in the box? What's this?" he picked up
the<br>
 scrap of paper; I had left it on the table. He read what was<br>
 written on it: "'A Present For You.' What's it mean? Tress,
was<br>
 this in the box?"</p>

<p>"It was."</p>

<p>"What's it mean about a present? Was there anything in the
box<br>
 besides?"</p>

<p>"Pugh, if you will leave the room I shall be able to dress; I
am<br>
 not in the habit of receiving quite such early calls, or I
should<br>
 have been prepared to receive you. If you will wait in the
next<br>
 room, I will be with you as soon as I'm dressed. There is a
little<br>
 subject in connection with the box which I wish to discuss
with<br>
 you."</p>

<p>"A subject in connection with the box? What is the
subject?"</p>

<p>"I will tell you, Pugh, when I have performed my toilet."</p>

<p>"Why can't you tell me now?"</p>

<p>"Do you propose, then, that I should stand here shivering in
my<br>
 shirt while you are prosing at your ease? Thank you; I am
obliged,<br>
 but I decline. May I ask you once more, Pugh, to wait for me
in<br>
 the adjoining apartment?"</p>

<p>He moved toward the door. When he had taken a couple of steps,
he<br>
 halted.</p>

<p>"I--I hope, Tress, that you're--you're going to play no tricks
on<br>
 me?"</p>

<p>"Tricks on you! Is it likely that I am going to play tricks
upon<br>
 my oldest friend?"</p>

<p>When he had gone--he vanished, it seemed to me, with a
somewhat<br>
 doubtful visage--I took the crystal to the window. I drew
the<br>
 blind. I let the sunshine fall on it. I examined it again,<br>
 closely and minutely, with the aid of my pocket lens. It WAS
a<br>
 diamond; there could not be a doubt of it. If, with my
knowledge<br>
 of stones, I was deceived, then I was deceived as never man
had<br>
 been deceived before. My heart beat faster as I recognized
the<br>
 fact that I was holding in my hand what was, in all probability,
a<br>
 fortune for a man of moderate desires. Of course, Pugh knew<br>
 nothing of what I had discovered, and there was no reason why
he<br>
 should know. Not the least! The only difficulty was that if
I<br>
 kept my own counsel, and sold the stone and utilized the
proceeds<br>
 of the sale, I should have to invent a story which would
account<br>
 for my sudden accession to fortune. Pugh knows almost as much
of<br>
 my affairs as I do myself. That is the worst of these old
friends!</p>

<p><br>
 When I joined Pugh I found him dancing up and down the floor
like a<br>
 bear upon hot plates. He scarcely allowed me to put my nose
inside<br>
 the door before attacking me.</p>

<p>"Tress, give me what was in the box."</p>

<p>"My dear Pugh, how do you know that there was something in the
box<br>
 to give you?"</p>

<p>"I know there was!"</p>

<p>"Indeed! If you know that there was something in the box,
perhaps<br>
 you will tell me what that something was."</p>

<p>He eyed me doubtfully. Then, advancing, he laid upon my arm a
hand<br>
 which positively trembled.</p>

<p>"Tress, you--you wouldn't play tricks on an old friend."</p>

<p>"You are right, Pugh, I wouldn't, though I believe there have
been<br>
 occasions on which you have had doubts upon the subject. By
the<br>
 way, Pugh, I believe that I am the oldest friend you have."</p>

<p>"I--I don't know about that. There's--there's Brasher."</p>

<p>"Brasher! Who's Brasher? You wouldn't compare my friendship
to<br>
 the friendship of such a man as Brasher? Think of the tastes
we<br>
 have in common, you and I. We're both collectors."</p>

<p>"Ye-es, we're both collectors."</p>

<p>"I make my interests yours, and you make your interests
mine.<br>
 Isn't that so, Pugh?"</p>

<p>"Tress, what--what was in the box?"</p>

<p>"I will be frank with you, Pugh. If there had been something
in<br>
 the box, would you have been willing to go halves with me in
my<br>
 discovery?"</p>

<p>"Go halves! In your discovery, Tress! Give me what is
mine!"</p>

<p>"With pleasure, Pugh, if you will tell me what is yours."</p>

<p>"If--if you don't give me what was in the box I'll--I'll send
for<br>
 the police."</p>

<p>"Do! Then I shall be able to hand to them what was in the box
in<br>
 order that it may be restored to its proper owner."</p>

<p>"Its proper owner! I'm its proper owner!"</p>

<p>"Excuse me, but I don't understand how that can be; at least,
until<br>
 the police have made inquiries. I should say that the proper
owner<br>
 was the person from whom you purchased the box, or, more
probably,<br>
 the person from whom he purchased it, and by whom, doubtless,
it<br>
 was sold in ignorance, or by mistake. Thus, Pugh, if you will
only<br>
 send for the police, we shall earn the gratitude of a person
of<br>
 whom we never heard in our lives--I for discovering the contents
of<br>
 the box, and you for returning them."</p>

<p>As I said this, Pugh's face was a study. He gasped for breath.
He<br>
 actually took out his handkerchief to wipe his brow.</p>

<p>"Tress, I--I don't think you need to use a tone like that to
me.<br>
 It isn't friendly. What--what was in the box?"</p>

<p>"Let us understand each other, Pugh. If you don't hand over
what<br>
 was in the box to the police, I go halves."</p>

<p>Pugh began to dance about the floor.</p>

<p>"What a fool I was to trust you with the box! I knew I
couldn't<br>
 trust you." I said nothing. I turned and rang the bell.
"What's<br>
 that for?"</p>

<p>"That, my dear Pugh, is for breakfast, and, if you desire it,
for<br>
 the police. You know, although you have breakfasted, I
haven't.<br>
 Perhaps while I am breaking my fast, you would like to summon
the<br>
 representatives of law and order." Bob came in. I ordered<br>
 breakfast. Then I turned to Pugh. "Is there anything you
would<br>
 like?"</p>

<p>"No, I--I've breakfasted."</p>

<p>"It wasn't of breakfast I was thinking. It was of--something
else.<br>
 Bob is at your service, if, for instance, you wish to send him
on<br>
 an errand."</p>

<p>"No, I want nothing. Bob can go." Bob went. Directly he
was<br>
 gone, Pugh turned to me. "You shall have half. What was in
the<br>
 box?"</p>

<p>"I shall have half?"</p>

<p>"You shall!"</p>

<p>"I don't think it is necessary that the terms of our
little<br>
 understanding should be expressly embodied in black and white.
I<br>
 fancy that, under the circumstance, I can trust you, Pugh. I<br>
 believe that I am capable of seeing that, in this matter, you
don't<br>
 do me. That was in the box."</p>

<p>I held out the crystal between my finger and thumb.</p>

<p>"What is it?"</p>

<p>"That is what I desire to learn."</p>

<p>"Let me look at it."</p>

<p>"You are welcome to look at it where it is. Look at it as long
as<br>
 you like, and as closely."</p>

<p>Pugh leaned over my hand. His eyes began to gleam. He is
himself<br>
 not a bad judge of precious stones, is Pugh.</p>

<p>"It's--it's--Tress!--is it a diamond?"</p>

<p>"That question I have already asked myself."</p>

<p>"Let me look at it! It will be safe with me! It's mine!"</p>

<p>I immediately put the thing behind my back.</p>

<p>"Pardon me, it belongs neither to you nor to me. It belongs,
in<br>
 all probability, to the person who sold that puzzle to the man
from<br>
 whom you bought it--perhaps some weeping widow, Pugh, or
hopeless<br>
 orphan--think of it. Let us have no further misunderstanding
upon<br>
 that point, my dear old friend. Still, because you are my dear
old<br>
 friend, I am willing to trust you with this discovery of mine,
on<br>
 condition that you don't attempt to remove it from my sight,
and<br>
 that you return it to me the moment I require you."</p>

<p>"You're--you're very hard on me." I made a movement toward
my<br>
 waistcoat pocket. "I'll return it to you!"</p>

<p>I handed him the crystal, and with it I handed him my pocket
lens.</p>

<p>"With the aid of that glass I imagine that you will be able
to<br>
 subject it to a more acute examination, Pugh."</p>

<p>He began to examine it through the lens. Directly he did so,
he<br>
 gave an exclamation. In a few moments he looked up at me.
His<br>
 eyes were glistening behind his spectacles. I could see he<br>
 trembled.</p>

<p>"Tress, it's--it's a diamond, a Brazil diamond. It's worth
a<br>
 fortune!"</p>

<p>"I'm glad you think so."</p>

<p>"Glad I think so! Don't you think that it's a diamond?"</p>

<p>"It appears to be a diamond. Under ordinary conditions I
should<br>
 say, without hesitation, that it was a diamond. But when I<br>
 consider the circumstances of its discovery, I am driven to
doubts.<br>
 How much did you give for that puzzle, Pugh?"</p>

<p>"Ninepence; the fellow wanted a shilling, but I gave him
ninepence.<br>
 He seemed content."</p>

<p>"Ninepence! Does it seem reasonable that we should find a
diamond,<br>
 which, if it is a diamond, is the finest stone I ever saw
and<br>
 handled, in a ninepenny puzzle? It is not as though it had
got<br>
 into the thing by accident, it had evidently been placed there
to<br>
 be found, and, apparently, by anyone who chanced to solve
the<br>
 puzzle; witness the writing on the scrap of paper."</p>

<p>Pugh re-examined the crystal.</p>

<p>"It is a diamond! I'll stake my life that it's a diamond!"</p>

<p>"Still, though it be a diamond, I smell a rat!"</p>

<p>"What do you mean?"</p>

<p>"I strongly suspect that the person who placed that diamond
inside<br>
 that puzzle intended to have a joke at the expense of the
person<br>
 who discovered it. What was to be the nature of the joke is
more<br>
 than I can say at present, but I should like to have a bet with
you<br>
 that the man who compounded that puzzle was an ingenious
practical<br>
 joker. I may be wrong, Pugh; we shall see. But, until I have<br>
 proved the contrary, I don't believe that the maddest man that
ever<br>
 lived would throw away a diamond worth, apparently, shall we say
a<br>
 thousand pounds?"</p>

<p>"A thousand pounds! This diamond is worth a good deal more
than a<br>
 thousand pounds."</p>

<p>"Well, that only makes my case the stronger; I don't believe
that<br>
 the maddest man that ever lived would throw away a diamond
worth<br>
 more than a thousand pounds with such utter wantonness as seems
to<br>
 have characterized the action of the original owner of the
stone<br>
 which I found in your ninepenny puzzle, Pugh."</p>

<p>"There have been some eccentric characters in the world, some
very<br>
 eccentric characters. However, as you say, we shall see. I
fancy<br>
 that I know somebody who would be quite willing to have such
a<br>
 diamond as this, and who, moreover, would be willing to pay a
fair<br>
 price for its possession; I will take it to him and see what
he<br>
 says."</p>

<p>"Pugh, hand me back that diamond."</p>

<p>"My dear Tress, I was only going--"</p>

<p>Bob came in with the breakfast tray.</p>

<p>"Pugh, you will either hand me that at once, or Bob shall
summon<br>
 the representatives of law and order."</p>

<p>He handed me the diamond. I sat down to breakfast with a
hearty<br>
 appetite. Pugh stood and scowled at me.</p>

<p>"Joseph Tress, it is my solemn conviction, and I have no
hesitation<br>
 in saying so in plain English, that you're a thief."</p>

<p>"My dear Pugh, it seems to me that we show every promise
of<br>
 becoming a couple of thieves."</p>

<p>"Don't bracket me with you!"</p>

<p>"Not at all, you are worse than I. It is you who decline to
return<br>
 the contents of the box to its proper owner. Put it to
yourself,<br>
 you have SOME common sense, my dear old friend I--do you
suppose<br>
 that a diamond worth more than a thousand pounds is to be
HONESTLY<br>
 bought for ninepence?"</p>

<p>He resumed his old trick of dancing about the room.</p>

<p>"I was a fool ever to let you have the box! I ought to have
known<br>
 better than to have trusted you; goodness knows you have given
me<br>
 sufficient cause to mistrust you! Over and over again! Your<br>
 character is only too notorious! You have plundered friend and
foe<br>
 alike--friend and foe alike! As for the rubbish which you
call<br>
 your collection, nine tenths of it, I know as a positive fact,
you<br>
 have stolen out and out."</p>

<p>"Who stole my Sir Walter Raleigh pipe? Wasn't it a man
named<br>
 Pugh?"</p>

<p>"Look here, Joseph Tress!"</p>

<p>"I'm looking."</p>

<p>"Oh, it's no good talking to you, not the least!
You're--you're<br>
 dead to all the promptings of conscience! May I inquire, Mr.<br>
 Tress, what it is you propose to do?"</p>

<p>"I PROPOSE to do nothing, except summon the representatives of
law<br>
 and order. Failing that, my dear Pugh, I had some faint,
vague,<br>
 very vague idea of taking the contents of your ninepenny puzzle
to<br>
 a certain firm in Hatton Garden, who are dealers in precious<br>
 stones, and to learn from them if they are disposed to give<br>
 anything for it, and if so, what."</p>

<p>"I shall come with you."</p>

<p>"With pleasure, on condition that you pay the cab."</p>

<p>"I pay the cab! I will pay half."</p>

<p>"Not at all. You will either pay the whole fare, or else I
will<br>
 have one cab and you shall have another. It is a
three-shilling<br>
 cab fare from here to Hatton Garden. If you propose to share
my<br>
 cab, you will be so good as to hand over that three
shillings<br>
 before we start."</p>

<p>He gasped, but he handed over the three shillings. There are
few<br>
 things I enjoy so much as getting money out of Pugh!</p>

<p>On the road to Hatton Garden we wrangled nearly all the way. I
own<br>
 that I feel a certain satisfaction in irritating Pugh, he is
such<br>
 an irritable man. He wanted to know what I thought we should
get<br>
 for the diamond.</p>

<p>"You can't expect to get much for the contents of a
ninepenny<br>
 puzzle, not even the price of a cab fare, Pugh."</p>

<p>He eyed me, but for some minutes he was silent. Then he
began<br>
 again.</p>

<p>"Tress, I don't think we ought to let it go for less
than--than<br>
 five thousand pounds."</p>

<p>"Seriously, Pugh, I doubt whether, when the whole affair is
ended,<br>
 we shall get five thousand pence for it, or, for the matter
of<br>
 that, five thousand farthings."</p>

<p>"But why not? Why not? It's a magnificent
stone--magnificent!<br>
 I'll stake my life on it."</p>

<p>I tapped my breast with the tips of my fingers.</p>

<p>"There's a warning voice within my breast that ought to be
in<br>
 yours, Pugh! Something tells me, perhaps it is the unusually<br>
 strong vein of common sense which I possess, that the contents
of<br>
 your ninepenny puzzle will be found to be a magnificent
do--an<br>
 ingenious practical joke, my friend."</p>

<p>"I don't believe it."</p>

<p>But I think he did; at any rate, I had unsettled the
foundations of<br>
 his faith.</p>

<p>We entered the Hatton Garden office side by side; in his
anxiety<br>
 not to let me get before him, Pugh actually clung to my arm.
The<br>
 office was divided into two parts by a counter which ran from
wall<br>
 to wall. I advanced to a man who stood on the other side of
this<br>
 counter.</p>

<p><br>
 "I want to sell you a diamond."</p>

<p>"WE want to sell you a diamond," interpolated Pugh.</p>

<p>I turned to Pugh. I "fixed" him with my glance.</p>

<p>"I want to sell you a diamond. Here it is. What will you give
me<br>
 for it?"</p>

<p>Taking the crystal from my waistcoat pocket I handed it to the
man<br>
 on the other side of the counter. Directly he got it between
his<br>
 fingers, and saw that it was that he had got, I noticed a
sudden<br>
 gleam come into his eyes.</p>

<p>"This is--this is rather a fine stone."</p>

<p>Pugh nudged my arm.</p>

<p>"I told you so." I paid no attention to Pugh. "What will you
give<br>
 me for it?"</p>

<p>"Do you mean, what will I give you for it cash down upon the
nail?"</p>

<p>"Just so--what will you give me for it cash down upon the
nail?"</p>

<p>The man turned the crystal over and over in his fingers.
"Well,<br>
 that's rather a large order. We don't often get a chance of
buying<br>
 such a stone as this across the counter. What do you say
to--well--<br>
 to ten thousand pounds?"</p>

<p>Ten thousand pounds! It was beyond my wildest imaginings.
Pugh<br>
 gasped. He lurched against the counter.</p>

<p>"Ten thousand pounds!" he echoed.</p>

<p>The man on the other side glanced at him, I thought, a
little<br>
 curiously.</p>

<p>"If you can give me references, or satisfy me in any way as to
your<br>
 bona fides, I am prepared to give you for this diamond an
open<br>
 check for ten thousand pounds, or if you prefer it, the cash<br>
 instead."</p>

<p>I stared; I was not accustomed to see business transacted on
quite<br>
 such lines as those.</p>

<p>"We'll take it," murmured Pugh; I believe he was too much
overcome<br>
 by his feelings to do more than murmur. I interposed.</p>

<p>"My dear sir, you will excuse my saying that you arrive
very<br>
 rapidly at your conclusions. In the first place, how can you
make<br>
 sure that it is a diamond?"</p>

<p>The man behind the counter smiled.</p>

<p>"I should be very ill-fitted for the position which I hold if
I<br>
 could not tell a diamond directly I get a sight of it,
especially<br>
 such a stone as this."</p>

<p>"But have you no tests you can apply?"</p>

<p>"We have tests which we apply in cases in which doubt exists,
but<br>
 in this case there is no doubt whatever. I am as sure that this
is<br>
 a diamond as I am sure that it is air I breathe. However, here
is<br>
 a test."</p>

<p>There was a wheel close by the speaker. It was worked by a<br>
 treadle. It was more like a superior sort of
traveling-tinker's<br>
 grindstone than anything else. The man behind the counter put
his<br>
 foot upon the treadle. The wheel began to revolve. He brought
the<br>
 crystal into contact with the swiftly revolving wheel. There was
a<br>
 s--s--sh! And, in an instant, his hand was empty; the crystal
had<br>
 vanished into air.</p>

<p>"Good heavens!" he gasped. I never saw such a look of
amazement on<br>
 a human countenance before. "It's splintered!"</p>

<h3><br>
 POSTSCRIPT</h3>

<p><br>
 It WAS a diamond, although it HAD splintered. In that fact lay
the<br>
 point of the joke. The man behind the counter had not been
wrong;<br>
 examination of such dust as could be collected proved that
fact<br>
 beyond a doubt. It was declared by experts that the diamond,
at<br>
 some period of its history, had been subjected to intense
and<br>
 continuing heat. The result had been to make it as brittle
as<br>
 glass.</p>

<p><br>
 There could be no doubt that its original owner had been an
expert<br>
 too. He knew where he got it from, and he probably knew what
it<br>
 had endured. He was aware that, from a mercantile point of
view,<br>
 it was worthless; it could never have been cut. So, having a
turn<br>
 for humor of a peculiar kind, he had devoted days, and weeks,
and<br>
 possibly months, to the construction of that puzzle. He had
placed<br>
 the diamond inside, and he had enjoyed, in anticipation and
in<br>
 imagination, the Alnaschar visions of the lucky finder.</p>

<p>Pugh blamed me for the catastrophe. He said, and still says,
that<br>
 if I had not, in a measure, and quite gratuitously, insisted on
a<br>
 test, the man behind the counter would have been satisfied with
the<br>
 evidence of his organs of vision, and we should have been richer
by<br>
 ten thousand pounds. But I satisfy my conscience with the<br>
 reflection that what I did at any rate was honest, though, at
the<br>
 same time, I am perfectly well aware that such a reflection
gives<br>
 Pugh no sort of satisfaction.</p>

<p> </p>

<h2>The Great Valdez Sapphire</h2>

<p><br>
 I know more about it than anyone else in the world, its
present<br>
 owner not excepted. I can give its whole history, from the<br>
 Cingalese who found it, the Spanish adventurer who stole it,
the<br>
 cardinal who bought it, the Pope who graciously accepted it,
the<br>
 favored son of the Church who received it, the gay and giddy<br>
 duchess who pawned it, down to the eminent prelate who now holds
it<br>
 in trust as a family heirloom.</p>

<p><br>
 It will occupy a chapter to itself in my forthcoming work on<br>
 "Historic Stones," where full details of its weight, size,
color,<br>
 and value may be found. At present I am going to relate an<br>
 incident in its history which, for obvious reasons, will not
be<br>
 published--which, in fact, I trust the reader will consider
related<br>
 in strict confidence.</p>

<p>I had never seen the stone itself when I began to write about
it,<br>
 and it was not till one evening last spring, while staying with
my<br>
 nephew, Sir Thomas Acton, that I came within measurable distance
of<br>
 it. A dinner party was impending, and, at my instigation,
the<br>
 Bishop of Northchurch and Miss Panton, his daughter and
heiress,<br>
 were among the invited guests.</p>

<p>The dinner was a particularly good one, I remember that
distinctly.<br>
 In fact, I felt myself partly responsible for it, having
engaged<br>
 the new cook--a talented young Italian, pupil of the admirable
old<br>
 chef at my club. We had gone over the menu carefully
together,<br>
 with a result refreshing in its novelty, but not so daring as
to<br>
 disturb the minds of the innocent country guests who were
bidden<br>
 thereto.</p>

<p>The first spoonful of soup was reassuring, and I looked to the
end<br>
 of the table to exchange a congratulatory glance with Leta.
What<br>
 was amiss? No response. Her pretty face was flushed, her
smile<br>
 constrained, she was talking with quite unnecessary empressement
to<br>
 her neighbor, Sir Harry Landor, though Leta is one of those
few<br>
 women who understand the importance of letting a man settle
down<br>
 tranquilly and with an undisturbed mind to the business of
dining,<br>
 allowing no topic of serious interest to come on before the<br>
 releves, and reserving mere conversational brilliancy for
the<br>
 entremets.</p>

<p>Guests all right? No disappointments? I had gone through the
list<br>
 with her, selecting just the right people to be asked to meet
the<br>
 Landors, our new neighbors. Not a mere cumbrous county
gathering,<br>
 nor yet a showy imported party from town, but a skillful
blending<br>
 of both. Had anything happened already? I had been late for<br>
 dinner and missed the arrivals in the drawing-room. It was
Leta's<br>
 fault. She has got into a way of coming into my room and
putting<br>
 the last touches to my toilet. I let her, for I am doubtful
of<br>
 myself nowadays after many years' dependence on the best of
valets.<br>
 Her taste is generally beyond dispute, but to-day she had
indulged<br>
 in a feminine vagary that provoked me and made me late for
dinner.</p>

<p>"Are you going to wear your sapphire, Uncle Paul!" she cried
in a<br>
 tone of dismay. "Oh, why not the ruby?"</p>

<p>"You WOULD have your way about the table decorations," I
gently<br>
 reminded her. "with that service of Crown Derby repousse and<br>
 orchids, the ruby would look absolutely barbaric. Now if you
would<br>
 have had the Limoges set, white candles, and a yellow silk
center--"</p>

<p>"Oh, but--I'm SO disappointed--I wanted the bishop to see
your<br>
 ruby--or one of your engraved gems--"</p>

<p>"My dear, it is on the bishop's account I put this on. You
know<br>
 his daughter is heiress of the great Valdez sapphire--"</p>

<p>"Of course she is, and when he has the charge of a stone
three<br>
 times as big as yours, what's the use of wearing it? The
ruby,<br>
 dear Uncle Paul, PLEASE!"</p>

<p>She was desperately in earnest I could see, and considering
the<br>
 obligations which I am supposed to be under to her and Tom, it
was<br>
 but a little matter to yield, but it involved a good deal of
extra<br>
 trouble. Studs, sleeve-links, watch-guard, all carefully
selected<br>
 to go with the sapphire, had to be changed, the emerald which
I<br>
 chose as a compromise requiring more florid accompaniments of
a<br>
 deeper tone of gold; and the dinner hour struck as I replaced
my<br>
 jewel case, the one relic left me of a once handsome fortune, in
my<br>
 fireproof safe.</p>

<p>The emerald looked very well that evening, however. I kept my
eyes<br>
 upon it for comfort when Miss Panton proved trying.</p>

<p>She was a lean, yellow, dictatorial young person with no<br>
 conversation. I spoke of her father's celebrated sapphires.
"MY<br>
 sapphires," she amended sourly; "though I am legally debarred
from<br>
 making any profitable use of them." She furthermore informed
me<br>
 that she viewed them as useless gauds, which ought to be
disposed<br>
 of for the benefit of the heathen. I gave the subject up,
and<br>
 while she discoursed of the work of the Blue Ribbon Army among
the<br>
 Bosjesmans I tried to understand a certain dislocation in
the<br>
 arrangement of the table. Surely we were more or less in
number<br>
 than we should be? Opposite side all right. Who was extra on<br>
 ours? I leaned forward. Lady Landor on one side of Tom, on
the<br>
 other who? I caught glimpses of plumes pink and green nodding
over<br>
 a dinner plate, and beneath them a pink nose in a green visage
with<br>
 a nutcracker chin altogether unknown to me. A sharp gray eye
shot<br>
 a sideway glance down the table and caught me peeping, and I<br>
 retreated, having only marked in addition two clawlike hands,
with<br>
 pointed ruffles and a mass of brilliant rings, making good
play<br>
 with a knife and fork. Who was she? At intervals a high acid<br>
 voice could be heard addressing Tom, and a laugh that made
me<br>
 shudder; it had the quality of the scream of a bird of prey or
the<br>
 yell of a jackal. I had heard that sort of laugh before, and
it<br>
 always made me feel like a defenseless rabbit.</p>

<p>Every time it sounded I saw Leta's fan flutter more furiously
and<br>
 her manner grow more nervously animated. Poor dear girl! I
never<br>
 in all my recollection wished a dinner at an end so earnestly so
as<br>
 to assure her of my support and sympathy, though without the<br>
 faintest conception why either should be required.</p>

<p>The ices at last. A menu card folded in two was laid beside
me. I<br>
 read it unobserved. "Keep the B. from joining us in the
drawing-<br>
 room." The B.? The bishop, of course. With pleasure. But
why?<br>
 And how? THAT'S the question, never mind "why." Could I lure
him<br>
 into the library--the billiard room--the conservatory? I
doubted<br>
 it, and I doubted still more what I should do with him when I
got<br>
 him there.</p>

<p>The bishop is a grand and stately ecclesiastic of the
mediaeval<br>
 type, broad-chested, deep-voiced, martial of bearing. I
could<br>
 picture him charging mace in hand at the head of his vassals,
or<br>
 delivering over a dissenter of the period to the rack and<br>
 thumbscrew, but not pottering among rare editions, tall copies
and<br>
 Grolier bindings, nor condescending to a quiet cigar among the
tree<br>
 ferns and orchids. Leta must and should be obeyed, I swore,<br>
 nevertheless, even if I were driven to lock the door in the<br>
 fearless old fashion of a bygone day, and declare I'd shoot any
man<br>
 who left while a drop remained in the bottles.</p>

<p>The ladies were rising. The lady at the head of the line
smirked<br>
 and nodded her pink plumes coquettishly at Tom, while her
hawk's<br>
 eyes roved keen and predatory over us all. She stopped
suddenly,<br>
 creating a block and confusion.</p>

<p>"Ah, the dear bishop! YOU there, and I never saw you! You
must<br>
 come and have a nice long chat presently. By-by--!" She shook
her<br>
 fan at him over my shoulder and tripped off. Leta, passing
me<br>
 last, gave me a look of profound despair.</p>

<p>"Lady Carwitchet!" somebody exclaimed. "I couldn't believe
my<br>
 eyes."</p>

<p>"Thought she was dead or in penal servitude. Never should
have<br>
 expected to see her HERE," said some one else behind me<br>
 confidentially.</p>

<p>"What Carwitchet? Not the mother of the Carwitchet who--"</p>

<p>"Just so. The Carwitchet who---" Tom assented with a shrug.
"We<br>
 needn't go farther, as she's my guest. Just my luck. I met
them<br>
 at Buxton, thought them uncommonly good company--in fact,<br>
 Carwitchet laid me under a great obligation about a horse I
was<br>
 nearly let in for buying--and gave them a general invitation
here,<br>
 as one does, you know. Never expected her to turn up with
her<br>
 luggage this afternoon just before dinner, to stay a week, or
a<br>
 fortnight if Carwitchet can join her." A groan of sympathy
ran<br>
 round the table. "It can't be helped. I've told you this just
to<br>
 show that I shouldn't have asked you here to meet this sort
of<br>
 people of my own free will; but, as it is, please say no more
about<br>
 them." The subject was not dropped by any means, and I took
care<br>
 that it should not be. At our end of the table one story
after<br>
 another went buzzing round--sotto voce, out of deference to
Tom--<br>
 but perfectly audible.</p>

<p>"Carwitchet? Ah, yes. Mixed up in that Rawlings divorce
case,<br>
 wasn't he? A bad lot. Turned out of the Dragoon Guards for<br>
 cheating at cards, or picking pockets, or something--remember
the<br>
 row at the Cerulean Club? Scandalous exposure--and that
forged<br>
 letter business--oh, that was the mother--prosecution hushed
up<br>
 somehow. Ought to be serving her fourteen years--and that
business<br>
 of poor Farrars, the banker--got hold of some of his secrets
and<br>
 blackmailed him till he blew his brains out--"</p>

<p>It was so exciting that I clean forgot the bishop, till a low
gasp<br>
 at my elbow startled me. He was lying back in his chair, his<br>
 mighty shaven jowl a ghastly white, his fierce imperious
eyebrows<br>
 drooping limp over his fishlike eyes, his splendid figure
shrunk<br>
 and contracted. He was trying with a shaken hand to pour out
wine.<br>
 The decanter clattered against the glass and the wine spilled
on<br>
 the cloth.</p>

<p>"I'm afraid you find the room too warm. Shall we go into
the<br>
 library?"</p>

<p>He rose hastily and followed me like a lamb.</p>

<p>He recovered himself once we got into the hall, and
affably<br>
 rejected all my proffers of brandy and soda--medical
advice--<br>
 everything else my limited experience could suggest. He only<br>
 demanded his carriage "directly" and that Miss Panton should
be<br>
 summoned forthwith.</p>

<p>I made the best use I could of the time left me.</p>

<p>"I'm uncommonly sorry you do not feel equal to staying a
little<br>
 longer, my lord. I counted on showing you my few trifles of<br>
 precious stones, the salvage from the wreck of my
possessions.<br>
 Nothing in comparison with your own collection."</p>

<p>The bishop clasped his hand over his heart. His breath came
short<br>
 and quick.</p>

<p>"A return of that dizziness," he explained with a faint
smile.<br>
 "You are thinking of the Valdez sapphire, are you not? Some
day,"<br>
 he went on with forced composure, "I may have the pleasure
of<br>
 showing it to you. It is at my banker's just now."</p>

<p>Miss Panton's steps were heard in the ball. "You are well
known as<br>
 a connoisseur, Mr. Acton," he went on hurriedly. "Is your<br>
 collection valuable? If so, keep it safe; don't trust a ring
off<br>
 your hand, or the key of your jewel case out of your pocket
till<br>
 the house is clear again." The words rushed from his lips in
an<br>
 impetuous whisper, he gave me a meaning glance, and departed
with<br>
 his daughter. I went back to the drawing-room, my head
swimming<br>
 with bewilderment.</p>

<p>"What! The dear bishop gone!" screamed Lady Carwitchet from
the<br>
 central ottoman where she sat, surrounded by most of the
gentlemen,<br>
 all apparently well entertained by her conversation. "And I
wanted<br>
 to talk over old times with him so badly. His poor wife was
my<br>
 greatest friend. Mira Montanaro, daughter of the great banker,
you<br>
 know. It's not possible that that miserable little prig is my
poor<br>
 Mira's girl. The heiress of all the Montanaros in a black
lace<br>
 gown worth twopence! When I think of her mother's beauty and
her<br>
 toilets! Does she ever wear the sapphires? Has anyone ever
seen<br>
 her in them? Eleven large stones in a lovely antique setting,
and<br>
 the great Valdez sapphire--worth thousands and thousands--for
the<br>
 pendant." No one replied. "I wanted to get a rise out of the<br>
 bishop to-night. It used to make him so mad when I wore
this."</p>

<p>She fumbled among the laces at her throat, and clawed out a
pendant<br>
 that hung to a velvet band around her neck. I fairly gasped
when<br>
 she removed her hand. A sapphire of irregular shape flashed
out<br>
 its blue lightning on us. Such a stone! A true, rich,
cornflower<br>
 blue even by that wretched artificial light, with soft
velvety<br>
 depths of color and dazzling clearness of tint in its lights
and<br>
 shades--a stone to remember! I stretched out my hand<br>
 involuntarily, but Lady Carwitchet drew back with a
coquettish<br>
 squeal. "No! no! You mustn't look any closer. Tell me what
you<br>
 think of it now. Isn't it pretty?"</p>

<p>"Superb!" was all I could ejaculate, staring at the azure
splendor<br>
 of that miraculous jewel in a sort of trance.</p>

<p>She gave a shrill cackling laugh of mockery.</p>

<p>"The great Mr. Acton taken in by a bit of Palais Royal
gimcrackery!<br>
 What an advertisement for Bogaerts et Cie! They are perfect<br>
 artists in frauds. Don't you remember their stand at the
first<br>
 Paris Exhibition? They had imitations there of every
celebrated<br>
 stone; but I never expected anything made by man could delude
Mr.<br>
 Acton, never!" And she went off into another mocking cackle,
and<br>
 all the idiots round her haw-hawed knowingly, as if they had
seen<br>
 the joke all along. I was too bewildered to reply, which was
on<br>
 the whole lucky. "I suppose I mustn't tell why I came to
give<br>
 quite a big sum in francs for this?" she went on, tapping
her<br>
 closed lips with her closed fan, and cocking her eye at us all
like<br>
 a parrot wanting to be coaxed to talk. "It's a queer story."</p>

<p>I didn't want to hear her anecdote, especially as I saw she
wanted<br>
 to tell it. What I DID want was to see that pendant again.
She<br>
 had thrust it back among her laces, only the loop which held it
to<br>
 the velvet being visible. It was set with three small
sapphires,<br>
 and even from a distance I clearly made them out to be
imitations,<br>
 and poor ones. I felt a queer thrill of self-mistrust. Was
the<br>
 large stone no better? Could I, even for an instant, have
been<br>
 dazzled by a sham, and a sham of that quality? The events of
the<br>
 evening had flurried and confused me. I wished to think them
over<br>
 in quiet. I would go to bed.</p>

<p>My rooms at the Manor are the best in the house. Leta will
have it<br>
 so. I must explain their position for a reason to be
understood<br>
 later. My bedroom is in the southeast angle of the house; it
opens<br>
 on one side into a sitting-room in the east corridor, the rest
of<br>
 which is taken up by the suite of rooms occupied by Tom and
Leta;<br>
 and on the other side into my bathroom, the first room in the
south<br>
 corridor, where the principal guest chambers are, to one of
which<br>
 it was originally the dressing-room. Passing this room I noticed
a<br>
 couple of housemaids preparing it for the night, and
discovered<br>
 with a shiver that Lady Carwitchet was to be my next-door
neighbor.<br>
 It gave me a turn.</p>

<p>The bishop's strange warning must have unnerved me. I was<br>
 perfectly safe from her ladyship. The disused door into her
room<br>
 was locked, and the key safe on the housekeeper's bunch. It
was<br>
 also undiscoverable on her side, the recess in which it stood
being<br>
 completely filled by a large wardrobe. On my side hung a
thick<br>
 sound-proof portiere. Nevertheless, I resolved not to use
that<br>
 room while she inhabited the next one. I removed my
possessions,<br>
 fastened the door of communication with my bedroom, and dragged
a<br>
 heavy ottoman across it.</p>

<p>Then I stowed away my emerald in my strong-box. It is built
into<br>
 the wall of my sitting-room, and masked by the lower part of an
old<br>
 carved oak bureau. I put away even the rings I wore
habitually,<br>
 keeping out only an inferior cat's-eye for workaday wear. I
had<br>
 just made all safe when Leta tapped at the door and came in to
wish<br>
 me good night. She looked flushed and harassed and ready to
cry.<br>
 "Uncle Paul," she began, "I want you to go up to town at once,
and<br>
 stay away till I send for you."</p>

<p>"My dear--!" I was too amazed to expostulate.</p>

<p>"We've got a--a pestilence among us," she declared, her
foot<br>
 tapping the ground angrily, "and the least we can do is to go
into<br>
 quarantine. Oh, I'm so sorry and so ashamed! The poor
bishop!<br>
 I'll take good care that no one else shall meet that woman
here.<br>
 You did your best for me, Uncle Paul, and managed admirably, but
it<br>
 was all no use. I hoped against hope that what between the dusk
of<br>
 the drawing-room before dinner, and being put at opposite ends
of<br>
 the table, we might get through without a meeting--"</p>

<p>"But, my dear, explain. Why shouldn't the bishop and Lady<br>
 Carwitchet meet? Why is it worse for him than anyone else?"</p>

<p>"Why? I thought everybody had heard of that dreadful wife of
his<br>
 who nearly broke his heart. If he married her for her money
it<br>
 served him right, but Lady Landor says she was very handsome
and<br>
 really in love with him at first. Then Lady Carwitchet got hold
of<br>
 her and led her into all sorts of mischief. She left her
husband--<br>
 he was only a rector with a country living in those days--and
went<br>
 to live in town, got into a horrid fast set, and made
herself<br>
 notorious. You MUST have heard of her."</p>

<p>"I heard of her sapphires, my dear. But I was in Brazil at
the<br>
 time."</p>

<p>"I wish you had been at home. You might have found her out.
She<br>
 was furious because her husband refused to let her wear the
great<br>
 Valdez sapphire. It had been in the Montanaro family for
some<br>
 generations, and her father settled it first on her and then on
her<br>
 little girl--the bishop being trustee. He felt obliged to
take<br>
 away the little girl, and send her off to be brought up by some
old<br>
 aunts in the country, and he locked up the sapphire. Lady<br>
 Carwitchet tells as a splendid joke how they got the copy made
in<br>
 Paris, and it did just as well for the people to stare at.
No<br>
 wonder the bishop hates the very name of the stone."</p>

<p><br>
 "How long will she stay here?" I asked dismally.</p>

<p>"Till Lord Carwitchet can come and escort her to Paris to
visit<br>
 some American friends. Goodness knows when that will be! Do go
up<br>
 to town, Uncle Paul!"</p>

<p>I refused indignantly. The very least I could do was to stand
by<br>
 my poor young relatives in their troubles and help them through.
I<br>
 did so. I wore that inferior cat's eye for six weeks!</p>

<p>It is a time I cannot think of even now without a shudder.
The<br>
 more I saw of that terrible old woman the more I detested her,
and<br>
 we saw a very great deal of her. Leta kept her word, and
neither<br>
 accepted nor gave invitations all that time. We were cut off
from<br>
 all society but that of old General Fairford, who would go
anywhere<br>
 and meet anyone to get a rubber after dinner; the doctor, a<br>
 sporting widower; and the Duberlys, a giddy, rather rackety
young<br>
 couple who had taken the Dower House for a year. Lady
Carwitchet<br>
 seemed perfectly content. She reveled in the soft living and
good<br>
 fare of the Manor House, the drives in Leta's big barouche,
and<br>
 Domenico's dinners, as one to whom short commons were not
unknown.<br>
 She had a hungry way of grabbing and grasping at everything
she<br>
 could--the shillings she won at whist, the best fruit at
dessert,<br>
 the postage stamps in the library inkstand--that was
infinitely<br>
 suggestive. Sometimes I could have pitied her, she was so
greedy,<br>
 so spiteful, so friendless. She always made me think of some<br>
 wicked old pirate putting into a peaceful port to provision
and<br>
 repair his battered old hulk, obliged to live on friendly
terms<br>
 with the natives, but his piratical old nostrils asniff for
plunder<br>
 and his piratical old soul longing to be off marauding once
more.<br>
 When would that be? Not till the arrival in Paris of her<br>
 distinguished American friends, of whom we heard a great
deal.<br>
 "Charming people, the Bokums of Chicago, the American branch of
the<br>
 English Beauchamps, you know!" They seemed to be taking an<br>
 unconscionable time to get there. She would have insisted on
being<br>
 driven over to Northchurch to call at the palace, but that
the<br>
 bishop was understood to be holding confirmations at the other
end<br>
 of the diocese.</p>

<p>I was alone in the house one afternoon sitting by my window,
toying<br>
 with the key of my safe, and wondering whether I dare treat
myself<br>
 to a peep at my treasures, when a suspicious movement in the
park<br>
 below caught my attention. A black figure certainly dodged
from<br>
 behind one tree to the next, and then into the shadow of the
park<br>
 paling instead of keeping to the footpath. It looked queer.
I<br>
 caught up my field glass and marked him at one point where he
was<br>
 bound to come into the open for a few steps. He crossed the
strip<br>
 of turf with giant strides and got into cover again, but not
quick<br>
 enough to prevent me recognizing him. It was--great
heavens!--the<br>
 bishop! In a soft hat pulled over his forehead, with a long
cloak<br>
 and a big stick, he looked like a poacher.</p>

<p>Guided by some mysterious instinct I hurried to meet him. I
opened<br>
 the conservatory door, and in he rushed like a hunted
rabbit.<br>
 Without explanation I led him up the wide staircase to my
room,<br>
 where he dropped into a chair and wiped his face.</p>

<p>"You are astonished, Mr. Acton," he panted. "I will
explain<br>
 directly. Thanks." He tossed off the glass of brandy I had
poured<br>
 out without waiting for the qualifying soda, and looked
better.</p>

<p>"I am in serious trouble. You can help me. I've had a shock
to-<br>
 day--a grievous shock." He stopped and tried to pull himself<br>
 together. "I must trust you implicitly, Mr. Acton, I have no<br>
 choice. Tell me what you think of this." He drew a case from
his<br>
 breast pocket and opened it. "I promised you should see the
Valdez<br>
 sapphire. Look there!"</p>

<p>The Valdez sapphire! A great big shining lump of blue
crystal--<br>
 flawless and of perfect color--that was all. I took it up,<br>
 breathed on it, drew out my magnifier, looked at it in one
light<br>
 and another. What was wrong with it? I could not say. Nine<br>
 experts out of ten would undoubtedly have pronounced the
stone<br>
 genuine. I, by virtue of some mysterious instinct that has<br>
 hitherto always guided me aright, was the unlucky tenth. I
looked<br>
 at the bishop. His eyes met mine. There was no need of
spoken<br>
 word between us.</p>

<p>"Has Lady Carwitchet shown you her sapphire?" was his most<br>
 unexpected question. "She has? Now, Mr. Acton, on your honor as
a<br>
 connoisseur and a gentleman, which of the two is the
Valdez?"</p>

<p>"Not this one." I could say naught else.</p>

<p>"You were my last hope." He broke off, and dropped his face on
his<br>
 folded arms with a groan that shook the table on which he
rested,<br>
 while I stood dismayed at myself for having let so hasty a
judgment<br>
 escape me. He lifted a ghastly countenance to me. "She vowed
she<br>
 would see me ruined and disgraced. I made her my enemy by
crossing<br>
 some of her schemes once, and she never forgives. She will
keep<br>
 her word. I shall appear before the world as a fraudulent
trustee.<br>
 I can neither produce the valuable confided to my charge nor
make<br>
 the loss good. I have only an incredible story to tell," be<br>
 dropped his head and groaned again. "Who will believe me?"</p>

<p>"I will, for one."</p>

<p>"Ah, you? Yes, you know her. She took my wife from me, Mr.
Acton.<br>
 Heaven only knows what the hold was that she had over poor
Mira.<br>
 She encouraged her to set me at defiance and eventually to
leave<br>
 me. She was answerable for all the scandalous folly and<br>
 extravagance of poor Mira's life in Paris--spare me the telling
of<br>
 the story. She left her at last to die alone and uncared for.
I<br>
 reached my wife to find her dying of a fever from which Lady<br>
 Carwitchet and her crew had fled. She was raving in delirium,
and<br>
 died without recognizing me. Some trouble she had been in which
I<br>
 must never know oppressed her. At the very last she roused from
a<br>
 long stupor and spoke to the nurse. 'Tell him to get the
sapphire<br>
 back--she stole it. She has robbed my child.' Those were her
last<br>
 words. The nurse understood no English, and treated them as<br>
 wandering; but I heard them, and knew she was sane when she
spoke."</p>

<p>"What did you do?"</p>

<p>"What could I? I saw Lady Carwitchet, who laughed at me,
and<br>
 defied me to make her confess or disgorge. I took the pendant
to<br>
 more than one eminent jeweler on pretense of having the
setting<br>
 seen to, and all have examined and admired without giving a hint
of<br>
 there being anything wrong. I allowed a celebrated mineralogist
to<br>
 see it; he gave no sign--"</p>

<p>"Perhaps they are right and we are wrong."</p>

<p>"No, no. Listen. I heard of an old Dutchman celebrated for
his<br>
 imitations. I went to him, and he told me at once that he had
been<br>
 allowed by Montanaro to copy the Valdez--setting and all--for
the<br>
 Paris Exhibition. I showed him this, and he claimed it for his
own<br>
 work at once, and pointed out his private mark upon it. You
must<br>
 take your magnifier to find it; a Greek Beta. He also told me
that<br>
 he had sold it to Lady Carwitchet more than a year ago.</p>

<p>"It is a terrible position."</p>

<p>"It is. My co-trustee died lately. I have never dared to
have<br>
 another appointed. I am bound to hand over the sapphire to
my<br>
 daughter on her marriage, if her husband consents to take the
name<br>
 of Montanaro."</p>

<p>The bishop's face was ghastly pale, and the moisture started
on his<br>
 brow. I racked my brain for some word of comfort.</p>

<p>"Miss Panton may never marry."</p>

<p>"But she will!" he shouted. "That is the blow that has been
dealt<br>
 me to-day. My chaplain--actually, my chaplain--tells me that he
is<br>
 going out as a temperance missionary to equatorial Africa, and
has<br>
 the assurance to add that he believes my daughter is not
indisposed<br>
 to accompany him!" His consummating wrath acted as a
momentary<br>
 stimulant. He sat upright, his eyes flashing and his brow<br>
 thunderous. I felt for that chaplain. Then he collapsed<br>
 miserably. "The sapphires will have to be produced,
identified,<br>
 revalued. How shall I come out of it? Think of the disgrace,
the<br>
 ripping up of old scandals! Even if I were to compound with
Lady<br>
 Carwitchet, the sum she hinted at was too monstrous. She
wants<br>
 more than my money. Help me, Mr. Acton! For the sake of your
own<br>
 family interests, help me!"</p>

<p>"I beg your pardon--family interests? I don't understand."</p>

<p>"If my daughter is childless, her next of kin is poor
Marmaduke<br>
 Panton, who is dying at Cannes, not married, or likely to
marry;<br>
 and failing him, your nephew, Sir Thomas Acton, succeeds."</p>

<p>My nephew Tom! Leta, or Leta's baby, might come to be the
possible<br>
 inheritor of the great Valdez sapphire! The blood rushed to
my<br>
 head as I looked at the great shining swindle before me.
"What<br>
 diabolic jugglery was at work when the exchange was made?" I<br>
 demanded fiercely.</p>

<p>"It must have been on the last occasion of her wearing the<br>
 sapphires in London. I ought never to have let her out of my<br>
 sight"</p>

<p>"You must put a stop to Miss Panton's marriage in the first
place,"<br>
 I pronounced as autocratically as he could have done
himself.</p>

<p>"Not to be thought of," he admitted helplessly. "Mira has my
force<br>
 of character. She knows her rights, and she will have her
jewels.<br>
 I want you to take charge of the--thing for me. If it's in
the<br>
 house she'll make me produce it. She'll inquire at the
banker's.<br>
 If YOU have it we can gain time, if but for a day or two."
He<br>
 broke off. Carriage wheels were crashing on the gravel
outside.<br>
 We looked at one another in consternation. Flight was
imperative.<br>
 I hurried him downstairs and out of the conservatory just as
the<br>
 door bell rang. I think we both lost our heads in the
confusion.<br>
 He shoved the case into my hands, and I pocketed it, without
a<br>
 thought of the awful responsibility I was incurring, and saw
him<br>
 disappear into the shelter of the friendly night.</p>

<p>When I think of what my feelings were that evening--of my
murderous<br>
 hatred of that smirking, jesting Jezebel who sat opposite me
at<br>
 dinner, my wrathful indignation at the thought of the poor
little<br>
 expected heir defrauded ere his birth; of the crushing contempt
I<br>
 felt for myself and the bishop as a pair of witless idiots
unable<br>
 to see our way out of the dilemma; all this boiling and
surging<br>
 through my soul, I can only wonder--Domenico having given
himself a<br>
 holiday, and the kitchen maid doing her worst and
wickedest--that<br>
 gout or jaundice did not put an end to this story at once.</p>

<p>"Uncle Paul!" Leta was looking her sweetest when she tripped
into<br>
 my room next morning. "I've news for you. She," pointing a<br>
 delicate forefinger in the direction of the corridor, "is
going!<br>
 Her Bokums have reached Paris at last, and sent for her to
join<br>
 them at the Grand Hotel."</p>

<p>I was thunderstruck. The longed-for deliverance had but come
to<br>
 remove hopelessly and forever out of my reach Lady Carwitchet
and<br>
 the great Valdez sapphire.</p>

<p>"Why, aren't you overjoyed? I am. We are going to celebrate
the<br>
 event by a dinner party. Tom's hospitable soul is vexed by
the<br>
 lack of entertainment we had provided her. We must ask the<br>
 Brownleys some day or other, and they will be delighted to
meet<br>
 anything in the way of a ladyship, or such smart folks as
the<br>
 Duberly-Parkers. Then we may as well have the Blomfields, and
air<br>
 that awful modern Sevres dessert service she gave us when we
were<br>
 married." I had no objection to make, and she went on, rubbing
her<br>
 soft cheek against my shoulder like the purring little cat she
was:<br>
 "Now I want you to do something to please me--and Mrs.
Blomfield.<br>
 She has set her heart on seeing your rubies, and though I know
you<br>
 hate her about as much as you do that Sevres china--"</p>

<p>"What! Wear my rubies with that! I won't. I'll tell you what
I<br>
 will do, though. I've got some carbuncles as big as prize<br>
 gooseberries, a whole set. Then you have only to put those<br>
 Bohemian glass vases and candelabra on the table, and let
your<br>
 gardener do his worst with his great forced, scentless,
vulgar<br>
 blooms, and we shall all be in keeping." Leta pouted. An
idea<br>
 struck me. "Or I'll do as you wish, on one condition. You
get<br>
 Lady Carwitchet to wear her big sapphire, and don't tell her I
wish<br>
 it."</p>

<p>I lived through the next few days as one in some evil dream.
The<br>
 sapphires, like twin specters, haunted me day and night. Was
ever<br>
 man so tantalized? To hold the shadow and see the substance<br>
 dangled temptingly within reach. The bishop made no sign of<br>
 ridding me of my unwelcome charge, and the thought of what
might<br>
 happen in a case of burglary--fire--earthquake--made me start
and<br>
 tremble at all sorts of inopportune moments.</p>

<p>I kept faith with Leta, and reluctantly produced my
beautiful<br>
 rubies on the night of her dinner party. Emerging from my room
I<br>
 came full upon Lady Carwitchet in the corridor. She was
dressed<br>
 for dinner, and at her throat I caught the blue gleam of the
great<br>
 sapphire. Leta had kept faith with me. I don't know what I<br>
 stammered in reply to her ladyship's remarks; my whole soul
was<br>
 absorbed in the contemplation of the intoxicating loveliness of
the<br>
 gem. THAT a Palais Royal deception! Incredible! My fingers<br>
 twitched, my breath came short and fierce with the lust of<br>
 possession. She must have seen the covetous glare in my eyes.
A<br>
 look of gratified spiteful complacency overspread her features,
as<br>
 she swept on ahead and descended the stairs before me. I
followed<br>
 her to the drawing-room door. She stopped suddenly, and
murmuring<br>
 something unintelligible hurried back again.</p>

<p>Everybody was assembled there that I expected to see, with
an<br>
 addition. Not a welcome one by the look on Tom's face. He
stood<br>
 on the hearthrug conversing with a great hulking,
high-shouldered<br>
 fellow, sallow-faced, with a heavy mustache and drooping
eyelids,<br>
 from the corners of which flashed out a sudden suspicious look
as I<br>
 approached, which lighted up into a greedy one as it rested on
my<br>
 rubies, and seemed unaccountably familiar to me, till Lady<br>
 Carwitchet tripping past me exclaimed:</p>

<p>"He has come at last! My naughty, naughty boy! Mr. Acton, this
is<br>
 my son, Lord Carwitchet!"</p>

<p>I broke off short in the midst of my polite acknowledgments
to<br>
 stare blankly at her. The sapphire was gone! A great gilt
cross,<br>
 with a Scotch pebble like an acid drop, was her sole
decoration.</p>

<p>"I had to put my pendant away," she explained confidentially;
"the<br>
 clasp had got broken somehow." I didn't believe a word.</p>

<p>Lord Carwitchet contributed little to the general
entertainment at<br>
 dinner, but fell into confidential talk with Mrs.
Duberly-Parker.<br>
 I caught a few unintelligible remarks across the table. They<br>
 referred, I subsequently discovered, to the lady's little book
on<br>
 Northchurch races, and I recollected that the Spring Meeting
was<br>
 on, and to-morrow "Cup Day." After dinner there was great
talk<br>
 about getting up a party to go on General Fairford's drag.
Lady<br>
 Carwitchet was in ecstasies and tried to coax me into
joining.<br>
 Leta declined positively. Tom accepted sulkily.</p>

<p>The look in Lord Carwitchet's eye returned to my mind as I
locked<br>
 up my rubies that night. It made him look so like his mother!
I<br>
 went round my fastenings with unusual care. Safe and closets
and<br>
 desk and doors, I tried them all. Coming at last to the
bathroom,<br>
 it opened at once. It was the housemaid's doing. She had<br>
 evidently taken advantage of my having abandoned the room to
give<br>
 it "a thorough spring cleaning," and I anathematized her.
The<br>
 furniture was all piled together and veiled with sheets, the
carpet<br>
 and felt curtain were gone, there were new brooms about. As
I<br>
 peered around, a voice close at my ear made me jump--Lady<br>
 Carwitchet's!</p>

<p><br>
 "I tell you I have nothing, not a penny! I shall have to borrow
my<br>
 train fare before I can leave this. They'll be glad enough to
lend<br>
 it."</p>

<p>Not only had the portiere been removed, but the door behind it
had<br>
 been unlocked and left open for convenience of dusting behind
the<br>
 wardrobe. I might as well have been in the bedroom.</p>

<p>"Don't tell me," I recognized Carwitchet's growl. "You've not
been<br>
 here all this time for nothing. You've been collecting for a<br>
 Kilburn cot or getting subscriptions for the distressed
Irish<br>
 landlords. I know you. Now I'm not going to see myself ruined
for<br>
 the want of a paltry hundred or so. I tell you the colt is a
dead<br>
 certainty. If I could have got a thousand or two on him last
week,<br>
 we might have ended our dog days millionaires. Hand over what
you<br>
 can. You've money's worth, if not money. Where's that
sapphire<br>
 you stole?"</p>

<p>"I didn't. I can show you the receipted bill. All I possess
is<br>
 honestly come by. What could you do with it, even if I gave
it<br>
 you? You couldn't sell it as the Valdez, and you can't get it
cut<br>
 up as you might if it were real."</p>

<p>"If it's only bogus, why are you always in such a flutter
about it?<br>
 I'll do something with it, never fear. Hand over."</p>

<p>"I can't. I haven't got it. I had to raise something on it
before<br>
 I left town."</p>

<p>"Will you swear it's not in that wardrobe? I dare say you
will. I<br>
 mean to see. Give me those keys."</p>

<p>I heard a struggle and a jingle, then the wardrobe door must
have<br>
 been flung open, for a streak of light struck through a crack
in<br>
 the wood of the back. Creeping close and peeping through, I
could<br>
 see an awful sight. Lady Carwitchet in a flannel wrapper,
minus<br>
 hair, teeth, complexion, pointing a skinny forefinger that
quivered<br>
 with rage at her son, who was out of the range of my vision.</p>

<p>"Stop that, and throw those keys down here directly, or I'll
rouse<br>
 the house. Sir Thomas is a magistrate, and will lock you up
as<br>
 soon as look at you." She clutched at the bell rope as she
spoke.<br>
 "I'll swear I'm in danger of my life from you and give you
in<br>
 charge. Yes, and when you're in prison I'll keep you there
till<br>
 you die. I've often thought I'd do it. How about the hotel<br>
 robberies last summer at Cowes, eh? Mightn't the police be<br>
 grateful for a hint or two? And how about--"</p>

<p>The keys fell with a crash on the bed, accompanied by some
bad<br>
 language in an apologetic tone, and the door slammed to. I
crept<br>
 trembling to bed.</p>

<p>This new and horrible complication of the situation filled me
with<br>
 dismay. Lord Carwitchet's wolfish glance at my rubies took a
new<br>
 meaning. They were safe enough, I believed--but the sapphire!
If<br>
 he disbelieved his mother, how long would she be able to keep
it<br>
 from his clutches? That she had some plot of her own of which
the<br>
 bishop would eventually be the victim I did not doubt, or why
had<br>
 she not made her bargain with him long ago? But supposing she
took<br>
 fright, lost her head, allowed her son to wrest the jewel from
her,<br>
 or gave consent to its being mutilated, divided! I lay in a
cold<br>
 perspiration till morning.</p>

<p>My terrors haunted me all day. They were with me at breakfast
time<br>
 when Lady Carwitchet, tripping in smiling, made a last attempt
to<br>
 induce me to accompany her and keep her "bad, bad boy" from
getting<br>
 among "those horrid betting men."</p>

<p>They haunted me through the long peaceful day with Leta and
the<br>
 tete-a-tete dinner, but they swarmed around and beset me
sorest<br>
 when, sitting alone over my sitting-room fire, I listened for
the<br>
 return of the drag party. I read my newspaper and brewed
myself<br>
 some hot strong drink, but there comes a time of night when no
fire<br>
 can warm and no drink can cheer. The bishop's despairing face
kept<br>
 me company, and his troubles and the wrongs of the future heir
took<br>
 possession of me. Then the uncanny noises that make all old
houses<br>
 ghostly during the small hours began to make themselves
heard.<br>
 Muffled footsteps trod the corridor, stopping to listen at
every<br>
 door, door latches gently clicked, boards creaked
unreasonably,<br>
 sounds of stealthy movements came from the locked-up bathroom.
The<br>
 welcome crash of wheels at last, and the sound of the
front-door<br>
 bell. I could hear Lady Carwitchet making her shrill adieux to
her<br>
 friends and her steps in the corridor. She was softly humming
a<br>
 little song as she approached. I heard her unlock her bedroom
door<br>
 before she entered--an odd thing to do. Tom came sleepily<br>
 stumbling to his room later. I put my head out. "Where is
Lord<br>
 Carwitchet?"</p>

<p>"Haven't you seen him? He left us hours ago. Not come home,
eh?<br>
 Well, he's welcome to stay away. I don't want to see more of
him."<br>
 Tom's brow was dark and his voice surly. "I gave him to
understand<br>
 as much." Whatever had happened, Tom was evidently too
disgusted<br>
 to explain just then.</p>

<p>I went back to my fire unaccountably relieved, and brewed
myself<br>
 another and a stronger brew. It warmed me this time, but
excited<br>
 me foolishly. There must be some way out of the difficulty.
I<br>
 felt now as if I could almost see it if I gave my mind to it.
Why--<br>
 suppose--there might be no difficulty after all! The bishop was
a<br>
 nervous old gentleman. He might have been mistaken all
through,<br>
 Bogaerts might have been mistaken, I might--no. I could not
have<br>
 been mistaken--or I thought not. I fidgeted and fumed and
argued<br>
 with myself till I found I should have no peace of mind without
a<br>
 look at the stone in my possession, and I actually went to the
safe<br>
 and took the case out.</p>

<p>The sapphire certainly looked different by lamplight. I sat
and<br>
 stared, and all but over-persuaded my better judgment into
giving<br>
 it a verdict. Bogaerts's mark--I suddenly remembered it. I
took<br>
 my magnifier and held the pendant to the light. There,
scratched<br>
 upon the stone, was the Greek Beta! There came a tap on my
door,<br>
 and before I could answer, the handle turned softly and Lord<br>
 Carwitchet stood before me. I whipped the case into my
dressing-<br>
 gown pocket and stared at him. He was not pleasant to look
at,<br>
 especially at that time of night. He had a disheveled,
desperate<br>
 air, his voice was hoarse, his red-rimmed eyes wild.</p>

<p>"I beg your pardon," he began civilly enough. "I saw your
light<br>
 burning, and thought, as we go by the early train to-morrow,
you<br>
 might allow me to consult you now on a little business of my<br>
 mother's." His eyes roved about the room. Was he trying to
find<br>
 the whereabouts of my safe? "You know a lot about precious
stones,<br>
 don't you?"</p>

<p>"So my friends are kind enough to say. Won't you sit down? I
have<br>
 unluckily little chance of indulging the taste on my own
account,"<br>
 was my cautious reply.</p>

<p>"But you've written a book about them, and know them when you
see<br>
 them, don't you? Now my mother has given me something, and
would<br>
 like you to give a guess at its value. Perhaps you can put me
in<br>
 the way of disposing of it?"</p>

<p>"I certainly can do so if it is worth anything. Is that it?"
I<br>
 was in a fever of excitement, for I guessed what was clutched
in<br>
 his palm. He held out to me the Valdez sapphire.</p>

<p>How it shone and sparkled like a great blue star! I made
myself a<br>
 deprecating smile as I took it from him, but how dare I call
it<br>
 false to its face? As well accuse the sun in heaven of being
a<br>
 cheap imitation. I faltered and prevaricated feebly. Where was
my<br>
 moral courage, and where was the good, honest, thumping lie
that<br>
 should have aided me? "I have the best authority for
recognizing<br>
 this as a very good copy of a famous stone in the possession of
the<br>
 Bishop of Northchurch." His scowl grew so black that I saw
he<br>
 believed me, and I went on more cheerily: "This was manufactured
by<br>
 Johannes Bogaerts--I can give you his address, and you can
make<br>
 inquiries yourself--by special permission of the then owner,
the<br>
 late Leone Montanaro."</p>

<p>"Hand it back!" he interrupted (his other remarks were
outrageous,<br>
 but satisfactory to hear); but I waved him off. I couldn't give
it<br>
 up. It fascinated me. I toyed with it, I caressed it. I made
it<br>
 display its different tones of color. I must see the two
stones<br>
 together. I must see it outshine its paltry rival. It was a<br>
 whimsical frenzy that seized me--I can call it by no other
name.</p>

<p>"Would you like to see the original? Curiously enough, I have
it<br>
 here. The bishop has left it in my charge."</p>

<p>The wolfish light flamed up in Carwitchet's eyes as I drew
forth<br>
 the case. He laid the Valdez down on a sheet of paper, and I<br>
 placed the other, still in its case, beside it. In that
moment<br>
 they looked identical, except for the little loop of sham
stones,<br>
 replaced by a plain gold band in the bishop's jewel.
Carwitchet<br>
 leaned across the table eagerly, the table gave a lurch, the
lamp<br>
 tottered, crashed over, and we were left in semidarkness.</p>

<p>"Don't stir!" Carwitchet shouted. "The paraffin is all over
the<br>
 place!" He seized my sofa blanket, and flung it over the
table<br>
 while I stood helpless. "There, that's safe now. Have you
candles<br>
 on the chimney-piece? I've got matches."</p>

<p>He looked very white and excited as he lit up. "Might have
been an<br>
 awkward job with all that burning paraffin running about," he
said<br>
 quite pleasantly. "I hope no real harm is done." I was
lifting<br>
 the rug with shaking hands. The two stones lay as I had
placed<br>
 them. No! I nearly dropped it back again. It was the stone
in<br>
 the case that had the loop with the three sham sapphires!</p>

<p>Carwitchet picked the other up hastily. "So you say this
is<br>
 rubbish?" he asked, his eyes sparkling wickedly, and an attempt
at<br>
 mortification in his tone.</p>

<p>"Utter rubbish!" I pronounced, with truth and decision,
snapping up<br>
 the case and pocketing it. "Lady Carwitchet must have known
it."</p>

<p>"Ah, well, it's disappointing, isn't it? Good-by, we shall
not<br>
 meet again."</p>

<p>I shook hands with him most cordially. "Good-by, Lord
Carwitchet.<br>
 SO glad to have met you and your mother. It has been a source
of<br>
 the GREATEST pleasure, I assure you."</p>

<p>I have never seen the Carwitchets since. The bishop drove
over<br>
 next day in rather better spirits. Miss Panton had refused
the<br>
 chaplain.</p>

<p>"It doesn't matter, my lord," I said to him heartily. "We've
all<br>
 been under some strange misconception. The stone in your<br>
 possession is the veritable one. I could swear to that
anywhere.<br>
 The sapphire Lady Carwitchet wears is only an excellent
imitation,<br>
 and--I have seen it with my own eyes--is the one bearing
Bogaerts's<br>
 mark, the Greek Beta."</p>





<pre>





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